The Biofab War Page 7

"Very good, sir," said Bradshaw. Turning back to his console, he began issuing the necessary orders.

  "Okay, Sutherland," the General said, "you've got thirty minutes to get me White House confirmation of this alert, or we stand down. You know the drill."

  "I know the drill."

  "You realize this will put the world on a war footing?" added O'Brien. The command center was now bustling with activity as the alert went out and acknowledgments poured in.

  Sutherland glanced down at the dead alien. "I certainly hope so, General."

  "Be advised," said O'Brien, "that there is a stratospheric craft of advanced design and unknown origin operating in your vicinity. It's probably landed. Otis is up looking for it now."

  "What do you mean, 'advanced'?" demanded the CIA officer.

  "I mean, Sutherland," O'Brien tersely replied, voice lowered, "that we're von Richthofen's circus and it's an F-Fifteen.

  "Give me your number. I'll call you with your reinforcements' ETA." He took it and hung up.

  "What was all that Wagnerian gibberish?" asked Bakunin.

  " 'Gotterdammerung'T' Sutherland smiled thinly. "A contingency established shortly after Foxfire began, I now note.

  "The phrase 'extraterrestrial invasion' is never used, but the plan calls for area quarantine, full alert and even projects nuking our own cities to stop an 'enemy' landing. I never really believed it was meant just to stop some Ukrainian paratroopers."

  They turned at the slight rumble of an elevator door opening. Flannigan stood alone in the elevator, dazed, unmoving, pistol held limply in one hand. The door started to close.

  "Flannigan!" snapped Sutherland. At that, the FBI agent's hand shot out, banging back the door. He stepped out, blinking, seeming to see Bakunin and Sutherland for the first time.

  "Lab worker in marine biology tried to shoot me," he said slowly, walking to the desk. "I shot first, then she, it—" He stopped short, spotting Tuckman's head protruding from behind the security station. "What happened?" he asked hoarsely.

  "First, holster your weapon," ordered Sutherland. Flannigan complied, slipping his revolver into the holster nestled under his left arm. ' 'Now look behind the desk. Was that what you killed?"

  Flannigan peered down over the desk top. Biting his lower lip, he nodded. "It killed the DCI," he surmised, looking up.

  Bill nodded. "Never knew what hit him. And neither do we," he added, hefting the dead alien's weapon.

  "I'll recall the others, Tim." He placed a gentle hand on the younger man's shoulder. "Get yourself some coffee. There are some vending machines down that hall, on the left." He pointed to where a corridor curved out of sight across the lobby, opposite the elevators. "I'll call you."

  The agent had gone perhaps ten yards when Bill called casually, "Oh, Tim. When did you become right-handed?"

  Flannigan whirled, hand flashing toward his pistol even as Bakunin reached for his own gun and Sutherland fired. A bright-blue bolt took the agent full in the face. His form shimmering, he fell like a stone.

  Two dead insectoids now lay in the Institute's lobby, their deep-hued green a stark contrast to the floor's blue-veined Florentine marble.

  "You know, Sutherland," said Bakunin, putting his pistol away, "we—you and me—are the only ones here we know aren't . . . those." He nodded at Flannigan's killer, its short, thin neck ending in a charred stump. "The safest thing, I regret to say, would be to shoot your men as they get off the elevator." He stopped at the American's hard stare.

  "Tovarich Colonel Bakunin," said Sutherland coldly, "you are a ruthless son of a bitch. If Marsh, Johnson and Yazanaga aren't Marsh, Johnson and Yazanaga, I'll know. But until I know, all are innocent."

  The KGB officer shrugged. "You're a sentimental fool, Sutherland," he said. "And as for ruthless, which of us just spoke of nuking his own country?"

  "Did it occur to you, Bakunin, that Flannigan might have been a gremlin all along?" Before the Russian could answer, Bill picked up his radio and recalled his men. Receiving the last acknowledgment, he turned to the phone, then paused. "Why did they jump us, Bakunin? They could easily have carried off the masquerade."

  "Perhaps," he said slowly, "they thought we knew more than we did. Or maybe something is happening elsewhere that we're unaware of, Sutherland. I mean, where are they all?" He looked around the deserted lobby. "They should have swarmed over us."

  Picking up the phone again, the CIA officer dialed out. "They knew, Bakunin. They knew they were blown! But not by us. It all must tie into the site and my missing people. As soon as I make this call . . .

  "Yes, Jose Montanoya, please. William Sutherland, CIA. Find him. This is a national emergency."

  Chapter 10

  McShane was enjoying the hospitality of Implacable'* bridge. He'd just polished off a plateful of tasty, unfamiliar food when L'Wrona called, "We'll be within range in four hours, Captain." The XO sat at the Tactics station vacated by K'Raoda. "No change in enemy status."

  "Engagement point?" D'Trelna eyed the three S'Cotar ships' position, shown relative to Implacable'^ on the central screen.

  "Midpoint between the asteroid belt and the fourth planet."

  L'Wrona turned to McShane. "Did you know that asteroid belt was once a planet, destroyed artificially?"

  Bob started. "How can you tell?"

  "Radiation traces common to the whole belt. Someone dropped a planetbuster on it a few million years ago. Planet-busters have very long half-lives."

  "Stand by for hyperspace," the Captain ordered. Turning away from the screen, he met his men's startled looks.

  "Sir, I thought we were going to fight," said L'Wrona after an instant's hesitation.

  "Oh, we are," D'Trelna replied. "But we're no match for three heavy cruisers, even with our hodgepodge of Imperial systems."

  He smiled at their confusion. "Our drive, though, because it is Imperial, allows for short, very precise jumps. We're going to drop right into that task force."

  "Sir, the drive has never been tested to those tolerances," protested N'Trol. He took a step away from his station. "Anything could go wrong."

  "Archives assures us that the Imperials ran their drives to such close tolerances," replied the Captain easily.

  "But sir, that was thousands of years ago!"

  "Bah! You overhauled that equipment yourself, Commander, no more than six months ago. You're the best engineer in the Confederation, N'Trol. That drive will perform as specified, I have no doubt." D'Trelna waved down any further protests.

  "I'm warmed by your respect for my command ability," he said gravely. "Now shall we stand by for hyperspace?"

  They had jumped to it, L'Wrona running figures and laying in coordinates, the rest busying themselves at their stations. An alert klaxon hooted.

  "Cycling up, Captain. Two minutes eight seconds to jump." The XO's tone was one of quiet efficiency.

  "Quite a little democracy you have here, Captain," Bob observed amid the bustle.

  "We've been an independent rabble for a long time, Professor." D'Trelna smiled crookedly, half-turning toward the Terran. "A trait, happily, not yet undone by the present emergency.

  "There are some"—his face clouded—"who'd like to see a return to the grand ways of the Imperium. The glory of battle, the unthinking obedience, the stifling of initiative. And perhaps, if this war continues much longer, they'll have their way." Lips pursed, he nodded thoughtfully, then stabbed a finger at the deck. "But not on my ship," he growled.

  "How long is the jump?" McShane asked after a moment.

  "Ten nanoseconds," said L'Wrona, picking up on the question.

  "Please tell our guest what an error of a picosecond would do," D'Trelna said. "I want him to appreciate my daring."

  The XO nodded, looking up from his console, his work finished. He swiveled to meet McShane's gaze. "One picosecond short will cause us to blow up, far from our target. One picosecond over and we'll explode inside the sixth planet."

  "An event that wouldn't do us or
the planet much good," D'Trelna observed dryly.

  L'Wrona glanced back at his console. "One minute to jump."

  "Set all Weapons systems to automatic, Mr. N'Dreyna," the Captain ordered the Weapons Officer, "and tie them in with Tactics' program."

  "All systems tied in, sir," the young Ensign reported.

  "Should I strap myself in, or something?" Bob asked, hands searching his chair for belt or harness. There wasn't any.

  "Don't worry." The XO leaned back in his chair, eyes on the screen. "It will be over before our minds can comprehend—one way or the other.

  "Thirty seconds."

  "If we're very lucky," the Captain said to no one in particular, "their shields will be down, so far from Terra. We'll emerge from nowhere and blow them away."

  "Fifteen seconds."

  "Of course," he mused, "if not . . ."

  "Ten seconds."

  "Their shields will be up ..."

  "Five seconds."

  "And they'll blast us."

  "Jump!"

  McShane thought his stomach flopped, but later wrote it off to imagination. There seemed to be no transition. One instant they were alone in space, the next the screen blazed with light. It was over before Bob could blink.

  "All targets destroyed!" The usually reserved L'Wrona leaped up, pounding his smirking Captain on the back. Implacable reverberated to jubilant whoops and the screech of alarms touched off in celebration.

  Good-naturedly enduring the tumult for a moment, D'Trelna finally held up his hands. "All right, everyone! Stations, please!

  "We were damn lucky," he said as the din subsided. "But our mission's far from accomplished. We have to return to Terra and our men."

  "How long to return?" asked McShane as the bridge sank back into routine.

  "Six hours," said D'Trelna. "I'm not about to risk that little maneuver again. Insincere assurances to Commander N'Trol notwithstanding.

  "Let us hope the landing party is all right."

  * * * *

  Innocent of danger, the tow-headed boy bounded up the path, into Zahava's blaster sights. Communicator shrilling in her ear, she swallowed hard and pressed the trigger.

  Dying, the boy-form shimmered into what the Israeli recognized as a S'Cotar warrior. "The bugs are attacking," she called over the tactical circuit.

  Helmetless, the pilot she'd been guarding raced out of the shuttle, rifle in hand. And died, lanced through the head by a blaster bolt from the rocks below.

  Zahava threw herself behind one of the shuttle's thick landing struts, her helmet's infrared scanners picking out the ochre blotches of S'Cotar massing along the hill's lee. Throwing the rifle to her shoulder, she poured a withering series of quick bursts into the insectoids. A hundred blue bolts flashed back at her, filling the night sky.

  "Zahava! Hold on! We're coming!" John's voice roared over the commnet.

  He was there in less than a minute, Greg and one of K'Raoda's men zigzagging up behind him. Heavy S'Cotar fire now bracketed the Israeli's position.

  "Can these suits take simultaneous hits?" John asked the K'Ronarin. He ducked instinctively as a bolt tore through the strut, showering them with sparks. He glanced warily at the tons of spacecraft perched above their heads as the crewman replied, "Only for a few seconds. It depends on how heavy the fire is." The man, a middle-aged Communications technician, sighted carefully and fired. A distant boulder flared cherry-red as a form scuttled from behind it. The K'Ronarin cut it down with a negligent wave of his hand blaster.

  A fusillade of blaster fire riddled the shuttle, tearing great gashes in the hull.

  "The fuel cells will go!" cried the K'Ronarin. Hastily, the four humans low-crawled to the cover of the rocks behind them.

  The craft went up with a roar, sending a huge pillar of blue flame shooting skyward. Molten debris rained down, sparking scores of small brush fires, through which the S'Cotar advanced.

  "K'Raoda, we can't hold here," John called over the tactical band. "They've blown the shuttle and are advancing in strength. What's your status?"

  "They're coming up our side of the hill. Hundreds of them. I've lost two men." The young officer's voice mingled with the crackle and whine of blaster fire. "We're falling back to the tunnel, Harrison. Join us."

  John covered as the others withdrew. No matter how many insectoids he mowed down, more swarmed up from the beach, firing as they came. Soon his warsuit started taking multiple hits, forcing him to withdraw. He followed the others at a run, stopping only twice to snap off a few shots.

  So intense was the return fire that for the last few yards John's warsuit was encased in a rippling aura of raw energy. He dived behind the temporary shelter of a boulder, joining the surviving humans now huddled among the rocks ringing the site's entrance.

  A stunning barrage of light and sound swept over their shelter, shattering rock and shaking the earth.

  "Fall back!" K'Raoda shouted above the din.

  They charged into the tunnel, securing the door a second before another, stronger barrage rocked their previous position.

  "Photon mortars!" exclaimed K'Raoda. Leaning against the wall, he checked his blaster charge. "Either they've landed a task force or there's a Nest on this planet."

  Zahava was about to ask what a Nest was when Greg asked, "Can they get through this door?"

  "Yes," said Implacable's Tactics Officer. "But it'll take a while. It only looks like rock. Actually, it's a derivative of Imperial battlesteel." He tapped the door with his gun butt. "Nothing tougher."

  "Well I know," the geologist said with a wry smile.

  "Why don't they just teleport in here, K'Raoda?" asked John.

  "Either they don't have the coordinates or are afraid we've laid some nasty surprises for them."

  "My God! Where'd they all come from?" The Israeli slumped wearily against the wall. "We littered the ground with them, but still they kept coming."

  "From what you told us," said K'Raoda, "the nearby oceanographic institute must be their Nest. They probably quietly killed off the staff and were using it to search for this site."

  "Cindy!" Greg's eyes widened in alarm. "She's at the Institute."

  "Who's 'Cindy'?" K'Raoda demanded sharply.

  John explained.

  The K'Ronarin officer grasped Greg by the shoulders. "Answer carefully," he said intently. "How long did you know • her?"

  Blinking, the Terran met his gaze. "Three months."

  "Lived with her?"

  "Yes."

  "How long?"

  "About a month."

  K'Raoda nodded, then pressed on. "Did you ever notice anything unusual about Cindy? Inappropriate mannerisms, dress, speech?"

  Greg shook his head, mute.

  "I only saw her once," John said. "She was dressed very lightly for a raw, rainy day. She looked comfortable."

  "Just as Langston bounded up Goose Hill with no sign of exertion!" exclaimed Zahava.

  The K'Ronarin turned back to Greg. "Do you have any vivid memories of sex with her," he asked bluntly, "or just an indistinct recollection of a wonderful, glowing experience?" Greg frowned. "I ... I can't recall anything." He shook his head, bemused. "I remember clearly every other woman I've ever had—but not her."

  K'Raoda released the geologist. "That's because there was no 'her,' my friend. 'Cindy' was a S'Cotar. If ever such a woman existed, she's long dead."

  "That would explain how Langston—how the S'Cotar— knew we were on the hill," said Zahava. "And that nice, freckle-faced girl I slept under the same roof with—" She broke off, eyes widening in horror.

  "Was a transmute that could have ripped your throat out," said K'Raoda.

  "But why?" Greg's voice was anguished. "Why lure me back to Massachusetts, why ask to marry me?"

  "You were the last human who knew where this site was," John guessed. "To kill you outright would have drawn even more unwelcome attention to the Institute. Better a wedding in Louisiana and a tragic honeymoon accident."


  Greg went to a corner, squatted and noisily threw up, rocking back and forth on his heels. Standing after a moment, he shook off comforting hands and confronted his friends, face pale and grim. "What now?" he demanded.

  "We hold until relieved, or until I can awaken this installation's slumbering guardian," said K'Raoda. He turned to Zahava. "Show me the control room you were shanghaied from. I'll try to activate the ground defenses. Unless Implacable returns soon, that's our only chance.

  "We'll make our last stand at the control room, then destroy it.

  "Hold as long as you can," he called over his shoulder, following Zahava down the stairs. "Make them pay for every inch."

  "We'll redo the floors in vulture-vomit-green," John promised, turning to face the door. It'd begun to glow just a bit under the hellish energies clawing at it out of the night.

  Chapter 11

  Bill Sutherland led his small contingent along the cold dark beach, stumbling now and again over frozen clumps of seaweed. The bitter March wind howled off the Atlantic, driving the frigid evening tide at their feet.

  Bill wasn't aware of his numb hands or frozen feet. With the others, his whole attention was held by Goose Hill, its summit now lit by the flash of massed energy weapons, their whining clear above wind and surf.

  Even as he watched, a huge explosion tore open the night, throwing him and his men to the sand, bathing them in an ochre glow.

  "Sweet Jesus." He stumbled to his feet, squinting into the glare. S'Cotar warriors swarmed unopposed past the fiercely burning shuttle.

  "Someone friendly to us is up there, and in big trouble!" Bakunin's shout carried over the secondary explosions. Like the rest, he'd traded his business suit for more practical clothing from the Institute: turtleneck wool sweater, heavy twill pants and a fur-lined field jacket, the Leurre Institute dolphin crest on its left shoulder. And like the Americans, he carried an M-16, also "borrowed" from the Institute.

  "Sure looks that way." Sutherland nodded, dropping his voice as the explosions died. "How do we get to them, though?" He pointed his rifle up at the carnage. "We can't fight our way through thatl"

  The small pickup force from Otis—APs, mechanics, programmers—had secured the Institute. The infantry brigade, though, was still forming up at Ft. Devens. Before leaving Oystertown, Bill had changed half the airmobile brigade's destination from the Institute to Goose Hill, but it would be at least another hour before their arrival. Whoever was holding the hill didn't have an hour.