Cold Allies

by Patricia Anthony

  Gordon felt a splintered-ice shiver of alarm. The second screen was the visuals from his CRAV. Ishimoto was going to try to swim the Garonne River.

  Is he fucking crazy? Gordon wondered, his panic blossoming into hysteria.

  “Colonel Pelham!” Gordon shouted, pivoting to the open doorway. Then he caught sight of something that brought him up short: to better analyze Rover, an ambient temperature gauge and an electromagnetic counter had been plugged into his CRAV’ s monitor.

  He looked at the screen again and saw that Ishimoto had brought up the CRAV’ s diagnostics. ALL MISSILE TUBE COVERS CLEAR, they read.

  Then the CRAV was moving, hand over hand, grasping for purchase. The shaking of the screen lessened, and suddenly the CRAV was free of the riverbank. It dropped to level ground and bounced on its stiff McPherson struts, its camera pointed directly down the ravine.

  “Whoa, mother,” Gordon said under his breath, admiring the Mitsubishi rep’s skill in spite of himself. Jesus. Talk about iron balls. Ishimoto had dipped the missile tubes in the river to wash the mud out.

  Fascinated now, Gordon watched the CRAV trundle its way up the streambed, missiles armed and ready. Ishimoto the Fearless was setting out to destroy the LDV platoon.

  The trees and rocks blinked out so quickly that Gordon reflexively took a step back, bumping into a rollered chair. The CRT monitor was blue. Bright, neon blue.

  The screen was shaking now, as though Ishimoto had once more plunged the CRAV into the rapids of the Garonne. Gordon glanced down and saw the numbers on the digital of the thermometer dropping: 53, 37, 16. The needle on the electromagnetic gauge leaped into the red.

  “Colonel Pelham!” Gordon screamed, running from the room. In the hall he was stopped by the thought that there was only one place the colonel could be; that there was only one kind of emergency that could have taken him from the action. Gordon raced down the hall to the men’s bathroom.

  He threw the bathroom door open so fast, it banged against the wall with the noise of a howitzer.

  No one was standing at the urinals. But two feet showed under the door of one of the stalls. A pair of camouflage pants sagged around the silent ankles.

  “Colonel Pelham?” he called.

  There was a long moment before a reply came, as though the owner of the feet was hoping that Gordon would go away. “Yes?” the colonel finally asked.

  “Sir? I was just in the monitoring room. The Woofer’s attacking Ishimoto,”

  From behind the stall door came the frantic sound of paper flapping. A People magazine dropped to the tile.

  “I’ll be right there!” Pelham called in a high, tight voice. Gordon stepped into the hall. A moment later Pelham wrenched the door open and hurried out, his face grim and urgent.

  “Where is he?” the colonel barked. “Is he all right?”

  “I don’t know, sir,” Gordon admitted, running to keep up.

  At Gordon’s door Pelham stopped, put his shoulder to the green-painted metal, and shoved. The door popped open, and Gordon peered around Pelham.

  Ishimoto’s back was arched, his body convulsive-rigid.

  Pushing the colonel aside, Gordon stumbled into the room and ‘grasped Ishimoto’s upper arm. The man was trembling so violently that the metal leads of the gloves mimicked the noise of chattering teeth. “Power down!” Gordon shouted even though he realized Ishimoto couldn’t hear him. “Power it down!”

  But the Japanese paid no attention to the bruising clutch of Gordon’s fingers.

  Pelham took a breath. “We’d better get him out.” Gordon tore the goggles from the rep’s face and then jerked him out of the seat. Ishimoto landed with a thump on the floor.

  “Sorry, sir,” Gordon said to the astonished Pelham as he climbed into the chair and slipped on the gloves. “But I’m getting my CRAV out of this shit.”

  THE PYRENEES

  The moment Gordon had the goggles on, he could feel the bone-numbing cold, could hear the thunderous clatter of sleet in the back of his brain.

  “Back off!” he shouted at Rover.

  Suddenly there were trees again, the calm stream trickling over the rocks. A few yards away Rover skipped through the air, and the din in Gordon’s mind became a chill hiss.

  “You’ll burn out my controls with that electromagnetic crap, you asshole!”

  Raising his arm, Gordon checked the fine three-fingered claws of his unit. The metal was coated with a thin film of frost just now burning off in the sun.

  “Now stay behind me,” Gordon said, swinging his arm a couple of times to show Rover the way. After a few moments of either confusion or petulance, the blue light floated to Gordon’s rear and stayed.

  Gordon moved out through the shallow water of the stream, and Rover kept his distance, bobbing along behind the CRAV. It was later—much too late to do anything about it—that Gordon realized the chance he had missed. Stendhal had talked to him. And he’d been so rude, she would probably never speak to him again.

  IN THE LIGHT

  Justin woke up to see Harding and the bus driver staring at him. “That was an interesting book,” the driver said. ‘Thank you for reading it to us.” His eyes were dark, luminous holes in his spongy face.

  Harding sat down so close to Justin’s thigh that Justin could feel the chill of his body. ‘‘Tell us about war, now,” he suggested.

  Outside the window the night was flashing by. The F-14 was gone, left miles behind. Justin pulled the blanket around himself. “It’s cold in here,” he said to no one in particular.

  “Would you rather tell Ann about the war?” Harding asked.

  The sound of sleet was softer now, a comforting hiss, like the song of tires on a wet road. “No,” Justin said.

  “We can call her, if you’d like,” the bus driver told him.

  Deep in his blanket, Justin shivered. He felt as though his bones had turned to ice and nothing, nowhere, could warm them. “She bothers me,” he said.

  “I’m sorry.” The meager light winked on Harding’s bald head and the brass buttons. “We thought she would make you calm.”

  “She just bothers me,” he told them.

  Harding reached out and put a nerveless hand on Justin’s arm. “Then we’ll tell her to stay away. Would you like to drive the bus?”

  “Would you like that?” the driver asked, leaning forward intently.

  “Yes,” Justin said. “Oh, yes. I’d like that a lot.”

  He was in the high metal-and-vinyl seat, the starry highway spread out before his windshield. Harding and the driver were beside him, grinning.

  “Go ahead,” the driver said encouragingly. “Go ahead, son, and take her up.”

  Justin pushed the gearshift forward slowly, feeling the rumble of the engines through his legs, his spine. The bus shot down the spangled road. When he thought he had gained enough speed, he pulled the steering wheel toward his belly. The bus soared up into the night.

  “Do you like it?” Harding asked.

  Justin was smiling so broadly, he couldn’t answer.

  Euphoria caught the words in his throat, as though he’d glutted himself on joy. Ahead of him the stars merged, clustering in the center of the windshield. An instant later they turned a frail, lovely shade of blue.

  “Where would you like to go?” Harding asked.

  Feeling the speed of the bus like a glad ache in his chest, Justin considered the blue-shifted stars. “Florida,” he told him.

  “Then fly there. Go ahead and fly there. And when you reach Florida, will you tell us about war?”

  “If I can reach Florida,” he whispered, “I will tell you everything I know.”

  CENTCOM AIRFIELD, BADAJOZ, SPAIN

  The M-16 propped awkwardly between her legs, Rita Beaudreaux stared at the boxes of
supplies around her and listened to the sound of the Sikorsky powering up.

  “Dear God,” she whispered. Her voice was covered by the angry whine of the rotors, and that was fine with Rita; she didn’t want the pilot to overhear. Rita’s mother, when she was alive, had grumbled that she’d never taught her girl anything; but she had bequeathed two unforgettable childhood lessons. One, iron with the weave of the fabric; two, always pray aloud.

  “If you get me out of this weirdness, God,” Rita promised quietly, “I’ll start going back to church. Really. I mean it. Amen.”

  God wouldn’t have much time, it was all happening so quickly. Another moment or so, she’d be airborne, and a couple of hours after that she’d be hiking through the minefields near Lerida. Her fingers toyed with the fat metal attachment on the bottom of her M-16’s muzzle. A grenade launcher. Some idiot had given her a grenade launcher. And not bothered to ask if she’d like a user’s manual.

  The scream of the rotors overhead lowered to an idling whine.

  “Rita?”

  General Lauterbach clambered into the passenger compartment.

  “You okay?” the general asked.

  Rita crossed her fingers and waited for miracles.

  After a cursory glance around, Lauterbach took a seat atop a box labeled MRE—HAMBURGER PIZZA. He took off his helmet and put it in his lap.

  “Glad I could catch you before you left,” he said.

  Before you left. Rita felt her religious faith sink back into’ agnosticism.

  Lauterbach leaned across and peered closely at her rifle.

  “I see someone gave you a grenade launcher,” he chuckled.

  “Yeah. Like I was a real soldier or something,” she said dryly.

  His smile died. “Something’s come up. Something important.” His yellowish hazel eyes were calm, the gaze of a lion aloofly considering a gazelle. “I need to know if there’s any way to duplicate those alien mutilations.”

  “No,” she said. “I already told you, nothing I know could do that.”

  Lauterbach nodded. “I see. Your orders have changed.” Rita caught her breath.

  “I’m going to try a little psychological warfare on our Arab friends. If you come across mutilations, I want you to leave the Arabs in place. The mutilated Americans who can pass for Arabs are to be stripped and their uniforms replaced with BDUs you get from dead, non-mutilated Arabs. You understand?”

  Rita ran her hand through her short, curly hair. She was sweating, she noticed. Sweating like a pig. “No, general, I don’t.”

  “The mutilations are rare: about one percent of the dead.

  You and the platoon can handle that. The Arabs don’t wear dog tags, so the ruse should work. When you strip the Americans, remember to take off socks, underwear, everything. I doubt the Arab doctors will look close enough to notice differences in dental work. At least that’s what I hope,”

  “You’re telling me to desecrate corpses?” Rita snapped. ‘‘What kind of order is that?”

  “Not desecrate—” he began.

  She didn’t let him finish. “What about those American boys’ parents? Their wives? Lord, general, has the Greenhouse Effect changed us that much?”

  Lauterbach was staring at her, his mouth open. Finally he managed to say, soothingly, “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “You didn’t upset me,” she said. “You offended me.” He reached out, put his hand, wiry and warm, on hers.

  “We’re losing this war,” he said. “Our weapon stockpiles are low. We can’t make armaments, we can’t fight a war without fuel. Rita, for God’s sake.” His voice was so low and intense, she had no choice but to listen. She would have heard that voice even if miles away. It was a voice to make Allied soldiers weep from Lisbon to Warsaw.

  “If we don’t get help,” he told her, “our surrender is inevitable.”

  He pulled away first. His fingers trailed over hers. She wondered if the gesture was accidental or affectionate.

  “You know what they call me?” he asked with a sad, lopsided smile. “Loon. They call me Loon. You know why!’

  Guardedly she shook her head.

  “Everyone thinks I’m crazy. Good. Let the Arabs think that.” There was a manic glint in Lauterbach’s yellow eyes, a hard, topaz sparkle that scared her. “No one believes me, Rita, but there are aliens out there. God’s given us a wild card. God’s given us a miracle. And I have it in my hand.”

  The rotors idled quietly. Outside in the overcast day a Humvee sped across the tarmac, its engine growling. One soldier called to another, laughter in his voice. The breeze from the open door smelled sweet, but it didn’t lighten the atmosphere in the helicopter. Rita could feel the weight of the air on her shoulders. It was thick and soupy, like the false environment in an aquarium.

  “I want more than life itself to talk to those aliens.”

  In his voice was a startling tremolo of desire. “But if I could communicate with the lights,” he said, “it’s possible they wouldn’t help. They might not understand armed conflict.”

  Then the general gave her an unexpected, disarming smile, and to her profound astonishment, he winked. “But maybe we can trick the Arabs into thinking the lights have joined us. No harm in that, is there?”

  THE PYRENEES BELOW BAGNERES-DE-LUCHON

  Someone had painted a crude symbol on the T -72, Colonel Wasef noticed. A sign to ward off demons.

  The tank commander must have been nearly out of the hatch when the blow fell, or else the impact of it threw him partially out. He lay half over the deck, his eyes wide with surprise. The bloodless hole in his head went straight through to the other side. An impossible wound, bordering on the ridiculous, a wound that might be made in a cartoon character.

  Hearing footsteps approach, Wasef started. It was only Captain Mustafa. Quickly Wasef smoothed the fright from his features, but knew that Yussif had seen.

  The captain’s face was so taut, Wasef knew that his friend, too, was having trouble keeping the fear in check.

  “The engine has not been shut off,” Wasef said. “No, Sir.”

  The two stood for a moment listening to the agitated grumble of the diesel engine. The T -72 needed a tune-up, Wasef thought, and from the wreath of smoke around the rear of the vehicle, smoke that stank of carbon and unburnt fuel, he decided it could probably do with a ring job, too. All the vehicles were old: the planes, the trucks, everything. Only spit and baling wire held the Arab army together.

  “Someone should turn off the engine,” Wasef told the captain. Yussif paled, the blood draining from his face so much, his skin mimicked the pallor of the corpse.

  Mustafa wasn’t merely frightened; he was paralyzed. “I’ll do it,” Wasef said quickly, and wished he had not volunteered.

  Skirting the driver’s entrance, he climbed up the deck and peered around the dead TC into the hatch. On the floor of the tank lay the gunner. He was an odd, yellowish color, the shade of spoiled goat cheese.

  Sometimes Allah was unexpectedly kind. The T-72 gave a last chugging twitch and fell silent. It had run out of gas. Relieved, Wasef clambered down to the grass.

  ‘‘Could the blue light be American?” the captain asked. “I don’t think so,” Wasef told him. “If they had such a weapon, we would now all be the color of cheese and have holes through our bodies.”

  Yussif leaned over to whisper into Wasef’s ear. “Yes. If one possesses such a weapon, one uses it to destroy armies, not a single tank.”

  Wasef gave a nervous nod.

  “Yet it trails the American robot,” Yussif went on, pointing down into the ravine. “See the marks of the treads’!’

  Yes, Wasef thought. The blue light was not American, but it had some special relationship with the Allies, a relationship Wasef was not canny enough to understand. H
e stared at the tread marks in frustrated dismay.

  “The robot has gone back up the ravine,” Yussif said. The platoon will kill it.”

  And then what? Wasef wondered. He had the impulse to tell the captain to pull his platoon out and send them back to base.

  “The men are frightened,” Yussif admitted. “They are illiterate, mostly, and superstitious. Once they believe the Americans are protected by djinn, they will not fight.”

  “Superstitious, yes,” Wasef said absently. His own master’s degree in electrical engineering was no insulator against such unfounded and primitive fear. Before the killing heat came to Egypt he had imagined himself one link in a long proud line from the builders of Giza, a line superior to the filthy Algerians, more intelligent than the backward, sheepherding Libyans. Now he wasn’t so sure. They, at least, knew the methods of dealing with the supernatural.

  He glanced over at the squad who were standing near a tree, as far from the tank as they could get without being reprimanded. No one was sitting down; no one-was squatting. They fingered their weapons and looked nervously around the glade.

  Wasef cleared his throat.

  “What, brother?” Yussif asked, leaning forward to catch any word of wisdom, any hint of direction. Loyal Yussif, Wasef thought fondly, would jump off a cliff if he were asked. But, like the rest of the army, he needed to be shown the path up the mountain.

  Wasef gave the captain a level, encouraging look. “Tell the men these deaths are proof that we do battle with the forces of darkness. Tell them that, as Allah is good, justice will prevail.”

  Yussif smiled as though he had been granted a generous and unforeseen absolution. “Yes, Qasim. As Allah is my witness, we shall prevail.”