“Now, then, however much it may put us out, we have orders, and we should at least make a respectable show of following them. It seems the Army have a plan for embarrassing the enemy closing on Singapore.”
Surprised noises—we were a long way from Singapore.
“There are entrenched armor north of Singapore, and we need to tempt them into showing their hand in terms of their positions and in terms of with whom they are currently allied on the peninsula. There have been sightings of frogs in Johor, and it is of interest whether or not the enemy have access to them.”
He described the enemy’s order of battle, his command of the facts impressive. He was proving to be a good officer, even while in maneuvers he’d shown himself to be especially cunning and nasty in one-on-one combat. It was something that in the end he was always endlessly apologetic about.
“The way we will tempt them,” he said, “is by firing a bouncer out of Guayaquil, Ecuador, aimed for the big strip north of Singapore.”
Again, surprise. The giant ballistic transports were so expensive it was unheard of to launch one into the war zone. Yet Bolton was talking about firing one on its arc high above the atmosphere, along the equator from South America right into Asia.
“The moment the enemy detect the aircraft’s launch from Guayaquil,” he said, “and have calculated its trajectory, they will commit everything they have to that strip above Singapore, ready to capture or destroy the aircraft at any cost—knowing it cannot be recalled. They will also know that, even if the bouncer were able to alter its arc in mid-flight, there is nowhere between Guayaquil and Singapore capable of taking it. Thus they will move immediately.
“The U.S. Army will be there to meet them. The bouncer, ladies and gentlemen, will not.”
There was a silence, then hoots and whistles; the position of a bouncer’s four-hundred-knot landing was inalterable and was calculated to within inches before it launched.
Bolton looked embarrassed again. “Just a minute, people. Please. This particular bouncer will be equipped with braking rockets, and those rockets will arrest its arc and drop it directly down over the Pacific. Tonight. And in the five minutes after the pilots fire those rockets, this company will turn the island Sergeants Polaski and Elliot surveyed yesterday into a twenty-thousand-foot runway.
“I recognize,” he said, “that your love of the cause has diminished of late, but you will have to admit that this does sound like rather a lot of fun.”
Something out in the clearing caught my eye, as the mess erupted into shouted questions. It was a boy, wearing nothing but shorts, which at the moment were down around his knees as he urinated into the company vegetable garden. He was slender and agile-looking, with a long neck and smooth black skin. He was holding something at his side and looking straight up.
The voices in the mess stopped. Glasses rattled and a muffled roar came from the sky. The temperature began to rise, higher and higher until the air was sweltering. People were getting out of their chairs when the roaring stopped abruptly and the air cooled back down. A spattering of rain drops hit the roof and then stopped, as well.
“Fucking frogs.”
We knew what it had been. Fuel was so scarce that the U.S. had built tremendous vertical-takeoff transports powered by nuclear fission. But without water to keep the piles cool, they needed to blow huge amounts of air down through them, so much that it took further tons of armor just to hold it down against the lift. The air came out so fast and so hot that the frog overhead could have been a mile up, trailing its characteristic little squall line across the ocean in its wake.
“So, Bolton, you going to be running this little exercise?” The distraction was over.
“Um, actually not—I’ll be at Battalion. That is why you’re getting this fine fellow of a major, name of Cole. It seems that the phasing of the required diggers and heaters, as well as their coordination with the bouncer, will take a great deal of MI—and it was felt that even the lovely Chan and Paulson here were not up to the task. Thus they have sent us a senior controller—a high priest, as it were.”
I
told Polaski about the blocks after the briefing. We stood in the shade of the helicopter, watching the cirrus gather into a thin, high overcast. The air had taken on an uneasy grey cast since morning.
“Shit, Torres, these are worth more than we make in a lifetime.” He hefted one of the blocks in his hand.
“It’s the plans inside them, Polaski. The power cell, not the blocks. Two gigawatt-hours—enough to run a house for sixty years or a car for two hundred. Portable.”
“Will it work?”
“His MI said it will.”
“Jesus.”
He handed back the block and paced.
“So what do we get, Torres? What do we want?”
“Out.”
“Oh, come on, limp dick, everybody wants out. So why not just sell these and buy your way out? Come on, Torres, everyone says how smart you are. What do you really want? An army of your own, a piece of Alaska—”
“Off.” My throat was dry, and I wasn’t sure he heard me. “I want off.”
“Off? A tin-can habitat? Jesus, you’re going by yourself, buddy—”
“No.”
He looked at me uncertainly, then after a minute took out his revolver and peered through the cylinder as he rotated it.
“Come on, Torres—the doughnut? The torus? They didn’t finish it. Why do you think—”
“Yes, they did.”
He shook his head. “No, they didn’t. Come on, what’s with you, anyway?”
“We’ve all forgotten, Polaski. They did finish the torus. It was the solar collectors they couldn’t do.”
I
had to use the latrines. Polaski was walking around the helicopter, squinting at it from all angles. “All right, okay, all right,” he was saying, over and over. I wondered what had happened to the boy in the vegetable garden.
Pinned to the door of the latrines was a warning about insect-borne biologicals—whether the enemy’s or ours was apparently of no interest—and recommending use of the jungle out back. I gave the building a wide berth.
I’d told Polaski what I’d been thinking to myself, and now it sounded foolish. The plans to anything weren’t much good to a lone soldier with no resources.
Still, it was the only chance I would ever get. And the bouncer landing? I wasn’t sure. A change in the wind? What I did know was that if I did nothing, I’d be back on the streets after the war. They would hand me my food ticket and send me into a world that had no use for a wetback soldier. I’d be sharpening knives on the curbstone again and fighting for a piece of sidewalk, until somebody was quicker than I was, and I was dragged out and rolled into the sewers. Some nights on the island I still heard the manhole covers, grinding against the pavement as the bodies were rolled across them, the long wait before the splash.
I walked back to the helicopter.
“What about the mark?” said Polaski.
“What mark?”
“The guy you took them from. Maybe I should do him for you, keep him quiet. We could do it tonight.”
“I don’t want people hurt, Polaski.”
“Oh, bullshit, Torres! The whole fucking world’s dying over the piss-for-nothing oil that’s left, and you come along with manna from heaven and expect everyone to be nice about it? Grow up. You brought me the things, so what the fuck did you want me to do with them?”
He turned to urinate on the helicopter skids.
“What about the drones?” he said over his shoulder.
“I don’t know. Drones are a problem.” They were more than a problem—they were the key to using the tunnel.
The tunnel wasn’t really a tunnel at all, but a torus, a doughnut-shaped thing the size of the moon that could generate a field along its axis strong enough to bend a narrow cone of space. A vessel passing through the hole at its center the moment it energized would find the distance to some far-off point shorter.
According to the theory.
But super-smart drones were supposed to be sent through before any colonists, and no one had been able to build them. They were supposed to build another torus at the far end to come back through and tell us it was safe.
M
ajor Cole was crazy. He was a powerful West Indian with bulldog features and wary eyes, and he snarled orders and browbeat the company until we were all nervous and on edge.
We were back on the narrow island where I’d taken the blocks. It was dark, less than an hour before we were supposed to blow off the ridge and make the runway. Polaski and I were at the western end of the ridge, looking back along the island’s flanks toward the east; the bouncer would be landing toward us.
Somewhere down-slope and miles away on the shoreline was the Vietnamese man’s bungalow. Every other settlement on the island had been evacuated and lay empty and dark, but I’d left that one man behind, satisfied that he had no way of communicating with the outside world.
A few stars shone, but no moon. The metal flanks of the digger in front of me creaked as it cooled from the day’s heat. The rest of the digger and heater crews were strung out along the left and right slopes of the island in front of us, two strings of them along what would become the left and right sides of the runway after the ridge was removed. We couldn’t see the crews themselves, but we saw their work lights flickering in the night, forming a four-mile-long line on each flank of the ridge stretching away toward the approach end of the runway.
All of the machines on the flanks were slaved to Major Cole’s computers. Polaski himself was responsible for the only two that remained freelance, positioned at our end of the island and aimed back along its length: my own digger, and a big two-barreled heater run by Ellen Tanaka, Tyrone Elliot’s diminutive specialist friend who’d accompanied us on our search of the shoreline the day before. She was about fifty feet to my right, with Polaski crunching back and forth between us. Tanaka, Polaski and I were the only ones at our end of the runway. We couldn’t see anyone else except Elliot, holding down the right-side digger position closest to our end.
We had dark goggles pushed up on our foreheads, and wore padded, noise-canceling headsets linked together by ground wire. On a rise to the left was an antenna Cole had put up, linking us to him and to a voice named Bella, the name he had given his MI. We didn’t know where they actually were. Chan and Paulson, our own MI people, were somewhere down-slope behind us, monitoring the heavy machines.
“Three minutes to braking,” came Bella’s silky electronic voice through the headset.
“Paulson, Chan!” It was Cole. “Who the hell’s not responding?”
“All diggers and heaters are timed and green on both sides, sir,” said Chan.
“Maybe now they are. Polaski—Tanaka and Torres at your end are the only ones off-line, so listen close. Torres is going to eyeball the finished runway and take off the rough spots. But there’s going to be about a million tons of dust in the air, and the pilots aren’t going to be able to see. So Tanaka’s going to sweep the range with her heaters and draw the crap off. She doesn’t look too bright, Polaski. You watch her close.”
“Lay off her, Cole,” said Elliot, a dim shape behind his own digger. He was fiercely protective of his platoon at the best of times, and today, already edgy about the operation and refusing from the very outset to give quarter to Cole’s abuse, he’d been at Cole’s throat all afternoon. “House nigger with airs,” Elliot had called him, “who don’t know shit about real people.”
“Sir,” said the tiny Tanaka to Cole through her headset.
“Hurry it up. What?”
“When do I stop sweeping the runway with the heaters?”
“When I tell you to, damn it! Listen, you people, this is a billion-dollar bird and it’s my ass, and I’m not going to let a bunch of piss-ant wireheads blow it for me. Now shut up, all of you. The clock’s running.”
“Two minutes to braking,” said Bella, reading his mind.
I was listening to all this with a kind of numb disinterest, my hands sweating on the digger’s controls.
“Rather be reading, Torres?” It was Polaski, off in the darkness.
“Who the hell said that?”
“Piss off, Cole.” Even Polaski had had enough.
“Chan! Systems.”
“Yes, sir. Clock’s stable. Handshaking, no faults. All machines polling—one skip on number six, single retry. RPM’s in spec across the board. Ready, sir.”
“I don’t want another skip—anywhere. Is that understood? Paulson, are you backing up Chan?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Fifty-six seconds to braking.”
“Goggles on.”
“I want all the digger crews to switch their ranging lasers on manually,” said Cole, “so I can see if anyone’s paying attention. Now!”
All the way up the island, thin red beams shot out from the diggers to measure the distance to the slope, lighting up in a herringbone pattern pointing away from us. After an instant’s pause, one last laser flickered on way up on the left.
“Who the hell was that? Who the hell’s the useless piece of crap that can’t pay attention for a whole minute? Well?”
“It’s on now, sir.” The voice was that of the woman who’d heckled Bolton in the briefing.
“Ten seconds to braking,” said Bella. “I have timing.”
There was a moment of suspense, then in perfect unison all of the ranging lasers winked out. It was dark and quiet for several heartbeats, then the ground shook with a powerful jolt. I felt sick at what was coming.
Still nothing.
Then all at once the noise hit us, a wall of howling and clanging, even through our headsets, as all the diggers surged in unison through their frequencies, looking for a hit. The noise came screaming out of the blackness, swelling even louder as the farthest sounds began to reach us. Parts of the island began to glow and heave upward.
“Heaters—now!” shouted Cole.
The night erupted into searing white light as bolts of lightning shot out from the heaters and stayed lit, burning off the mass dislodged by the diggers. A single, ripping curtain of thunder pounded us for twenty seconds and then stopped, leaving just the snarling of the diggers and a roar as hurricane-force winds rushed into the vacuum behind the blinding white beams of the heaters. Cole was screaming something into his microphone—then a new voice came on.
“Thunder Island, this is Thunderbird on slope, two-niner miles. We have your lights, thank you. They’re mighty pretty.”
“Chan! God damn it—”
Bella cut him off. “Thunderbird, I have you at three-zero. I have data channel negative—are you automatic or pilot?”
“Colonel Alice Rajani at your service, with a crew of fourteen of the Air Force’s finest. Advise your timing on those lights, please, Thunder Island.”
“Three seconds, Colonel.”
I tripped my ranging laser and got ready. The world went dark. I ripped my goggles off and strained to see. Stretching away in front of me was a glowing runway, socked in under a layer of grey smoke, eerily quiet. On the surface were a few darker irregularities I was to remove, but one of the heaters up on the left was still lit. Cole was screaming about it.
“Chan! Cut that thing off! Override it! What the hell’s the problem down there? Paulson!” Chan’s backup MI priest. “Take over—get that Chink bitch out of there. And where the hell’s the Jap? Why isn’t she clearing that smoke?”
Elliot’s voice: “Because you didn’t tell her to, you son of a bitch!”
Up the runway, heater number six finally blinked out.
“Come on, Tanaka,” said Polaski. “Your heaters!”
“Two minutes,” said Bella. Tanaka’s two barrels erupted into sun-bright shafts of light straight down the centerline, smoke rushing in to follow them.
“Four degrees up!” Cole screamed at her. “Four degrees! And swing it! Somebody do something about that piece-of-crap imbecile d
own there—”
Elliot cut him off.
“Chan, get me off-line! Come on, give me this thing. We ain’t getting this done till we put a sock in this asshole’s mouth.” Elliot’s ranging laser flicked on, still aimed up the runway in its locked position.
Chan shouldn’t have let him have control of the digger. Its barrel released from its locked position, then swung across the runway, across Tanaka’s heater beams and up toward Cole’s antenna. Then the digger itself flashed into life.
Wherever he was, Cole saw it.
“Jesus Christ! Paulson, get control of that thing! Take—”
The antenna flashed with a brief flame as Elliot sliced through it with the digger, silencing Cole. Paulson must have taken control back at that moment, however, because the digger’s beam jerked to a stop and started swinging back toward its old position up-range.
It was still on.
I was halfway to my feet and screaming when the live beam from Elliot’s digger, now slaved blindly to Paulson in keeping with Cole’s final order, swept through the first crew on our left. More screams, and the digger swept down the whole left side of the runway dragging a wall of flame behind it, finally merging with the double lance of Tanaka’s huge heaters on the centerline. The digger flashed out and a horrified silence settled over the island. Whimpering came from the headsets.
“Sir?”
The question took a while to sink in.
“Major Cole?” It was Tanaka.
Chan screamed.
“Oh my god! Tanaka! Ellen! Kill your heater, now!”
Elliot was already racing toward Tanaka’s heater, which was still blazing down the runway long after it should have been off. At the start of the operation, Cole had backhanded her with his order to leave the heater on until he told her to stop, and now he couldn’t. She stood next to it in confusion, staring instead at the lethal wall of flame down the left side of the runway caused by Elliot’s digger. Elliot leapt onto Tanaka’s machine and groped for the controls, then finally tore out the breakers. The twin shafts flashed out. We spun around to look down the dark island.
A Grey Moon Over China Page 4
