Hell Heart

by Robert E. Vardeman

  “You’re going to back up Lieutenant Travis, sir?”

  “I’m going to reinforce the garrison at Revancha, because that’s where the Zapatistas are going to launch their next attack.” Behind Sergeant Suarez—Lieutenant Suarez—Diego saw the remaining vehicles assembling. He had to rely on the broken-down Pegasus ag transports, the ones named Coffin Wagons by his troops because they were so easily ambushed. With luck, they wouldn’t encounter any guerrillas in the jungle, because the guerrillas would all be assembling to attack the reactor at Revancha.

  With luck.

  “How many troops are you taking, sir? It looks like most of them.”

  “That’s right, Lieutenant. Most of them. You’ll have twenty soldiers to defend our honor here.”

  “Twenty?” Suarez asked with disbelief. “I couldn’t hold back a blind leprous beggar if he got cranky, not with only twenty soldiers. Sir.”

  Diego almost laughed. Suarez sounded like BJ. But this was deadly serious.

  “We’ve got no choice, Lieutenant,” Diego said. “Revancha is too important to risk losing it to guerrillas. I’ve got to head out right away if I’m going to reach Revancha in time. I’ve radioed the garrison commander and alerted him. If I’m right, the Zapatistas will hit the nuclear reactor just at dawn.” Diego glanced at his chronometer. “That’s in two hours, so I have to make good time. Any questions, Lieutenant?”

  “Uh, I don’t know, sir. This is all happening so fast.”

  “Work on it. If you have any big problems within the next hour, contact me. After that I’m going to full comm silence. We can’t risk the guerrillas intercepting our communications. It’s crucial that our arrival at Revancha be a surprise.”

  “What if someone from HQ wants to talk to you?”

  “Make up something,” Diego said brusquely. He put his hand on Suarez’s shoulder. “You’ve got what it takes, Lieutenant. Make me proud. Make everyone in your family and village proud.”

  “Sir, yes, sir!” Suarez snapped the best military salute Diego had seen in weeks. He returned it and climbed into the Pegasus transport he intended to use as his command center. It took several minutes for him to interface his battlefield display unit with the Pegasus’s circuitry, then he issued orders on a scrambled, encrypted band even as he felt the ag lifters begin to quiver. The Pegasus cleared ground, and the column moved out toward Revancha.

  Toward Revancha—and destiny.

  16

  * * *

  Alex Allen struggled back to the empty road leading to the front gate at San Cristóbal just as the Maw was breaking the eastern horizon. How he had lost his GPS was a mystery. He was always careful with military-issue gear he might have to pay for if lost. It must have fallen out of his belt pouch during the battle at the meteor crater. Explaining to Diego Villalobos how he had wandered around in the jungle for almost two days was going to take some doing. The colonel ought to give him a medal for surviving in such a terrible environment. He was trained for the icefields of Alaska, not the jungles of Chiapas, yet he’d survived on a single liter of water, avoiding guerrilla patrols and the terrifying creature he had seen at the bottom of the pit.

  Allen frowned, remembering his meeting with Consuela. It had almost seemed that she’d wanted him to encounter the pit-thing, as if she already knew of its deadly existence. He couldn’t shake the thought even though he knew it was absurd. She was merely a simple peasant he had rescued. For that he ought to get a commendation. After all, wasn’t it the stated goal of the Mexican Contribution Force to give aid and assistance to the natives?

  Feet sore and muscles aching, Allen finally reached the gate. He was surprised to see no sentries in the guardhouse on either side of the gate. What was this? A ghost town?

  He jumped when a loudspeaker blared, “Recognition code!”

  “This is Captain Alex Allen, and I’ve returned to report to the colonel on a recon mission. I don’t know what the daily recognition code is. I’ve been gone almost two days.”

  There was a lengthy pause, and then, “ID verified. You may enter, Captain.”

  “I should hope so,” Allen said testily. The gate unlocked. He stepped through, then it closed and locked behind him automatically. His mouth dropped open when he saw the empty garrison. Ghost town described it perfectly.

  He wondered what had happened for Villalobos to move out so many of his soldiers, leaving his command post bare. If some crisis had occurred during his absence, it might reflect badly on him, unless he revealed all of what he had seen at the strange impact crater. Allen didn’t really want to do that. Villalobos might steal his discovery to win some points finally with the MCF and Union brass.

  Allen fumed, but there was nothing he could do. Before he could get to the object in the crater, he would have to take care of the whatever-it-was rampaging at the bottom of it. He had seen how useless standard armaments were against it; he didn’t think anything short of a SPEAR missile could take it out. And, unfortunately, the only person who had the launch codes for the post’s missiles was its commanding officer: Colonel Diego Villalobos.

  Allen decided he’d first check out what Diego had done, then worry about forking over what he’d found. He hefted the rucksack holding the portion of the alien creature he had killed. Or almost killed. Even after hitting it with his rifle, stomping on it, and sealing it in an airtight bottle, he wasn’t sure the crystalline tendril was dead. He swung the rucksack off his shoulder and peered inside.

  The piece did not need air. That much was obvious, since it still fitfully kicked about inside the plastic bottle. As he watched, the tendril sprouted spikes that tentatively probed at the sides of the bottle, testing its strength. The faster he got it away from him, the happier he’d be. It was alien in a way he couldn’t even begin to define, which made him profoundly uneasy.

  “Hey, Cap’n!” came a shout. Allen looked up from his rucksack to see a private waving at him from across the compound. “You better get your butt on up to the colonel’s office. The boss wants to see you yesterday!”

  Allen growled at an enlisted man daring to speak so informally to him, then hurried up the stairs to Villalobos’s second-floor office in the sprawling command and control building. The door to the colonel’s office stood partially open. Allen sidled closer and eavesdropped for a moment, just to be on the safe side. Then he knocked boldly.

  “Come!”

  Allen breezed in past the vacant orderly’s desk to the colonel’s office, trying to look confident. Victory through arrogance. But all of Allen’s simulated brashness died when he saw a sergeant sitting behind the colonel’s desk, just as if he were in charge.

  “Where’s Villalobos?” Allen demanded.

  Suarez looked up. “Where have you been, Captain? Things have been jumping here.”

  “Sergeant, I—”

  “Lieutenant.”

  “Lieutenant,” Allen said sarcastically. “Brief me on what’s happened.” Allen listened in dismay as Suarez told him about their split forces, half under Travis going to defend El Manguito and the other half with Villalobos at Revancha.

  “The man’s crazy!” Allen exclaimed. “He can’t leave San Cristóbal undefended like this. How many troops on post?”

  “Counting you, sir? Twenty-one.”

  “It’s a good thing I returned when I did. Contact Villalobos immediately.”

  “Sorry, sir, he ordered complete comm blackout.”

  “I need to assemble all the officers for an immediate appraisal if I am going to properly command. I—”

  “Sir,” Suarez interrupted firmly. “Technically you are not my superior officer. You are an observer, not a member of the colonel’s staff. Colonel Villalobos placed me in charge. I command here.”

  “I outrank you, Sergeant,” Allen snapped. “Even if your claim to be a second lieutenant is valid, I still outrank you.”

  “You are on TDY while at this post and out of the chain of command,” Suarez said, his expression darkening and his
tone increasingly less polite. “Colonel Villalobos was wondering whether you had gone AWOL, since you did not formally report back to him as ordered. When I heard you had finally shown up, I sent word for you to come here. To my office.”

  “I was on a secret mission for Villalobos,” Allen lied. “He would not take a lieutenant—let alone a sergeant—into his confidence about such an important mission.”

  He swung his rucksack off his shoulder and opened the top. He had hoped to avoid revealing his discovery, but it was clear that the time had come to play his trump card. Gingerly, he grasped the bottle containing the glass snake by its edges and set it on Villalobos’s desk.

  Suarez stood up from behind the desk and went pale. “What the hell is that?”

  “That is what the colonel sent me to find,” Allen said. Both men edged slightly away from the desk as another questing tendril from the snake rocked the bottle. “We need to get it into quarantine as quickly as possible. We don’t yet know what its capabilities are.”

  Suarez reached for the comm unit at the side of Villalobos’s desk but yanked his hand back as a fresh attack from a tendril tilted the bottle even closer to him. He pushed his chair back and edged carefully around the desk.

  “Wait here,” Suarez said. “I’ll go get the biotechs to put that thing in isolation.” He hurried from the room, and Allen could hear him shouting orders all the way down the stairs.

  As soon as he was out of sight, Allen snatched his rucksack, pulled it over the furiously rocking bottle, and scooped it up, dexterously pulling the top closed without ever touching the crystal’s prison. He carefully laid the bag on the floor and darted around to the other side of the desk, where he found the encryption code for the day and contacted the duty officer in Mexico City.

  “Who am I speaking to?” Allen demanded.

  “Major Ortiz, if it is of any importance to one so rude.”

  “Sorry, Major,” Allen said insincerely. “This is Captain Alex Allen at San Cristóbal. I was sent here at General Ramirez’s request, and I need to speak to him right away. Emergency.”

  “Does this have anything to do with that tedious problem at El Manguito? Where is Colonel Villalobos?”

  “The colonel has abandoned San Cristóbal, sir,” Allen said, his voice oozing concern. “He left a staff sergeant in command.”

  “You are joking.”

  “Afraid not,” Allen replied, keeping a wary eye on the door. This was taking too long, and he was afraid Suarez might return too soon. “Let me speak to General Ramirez.”

  “One moment.” The comm unit hummed, and then a deeper, more authoritative voice echoed from the speaker.

  “General Ramirez here. What is this about Villalobos going AWOL?”

  “This is Captain Alex Allen, TDY from Union HQ. I went on a scouting patrol into the jungle, and when I returned, Villalobos had left for Revancha.”

  “And you say a sergeant is in command?”

  “Sergeant Suarez,” Allen said. “Villalobos took all the soldiers, leaving San Cristóbal with only twenty men. Twenty-one, counting me now.”

  “We have reports from El Manguito of the mutant attack,” Ramirez said. “Villalobos had no reason to have sent reinforcements. The garrison commander has the situation in hand. But you say he went to Revancha?”

  “That’s what the sergeant said, sir. What are your orders?”

  “I’ll have Villalobos’s ears on a plate for this,” Ramirez said. “He’s deserted his post. No excuse for that. You are in command, Captain. If Villalobos returns, have him call me immediately, and I will repeat this order for him. Then you can clap him into the guardhouse!”

  “Yes, sir, understood,” Allen said. “If he returns.” Allen clicked off the comm unit and turned to face an infuriated Suarez, who had burst back into the room during his final exchange, followed by two biotechs.

  “I trust the general’s orders were clear,” Allen said, smiling. “There should be no more questions about the chain of command, I think?”

  Suarez swallowed his fury with difficulty and spoke through clenched teeth. “What are your orders? Sir.”

  “First, get that thing down to an isolation chamber,” Allen said, pointing at the rucksack on the floor. Suarez moved aside so the two technicians could get at Allen’s find. “Then get me some maps of the region. We may have a bigger problem on our hands than a few poorly trained guerrillas, and I need to decide what to do about it.”

  As Suarez left, every step radiating rage, Allen sat down in Villalobos’s chair and put his feet up on Villalobos’s desk.

  This had worked out even better than he could have hoped. Villalobos was gone, he was in command of the garrison, and he now had access to the missile-launch codes. As soon as he planned his best avenue of attack, the meteorite in the jungle would be his. Promotions and fame would follow.

  Perhaps he should get lost in the jungle more often.

  17

  * * *

  Dawn. Time to attack Revancha.

  José Villalobos touched the contact stud on his radio, then pulled back. The Union had too much electronic equipment monitoring all frequencies for any trace of guerrilla activity. This raid was too important to risk them intercepting his orders. He instead lifted his hand high over his head and squeezed it into a fist, signaling Flaco and Gunther on his right and Mary on his left that they were to advance. Consuela moved like a shadow among the remaining soldiers, readying them for a frontal assault on Revancha—for the freedom of their families and villages.

  José had decided to carry out the attack in waves, which would shake up the Union resistance and give him the best chance of capturing the reactor. Now it was time for Consuela to inspire the guerrillas not only to fight but also to obey orders.

  Too many were angry men and women who wanted only immediate revenge for the deaths of loved ones. Attack. They understood that. But to attack with purpose and retreat to lure the enemy into a trap? That required more faith on their part, even after they had seen it work repeatedly. But the one who concerned him most was Consuela. She had been strangely silent after their last talk about whether to chase down the monster rather than attacking Revancha. José suspected that her mind was still on the frightening creature she had reported seeing.

  Until this week José’s attacks had been typical of guerrilla action everywhere it had ever occurred. Attack and raid, harass and demoralize, then vanish back into the jungle, protected always by sympathizers in the towns and villages. Now, two entire patrols had been lost. It was a sign, a signal that it was time to become a soldier, not a guerrilla.

  “Death to the Union oppressors,” José said, loud enough for Consuela to overhear. She smiled weakly and gave him a more reassuring wink. The words rippled through their ranks, and the attack began.

  José and Consuela took point, their squads ranging behind them as they moved out of the jungle toward the high chain-link fence surrounding the CANDU reactor. Dotting the knee-high grass were the round, machined-aluminum sensor heads designed to alert the guards of any attack.

  José glanced at his watch. Gunther’s squad should have engaged the Union guards at the front gate by now, drawing forces away from this section.

  “Cut the fence,” he ordered.

  Consuela dropped to her knees and began using a laser cutter. The beam sizzled through several tough metal links before it hit a live wire, causing an explosion that knocked her back into the grass.

  José instantly scooped up the laser cutter Consuela had dropped and began slashing furiously at the fence. He hit another live wire that delivered a jolt strong enough to jar his teeth. When he pulled back, dazed, another of his men took the cutter from his hands and finished the job. José knew that cutting the live wires in the fence would have triggered an alarm circuit. Speed was now of the essence.

  “We did not know about this,” he said quietly to Consuela, hands shaking in reaction to the electric charge that had scrambled his nerves. José gripped his Kalashn
ikov tightly to keep his temporary infirmity from being too apparent to the others.

  “No,” she said, “but we must expect more traps. At least we took out the sensor heads in the field to keep the enemy from tracking our movements.” She gestured behind them, and José saw that while he had battled with the fence, his troops had systematically blown up the warning system. He had not authorized this—it wasted precious grenades and drew attention—but he wouldn’t chastise Consuela for showing initiative. By now the soldiers inside the facility already knew they were under attack. They would defend the central building containing the reactor while broadcasting frantically for help from Diego.

  Which he would be unable to provide, thanks to the Cyclops attack on El Manguito. José had found a use for the hideous mutations the Neo-Soviets had sent him: diversion. Let the abominations be chewed up and destroyed.

  The first guerrillas through the hole in the fence started across the dirt perimeter of the compound. One of them stepped on an ordinary-looking patch of ground and was torn in half by an explosion that also caught two of his comrades. Land mine!

  “Stop!” cried José. His remaining soldiers froze in place, staring at the carnage just within the fence. “Who has the map of the interior?”

  “Here,” Consuela said, handing it to him and squatting down next to him on the ground. He spread it out. The locations of mines had been marked with small red Xs.

  “This area is not supposed to be mined,” he said. “How long ago was this map stolen?”

  “Last week,” Consuela answered. “I—” She had to put out an arm to catch herself when another mine exploded fifty meters away.

  “The mines must be remotely detonated,” José said. “They put them here, expecting an attack!” If he had a traitor in his ranks, it hardly mattered now. It was too late to turn back—had been too late almost from the start. Even if they were expected, the guerrillas would do what they came for.