He looked at Cleet. "Pick a good position and make a last stand?' he offered.
"What if we surrender?" said Cleet.
"They'd shoot us and ransom the President to the alliance of states," said Greer, without a moment's hesitation.
"That's what I was thinking," said Cleet.
"And that's not an option, gentlemen," said the President, who wasn't walking as far behind them as they thought.
"The new states are just getting started," he continued. "A hefty drain on their resources right now might be enough to cripple them. Actually any drain on their resources is too big a price. They're better off abandoning me and electing their own president."
He lapsed into silence for a while.
"I say we shoot it out and let my identity remain a secret," he said at last.
"Whatever you say, Mr President," said Greer quietly.
Sometime after lunch they came to a broad valley that had been farmland. A small stream had cut away a sizeable bank on the far side of the valley. The group stopped for a breather.
"Good ambush site," said Greer, pointing to a spot across the valley. Scrubby trees came right down to the top of the bank.
"Once they know we're there they'll cross the stream somewhere else and come along the ridge," said Cleet.
"No spot is perfect," said Greer cheerfully, "and we'll have reduced their numbers by then." He seemed to be looking forward to a last-ditch stand.
Army thinking, decided Cleet. It was better to be doing something other than just running. The President nodded his approval.
"Eat up, boys," said Greer an hour later. Their new position was as ready as they could make it, and the last of their food was laid out before them. When no one else wanted to eat, Greer tucked into his portion with relish.
More army thinking, decided Cleet. Eat anywhere, sleep anytime, you never knew when you'd get those two essentials again.
The marine ate a little, but he spent most of his time shivering with fever now. His face was a constant red, and Cleet knew he was burning up.
"Drink something, Bishop," he said kindly, and poured some water into a cup. Bishop hadn't offered his first name, but Cleet knew he had parents, friends, and maybe a family, like anyone else. Hopefully some of them had survived the earthquakes, and the chaos that followed.
"I'd like to take a position at the north end of the ridge, major," he said to Greer. Greer looked up.
"I think they'll cross the stream there. I'd like to go in as camouflage, and get as many of them as I can."
Greer looked at Cleet, who shrugged. It was a good plan, if a little suicidal, but the man had decided how he wanted to end his life. Greer swapped his sidearm and spare clips for the marine's rifle, and Bishop rose from the circle and disappeared into the trees.
The waiting was the worst part, but two hours later a stream of figures leading horses broke over the brow of the ridge opposite, and started down the slope. When they got to the bottom, the riders stopped to size up the situation.
Cleet noted there were three dogs, mixed breeds that might have been used for pig hunting. At least one had some bloodhound in it. The dogs were getting restless, and then one of them began to sound off.
Cleet recognised the long, mournful wail that had been following them. Then he worked out that the breeze, slight as it was, had to be carrying their smell toward the drovers.
Hell's teeth. The dogs knew they were there! Cleet hunkered down lower, trying not to give any sight or sound to the animals, but it was no good. The riders were talking animatedly and pointing to where they were holed up.
"Take what we can get?" said Greer softly, and Cleet nodded. They had the only two rifles, and they opened up in unison. One of the drovers crumpled where he stood, and one of the horses took a hit and bolted. Cleet fell a primitive sense of satisfaction. The drovers had killed one of the marines, and now that score was settled. The rest of the drovers fell back to the brow of the ridge in a hurry, and Greer got another one in the leg.
The next half hour was a stalemate, with no more casualties on either side, but the drovers had spread out, and were slowly encircling their defensive position. Outnumbered three to one, they would eventually lose the battle.
Then gunfire erupted along the north end of the ridge. Bishop, thought Cleet. The marine might get away with it the first time, but the drovers would know where he was now. A lone figure crossed back over the stream at that end of the valley, and Cleet remembered three men going in. That felt good too.
Then the circle of drovers started to move in closer, and the three men in the scrubby trees kept their heads down as bullets whistled through the foliage around them.
Cleet was about to tell the President it had been an honour to serve him, when a drover toppled back not far from him. Another followed, and then the rest were streaming back across the valley. The last drover at the north end of the valley was shot down as he tried to flee.
Cleet crawled to the top of the bank and looked northwards. A wall of mounted native Americans were walking their horses off the ridge and into the valley. Some of them were in traditional clothing. It reminded him of movies he'd watched as a kid.
Then it came to him. Theo! The seismologist who'd been such an important part of his original team. Who else could it be?
He stood and waved as the figures on horseback cantered closer. Theo pulled up at the bottom of the bank, a solidly muscled man Theo introduced as Severo beside him.
"What are you doing here?" cried Cleet in disbelief.
"Me and the boys came to St Louis to add the southern Ute territory to the new alliance of states," said Theo. He rubbed his lower back and leant on the front of his saddle.
"We heard about the plan to bring the President over to St Louis – transition of power and all that. While we were up this way I wanted to see a bit of the new alliance of states, so we worked our way north to Fort Wayne. Bit of political showmanship on my part there," he said, and smiled.
"Once we got to Fort Wayne, I waited a few days so I could see you and the President again. But then you were overdue, and we put in two fast days on horseback to see what was going on.
"What's left of your convoy is waiting for you at Hickory, as planned. They told us you'd gone left off Route 70, so it seemed likely you'd gone under Washington and were here somewhere.
"Once we heard the dogs, we just followed the sound in, along with reading the lay of the land," he added, looking around. The valley cut across the landscape for miles.
"Now, let's see what you guys need in the way of first aid, and then we'll get you back to Fort Wayne."
Cleet had never been so glad to see an old friend as he was right now.
57
Imazighen village
Atlas Mountains, North-west Africa
"Does he look different to you, or is it just me?" said Don, as I Wadu moved from one panel to another inside the alien ship's control room. Of the seven, or eight – Don could never decide – thickened structures within I Wadu's umbrella of skin, two were clearly taking over the function of arms, and two the function of legs. The others seemed to be shrinking.
"He's tried to explain it to me, but I'm not sure I've got it right," said Jo. "As far as I can understand it, he belongs to the human pack now, so it's important for him to look as much like us as possible."
"Well, someone's got to ask him about it," said Don firmly.
"I can hear you, you know," said a thin, disembodied voice that wavered through the ether. Don looked at Jo. She nodded, meaning that he wasn't hearing things.
"I wasn't sure if you would be able to hear him," she said. "Women can hear higher pitches than men, and Sufian hasn't heard anything unusual."
"Then tell me what in Satan's demented mind is going on!" exploded Don.
"This is metaphor or simile?" said I Wadu, in the same high, barely there, voice.
"Simile," said Jo.
"And this is special relaxation of calmness rule for mating p
airs?" continued I Wadu.
"Er, yes," said Jo hesitantly. She turned back to Don.
"I Wadu has been learning our language. It probably helps that he's still in his 'teenage' years, so to speak. He can hear in our vocal range quite well, but he can only speak in our highest register.
"It's made the need for a translation device less urgent, but Dassin isn't far from completing her work on that anyway.
"Another bit of news. I've worked out it takes the Aeskri 37 of our years to get here from their planet. Even with their more advanced technology they only live to around 60, so they don't look at the voyage as a round trip. They're here to stay."
Don grunted as he let the information sink in. The Aeskri knew they weren't going home. They would have a 'no retreat, no surrender' attitude. Oddly, he'd been expecting that. Then the door slid open to admit Mosha.
"Everything is ready for training topside," said Don's number two. "Bit earlier than we expected."
He turned to Jo. "Can you do without him?" he said, and Jo looked up from her work.
"One more thing," she said. "We're working on something that might be able to control the mining units and the guards at the citadels, but you'll need to physically place the devices on the surface of the machine. I'll have more to tell you in a few days."
Don nodded, and the two men left the control room.
On the way up the sandstone tunnel, Mosha turned to Don and grinned. "Cal says stop trying to organise things, you're doing him out of a job."
Don's eyebrows just about took off as he raised them, which increased Mosha's delight.
"Cal organised some extra firepower from the Rohifs weeks ago. They thought your request was a hurry up, when in fact the goods were already on their way. Part of that meaning seemed to get lost on the message's way here.
"Izem has just got back from the radio station at Fezzou. The sergeant-major is still alive, which is pleasing to hear. He brought back a number of messages for you, and they're waiting in your office. There was something about 'Dayaks'?"
Don nodded.
"Well," said Mosha, "whatever they are, Cal said yes."
Don looked very pleased, which mystified Mosha even more.
"Anyway," he continued, "a camel train has just come up the slope and into the village, with some interesting crates on board. How the hell it got here from Germany, considering the current chaos across Europe, I'll never know. It's guarded by some tough-looking Swiss paramilitaries.
"I must say it was perfect timing. Our new strike force has just assembled outside the dining hall, ready for training. They're unloading the camels as we speak."
Don's face lit up. This was what the strike force needed. An edge, something completely new, something the Aeskri wouldn't be expecting. The two men closed the grilled gate at the top of the tunnel, and Don surged toward the dining hall. Mosha had to work hard to keep up with Don's long legs.
"Ah, this way, commander," said Briggs, who seemed to think he outranked Mosha when Don wasn't around. Fortunately these things didn't bother Mosha, but it was another part of team building that Don would have to deal with.
"It looks like you're just in time for the unveiling, commander," said Mosha with a grin. In fact Don had finished his last op with the rank of major, and Cal hadn't bothered promoting him to lieutenant-colonel, in keeping with his new responsibilities.
Commander was a British navy term of about the same rank as lieutenant-colonel in the army, and Don liked the sound of it. It made sense for a multi-country attack team.
If he was leading the attack on the Cambodian citadel, the troops would expect him to have a rank that went with the job. Don didn't correct Briggs' use of rank. His own men would take up the new title with enthusiasm, and it was in ways like this that changes became part of the social fabric of an organisation.
"Goddamit these fuckers are heavy!" said Bull, lifting one of the new rifles out of its crate. He picked up a metal container from the end of the crate and figured it must to be a magazine. A little experimentation fitted it to the rifle. He saw there was space for a second magazine, and found smaller versions in the bottom of the case.
"Maybe twice the weight of an M4, fully loaded," he said. "Not a problem unless we have to carry them for days at a time, plus all our survival gear."
Training with the new weapons could now start in earnest. The alloy bullets, made of alien material, were too scarce to use in practice, but the Rohifs had sent reloadable blanks with a similar recoil. The rifles were squat, chunky things, but the strike force would soon get used to them.
Don looked around him. The men and women of this force were an unusual mixture. Since Don didn't know what they would be up against, or what skills might be needed, he had tried to include every type of soldier he could find.
The backbone of the strike force was the tall, lean Imazighen men, but he included the very best of the women. Izem's contacts had brought in some elite Moroccan troops, and of course there was his own team, and Jo's IT team.
Don knew that the weapons they had would not be enough, and he pushed his people to improvise, to use whatever they came across. The strike force would be the underdog, and their best bet was to do the unexpected.
The messages in his office would confirm that teams of Gurkhas were already making their way through Myanmar toward Cambodia. Travelling in small companies they would be steering clear of the unholy ruins that were the cities.
The hardy Nepalese troops would set up a forward base and arrange food supplies with the locals. It was fortunate that subsistence farming was a way of life in Cambodia.
He would also be told that several fishing trawlers had already sailed from New Zealand. They were packed with the best of the people Cal had collected in the Tangawai caverns, and trained with his SAS instructors. The weather was expected to be good for the duration of the voyage.
Don let his troops crowd around the packing cases until everyone had got a look at the new weapons, and some had been passed around, but that was it.
"Back to training!" he bellowed, and the strike force snapped to it.
Mosha was the best at giving the troops a right royal and personal bollicking when they didn't move fast enough, but Don was a close second. As far as the two men were concerned the troops liked to mess about, and that unfortunate trait had to be rooted out of them. It had to be replaced by a sharp eye for what needed to be done, rather than how they felt about it.
Don had been training the force in small groups. Each group was taken to one of the barns, and told whoever got a weapon and got the drop on the others first won. The shotgun in the corner didn't have any ammunition, and the scythe blade in the other corner wasn't firmly attached to the handle, but a quick look behind the tractor seat revealed some very handy tools, and so on.
He hoped they were learning how to think on their feet, because that was what they were going to need against the Aeskri. The list of cuts, bruises and minor breaks had grown quickly, but it would settle down soon.
For a change of pace he took them to several different starting points around one of the village's fields of barley, and told them to crawl toward a flag in the middle. They each had wooden knives with small balls of henna attached to the ends, for marking their opponents. He told them they were going in four at a time, but he let loose twenty.
He stifled a laugh. The same thing had been done to him when he was in the New Zealand SAS, and he liked the way it taught trainees to cope with the unexpected. They would be a henna-coloured mess by the time they came out of the field the first time, but a few weeks later there would be just one, fatal, mark on each of them.
58
Imazighen village
Atlas Mountains, North-west Africa
"We have an agreement with the alliance of states in St Louis," said Don, as he surveyed the Imazighen High Council, along with others who'd been invited to this meeting in the IT room.
"What you are about to hear came through as a compressed messag
e on an ELF band. It was relayed by one of the US submarines still in action. It's audio only."
He nodded to Jo, who did something with one of the room's computers.
"Lieutenant-colonel Maric," began a male voice. Don figured Cal had promoted him 'in absentia' so his leadership made sense to the Americans.
"My name is Cleet Anderson, and we haven't met. I started out as Science Advisor to the President back when the world was sane. He is in fact an old friend.
"These days I'm whatever he needs me to be. At the moment he thinks I have the best understanding among our people of what your resistance is all about.
"I can certainly say we hold you and your people in high regard here, especially your leader Cal Fischer, who seems to have single-handedly built the resistance out of a group of lateral thinkers around the world."
Don was surprised. Cal actually had a last name. He had to admit the man was a Fischer of men, always looking for that certain something in each person's character.
Then he grinned at the thought the resistance were lateral thinkers. Most of the time governments didn't want to know about 'grey ops' personnel, but now they were needed it was a different story. Nonetheless, he appreciated this Cleet fella laying out the situation clearly.
"We've looked at the information you sent us about the invaders," continued Cleet. "Much of it is new to us, and we are trying hard to adapt our forces in response to it.
"The President cannot speak for the alliance of states – which doesn't have the firepower, or the transport available – but he will commit what remains of the US military to an attack on the Peruvian citadel."
That was good news. Once the attacks began there would be severe retaliation from the citadels if even one was unsuccessful. The two command centres had to be destroyed at the same time, to stop a surviving citadel raining death on the human population. If they weren't both destroyed, ending up back in the stone age was very likely.
Struggle for a Small Blue Planet Page 25