The Red: First Light

by Linda Nagata

  “Won’t be long, sir,” Jaynie says.

  I prop a foot over Ransom to make sure his body doesn’t get bounced out.

  Angel sight shows me the pursuing snowcat, stopped two hundred meters back along the road, just out of Harvey’s line-of-sight. I don’t know where the second snowmobile has gone.

  The angel tracks me. It’s moving ahead to the inland end of the runway, where a monster plane awaits us, its wings, belly, and tail defined by navigation lights blazing in nightvision.

  Over the rattling of the snowcat, I hear a grenade go off. A fierce exchange of small-arms fire follows. Then Nolan’s voice: “Tuttle, report.”

  “Fucking sons-of-bitches,” Tuttle swears in a pained whisper.

  This pisses Nolan off. “Report now! Are you wounded?”

  “Mule-kicked! Two enemy down, Sergeant. Two more possibly at large near the hangar.”

  “Leave them,” I say. “We’re getting on that plane now.”

  Jaynie questions me. “They could hit us with a rocket on our way out, L. T.”

  “Fuck ’em. We’ve got their queen. You think they’re willing to burn her?”

  “I guess we find out.”

  ~~~

  Nolan swings around in his pickup truck to collect Harvey and Tuttle. A few seconds later, he blasts past the snowcat. By the time we reach the plane, Harvey and Moon are on the ground, ready to shoot anything besides us that moves. Tuttle is inside the plane, while Nolan waits at the foot of the ramp, light from the interior blazing around him. I jump down from the snowcat’s cargo bed as Jaynie lines up her approach to the ramp.

  The angel is above us. I take a last look through its camera eyes. The pursuing snowcat has reached the end of the road. I don’t see anyone else. Tuttle reported two possible at large, but I haven’t seen them yet. On gen-com I announce, “I’m calling the angel in.” Then I issue the order for the little drone to descend.

  The snowcat rumbles up the ramp.

  “Harvey, Moon—inside now.” They come at a trot. Their footplates bang on the ramp. I follow them, and behind me, the three-foot-long crescent wing of our angel drifts in—the last member of our LCS.

  The snowcat looks small within the cavernous space of the C-17’s empty cargo hold. Fold-down seats line the walls, with equipment racks above them. Above the racks, banks of white, rectangular panel lights shine so brightly that my helmet switches automatically out of nightvision.

  “Roll call,” I say as gen-com automatically filters out most of the engine noise.

  The answers come in designated order:

  A whisper: “Kendrick.”

  “Shelley,” I say.

  “Vasquez.”

  “Nolan.”

  “Harvey.”

  “Moon.”

  “Tuttle.”

  We all freeze, waiting for a response from Flynn. Fear grips me when it doesn’t come. “Private Flynn! You there?”

  “Yes, sir. In the cockpit. But we skipped Ransom—” Her voice catches. “Oh shit. I’m sorry, sir.”

  “Tuttle!” I bark. “Get the ramp up. Nolan, you’re up front. Make sure the cockpit’s secure. If either the pilot or Perez is not cooperative, let me know. And tell the pilot to get us the fuck out of here.”

  “You got it, sir.” He starts to go, but then hesitates. His hand disappears into his pocket, and comes out again with a high-end tablet phone. “Almost forgot. I took this off Perez.” He hands it to me, then bounds up the length of the empty cargo hold, the footplates of his dead sister banging on the aluminum deck. He disappears up the ladder to the cockpit.

  I look the phone over, confirm it’s off, then slip it in my pocket.

  We’re depending on the pilot now—and on how much Thelma Sheridan’s remaining mercs value their employer’s life. The plane vibrates as we begin to move; the engine noise ramps up.

  Tuttle is directing Moon as they put tie-downs on the snowcat. “When you’re done with that, get a litter set up for Kendrick.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Jaynie, you and Harvey get the prisoner out of the snowcat. Make sure she is secured, hand and foot.”

  “On it.”

  I go to see Kendrick, still in the back of the snowcat. He’s taken his helmet off. It’s on the floor at his feet, but he dug the audio loop out and has it hooked over his ear so he’s still linked to gen-com. He’s limp against the seat, sweating despite the cold. His eyes are only half open, but they shift to look at me.

  “How you doing, sir?”

  “I’m fucked. Why aren’t you up front?”

  “Nolan’s on it.”

  “You don’t know if we’re on the right course.”

  “I’ll check on it when we’re in the air.”

  Sheridan is trussed in the front seat, but she’s half turned around, watching me, looking a little worried at last, her pensive face splattered with Ransom’s blood. Jaynie opens the front passenger door and climbs in. She’s taken off her pack and her dead sister so she can move easily in the confined space. Sheridan whips her head around to look at Jaynie, while the vibration of the plane amps up as we speed down the runway.

  If Carl Vanda is going to try to stop us from taking off, he has to do it now.

  I watch Jaynie cut the plastic shackles that hold Sheridan to the middle seat. I’m ready to intervene if I have to, but Sheridan’s not stupid. There’s nowhere for her to run, no one to come to her rescue. Not yet. So she cooperates, climbing down from the snowcat as the C-17 lifts into the air.

  “We’re away,” Nolan says over gen-com.

  No one cheers.

  Jaynie and Harvey take hold of Sheridan’s arms and walk her away from the snowcat.

  “Your turn, sir,” I tell Kendrick. Using the strength of my arm struts, I lift him out of the back seat. He groans in agony, but there’s nothing I can do. Tuttle and Moon help me get him to the litter they’ve set up. “Moon, you stay with him. Do what you can.”

  “Right, sir.” He doesn’t sound confident.

  I take Tuttle with me. First we stop to check on Sheridan. Jaynie has her in one of the fold-down seats. Her hands are loosely cuffed behind her back. Her ankles are cuffed to the seat supports. “My shoulders are aching,” she complains to me in a firm voice easy to hear over the engine noise. I don’t say anything. Harvey is sitting three seats away, fully rigged, keeping watch.

  I signal Tuttle. We return to the snowcat for Ransom’s body, laying it out on the side of the cargo hold. With Jaynie’s help, we get the rest of the gear out.

  I link to gen-com. “Nolan, we haven’t made our turn north yet, right? We’re still over the ocean?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Tell the pilot I’m going to open the aft ramp.”

  We’re flying halfway around the world. I want to max out the distance before I have to worry about refueling, which means I’m not going to carry unnecessary cargo.

  Jaynie helps me remove the tie-downs on the snowcat as Tuttle lowers the ramp. She climbs into the driver’s seat, puts the snowcat in reverse, and jumps down. Together we watch it roll backward. It reaches the end of the ramp, tips over the edge, and drops away. I watch it in nightvision, spinning and tumbling as it begins its long fall to the Gulf of Alaska.

  Ever since Kendrick fired the string of explosives that initiated our assault, we’ve moved so fast, I’ve been only half conscious of rising pain: a deep, merciless throbbing from the impacts I took during our shootout with the microdrones, and a low burn of feedback from the robot legs. The skullnet modulates my perceptions, but it can’t knock everything out... and I start hurting a lot worse as my body cools down during those drawn-out seconds while I’m watching the snowcat drop away.

  I’m not the only one hurting. We’ll need to do a squad-wide injury assessment, and distribute painkillers if we can sweet-talk Guidance into—

  Fuck.

  No Guidance. No Delphi. We’re on our own.

  Nolan speaks over gen-com. “Sir, incoming call o
n the plane’s satellite phone. Caller ID is Carl Vanda.”

  Tuttle brings the ramp back up, as Kendrick speaks in a whispery voice that’s beginning to slur. “Get your ass up front, Shelley, and lead.”

  ~~~

  The cockpit is dark, except for the dim glow of instruments and tiny spotlights. The light illuminates four swivel seats: two in front for the pilot and copilot, and two behind for crew. In the pilot’s seat is a thin, pallid, sharp-featured woman with short, light-colored hair flattened under her headset. She turns to look at me with wide, frightened eyes. Even in the dim light I can see that her hands are shaking.

  Nolan is in the copilot’s seat. He’s taken off his rig, but his helmet is still on. Behind him I recognize our ally, Lucius Perez, from his picture in the mission briefing. He’s wearing a headset just like the pilot. Opposite him, anonymous in her helmet, is Flynn. I want to kick Perez out of the cockpit, but I don’t want Sheridan to see him, so I’m stuck.

  Nolan gestures, indicating the pilot, and over gen-com he tells me, “Sir, this is Ilima LaSalle. Retired Air Force.”

  I route gen-com to my overlay, and then I take off my helmet so I’m something more than an anonymous goon in her eyes. Nolan hands me a headset to muffle the engine noise, and to allow me to speak easily with Ilima. I adjust the position of the mic. When I look up, Ilima is staring at me with stunned recognition.

  “You’re James Shelley,” she says over the intercom.

  I’m not above using my celebrity status. “Which show did you see, Ilima? Bleeding Through?”

  “I saw them both.”

  “I want you to know that everybody here is a veteran of Black Cross. We are not here to hurt you, and I am personally apologizing that you’ve been caught up in this mission. We were led to believe that you agreed in advance to help us.”

  “I didn’t. I don’t know what’s going on, and I don’t know why you’re here.”

  “Our mission is to bring Thelma Sheridan to trial. Ilima, she supplied the nuclear devices that caused the Coma.”

  Ilima looks away from me. There’s terror in her eyes, but strangely, she doesn’t look surprised.

  “Did you suspect it?” I ask her.

  “No! But I’ve... carried cargo before that I’ve wondered about.” She turns to me again. “What’s going to happen to me?”

  “We need you to fly this plane. You’re the only one here who can, so I have to require your cooperation. I will not let this mission fail. But when we’ve delivered Thelma Sheridan, you’ll be released unharmed. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir. Yes, sir, I do.”

  We’re heroes, so it’s easier for her to believe we won’t kill her.

  “Where’s the satellite phone?” I ask.

  “You’ve got the headset on. I just have to connect you.”

  “No, not me.” I don’t want to give Carl Vanda my voice print. So I turn to Perez. “You’re going to talk to him.”

  “No! He needs to think I’m a hostage too.”

  “So tell him you’re a hostage. And tell him we’re not ready to talk. If he can keep quiet about what happened, we’ll contact him with our ransom demand when we’re secure.”

  I left my HITR with the packs, but I brought a Beretta with me. Not the one that killed Ransom—I don’t ever want to touch that one again—this is the one Rawlings gave me. It’s clean, its clip-on holster secured to my thigh. I draw the gun, using its lethal shape to augment the gravity of my words. “You’ve done your part, Perez, and I don’t need you anymore. If you even hint to Carl Vanda that this is anything but a kidnapping and ransom situation, I will kill you.”

  Despite the chill of the cockpit, a sweat breaks out on his cheeks. “I’ll... I’ll say what you want.”

  Ilima routes the call to him. I listen in. There’s a whispered strain in Carl Vanda’s voice that hints at his injuries, but his tone is calm, cold, as he talks to Perez, who can’t help stuttering. I’m glad I pulled the gun on him. It’s helped him to do a convincing job of sounding afraid.

  As soon as the basics are conveyed, I cut the call off. Then I tell Nolan to disconnect the satellite phone. It’s a security risk, and I don’t want any more unexpected calls.

  Ilima and I go over our route. We’ll fly over the North Pole, a northern “great circle” route, and then south above the Atlantic. I’m not entering the airspace of any other country if I don’t have to.

  Jaynie appears at the top of the cockpit ladder. She’s taken off her helmet. Her audio loop glistens in one ear, and she’s got an earplug in the other. Her voice comes to me through the overlay. “You need to see the colonel.”

  Her tone tells me all I need to know.

  I take off the headset. She hands me earplugs. As we head down into the brightness of the cargo hold, my dark-adjusted eyes strain to adapt. “I want you to take my helmet,” I tell her, handing it over as we walk back through the plane. “Set it up so the cam is focused on our prisoner at all times. I don’t want any trumped up allegations coming back to bite our asses.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And then I want all the firearms collected and secured in the firearms locker. Bring me the key.”

  “Anything else, sir?”

  “You’re already putting together a watch rotation?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant.”

  Moon is with Kendrick. He’s fiddling with the valve on a bag of clear fluid feeding into Kendrick’s arm through an IV. Like Jaynie he’s got his helmet off, with one ear wired and the other plugged. “Is there a problem?” I ask him.

  “I-I’m not sure. We found this emergency survival kit, and the dates are good-to-go on the IVs, but it’s been a year since I last trained with this stuff. Shit. I just wish I could talk to Guidance.”

  I check the IV, and it looks okay to me. “You’re doing fine on your own, Moon.”

  But even if he was a fully trained medic, I don’t think he could do Kendrick any real good. The colonel looks bad—wan and shocky, his breathing shallow. Though his eyes are open, they don’t seem to see me when I kneel beside him.

  When I was airlifted out of Dassari, I received expert trauma care. Kendrick isn’t going to get that. We’re going to be flying at least thirteen hours before refueling. We can’t land, for fear we won’t be allowed to take off again. And while we’re in the air, there’s almost nothing we can do for him.

  I open a solo link to him. “Colonel Kendrick? How you doing?”

  His eyes blink, shift, focus on me. Gen-com filters out the noise of the plane and boosts his voice... but it’s still weak and gravelly. “Episode three has turned out to be a bitch.”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s in your hands now, Shelley... as much as that scares the fuck out of me. Do not let the enemy get under your skin... and don’t fuck it up.”

  “Colonel, you—”

  “Shut up... I don’t want to hear it. You need someone... to talk to... talk to Vasquez. And check in... with Rawlings.”

  “Will do, sir.”

  “And finish the . . .”

  “We’ll finish the mission, sir.”

  He closes his eyes. His breathing is shallow. I watch him for a few minutes, while across the cargo hold Sheridan demands to know what the hell we think we are doing. Harvey is guarding her. She’s the only one still wearing a helmet. She keeps her anonymous, unfeeling face turned on the prisoner, and doesn’t reply.

  I step away from Kendrick, unstrap from my dead sister, fold it up, and stash it with the others. “Tie these down,” I tell Tuttle. “The packs too.”

  Ransom is still lying out in the open. I need to do something about that.

  I ask Moon where the survival kit is. When he shows me, I paw through it and to my grim relief, I find three body bags. Tuttle helps me secure Ransom inside one of them. I try not to look at his face. It is not at peace—not with the back and the top of his head blown out. I want to know why the Red didn’t warn him; why it let him die
. I don’t want to believe his life didn’t matter; that he was just a spear-carrier in someone else’s drama. I want him to be alive.

  I send Tuttle to help Jaynie collect the weapons. Then I drop into one of the many empty seats, and open a solo link to Colonel Rawlings. The angel, parked nearby in the cargo hold, anonymizes the request, relays it to a satellite network, which in turn relays it to a randomly selected gateway server that shunts the call through a private network—and Rawlings picks it up. “Congratulations, Lieutenant. Phase 1 complete.”

  “The full record got through?” I ask him.

  “Everything. All the records from the helmet cams, and your overlay.”

  “Then you know Matthew Ransom is dead. And Colonel Kendrick, he’s . . .”

  “The mission remains,” Rawlings says in a brusque tone. “You must get the DNA test done.”

  Ahab Matugo will not let us land in the city of Niamey, his adopted capital, unless we prove by DNA that the prisoner we carry truly is Thelma Sheridan.

  “The DNA test is next, sir.”

  Which means I have to talk to Thelma Sheridan.

  My head plays games with me. I flash on a sequence of memories: the way my hair stood on end that day I talked to her at Kelly AMC; the mind-stripping glare of the nuke dissolving the two pilots who forced her rocket down; Ransom’s head snapping back as the first bullet ripped through his brain.

  I’m going to need Jaynie at my back.

  ~~~

  The engines mask the sound of our footsteps, so Thelma Sheridan doesn’t notice as Jaynie and I approach. She’s hunched in her seat, balanced on its edge in an effort to ease the pressure of hands cuffed behind her back, and ankles cuffed together. A blanket is spread across her lap, but she still looks cold. I almost feel sorry for her—until I see spatters of Ransom’s blood clotted in her short, coppery hair.