"Just before your arrival," L'Wrona said, "a S'Cotar assault unit teleported aboard from a satellite base orbiting the fourth planet. They and their base were destroyed, but not before they got off a distress call. Enemy reinforcements could be here in as little as a day. It's vital that we land and remove whatever equipment we can."
"Vital to whom?" John frowned. "If the only thing preventing the S'Cotar from slaughtering four billion Terrans is that system, you surely don't plan to tamper with it?"
The Captain looked him in the eye. "I hope it isn't a question of choosing which of our peoples is to survive," he said carefully. "I've already sent for reinforcements, but the S'Cotar fleet is much closer than our own. If we can recover the nexus of a transport system, my duty is to take it at once to a Confederation base. We've already lost some fifteen billion people behind that red veil, and each day the S'Cotar press their attacks more boldly. Without that transporter, we fall.
And then the day that ancient computer on your planet fails, or the S'Cotar find a way to defeat it, your billions will join ours in death.
"In tactics and initiative, we're superior," he continued. "With the transporter, we can nullify the advantage the S'Cotar's teleportation abilities give them. We'll crush them.
"I hope the price of their defeat won't be another planet— yours. But if it is, so be it. I'll sacrifice Terra as readily as I would a K'Ronarin world."
D'Trelna rose. "Commander L'Wrona will show you to your quarters. Get some rest. We'll be landing in six hours."
Before the Terrans could speak, the Captain was gone and L'Wrona was ushering them down the corridor.
Chapter 8
D'trelna was sure he'd just closed his eyes when K'Raoda signaled. "Captain, we're now orbiting the third planet."
Groaning, he rolled over and pressed a wall switch. "It's called Terra," he grunted. "Place us in synchronous orbit over our guests' point of origin and ask them to the bridge. I'll be right there. And wake L'Wrona up," he added maliciously, rolling to his feet.
"But sir, he just went to his cabin."
"Thin people don't need as much sleep, Subcommander," said D'Trelna, sitting up. "Get him up."
"We'll set you down with the landing party," he said to the Terrans a few moments later. The bags under their eyes told of a sleepless offwatch. In their boots, you'd be a bit upside down, too, he thought. "I'd appreciate your showing Subcommander K'Raoda the site and acting as liaison when local authorities arrive."
"You anticipate detection?" asked John.
The Captain nodded. "Implacable's shielded, but the shuttle's not. It will knife past your air defenses before a single fighter can be launched. But I'm sure its landing point will be quickly found." He smiled. "I'd like to be in your defense headquarters for the next few hours, watching the fun.
"Good luck. K'Raoda, if you need—"
He was interrupted by a cry of "Enemy contact!"
"Report," ordered D'Trelna, whirling to face L'Wrona.
"Three vessels," the XO responded, slender fingers playing over his console, eyes scanning the readout. "Just came out of hyperdrive almost exactly where we did. At present course and speed, about five hours to contact."
"Can you make out their type?" asked the Captain, sinking into the command chair.
"Running an analysis now." Then: "Three heavy cruisers of the new 'Berserker' class."
D'Trelna ignored K'Raoda's astonished whistle.
"They've undoubtedly detected us," said L'Wrona, turning from the screen. "S'Cotar cruisers have gear as good as our own."
"We can't outfight three heavy cruisers, Captain," K'Raoda said, walking toward his station. He left four very worried Terrans standing by the door. "Shall we prepare for hyperspace?"
"You run, Captain," said John, grim-faced, "and you'll leave four billion humans defenseless before those—''
D'Trelna jabbed a blunt finger at the angry Terran.
"Don't tell me my duty!" he snapped. "I commanded Dauntless at T'Qar—a relic against a S'Cotar flotilla. I lost two hundred good men, but we bought time for an evacuation convoy.
"You are, however, correct," he said in a softer tone, temper recovered. "I can't run. Not without knowing if those hypothetical Imperial defenses would protect you from a very real enemy. We stand."
"Captain, three heavy cruisers?" L'Wrona said, quietly seconding K'Raoda's protest.
"We will fight and we will win, gentlemen," said D'Trelna confidently, nodding. He turned to the Terrans. "As for you people, please stay with the landing force until our return. They'll need your help even more now. I can't spare many men.
"K'Raoda." He fixed the young officer with a piercing gaze. "If you are in imminent danger of being overrun by a S'Cotar assault force, destroy as much of that installation as you can. You're authorized to arm these and any other Terrans at your discretion."
"Sir, what about the Non-interference Directive?" asked the Tactics Officer.
"A pleasant fiction whose time has passed."
"You'll be staying here for now?" he asked, turning to McShane. Better, though still a bit pale, the professor sat at the flag station.
He nodded. "I'd be of little use in a ground action right now."
Accompanying the landing party to the now-restored Hangar Deck, Bob warmly embraced Zahava and Greg as they boarded the stubby-winged shuttle.
"You know what your chances are," said John, lingering.
Bob nodded. "About as good as yours if those S'Cotar cruisers get through. Besides"—he grinned—"I'll go out astride the deck of a starship, battling alien hordes. Beats the hell out of a coronary."
Ten minutes later, as McShane followed his commando escort back into the ship, the battle klaxon sounded.
* * * *
The small ship settled with a quiet whoosh atop Goose Hill. Fighting back waves of nausea, John managed to croak, "Do you always pilot like that, Subcommander? Or just when you have guests?" He knew all of his bones were broken.
Seemingly untouched by the g-forces, the K'Ronarin officer bounded past his passengers to the airlock. Deftly fingering a control panel, he opened both doors. Fresh sea air wafted in.
"If you'd seen the sensors," he said as his squad fanned out, securing the perimeter, "you'd have dived, too. Your atmosphere is one vast detector web. We've no shield to stop missiles—I'd rather outrun them before they're fired."
Dropping like a meteor through the stratosphere, they'd executed a series of punishing, powered turns. Pressed deep into his padded chair by the brutal pressure, John had watched, gasping for air, as they'd plummeted through the clouds. Cobalt-blue, the Atlantic had rushed up, filling the overhead screen. Only at the last possible instant had a ribbon of dun-colored land appeared, curving out into the water. The shuttle's gentle landing had belied its violent descent.
John staggered to his feet. "I thought these warsuits doubled as pressure suits?" he said accusatively. "I blacked out more than once." He and Zahava helped an ashen-cheeked Greg to his feet.
"Without them, you'd be dead—we all would," said K'Raoda, turning in the airlock. "But they are better warsuits than pressure suits. Not even the Imperials could mutate so many physical laws with one construct.
"Come help us unload the cargo bay. You'll feel better."
They began moving supplies and equipment from the shuttle. Rubble still blocked the site's top entrance, but there was no sign of Langston or his men.
Leaving only two crewmen on guard, the small party of humans worked quickly, trucking cargo down to the hill's shoulder and stacking it before the rock-choked doorway. They finished as the sun was slipping into the ocean, turning the calm sea a burnt-ochre.
"Now what?" asked Zahava, eyeing the rubble.
K'Raoda sighed. "Give them the rifles, D'Nir."
Nodding, the NCO walked to a rectangular box, sliding back the top. The rifles he handed the Terrans were a gray, dully burnished metal. Stock, trigger guard, safety catch—all looked the same as on any
rifle the three had held before. Only the lack of a protruding magazine and the odd muzzle gave the weapons an alien look.
"This will probably get me court-martialed," K'Raoda said resignedly, picking up a rifle. His men stood behind him in a small knot, watching the lesson.
"This is a Confederation Fleet Commando Ion-Laser Rifle, Model-Thirty-Two. It's a line-of-sight weapon, firing a stream of ions along a laser beam. The M-Thirty-Two has greater range and power than the M-Eleven pistol." He patted his holster. "It doesn't require any gift of intellect to use one. Just point"—he aimed casually into the rubble—"and fire." A boulder exploded with a bang, pierced by a thin, red bolt. The blaster made a distinctive shrilling when fired.
"Adjust the beam so." He twisted the muzzle, then fired again. The beam fanned wide, slowly melting an entire boulder.
"Please," K'Raoda implored, tossing his rifle to D'Nir, "keep the safety on.
"One more thing. Recall that the S'Cotar can appear human. If your communicator"—he touched the pendant at his throat—"sounds like this ..." A high-pitched whine made them wince. "...then there's a S'Cotar within twenty yards. Shoot whomever you think you see without hesitation—your mother, your lover, your child—and you may live. Understood?"
His students nodded.
"Good." He smiled. "Now for some target practice. Help us blast through the rubble. I want to be safely inside by dark."
The tons of rubble soon melted away under the hungry red beams. With everyone lending a hand, they made K'Raoda's deadline.
Chapter 9
Bill Sutherland smiled at the young, blond-headed guard. "Do you know what a John Doe warrant is?" he asked, leaning against the big security desk.
The man shook his head, eyes narrowed in suspicion. There was a stubborn set to his mouth.
"It's issued by a federal judge who agrees with me that some of Leurre's staff conspired to kill one of my men," he continued easily. "We're empowered to arrest anyone we believe part of that conspiracy. You're obstructing our investigation, which makes you an accessory after the fact and subject to arrest. Understand?"
"Yeah." A corner of his mouth curled up—more grimace than smile.
"So why not cooperate? It'll save FBI Special Agent Flan-nigan here"—he nodded to his right—"from having to haul you in." Tall, thirtyish, black Irish good looks, Flannigan stood with Tuckman, Bakunin and Sutherland's team in the deserted lobby of the Leurre Institute. The guard was the only other human being they'd seen since their arrival.
Sullenly answering Bill's questions, he'd given nothing away. No, he didn't know where Dr. Langston was. No, there was no one here today. Yes, the Institute was usually open on Friday. No, he would not look at their search warrant. They'd have to wait till he could locate someone in authority.
Bill's soft persuasion seemed to work. "Okay"—the guard shrugged—"if you have to search, search. There's nothing I can do. But there really isn't anyone here. And I don't know where the Director is."
Sutherland turned to his men. "Okay, let's get started. You all know where to go and what to look for. Remember, we don't have to uncover the whole iceberg—the tip will do for now. Anything on Foxfire, Antonucchi's murder, the Goose Hill site. Then tomorrow we can have fifty men down here, sifting through.
"You've all got handsets." He held up his own small, Japanese-made transceiver. "If you find something, let us know. I'll be here with the DCI and Colonel Bakunin, in case any of the staff show up."
"Why weren't your people at Otis, Bill?" asked the Director as the agents boarded an elevator.
His deputy shook his head. "I wish I knew. Perhaps Lang-ston caught up with them—an unpleasant possibility. Or maybe they went back to the site." His face brightened. "Of course, that's just what they'd do! McShane would want to poke around in there before we sealed it off.''
Tuckman nodded. "Good reasoning. Let's finish our preliminaries here, then get to the site." Turning to the guard, he asked, "How do we get to Goose Hill from here?"
"It'd be easier if I drew you a map." The man opened a drawer as Tuckman turned back to Sutherland.
"This reminds me of an operation we ran in Vienna after the war," he said. "We didn't know—"
Impaled on a brilliant shaft of purest indigo, Tuckman stood for a surprised instant, then fell to the floor, his chest a charred, smoking ruin. A high-pitched whine pierced the air. Whirling, the guard turned his strange weapon toward Sutherland, then slid from sight beneath the big teak desk. A faint pop heralded his disappearance.
Bakunin holstered his slim, silenced Italian automatic. "Training pays," he said calmly.
Dazed and pale, Sutherland closed Tuckman's dead, staring eyes, then walked to the security station, retrieving the strange, long-barreled pistol from the desk top. Doing so, he caught sight of the guard's body.
"Bakunin," he croaked, gesturing. The Russian followed him behind the desk. They stood together, looking down at the dead six-foot insectoid: deep-green, bulbous-eyed, it faintly resembled a huge praying mantis, except for the tentacles tapering from its two upper limbs—tentacles still twitching in death shock. A webbed belt, hung with unfamiliar equipment, girdled its thorax. A viscous green liquid oozed from a neat hole between the eyes.
Standing there over the dead alien, the stench of Tuckman's burnt flesh filling the room, the small, high moments of Bill Sutherland's life touched his mind. The clapboard Indiana farmhouse, acres of white unfurled behind it on wash day. Dad, Grandpa and the uncles playing around the cribbage board on Christmas Eve, sipping bourbon, the air heavy with blue cigar smoke. Lois's encircling warmth that first time in the back of his old Chevy, under a full August moon, the air rich with the scent of wild roses. Inge's startling blue eyes, that day in Berlin. Emmy-chan in the snow at Nikko, and much, much later, lying before their fireplace in McLean, the firelight dancing along her soft, golden skin.
It all felt very fragile now.
"Bakunin," he said softly, "I think we've found a little green gremlin." Unnoticed, his hands shook.
Bakunin finally found his voice. It quivered. "It is alien, intelligent, hostile and armed with superior weaponry, Sutherland. It seems capable of some form of mind control. I urge you to summon reinforcements. Cordon off the village."
His hand still shaking, Sutherland picked up the phone, punching out a long series of digits.
* * * *
Major General James ("Big Jim") O'Brien's twenty-five years in the air force had added only slightly to his bedrock of Missouri skepticism. Thus he blinked twice at the situation board before startling the noncom next to him with a loud, "What the hell is that?"
"That," to the thirty pairs of eyes in the Joint Chiefs of Staff Operations center, four hundred feet under the Pentagon, was a green dot moving fast—much too fast—across the North Atlantic toward the New England coast. As they watched, the computer tagged it "Ul": unidentified target, number one. Not yet "H" for hostile, just "U." That "U" worried Big Jim far more than an "H." "H" he knew how to deal with.
"Sure it's not a Russian?" he asked hopefully.
"No way, sir," said the Target ID officer, staring at his CRT. "Too fast, too high. It originated in space, outside our radar range. If it were Russian, we'd have picked up launch."
"Meteor?"
"It's changed trajectory eight times in the past minute and is now decelerating. Not to any speed we could intercept, though." The Sergeant avoided the General's eyes. Before O'Brien could speak, the green dot entered U.S. territory and disappeared. "Wet landing?" he demanded.
"No, General. Probably land. Just. A stretch of coast along Cape Cod. There." He typed quickly into his terminal. A red "X" now flashed a third of the way up the peninsula, itself enlarged on the situation board.
Shit, thought O'Brien desperately. A goddamned UFO on my watch. And the mother's landed. He squeezed his eyes shut for an instant, then opened them. The red cross was still there, blinking now.
O'Brien picked up the green phone. In seconds he
was listening to the Otis Operations Officer's cool, crisp report. Yes, their radar had spotted it, too. A squadron of F-15s had scrambled.
Glancing at the board, O'Brien saw a phalanx of red crosses, marked F1-F5, appear, cruising along the Cape's Atlantic shore. "Get some choppers up, too, Major Jenkins," he ordered. "If you've had no luck by dawn we'll reinforce you."
As he hung up the green phone, the blue one next to it rang: three brisk chimes, like a ship's clock. Everyone who could turned to watch as O'Brien reached for it. The blue phone never rang.
"General O'Brien," he answered. It was going to be a night.
"General," said a crisp voice, "this is William Sutherland, CIA. I'm declaring Situation Breakout. You'll find the applicable challenge and countersign in your standing orders. Please key to that program. This is not a drill."
O'Brien dutifully pecked "Breakout" on his terminal. "'Cortez,'" he read off the screen.
"Gotterddmmerung," responded Sutherland, hoping to God he'd given the right countersign. There were only ten he had to memorize, but they changed every month. He was relieved to hear the General ask, ' 'What are your instructions, Mr. Sutherland?"
"I need infantry at Oystertown, Massachusetts—the Leurre Oceanographic Institute. Get me some help as fast as you can from Otis—APs, air commandos, anyone who can carry a weapon. Things are a bit'dicey here.
"Then get a Rapid Deployment Strike Force to Otis and quarantine Cape Cod. Maximum air vigilance in this sector.
"I'm calling the White House now, requesting Red Alert/Defense Condition Four. I'm authorized to instruct you to go to Yellow/DEFCON Three. Please do so now. I'll wait."
Mad dogs and the CIA, O'Brien thought, turning to his second in command. "Bradshaw," he said, "go to Yellow."
The Colonel looked up, startled, at the big board. Except for Cape Cod, all was normal.
"General?" he asked.
"Yellow, please, Colonel," O'Brien repeated firmly. "Per contingency."
The Biofab War Page 6
