Gaia's Demise

by James Axler

  A radio signal was immediately sent to NORAD.

  Command in Wyoming. But neither the mammoth Cheyenne Mountain nor the North American Air Defense headquarters existed anymore, and the request for instructions went unanswered. The guardian satellite instantly tried contacting the Pentagon. No response. Then it tracked desperately for Looking Glass, the flying headquarters of SAC, but the Boeing 777 was nowhere to be located. Following the dictates of its programming, the guardian demanded immediate verification from the White house. There was only static. Finally the war satellite broke top secret seals and beamed an emergency signal to the armored bunker at Camp David. Nothing, only the crackle of the never ending sheet lightning from the isotope-filled clouds masking the planet.

  Subprograms flared into operation, but the auxiliary routines failed to boot, so they were tried again a dozen times before the reserve files were accessed. But the long ages and steady bombardment of the solar winds had claimed a toll on the military orbiter. When reserve files were sluggishly activated, the first was filled with corrupted data, as well the second, but the fail-safe backup proved functional and the weapon systems of the hunter-killer were brought online within seconds.

  Now a direct warning was broadcast at the intruder in international Morse code. There was no reply. The mandatory warning was tried once more with the same results. Hardwired circuits pulsed into life, and hatches irised wide. Distance was gauged, speed, vectors, trajectory, and two small missiles streaked toward the lumbering Kite.

  The first went straight past the mile-wide power station, arcing off into the limitless depths of deep space. The second detonated halfway between the two machines, its chem warhead of thermite-beryllium flowering into a hellish spray of metallic flame over two thousand degrees Kelvin in temperature.

  The Kite began to tilt slightly away from the guardian satellite.

  Sensing the unauthorized invader was still coming, the hunter-killer activated its armor-piercing rockets and prepared to launch, when the warheads prematurely detonated inside the military satellite, blowing the orbiter apart in a silent detonation. Utterly destroyed, the crackling wreckage of the megamillion-dollar satellite began to drift toward Earth with ever increasing speed. In minutes, the friction of the thickening atmosphere rushing past its hull raised the temperatures of the ceramics way beyond their design limit, and a spectacular tail of flame stretched behind the plummeting machine, making it resemble a comet for a few brief seconds before it was vaporized.

  Serenely, the colossal Kite continued its journey toward a new geosynchronous position directly above an insignificant river valley, hidden somewhere in the ragged mountains of western Tennessee.

  THE MURMURING WATER was only ten feet below as J.B. wrapped his legs tighter around the wooden beam and scooted a few more inches along the trestle of the old bridge. Cross braces supported the thick planks above the man, and he moved from joist to joist, desperately grabbing anything solid to maintain his precarious perch above the river.

  The spray rising from the water made everything slick and soon soaked his clothes through to the skin. Directly underneath his back, black catfish and rainbow trout darted about in the endless flow, and a winged eel broke the surface, jumping for the dancing sparkles incorrectly thinking the reflected light was food.

  Scooting forward another foot, J.B. cursed as a splinter jabbed into his hand, and he bit the end, pulling it loose and spitting it away. Another eel dived for the bloody tidbit and disappeared into the river with its prize. Muttering darkly, J.B. finally reached the middle of the bridge and found the explosive charge. The flat ceramic disk was attached with steel bands bolted to the main timbers, dim telltales winking in the damp shadows.

  Bootsteps sounded on the planks above, and curly black hair framing a scarred face appeared over the edge of the bridge. It took Ryan several moments before he could find the Armorer esconced within the maze of wood.

  "How's it going?" Ryan asked.

  "Found another land mine," J.B. replied, studying the predark device. Easing his grip on the cross braces, the Armorer rested his shoulders on the smooth butt of a joist, and traced the outline of the mine with steady fingertips. "Silas is getting really serious with these things. This model is a lot bigger than the last couple we found. Must be ten pounds of plas here. That would remove the whole bridge and most of the road on either side."

  "Need anything?" Ryan asked, shaking the spray from his face.

  "Yeah, turn off the river for a few minutes, will you?" J.B. grunted in reply. Hugging a cross brace with his left arm, he reached into his shirt and pulled out a pair of needle-nose pliers. A short length of string was tied from the handle of the pliers to the buckle on his belt.

  An oil lantern came into view at the end of a rope.

  "More light?" Krysty asked from above.

  "Got enough, thanks. The problem is I don't know this model," J.B. muttered, working on a recessed bolt. "Ah, there's the control board… Shit!"

  There was a splash as the pliers dropped into the river. Immediately, the fish nosed about the item to see if it was edible. Discovering that it wasn't, they angrily slashed fins, spraying mud over the tool, burying it completely.

  "Bloody string was a good idea," he announced, reeling in the pliers on the dripping twine.

  "You're welcome, lover," Mildred replied. At that angle, she could only see the man by his reflection in the flowing water.

  "Everybody better move farther away," he suggested loudly. A line of color ran along the cracks between the planks. Green and red. That was power and a ground wire. He traced them into the shadows and spotted other flat disks hidden amid the timbers. "There seems to be more charges, one at either end of the bridge."

  "A sandwich formation," Ryan answered. "Nowhere to run."

  "Looks like. The ends are merely charges, no sensors or trips. It's when you reach the middle of the bridge that all three go. Damn good design. Best I've seen." He snipped a wire and waited for sudden violent death. When nothing happened, he snipped another.

  Squatting on the shore, Dean studied the river. "So how do the blues get across?"

  "Ford river," Jak said. "Not deep."

  "The bottom is too soft," Doc stated knowingly. "We would be forced to abandon the Hummer. A LAV could make the transition, but not our current mode of transportation."

  Levering a beveled plate out of the way, J.B. answered, "We can cross the bridge anytime, only the Hummer can't. People, horses, most civilian wags would roll over with no trouble. But once the mine senses dense steel overhead, this whole bridge will be matchsticks in a heartbeat."

  "Can you remove the mine, let it sink in the river?" Ryan asked, a spent round sliding from his shirt pocket and disappearing into the water. The man was annoyed he had missed the brass. It could just as easily have been a live round wasted due to carelessness. As a reasonable precaution, Ryan had emptied his pockets of anything valuable before leaning over the bridge. J.B. had done the same, his collection of items piled on the floorboards of the Hummer. And just in case the mine was tripped by magnetic fields, Ryan was stripped to the SIG-Sauer, no spare clips, and not even a knife in his boot, to keep the metal on his body to an absolute minimum.

  "Not going to remove this device without power tools," J.B. answered, grunting with effort. "It's here to stay, bolted into position nine different ways. But I have a better plan." More muttering sounded from under the bridge, along some hard banging and another splash. "Shit!"

  Suddenly, the birds in the trees stopped making noises, and the rest of the companions drew blasters. Straining to hear voices or engines, they waited for a patrol of blues to arrive. Tense minutes passed before a sting-wing soared from the trees with a fresh kill in its beak. The companions relaxed as the mutie flew away and the birds began to chirp once more.

  Ryan eased the safety back on the SIG-Sauer, when he realized that J.B. was on the move below the bridge, wiggling quickly between the braces and joists. The one-eyed warrior retre
ated to the safety of the road, waiting as J.B. reached the shore and crawled backward onto the grass. Gratefully, the man stood and lifted a thick wad of grayish clay from inside his shirt.

  "To hell with defusing the mine. I just removed the C-4 charge," J.B. announced with a slight smirk. "Let the damn thing ignite. It'll only make a bang that wouldn't chill a fly."

  "You sure about that?" Mildred asked, handing over a backpack.

  Extracting dry clothes from within, J.B. quickly changed, using stiff fingers to smooth his damp hair. Then, donning his dry fedora, he slid the Uzi over a shoulder. "Well, just in case, I'll drive the Hummer over alone," he suggested, adjusting his glasses.

  Already at the wag, Ryan started the engine and stepped away from the Hummer. A stick was pressed against the gas pedal and a piece of rope held the steering wheel steady. At a leisurely pace, the armored vehicle slowly rolled across the expanse of the wooden bridge, veering a little off course toward the edge, but nothing dangerous. As the wag reached the middle, there was a sharp explosion and debris sprayed into the river, churning the surface and scaring away the fish. Smoke blew away from the support beams, but nothing else occurred and the Hummer reached the other side intact.

  Sprinting forward, Ryan claimed the Hummer before it got too far away, and turned off the engine. "It's safe," he announced, untying the knotted rope and throwing away the stick. "Let's go."

  Walking over, the companions piled their belongings into the rear of the Hummer and took seats. Jak took the gunner position at the M-60, and Doc stretched his long legs in the cargo area. Taking the front seat, J.B. laid the Uzi on the floor and started carving the lump of plastique into fat bricks. Gently, he wrapped each separately in a piece of a blue shirt taken off a corpse and tucked the bricks into his munitions bag.

  "Can blow a lot of locks with this," he said, patting the bag contentedly. "Good for starting fires in the rain, too."

  "Plas?" Jak asked, shocked.

  "Sure. Most explosives will simply burn if they're not inside a container. You need a primer for TNT, or even a gunshot wouldn't set it off. An electric charge or a small explosion makes C-4 detonate, but fire only causes it to burn like coal."

  Starting the warm engines, Ryan checked the fuel gauge, noting the low level, and they headed into the deadly green hills once more. So far, they had found mines on every bridge, and on a flat stretch of ground there had been a collection of bloodstained crosses lining the road, rotting corpses—without eyes or genitalia— brutally nailed to the upright timbers. Oddly, the dead were all facing eastward, toward the ville of the blue shirts. It was a clear warning about the dangers of leaving. The mines were a more direct warning about entering the valley.

  "And this is the back door," Krysty said, as if reading his thoughts.

  "Silas didn't believe in half measures," Ryan agreed, shifting gears. "Remember those homemade muties of his?"

  "Nasty," Jak agreed.

  "Maybe we should leave the roads," Mildred suggested. "Take to the woods."

  "Can't," Ryan replied bluntly. "The trees are too close, the slopes too sharp. No way we could drive through these hills. Even walking would be a bitch. We're stuck with the roads until reaching flatter country."

  "Besides, there could be patrols in the hills," J.B. added, resting an arm out the window of the Hummer. "Land mines are easier to avoid then sec men."

  "Prefer sec men," Jak countered, shaking the length of linked ammo to straighten a kink. "Mines always sharp, blues fall sleep sometimes."

  "Only once, my friend," Doc answered, sliding a length of razor-sharp sword from his ebony stick and slamming it back inside. "And then never again."

  ITS EIGHT WHEELS CHURNING out grass and dirt, the armored bulk of the LAV-25 rolled to a stop near the edge of the quarry. Sec men rushed to open the rear doors, and Silas hobbled from the war wag, stiffly walking to the ragged end of the land.

  "What in hell happened here?" the whitecoat roared, standing above the abyss. "Were we attacked?"

  "The damn fools must have set off the TNT," Major Sheffield said, staring at the jumble of broken rock that rose halfway to the surface. "It'll take weeks of hard work to reach the bottom again. Even longer before we can start carving blocks for the outer wall. Months lost!"

  "Any survivors?" Silas demanded in cold fury, his hand clenching the cane hard.

  Crossing his arms, Sheffield shook his head. "None."

  "How lucky for the overseers," Silas snorted. "They would have begged for death before I was through with them!"

  "Any orders, sir?" Sheffield asked.

  "Yes, of course. Halt the construction of the wall," Silas stated grimly. "Assign every worker to the dish. Once done, we'll effect a clear zone around the complex. That will afford us the security we need to finish the wall at our leisure."

  "A clear zone?" the major asked.

  Leaning heavily on his cane, Silas grunted. "We'll burn the whole Tennessee valley to ash around our base for a hundred miles. Nobody would dare to cross that."

  The orbiter could do such a thing? Amazing. It truly was more powerful than predark nukes. "How soon?" the sec chief asked, trying to hide his excitement.

  "Noon tomorrow—no, the day after. Tomorrow, I reduce Front Royal to a lava pool." Silas then frowned. "What are the chances that Ryan had something to do with this?"

  "None at all," Sheffield stated firmly. "Any strangers found in the valley have been shot on sight. Our sentries report in regularly, and every passable road is heavily mined."

  "Ah, that's not exactly correct, sir," a corporal hesitantly offered, walking from the crowd of sec men.

  Turning slowly, Silas leveled a hostile gaze at the youngster. "Explain that statement," he growled.

  The sec man saluted. "Sir! The sentry on the west road is late reporting in, sir. We sent off his relief this morning, but no word on either of them yet."

  "The west! I should have known the coward would try and sneak up on me from behind!" Silas glanced about nervously, feeling very vulnerable standing in the open. "Send out a LAV and squad of men immediately."

  "That is unwise, sir. We only have three armored wags remaining," the major reported succinctly. "We lost one during the cave-in. It must have been parked near the edge and fell into the quarry."

  "Irrelevant! I want armor on the west road within the hour." Licking his dry lips, Silas hunched his shoulders as if braced for the killing impact of a bullet. His face felt hot, and the center of his forehead ached with a stabbing pain as if he had been already shot. A great weariness filled the man, and in horror he felt himself starting to slip into the dream state that heralded his recurring nightmare. Only this time it was happening while he was wide awake!

  Through sheer force of will, he banished the delirium, but a cold certainty now gripped his heart and Silas knew that his days of sanity were almost over. Soon, madness would rule his mind, and the scientist would no longer be able to tell reality from delusion. He would probably never even know when Tanner, or the major, took his life. Breathing hard, Silas looked into the deep quarry, knowing that a single step more would end his problems forever.

  Just then, a stone broke away from the ragged edge of the ground and fell into the quarry, clattering and clacking as it bounced from boulder to boulder, finally disappearing into the shadowy dust clouds far below. A few seconds later, there was a splash as it reached the runoff pool.

  Shuddering at the noise, Silas stepped way from the yawning stone pit. No, not yet. His death at this time would only damn North America to endless barbarism. Democracy had failed, the anarchy of choice and the chaos of freedom combining to create skydark and nearly ending the human race. Only the iron rule of science could save humankind from extinction. The Great Project had to be completed first, no matter what the personal cost. Then and only then could he allow himself to finally die and escape the growing horrors of his own damaged mind.

  Limping about, Silas started for the LAV. "Come along, Major. We're retu
rning to the complex. That one-eyed bastard could be watching us right now through a sniper scope."

  "Impossible. The nearest trees for cover are two hundred yards away. The bushes on the hillside are even farther. He couldn't hit the ground at that range. Not with a Winchester lever action, or a Kalashnikov. Told me yourself that was why you chose those specific long-blasters. Both are useless as sniper rifles."

  "And what if Ryan is here with his Steyr?" Silas whispered, sweat beginning to trickle down his face. "That is designed for extreme-distance shots under tricky conditions. Perhaps I should stay inside the bunker until this matter is resolved."

  "A wise move. Or tell me the entrance code to the redoubts," Sheffield urged slyly, "just in case of an emergency."

  Pausing near the doors of the LAV, Silas Jamaisvous stared at the big sec chief. Proud and strong, he was the perfect human specimen, a more than worthy successor to the dying scientist.

  "Maybe you are right," Silas said slowly, and started to reach into his coat. Then he stopped and stepped inside the APC.

  "Not here," he said, taking a wall seat. "I will tell you in the lab. We must not be overheard."

  "Of course. As you say, sir," Sheffield replied, not taking his eyes off the tiny sliver of the rainbow disk just barely visible tucked inside the breast pocket of the white labcoat.

  RYAN SLOWED the Hummer as another wag appeared around a gentle curve in the road ahead of them. It was a predark truck in amazingly good condition, the tires sporting plenty of tread, the headlights intact, and not a speck of rust on the red-painted chassis. He could see two men in the front cab, and more in the rear. All of them seemed to have blasters.

  "Stay loose," Ryan ordered, adjusting the SIG-Sauer at his hip. "Don't shoot unless they do first. Not everybody on this road is going to be a blue shirt."

  "Mebbe," J.B. replied, pulling the Uzi onto his lap and snicking off the safety.