by D. F. Jones
“Why have you come, Frank?”
Arcasso felt a little surprised at the question, but explained that the President thought it a good idea. Freedman hardly appeared to be listening, but it was evident he’d heard. “So you’re the President’s reporter.” He laughed shortly. “You’ll have plenty to tell him!”
Both men were silent as the copter thundered over their heads, its wash rocking the car. Freedman watched it disappear over the line of trees, then started the car and drove towards the park entrance, saying nothing.
It was another fine morning; dew glistened on every bush, and the trees were the clear fresh green of spring. Frank stared out. What a beautiful day to go fishing or walking! It seemed incredible that he could not even open the window, that he had to stay in that steel-and-glass box on wheels. He felt pretty silly about the helmet, too.
Turning out of the ball park, Freedman drove slowly down a dirt road, passing a few houses scattered among the trees, which were mostly scrub pine. Frank eyed the scene carefully. It wasn’t the classiest residential area, but it really wasn’t so bad. With slight variations there were hundreds of thousands like it. But he soon noted one difference: no people. He mentioned it to Freedman.
“What’d you expect?” snapped Freedman. “And I’ll be amazed if you see any birds.”
Arcasso stayed silent. A few seconds later he jumped when the car phone bleeped.
“Freedman.” He listened with that same detachment Frank had noted earlier, but his eyes were never still. “Is she dead? Yes … okay.” He replaced the receiver. “That’s another — the fifth this morning.” He did his best to sound calm, but Arcasso noted he had accelerated and had begun to drive almost recklessly.
“You mean the fifth today? Already?” Arcasso was shaken.
“The fifth I’ve heard about. There are bound to be others — I only get those in my area. It’ll be worse up around the hospital, I guess.”
“My God — we’ve gotta do something!” exclaimed Frank.
Charitably, Freedman let that remark pass. “We’re doing all we can think of. The local station’s broadcasting warnings every ten minutes, telling folks to stay indoors. The school’s closed — in fact all schools are closed clear across the county. But that’s not stopping some lunatics. Imagine — one woman let her little son play out in the back yard! He was the first today.” Mark’s face twisted into the semblance of a grin. “Trouble is, the fewer targets we present, the higher probability there is of available targets being struck.”
Freedman swung the car around a corner; a short street lay ahead. There were fewer trees, more houses. A figure lay sprawled on the sidewalk, a spilled shopping basket and a purse nearby.
“Hey!” exclaimed Frank. Thinking Freedman had not noticed, he grabbed his arm, yelling, “Hey — that woman!”
Freedman shook his arm free. “I know. Mrs. Kellerman. She was the second one this morning.”
Frank screwed round in his seat, staring at the shapeless bundle. “Jesus Christ! You can’t just leave her!”
“Why not?” Freedman tried to sound indifferent. “She’d dead. I checked on my way out to meet you.”
Arcasso’s mind reeled. “But you can’t just leave her there! What are you going to do?”
“Right now, nothing. She’ll be picked up tonight.” He dismissed the subject. “When we get to my office, I’ll go like hell for the door. You slide over to my side and come out the same way — and make sure you slam the car door. Okay?”
Arcasso nodded dumbly. This was much worse than he’s expected. This was America, 1984? It was impossible; surely he’d wake up in a moment.
Swinging the car into his driveway, Freedman gave a long blast on the horn and stopped about ten yards from his office door. He reached down behind his seat, donned a strange headgear, letting down a veil which covered his face and neck. He looked so silly, Frank lost all self-consciousness about his helmet. The shrouded head turned towards him. “You ready? Leave your bag.”
“Okay,” said Frank huskily. “Any time.”
“And don’t fool around in the entrance. Straight in. Someone else’ll shut the door.” Freedman dived out of the car, leaping for the door. Arcasso saw no more; he was for too busy sliding across the bench seat, then out, running for his life, kicking the car door shut behind him. It was no more than ten yards, but it seemed like the longest distance he’d ever covered. He shot in and slammed the door, breathing heavily.
Brigadier Arcasso tried to appear calm, but there was sweat on his brow as he removed his helmet with his good hand. Freedman, cursing quietly to himself, was still battling with the beekeeper’s hat and veil. The entrance seemed to Frank to be very crowded; in fact, there were only two others, Jaimie as doorman, and Maisie the receptionist, trying to help Mark.
Frank saw one change in Mark’s office; one wall was covered with roadmaps, taped together and showing practically all the northeastern states. Red pins were scattered, but the greatest concentration was in Nash County. Frank did not need to ask what they represented. “I get the red markers, but what’s the significance of the black arrows?”
Freedman stopped filling his pipe. “Wind direction.”
“Yeah,” said Frank slowly, “that could be significant.”
“Damned right it is,” retorted Mark. “Just study the attack locations for a moment — notice something? There’s scarcely one attack upwind. My guess is that Xeno jets when it has to, glides when it doesn’t. If so, the trend must be downwind, and with this present high-pressure system, which could persist for days, the real high risk areas are New Jersey and New York.”
“Have you told Malin?”
“Of course.” Freedman puffed rapidly, “And I’ve told Civil Defense in Albany.”
“Hell, I’d forgotten Civil Defense. Have they done anything yet?”
“Hardly had much time. They hope to have a command post set up here today.” He smiled thinly. “They asked me to take over as town boss; I refused. Someone else can do the paperwork; so long as he does as I tell him, he’ll do fine.” He returned to the map. “Frank, you’re the military man; what’s your answer to this one? I’ve come to the conclusion Xeno is basically arboreal.”
“What’s that?”
“Arboreal? A tree dweller. I have several reasons for thinking that — and don’t waste time asking me what they are. If I’m right, and if the wind theory is right, then here” — he tapped the map with his pipe — “in this wooded area is where I’d expect to come across some of them — at night.”
“How d’you propose to catch one?”
“Christ — I’m a doctor!” cried Mark savagely. “You’re the goddam soldier!” He stabbed at the map again. “I’m telling you I think this is a high-probability area; some of the larvae could have made it in there from the hospital, and the wind could have brought more across town as they hatched — and remember, they could still be hatching!”
Frank lit a cigar, appraising the map. Jaimie came in with coffee. “I’ve got the new after-dark office hours being broadcast right now, Mark.”
“Good. You’d better get some rest this afternoon. I’d like you to take the weight tonight.”
“Sure.”
His tone made Mark look up sharply. “Something on your mind?”
Jaimie nodded. “There have been another two strikes up at the hospital.”
Freedman sighed. “Okay. Mark ’em up.” Jaimie’s manner alerted him, his tone changed sharply. “That’s not all, is it?”
Jaimie shook his head. “I’m sorry, Mark. Slim Lewis was one of the victims. Seems there was this woman who’d been hit as she got out of her car. He went out to help.”
“The stupid bastard!” cried Freedman in anguish. “Just the sort of thing he would do!” He glared at Jaimie. “At least we can learn from him — let’s get some value out of his death! We’ve lost a damned good doctor, for nothing! So no false heroics, Jaimie.” For a moment he stared blankly at his desk, then he sigh
ed again and looked at Arcasso. “Well, have you got any ideas?”
“Yeah, one. Gas.”
“What sort of gas?”
“I’m no authority, but we’ll rustle up some experts damn soon. How about hydrocyanic gas? That’d kill everything stone-dead.”
“We’d have to be very confident about the wind direction holding.”
Frank shrugged. “Sure, but there’s risks in everything.”
“It’s an idea, Frank,” said Freedman, “I’d be grateful if you checked it out. See if you can find a nonlethal gas. A live specimen would be worth ten dead.”
Frank reached for a phone. “You’ll get your strike tonight.”
XXX.
Even the most rabid enemy of the United States cannot deny the Union one virtue: America has repeatedly shown near-genius in its ability to get up and go, once it has seen the need to do so, and to do whatever is necessary in a big way. Detractors say it is just Yank money talking — overlooking the fact that the wealth was created by Yankee drive, plus good natural resources and that touch of luck every human enterprise must have to succeed.
Of course, the results have not always been happy, but by any standards the record is impressive. Starting with the recovery from the trauma of the Civil War, the nation became one of the world’s top two industrial powers within a generation. The States made Allied victory certain in two world wars. In the space race, the first U.S. satellite was a pathetic attempt to keep up with the Soviets, who already had Sputnik One aloft, a bleeping monster fifty times bigger. That was in 1958; by 1968 the story was very different. In another sphere, the U.S. had no intelligence agency at all until 1940, and the CIA was not formed until 1947.
Arcasso’s phone call set in motion another fast reaction.
By late afternoon Abdera’s ball park was a. sorry mess. Helicopters, dropping in from late morning on, dug holes in the grass; their engines blasted foliage; and heavy trucks left deep tracks everywhere.
First came a signal section and control team flown in from Fort Detrick, Maryland. They emerged from their copter in full biological warfare suits and masks. These eerie figures quickly set up a tent and a radio link back to base, then distributed radio sets and protective suits to the Civil Defense HQ and to Freedman’s office in a requisitioned truck. Civil Defense requisitioned more trucks, and a further supply of suits and a radio was sent out to Nash County Hospital.
Another copter brought in the biological warfare experts and a cargo of gas, spray equipment, and more tents.
Then came two more copters, one as escort, for the second aircraft contained another, very different gas in red-painted cylinders buried deep in foam rubber inside hermetically sealed steel containers. Even so, it was unloaded with great care, placed in an isolated tent, and watched over by an armed guard. The cylinders held a broad-spectrum nerve gas, every bit as deadly as Xeno’s. If the first gas failed, it would be used.
Still another copter brought in Air Force photographers, a work detail with floodlights, batteries, and flagged marker posts. Finally there arrived an Army support group, complete with food, drink, chemical closets, and more tents. Their officer made his mark when he warned all personnel over a bullhorn that if caught short, they should urinate in their trousers; under no circumstances was the male organ to be exposed. A biological warfare expert enjoyed telling the officer he’d better take time out to examine his suit; he’d find it catered to such a situation.
Brigadier Arcasso (as advised by the Fort Detrick leader) had overall charge of the operation. Sweating in their suits, he, Freedman, and the BW colonel supervised the marking of the danger area, all three alert for any change in the wind. They were updated on their personal radios by local control with the latest USAF meteorological forecasts.
Beyond the target area, monitoring teams set up their sensors. Locals were warned to stay clear of one road that would be closed at dusk.
The target was a small wood of perhaps four or five acres on the downward slope of the southern side of Abdera’s rim, a spot noted for adulterous sighs and urgent coupling at this time of day. But no lovers, however pressing their needs, were in the wood that evening. Freedman insisted that no close approach should be made to the area before nightfall.
The trio stood on the ridge, each thinking of his part in the impending operation. The colonel prayed that the incapacitant would do the job; this funny little doctor, who seemed to carry a lot of weight, assured him that the creature they sought breathed, and on that basis he was quietly confident. Anything that got a lungful of ICX-4 would be out for quite a long count. But if the doctor was wrong — if the nerve gas, never used outside tightly controlled laboratory conditions, had to be used, things could get messy.
Freedman had his worries, but one at least was resolved as they stood in the twilight at the wood’s edge.
Arcasso was speaking, his voice muffled by his mask, pointing at something, when Mark’s gloved hand sharply gripped his wrist. The gesture was unmistakable; all three froze. Freedman’s head, goggle-eyed in the mask, turned slightly, listening.
A few tense seconds and all three heard it, a high-pitched sound, quickly growing louder. Mark pointed, his arm tracking around swiftly to follow a black shape gliding, rapidly losing speed, heading for the trees, its deadly day completed. Perhaps it saw the men, for with one sharp rip of sound it disappeared into the wood at incredible speed. The three humans remained motionless, two of them shaken by the sudden reality of Xeno, until then something they’d only heard about, an abstraction. Freedman, who had now seen more of Xeno than anyone — and lived — shivered. Slowly, with infinite care, they edged back, over and down the ridge, into the growing darkness.
In their car, their masks off, the colonel spoke. “That was it?”
Freedman repressed his excitement. He had been right! “Yes. That was a Xeno — did you notice when the light caught it, the iridescence?”
“Jesus!” said Arcasso, “that thing can sure move when it wants to! Until it switched on its afterburner, I was thinking you might take it with a shotgun, but once it went — ” He shrugged, lighting a cigar.
“Okay — we know it’s in there — what are we waiting for?”
Freedman shook his head. “We wait, Colonel. There could be more. Give them plenty of time to get settled. Leave it until nine.”
The colonel looked at Arcasso, who nodded. “Make it nine; on the dot.”
*
By half past eight all teams were on the starting line, strange figures in suits that made them look more like moonwalkers than anything ever seen in New York State. At ten to nine the thin line of men, gas cylinders on their backs, moved cautiously forward into the brilliant, starlit night.
Freedman and Arcasso were back on the ridge; with them was an Army signaler with a radio backpack. Mark turned, looking down on Abdera Hollow, a nest of twinkling lights half-lost in the trees. Garbage men made their rounds with unusual speed, the mail got delivered, and silent ambulances collected the newly dead. Silence was the keynote; no one spoke above a whisper. The inhabitants transacted essential business as fast as they could, watched by nervous National Guardsmen, whose task was to see that all people were under cover, doors and windows tightly shut, by 9:00 P.M.
At five minutes to zero hour Arcasso and Freedman made their final check on the wind: It held, a soft northwesterly breeze. Both had their face masks off and Arcasso was smoking. It was a cool evening, but both men sweated.
Arcasso took several rapid puffs; they watched the smoke rise, curl, and vanish downwind toward the wood. “Okay, Mark?” Arcasso spoke softly.
“Yes. We’ll never have a better chance.”
Arcasso glanced at the signaler. “Phase One — go!”
Seconds later, below them, they saw the green light flash back to the line of men waiting by the colonel, who was out in front of his force. The line advanced to within three meters of the woods and stopped, turning on valves.
Arcasso and Freedman donne
d their masks, watching the spreading white vapor, small clouds that grew and merged into a fog-bank, drifting into the trees. The green light showed again, misty now, flashing a series of dashes. The sprayers advanced up to the trees, raising their lances higher.
It seemed to the men on the ridge that the operation had no sooner begun than it had ended. A red light deep in the trees waved from side to side and the starlit white cloud diminished, fading into the wood.
The radio man spoke. “Sir, the colonel says he’s finished.”
Arcasso frowned; it had lasted a bare five minutes. “Here, gimme that.” He took the handset. “Colonel, you confirm Phase One completed?”
“That is affirmative.” The tinny voice went on, “I know what you’re going to say, but this stuff is highly dispersant; anything breathing only needs one snootful.”
“If you say so,” said Arcasso. “Haul your men back and rearm with the hard stuff.”
“Yes, sir. But let me tell you, it’s been snowing birds and I don’t know what, but nothing’s fallen on me for the last two minutes. My guess is that anything that’s going to drop already has.”
“Maybe, but you get back with your men. I’m sending in the search line in two minutes.” He gave his orders to the radio men and turned to Freedman. “Come on, Mark. This is where we move out.”
Suddenly the scene was transformed. Six three-man teams — one man to search, another to handle a floodlight, the third to bear the power pack — began to move, lights on.
“Oh my God,” muttered Freedman to himself hurrying after Arcasso, “if Xeno is still in business, it’ll think its dawn.”
The scene was brighter than any floodlit ball game. Tree trunks threw eerie black shadows in the silent, still wood. Not even a moth gleamed in the light.
Methodically the teams edged forward. All searchers had been briefed to report anything the size of a small bird that they did not recognize. They were hardly into the trees when a man called out. Freedman ran to him; one glance, and he had a hard time keeping his temper. “No, soldier,” he shouted through his mask, “that’s a bat!” He ran quickly back to the center of the line, treading with great care, amazed at the number of birds and other creatures, including three raccoons and two black snakes, that were lying helplessly in the fresh spring grass.
