Resistance: The Gathering Storm r-1

by William C. Dietz

  “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.

  The VTOL’s engines were tilted upward for takeoff, and as the pilot fed them more fuel, the plane began to shake with greater intensity. Then, as the landing gear parted company with the ground and snowflakes blew in through the side doors, Hale caught a glimpse of the meager surface base as the Boop rose. But not his last glimpse, he hoped, as the engines tilted forward and the plane pulled itself north with a lurch.

  Bear Butte was about 120 miles away, so given the VTOL’s top speed of 300 miles per hour, Hale expected to be boots on the ground in about half an hour. With a low ceiling and poor visibility the Boop was fairly safe from above, but the need to fly low over an area the Chimera had already begun to infiltrate meant the ship would be vulnerable to ground fire. It was a chance they’d have to take, since there was no other way for them to reach the butte quickly enough to beat the enemy to the punch.

  As it was, he hoped they weren’t already too late.

  Hale peered across the center aisle to where Captain Nash was sitting, saw the other man’s eye close in response to an involuntary tic, and hoped none of the men would notice. The VTOL shuddered as a crosswind hit the fuselage, the port door gunner wrapped a long scarf around his neck, and the seconds ticked away. The mission clock was running.

  It was clear that Hale didn’t expect much from him. In a way that was better, since it meant he wouldn’t need the type of supervision Nash couldn’t provide.

  Rather than dwell on his own lack of military expertise, the scientist chose to focus his thoughts on the mission. They were going to secure technology that would help the United States win the war.

  And if they found what they expected to find, it wasn’t just any technology. Judging from what they could see of the downed craft, they hoped to scavenge what SRPA called “alpha artifacts,” Chimeran equipment that would help the scientists in New Mexico unravel the secrets of nuclear fission, perhaps even fusion, thereby paving the way toward unbelievably powerful new weapons.

  Such were Nash’s thoughts when he was startled out of his reverie by an unfamiliar voice that spoke to him via the plug in his ear.

  “This is the pilot speaking… We’re five from dirt. Be sure to take everything with you, the obvious exceptions being women of ill repute, and any cases of Schli
tz beer which may happen to be on board.”

  The announcement elicited laughter, a few catcalls, and some loud whistles, until Kawecki and Alvarez reined in their men, then ran through the checklist to make sure they were combat-ready. Having found everything to their liking, they reported to Hale.

  “The first squad is ready, sir,” Kawecki said crisply.

  “Ditto Squad Two,” Alvarez reported.

  “Thank you, gentlemen,” Hale replied. “Let’s lock and load.”

  A series of clacking, clicking, and hissing sounds followed Hale’s order as a variety of human and Chimeran weapons were readied for combat. They had been doled out to take advantage of each individual’s skills and the team’s need to cope with a wide variety of potential adversaries.

  That thought weighed upon Nash as he checked the carbine he had propped, muzzle up, between his knees. Would he have to fire it? Would he even remember how? There hadn’t been time for him to receive anything more than the most basic training. He lifted the weapon, worked a round into the chamber, but left the safety on as he put it down again.

  Nash peered across the aisle at Hale, and thought he saw an almost imperceptible nod, the beginning of what could have been a smile. It might have been taken as a sign of condescension, but Nash didn’t think it was meant that way. The other officer didn’t seem to work like that. So he responded with a boyish grin.

  Suddenly, for the first time, Nash felt like a member of the team. But his blood ran cold when he heard the pilot’s next words.

  “Uh-oh, it looks like the stinks got here first! The top of the butte is swarming with Hybrids.”

  Nash released his harness and came up off his seat without really thinking about it. As the VTOL entered a wide sweeping turn, the starboard door gunner made room and Nash stuck his face into the frigid slipstream.

  He could see the snow-covered butte, the point where the aircraft had slammed into the rocky slope, and the large group of Chimera rappelling down to it as quickly as they could, given the conditions. The shuttle had come to rest in a spot that offered no easy access point. There was no sign of whatever aircraft had delivered them to the top of the butte, but it seemed safe to assume they had one on call.

  “Put us on the ground directly below the wreck,” Nash instructed, and he was surprised by the certainty in his own voice. “Next to that cluster of trees.”

  Hale peered over Nash’s shoulder and nodded. The VTOL couldn’t land on top of the butte, and it couldn’t land on an incline, so the instructions made perfect sense. The problem being that the Chimera not only had the advantage of arriving first, but they currently held the high ground, which would allow them to fire down on the Sentinels with near impunity.

  But it couldn’t be helped, Nash realized, as the Chimera opened fire on the VTOL. They sent long strings of tracers up in the attempt to find the aircraft and bring it down.

  Meanwhile, the pilot was dropping toward the landing site. Projectiles began to ping and bang off the fuselage as the VTOL’s engines went vertical and it fell into place. All of the Sentinels had released themselves from their harnesses by that time—and hurried to disembark the moment they felt the landing gear hit solid ground. Kawecki was there to urge them on. “What the hell are you waiting for?” the NCO bellowed. “A frigging invitation? Let’s get off this bucket of bolts and find some cover.”

  Nash was about to follow the rest of the team out onto the frozen landscape when he suddenly realized that he couldn’t move. His legs knew what they should be doing, but it didn’t matter. They refused to obey his commands.

  He watched helplessly as the men just ignored him and passed him by. As the last one exited, a Chimeran projectile slammed through the VTOL’s skin and passed within an inch of Nash’s nose. That scared him even more, enough to start his feet moving, and get him out the door.

  But not before he had grabbed a heavy duffel and thrust it out ahead of him.

  Hale was one of the first troops through the door. He crouched and took a quick look around as projectiles kicked up geysers of dirt around him. Spotting a cluster of trees, he gestured to the men. “Over there!” he shouted, pointing to the tightly bunched evergreens. “Take cover!”

  One member of the team, a private named Lang, took a hit, and was half carried, half dragged into the relative safety of the trees. A medic immediately went to work on a leg wound that had already begun to heal.

  Hale was about to make a dash for the trees when he saw Nash throw a bag out of the VTOL’s cargo compartment. Instead of being one of the first off the plane Nash was the last to leave, and Hale swore angrily as he ran over to grab the heavy bag and escort his commanding officer to the cluster of trees.

  Engines roared, and the Boop’s propellers created a momentary blizzard as the ship lifted off.

  “Let me know when the fun is over,” the pilot said in his ear, “and I’ll come back to get you.” Then with a tilt of its engines, the VTOL was gone.

  Hale and Nash finished their sprint to the trees. By then the rest of the team was busy setting up defensive positions.

  “What’s in this thing, anyway?” Hale demanded, dropping the bag next to Nash. “A load of rocks?”

  He didn’t bother with the honorific “sir,” but Nash didn’t seem to notice. Rather than correct Hale, he chose to answer the question. “Tools,” he replied. “Chimeran tools. If we find something valuable we’ll have to disconnect whatever it is from the shuttle, and as quickly as we can.”

  That made sense, Hale thought, and he felt stupid for asking, but pushed the thought aside and assessed the situation.

  The wreck was about eight hundred feet above them. The Chimera were damned near on top of it, and pretty well in charge. There was a loud crack as a large-caliber projectile hit the tree Hale was standing next to, spraying him with splinters of wood and showering him with snow. “Sergeant Kawecki… Sergeant Alvarez,” Hale said, using the radio now. “Let’s put those Fareyes to work. Or do you like being shot at?”

  That produced some chuckles, and the team’s best marksmen went to work. Within moments the enemy barrage was being countered by the steady crack, crack, crack of outgoing sniper fire.

  Hale went forward to get a better look at the butte, and Nash followed. Once there Hale discovered a long line of boulders that marked the bottom of a scree-covered slope and offered good concealment. Bringing his binoculars up to his eyes, he followed the slope up to the wreck and its debris field. Already half a dozen dead Chimera lay sprawled on the bloodied snow. The surviving Hybrids had taken cover by then, but every now and then one of them would pop up to take a pot shot at the humans, and most paid a high price for their audacity.

  “So,” Nash said, from his position next to Hale’s right elbow. “You have experience at this sort of thing… What do you think we should do?”

  Hale bristled at the question because Nash was wearing the railroad tracks, and it was tempting to force him to lead. But that would be suicide, and there were the men to think of, not to mention the mission, so he chose his words with care.

  “I don’t think we have much choice,” he said deliberately. “It looks like we’ll have to fight our way uphill. It won’t be easy though—and we’re going to take a lot of casualties.”

  Nash flinched as a stray projectile hit one of the rocks and made a zinging sound as it whipped past his ear.

  “You know best of course,” he said, lowering his own binoculars. “But there might be another way.”

  “Really?” Hale said sarcastically. “And what would that be?”

  Nash’s eye twiched spastically and he battled to keep his voice steady.

  “You’ve seen the wreck, Lieutenant… It’s sitting on a bed of snow-covered scree. The snow is slippery, as are all those chunks of loose granite, which could work in our favor. What if you had the men fire those LAARK things at a point immediately below the wreck? That could precipitate a landslide which would bring the remains of the shuttle at least half
way down the slope.”

  Hale just stared at him. There was a moment of silence, broken only by the intermittent crack of a sniper rifle—and the occasional ping of an incoming projectile. He wrestled with the idea for a full five seconds. “It seems like a long shot, sir,” he said tentatively, “but it’s worth a try.”

  Nash smiled weakly as another involuntary muscle contraction caused him to wink. I wish he’d stop that, Hale thought.

  “Good… I’m glad you think so.”

  The team was equipped with two L209 LAARK rocket launchers. It took the better part of ten minutes to collect the soldiers who were in possession of the weapons, position them at the foot of the slide area, and give them their instructions. It was snowing more heavily by then, which made the already misty crash site even more difficult to see, so Hale felt a sense of urgency as he knelt between the men.

  “Aim for a spot fifteen feet below the wreck,” he told them, “and fire on the count of three. Once the first rockets are on the way, reload quickly—and prepare to fire again. But don’t do it unless I say so. Got it?”

  “Yes, sir,” both soldiers responded, their voices overlapping.

  “Good,” Hale said. “Now acquire your targets… Tell me when you’re ready.”

  About ten seconds passed as both men took careful aim.

  “Ready, sir,” the one on the left said, quickly echoed by the soldier to the right.

  “On the count of three, then,” Hale said. “One, two, and three.”

  There was a loud whoosh, followed by another just a fraction of a second later, as two rockets sped uphill. Moments later they struck the slope. Twin explosions produced what sounded like a single boom, geysers of snow and pulverized rock shot up into the air, and Nash felt the resulting vibration through the soles of his boots.

  But once the smoke cleared the scene was unchanged.

  Hale glanced at Nash, saw the look of uncertainty on his face, and turned back again.