“No need to worry about a sweep now,” said John, watching Boston burn.
“Napalm. Those bastards firebombed the city.”
Heather hadn’t believed it at first, none of them had, watching from the fort as the bombers roared in, dumped their loads, then veered inland—not until the hungry flames began licking skyward. Only well after midnight had the last wave winged homeward. By then the beaches were packed, aristocracy and outcasts all fleeing the wind-whipped walls of flame.
Heather had sent their too-few choppers to ferry out as many as possible, but after a dozen trips the heat and wild downdrafts had forced them back. The thousands left on the beaches now streamed across the sand of low tide, seeking the water’s safety.
“Firestorm!” John pointed to where three great fires had now joined. Trebled, the flames lanced thousands of feet into the air, greedily sucking in oxygen. A small gale raced over the island, bringing fresh sea air to feed the flames. Even this far from the city they could feel the heat as the firestorm danced howling to the water’s edge, snuffing out life, choking the outgoing tide with twisted open-mouthed bodies.
Jorge came running up with a note from the commwatch. Putting down her binoculars, Heather read it, passing it to John.
“Who’s Bull?”
“Lords of Darkness,” she said as they turned from Boston’s pyre and walked down the stairs to the parade ground. “They’re the black gang in the city. Tough. Basic command structure, good leadership, decent weapons. They’re Cuban-backed, supplied by Guevara’s DGI. It looks like Aldridge mauled them, falling back on Copley.”
“Roxbury’s a charnel house now,” said John. “Where are they?”
“Well away from the fire. Blue Hills, maybe. They’ve got choppers.”
“The man wants to talk. Let’s talk.”
Aldridge looked up at the board, then back to the G2 reports. “Something’s wrong, Erich,” he said, ignoring the ongoing bustle of evacuation: boxes of hastily gathered documents, computer disks, code books, small arms, all being hustled outside.
It was a classical Aldridge understatement. The napalm had burned off the ganger attacks, at the cost of two firestorms now converging on the enclaves.
The Army choppers had arrived as the bombers left, following a closing corridor between the flames. Evacuation was under way, with troops ordering residents to staging areas soon littered with upper caste detritus: designer luggage, miniphones, microcomputers.
General Wyvern, the Army commander, was half listening to Aldridge. He had a problem: there wasn’t enough transport to move all the evacuees in time. His men would mutiny before giving up their spaces. Panic and friendly machine-gun fire would sweep the staging areas long before the flames. By dawn, many of the best and brightest would be ash.
“How can something be wrong, Colonel?” said Wyvern. “You gas and burn one of our principal cities, killing thousands. You lose most of your command. Why don’t you just shoot yourself and save Frederick the trouble?”
“See, Erich,” Aldridge continued, ignoring the general. “No Vipers.” He tapped the action reports. “Not a sign of the largest, best-trained, best-led gang. Nor, within the past four hours, of the Lords. Where are they?” He stared at the situation board, mind far from the noise and confusion of the CP.
“Site Y, Erich!” He snapped a finger. “It’s Harrison and that renegade MacKenzie. They’re after Maximus. Get us a chopper!” he ordered, heading for the door.
“Hold it, Aldridge!” General Wyvern’s hand dropped to his .45. “What the hell are you doing? Deserting in the face of the enemy?” He made no effort to lower his voice.
Aldridge turned. “I remind you, General, that I hold extralegal authority. I’m not subject to your orders. As for the enemy, I am rushing to meet him, while you, sir, remain to contend with mere chaos. Good day, General.”
Wyvern’s glare followed him to the elevator.
Chapter 6
To date, the invasion and occupation of Japan has cost America almost three million lives. The war with the Axis and then with the Soviet Union, another two million. The wealth of centuries, the lives of two generations squandered, all because Prometheus’s gift went to the Old World rather than the New.—Harrison, ibid, pp. 143-4
The Lords came to Fort Todd by chopper, wounded filling three of the machines.
“That’ll have to be it for evacuees,” said John as the last of the wounded were carried to the Viper’s Dispensary.
“I got people there!” Bull stabbed a thick finger at the mainland.
“We need what fuel is left for a mission, Captain,” said John.
Bull glanced around. Except for Heather, they were alone, huddled between the choppers. “Ten Tango?” he challenged.
“Bravo Romeo.”
“Your show, old man.” Gone was the ghetto patois, replaced by the clipped accent of an English public school.
“Good God!” said Heather. “The city’s going up in flames, thousands are dying, and you two play spy. Who the hell are you?” she demanded.
“This is Captain Geoffrey Malusi, Southern African Peoples Liberation Army,” said John. “Captain Malusi, Dr. Heather MacKenzie, University of California at Berkeley.”
“Delighted, Dr. MacKenzie.”
She ignored the big outstretched hand. “Level,” she snapped at John. “The whole truth now. Or I take the Vipers and our choppers and do what I can for the refugees.”
John looked at the burning sky before answering. “Did Ian tell you about the Committee?”
She shook her head.
“They’re the people your brother, Malusi and I work for, through the Outfit. Very senior government officials who don’t like what’s happened to America. It’s the Committee who got Harwood to organize the gangers, using officers like Ian. Malusi’s here as—”
“As a statement of American race relations,” said the African. “Your country has no black officers. So the Committee turned to us for help.”
“In exchange for what?”
“In exchange for help, or at least neutrality, in our war against the Boers and their German allies.”
She shook her head, not satisfied. “Why Maximus? The whole story.”
“Shortly after Maximus started up, the Committee, its principal members anyway, began noticing certain . . . anomalies. Odd things not at first associated with Maximus. Key officials who’d visited the site invariably brought back glowing reports of insubstantial progress. These formerly vigorous, aggressive men became strangely complacent, going through the motions of work. This malaise—”
A series of shock waves boomed over the island. From the mainland, a pillar of black smoke billowed out over the water. The fire had reached Logan Airport’s fuel tanks.
“This malaise,” he continued, “seems confined to the second-secretary rank—the people who allegedly make government work. Our foreign strategy became more irrational and the economy grew worse, if that’s conceivable.
“The Committee became worried—hell!—the Committee got scared. Half of them are second-secretary level. They needed Maximus destroyed, without risk to them. I’d been out of it for a while, living in Canada, teaching, writing. Harwood leaned on me and here I am. Malusi and Ian were already in place, part of the Committee’s long-term commitment.”
And all true, thought John, with a few last-minute improvisations—like a new John Harrison. He was acquiring a grudging respect for Guan-Sharick’s ability.
“Why didn’t they just send in agents?” asked Heather.
“Agents were sent in. They never reported back. And we couldn’t bomb the place—not on suspicion alone. It is an American installation.”
“So you explain this away as a ganger raid,” said Heather. “But why did you have to break into the UC data base if the information’s all in Frederick?”
“It isn’t,” said John. “Strangely, all references to Maximus were lost last month in an electrical fire. That was when the decision was ma
de to act. Actually, it was to convince you to go, Heather. Boston’s burning as a result. You better say yes.”
“Choppers!” someone shouted from the wall. “Army choppers! Headed this way.”
“Now or never, Heather.”
Chapter 7
Germany has the bomb. Russia has the bomb. They guard it jealously and watch each other warily.
America has poverty, ignorance and class warfare. It is a mercantile fief of the Fourth Reich, with an economy based on the export of raw materials, the import of finished and semi-finished goods. American draftees—those who cannot afford to pay a stand-in—fight for German foreign policy in a dozen countries. Coming home, they can join the Urban Corps, the gangs, or, if fortunate, win a service job in the burbs. Wounded and discharged? They’re on their own.
—Harrison, ibid., p. 169
Aldridge’s chopper was barely down before he was out, heading for Maximus’s one-story Admin building.
The sandbagged entrance was deserted save for two black-sweatered British soldiers. Inspecting his ID, they saluted, waving him past.
“Get Fwolkes up,” Aldridge ordered, identifying himself to the sleepy-eyed OIC, a competent-looking brunette in her midtwenties, with captain’s pips and parachutist’s badge. Nodding curtly, she picked up the phone.
Brigadier Charles Wesley Fwolkes arrived in five minutes, every inch the British officer, despite the hour: olive tunic and red-striped pants neatly pressed, brown shoes gleaming under the fluorescents, swagger stick tucked under his left arm, red-banded cap at just the right angle. He might have been inspecting Parade at Sandhurst. Only his graying moustache betrayed concern, twitching as he returned Aldridge’s salute. “Bloody hell, Colonel,” he complained. “0330 on a Sunday? This better be good.”
“Rather.” Aldridge’s mimicry of the other’s accent was flawless. Bristling, Fwolkes opened his mouth, only to be ridden down by the UC officer. “In the past twenty-four hours, Brigadier,” he said, sweating in the humid, over-heated room, “I’ve seen my command decimated and my headquarters razed. I’ve been compelled to destroy one of our major cities in order to save it. Imagine how I feel about your beauty sleep.”
Fwolkes tried to interject again, face flushed. Aldridge would have none of it. “Go to full alert, Brigadier. You’re about to be attacked by a thousand well-armed, ably led gangers.”
“You have no authority here, Aldridge. And you could have radioed, as you normally do. Just what are your reasons for this extraordinary request? Do you know what a full alert costs the taxpayers?”
“Radio transmissions can be intercepted, Fwolkes. I am never wrong, given a bare minimum of data. And I don’t care about the taxpayers. As to my authority . . .” Extracting a small leather case from his breast pocket, he passed it to the brigadier. “I am Grand Admiral Hans Christian Hochmeister, Reich Security Administrator and Chairman of Alliance Intelligence. This officer,” he indicated zur Linde, just entering, “is Captain Erich zur Linde of the Abwehr. Now, sir, you will stand to.”
Fwolkes swallowed hard. “I shall have to confirm, sir,” he said hesitantly, returning the ID and touching swagger stick to his hat visor, saluting a legend. “Until then, though . . .” He turned to the OIC. “Captain Mathieson, stand to, if you will. And someone get me a message pad,” he added, as the alert sirens wailed.
Maximus was ready in five minutes, battened down and waiting. Reviewing the status board and TV monitors, Hochmeister nodded approval. “Excellent, Brigadier, excellent.”
“Why, thank you, sir,” said Fwolkes.
“Please accompany me and Hauptmann zur Linde on an inspection of your defenses.”
“Very good, sir,” nodded Fwolkes. “We must stay inside the perimeter.” He pointed at the ground radar screen on which red blips were spreading like a pox. “And my apologies, Admiral. You were right. Hostiles approaching. It’s going to get hot out there.”
Hochmeister smiled thinly. “Good to see the old master hasn’t lost his touch.” He led them through the double-guarded entrance and down the floodlit driveway. Hands clasped behind his back, the Gray Admiral walked slowly past the sandbagged bunkers and razor wire, the mortar and machine-gun emplacements, nodding approvingly. This part of Maximus was all Security and Admin, halfway between the perimeter and the compact installation uphill from it. It was toward the distant gate, though, the one scouted by the now-dead Ian, that the trio went, walking briskly down the road. Arc flares burst overhead, lighting the area brighter than a July noon.
Passing through the final line of bunkers, Hochmeister continued downhill. Zur Linde and Fwolkes slowed uncertainly. It was unnaturally still, no sound from the bunkers, the vehicles or the forest. Only the occasional dull plop of an arc flare broke the silence.
Fwolkes cleared his throat. “Where are we going, Admiral, if I may ask?”
Hochmeister never broke stride. “Out into the night, Brigadier,” he said, not looking back. “Zur Linde and I are going to join the gangers.” Peering ahead, he thought he saw movement along the distant fence.
The British officer halted. “Sir, with respect—are you mad?”
Brushing past him, zur Linde caught up with Hochmeister.
Stopping, the admiral turned, facing the brigadier. “Cagey, yes, Charles. Crazy, no.” Hands thrust deep into the pockets of his baggy, black field jacket, pants wrinkled, face in need of a shave and some sleep, Hochmeister looked every bit his age, there in the pitiless light from the flares. “I’m somewhat surprised, Charles,” he said easily, “that you don’t remember me. Not only did we serve together at the Armistice Conference, your cousin Reggie is married to my niece Gabriela. We had a grand time at the wedding. Last June? Salzburg?”
Fwolkes was silent, face expressionless. The intelligence chief continued in the same light tone. “Equally distressing, though, was your HQ. Erich, did you feel that steamy heat?”
Zur Linde nodded. “Like the reptile house at the zoo,” he said, eyes on the brigadier.
“Thirty-five centigrade in there, Charles, at least. Those machines shouldn’t work at that temperature. Yet all their lights were twinkling merrily, the equipment humming, everything the picture of brisk efficiency. Except, as Erich notes, the room felt like the reptile house at the zoo. Smelled like it, too. You can’t smell, can you?”
“Obviously, the equipment isn’t as sensitive as you believe, Hans,” said Fwolkes.
“Christian, Charles. You always called me Christian.”
“Please,” Fwolkes implored, glancing nervously toward the gate, “we’ve must get back—”
He broke off, starting as the gate blew up, briefly lighting the circling woods and the advancing gangers. “Quick! If we run—”
“Imagine my great joy, though, Charles,” Hochmeister continued as the first ganger squads passed the fence, “to find you alive and well. This after Gabriela wrote only last week of your death in a car wreck—ashes to follow. Doesn’t Charles look remarkably well for a corpse, Erich?”
“Indeed,” said zur Linde, drawing his pistol.
“And what do you make of all this?” Fwolkes asked, cold amusement in his voice.
“That you—whoever or whatever you are—have taken control of Maximus; a control we know you’re busy extending into vital areas of the American government. That your origins are probably the same as the—phenomenon—the Trojan horse around which we built the Troy of Maximus. That you mean this weary world ill.”
Fwolkes stood motionless as a sibilant whisper filled the admiral and zur Linde’s minds. We mean no harm. We merely seek sanctuary. In our universe, we are a hunted race. We lost a war—we would have been exterminated had we stayed.
“You are called . . .?” asked Hochmeister.
Shalan-Actal, of the Scotar.
“That’s not your true form, is it, Shalan-Actal of the Scotar?”
Rippling, Fwolkes shimmered away, replaced by six feet of mantis-like insect, erect on four of its six limbs, its two upper lim
bs ending in gently undulating tentacles. Bulbous read eyes shifted between the two men before it melted back into the brigadier.
“We could use an ally of your stature, Admiral,” the Fwolkes-thing said, taking a step toward them. “Return with me to . . .” It stopped at the sight of the two slim 9mm Walthers pointed at its thorax.
“I gather you accessed Earth through the object here at Maximus,” said the admiral. “A gateway of some sort?” The other nodded.
“We will return to your steamy little nest, bug,” said Hochmeister, “but not with you. With the gangers. Then well have a look at your gateway. Who knows? Maybe we can form an alliance with your enemies—assuming even that to be true.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“Produce the real Maximus staff as witnesses to your goodwill, Shalan-Actal, then I may believe you. No? Well, then, shall we?” The admiral pointed downhill. “After you. Erich, if it even stumbles, shoot.” Zur Linde nodded.
Five more Scotar appeared, flicking into existence beside Shalan-Actal. These were sturdier, larger, whip-like tentacles holding strange rifles. It was their mandibles, though, that held Hochmeister’s attention—long, serrated, clicking softly. Warriors.
Rather, I think you will accompany us back to the compound, Admiral, Captain.
“Telepathic, telekinetic,” said Hochmeister, impressed. “You’re dangerous, Shalan-Actal.” He fired once, a shot that became a fusillade as a ganger squad charged from the brush, minimacs blazing.
Shalan-Actal vanished as his reinforcements died.
“Major, you heard that?” asked the admiral, turning from the heaped insects as John stepped into the road, a squad of wide-eyed Vipers behind him. The gangers stared wide-eyed at the dead Scotar.
“Enough of it, Admiral.”
“There can’t be too many of them or we’d be dead,” said zur Linde.
“Do you concur with me, Major,” asked Hochmeister, “that this place must be taken, now?”
The arc flares had stopped. The darkness brought with it the same strange quiet the two Germans had experienced walking down the road. Not even a cricket chirped.
The Battle for Terra Two Page 7
