by Mick Farren
Vickers took her by the arm and propelled her quickly toward the elevator.
"Tell them what I told you. Tell them that someone will be going on the air as soon as the situation down here is under control. You've got to spread the word and stop people panicking. It's very important."
The line parted and Johanna was eased through and on into the elevator. She turned and held a hand out to Vickers.
"Mort, will I see you when this is all over?" Vickers nodded and did his best to smile. "Sure sweetheart, you'll see me."
* * *
"There really is no need for you to go out armed, is there Vickers? I mean, you're supposed to be real good friends with these guys on the surface."
"I'm getting very tired of all this."
"You've got nothing to worry about if you're telling the truth."
It had been decided that Eight-Man would indeed go out to the surface with Vickers as the bunker's insurance policy. The single rule was very simple. If it turned out that Vickers had been lying in any major respect, Eight-Man should feel completely free to shoot him out of hand. Vickers handed over his Yasha. Once again he was a virtual prisoner.
They walked down the tunnel in silence. Eight-Man had insisted that Vickers walk ahead. Vickers kept his flashlight pointed at the ground. He watched for the snakes but for a second time there was no sign of them. Again it puzzled him. Where could they have gone or, alternatively, where had they come from in the first place? They reached the door. Vickers turned and faced Eight-Man.
"You remember the outside of the bunker?"
"Kinda."
"This comes out on the underside of the bridge. It's partway up the shallow side of the hill, the opposite side from the main entrance. There may be a reception committee. They have a tracer on me and they've probably been alerted that I'm coming out."
"And you're warning me not to overreact?"
"Something like that."
Eight-Man smiled but his eyes were frozen.
"Vickers, you don't have to worry about me."
Vickers refused to be intimidated.
"I worry about everything, my friend. There's been altogether too much shooting first and asking questions afterward."
Eight-Man's distrust seemed to melt a fraction.
"I'll hold it together."
Vickers nodded.
"Help me with this door."
Behind the pressure of both their shoulders, the door swung open. They stepped out under the bridge. Vickers realized that, since he'd been back in the bunker, he'd lost all track of time. It was early morning, maybe an hour or so after dawn. There was the slightest of chills in the air. Vickers could practically feel the shudder run through Eight-Man as they stepped out from the shadows under the bridge and he looked up at the sky. He remembered his own first speechless shock when he'd first emerged from the bunker.
"Take a deep breath. The first thing you realize is that the air in the bunker's so lousy it's enough to make you insane all on its own."
Eight-Man turned a full three hundred and sixty degrees, just gazing up at the sky. When he looked back at Vickers, much of the dislike and distrust had gone out of his eyes.
"I've been hurting for this."
Unfortunately his euphoria didn't have a chance to last. There was a reception committee. Slaughter was waiting with a brace of MPs and a Cobra gunship. Once again the door gunner was on full, white-knuckle alert. This time, however, the guns were pointing at Eight-Man rather than Vickers. Slaughter, behind his mirrored shades, was particularly hostile.
"What the hell is this, Vickers?"
Vickers made no attempt to stop for Slaughter or the military policemen.
"What's the matter Slaughter? You been out here all night?"
Slaughter barred his way.
"I don't have orders to cover this guy."
Vickers came to an angry standstill.
"For your information, Slaughter, 'this guy' is a big wheel in bunker security and that's about all you need to know. Now . . ." He glanced back at Eight-Man, who was clearly starting to see him in a different light, and then again glared at Slaughter. ". . . if you don't have any really serious objections, that Cobra is going to fly us directly to the Desert Inn where I can talk to some people who won't waste time telling me what their orders cover."
Although Slaughter didn't say another word, it was plain that he was having a major culture conflict between his own spotless gung ho and Eight-Man's earrings and ringlets. The door gunner, on the other hand, kept slipping Eight-Man covert and awestruck glances. He was a skinny black kid who looked as though he came from some frost belt inner city and probably made it into the army on a redundancy break. Eight-Man didn't notice either of them. He was too busy looking out of the door. As they passed over the destruction in front of the bunker entrance, Eight-Man's eyes widened. He turned accusingly to Vickers.
"I thought you said there hadn't been a war."
"This was just a local action. The troops who were left outside when the bunker was sealed remembered the Alamo. By all accounts they kept a couple of divisions of regular army rapid deployment troops at bay for ten days before they went down."
"Didn't they realize who they were fighting?"
"I guess they'd bought the package."
Eight-Man scowled. "I guess we bought the package too."
* * *
"I don't see how either Contec or the army could commit combat troops to this situation. We only have the sketchiest idea of the internal situation in the bunker. We couldn't take sides."
Victoria Morgenstern was behaving true to type and Vickers was running increasingly low on patience.
"Take sides? You already took sides. I went back into the bunker and did exactly what you wanted in a matter of hours. Nobody will resist your people coming in, in fact you'll be welcomed. All I need is fresh troops to get Lloyd-Ransom out of his bunker within a bunker. The people down there are just about shot."
Morgenstern didn't seem impressed. Neither did Getz, the colonel who was in charge of the Desert Inn operation. They were back in Cabin 17 and Vickers was far from having it his way. Morgenstern, Getz and the aides who surrounded them felt they had both right and reason on their side.
"You have to look at it from the practical point of view. By your own admission, there are close to four thousand people down there loaded to the gills on all manner of mind alterers. It's going to take months to reorient all of them to the real world. What's the point of throwing a lot of fresh, expensively trained people into that environment? You know the principle as well as anyone. You don't request additional manpower when the problem can be solved with the resources at hand."
"I'm afraid of the toll it's going to take of the resources at hand."
"That's not really our concern."
Eight-Man, who hadn't been much help thus far, suddenly glared.
"What you're saying is that you wouldn't be sorry to see these misfit bunker freaks thinned out a bit. It'd cut down on the bill for the rehab and psych we're all going to need when we get out of there."
Morgenstem avoided his eyes.
"I didn't say that."
"But you've thought about it." He rounded on Vickers. "And what about you, man? You sound like you're working for them. Whose side are you on and what are you trying to pull?"
"I'm trying to get us out of the bunker without any more losses."
Eight-Man jerked his head toward Getz and Morgenstern.
"These fucks don't give a damn. They'd be quite happy if we all stayed down there and rotted."
"They want their bunker back."
"But they're not in any particular hurry. If they were, they'd lend us the help."
Vickers cradled his head in his hands. The situation was rapidly approaching the impossible. He'd expected intractable self-interest from Morgenstern but not to this extent. He didn't want to go back to the bunker empty-handed. In fact, he wasn't sure if Eight-Man would let him go back to the bunker empty-
handed.
"I need a drink."
"Somebody get Vickers a drink."
Three minutes later a scotch and ice arrived. They seemed to have his number. While he sipped it and cast around for a solution he was acutely aware that everyone was watching him. Suddenly he had an idea. Numbers weren't the only answer.
"If I can't have men, will you give me equipment?"
Morgenstern blinked.
"I don't see why not, within reason." She looked toward Getz, clearly tossing him the ball. Getz hadn't been expecting this.
"I don't know. I can't make any guarantees."
Eight-Man's lip curled.
"What can you do?"
Vickers ignored the exchange. He was warming to his idea.
"If we could blast our way into Lloyd-Ransom's redoubt, we could probably flush him out with only minimal loss."
Getz was guarded.
"What did you have in mind?"
"I was thinking of a Marriot rocket."
Even Eight-Man looked at him as though he were insane.
"A Marriot rocket?"
"Sure, why not? Shoot a Marriot down one of these tunnels and you won't see much more resistance."
"But a Marriot? That ain't no ordinary anti-tank missile. Those suckers can cream a Calvin-class landcruiser. If you let one off in the bottoms you're liable to bring the roof down."
Vickers shook his head.
"Hell no. That bunker's supposed to stand up to a nuclear war."
"The only other alternative is a full frontal assault that could well cost us hundreds of lives. I swear it would be worth the gamble."
Getz interrupted.
"I'm afraid the discussion is academic, gentlemen. I have no intention of giving you people a Marriot rocket."
"What's with you?"
"This business is edging toward madness and I for one don't want to be responsible."
Victoria Morgenstern abruptly demonstrated who was really in command.
"Give him the damn rocket; I'll be responsible."
Getz actually went white and only just avoided sputtering with indignation.
"You can't order me to do something like this."
"Of course I can and you know it. Who do you think's picking up the tab for this affair? You didn't imagine it was the Federal Government, did you? As long as you're here, you're out on loan to Contec."
"It's not just a matter of money, it's a matter of authority."
"Everything's a matter of money, Colonel. Now, are you going to give the appropriate orders or am I going to call the Pentagon?"
The colonel's voice went robot as he damped down his fury.
"I'll see to it."
He stood up but Vickers held out a restraining hand.
"Hold it, I haven't quite finished."
Morgenstern looked sideways at Vickers.
"Don't push your luck."
"Why should it stop now?"
"What more do you want?"
"I want two Marriots, one as a back-up, and I want an army crew to fire them. I also think it'd be a very good idea if you sent in an extra twenty or thirty of your people, not as combat troops, just observers, mainly to get everyone used to people from the outside. It's going to be a shock."
"Is that all?"
"You've got to admit that it's only reasonable."
Victoria Morgenstern also stood up. "Eminently reasonable." She looked coldly at Getz. "You have any problems with that?"
Getz all but clicked his heels. His voice was still robot. "No problem at all."
Deep in back of his eyes, though, was the look of a man who, if he ever got the chance to walk all over Victoria Morgenstern, would gleefully stomp with both feet. Victoria appeared not to notice. She actually smiled.
"If everyone's satisfied maybe we can get this thing finished."
* * *
A squad from the surface manhandled the number-one Marriot from the elevator. It was twelve feet long and eighteen inches thick, painted black with an orange stripe around the warhead. For ease of handling it was mounted on the most abbreviated version of its launch cradle. The presence of the outsiders had a bizarre effect on the bunker inmates with whom they came into contact. They were afflicted by a diffidence that Vickers would never have expected. They treated them as if they were from another planet. He had actually watched hardened bunker military back away from the first outsiders to enter the bottoms. He realized that the whole bunker was about to go into its second traumatic shock. Losing the world had been bad enough, finding it again might prove to be altogether too much. Vickers began to realize what Eight-Man had meant by rehab and psych. He also realized that it would be a pure arrogance to think that he'd be immune to it. The best he could do was to shelve the worst symptoms until after the bunker was secure. All he wanted to do was to fire the missile and get it over with.
The second rocket was coming out of another elevator. For their part, the outsiders did their best to accentuate the difference between themselves and the people in the bunker. They kept their faces covered with visors and breathing masks as though they considered the air in the bunker tainted and unfit to breathe. Inside the tunnels of the other side of the piazza, the defenders seemed to sense that something was going on. They kept up a sporadic sniping that forced everyone to keep their heads down while the missiles were readied. Their gun crews had developed the knack of being able to lay fire exactly along the top of the incline that led down to the elevators. It meant that there was not only the danger of being hit by a bullet but also the constant irritant of flying splinters of marble. The defenders had one other trick. Now and again a suicide volunteer would sprint out of one of the tunnels clutching a grenade launcher. He or she would try to drop a grenade onto the area by the elevators before one of the attackers dropped him. Parkwood had lost no less than ten men to these random attacks. Vickers' chief worry was that a grenade might ignite one of the rockets before it could be fired. Fortunately the suicide attacks had become markedly fewer. Vickers could only conclude with some relief that Lloyd-Ransom was running short of volunteers.
The pair of Marriots was set up just below the edge of the incline. The fire control box had been placed behind a wall of sandbags. With the exception of a handful of troops who remained to keep up a token fire, everyone was evacuated to the upper levels. Those who stayed were issued with heavy duty ear protectors. When a Marriot went off in an enclosed space, the noise would be quite literally deafening. Once the preparations were complete, Vickers and Parkwood crawled up the incline and lay beside the missiles for a final look around. Parkwood still held onto his doubts.
"Are you sure this isn't going to bring down the roof?"
Vickers patted the Marriot. He was starting to enjoy the recklessness of overkill.
"I'm not sure but I'm pretty certain that the odds are in our favor. The way I see it, the missile should punch a hole in the outer wall but not detonate until it's right in the middle of Lloyd-Ransom's apartment complex. There should be enough substructure in there to soak up the blast before it does any real harm."
"I wish I had your optimism."
"Can you think of a better way?"
"No."
"So let's get to it."
On a sudden impulse, Vickers raised himself up and sprayed the tunnel entrances with his Yasha. The action was so out of character that he surprised himself as well as Parkwood.
"What's the matter with you?"
"I guess I'm getting light-headed."
Parkwood waved back the last handful of troops, then he and Vickers scrambled down the slope themselves. They all took shelter in another sandbagged elevator. This final withdrawal was the signal to the rocket crew to start the brief countdown. Parkwood hit the elevator control panel and the doors slid shut. After that there was nothing left to do but wait. The first noise was the roar of the chemical rocket. Vickers clamped his hands over his ear protectors. There was a brief moment of silence and then it seemed as though the whole world had
exploded. The entire bunker shuddered. The elevator car bounced on its cables. For a moment it felt as though the cables were going to snap. There was a small window in the elevator door. Its glass blew inward. A terrible rumbling went on and on. Parkwood opened the door and peered out. Glass and masonry were cascading down from the outside of the wide central airshaft. Parkwood looked back in horror.
"Damn it Vickers, it looks like you've caved in the roof."
* * *
"It's okay! It's okay!" The last large section of masonry crashed down to the piazza and then there was quiet. Rolling billows of dust filled the air, obscuring everything like a dense fog, but no more of the structure collapsed. The roof was intact. Vickers and Parkwood emerged from the elevator with handkerchiefs pressed to their faces.
"You think there's anyone left alive in there?"
"We'll soon see."
Another set of elevator doors opened and the evacuated bunker troops streamed back into the bottoms. It wasn't only soldiers and security. A full cross section of the bunker population was crowded in with them, a spectrum of colored coveralls and uniforms. Ignoring the choking dust, the heaps of jagged rubble and the possibility of further collapses, they surged across the ruined piazza, angry running figures in the dust and smoke.
"Should we try and stop them?"
"Just try it. They're mad as hell. I doubt a bomb would stop them."
While Vickers and Eight-Man had been out on the surface, word had run through the bunker that their long and unpleasant confinement had been without the slightest of valid reasons. In the end, the multiplying welter of conflicting stories forced Parkwood to go on the air and give a condensed version of the true situation. The varied panic instantly changed to a single, common fury. When the outsiders were first seen on the public video screens, the terrible news was absolutely confirmed. Parkwood was compelled to split his force and send more than half of his people to hold back the mobs who were massing in from the elevators on all levels. The mood had rapidly escalated to one of bloody revenge. Everyone wanted to get down to the bottoms and carve a piece of Lloyd-Ransom or one of his last-stand followers.
More elevator doors hissed open and another crowd from the upper levels swarmed out to add to the chaos. The major in charge of the outsiders fought his way to where Vickers and Parkwood were standing, letting it all swirl around them.
