J.M. Dillard - War of Worlds: The Resurrection (29 page)

Ironhorse narrowed his eyes and started to speak, then seemed to remember something. He glanced down at his watch and addressed the soldier. "It's time, Sergeant."

The soldier nodded and disappeared quickly into the dark forest. Harrison watched him go. "Where's he headed in such a hurry?" He had a dreadful premonition that he hoped was wrong.

"Good thing we stopped you before you made it down or you would have been right in the middle of the fireworks," Ironhorse said casually. "We're about to secure the area."

"You can't do that!" Both he and Suzanne spoke at the same time, almost crying it out.

Ironhorse smiled with irritating superiority. "Ah, but we
can,
Doctors. You're both very privileged; you're about to witness a rare event—and live to tell about it. Delta squad in action. Anytime, anyplace, any objective—my men are the best."

Harrison had heard of them, all right, but he shook his head. "If you value your men, Colonel, call them back. You have no concept of who or what you're dealing with."

Ironhorse cocked his head and shot him a curious
274

look. "Just a few terrorists, with small arms and a poorly defended perimeter. I figure my men are overprepared."

Suzanne moved closer, leaning toward the Indian to hiss: "You don't understand . . . it's not just terrorists you're fighting—"

Harrison put a hand on her arm to silence her. After their last encounter, Ironhorse no doubt thought him crazy, and any explanations would be considered the ravings of a couple of lunatic scientists. The man would see soon enough for himself.

She turned toward him angrily. "And what happens when all his men are
killed?"

"Excuse me, Dr. . . . McCullough, isn't it?" Ironhorse asked politely; Suzanne glanced up at him. "It doesn't matter to my men whether they're fighting terrorists ... or something else." His expression was enigmatic.

Jesus,
Harrison thought,
he knows.
Perhaps the colonel wasn't as dull-witted as he'd first believed. Harrison and Suzanne exchanged surprised glances.

Ironhorse was still talking, this time to Harrison. "I still remember the look on your face when you saw those empty barrels, Blackwood."

Harrison raised a brow at that and said cautiously, "And just how experienced are you at fighting those things, Colonel? How much do you know about the
first
time they did battle with us?"

Ironhorse shrugged. "Enough. I know they don't have their ships or their weapons. Without those, my men will make mincemeat out of them."

"And have your men been told
who
they're fighting?" Suzanne's tone was cold.

"The terrorists had weapons," Harrison pointed out. "They overran an army installation, killed every soldier in there—and the aliens overtook
them."

Ironhorse sighed as if weary at having to explain such elementary things to such ignorant people. "You have to remember—we're engaging in pure speculation here. / won't believe they're really aliens until I see it with my own eyes. I'm certainly
not
going to say anything crazy to my men, particularly something crazy I can't back up. I keep my suspicions to myself. Otherwise, my men would lose faith in my judgment."

"And knowing the shock and confusion they'll experience when they find out
who
they're fighting," Harrison retorted, "you expect them to be able to win?"

"Absolutely. You obviously don't know jackshit" —he glanced at Suzanne—"excuse my language, Doctor—about Delta squad, Blackwood. Aliens or not, whoever, whatever's down there doesn't stand a chance."

"You're making a horrible mistake," Harrison said softly, feeling helpless as he thought of the young soldier who had just left. If there were only something he could
do
to stop it. . . .

Ironhorse checked his watch.
"Now,"
he said.

Behind the shelter of a tall pine on the outskirts of the farm, Reynolds stood silently gazing at his watch. At the instant the digits changed to 19:00:00, he motioned right and left for his men to move forward.

He was aware of a sense of exhilaration, of therapid-fire drumming of his heart, of the thought o! Arlene, and a sudden panic: How would she feel if something happened to him? But Reynolds, though still young, had seen enough combat to ignore such sensations. Like his role model the colonel, Reynolds had long ago adopted the motto,
Don't think—act.
At the moment his mind was too focused on what came next to worry about analyzing his own feelings.

He dashed to a vantage point from which he could see both the farmhouse and the barn, to be sure his men were in position. They were ready; the entrances to both buildings were covered by soldiers wearing gas masks. Reynolds raised an arm to signal two riflemen several yards in front of him; they fired off canisters of tear gas into the house and barn.

Within seconds, thick white clouds of gas began billowing out of both structures. The men positioned near the entrances followed the gas up with a couple of well-aimed concussion grenades. The ground vibrated with the explosions; a pane of glass still left in one of the farmhouse windows shattered, sending glass flying onto the porch.

Those who weren't wounded were due to come rushing out, coughing and gagging, any second now. It was time. Reynolds blew three short blasts on the whistle around his neck, then dropped it and pulled down his own gasmask. He charged forward. Meanwhile, the soldiers began storming the buildings, some jumping through windows, others kicking down doors.

Clutching his M-16, Reynolds ran to the barn

entrance. The tear gas was beginning to clear only slowly; it was still too thick inside the barn for him to see anything except the backs of his men as they disappeared into the fog, and the vague outline of the tractor-trailer. Reynolds smiled grimly. They were here, all right, and he'd like nothing better than the chance to get even with those sons of bitches, after seeing what they did to the soldiers at Jericho Valley. But there was still no sign of anyone fleeing the house or barn, no sound of gunfire . . . just a strange vibrating, humming sound, as if someone were chanting.

Reynolds raised the rifle and waited.

Xashron climbed up the ladder into the gray shadows of the loft, where most of the recently revived soldiers rested against bales of hay. The Advocacy and their attendants camped inside the warmer, more spacious accommodations of the old farmhouse, but Xashron, though he could have remained with them in comfort due to his high rank, preferred to camp with his soldiers.

Flanked by Xeera and Konar, Xashron stepped forward where he could be seen. There was a rustling as some of them tried to rise at the sight of their supreme commander, sounds of surprise from others who did not recognize and did not trust Xashron in his human form.

The Supreme Commander raised an arm in a clumsy approximation of a Mor-Taxan gesture. "Rest," he told them in their native tongue, for none of them had yet taken host bodies. He paused to look them over. At least thirty dark forms—no more than that, Xashron had insisted, for he would not release more soldiers than he had adequate supplies for, despite his desire to overthrow the Advocacy—were huddled on beds of straw; some of them rose on their thin appendages, to show respect, regardless of Xashron's order.

Feeling a deep sense of pride at the sight of them, Xashron said, "I have come not as your commander, but as a fellow soldier, to seek a consensus. I am proud you have survived, for this allows us a second opportunity to secure Earth before our colonists arrive. Yet I grieve because you, and your brothers and sisters who died, have suffered much at the hands of the Council. The sight of my soldiers falling beside me has made me bitter. We require enlightened leadership if we are to succeed."

He paused to judge the response; all listened quietly, without dissension so far, which gave Xashron the boldness to speak candidly.

"The current Advocacy is unenlightened," he said. "We must have a new Advocate."

There were murmurs. A female standing in a far corner of the loft said, "Such talk is dangerous, Commander. You put yourself at risk."

"I put all of you at risk as well." Xashron eyed her calmly. "You could be punished merely for listening to such talk. All of those who do not wish to hear what I have to say are permitted to leave without fear of punishment."

The female was silent; no one moved. One of the males reclining against a bale of hay asked, "What do you suggest we do. Commander?"

"I suggest we retain one member of the ruling

class"—he did not mention Xana's name, for fear that someone had seen them slip off together into the forest; best to seem impartial at this point— "and replace two members with soldiers: myself, and whomever you select by consensus."

Whispers. Some silently considered, others looked pleased; but Xorr, the commander of a squadron, spoke as he reclined on his bed of straw. "Supreme Commander—I have always bowed to your will. But the Advocacy would never agree to such a thing, nor would the Council. Such an action is unheard of— letting the military rule side by side with the upper class. ..."

Next to Xashron, Konar came to his leader's defense. "Our situation is unheard of. The Supreme Commander merely wishes to avoid the errors of the past, errors which came close to destroying us all.. . or have you so quickly forgotten, Commander Xorr? The military needs a voice in this new world, for this is strictly a military operation. There are only
three
members of the upper class on Earth—yet they rule us all. Should they continue to do so—those three who recommended the invasion be launched before our scientists even knew of the danger that awaited us here?"

"It's true," someone said clearly, amid echoes of agreement. "The Advocacy thought only of its own glory."

Xorr rose angrily on unsteady appendages. "And what do you, Supreme Commander, suggest we do with the two deposed members of the Advocacy? We all know they will not surrender peacefully."

Xashron studied the group. Xorr was misguided in his loyalty, but shrewd enough to force Xashron into admitting he must kill the two Advocates, words that on Mor-Tax would have earned him immediate death . .. and which, on Earth, would offend those who were undecided about Xashron's plan.

"I leave their fate to a consensus," Xashron said evasively. "Let all of you decide what is best—lean do nothing without the assistance of the majority. All I ask for now is that you consider my words. This is a new world; old laws, old taboos are no longer relevant here. What is important now is ensuring, at all costs, that no more mistakes are made." He paused. "Through a miracle, I have my soldiers back; I will not lose them a second time to please the egos of our rulers."

Xorr took a step forward. "And as members of the military, Supreme Commander, you and I are sworn to protect the ruling class with our lives. This is the highest law ... or have you so conveniently forgotten the oath you took?"

Xorr's statement created an almost palpable tension in the room, for each soldier had taken the same pledge to protect the ruling class; some murmured their agreement with Xorr's proclamation of loyalty, others looked silently to the Supreme Commander for guidance. With disappointment, Xashron realized that it would take both time and political maneuvering to overcome Xorr's opposition—and time was the one commodity the invading forces could no longer afford to squander.

"I have not forgotten my oath," Xashron replied. "I, too, am loyal to the Advocacy. . . but my loyalty to my entire world, to the survival of my people and my fellow soldiers, runs much deeper. Your focus is too restricted, Xorr. We are speaking not of the survival of two members of the ruling class, but of the survival of our entire race."

Xorr had no answer; Xashron could sense the momentum of opinion shift in his own favor. Perhaps there was still a chance of convincing the majority, in which case he would have to assassinate Xorr and his followers as soon as it could be arranged—a pity, since Xorr was a competent military leader—before Xorr could kill him.

He was about to ask for an immediate consensus, but there was no time. Xeera, glancing over the edge of the hayloft, cried out.

"Commander, we're under attack!"

Xashron rushed to her side to see just as billowing clouds of gas filled the barn.

On the hillcrest, Harrison and Suzanne watched helplessly as the men swarmed into the abandoned buildings. "Colonel, please," Harrison began, "for the sake of your men—"

But Ironhorse ignored him totally, staring transfixed through a pair of field glasses. Finally, he lowered them and swore softly. "Damn . .. they're not even here!"

"Thank God for that," Harrison said fervently, at the same time it dashed his hopes of getting Wilson's proof.

That was a split second before the shooting started.

* * *

The humming grew louder, then stopped. Expectantly, Reynolds flattened himself against the termite damaged wood near the entrance; but instead of hearing the sounds of surrender, he detected a sharp, brief whistle coming from inside. He drew closer to the door's edge and peered into the barn. Someone cried out; the sounds of struggle . . . and then through the wisps of gas, Reynolds saw chaos: Dozens of huge, shapeless black forms dropping from the rafters onto the soldiers below. In the melee, guns fired, and the whistling sound came again. And whatever was happening didn't look too good for Delta squad.