Keene and Cavan exchanged looks. Neither had anything to offer. There could be craft up there from just about anyone with launch capability, in who-knew-what state of desperation. This wasn’t exactly a time to be expecting everyone to be displaying rational behavior.
“The beam is definitely coming from the lead ship?” Charlie Hu queried.
“We can’t tell. . . . And apparently it’s not clear that they are receiving our signal. They’re not acknowledging, just transmitting.”
“Who is sending to you? Who do you have on your screen?” the Supervisor asked.
Idorf paused to check off-screen once more. “Dr. Stacey.”
The Supervisor looked around, puzzled. “Stacey? Who in hell’s he? . . . That’s not right. Who’s commanding the Boxcar?”
“Corlaster,” somebody said.
“That’s what I thought.”
“He says he’s the senior person aboard, and in control,” Idorf informed them.
Somebody had produced the passenger list and was scanning it frantically, but nobody had heard of the name.
“Can you copy us here with your incoming channel?” Keene said after a few more mystifying seconds. Idorf nodded and made a signal mutely to somebody. One of the technicians seated at a console near Keene read a code and entered a command. . . . And moments later, Keene found himself looking in astonishment at the features of Herbert Voler. Colby gasped somewhere behind him. Cavan was staring in disbelief. Nobody else in the room knew Voler or recognized him. Fey was to one side of him, Queal slightly to the rear on the other with the shoulder of somebody else showing next to him.
“Well, is this your man or is it not?” Idorf snapped. “Be quick. The range is closing.”
Meanwhile, Voler was imploring, “Please, if anyone there is receiving us, our situation is critical. This is Doctor Stacey, in command of Boxcar BZ650 from Vandenberg, calling Osiris. Repeat, we are being pursued by unknown craft that is armed. Suspect intention is to use us as cover to board and seize your ship. Imperative that you intervene and destroy. Your delegation is aboard with us, and their lives are in jeopardy.”
Then Voler moved to reveal the view along a cabin extending behind him. Soldiers in combat jackets were in the nearer seats. And behind them, farther toward the rear were . . . the Kronians! All of them. Keene could make out Sariena’s black tresses distinctly and, beside her, Gallian’s white crown. Clearly, the image was being faked. As much would be evident to the others in the room as well. Besides the obvious fact that Voler’s people had not been aboard the Boxcar, Sariena was wearing a green tunic, as were the others. When she went aboard the Boxcar, she had changed into freshly supplied light blue Air Force fatigues.
“This is Captain Idorf of the Osiris. We are receiving you, BZ650. Can you hear me?”
But either Voler couldn’t or was pretending not to. “This is urgent. Boxcar BZ650 from Vandenberg calling the Osiris. We are closing to dock with you. . . .” Everyone in the room was looking bewildered. The Supervisor threw his hands up helplessly. “What in hell’s going on?” he pleaded. “Who are those other people?”
“What do I do?” Idorf demanded.
Keene thought frantically. There was no reason for Voler’s group to think anyone might be monitoring this latest stunt, let alone anyone who knew them. They had banked on being able to get away with faking the image because they had presumed this encounter would involve only the Osiris. On the screen, a figure behind Voler moved aside, showing itself to be Beckerson, at the same time uncovering more of the cabin beyond. Several of the soldiers had rifles propped between their knees. The Kronians had been wearing green tunics when Mitch’s force got them out of the turboprop just after it had landed early that morning—the tunics they had been wearing since they were hijacked in Washington. The picture was a superposition of Voler and the others with him, which was genuine—they were up there now, inside one of the ships—and a background taken aboard the aircraft in which the Kronians had been flown to California the day before. The two had been combined to give the impression that the transmission Idorf was receiving was coming from the Boxcar just sent up from Vandenberg. But the ship was transmitting the Boxcar’s correct identification code. The Boxcar with the Kronians aboard was up there in orbit somewhere. It had to be the radar blip that was following.
“Charlie,” Keene shot across. “Would it be feasible for the ship in front to intercept the ID code from the ship following, retransmit it, and use some kind of ECM to blot out anything else from the ship behind?” he asked.
Hu looked at him strangely for a moment, then nodded. “Sure . . . if you had somebody who knew what they were doing. Just about any ship would carry the equipment you’d need.”
Keene moistened his lips. He looked back at Idorf. “That view of the Kronians is a fake,” he said. “They’re not there at all. The background is being manufactured.”
Idorf’s face hardened. “Target both objects,” he instructed off-screen.
Keene felt perspiration on his forehead. Everyone else was leaving it to him now, with no idea of how his mind was working. There was no time to debate with them.
Voler and his party had left at first light in a T-43 jet transport, heading south and climbing. Keene did a quick mental calculation, then added several hours for storming a launch pad, taking up a shuttle that had been readied in hope of arriving emigrants, making orbit, and maneuvering into position. “Guatemala,” he muttered aloud. “That’s where they went. They seized a shuttle at Tapapeque. That’s what the lead ship is.” Colby looked emptily at Cavan. Cavan shook his head and shrugged. Keene followed his reasoning through, visualizing in his mind what would happen if the seized shuttle were allowed to dock with the Osiris by an unsuspecting crew expecting other Kronians. A FAST team, armed and waiting to go, would take the ship in minutes. And then, the full extent of what was intended unrolled itself in all its ghastliness. The Boxcar and everyone in it were sacrificial. Idorf was being urged to fire on it—with his own people aboard—to provide a diversion and maximize the surprise when the shuttle carrying Voler and his force docked.
And with extra room aboard the Osiris thus created, and its defenses neutralized, how many more of Voler’s “elite” would be brought up afterward? With all but a skeleton crew to fly the ship eliminated, how many of their kind would go to Kronia, and with what intentions? And so it would start, all over again.
“Captain Idorf,” Keene said. Despite himself, the words came out shakily. “Ignore what he’s saying. There is no Doctor Stacey. Target the lead vessel only and fire. The one following is BZ650, and your people are aboard it.”
If Keene’s reconstruction of events was correct. . . .
The room around him had frozen into statues, all staring at him. From the screen, Idorf’s eyes interrogated him silently. Both of them understood that there could be no discussion or inviting of second opinions. “You are certain of this?” was all he said.
How could Keene be? His shirt was sticking to his back, his throat dry. He closed his eyes and nodded mutely. Idorf gave the order.
And somewhere high above the Pacific, a spacecraft and several score human beings flashed briefly and turned into vapor that dispersed into the swirling gas clouds of Athena’s tail.
Hawaii lost contact before Idorf was able to identify the vessel that remained.
The second Boxcar was launched a little over an hour later, into the night. By then, everyone remaining was too exhausted to contemplate evacuating before morning. There were several incidents that night involving bands from outside coming into the base, presumably looking for supplies and weapons, some involving sporadic shooting. Mitch and Penalski posted extra guards on an extended perimeter around the hangar, with the reserves sleeping under the wings of the Rustler.
PART THREE
ATHENA:
BRINGER OF DEATH
39
Next morning, two of the Special Forces troopers had disappeared. So had two girls from the
base that they had been seen spending a considerable amount of time talking with. It could only be concluded that they had unilaterally deemed their military careers to be over.
The showers in the changing rooms at the rear of the hangars still worked and delivered hot water, and for fifteen minutes Keene abandoned himself to the luxury of washing away the feeling of two days and two nights spent in the same clothes, and of getting rid of the all-pervasive red dust. It got in the eyes, in the ears, and in the nostrils, and lodged in the creases of collars, hoods, and seams until it found a chink to get inside. It itched and it burned, and when rubbing and scratching broke the skin it caused sores that inflamed. “The plague of boils,” Keene thought to himself as he applied a soothing cream to painful areas on the sides of his neck and the backs of his hands, then covered them with adhesive dressings. Then, wonder of wonders, he put on a clean change of underwear, shirt, and pants from the bag he hadn’t opened since before leaving the hotel in Pasadena.
Penalski and his Marines had not changed their minds about rejoining their unit at Twentynine Palms. The Cessna had taken minor damage but was up to making the short return trip, for which its fuel was ample. They also had enough space aboard to take four casualties who would otherwise have had to be moved by road. Dan and Cliff drove with a couple of Air Force ground crew and two Marines riding shotgun to refill a bowser at the fueling point on the far side of the airfield for the Rustler. While volunteers from among those who were due to leave in the Samson—now pushed up beyond 400 people—risked intermittently falling gravel to clear debris from the main runway, the remainder of Keene and Cavan’s groups held an impromptu conference inside the smaller hangar.
There was some dissent among Mitch’s force. General Ullman had offered them a clearance into the Cheyenne Mountain refuge, and Mitch’s second-in-command, a Captain Furle, felt they should take it. Since there were no fixed orders to return East, and it was far from certain that there was anywhere organized for them to return to even if they made it, their first priority should be to get the men to safety while the opportunity was there. Although Mitch hadn’t gone into details with the men as to why they were talking about going to Texas and Mexico, Furle gathered it was some private business of Keene’s and didn’t think it should be their affair—certainly not something to be risking lives over. They should put down first at Peterson Base near Colorado Springs where the Samson was heading, Furle argued, and anyone who wanted to do Keene a favor could carry on from there.
“The problem with that is that we might not get past Peterson,” Mitch replied. “We didn’t exactly come by this piece of equipment in a way that you’d call official. Some brass there might just take it into his head to decide that it’s government property with better things it could be doing, and impound it.”
“And he might have a point there, right enough, too,” Furle agreed, not giving an inch. And maybe Furle had a point too, Keene had to admit as he stood listening. Normally, he would have been surprised at such discord within an elite fighting unit of this kind. But Cavan had mentioned that not all of these men had trained together in the way that creates trust and cohesion. It was a scratch force, thrown together at a moment’s notice from whoever had been available.
Mitch stepped to the center of the group, his hands raised for attention. He was tall and broad, with solid, square-jawed, handsome features topped by a mane of black, wavy hair. Keene saw him as confident and capable, but with something of a flamboyant streak that put him in his element before a crowd. Good leader material and a natural as a showman, easily pictured as a performer or media personality if he had applied himself to it. But there was a lot of the adventurer there too, which perhaps went some way to explaining how he had ended up in an irregular military unit—and perhaps why he had agreed to go along with the Texas escapade.
“Guys, strictly, Terry is correct,” he began. “What we did the other night was without official orders. A matter of pure initiative. But as a force, we’ve always taken pride in our ability to act independently when the need is there, right? That’s what we’ve all trained for, what our reputation is built on. And there’s no question that what we accomplished was fully in accord with top national priority. The President—your commander-in-chief—was personally concerned that the Kronians were returned safely to their ship, and that was what we helped him do.”
He turned, appealing to all of them. “One, maybe a couple of hours longer than we’d take anyway. That’s all that’s being asked, guys. How long did it take us to make it here to Vandenberg from Washington? This time we’re talking about four states, that’s all. Half the distance we did the other night. We drop down into Texas, pick up a few people, shuttle them across the border—and then it’s on up to Atlanta for dinner. Only the difference is that you’ll be able to enjoy your dinners better from knowing that we finished the job.”
Mitch put his fists on his hips and looked around. From the looks and the glances being exchanged, Keene could see he was carrying them. Even Furle was looking less militant. “What do you say, guys?’ Mitch invited, looking at the Rustler’s two crew.
“Sure—one, maybe two hours extra should do it,” Dan agreed, nodding.
Cliff seconded by nodding. He was curly haired and boyish, said little but was widely liked. He seemed to have touched a mothering reflex in Alicia.
It was enough. The majority responded with nods and assenting murmurs. Furle accepted the verdict without further protest.
The bowser returned, and while the Rustler’s tanks were being filled, Keene went with Cavan, Penalski, Mitch, and a squad of Mitch’s troopers to the larger hangar to present compliments to General Ullman and mount rearguard while the final boarding of the Samson was completed. The Cessna, already loaded, taxied up to collect Penalski and then took off first, banking into a turn out to sea and disappearing southward at low altitude, following the coast. The huge Samson went next, rolling almost the length of the runway before lifting, fading quickly, and then vanishing into the overcast—a slightly higher ceiling than before after the previous day’s winds, but still agitated and muddy. Lightning flashed distantly among the heaps of cloud, which were beginning to disgorge spots of rain. The raindrops were black and oily with soot.
Keene stood for a minute, looking at the derelict control tower and the savaged buildings around it, and across to the wrecked launch complex with its fallen gantries while the sound of the Samson’s engines grew muffled and more distant. Only days before, it had all been vibrant and thrusting, a symbol of endeavor and industriousness; now . . . a preview of what was to come everywhere. Silence took over as the engine noise faded, broken only by the cawing of gulls wheeling in from over the point. A feeling of stillness and desolation overwhelmed him suddenly. He turned away to catch up with the others.
A small procession of vehicles, presumably drawn by the sounds of the planes taking off, approached from the direction of the base as a trooper driving a tow tractor pulled the Rustler out onto the tarmac. There were several cars and trucks, a Dodge van with boxes and baggage piled under netting on the roof, and a four-wheel-drive pulling a U-Haul trailer. They were way overloaded, all their occupants disheveled, many of them bandaged, most seeming dazed. Several badly injured cases were laid on makeshift beds or blankets in the trucks and the trailer. Three men got out from the front of the car leading. Three more people were crammed in the back, along with some small children. The man in front had a gray mustache and face disfigured by angry-looking, open sores. He half raised an arm feebly.
“We don’t know what to do with ’em. . . . They’ll never make the trip, but we can’t stay here.” There was nothing demanding or even expecting in his voice. Just a plea for help.
“This is a military mission,” Mitch replied. “We’re not going anywhere you’d want to be—probably as bad as this. Worse.” An ashen-faced woman stared from the window of the car following, mechanically rocking a baby that was crying.
Alicia looked at them,
then Mitch. “We can’t just leave them. The plane wasn’t full on our way over. We can take the worst, yes? What did you say yourself—a few hours to Atlanta? I’ll look after them. That way the others will have a chance.”
Keene could see the resistance in Mitch’s face, the beginnings of the double standard that demands loyalty to one’s own group but hostility to outsiders when survival becomes the issue. But it hadn’t asserted itself strongly enough yet to prevail. Mitch turned his head toward Dan in an unvoiced question.
“How many stretcher cases?” the pilot queried.
The men looked at each other and muttered between themselves. “Eight that are bad,” one said finally.
Dan did a quick mental estimate. Besides its passengers, the Rustler was carrying a generous reserve of supplies, fresh water, weapons and ammunition, various types of tools and equipment. “Those, then, plus four more,” he announced. “But let’s be sensible about this. If somebody’s obviously not going to make it, don’t waste the space.” Mitch looked at the man with the mustache and nodded curtly. Keene and Cavan caught each other’s eye, then looked away. Although there was nothing more to be said for the moment, each had read the same in the other’s look: They were going to have to learn to harden themselves to leaving a lot of people to their fate before this was over.
The Rustler carried four folding stretchers, which were brought out. The troopers helped people from the vehicles load them aboard the plane, along with four more of the injured on improvised pallets. The worst seemed to be a woman who was moaning deliriously, both her legs crushed in a traffic accident out on the highway. After another brief conference, the men who appeared to be speaking for the group selected two couples to accompany the eight. Keene was relieved to see that all the children would remain. This was already getting complicated enough.
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