“That’s an entirely different situation,” Boyer replied thoughtfully. “Remember what I said about Hell Hill? And the way we should have handled the place? Well, here’s our chance to do it right. The key is to let the bugs settle in, wait for them to enter, and tear the place apart. Assuming you agree, I recommend that we build an assault team with that mission in mind and put in a request for the aircraft required to transport it.”
Like most residents of Hell Hill, Franklin was well acquainted with the citadel, the thickness of its walls, and the multiplicity of defensive weapons systems that guarded the approaches. Odds were that hundreds if not thousands of his countrymen and women would die while throwing themselves at the fortress in Guatemala. But it had to be done. The Saurons would reproduce otherwise, and now, weakened as it was, the human race was vulnerable. “What about an aerial attack?” Franklin asked hopefully. “The Ra ‘Na could bombard the place from space . . . or drop one of our nukes on it.”
“Good questions,” Blue acknowledged, “but you won’t like the answers. I tested the second idea on Patience, and he went ballistic. No nukes, or no support, and that’s final. Any harm to what the greenies call the Great Mother and they pull out.”
The Sasquatch Nation comprised an important part of Franklin’s base of support—especially now that other ecominded organizations were being uncovered. Yes, he could simply ignore them, but what about later? When he and others tried to rebuild? A schism like that would be hard to overcome. “And the orbital attack?”
Blue shrugged. “It’s doable . . . but probably pointless. The bugs built the place to withstand anything up to and including an assault using their own weapons. Kind of the way medieval noblemen built their castles to withstand catapults—the most powerful weapon of the day.”
Franklin sighed. “Okay, it looks like the United States of America will have to invade Guatemala.”
Blue grinned. “Just wait till some clown reinvents the United Nations . . . The General Assembly will love that one!”
INSIDE THE CITADEL AT NAKABE, GUATEMALA
Tradition held that an entire centum of Kan would give up their right to procreate in return for having their lines forever memorialized in the chant of honor. Now, having received the chemicals required to abort their nymphs weeks earlier, they stood in long straight lines. Intricate patterns had been painted onto their chitin, thereby setting the warriors apart from their brethren. To inspect them, to shuffle the length of the evenly spaced ranks, was to acknowledge the extent of their sacrifice.
Individual rays of artificial light crisscrossed each other as they streamed down to illuminate the floor below. Thousands of onlookers, many so swollen that they appeared ready to burst, lined the birthing galleries. Those who could stomped their feet in unison, and the sound reverberated off the damp limestone walls as Hak-Bin shuffled from one end of the assemblage to the other, thanking each Kan on behalf of the race.
Then, when the review finally came to an end, it was time for one last meeting. The location was the oversize birthing chamber reserved for Hak-Bin’s personal use. The cell was located on the very top floor, as befitted the Zin’s rank, but the honor paled when compared to the effort required to get there. No longer able to jump, the weary Sauron had no choice but to shuffle up what seemed like endless ramps until, nearly exhausted, he entered the rectangular room. The last part of the physical world that Hak-Bin would see. Those waiting to receive the Zin included Dun-Dar, the local stonemaster, Ott-Mar, his personal physician, and a Fon named Lon-Nar, who, in spite of his own needs, was expected to make the Zin comfortable prior to seeking a lesser space far below. He gritted his teeth and hoped that the torture would soon end.
“So,” Dun-Dar began, giving his superior time to recover from the long strenuous climb, “all is ready.”
Hak-Bin struggled to breathe. “How many—were able to make it inside—before the doors were sealed?”
“Exactly 851,457,” the stonemaster answered confidently, “or eighty-two-point-four percent of capacity.”
“And the citadel to the north?”
“Communications were severed about six units ago,” Dun-Dar replied. “But we assume things went well.”
Hak-Bin wanted to say that the stonemaster should assume nothing—but knew such a comment would be pointless. The failures were his, not Dun-Dar’s, and all of them knew that. Even assuming that a similar number of his brethren had been able to take refuge in the northern citadel, something he was starting to doubt, that would leave approximately three hundred thousand individuals unaccounted for. A disaster of nearly unimaginable magnitude.
Soon, once he crossed over, the punishment would begin as his ancestors, supported by the untold thousands for whom there would be no nymph to carry on, would subject him to a tidal wave of well-deserved abuse. Fortunately, there was no way to die once you were dead. They would have crucified him otherwise. The one bright spot in all this, the one thing from which Hak-Bin could take a modicum of comfort, was the fact that his nymph would rule what remained. “And your responsibilities?” Hak-Bin inquired, turning his gaze to Ott-Mar. “What of them?”
“Each and every individual who made it through the doors will receive a sufficient amount of catalyst,” the physician said proudly, “and many will give birth to multiple nymphs.”
“Excellent,” Hak-Bin replied. “I wish to thank both of you for all that you have accomplished. My nymph will accord your nymphs the full weight of honor and respect earned through your efforts. Please pass into the next world knowing that thanks to your accomplishments your line was advanced, your names forever recorded in the minds of my descendants, to be sung for all eternity.”
Deeply honored, and at least momentarily appeased, both of the Zin bowed their way out of the chamber.
Lon-Nar, who saw the exchange as the worst sort of dra, was happy to see them go. Still, his nymph would soon be vulnerable to Hak-Bin’s nymph, which meant it paid to be careful. That being the case, the Fon adopted his most obsequious manner while he invited the Zin to lower himself into the concave recess centered in the middle of the floor, inserted a needle into the appropriate vein, and released the intravenous drip. Then, hoping that the other Sauron was satisfied, Lon-Nar backed out of the room.
Hak-Bin watched the other Sauron withdraw, felt the nymph stir as the catalyst found its way down into the birth sac, and allowed himself to relax. That’s when the next him surged into the now-emptied space, took control, and started to scheme. Hak-Bin felt a sense of pride, welcomed the new mind, and allowed himself to fade. Three units later the Sauron was gone.
NEAR THE CITADEL AT NAKABE, GUATEMALA
A tropical storm had moved in over the lush green jungle below. Rain poured down in sheets, pattered against millions of leaves, and dripped to the ground. Puddles fed already swollen streams, which merged with heavily loaded rivers that roared toward the sea.
The engines made a smooth humming sound as the aircraft nosed its way toward the southeast. The interior of the Ra ‘Na lifter wasn’t all that different from the cargo compartment of a Chinook helicopter, except that the H-shaped aircraft had two such compartments located side by side. The starboard hull was rigged to accommodate troops. The port hull was loaded with supplies. Fold-down benches had been installed along both sides of the interior.
The president of the United States, flanked by members of his bodyguard, sat with his back to the outboard side facing inward. The windows were low by human standards, and it was necessary to scrunch down in order to look outside. Not that there was anything to see beyond a thick layer of clouds. Franklin turned toward Manning. “I hope our friends know where they’re going.”
Now, with the skies pretty much to themselves, it was a relatively simple matter for the Ra ‘Na to ferry the allied assault team in from the assembly point near Bellingham, Washington. The lifters, which could make vertical takeoffs and landings, were considerably slower than shuttles but boasted a much greater payload. Mannin
g frowned. “The pilots seem pretty competent to me . . . It’s what we’re going to face on the ground that you need to worry about.”
Franklin sighed. “Look, I know you’re pissed, but this is something that I have to do.”
“I don’t see why,” Manning answered grimly. “What if you get yourself killed? What then?”
“We’ve been through this before,” Franklin insisted. “Blue would take over, that’s what vice presidents are for.”
“No disrespect to the vice president,” Manning replied evenly, “but it’s you that people look up to. Besides, you don’t have anything to prove. You risk your life every time you get up in the morning.”
Franklin nodded. “Thanks, Jack, that means plenty coming from you . . . But the fact is that I do have something to prove, both to the people who still believe that I’m a collaborator and to myself. Besides, given the way that you and your team take care of me, what’s the worst that could happen? A hangnail? A mosquito bite? Some damp clothes?”
Manning chuckled in spite of himself, as the lifter banked to the right and started its vertical descent. A voice came over the intercom. It belonged to a Ra ‘Na pilot and sounded stiff. “We have arrived over the landing zone. There may be a need to take evasive action. Please check your safety harnesses.”
Comfortable in the knowledge that Ra ‘Na fighters had already flown through the LZ, drawn fire from computer-controlled surface-to-air missile batteries, and destroyed them, Manning checked his laptop computer. The screen showed a flight of fifteen lifters, each represented by a red delta, each five minutes apart. The plan called for Lifter One to land, off-load its troops, and take off.
Then, assuming the LZ was reasonably secure, the second lifter, the one that carried the president of the United States, would make its approach. Once the “Big Dog” hit the ground, the security team would throw a second ring of protection around him while Lifter Two dumped its containerized cargo. The arrangement was far from ideal, since Manning would have preferred to bring the president in on the last ship, but it was the best deal he’d been able to negotiate.
Franklin, eager to catch a glimpse of the landing zone, turned to peer out through the window. Mist consumed the aircraft, raindrops streaked across the window, and the lifter lurched as the increasingly choppy air battered it about. Then, just as the president began to wonder if the clouds went all the way to the ground, the jungle appeared. The Sauron fortress slid into view a few moments later. The first thing Franklin noticed was that the Guatemalan citadel was the virtual twin of the one near Bellingham. Or what the one on Hell Hill looked before the spaceship plowed into it. There were three towers, all in a cloverleaf pattern, and connected by short, sturdy wings. Blackened areas indicated where the Ra ‘Na continued to take potshots at the complex from orbit.
Now, as the aircraft lost more altitude, the president noticed two features that the northern site lacked, a water-filled moat and what appeared to be an artificial lake filled to overflowing with black, rain-slicked hulls.
In fact, having looked a bit closer, Franklin thought he could see where a few shuttles had attempted to land on top of those already down, creating pileups and triggering at least one fire. Of course there were lifters too, aircraft identical to the one he was on, parked helter-skelter all around the citadel’s perimeter. That meant the pilots would need to land farther out, well away from the complex, which suited Assault Force Commander Deac Smith just fine. The ex-Ranger was concerned about the possibility of booby traps, computer-controlled weapons emplacements, and who knew what else. That’s why his sappers would go in first, search for booby traps, and clear a path to the fortress itself.
The first lifter was down by that time. There had been no opposition, which meant that Smith, a platoon of his best troops, plus a heavy weapons platoon, had secured the LZ. Franklin knew he shouldn’t be scared, not surrounded by his bodyguard, but felt that way anyway. When the others went through a weapons check he did likewise, pulling the .9mm out of its shoulder holster, ejecting the magazine to ensure that it was full, and slamming it back into place.
Manning watched the president from the corner of his eye, hoped the politician wouldn’t shoot himself, but knew better than to say anything. The practice had paid off, and while something less than an expert, Franklin could hit the broad side of a barn. Which, assuming the security team was on the ball, he would never need to do.
Lifter Two descended through the rain, swayed as a gust of wind hit the twin hulls from the southeast, and squatted twenty feet from the welcoming orange smoke. Vilo Kell, who had been a Ranger himself and understood how Smith wanted things done, led a heavily armed team consisting of Jonathan Wimba, Garly Mol, Rafik Alaweed, and Gozen Asad out into the downpour, where they formed a secondary ring of protection within the existing perimeter. Manning waited for the go-ahead to come in over his headset, nodded to Franklin, and followed the president out into the rain. Orvo Orvin, the security team’s com specialist, and Jill Ji-Hoon followed behind.
Franklin felt a spatter of rain hit the top of his unprotected head, felt it stop as Asad produced an umbrella, and wondered if he should object. No one else was equipped with an umbrella so why should he have one? But, based on the ear-to-ear grin plastered across Asad’s face, Franklin suspected the agent had thought to bring the implement himself. The kind of thing people always tried to do for Jina. He nodded to the young man, said “Thanks, Goz,” and saw the grin get even wider.
The lifter’s engines wound up, the aircraft lifted off, and another came in to land.
“So,” Franklin said, addressing his comment to Manning, “what now?”
“Now we wait,” Manning said calmly, rain pouring down off his bush hat. “There’s no way to know what kind of stuff the bugs left for us to stumble over . . . Smith will let us know when it’s safe to move.”
Franklin, who had imagined himself being among the first to arrive at the citadel, managed to hide his disappointment. Maybe Manning had been right, maybe he should have agreed to come in last, rather than stand there in the rain. Still, this was where the action would soon take place, and there was no way that he could bear to miss it.
The minutes ticked by, more lifters landed, and more troops hit the ground. Most of them were human, but a contingent of Ra ‘Na marines arrived as well, all led by a now familiar face. Franklin bent at the waist in order to shake Fra Pol’s hand. “It’s good to see you again, Fra Pol, but I’m surprised Dro Rul allowed you to come.”
Water ran off the Ra ‘Na’s fur, and he grinned. “No offense, Mr. President, but look who’s talking! Besides, I forgot to ask him.”
Franklin laughed. It was clear that no matter who ended up in charge, Pol would continue to ignore them. A true revolutionary through and through.
The conversation was interrupted when one of Deac’s Demons materialized out of the downpour. He wore camos and clutched an assault rifle to his chest. The name “McKay” was hand-lettered on his helmet cover. He’d been a cop, and it showed. “An adult female approached the perimeter, sir. She knows how to get inside the citadel, sir, or that’s what she claims. Deac Smith is out with the sappers. Would you care to speak with her?”
Glad to have something to do, Franklin nodded. “Sure, bring her in.”
Manning spoke into his mike. “Snake One to Snake Four . . . Accompany Trooper McKay, check to make sure the woman is clean, and bring her in. Over.”
Mol had been facing west with her back to the president. She said, “Roger that, One. I’m on it. Four out,” and jogged in from where she’d been stationed. That created a hole, which the other agents covered by pulling back.
When it came, the boom was so muted by distance and the muffling effect of the rain that Franklin looked to Manning for confirmation. “Was that some sort of explosion?”
The security chief nodded and turned to Orvin. “Got anything?”
The com specialist was monitoring Smith’s command channel. He nodded. “The advance
party encountered some obstacles. They’re making a path.”
There were more explosions and Manning wondered what “encountered” meant. Had the obstacles been detected ahead of time? Or “encountered” as someone died? He shivered and hoped for the former.
Franklin was chatting with Pol, learning the latest on the effort to sanitize the fleet, when Mol returned from her errand. The president turned to discover that although the woman who accompanied her was a good deal smaller, and dressed in what could only be described as rags, her personality was considerable indeed. It seemed to fill the space around her. Not only that, but the woman was pretty, very pretty, with perfectly even features, a nice figure, and big brown eyes. They stared at the politician with a strange sort of intensity—as if determined to make an impression.
“This is Dr. Maria Sanchez-Jones,” Mol said dryly, as if there was something about the woman she didn’t particularly like, “and she’s clean. Dr. Jones, this is Alexander Franklin, president of the United States.”
Franklin summoned the sort of smile once reserved for influential business people, religious leaders, and foreign dignitaries. “Good morning! Please, step under the umbrella, it’s wet out there!”
It had been a long time since anyone had treated Jones in the manner to which she had once been accustomed—and the courtesy was sufficient to produce a pageant-quality smile. “Thank you, Mr. President. I can’t tell you how happy I am to see you and your troops. Does this mean that the Saurons have been defeated?”
The woman was close now, extremely close, and for the first time since Jina’s death Franklin felt a strong sense of attraction. He shook his head. “No, Dr. Jones, there’s been some progress, but we’re a long way from total victory. In fact, based on recent intelligence, it appears that the bugs came up with a way to increase the number of nymphs produced by some members of their population. Just another reason why it’s so important to destroy the complex.”
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