Cade managed a tired grin. “It’s okay. You don’t have to spell it out. And the answer’s ‘sure.’ Welcome to the team.”
It was a little after 4:15 a.m. when the flyer finally rose from the city and headed east of north for Palmdale. The night was clear with no moon. From above Pasadena, trains of lights showed on the darkened roads below, all heading northward to the desert. En route, Nyarl checked with the Catacombs. Yassem reported that the link from Cairns was sending, but so far there had been no response from the Querl. President Jeye wasn’t backing down. The Federation had just launched IRBMs at Union air bases in Alabama and Ohio. Nobody aboard the flyer had much else to say.
Radio traffic indicated that flight operations were busy at Edwards. Ignoring ground control procedures, Hudro brought the flyer skimming in low over the perimeter fence to land at the hangars at the north end where the C22-E was waiting. The transfer of bodies, equipment, and bags still in the flyer from Cade’s house that morning took place swiftly against a background of engine roars and black shapes lifting off into the night. The captain, Bob Powell, told them that operational aircraft were being dispersed to other fields and landing strips, with supply transports loading to follow later. He obviously didn’t know about recent events and assumed it was a standard precaution. While they were stowing gear, Powell introduced Cade, Marie, and Gerofsky to his copilot, Lieutenant Koyne, and Technical Sergeant Davis, an aircraft engines and systems specialist. Nyarl and Hudro had met them previously.
“C22 Six Five Zero to Edwards control, we’re ready to move out now and request immediate clearance,” Powell said into his mike. As they ran up the engines, Koyne spotted lights approaching along the perimeter road and pointed. “Probably someone coming to check what came in over the fence,” Powell grunted.
“We don’t want to get bogged down now. Just pretend we haven’t seen them,” Cade said from behind.
Powell’s face creased in the glow from the instrument panel. “Ground Control is gonna be sticky with all this traffic going out. I wouldn’t want to upset them right now.” He listened to something for a few seconds, then spoke into the mike again. “When? . . . We didn’t see anything. . . . No, nothing to do with us. . . . Roger.”
Meanwhile Nyarl, using headphones, was keeping contact with the Catacombs. He interrupted suddenly, “I’m talking to Chester. What’s Travis?”
“I read you,” Powell sang in the captain’s seat. “Moving out now. How long is this queue gonna last?”
Koyne answered Nyarl, “Big air base up near San Francisco. Main transportation center for Pacific supply routes. Why?”
“It just got taken out.”
“Never mind the queue! Get us out of here!” Cade snapped at Powell.
“You’re talking court-martial offense here.”
“Right now, that’s the least of your worries.”
“You’d better be sure about this.” Powell sucked in a long breath, gunned the engines, and jerked the control column to take the plane around the shapes outlined ahead in the starlight, and across a connecting ramp to a shorter, auxiliary runway. Even from where he was sitting, Cade could hear indignant squawking in Powell’s phones. Ahead, what looked like a bomber was turning to join the line lumbering toward the run-up point on the main runway. Another was waiting to mover forward. At the end of the base, several miles away in the other direction, a slim finger of peculiar violet radiance appeared suddenly, seemingly coming down from among the stars. Nyarl stared at it, speechless with sudden terror.
“Captain, go! Go now!” Hudro shouted.
His fear communicated itself. Powell opened the throttle, and the plane surged forward, even as the bomber began rolling onto the runway ahead. They squeezed through the gap accelerating flat-out. The runway seemed to flow by endlessly. Cade looked back and saw the beam of violet shift, as if registering. Nyarl seemed mesmerized by it. Finally, the plane lifted, banked, and turned away.
There was a lull, followed by several pulses of yellow light behind. A moment later, the desert lit up for miles around.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
In the research center at Cairns, Krossig still hadn’t recovered from the shock of learning that the Los Angeles mission, where he himself had been based until just recently, was no more. Orzin, Wyvex, Krossig’s Terran colleague and friend, Mike Blair . . . all of them gone. What was happening to this world that had once been so wondrous?
The situation seemed to be deteriorating by the hour. Chinese news sources were revealing only parts of the story that he was getting from Yassem in Los Angeles—and not always accurately, at that. Further, it was only now becoming clear how much of the Terran satellite network—especially that operated by American and European concerns—the Hyadeans, by offering better technology for lower cost, had quietly replaced or come to assume control of over the years. With the remainder suddenly being subjected to jamming and neutralization following the widening hostilities, communications throughout the AANS states were drastically restricted. That meant that the connection through the precarious, politically sensitive patchwork of cables and submarine links between Cairns and Los Angeles could be broken at any time.
He sat with Ominzek, the resident Hyadean communications technician, in the gravcom room next to Freem’s office in one of the timber-framed lab blocks, in front of several Terran conventional terminals and the array of gravitics gear. The center still had access to the official Chryse channel, although now subject to monitoring by the General Embassy in Xuchimbo. One of the Terran screens showed the room in Los Angeles, where Yassem reappeared intermittently to send further code patches or news input for the collection that Ominzek had ready, waiting to transmit. The Hyadean equipment showed readings from the outgoing beam control, probing regions of near-space to make contact with the Querl relays.
It was now night in Cairns. Communications with the LA mission had ceased abruptly in the early hours of the previous morning. Nobody at Cairns had been aware then of Orzin’s plan to initiate an independent, uncensored channel to Chryse. The first reports that the mission had been hit by missiles came second-hand from Federation news sources. It had seemed so incongruous and devoid of rational motive that Freem had been skeptical, advising the staff not to accepting anything as final until reliable confirmation was received. The confirmation had come with the direct communication from Yassem later. Yassem was also able to confide information somehow extracted from privileged Federation sources, which so far neither side was telling the world at large.
Networks worldwide were blaring hysterically about the nuclear exchanges in Central America, which couldn’t be concealed or played down. But Beijing was maintaining a blackout on the annihilation of the AANS fleet in the Pacific, and instead putting out strident appeals for solidarity and stressing the Federation’s opening air offensive in the south. The retaliation against Federation air bases, carried out with direct Hyadean intervention, had not been publicized by Washington, Sacramento, or Beijing. The last thing heard from Yassem was that Cade had left in haste with Nyarl, Hudro, Marie, and a Terran officer to get their aircraft away from a base that Cade feared might be a target for further such strikes.
Freem and Susan Gray, the Terran biologist, came back in. “Anything yet?” Freem inquired.
Ominzek looked over the displays showing tables of beam-setting parameters and trial transmissions, and a graphical summary of the results so far. “Still scanning coordinates and spectra. The night’s early yet.”
Farther along, Krossig was watching a devastated Terran township, buildings flattened and in flames, with rescuers digging bodies and injured survivors from the ruins. The background was lost in an eerie glow, clearly radiating intense heat. “What these it show now time?” Susan asked, staring. She was one of the Terrans who attempted to learn Hyadean. The results were sometimes amusing, but Krossig and the others respected her effort.
“The latest from Yassem,” Krossig replied. “Shots from McConnell. Just in over their w
ire from Sacramento.”
“Who there provides them like this? Why?” Susan asked.
“Yassem didn’t say.”
An image of Nyarl appeared to one side, supplying a commentary. “The aftermath of a defenseless American habitat caught in the kill zone of one of our orbital bombardment masers.” Nyarl was not actually present in LA when Yassem put the sequence together, of course; he had spoken from the flyer. “Its crime? Aircraft from the nearby McConnell base flew in defense of the newly proclaimed nation against armies sent by the Chryse-supported Washington regime. . . .”
Just then, a shrill tone sounded from the Hyadean equipment. Another display lit up with lines of data and code, while the system voice announced, “Probe attempt Sector five six, scan three-nine, four-zero-three, five-five, Mode 7A-3, successful. Connection is to Querl deep-space monitor station, location undisclosed.”
Ominzek turned sharply and stabbed at control keys. “Gravcom Sys, Supervisor. Report link quality status.”
“Resolution high at seven-two-zero. Submodal encoding. Recipient active and acknowledges.”
“We’re through!” Krossig whispered to Susan. “It’s found one of the relays.”
“Identify,” Ominzek instructed.
“Nebula Two”—obviously a code name—“Deputy commander, Querl long-range task group, nature of mission, undisclosed. Range and location coordinates suppressed. Identified as former contact established by Hetch Luodine from West Coast Trade and Cultural Mission.”
“Connect.”
A relief display opened to show the figurine likeness of a lean, red-haired Hyadean in an officer-style tunic, seated against a background tableau of panels and bulkheads in what was evidently some kind of control room. Nebula Two stared for a second or two, looking at first uncertain, then suspicious. Finally, he said, “I don’t know you. We’ve been awaiting further contact for over fifteen hours. What’s happening? I wish to speak with Luodine or Nyarl.”
“There is unfortunate news here,” Omnizek replied. “The place Luodine was in has been destroyed. There were no survivors. Nyarl was elsewhere and escaped. I cannot specify our whereabouts, but we have established an alternate connection. I am a communications technician. You can refer to me as K. The person who has taken over Luodine’s function is with me. His name is G.” Krossig moved closer to come within the viewing angle of the unit that Omnizek was addressing.
“I must ask you to submit the agreed security verification sequence,” Nebula Two said.
“I can’t. It was held in equipment that was also destroyed,” Ominzek said. “Everything was destroyed.” Codes of that kind would have been too sensitive for Yassem to carry around as a copy. That was apparently how the technical information needed to reconstruct the link had been preserved.
“Then how can I be sure you are who you say you are?” Nebula Two asked.
The question had been expected. “Does it really matter?” Krossig replied. “If we’re sending you reports that the Chrysean authorities would suppress if they could, you can do nothing but help your own cause by rebroadcasting them. Would impostors who were working for the Chryseans do that?”
Nebula Two frowned as he considered the unexpected logic, but evidently couldn’t fault it. He killed the audio and disappeared from view, presumably to consult with others.
“It isn’t the time to count fishes,” Susan said, attempting a Hyadean saying. It was the right sentiment but the wrong phrase. Krossig smiled tolerantly.
“How long it will take Xuchimbo to track down this equipment and silence it?” Freem muttered.
“I was wondering the same thing,” Krossig said moodily. A movement caught his eye on the Terran screen connected to Los Angeles. He moved back to it. Yassem had reappeared. “We’re through,” he said before she had a chance to ask. “There’s an authenticating problem, as we thought. I told them our answer. They’re debating it now. . . .” He paused, seeing that the news wasn’t having the effect he had anticipated. Yassem was looking dazed. Then Krossig realized she was in tears. “What is it?” he asked.
“They’ve just wiped out Edwards,” she said, her voice choking. “Ten minutes after Hudro and the others arrived there.” Krossig stared, horrified.
“Oh, no,” Susan groaned behind him.
Nebula Two returned on the Hyadean display. “Very well,” he said. “Send us what you have.” Krossig nodded mutely to Ominzek.
“Gravcom Sys, Supervisor. Proceed with transfer of prepared file as previously specified,” Ominzek instructed.
“Executing.”
Phones and terminals were beeping throughout the offices and work spaces in the vaults beneath the Corry Building. People tumbled in and out of doorways and scurried along the corridors. Everyone wanted details; city services everywhere were requesting updates and instructions. All that was known for sure was that Edwards Air Force Base had gone up in a fireball seen from Barstow to Bakersfield. There were no clear accounts of the extent of the damage, and anything could happen next.
Yassem was weeping freely, still looking at the image of Krossig in Cairns. Her tears were of relief. An adjacent screen showed Nyarl and Hudro, cramped together in the cabin of the Terran aircraft, now heading east. They had come through minutes after the news from Sacramento about Edwards. “You’ve got Roland to thank for it,” Nyarl was saying. “If it hadn’t been for him, we would never have gotten out in time.”
“People seem to have a habit of surviving whenever he’s around,” Hudro commented, still seemingly having difficulty believing it himself.
“Marie always told me he lived a charmed life,” Yassem said.
While the C22-E was setting course toward Arizona, it was early morning in New York State. It had been a night of panic in the city and continuous hysteria from the news. Drisson and Laura had moved for a couple of days to a lodge that he had rented some weeks previously away from town, up in the Catskills—as a precaution. Laura, wearing the short housecoat that she had slipped on, came back in from the kitchen, carrying two coffee cups. Drisson was sitting propped against the end of the bed. He accepted one and tasted the contents, all the time watching her contemplatively.
“Why the long, silent look?” she asked. “Don’t tell me you’re not satisfied. I’d never live it down.”
“Oh, I’d say that’s close to the last thing you have to worry about,” he complimented.
“So what’s such deep thought about at this time of the morning?”
Drisson took a moment to compose himself into a more serious vein. “Things are a bit more complicated than I thought. Everybody’s building walls. Somebody like me can’t go near Toddrel without being logged and taped. If we end up having to do this, it’ll need to be from the inside. That means you being point.”
“You mean the one who actually does it? I thought you were supposed to take care of that. I was only an inside source. Information and access, remember?”
Drisson sighed in a way that conveyed both an apology and weariness from considering alternatives. “I know. But like I said, things have changed. Believe me, I’ve been through all the angles. There isn’t any other way.” Laura said nothing but didn’t look happy about it. He set his cup down and reached out to grip her shoulder reassuringly. “If it comes to it, it’ll be worth it. Trust me. Then . . . it’s whatever you want. Choose a life. This outfit doesn’t just deal in insurance, you know. With me you get the whole package.” He eyed her for a moment. His voice took on a coaxing tone. “Don’t let me down on this, Laura. We’ve both got too much at stake. He’s dangerous. You’d need it for yourself in any case, with or without me. . . . What do you say, eh? Are you made of what I thought?”
“I’ll need to think about it.”
Drisson got up and went into the bathroom as if that already decided the issue. His voice came back through the open door. “What makes it different with you is that you can get close and be invisible. I can’t. I figured the way would be to make it look like a hooker
or something—we all know about Casper’s kinky predilections. Totally anonymous. Nothing anyone would want to be bothered putting any time into—especially at times like this, with everything else that’s going on.” The sound came of the shower being turned on. Drisson’s voice rose to carry above it. “So it just gets written off. We collect our retirement. Then it’s away from the war to some sunny place in the world. Get the big picture, baby?”
“Oh yes.” Laura murmured. “I get the picture.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
Dawn greeted the C22-E, winging low over the mesas and canyons of Arizona. Cade pulled his blanket around his shoulders as he lay in the reclined seat, trying to force some sleep in the few hours that the flight would last. But he was apprehensive. The most recent news to be passed on by Yassem was of Asian missiles launched against Globalist satellites, along with orbiting Hyadean ships and other targets. Little seemed to have penetrated the Hyadean defenses, but it brought things to a new dimension of direct conflict between the AANS and the Hyadeans. Surely, there had already been clear warning of what further escalation could be expected to bring. Yet news of the setbacks was being withheld, and the Federation-AANS leaders still seemed committed to exhorting maximum effort for a swift victory, even though, as far as Cade could see, the gamble had already failed.
Marie was in the seat next to him—whether asleep or not, he couldn’t tell. Copilot Koyne was flying the plane while Powell rested farther back, along with Hudro and Davis. Nyarl and Gerofsky were at consoles, editing and adding commentaries to items coming in from various sources and tagging them for transmission back to LA. The sequences included armor and supply columns moving forward to consolidate the Federation’s positions between the Red River and the Mississippi, air cargo lifters delivering tanks to forward jump-off areas, and dramatic shots of the air attacks delivered during the night.
Worlds in Chaos Page 82
