Resistance (3 page)

Nevertheless, Hale was armed as he made his way through the maze of corridors and boarded an elevator that would take him up to the admin deck. Standing orders called for
every
Sentinel to be armed while on duty,
so Hale was carrying an HE .44 Magnum in a cross-draw holster, plus two six-shot speed loaders in quick-release belt pouches. Though not fully combat-ready he was wearing thermals and a cotton shirt, with a waist-length gray jacket. It would do in a pinch.

The gold bars on Hale's collars drew salutes from the enlisted people he passed, and having only recently been promoted to second lieutenant, he was self-conscious about returning the courtesy. As the elevator door started to close, a sergeant darted in and, finding Hale there, quickly tossed him a salute.

There was no such thing as central heating in a SRPA base, so the air was chilly and Hale was glad of the wool uniform as the elevator lurched to a stop and he followed the sergeant off.

Before Hale could enter the briefing room, it was first necessary to pass through a security checkpoint manned by three heavily armed soldiers. Having shown his SRPA ID card and the number that had been tattooed onto the inside surface of his left arm, he was allowed to make his way down the spartan corridor to the point where a table was loaded with coffee, orange juice, and thick ham and egg sandwiches.

It was simple food, but Hale knew better than to take it for granted, because as the planet's atmosphere grew colder and the Chimera took more and more land, food shortages were becoming increasingly common. It made him feel slightly guilty as he carried a heaping plate into the briefing room and looked for a place to sit down. A corner preferably, where he could maintain a low profile while consuming his breakfast.

Any such hopes were quickly dashed, however, as Major Richard Blake spotted him from the front of the room and gestured for him to come forward. There were about thirty officers and other SRPA officials in the
room, and at least a dozen heads turned as Hale made his way forward, partly because he was in motion, but mostly because of who he was. He'd had a hard time maintaining a low profile since he'd come back from the battle for Britain—one of the few who had survived.

He was also one of the first Sentinels,
and
a key member of the Search and Recovery team that was slated to leave the base at 0630.

Captain Nash, who was already seated at the mission table at the front of the room, watched Hale approach. There was no question about the lieutenant's identity. After being infected with the Chimeran virus in England, and somehow surviving the normally fatal experience, Hale's eyes had changed color. They were yellow-gold, and therefore reminiscent of the Chimera, despite the fact there were only two of them.

Hale's hair was little more than stubble on the top of his head, and there was something hard about his features, as if he was a man who didn't suffer fools gladly. As Hale set his food and a steaming cup of coffee on the table and prepared to take a seat in the front row, Nash rose to greet him “You're Lieutenant Hale … It's a pleasure to meet you. My name is Nash. Anton Nash.”

As the gold eyes came up to meet his, Nash saw a good deal of intelligence there, as well as what might have been caution—which was understandable, given the circumstances.

“Glad to meet you, sir,” Hale replied, his voice neutral. He might have said more, except Blake chose that moment to begin the meeting.

Blake was a big man with prominent brows, cavelike eyes, and a pugnacious jaw. His gray SRPA uniform was immaculate, and it was well known that he expected
every
SRPA uniform to appear that way, regardless of who was wearing it. His parade-ground voice carried to every corner of the room.

“Please take your seats … As many of you know time is of the essence—so let's get this briefing underway.”

There was a scraping of chairs, followed by a rustling sound as everyone got settled. Hale found a seat, and grabbed the opportunity to take a big bite out of his sandwich, then wash it down with a swig of hot coffee. Peering around, he noticed that there seemed to be a heightened air of expectation, and wondered what the source might be.

“Okay,” Blake said, making his way past the mission table to the podium beyond. It was located next to a large white screen. “We've got something unique today, and we need to move quickly. But before we begin, there's something you need to see.” The lights dimmed and the projection system came on. The quality of the video footage wasn't very good.

It looked as if it had been taken late in the day, when the light level was low, and snow swirled in front of the camera, making it even more difficult for the viewer to tell what he was looking at. Centered in the middle of the screen was what many people would have called a hill—and a rather unremarkable one at that, except for the way it towered over the surrounding plain. Most of that area was flat as a pancake.

Being a native of South Dakota, Hale recognized the geological feature, which, according to his seventh-grade science teacher, was a laccolith, a juncture where molten magma had been injected between two layers of sedimentary rock, forcing one to bulge upward.

“You're looking at Bear Butte,” Blake confirmed as the camera began to move, indicating that it was airborne.
“A little more than 1,200 feet tall, and located near the town of Sturgis, South Dakota.”

Hale shifted in his chair, and wondered why the major was wasting their time on a relatively unremarkable piece of landscape. He reached for his food as Blake spoke again. “And
here
, as we come around the other side, we find the wreckage of a Chimeran shuttle.”

That
got Hale's attention. As the video froze he put the rest of his sandwich down.

The Chimeran aircraft was positioned high on the hillside, just below the snow-capped top. And while the fuselage was intact, large pieces of debris could be seen. There were no signs of an explosion or post-impact fire, however, and that was promising.

“This footage was taken late yesterday. We don't know what happened to the shuttle,” Blake said, as his pointer tapped the image of the crash site. “Perhaps it suffered a mechanical problem of some sort, or given the weather conditions late yesterday—when we think the incident occurred—it's possible the pilot didn't see the hillside until it was too late. Whatever the reason it was a stroke of good luck for us, because if we can put a team in there fast enough, we can search the wreckage for Chimeran tech. The kind of stuff that will help us to defeat the bastards.

“But we'll have to be quick,” he added, “because the stinks are onto our SAR strategy and will probably put some sort of freak show on the butte to secure the crash site.”

At that point Blake turned to gesture toward the two men seated at the mission table. “Please welcome Captain Anton Nash to the team … He'll be in overall command of the mission—and I'm sending Lieutenant Hale along to provide backup. The rest of the team will consist
of two squads, each led by an NCO. You'll leave at 0630. Are there any questions?”

There
were
questions, at least one that Hale could think of, though he didn't give voice to it.
Has the major lost his mind?
Nash was green as grass. Anyone could see that. And lives were at stake.

So Hale waited for the staff officers to stop peppering each other with questions and comments. When the hubbub died down, and the group made ready to leave, he sidled up to Blake. “Sir?” Hale said. “Do you have a moment?”

Blake smiled grimly. “Don't tell me—let me guess. You're pissed off at the prospect of reporting to Nash.”

A muscle twitched in Hale's left cheek. “Permission to speak freely?”

Blake sighed. “I'll probably regret it, but yes, go ahead.”

“I think it's bullshit, sir … My men deserve an officer with combat experience.”

“And they have one,” Blake replied pointedly.
“You!
As for Nash, you're lucky to have him. Rather than swoop in and secure a location so the techies can sweep it for artifacts, the way you have in the past, this mission is going to be different.”

Hale started to speak, but the major raised a hand to silence him.

“Think about it. Let's say you're one of our guys, rummaging around in the Chimeran shuttle, and it's loaded with fancy-looking equipment, but your men are under attack. Which thing would you take? The box with the most knobs? If so you might come home with the Chimeran equivalent of a toaster! We've had that happen too many times, because we weren't prepared to take advantage of the situation.

“This is serious business, Hale … The freaks are way
ahead of us where technology is concerned, so we're always playing catch-up. Nash may not look like much, but he's smarter than you and me. He knows more than we'll ever forget about the enemy's tech, and if push comes to shove he'll know which box to take. So he goes, and you will make the best of it. Do you read me?”

“Sir, yes, sir,” Hale replied stiffly.

“Good. Now get going. You're on the clock,” Blake replied. Then his tone eased. “Be careful out there … You may not be as smart as Nash, but you come in handy from time to time.”

The mech deck, as the Sentinels referred to it, was a huge space in which banks of bright lights stood in for the sun, and the frigid air was thick with the combined odors of Avgas, oil, and exhaust fumes. Engines roared, chain hoists rattled, and power tools screeched, as the ubiquitous public address system produced a nonstop flow of incomprehensible gibberish. It was a chaotic atmosphere to anyone who wasn't used to it, and that included Captain Anton Nash.

In his eagerness to do everything right, Nash was already standing next to the big, twin-engine VTOL transport when Sergeants Kawecki and Alvarez arrived, each leading a squad of Sentinels. All of the soldiers wore I-Packs over white winter gear, and were armed to the teeth. Each one carried two firearms, a variety of grenades, and as much ammo as they thought they could get away with. It was a balance that had developed through practical experience, since too much weight could slow them down.

Nash hoped to score points by being early, but Kawecki and Alvarez seemed to interpret his presence as a lack of trust, since it was their job to have the men ready
before
officers arrived on the scene. The NCOs
didn't say anything, but Nash could sense their resentment, even though no slight had been intended.

So all he could do was stand next to his utility bag and feel useless as containers of climbing equipment, C rations, and other equipment were loaded onto the plane. Every now and then a soldier would glance up and smirk. Nash followed one man's gaze and realized he was standing directly below a likeness of the big-eyed cartoon character called Betty Boop. Before he could move, however, Lieutenant Hale arrived.

Having been a sergeant himself, Hale understood the theater involved in getting ready for a mission, and knew the part he was supposed to play. So at exactly 0615 he strolled across the oil-stained concrete toward the point where an awkward-looking Anton Nash stood waiting. Hale directed a glance at the blank-faced NCOs, felt pretty sure he knew what the situation was, and was careful to approach Nash first. The salute was parade-ground perfect.

“Good morning, sir … It looks like we're ready to go. If it's okay with you—let's take a look at the team.”

Nash gave off a tangible sense of relief. He returned the salute.

“That would be fine, Lieutenant. Thank you.”

Nash watched with interest as the soldiers were ordered to pair off and check each other's gear while Hale strolled among them, closely followed by both sergeants. With the exception of a man who was carrying too much ammo, and a soldier who was equipped with a potentially faulty I-Pack, all the Sentinels passed inspection.

So by 0628 the SAR team was boarding the plane, the soldier with the I-Pack malfunction was donning a new
one, and the rest of the Sentinels were strapped into their seats.

Nash felt an intense need to yawn, and tried to hide it as he did so, and more than once. He should have been amped—should have been high on adrenaline—but for some reason he felt sleepy. Maybe that was a good sign. Maybe it meant that he wasn't as tense as he thought he would be. And maybe it would cause him to appear calm, even confident. He hoped so.

In someone else, the yawns might have been the sign of a cool customer, the sort of officer who could take a nap on the way to a firefight. But Hale knew better. In part because he felt a strong desire to yawn himself, and knew it was a sign of fear.

Which—all things considered—was a logical reaction to the situation.

A sudden jerk caused him to brace himself as the motorized tug towed the
Betty Boop
out onto one of four large elevators located at the center of the mech deck. Then, freed from the transport, the little tractor hummed away. There was a loud
clang
as machinery engaged, a door whined open high above, and the platform began to ascend. The light dimmed as they entered the shaft, away from the artificial suns.

A loud clatter was heard as the VTOL's starters went to work, quickly followed by a throaty roar as both of the radial engines came to life, and the entire ship began to vibrate. Light and cold air flooded into the cargo compartment as the lift delivered the
Betty Boop
to the surface.

Operating under the top secret charter conceived by General Arthur L. Pratt, Senator Robert Crowe, and Dr. Fyodor Malikov in 1934, SRPA Base 6 had been constructed near the original site of old Fort Niobrara in
Nebraska. Hundreds of thousands of tons of soil and rock had been taken out of the ground to make room for the underground base, and rather than being trucked away, the material had been used to construct a fifty-foot-tall wall that surrounded the base and was home to all manner of defensive weapons.

Recently, in response to SRPA Directive 1140.09, work had begun on an outer moat. A deep ditch that could be flooded with Avgas and set on fire should it become necessary. It didn't take a whole lot of imagination to figure out why.