He drew up beside Meredith, hacking in the dense smoke. Once, his lungs could have withstood everything. But you got old, did foolish things.
Meredith held the handle of the basement door in his left hand, autorifle ready in his right, poised off his hip. In the chemical glow of the mini-light he looked like a beautiful animal, taut and deadly.
Taylor readied another grenade. The smoke had thinned just enough so that the two men could look each other in the eyes. Both knew that this was it. If the Japanese, or anyone else, were waiting to ambush them, they would have to do it now.
Taylor had already made up his mind. He was going to be the first one through the door this time. If anything happened, Merry would know what to do.
The younger man's eyes were sharp, his nostrils flared.
Kozlov, Parker, and Ryder joined them at the bottom of the stairwell.
"To the left now," Kozlov said. "Three doors down, I think. The operations center is at the end of the hallway. The computer room is the last doorway on the left before you reach the operations center. It's very easy."
Taylor nodded, not at all certain how easy it was going to be! "We'll have to clear the ops center first." He glanced at Parker and Kozlov. "All right. I clear the ops center. Merry covers to the right down the hallway. You two get golden boy into the computer room. Then you relieve Merry. Everybody got it?"
Each man mumbled his assent.
"All right," Taylor said. "Everybody back against the wall." He pointed to where he wanted them. Then he turned to Merry. "Ready?"
Meredith's hand tensed on the door handle.
"Do it," Taylor said.
Meredith ripped open the door. Taylor lobbed the grenade out into the corridor. Then Meredith slammed the door shut again, and both men hunkered down away from the door's swing radius.
The blast tore the door right off its hinges. It popped from its frame and fell at a cant across the stairwell.
Instantly, Taylor hurled himself into the hallway, diving flat to the left and firing burst after burst. Meredith mirrored his actions, rolling to the right and shooting into the smoke.
"Come on" Taylor shouted.
A foreign automatic weapon coughed in the artificial fog. Merry fired again and again, hunting the sudden jewels of light. Taylor rolled over to help him with a burst, then rose and began to run in the direction of the operations center.
So close, he thought, so close. Please, God, no fuck-ups now.
He heard the others hurrying along behind him.
The door at the end of the corridor was shut. Taylor increased the force of his movement and struck it with all his weight, knocking it open. He rolled into a sudden clarity of light, into the coolness of an artificially controlled climate.
Behind him, the others had turned to their own mission of locating the computer room. Taylor was alone. He came up fast from the carpet, rifle ready. Everything happened in parts of seconds. A standing figure fired at him, missed, and Taylor knocked the man back over a bank of consoles with a short burst. Another man raised a pistol, but Taylor was quicker, putting a full burst into him at waist level. Then his rifle's magazine went dry.
Standing almost on the other side of the big room, a Japanese officer held a microphone in one hand and a pistol in the other. His scalp was swathed in loose, bloodstained bandages, giving him the appearance of a renegade sheik. The layout of the room was such that there was no cover between the officer and Taylor, not a single obstacle. The Japanese lowered the microphone and raised his pistol.
Taylor did not try to run. He stared at the man with a lifetime's worth of hatred. His lips curled in a snarl. He kept his eyes locked on those of his opponent, as if staring down an animal. And he methodically ejected his empty magazine and reached into his ammo pouch for another.
The Japanese officer aimed his pistol at arm's length. There was no way he could miss at such a range, Taylor felt the pistol reaching out to him with invisible lines of power, searching into him, testing the softness of his body. But he did not break the stare.
He continued to reload.
He waited. And waited. Growing hideously angry at the Japanese officer's delay, at this teasing. He almost wanted to bark a command at his opponent: Shoot. Goddamn you.
With a chill, Taylor recognized the man under the dirty bandages and bloodstains. It was General Noburu Kabata. The Japanese theater commander.
Why didn't the bastard fire?
The Japanese stared into him with a look that Taylor could not comprehend. The eyes made no sense, the facial expression did not come from Taylor's catalog. Its closest relative was fear. But that was crazy. The Japanese was the one who held the power of life and death between the two of them.
The Japanese general's eyes began to weaken, eyelids twitching. He looked beyond Taylor now, through him, as if he had seen a ghost.
Noburu's pistol began to waver. He thrust it harder in Taylor's direction, as if warning him, trying to frighten him off. Taylor could see the finger straining at the trigger. He could feel it as though the hand were his own.
Their eyes met in a perfect line.
Taylor jammed the fresh magazine into his weapon and put a burst into the Japanese without an instant's hesitation. Noburu twisted, firing his pistol into the carpet at Taylor's feet. The general stepped backward with the disjointed movements of modem dance. Taylor shot him again. And again.
"Fuck you," he told his enemy. "Fuck you, you bastard. Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you."
He was breathing as though he had just run the race of his life. Half sick, clutching his weapon against his side with the desperation of a terrified private, he walked over to where Noburu lay.
The Japanese lay absolutely still, eyes wide. Taylor stopped just short of the body, shaking with old wordless tears. As though Noburu might suddenly spring back to life, reaching for him, biting.
Taylor emptied his weapon into the torso of the corpse, then spit into Noburu's face. He kicked the body in the side, then kicked it again, harder.
"You bastard," he said. "You filthy bastard."
A burst of automatic weapons fire out in the corridor ailed him back to the present. He reloaded another magazine and took off at a run.
The smoke had partly cleared. He could see Merry lying at the elbow of the hallway, shielding himself behind an overturned file cabinet. As he watched, Meredith sent two shots into the distance.
Taylor scrambled down the corridor to the S-2, covering each doorway as he passed. In the last office, two Japanese lay sprawled before a shredding machine. Another lay just behind Meredith.
A grenade explosion on the upper floor shook the ceiling and sifted dust over them like a curtain of rain.
Taylor tucked himself in behind the corner where Meredith was on guard.
"Need help?" he asked, surprised at the normalcy in his voice.
"Sonofabitch," Meredith said, voice quivering. "I almost missed the sonofabitch."
Taylor noticed that the younger man was bleeding from the neck.
"Merry, you all right?"
"The sonofabitch," Meredith repeated, panting. His breathing was quick, but healthy. The wound was very light, of the sort that misses taking a life by half an inch. "I didn't see the sonofabitch. He came at me from behind. With a goddamned knife."
Taylor glanced at the dead Japanese. There was no knife in his hand, only a scissors. But, in Meredith's mind, it would always be a knife. That was how men remembered combat, part hyperreality and part imagination. That was how they remembered it when they wrote up their reports, which historians would later cite as indisputable eyewitness accounts. Taylor had learned how history was sculpted years before. He knew it could never be fully trusted. Yet he had never stopped reading it. Searching for a truth deeper than his own life could offer.
There was a noise in the hallway behind them. Taylor swung his weapon around. It was Parker. With Kozlov, who was still unarmed.
"Colonel Taylor," Parker called. His voice was ag
itated. "Sir, the warrant officer needs to see you."
Taylor felt on the verge of illness. What was wrong now?
"What's the matter?" Taylor demanded.
"Nothing," Parker said. Then Taylor noticed that the captain was grinning. As though he had just won a blue ribbon at the county fair. "He just needs you. You're not going to believe this. He wants you to make a decision."
Taylor got up angrily. The plan was clear. The kid, Ryder, had his instructions, and there wasn't a second to waste playing games. The relief columns could shoot their way into the compound at any time. Or some lunatic or fanatic could blow the entire headquarters to hell. Upstairs, the fighting stormed on, with screams and shouts underscored by resounding gunfire.
Taylor tossed his automatic rifle to Kozlov, who caught it awkwardly. "You might need it," Taylor said. "I want you two to take over from Major Meredith. Merry, you come with me."
Taylor did not wait to see his orders carried out. He ran down the hallway in a fury, anxious to see what kind of bullshit Ryder was up to. The mission was as clear as could be.
Taylor burst into the computer room. Ryder jumped, then calmed when he saw who it was. He sat before the central workstation of a large computer. Smiling.
"What the hell's going on here?" Taylor barked.
Ryder ignored his tone of voice, grinning like a fool. "Look at this here, sir," he said. "Just look. It's incredible."
Jesus Christ, Taylor thought. What now? He walked over to the workstation in a rage that the boy was not already putting all of his energy into destroying Japanese combat systems. Ryder gave the appearance of just playing with the great machine.
Taylor wanted to scream at him. But he was not certain that would be the best approach. The important thing, he reminded himself, was to accomplish the mission. Even if one of your key players turned out to be an incompetent nut.
"What's the problem?" Taylor asked, straining to keep his voice calm. Meredith came up beside him.
Ryder looked up brightly. "There's no problem, sir. This is great. Just look."
Taylor bent over the computer. But he could not read he arcane symbols of the Japanese computer language. "All right," he said. "Tell me what it means."
"That column of numbers on the right side?" Ryder said. "See?"
Taylor mumbled. "Yes."
"Those are control nodes for the Japanese space defense system, the what-do-you-call-it? Satsee or something?"
"SAD-C," Taylor corrected automatically. "Okay, so what does it mean?" No sooner had he spoken the words than he began to realize why the warrant officer was so excited.
"Well," Ryder said happily, "we knew the Japanese had programmed all their tactical stuff so it could be ordered to self-destruct. But we never dreamed—"
Taylor put his hand on the younger man's shoulder, anchoring them both to reality.
"You're telling me," Taylor said, "that this computer can order the Japanese space defenses to self-destruct? The home islands shield?"
"Well," Ryder said, "they probably won't blow up or anything like that. The self-destruct order will probably just destroy the electronic circuits. The satellites will still be up there and all. They just won't be able to do anything."
Taylor tightened his grip on the boy's shoulder. "Are you absolutely certain? There's no possibility of a mistake?"
Ryder shrugged as though it were really a minor matter.
"No way," he said. "It's clear as day. Just look over here. See, I told the computer I was that Japanese general and—"
Taylor listened. Yes. General Noburu Kabata. Meredith interrupted. "Do it," he begged. "Stick it to the bastards while there's still time. If we take out the space defenses, Japan won't be able to defend itself against shit. It changes everything."
Yes.
It changed everything.
"Is it hard to do?" Taylor asked Ryder.
"Piece of cake," the warrant officer said, as though he had been surprised at the question. "You want me to do it then, sir?"
Taylor listened to the sounds of battle above their heads. "Absolutely. How long will it take?"
Ryder didn't answer. He began to punch keys. The screen changed, and the warrant officer began to sort his way through a parade of numbers. Heavy footsteps pounded overhead. The fighting intensified again.
While waiting for Ryder to set up the program, Taylor turned to Meredith. The S-2 was putting pressure on his neck with a handkerchief. There was a lot of blood. "Merry? Are you sure you're all right?"
The intelligence officer nodded heavily. "Just messy. Slash wound. Doesn't even hurt. Christ, I thought my number was up."
"Merry, the general's dead."
The S-2 looked at him.
"General Noburu Kabata," Taylor went on. "I killed him. It was a fluke. The bastard had me cold. And he didn't fire." Taylor shook his head, still unable to understand it. A shiver passed over him at the remembrance. "He had me cold."
"You're sure? You're sure it was him?"
"Yeah. You can report it as a confirmed kill. He's in the ops center, if you want to see. Not very pretty, I'm afraid." Taylor lowered his eyes. "I got carried away. Flashing on Lucky Dave. And Manny."
Meredith lifted the handkerchief from his neck, testing. Taylor tugged at his first aid pack, letting the bandage drop into his hand. "Here. Use this. And where's your goddamned aid pack? I ought to give you an Article Fifteen."
"When we get out of this," Meredith said, "you're welcome to give me anything you want, sir."
"I still don't understand it," Taylor said. "All he had to do was pull the damned trigger."
Out in the hallway Parker or Kozlov fired a burst down the corridor. Then another.
Ryder slapped at the keyboard one last time, then swiveled around to face Taylor and Meredith.
"Ready to do it, Chief?" Taylor asked.
"It's already done," Ryder said nonchalantly. "No more Japanese space defenses."
Taylor looked at the warrant officer, unsure whether he was joking or not, unable to quite believe that things could be this easy, after all the years of struggle, of failure, of dreaming of a better day.
"Chief," Meredith said, speaking for Taylor, "this is no joke. Are you absolutely certain the Japanese space defense system has been . . . incapacitated?"
Ryder shrugged. "Unless the computer's lying."
"Jesus," Meredith said.
"All right," Taylor said, businesslike again. He had commanded himself not to think of anything but the matters at hand. History and greater decisions could wait. There was more shooting out in the hallway.
"Chief," Taylor said urgently, "we've still got to take out the systems in-theater. Can you find the Scramblers?" He almost added that there was no time to waste. But Ryder was doing just fine. In his own little world. Taylor did not want to make him nervous at this point.
The warrant officer was easily the least troubled of the three men in the room. He was an expert, doing what he had been trained to do. If anything, the boy seemed blithely happy.
Ryder's fingers worked over the keyboard as though he were a master pianist playing scales and arpeggios. Taylor, who had worked with computers for so many years, who had even forced himself to study them, despite the fact that his natural interests lay far afield, admired Ryder's confidence and dexterity. Taylor knew enough to understand the complexity of the formulae with which the warrant officer was working, but the boy made it look like the easiest thing on earth.
Such a man could have made a far better living out of uniform. Taylor wondered briefly what story lay behind the warrant officer's boyish features, what had called him so irresistibly to military service. It was one of the wonders of the world that the Army always seemed to come up with the men it needed in a desperate hour.
"Chief?" Taylor said. He could not help interrupting. "Are we going to make it?"
Ryder brushed away the colonel's concern with a slight gesture. His fingers continued to dance over the keys. "The tactical stuffs in
a different file. They didn't set this program up to be user friendly. I mean, it's a totally different logic system. And I guess they didn't want every Tom, Dick, and Harry destroying their aircraft and tanks and stuff."
"Chief, if you can only find one thing, find the Scramblers."
Ryder nodded. Then he paid his full attention back to his labors.
Three heavy explosions sounded in the distance. Taylor and Meredith looked at each other.
"Those were outside," Meredith said, putting their mutual knowledge into words.
A moment later, Hank Parker came into the room. His face was grimed and he was no longer smiling.
He held out the pork-chop microphone from the radio slung over his shoulder. "Sir, it's Captain Zwack up in the overwatch bird. The relief columns are all over the city. He can't hold them anymore. His main gun system's gone to shit. He's trying to slow them down with his Gatling gun, but he's almost out of ammunition."
"What's Nowak say?" Taylor asked, referencing the commander of the diversion force fighting in the building overhead and in the courtyard. "How's the situation on the ground?"
"They all say the same thing," Parker answered. "It's a matter of minutes. If that. If we don't get everybody back up in the air, they'll be able to take us out on the ground."
Taylor turned to Ryder. "Come on, Chief.
Suddenly, Ryder pushed back from the console. It was a gesture of triumph. The boy was grinning, and the screen ran from top to bottom with fields of numbers.
"Got them," Ryder cried. "We got them. We're into the program."
"Good work," Taylor said. "Let's take them out and get the hell out of here. Merry, you—"
"No," Ryder wailed. "Oh, shit."
Taylor turned. In the background, Parker's radio crackled with another message from the officer who was flying the rear guard M-100, announcing that he was out of Gatling gun ammunition and begging the raiding force on the ground to hurry before the enemy vanguard reached them. Taylor knew the officer well, a born cavalryman who was in the Army because he loved it, who could have led a life of leisure but chose instead to serve his country in black times. Taylor also knew that, despite the uselessness of his empty weapons, the officer would remain onstation until his comrades joined him in the sky. Taylor knew he would get the same sort of performance from the hardheaded raid commander slugging it out above their heads or somewhere out in the compound. That officer was an all-American ethnic Pole with a sense of honor beautifully out of place in the new century. Every man would remain at his station until the job was done.
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