The Red

by Linda Nagata

  I consider the edgy feeling I had in the back of the truck, but that was a hunch, lacking the raw certainty of a whispered hint from the Red.

  I shove the bullet into my pocket. “Delphi thinks the Red is gone. If so, it’s just luck now.”

  • • • •

  Sergeant Nolan and two rookie privates are left behind, tasked with getting rid of the pickup trucks. Jaynie returns to the cab with Troy. Kendrick sends the rest of us back into the container truck. We cram ourselves in again among the big guns and the pallets. He closes the cargo doors, and a few seconds later, the truck rolls. Kendrick believes if we don’t acquire the shutdown codes by dawn, we lose.

  Guidance distributes an Intelligence briefing describing our target. The briefing includes dossiers of seventy-one individuals believed present in the facility, a number that includes the hired security. There is also an architectural diagram identifying points of resistance, and a walk-through video of the route we will follow. I look it all over with increasing disbelief.

  “Delphi,” I murmur.

  “Here.”

  “Who the hell put this report together?”

  “Intelligence provided the briefing.”

  “I know that. But if Intelligence has someone on the inside who can do a video walk-through, why doesn’t that agent just grab the shutdown codes?”

  “Negative. There are no sympathetic personnel inside. Shoot to kill, as needed. No exceptions.”

  “That’s crazy. Somebody had to take the video. Who was it?”

  “I don’t know, Shelley. And you don’t need to know. Just know where you’re going, and know what you’re looking for. You’re going to lose communication with me when you’re inside. So do the run-through now. You won’t be able to ask questions later.”

  • • • •

  The facility is code-named Black Cross. It’s a Cold War relic built with black-op funds in the 1960s, and quietly sold at the turn of the century to a Texas rancher and oilman as a thank-you for some forgotten political favor. The rancher wanted it for an Armageddon shelter, just in case God didn’t actually show up on doomsday to collect the faithful.

  The facility has decent security. Cameras are positioned around it. A single dirt road leads up to it. Its surface profile is a low, sprawling hill, covered in dry grass and grazed by scrawny cattle. In another landscape the hill might be a convincing natural feature, but here it provides the only relief to an unrelenting flat geometry. A satellite antenna sits just below the hill’s high point. We are not to take out that antenna. It’s the dead man’s switch that sends a continuous signal of reassurance to a geosynchronous satellite, which relays the signal to the nuclear weapons in New York and other nice places. If the signal fails, the bombs go off.

  Entry into Black Cross is through a set of wide double doors embedded in the artificial hillside. There are also ventilation shafts—three in all—around the hill. None are large enough to climb down, and all are secured by heavy grates and watched by cameras. They’re included on the map purely for academic interest.

  Guidance has decided our only way in is through the front door. We were never trained in finesse, so there will be nothing subtle about our assault. If the doors are locked, we’ll blow them open, and in the ensuing confusion we will enter.

  There is a staging area on the inside, designated Level 1. A large freight elevator descends to Levels 2 and 3, but we will be taking the stairs. Level 2 is an east-west tunnel with living quarters appended to it. Level 3 is a north-south dumbbell-shaped chamber with food storage on one side and a control room on the other.

  Security is provided by experienced mercenaries identified as employees of Uther-Fen Protective Services. All are foreign, with poor English skills. The report speculates that this is a tactical choice. It’s unlikely the TIA fully trusts their hired help. So the language barrier becomes another level of security, making it harder for the mercenaries to crack their client’s secrets and seize control of the nuclear devices.

  “Violence of action” is our tactic: Move fast and hit hard. Take down the enemy in the critical seconds before he can react. The scheme strikes me as even more ridiculous than our checkpoint assault. I have to admit that plan worked, but at the checkpoint we faced only three enemy soldiers, none of them well trained. Uther-Fen Protective Services is going to be a lot better staffed.

  I do the walk-through several times. It’s an amazingly detailed record, given that we’ve got no one inside. I visit every room, every closet in the facility. I survey the names and faces of every murderous traitor within, as well as the names and faces of their kids, of which there are a few.

  “Delphi, what about the kids?”

  “Shoot to kill, as needed,” she repeats. “No exceptions. Give no consideration.” Then she adds, in a softer voice, “You can accept an offer of surrender if it doesn’t slow you down. Just remember, if those bombs go off, a lot more kids are going to die.”

  “I understand.” I can’t let anything stand between me and those shutdown codes. I can only hope someone loves those kids enough to pull them out of the line of fire.

  Intelligence has ascertained that the codes we need are on a thumb drive hanging around the neck of the newly installed president of Independent Texas. He’s a tall, thin, blond-haired, self-important yahoo, thirty years old, named Blue Parker, no doubt for his pretty blue eyes. He’s the photogenic face of this revolution—and its fall guy when the independence thing fails, though I doubt he’s figured that out yet.

  I’m looking forward to meeting President Blue Parker and assisting him with understanding the tenuous nature of his title.

  • • • •

  It’s 0346 when we finally get to where we’re going. We pile out of the back of the truck, and form up beneath the cover of a tree. Cows watch us by moonlight; some start moving away.

  Delphi projects a schematic onto my visor that lays a bright green trail across the field. “This is the route you need to take,” she tells me. “It’s plotted to avoid the security cameras. Do not deviate.”

  “I understand.”

  I look back at the truck. Troy is still in the cab. Specialist Fernandez and Private Antonio climb in with him. Their assignment is to escort Troy as he drives the truck back the way we came, and to rendezvous with Sergeant Nolan if that’s possible. Kendrick stands by the open door, looking up at Fernandez. “Do what Guidance tells you,” he reminds them, speaking over gen-com. “And do not call attention to yourselves.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Kendrick gives them a thumbs-up. Then he closes the door and steps away.

  As the truck pulls out, thirteen of us are left behind.

  “Damn,” Ransom says over gen-com. “I was hoping we’d get to play with those big guns.”

  “Still lots of fun ahead,” Moon reminds him.

  “Ass-kicking fun,” the colonel says as he looks us over with the empty face of his black visor. “We have two advantages tonight. One is that our enemy is distracted. The citizens of Texas have turned out to be less enthusiastic about secession than the TIA hoped, so their leaders are a little busy tonight, crushing popular dissent. Two, the TIA believes they’ve already won the war. They assume the knife they’re holding to our throat is sharp enough that the US Army won’t dare fight back. That’s never a safe assumption.”

  Soft, assured laughter runs through the ranks.

  “So check the cinches on your dead sister, get your pack squared, and make sure you have your face mask and oh-two cartridge at hand.”

  At this last remark, an uneasy murmur runs through the gathered troops. Kendrick ignores it. “Do not use your face mask before you are instructed to do so. We are going a long way down and we can’t tank-breathe all the way. Now—we are only six kilometers from our target. I know every one of you is tired, and I don’t give a damn. You either win this war tonight or you d
ie trying. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, sir,” I say, one of a chorus of soft, affirmative mumbles, because none of us is stupid enough to yell, out here in a primal silence flawed only by the occasional lowing of a cow.

  “Do not veer from the route Guidance has given us,” Kendrick warns. “If there’s a rattlesnake in your way, tread on it. Don’t go around, or you run the risk of triggering a perimeter camera. Got it? Let’s go.”

  “Lucky thirteen,” Tuttle whispers off-com as I slip past him on my way to take point.

  “Damn straight,” I whisper back.

  It’s up to the thirteen remaining soldiers in our squad to win this war.

  • • • •

  We go single file, the LCS falling in behind me as I follow the highlighted trail marked out by Guidance. After the first couple of klicks, I startle a cow that was chewing its cud in the moon-cast shadow of a tree. It snorts and takes off at a slow run, causing a commotion among its friends.

  I don’t like it. If anyone inside Black Cross is paying attention to the perimeter cameras, they might want to know why a cow is agitated—but shooting the cow would guarantee more attention.

  “Delphi?”

  “Here.”

  “No devil eyes looking down on us, right?”

  “They do have a drone, but it’s on the ground. Equipment malfunction.”

  “Handy coincidence.”

  She doesn’t answer, but I’m more impressed than ever with the preliminary work Intelligence has done.

  Soon, all that stands between us and the hill is a single grove of scrubby trees and a final four hundred meters of open range.

  Not far from the grove are six cows. One watches us intently. It’s bigger than the others, and I’ve got a strong suspicion it’s a bull.

  “Heads up for el toro,” I say over gen-com.

  Kendrick comes back with, “Ignore el toro. Do not break your line.”

  Then Lissa speaks. I know the voice I’m hearing can’t be real, but her words are as clear in my ears as the first time she said them in the hospital: Don’t die, okay?

  God is back, messing with my brain.

  I stop where I am, raising a hand to warn Tuttle, who’s following behind me. “Hold up.”

  This is a bad move as far as the bull is concerned. Inter­preting our sudden halt as a challenge, he snorts, lowers his head, and paws at the ground.

  Tuttle crowds up to my shoulder, craning to see why I’ve stopped. “You got something?”

  Kendrick wants to know the same thing. “What is it, Shelley?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  The bull snorts again, and then he trots slowly toward us, testing our response, his tail switching. It comes to me that someone else is watching him, and we need to get the hell out of sight before that gaze finds us.

  “Drop flat!” I order. “Down now!” And despite the threat of the bull, the entire line obeys, Kendrick included. I hear creaks and crunches and soft thuds as they go down. I drop too, and so does Tuttle. The bull stops, puzzled by the sudden disappearance of his foe. I lift my head to look through the trees, where I can just see the target hill.

  Through the screen of vegetation, I see a muzzle flash. It repeats three times. I hear the slugs hit flesh—and the bull goes down on his knees with a bloodcurdling bellow. The sound of the shots arrives, and the startled cows take off running. In between the bellowing of the bull I make out distant voices, whooping in victory. Then two more shots, and the bull goes all the way down with a grunt. Its labored breathing is still loud in the night’s quiet, but it’s not bellowing anymore.

  “Delphi?”

  “A delayed report was just forwarded from Intelligence,” she says, sounding quietly furious. “Two Uther-Fens are doing a walkabout on the hill.”

  “Tuttle,” Kendrick says. “We need a sharpshooter. Go forward with the LT and set it up.”

  Tuttle and I creep into the trees, following the path Guidance has chosen for us. That the mercenaries are shooting cattle tells me they are bored and unsupervised, and may not have a clear concept of the extent of the war unfolding around them. It also tells me that they’ve got night vision, and we do not want to give them a more tempting target. We stop just before we reach the other side of the grove.

  As I help Tuttle set up his weapon on its tripod, the Uther-Fen gun goes off again and another cow starts bellowing, this time off to the east. Kendrick tramps up behind us. Opening a solo link, he asks me, “What just happened?”

  “I hallucinated a voice, sir. It was a warning.”

  “Damn it, are you telling me that Thelma Sheridan immolated thousands, took down the Cloud, and commenced a war, all to get rid of the Red, but it’s still out there, bleeding through the ruins?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Lucky for us,” Delphi whispers, just to me.

  Kendrick makes a growl of disgust. “Get yourself ready, Lieutenant. You’re going in first.”

  “I want Ransom behind me.”

  “Do it.”

  I switch to gen-com. “Ransom, you’ve got ten seconds. Move up to the front of the line. Stay on the ground until you’re into the trees. Follow when I go.”

  “Yes, sir, LT!” he says with the enthusiasm of a golden retriever.

  I keep my gaze on the hill. The twisting, gnarled tree trunks obscure our infrared profile, but they don’t block my view. I can see the recessed doors of Black Cross, and on the slope immediately above them, the two Uther-Fen cow killers—tiny figures standing a few feet apart, one with binoculars and one with a rifle. The shooter isn’t using a tripod to steady his weapon. No wonder it took several shots to drop the bull.

  Tuttle gets down on his belly. The angel has provided the exact distance and elevation for his shots, while Kendrick uses an atmospheric gauge to measure air temperature and wind speed. One of the Uther-Fens is going down for sure. The only question is whether Tuttle can shift his aim fast enough to take down the second one.

  Kendrick addresses the LCS: “Be ready to advance on my command.”

  Tuttle’s goal is to drop the two cow killers without a fuss, so that no one on the inside is alerted—but whether or not that happens, we will go on to hit the target fast and hard. Even if the defenders know we’re coming, they won’t have more than a couple of minutes to prepare—and it’s in the confusion of battle that we’ll have our best, our only chance at victory.

  “I’m clearing your visor,” Delphi says.

  Maps and icons vanish. Nothing left to impede my view of the ground in front of me when I charge the hill.

  I hear someone move up behind me. I assume it’s Ransom, but I don’t turn to look, I don’t speak. I keep my attention focused on the hill as Tuttle pops his first shot. His second shot goes off two seconds later. I see one Uther-Fen go down as the round blows a crater in his chest. Tuttle’s second shot hasn’t even hit yet when Kendrick says, “Go, Shelley.”

  Tuttle can shoot over my head if he needs to pop another round.

  I launch myself out of the grove at an all-out sprint. I still don’t know the status of the second Uther-Fen, and I don’t know for sure if Ransom is behind me, but I trust that he is. I trust my squad to cover me, and I trust Delphi to let me know if something changes.

  I’m halfway to the hill when she gives me the news: “Two confirmed kills, but one of the bodies is visible to the security camera positioned above the doors.”

  I don’t waste breath to answer. Nothing left to talk about. The defenders are aware of us, but it doesn’t matter. Either we slam the TIA now, or we die.

  Delphi starts counting down the distance I still have to go before I’m close enough to use my grenade launcher. “Fifty meters. Forty. Thirty. Twenty—

  “Door is opening,” she says. “Get down!”

  I keep going, squeezing one word out
of my heaving lungs. “Count! ”

  “In range! Now! ”

  I skid to one knee, bringing my M-CL1a to my shoulder to stabilize it. I’m not looking at the target. A blazing gold point has ignited on my visor, and the only thing that matters to me is covering that point with my targeting circle. I shift my aim. The circle slides onto the point. My tactical AI pulls the trigger, and a grenade launches from the tube beneath the rifle barrel.

  “Drop, Shelley!”

  I do it, going down flat on my belly, pressing my visor into the dust of an unpaved road. I link to Kendrick’s helmet cam in time to see the explosion. The grenade was meant to blow the doors open, but someone from inside opened a door just as I lined up my shot—so the AI programmed the grenade to reach the interior.

  The explosion goes off behind the doors, blowing them wide open and launching a body into the air like a rag doll. A cylindrical object goes spinning up through the fireball.

  “What is that?” I whisper to Delphi.

  “An RPG launcher that was being aimed at you.”

  Not something I want to think about.

  I take off again. This time, Ransom is right beside me. We race each other, closing the distance to the shattered doors. Two bodies are lying in the debris. I fire a round into each of them to make sure they’re all the way gone. The stink hits me as I jump over them. It’s god-awful—stomach contents, explosive residue, and burning flesh.

  I wave Ransom to one side of the door. I take the other. Shoving the barrel of my M-CL1a around the corner, I sweep it in a fast arc so my AI can get a look at the interior. It’s a big, open, concrete-walled room. Straight ahead is a freight elevator. On my left is a fire door closing off a stairway that descends all the way to Level 3, the lowest level of Black Cross. Then I do a slow reverse scan so I can see what’s there. I make out only one enemy. He’s down on the floor, his smoldering body crumpled in a corner.

  “Clear to advance,” Delphi says.

  I slip inside, with Ransom right behind me.

  We didn’t use an RPG to open the doors because we didn’t want to take the chance of a cave-in at the Level 1 staging area. The grenade alone has left the utilitarian room glowing with heat, reeking with fumes, and nearly empty of oxygen. It’s tempting to reach for the face mask secured against my chest, but Kendrick hasn’t ordered us to use oxygen yet, and we’ve got a long way to go.