by Drew Avera
“Take a chill pill, dude,” Bubba assured him. “Everyone is packed up and ready to go.” He frowned, staring at Svetlana. “But where’s the spy gonna ride? I mean, we ain’t got no trucks or anything along.”
“We were hoping one of you guys might let her grab a seat in a U-mech,” Nate admitted. “Just until we get inside the complex. Once we get in, I’m going to dismount and the two of us will try to hunt down Robert Franklin, since I don’t expect him to strap into a mech and fight us straight up.”
“Your funeral,” Catalina said. “But sure, she can squeeze into one of our remotely-piloted machines.” She speared Svetlana with a sidelong glance. “Don’t fucking touch anything, though. Unlike some people, I have to come by my equipment through legal, official channels.”
“Oh, go to hell,” Barron snapped, crossing his arms.
“You first.”
“I’m telling you,” Bubba insisted, waving a hand at the two of them demonstratively, “this is classic sexual tension. You two should just go find an empty rail car and get it on before we have to go.”
“Ewww!” Barron’s lip twisted in disgust. “In one of these filthy, ratty, rusting hulks?”
“Or anywhere!” Catalina corrected him, eyebrow shooting up.
Nate wanted to stay serious, businesslike, professional, but he couldn’t help it. The laugh began cautiously, as if on unfamiliar ground, but wouldn’t be restrained. Svetlana joined in and Bubba didn’t even try to stop himself, unashamedly braying like a jackass. Barron and Catalina were still scowling with disapproval, which only made it funnier. Even Bill was chortling, slapping the side of the control room wall.
Finally, the laughter died down, but Nate was reluctant to let it go. It felt like forever since he’d laughed at anything.
“Okay,” he said, slipping an arm around Svetlana’s waist and pulling her to him for one last embrace. “You go with Catalina. When we disembark, you’ll be following along with her squadron, but once we get near the complex,” he continued, looking to Catalina, “make sure you cut her loose near our people so I can rendezvous without wasting too much time.”
“Yeah, it looks like the two of you didn’t waste any time before you rendezvoused,” Barron cracked. Nate ignored him, drinking in the feel of Svetlana’s body pressed against him while he could.
“It’s important we don’t get tangled up fighting our own people,” Nate reminded them, “so don’t just go blasting the first mech you see. Svetlana and I will try to get a feel for the situation and report back.”
“What if they start shooting at us before they ask any questions?” Barron wondered.
“Do what you have to do to stay in one piece,” Nate told him. “But if you’re not sure, don’t get bogged down in a firefight. We don’t want to do Franklin’s work for him. Anybody got any questions?”
“Yeah, I got one,” Barron said, looking over at Bubba. “You got any of that dope left? I could really use a hit about now.”
“You snooze, you lose, buddy,” Bubba told him, beaming in contentment.
“Good God,” Bill said, “I almost wish I could stick around to watch this.” He cackled manically, heading back into the control room.
“Almost.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Sam Point hadn’t woken up later than oh-five-hundred hours since he’d been in high school. Even when he’d gone drinking with his classmates upon graduation from the Academy, he’d woken at five on the dot and gone running. He’d puked, but he’d gone running.
This morning, he slept in. He didn’t think anyone would begrudge him the privilege of sleeping until seven on the day after the President’s funeral. Even the majority who didn’t know of their affair were still aware they were friends and he was a trusted advisor.
Still, it seemed unnatural, waking after the sunrise, even if he couldn’t see the sun from beneath the mountain. He’d thought about getting a place in the town, just some little apartment he could retreat to, away from the constant paranoia and twenty-four hour work rotation under the mountain. Perhaps, he’d fantasized, he and Harriet could steal away there sometimes and spend the night together without the worry of dodging the prying eyes of aids and security agents.
It had been a dream, and one he’d known would never come to fruition. They were both workaholics, which was why neither of their marriages had worked. They’d stolen moments, but the moments were only available because they’d worked so closely together. He supposed he had the Russians to thank for that. Ironically, it was the threat from the Russians that had taken her away in the end…or, rather, her inability to see it.
Sam sat up in bed, staring straight ahead and not even seeing the bare, white walls of his suite. He’d thought about hanging some art, but he rarely saw the place with the lights on for more than the few minutes it took him to get ready in the morning and the fewer still at night before he went to sleep. It was four walls, a bathroom, a place to sleep. He rarely ate there, though the kitchen was fully stocked, and his liaisons with Harriet had mostly been in her quarters.
Should he shower or just shave and throw on a uniform? Should he bother getting coffee here or simply go to the cafeteria as usual, despite the lateness of the morning? Would it be harmful to morale?
He giggled at the thought. The President was dead, and he was about to order the troops to attack and assassinate the Russian delegation, and he was worried about morale. Would they even do it? He thought he could count on his pilots to follow orders, but this was going to be trickier without orders from the Vice President…President, that is.
And how would Larry Burnside react when he found out the Russians had been killed at Sam Point’s order? It would be a fait accomplis, with no way to reverse course but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t court-martial Point just the same.
Do I care?
His phone chirped for attention from his nightstand and he scowled at it in irritation. He’d ordered his aids and secretaries to leave him alone unless it was an emergency, but you could never count on people being competent enough to understand what constituted an emergency. He picked up the phone.
“Yes,” he snapped. It wasn’t how he usually answered the phone and he hoped whoever was calling knew what dangerous ground they were treading.
“Umm…General Point? This is Captain Mercado down at the restricted cargo entrance to mech storage. I have a large group of pilots down here in a couple of Hemets who want access.”
Point’s frown deepened, more confusion than anger now.
“We aren’t expecting any pilot transfers. And why would they go directly down to the cargo entrance instead of reporting? Do they have any authorizations?”
“Yes, sir…umm. It’s…it’s signed by you, sir.”
Point’s eyes widened and he realized this had to be Franklin’s doing. And yet the man hadn’t mentioned anything about importing pilots for the mechs he’d had built.
“Keep them there,” he told Mercado. “I’ll be down in five minutes.”
It was actually more like ten. Point couldn’t face the world without brushing his teeth and running a comb through his hair, but he skipped the dress uniform for field utilities and decided to forego decorum and run for the elevator banks. He ignored the stares and the hesitant wishes of good morning and ordered out the two befuddled enlisted who’d reached the elevator car before him. His ID code locked the car out from the call buttons and took him straight up to the mech storage area.
Exiting the car, he couldn’t help but glance up at the one-way glass of the conference room. It hadn’t even been three days ago he’d been in the room with Harriet and she’d made the decision that had cost her everything, cost her life. Was it worth it? Had he done the right thing? Decades of service fighting the Russians told him he had, that she’d been naïve to believe she could negotiate a peace when the other side was winning. The sticking point was Franklin, though. He hadn’t been able to trust Harriet to do the right thing, but could he trust Robert Frank
lin?
He’d thought so. The man talked a good game. But things like this didn’t help. Why the hell had he forged Point’s authorization for his own group of mech pilots?
Rows of modified Hellfires stared down at him with the accusatory glares as he passed, his combat boots clomping on the concrete floor. They were ancient gods carved from stone and brought to life, promising death and destruction to all who opposed them, and he found some comfort in their strength. Enough that he was no longer utterly furious when he saw the two old Hemets still halted at the security gate, the golden rays of morning light leaking in around them from the exterior of the base.
The guards at the gate stayed at their posts, hands on the receivers of their gimbal-mounted machine guns, waiting dutifully, but they didn’t seem too concerned. The drivers of both vehicles were hunched over the steering wheels, uniform caps pulled low over their faces, though there seemed to be something familiar to the cut of their jaws, something he couldn’t quite place.
He knew the man talking to Captain Mercado just the other side of the guard gates, though. It was Nathan Stout, though he was dressed in an issue flight suit complete with US Army insignia and rank. Mercado caught sight of Point and seemed to visibly relax, relieved the general had come to straighten things out.
If only.
“Sir!” Mercado said, and Point tried not to sneer at the man. He was such an obsequious little toady, with barely a milligram of initiative in his whole body. “This is…”
“I know who this is, Captain,” he interrupted. “I’ll take care of this. You,” he told Nathan, wagging a finger back to the other side of the guard gate. “Come with me. I need to speak to you in private.”
“Lovely morning, isn’t it, Sam?” Nathan said, a mocking edge to his casual tone as the two of them walked to the other side of the guard gate. “Sorry to rouse you so early.” He sniffed, his nose wrinkling. “I see I kept you from your morning shower and I greatly apologize for that.”
“What the hell is going on?” Point demanded, ignoring the man’s attempt at banter. “Franklin didn’t say a goddamned thing about bringing in his own pilots!” He struggled to keep his voice down, which was difficult, since he wanted to scream in Nathan’s face. “Does he not trust my pilots to pull off the operation? Because if he doesn’t, he sure as hell could have mentioned it sooner!”
“Now, Sam,” Nathan said, his voice soft and soothing, his hand patting Point’s shoulder comfortingly, “it is not that Robert doesn’t trust your pilots, I assure you of that.”
“Then what the hell is it?”
Point had been meeting Nathan’s eyes, had been distracted by the man’s hand on his shoulder, so the hard metal of the gun barrel pressing against his chest came as a complete surprise.
“What the fuck?” he blurted.
“It’s that we don’t trust you, Sammy boy.”
The report of the gun sounded muffled, unreal somehow, and the small portion of Point’s thoughts still rational and calm and reasoning intuited the weapon must have an integral suppressor. Probably low-velocity, subsonic rounds. Then the pain and shock hit and the thinking part of his brain shrank to a tiny fraction as blood began to pull away from his extremities. He didn’t remember falling, but suddenly, he was on the ground.
Nathan stretched up above him, impossibly tall, impossibly fast. He’d pulled something from a pocket, something round, made of black metal. He tossed it backhanded at the guard station, then ducked aside behind the leg of a Hellfire. This time, Point heard the blast, felt the concussion deep in his chest, felt the heat wash over him. A thousand needles stabbed into his legs and side and he realized he was catching grenade fragments, but wasn’t concerned. He was bleeding too badly from the wound in his chest to be concerned about the grenade.
Troops were pouring out of the back of the Hemets, hands filled with sub machineguns, their suppressors holding their reports down to the level of a hammer smacking a two-by-four. The screams were louder, for a while, until they were snuffed out. One of the troopers stepped up to Nathan and said something. Point couldn’t make out the words, couldn’t make his brain work well enough to understand them. He could hear Nathan reply, though.
“You take over here. I have to get back to Franklin and get him to the Air Force Academy for the meeting. I’ll be taking two of your squadrons with me to deal with the Russian security.”
“Roger that,” the trooper said. But the man’s face…it was Nathan’s face.
Point managed to turn his head just slightly, a major effort that cost him pain and blood and probably seconds of life, but he had to know. They all looked the same, every one of them he could see. They were all Nathan Stout.
He’d been in the Army long enough to know what they were, and he spat the word out like a curse with his last breath.
“Dupes.”
“Of course,” Nathan said, standing over him. There was something sad in his smile, as if he regretted all this. “Who else could Bob trust to do the right thing? But you know, Sam, in a certain sense of the word, you’re a dupe, too. But an oh, so useful one.”
The muzzle of the suppressor seemed huge pointing between Sam’s eyes.
“Say hello to Harriet for me.”
Burning gas flashed, the last light Sam Point would ever see.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“It seems unnatural, attacking in broad daylight like this,” Anton said.
His eyes danced from one tree to another with the conviction that the logging road was a trap and any one of the dark clumps of pines could hide an American mech.
“Yes, so you’ve said,” Colonel Sverdlov replied, an edge of annoyance to his tone. “More than once. But this isn’t some back-alley brothel in Baltimore, and the only good coming in at night would do is alarming them even quicker, since no one coming in for a legitimate purpose would be visiting at night.”
“And I’m sure this is going to attract no attention at all,” Anton mumbled but didn’t transmit. He eyed the dust rising in their wake and wondered what sort of legitimate purpose Sverdlov imagined they’d appear to have.
“Have you ever studied the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor during the Great Patriotic War, Anton?” Sverdlov asked him, as if reading his mind.
“I’ve heard of it,” Anton grunted a reply.
“Those Japanese carriers and airplanes were not invisible. They were seen before the attack. Do you know why no one was ready for them? Because they refused to believe what they saw. They assumed it was an American fleet, American aircraft, right up till the moment the planes opened fire, until the bombs began dropping.”
“Yes, sir,” he acknowledged the point. Anyone who saw them would assume they were troops from Cheyenne Mountain until it was too late.
“Anyway, we’ll find out in about ten minutes. They’ll be able to see us from the town over this next hill.” He laughed, the sound a burst of static on the radio. “And from there, we fly, because at some point, someone will notice that these mechs are not Hellfires, yes?”
“Yes, sir.”
Over the next hill was the end of a long road for Anton. One way or another.
“Did they have to drop us so far away?” Svetlana wondered.
“What?” Nate asked her. “Your boots not fit right? Not used to walking on dirt after all this time working in cities?”
She cast him a sidelong grin.
“It is quite the lovely day for a walk,” she told him, “even a two kilometer one. But I feel quite exposed out here in broad daylight.”
It was a beautiful morning, cool and comfortable, and well shaded on the paved road between the rows of conifers. Summer in the Rocky Mountains was an entirely different thing than summer on the eastern seaboard, and Nate found himself wishing he’d been allowed to stay in the military when he’d woken from the incubation pod to immediate obsolescence. The Army was out here, facing down the Chinese, their battlefields in central California and western Nevada and sometimes even up in east
ern Oregon. The Russians were the problem of the mercenary units.
He resisted an urge to glance behind them. He wouldn’t have seen anything. The mercenary mechs were off the main road two kilometers back, concealed in a draw, waiting for the word from their advance scouts.
That would be us.
A flatbed truck rumbled down the road, a load of fifty-five-gallon drums strapped down on its cargo bed, and Svetlana flinched as the driver blew his airhorn. Inside the cab, the bearded, long-haired driver was laughing at her reaction. Nate shot the man a bird as the truck passed.
“This is a military base,” Nate reminded her, squinting up the road, wondering when they’d see the main gates. “We’re dressed for the part.” He motioned at their matching flight suits. “Even if they have the wrong markings. Just relax.”
“You are very calm for a man about to face himself,” she observed. “Perhaps many versions of yourself.”
“They’re not me,” Nate told her, surprised at the confidence he felt. “They’ve only been given the parts of my memories Bob thought were useful. He left out the bad memories, the doubts, but those make me who I am.”
“Well, you’d better forget who you are and think about who they are…because you’re going to have to pass yourself off as one of them.” They’d topped a small hill and she nodded down the road, to where the main entrance to Cheyenne Mountain was finally visible, and shockingly close.
Nate was suddenly very cognizant of the handgun holstered in his chest harness and wondered if he should have left it in the mech. But it would have been damned stupid to go after Franklin unarmed and if they didn’t buy his identity, the gun wasn’t going to make him any more arrested than he already would be. He sucked in a deep breath and kept walking, speeding up their pace. He suddenly felt an irrational fear they’d be too late and wanted to run, but he knew it would look too suspicious.
