Worlds in Chaos

by James P. Hogan

  “Quite clear,” Lacey replied.

  “Then you will give the order.”

  Lacey hesitated, glancing at Keene. Keene could do nothing but nod. Lacey turned his head to address the controller and inhaled a long breath. “Turn the approaching aircraft around at the north end, and have a truck in position to lead it through to Security Gate Three,” he instructed. “Hold all other movement.”

  “Very sensible, Colonel,” Delmaro approved from the screen.

  Now Keene was confused. If the aircraft currently landing was the one bringing the hostages and their captors—ironically, employing the same ruse that Keene and his group had intended using—then who was in the military jet performing low, screaming turns around the base? The situation promptly got even more confusing.

  “The lame duck is down,” the operator reported. His voice held a puzzled note. “But it’s not alone. We have a second contact following it, heading in on approach.”

  So now there were three out there?

  “Get a view of the first from one of the crash trucks,” Lacey instructed.

  “Tender Two. Do you read?”

  “Two here, Roger. Proceeding.”

  “We’re with you back here. What do you see?”

  “Difficult to make it out. . . . Some kind of turboprop, high-wing.” A view on another screen showed landing lights approaching through curtains of smoky gloom. “No sign of engine trouble. It’s running straight and true.”

  “Stay out there, Two. There’s another one coming in behind it.”

  “Another one? What’s going on?”

  “We’re not sure.”

  The lights swept by, accompanied by a passing roar of healthy engines, and the shape disappeared, heading for the remote, northwest end of the main runway, where it would turn and taxi back to pick up the guide truck. Meanwhile, the view alongside Delmaro’s image showed the armed figures moving out into a dim pool of light from a lamp over the gate approach area.

  All of a sudden, the other operator called out in an alarmed voice, “The intruder is descending from the southwest, lined up on Number Two runway. It looks as if it’s going to land right across them!”

  “Warn it off! Warn it off!” Lacey snapped.

  “It isn’t responding to anything, sir. . . . Man, it’s coming down steep!”

  “Get those crash tenders up the other end. Move ’em!”

  “What in hell’s going on there?” Delmaro demanded, looking suspicious.

  “We don’t know,” Lacey answered. “Except that everyone in those planes could be about to get killed.”

  “The duck is at the far end, turning now,” one operator sang out.

  “What about that intruder?”

  “It’s down! I don’t know how he did it. Blind radar approach. It has to be a VTOL.”

  “We’re getting a shot of him from the crash truck now,” the adjutant said. The bellow of powerful jet engines reversing thrust came from the screen showing the view from the tender racing back toward the north end of the main runway; then landing light beams appeared to the left, coming from a low, sleek shape sliding out of the night, closing until it seemed it was about to collide with the tender. The tender veered right as the driver started to evade, but then the intruder slewed around in a reckless turn that brought it ahead of the tender, going the same way.

  “My God! It’s heading straight at the turboprop that just landed!” Colby cried out, horrified. “They’re going to hit head-on!”

  And so, for an eternity of drawn-out seconds, it seemed, as the jet pulled away ahead of the tender, its tail silhouetted against the glare of the other aircraft’s lights approaching from the opposite direction. But the jet was braking hard, its shape growing larger again as the tender caught up with it. The lights of the turboprop beyond grew in brilliance until everyone watching was tensed, waiting for the impact that seemed inevitable . . . and then, at the last instant, the lights slewed sideways and then canted as the turboprop was forced off the runway. The crash tender pulled up seconds later, the view from its cab showing the two aircraft stopped with just yards separating them. Figures brandishing weapons were already pouring from doors on both sides of the intruder to take up positions around the plane it had headed off.

  “How far away is that other plane that was following?” Lacey called out. “Can it get down in front of that mess? How much distance does it have?”

  “It’s leveling out, sir. Looks like it’s changed its mind.”

  “See, he already knows. That means they’re in contact. They must be together,” Charlie Hu said, trying to take it all in. Keene could only shake his head. Crazier and crazier.

  “What was that other plane that just landed?” Delmaro demanded, looking worried now. “Where are the Kronians?”

  “If they were in that first one, then they’re stranded at the top end of the runway,” Lacey said. “I can’t get there, neither can you, and I’m just as much in the dark as to what’s going on, whatever you think.” Delmaro’s composure was falling apart. He seemed about to say something, when the screen showing the scene at Gate Three suddenly brightened. He must have had a copy of the same view also, for he looked aside abruptly.

  A ring of floodlights had come on, throwing the figures moving out from the gate—now revealed clearly to be FAST troopers—into sharp contrast against the darkness. There were maybe two dozen of them. Then an amplified voice boomed. “Do not make any move! You are covered from all sides. Throw your weapons in front of you and step back three paces with your hands on your heads.” The figures came to a confused halt, some raising arms to shield their eyes against the glare, others looking at each other questioningly. “You have three seconds before we fire,” the voice warned.

  Keene, Colby, and Charlie Hu gasped in unison as they recognized the voice. “Jesus! . . . That’s Penalski,” Colby breathed. “He’s doing that with just si—” Keene signed to him frantically to shut up and nodded his head at the screen showing Delmaro. Colby put a hand to his mouth and turned away.

  But it was true. Confident of having full surprise on their side, the FAST squad had not deployed into what they had presumed to be deserted surroundings, but just waited before the gate for the turboprop to roll up and deliver the hostages. Penalski had just six men with him out there in the darkness. Crazy Marines!

  Delmaro hadn’t heard Colby, however, but was gaping on his screen, seemingly at a loss. Then the sound of a brief burst of automatic fire came from the screen showing the gate, and several of the figures ducked, presumably from bullets passing over their heads. Then, one by one, they began tossing down their guns.

  Seizing the initiative, Lacey stepped forward to face the screen squarely. “You are Colonel Delmaro, I believe, right? Well, it’s over. You’re on your own, isolated from your hostages, and your men out here are disarmed. What are you going to do now? Shoot General Ullman? And what do you think that will achieve?”

  Delmaro’s eyes shifted desperately. “There are still enough of us in here to take the Boxcar up,” he replied.

  “Where to?” Lacey scoffed. “The Osiris? Do you know what happened to the last bunch that tried?” He shook his head. “Give it up, Colonel. Try and carry this through, and you’re definitely finished. Quit now, and you might work out a place for yourself in whatever comes next. But none of you is going to Kronia.”

  Delmaro licked his lips and looked away. He seemed to be listening to others off-screen. Then he asked for a fifteen-minute hold. Lacey looked at Keene.

  “Give it to them,” Keene murmured. Anything that calmed things down could only help.

  “Fifteen minutes,” Lacey agreed.

  The wind was causing sand and dust to rattle against the windows of the control tower as Keene and the others watched several vehicles carrying Air Police arrive to provide backup behind the cordon around the stranded turboprop transport. The turboprop’s doors opened, and figures began emerging to surrender in the light from the headlamps of the c
ircle of vehicles. After them, the rescuers began leading out a procession of tall forms who could only be the Kronians. They were difficult to distinguish in the heavy outer garments they were wearing, until Gallian threw back the hood of his flapping parka to reveal his white hair as he shook hands with a helmeted figure toting a submachine gun, who seemed to be in charge of the rescue troops. Keene thought he glimpsed Sariena in the background, but it was impossible to be certain. And then the figure with Gallian turned to say something to one of the soldiers, at the same time removing the sand visor he was wearing and tilting back the helmet to scratch the front of a scrawny head. Keene’s knees almost buckled right there in the middle of the control tower floor. The figure who had arrived in the nick of time with his cavalry from the sky was—Leo Cavan!

  Outside Gate Three, a truck filled with Air Police arrived to join the seven Marines in rounding up the incredulous FAST soldiers just as Delmaro reappeared on the screen, his face registering defeat. “Very well,” he agreed. “We have released General Ullman and are turning over our weapons.”

  The other plane that had been following—a jet, from the sound—had been circling without making any further attempt to land. It broke off, finally, and flew away toward the south.

  35

  While the tower controllers got back to their business of dispatching the remaining transports, and ground crews towed the two recently landed aircraft into hangars for protection against the incoming storm, Keene, Colby, and Charlie Hu drove out with Lacey to meet the convoy from the north end at Gate Three, where others were appearing from inside the launch complex. The first feeble light of a restless, orange dawn was filtering through. Figures came tumbling out of vehicles laughing and back-slapping with relief after the tension, oblivious of the rising wind carrying needles of ocean spray mixed with the stinging dust. Colby went around shaking hands with the rescue team, who turned out to be a Special Forces unit that Cavan had “borrowed” from a friend in the Pentagon. Lacey poured congratulations on Lt. Penalski, who seemed slightly bewildered and not quite sure what he was supposed to have done that was exceptional. Keene sought out Gallian and Sariena to make sure they were all right, as well as others among his Kronian friends. And finally, he confronted Cavan.

  “You’ve always had this habit of dropping surprises, Leo, but this time you’ve surpassed yourself,” he shouted above the wind. “Okay. How, for God’s sake?”

  “Do you really want to stand out here discussing it, Landen, or shall we go inside first? I don’t know about you, but I could use a cup of strong coffee. We’ve been flying supersonic for over two hours. I don’t know how that aircraft held together. An incredible machine, Landen. Enough electronics to fly itself to China. It’s a long-range bomber airframe fitted with a modified power plant for Short and Vertical Take-Off and Landing—intended for getting Rapid Deployment units to odd corners of the world fast. Called the ‘Rustler.’ Just what we needed.”

  “Where the hell did you get it?”

  “Come on, Landen. I was in the Air Force for long enough as you well know. I still have friends there. Most of them have been at their wits’ end for something useful to do in all this. They were only too willing to help. I’ve been telling you for years: I wasn’t cut out for shuffling pieces of paper around.”

  A broad figure wearing a beret under the hood of a combat smock and wearing a pistol as well as carrying what looked like an Uzi came out of the background. His insignia showed him to be a major. “Seems it’s all buttoned up,” he said to Cavan. Cavan gestured toward Keene.

  “This is the man in the middle of it all, Mitch. Lan, meet Major Harvey Mitchell.” They shook hands.

  Following Mitch was a woman wearing some kind of cap under a fur-trimmed hood, with blond hair showing on either side of her face, tucked down into her jacket. She moved over to stand close to Cavan as they came up, and smiled. Even with the outlandish garb and the spray and the wind, the first impression that Keene registered was that she was stunningly beautiful. “Hello. You are Dr. Keene. I recognize you from the television,” she said. Despite everything, her voice was managing to laugh. Keene came close to falling instantly in love.

  “Ah, yes. It’s about time that you met Alicia too,” Cavan told him.

  Keene blinked. “This is Alicia? But how on earth did you find the time to collect her as well?”

  “I could hardly leave her behind, Landen. There’s no telling how, or when, or even if we’ll be going back.”

  They moved with the others through the gate into the launch complex. Wind whistled through the fifteen-foot-high, razor-wire-topped fence. Engines opening up for takeoff roared from somewhere behind them.

  The turboprop, it turned out, had been carrying just the Kronian hostages and their escorting force. Voler and the other names involved in the plot had all been in the plane following, which had flown away. Evidently, the idea had been for the inside force to seize one of the Boxcar orbiters being readied for flight and secure the launch facility, then board the hostages and their guards, with the elite arriving last, when everything was in place.

  General Ullman, none the worse for his experience, met them in the Transit Lounge of the OLC-6 East complex, which was where outgoing personnel were assembled prior to launch and incomers awaited transportation. Nobody had any idea where the jet might be heading now, but with the hostages freed that had become a secondary issue. The first priority was to get the Kronians out before conditions got any worse, and the means to do it was right there, in the form of the Boxcar orbiter that Delmaro’s force was supposed to have seized. The Launch Supervisor was summoned and asked to initiate preparations accordingly, while the communications section tried to get a connection through to the Osiris to update Idorf on what was happening.

  Communications with the East Coast administration were erratic and confused. When Cavan and his Special Forces contingent left, preparations had been in hand to relocate the entire executive arm of government to the FEMA Southern Region command center in Atlanta, using one of the special aircraft originally equipped to provide a mobile headquarters in the event of nuclear war. An AWACS flying command post that was to provide communications while the Washington facilities were being moved had gone off the air suddenly, it was suspected from a meteorite hit. The Washington area had suffered heavy bombardment, with a lot of fires started. Cavan didn’t know how much of the East Coast was affected, but when they took off there had been huge detonations lighting up to the north. On the flight over, they had seen large fires in the vicinity of Indianapolis.

  Then it was discovered that one of the launch technicians, acting on his own initiative when Delmaro’s soldiers appeared, had disabled the hydraulic systems that elevated the Boxcar orbiters to the launch position. The damage wasn’t fatal, but it could take several hours to fix. And that meant that the Kronians were not going to get out before the storm.

  Personnel not involved in fixing the Boxcar elevation hydraulics or trying to establish communications with the Osiris had been moved into the sturdier, safer structures. Grid power had gone, and the facility was running on its own gas-turbine-driven generators. Outside, the air was filled with pieces of sheeting torn from roofs, metal covers and cowls, and other windborne missiles. Fifty-foot waves had demolished the boat dock and were washing over the beaches and dunes on the north side of the base. The launch complex and runway were situated on the three-hundred-foot-high Burton Mesa dominating the area, and had escaped inundation so far, but the winds had torn loose and wrecked several launch vehicles at the exposed gantries and carried away parts of the buildings and other structures. The Boxcar orbiters were protected beneath the doors roofing their enclosed servicing bays, but there could be no question of launching them until conditions eased. In the general base area, those who had not yet left on Highway One had no choice but to sit tight. Perhaps they were better off than those who had gone.

  Sitting scattered around the Transit Lounge were Keene, with Charlie Hu and Colby,
most of the Kronians, including Sariena but not Gallian, a mixture of Mitch’s Special Forces and Penalski’s Marines, and some staff from the complex. The walls carried posters and cutaway drawings of various spacecraft, engineering charts and procedure guides, a map of the base and another showing the surrounding area, and a bulletin board covered with notices concerning things that didn’t matter anymore. All the windows were sandbagged, and those not already blown in or smashed by flying objects had been taped. Cavan answered the remaining questions from a worn easy chair by one of the tables, sipping black coffee from a plastic mug. Alicia sat by him, her parka thrown over the back of an adjacent chair to reveal golden hair that fell to her shoulders in sinuous waves, and an equally sinuous body that drew glances from every male in the room.

  “Landen and I had already agreed that it had to be Vandenberg. We figured the rest out from what happened at LAX. Beckerson and a small group who were with him on the flight from Washington announced a change of plan and transferred to a T-43 that was waiting for them when they got to Edwards. It took off within minutes, before anyone there knew what was going on. A half hour later, the same T-43 landed at LAX and collected your good woman, Fey, and her traveling companion, along with a couple of others that had also arrived there. Now, a T-43 is a biggish aircraft to be using for such a small number, but all the same we didn’t think the Kronians were on board it. You wouldn’t bring your hostages into a place like LAX. Too much risk of something going wrong. You’d keep them out of the way until the time came to produce them. But it would either lead us to them or rendezvous with them somewhere, depending on the plan.”

  “Now, just a minute. Let’s get this straight,” Colby Greene said, sitting forward. “You weren’t still in Washington when this happened. You couldn’t have been. I don’t care how fast that Rustler is, you couldn’t have got all this organized and crossed the country in the kind of time we’re talking about here.”