by Neal Asher
Hoffman had hinted in her last communication that the information she had given him had finally reached the Joint Chiefs. That meant Kirchner and Gerhardt had it now.
Gerhardt's aide met him in the short tunnel before the converted cargo storage area where Kirchner's bore-hole team practiced. He led Lanier into a bare-rock cubicle lined with makeshift file cabinets. One wide vein of nickel-iron had been polished and wire-brushed to serve as a projection screen. Kirchner floated into a harness, viewing readouts on a slate, as Lanier was escorted in and announced. Gerhardt pushed himself along the hall and entered after him.
Kirchner nodded at them both. The admiral did not appear comfortable.
"Mr. Lanier—supposed to be lieutenant commander, did it not?" Gerhardt asked bruskly. He was a squat, trim man with wiry black hair and a broad squashed nose. His dress differed little from that of his internal defense marines: green uniform, black boots with soft rubber soles for traction.
"Yes, sir." Lanier waited out the pause.
"You did not inform us that Takahashi is a Soviet operative, Mr. Lanier," Kirchner said.
"No, I did not."
"You learned of this almost two weeks ago and did not inform your security team leaders of the breach?"
Lanier said nothing.
"You had your reasons," Kirchner offered.
"Yes."
"May we be informed?" Gerhardt asked, his tenor voice tightening slightly.
"It was our intention to give the Russians a little breathing space, to let them see we were backing off. We could not do that if Takahashi was locked up."
"Which I would have done," Gerhardt said.
Lanier nodded.
"You're right. I would have. Do you realize this could put our whole operation in jeopardy? Takahashi could have witnessed our maneuvers here, our preparations for the assault—"
"No, sir. He's kept to the compound except to send messages." Kirchner, his usual taciturn self, was letting Gerhardt administer the dressing-down.
"And he's been sending those messages right over our heads, right along with our alignment beams for OTV docking. Wonderful. I am arranging for his arrest now. I want him shipped back to Earth immediately and I want him tried for treason. Christ, Garry." Gerhardt shook his head vigorously, as if to frighten away insects. "Hoffman wanted this?"
"She implied it."
"She gave you the name. Any results? I mean, have the Russians decided to negotiate yet?"
"No, not that I've heard."
"You're damned right they haven't. They know what we're holding here. You expected them to believe we would just pull back and share it all with them?"
"I thought we needed a breather. Chance to reassess."
"Did Hoffman know what information Takahashi was passing along?" Kirchner asked.
"Yes. Material about the libraries."
"Jesus, Garry, the clown had access to places Kirchner and I can't go. If you ask me, you've screwed this operation up royally. Is there anything I should know that he knows? Or that your sweet little female student has learned?"
"Yes, undoubtedly," Lanier said, keeping calm, letting the general blow off steam. "And you know I won't tell you. You'll have to ask your superiors."
Gerhardt smiled. "Yes. A President—off the record, Garry?—a President who's living in some antebellum dream of democracy, can't even talk about space much less think about it; a Senate composed of his stooges and ass-backwards Republicans grinding out bills on southern reapportionment..." He glanced at Kirchner, who shook his head, smiling slightly and looked off at the asteroid rock wall. "Nobody's giving half the attention to the Stone they should—or am I wrong?"
"You're right and wrong. At this moment, I don't think there's any more important topic to the governments of the world than the Stone. Everybody's speculating. The Russians are scared shitless we'll have a technological drop on them. We already do, but the Stone cinches it, doesn't it?"
"What are Kirchner and I doing up here, Garry? Why aren't we kept informed, like you? The Stone's security relies on the Captain and me, but those bastards have pulled curtains around us. We can't get into the libraries, can't see documents ... I don't understand ... some of the weirdest things I've been hearing. It's going to drive me nuts. Isn't it time we cooperate with each other?"
"They have their reasons," Lanier said.
"i've watched you, Garry. You've gone downhill the past year. I don't want to know your secrets for my health's sake.
What in hell have we got here?"
Lanier pulled himself into a second harness and gripped the straps. "What are your orders from Earth, Oliver?"
"I am to prepare for imminent assault on the Stone and for the possibility of nuclear confrontation on Earth."
"Can the Russians take the Stone?"
"If they put everything they have in space against us, yes," Kirchner said.
"Do you think they will?"
"Yes," Kirchner said. "How, I don't know. But we're thinking day and night trying to second-guess. On our next close approach, they'll use little skirmishes on Earth at sea and in Euro to distract attention from the Stone. Then they'll come at us and try to take it from us. Or they'll try the Stone first. I don't know."
"Can they succeed?"
Gerhardt raised his hand to interrupt. "Will you level with me on what we're facing, Garry? And let me lock the bastard away?"
Takahashi had probably served his usefulness.
"Yes," Lanier said. "Get him off the Stone as soon as you can. Let the State Department take care of him once he reaches Florida."
"You'll let us into the libraries?" Gerhardt asked.
"No. They're closed. I'll tell you what you need to know."
"Then I'll answer your question," Kirchner said. "The Russians can succeed. They can take us over. If they put everything they have into it, we can't really stop them short of sealing off the bore hole, and we can't do that without sealing ourselves in. We've been ordered not to do that."
"Of course," Lanier said. That would have ended all doubts for the Russians."
"Good talking with you, Garry," he said sharply. "Now, let's get busy and move those sons of bitches off the Stone."
"Only Takahashi. Don't touch the Russian team."
"God, no," Gerhardt said. "We won't do that until it's too damned late for anyone to be sensible."
*21*
Within the belly of the ocean-launched heavy-lift cargo vehicle, battalion commander Colonel Pavel Mirsky listened to the technicians of Orbital Sentry Platform Three refueling the tanks surrounding and below the cramped aft compament, preparing them for the next step of the journey.
Mirsky had learned to enjoy weightlessness; it reminded him of skydiving. He had spent so much time falling from airplanes (and floating in the bellies of falling airplanes) in Mongolia and near Tyuratam—and experiencing the real thing during his training in orbit—that weightlessness seemed only natural.
The same could not be said for many of his men. Fully a third were in the throes of desperate space sickness. The three tight, stuffy compartments, stacked atop one another along the heavy-lifter's centerline, had not been designed for comfort. The orange bulkheads and dark green quilted pads snapped over most surfaces did little to make anyone feel secure.
The troops had already spent twenty hours in confinement. In that time they had been subjected to the stress of lift-off and now weightlessness. The motion sickness medicines had turned out to be long passed their shelf life, pharmaceutical antiques in plastic bottles.
Mirsky took such things in stride and offered what support to his men that he could.
"What do you think of history now, eh, Viktor?" he asked his deputy commander, Major Viktor Garabedian.
"Fuck history," Garabedian said, waving his hand listlessly. "Shoot me now and get it over with."
"You'll be fine."
"Fuck health."
"Drink some water. Yes, and fuck it, too, if you wish."
They
hung in their slings in the forward compartment, surrounded by the smells of sickness and tension and the sounds of men trying to be quiet, lying in their slings, some eating out of ration pouches and tubes, most not.
When they had launched out of the Indian Ocean, just over the southern extremity of the Carpenter Ridge, they had used a slot scheduled for resupply of a near-earth Sentry platform. They were the fourth of seven heavy-lifters, one launched from the Moon. The seven bore the code names Zil, Chalka, Zhiguli, Volga, Rolls-Royce, Chevy and Cadillac. Three of the heavy-lifters, including Volga, their own, carried generals code-named Zev, Lev, and Nev, after a popular comedy dance troup. Six of the ships carried two hundred men and the small arms and contingency supplies they would need if they succeeded in the first part of their mission. The seventh Zhiguli—carried heavy artillery, extra supplies and fifty technicians.
If they did not succeed, there would be no need for more supplies. If they did, they would be able to live for years without support from Earth or Moon. So the tacticians had claimed, based on their intelligence.
Mirsky wondered about details that had not been included in his briefings. The method of entry seemed logical enough; there was only one way in, and one way out, both the same. The heavy-lifters were masked, supposedly difficult to detect—great dark bloated cones topped by three blisters containing the cockpit and weapons. Leading surfaces of the vehicles were armored beneath their disposable heat-diffusing panels. The armor had been covered with reflective anti-laser shields. How much that would help them as they entered the very throat of the beast—best not to think about that.
He shut his eyes to review their actions once they had entered. Each of them carried a lightweight spacesuit in a plastic bag; bulky helmet strapped to one side with coiled and tied connectors; backpack with two hours' oxygen and battery power; and in another bag, a parachute and a folded aerodynamic shield. Each also had a kit containing small vapor propellant rocket. The rockets had three nozzles only a few centimeters across, aimed radially outward when attached to the bottom of the backpacks. They were controlled by buttons on flexible cords that laced through loops and fit into pockets just below the gloves. The nozzles in their plastic packages were folded inward and the propellant sloshed gently when moved.
So equipped, clutching their laser rifles and Kalashnikov AKV-297 vacuum projectile weapons (just machine guns with bigger clips and folding stocks, modified not to jam in airless condition) they proposed to win back the honor and historical place of the Soviet Union and its concerned allies. Not that their briefings had included such phrases—no
leader would ever admit that honor and place had been lost.
Mirsky was a practical man, however.
In the half-darkness, another man began retching miserably. Perhaps they would be over it in a day or so. That is what the medical experts had told them; no worse than the first few days on a troop ship. Russians had spent enough time in space that what the experts said had to be based in fact.
He tugged on his sling. When the time came, it would convert into a harness. They would all be hitched to the dispersal trolley and pushed, one by one, out of the ship. From that point on, they would be free agents until they gathered within the Potato—the Stone.
Mirsky wondered how the bore hole was defended, and what lay beyond. Details were tantalizingly specific while the overview remained sketchy; they had been told the absolute minimum necessary to let them do their work.
No objective in orbit had ever been assaulted by troops before.
There was no way of knowing or even guessing everything that could go wrong.
Not that any soldier had ever expected to live through a battle. In the Great War, his grandfather had died along the river Bug when Hitler's troops had made their first crossing, and of course there was Kiev...
Russians knew how to die.
*22*
Hoffman had taken only the most essential items; seven high-density memory blocks out of perhaps two thousand, a few personal effects and two pieces of jewelry given to her by her late husband, ten years before. She had left the Taos home with the doors open; should any vagabonds chance upon it, she would let them have a few days of pleasure.
There was nothing more she could do. She had asked for a few return favors. There was no doubt what was going to happen within the next four days; no one she had talked to had ever seen tensions so high.
Operating on the instinct which had served her so well in the past, Judith Hoffman was on her way to the Stone. She hoped she hadn't started out too late.
She drove the innocuous second car—a leased Buick—for hours across the desert and open countryside, through small towns and medium-sized towns, trying not to think or feel guilty. There was nothing more she could do.
She had been stripped of all authority by an angry and foolish Chief Executive. Three cabinet members had accused her of actually starting this entire mess.
"The hell with them," she whispered.
Beside the turnoff to Vandenberg Launch Center, in a small complex of civilian stores serving the base personnel, she saw a garden shop. Without hesitating, she pulled into the parking lot.
Inside the store, she found a skinny young male clerk in a leaf-green apron and a Robin Hood hat. She asked where the seed racks were. "Vegetable or flower?" he asked.
"Both."
"Aisle H, just across from hand tools, next to mulch."
"Thank you." She found the racks and took one package of everything she could see, two or three of some of the vegetables and fruits. When she was done, her basket was filled with about ten pounds of seed packages. The clerk looked at the pile in bewilderment.
Hoffman threw two hundred-dollar bills down on the counter. "Will that be enough?" she asked.
"I think so—"
"Keep what's left over," she said. "I'm in a hurry and I don't have time to count them all."
"Let me get the manager—"
"I don't have time," she repeated, and she took out another bill and laid it next to the two.
"I'm sure that will cover it," the clerk said quickly, swallowing.
"Thank you. Put them in a box for me?"
Hoffman picked up the box and returned to the car.
Lanier was asleep in his cubicle when the comline chimed. He reached over to press the button, but no message awaited, only silence.
He rubbed his eyes clear, blinking. Then he heard the other comlines in other rooms throughout the barracks, all chiming. Footsteps sounded in the hallway.
He punched a number into the unit. A shaky voice answered, "First chamber communications."
"This is Garry Lanier, are we having a central alert?"
"Yes, Mr. Lanier."
"Why?" Lanier's voice was infinitely patient.
"I'm not sure, sir."
"I want to speak with axis communications right now."
"Yes, sir."
When a woman's voice answered some seconds later, he requested a briefing.
"We have DefCon three from London and Moscow," the woman said. "Radar activity is up, especially orbital tracking.
There's been some action against communications and navigation satellites."
"Any messages from Florida or Sunnyvale?"
"None, sir."
"Messages from the lunar settlement?"
"Nothing to us, sir. They're farside to us now."
"I'm coming up to the axis now. Tell Link and Pickney to set up a special situation room with seating for about fifteen people."
Roberta Pickney's voice interrupted. "Garry, is that you? Everything's already set up, Kirchner's orders. He wants science and security coordinating on this. Get up here immediately."
In the elevator, surrounded by security personnel and baffled engineers who hadn't heard details yet, Lanier tried to think of all the things left to be done, all the preparations yet to be made. He felt his rough, unshaven chin.
It had all been hypothetical, a long-running nightmare. Down below, w
here he had spent most of his life, where most of the people he loved—and how few they were!—still lived, it was probably beginning.
