Hell Heart

by Robert E. Vardeman

  No, his original plan was best: a long-distance, surgical missile strike. Take out the creature, and the field was wide-open. He could collect the meteorite at his leisure.

  “The crater with this monster in it,” Allen said. “The one I found. Have the biotechs discovered anything about the fragment I brought back?”

  “Sir, you know that almost the whole garrison is in the field,” Suarez said with a hint of satisfaction. “The bio officer went with Lieutenant Travis to study the Cyclops in case he could get enough of a corpse to do it. The other biotechs have been busy keeping the post going. That hunk of crystal is still sitting in the isolation lab where you ordered it placed.”

  “The creature is a huge threat to Chiapas, much more than those guerrillas,” Allen said. Suarez had not seen the crystalline thing; he had. He alone knew the menace it presented.

  “I need a full inventory of long-range weapons capable of destroying a heavily armored main battle tank,” he said. “Something powerful enough to take out a Subjugator class tank.”

  “All we have is a couple of SPEAR missiles,” Suarez said. “And those are more useful against personnel.”

  Allen tapped his finger on one of the maps that littered Villalobos’s desk. “The target I’m interested in is here,” he said, pointing to the spot in the jungle where he had seen the monster.

  Suarez leaned over the desk to study the map, interested in spite of himself. “Then we have a problem. SPEAR missiles have a fairly short range. That’s too far to reach, unless we want to send out a man on an Aztec with a missile launcher.”

  “Can we do that?” Allen asked.

  “Nope,” Suarez said. “Lieutenant Travis has both working Aztecs with her at El Manguito.”

  Allen scowled, still staring at the map. He was so close to victory he could taste it, and once again his men were letting him down.

  “We could try placing a homing beacon at the site,” offered Suarez. “That could help the SPEAR home in on the target and maybe extend its range a bit.”

  “Do we have any?” Allen asked with growing interest.

  “We have several. A scout unit could position the homing device and confirm the creature’s location.”

  “That would do. The SPEAR is perfect for this type of assault.” The SPEAR rained down cluster bombs and carpeted a wide area with enough destruction to take out a small army. The biggest problem was that one of the submunitions might destroy the radiant source at the bottom of the crater. Allen wanted the creature gone, but he also had to retrieve the meteorite to cement his position with the Union Command.

  Handing an energy source of that power over to the Union’s scientists would surely guarantee his promotion to major. Maybe he could even jump a couple of ranks. Colonel Allen sounded far better to his ears. That would make up for the time spent cooling his heels after the Alaska debacle.

  “I can get the missile prepped and on a vehicle to take it into range of the crater in a few hours, but it will require at least ten techs.”

  “Not the crater,” Allen said in exasperation, realizing he could not risk his little gift from space. But he dared not mention it to Suarez. Word would get around too fast that something worthwhile lay out in the jungle for the taking.

  “I don’t understand, sir. A minute ago you asked for—” Suarez fell silent when Allen glared at him.

  “There are villages all around that area, you fool. They pepper the countryside. Where there aren’t villages, there are fields with crops. Destroying those would be as terrible for the peasants as hitting a village. Instead of killing them outright, we’d be sentencing them to slow starvation. What’s wrong with you, Sergeant?” Allen liked the way that sounded—as if he gave a damn about a few miserable villages—and he liked the way it snapped Suarez’s mouth shut even better.

  “I have nothing to say, Captain,” the sergeant said, fuming.

  “I thought not. I—”

  The sudden blare of alarms cut him off. Allen spun around and looked at the battle display console near Villalobos’s—his—desk. He switched it to local mode. “Something coming from the east. Slow. But massive. And energetic.”

  Suarez fiddled with the comm board, then looked up. “It might just be the creature you’re talking about. The readings we’re getting don’t look like anything I’ve seen before. I guess you won’t have to blow it out of the countryside. It’s coming here.”

  “Do you have orbital recon?” asked Allen, not sure how to find what he needed on the battle display. It was a different model from the one he had used in Alaska.

  “Negative,” said Suarez. “Communications with the battle station are still out. Have been for several days.”

  Allen wondered if this might be due to the same meteorite he hoped to retrieve out in the jungle. But it did not matter now. He had to defend San Cristóbal.

  “Get the SPEARS ready,” he ordered Suarez. “Our unwelcome visitor is going to be in for a surprise.”

  “But we’ve got civilian population nearby, sir. You said—”

  “Get the missiles ready. We might have to sacrifice a few civilians to stop this threat to all our lives!” Allen’s voice rose shrilly. Suarez frowned, but left to prep the missiles while Allen tried to get a grip on himself. Staring at the battle display didn’t help. The creature wasn’t moving fast, but it was inexorably moving closer.

  Why was it coming to San Cristóbal? An uneasy feeling grew until Allen felt as if fingers were tightening around his throat. He left his position in the command and control center and ran to the isolation lab. He pressed his face against the thick plastic observation port and stared at the crystalline growth he had brought back. The thrashing tendril in the bottle had changed dramatically. The questing tentacles had thickened to savage thorns poking their way through the bottle walls. If it continued to grow, it would soon rip the plastic apart.

  What if the creature was coming here because it could sense this thing’s presence? It had spawned the snaky globs from its own body, after all. Perhaps it had some way to communicate with them.

  Perhaps it was a mother coming for her offspring.

  Allen swallowed hard. The snake-thing might have helped him wrest command from Villalobos, but right now it seemed like bringing it to the base was a mistake. He rushed from the isolation lab to the first floor of the command center. Suarez was working on the consoles, getting the SPEAR missiles ready. Beside him labored a corporal, sweating buckets. The corporal looked up when he came in.

  “Sir, what is that thing? Never seen its like before.”

  “Don’t worry, Corporal. Just do your duty and all will be well.” Allen hoped he wasn’t lying. He entered the command codes into the control console—the codes for which he had risked so much—and stared at the visual display above the boards, which was trained on the edge of the jungle just outside the garrison. The creature had mutated even further since he had seen it struggling in the jungle crater. It was larger, but it moved more slowly, almost falling at every step. The growths all over its body had changed, some vanishing entirely.

  But its face! That was enough to give Allen nightmares for the rest of his life. Medusa had nothing on this monstrous being. Crystalline snakes of all sizes and colors lashed about wildly, as if goading the creature to attack. The arms were clear of new growth, but from the waist down it was arrayed with grotesque extensions that writhed in the same manner as the piece he had imprisoned in the isolation lab.

  “Get a Rottweiler pointed at it,” he ordered. “Open fire when it gets in range.”

  “Sir, if the Rott doesn’t take it out, there’s no way we’ll be able to use any kind of missile,” Suarez protested. “It will be too close to our own position.”

  “Yes, yes, of course. All or nothing,” Allen said. He, too, was sweating profusely, his uniform plastering itself to his body.

  “Can’t let it get much closer or the missile will be a no-go,” the corporal said, seconding Suarez’s warning.

 
“You can’t fire, Captain,” Suarez said firmly. “Carpeting that area with submunitions from a SPEAR will take out an unknown number of civilians.”

  “Collateral damage. Unfortunate but not unexpected. Fire the SPEAR. Target that . . . thing, and fire!”

  “Sir, I protest!” cried Suarez. “There are civilians living at the outskirts of San Cristóbal who—”

  Allen reached over and punched the firing button. For a moment he worried that Suarez had not properly set up the SPEAR. Then the rush of missile exhaust echoed outside the C&C building. The display showed a burning exhaust trail, then the screen switched to high polarization to blank the brilliant detonation of dozens of powerful antipersonnel submunitions ripping apart the land around the creature. The building shook from the close-proximity detonation.

  Dust rose in high columns outside the garrison, blocking the visual display. The corporal switched from one filter to another until he found a combination that cut through the curtain.

  “Dead-on, sir,” the corporal said. “Blew it into a million pieces.”

  “Not to mention the civilians,” Suarez said with cold fury. “Corporal, go see how bad the casualties are. Offer them whatever medical aid we can provide.”

  Allen let the corporal go without protest. However many villagers might have been killed in the attack was inconsequential compared with the fact that the meteorite was now his for the taking. What were a few miserable peasants, weighed against the potential that tiny speck held for the Union?

  And for him.

  19

  * * *

  José Villalobos fell to his knees on the jungle floor, gasping for breath. He was in superb physical condition, but never before had he been forced to flee so far so fast. He strained to hear any sounds of pursuit over the roaring of blood in his ears and his own harsh panting. He wasn’t certain, but he thought they might finally have succeeded in throwing off the Union troops who had pursued them like avenging Furies—led by his own brother.

  The reprieve had come none too soon. The ugly, swirling orb of light in the sky that was the Maw was sinking slowly toward the western horizon. It would be dark soon, and José had not relished the idea of trying to fight his way through the jungle at night—not when so many of his guerrillas were wounded.

  The few survivors of the disastrous raid on Revancha sat slumped around him, as exhausted and demoralized as their leader. Of the two hundred who had attacked the power plant, fewer than fifty remained, and none had escaped unscathed. Sweat, dirt, and blood gleamed on their downturned faces; their clothing was shredded and torn from their panicky flight through the jungle. José was glad to see that most had managed to hang on to their weapons, but with so little remaining ammunition, he didn’t know how useful they would be.

  His breathing was slightly calmer now, the roaring in his ears diminished, and he still could detect no signs of pursuit. For the first time in nearly twelve hours, José permitted himself to relax slightly.

  He still could not believe how quickly it had all fallen apart. The attack on the reactor had been precisely planned down to the tiniest detail, and within minutes of their breaching the fence, disaster had struck. José had lost troops before, but never so many so quickly—and never so many that he counted as friends. He had seen familiar face after familiar face fall, covered in blood, cut down by the lethal chatter of automatic fire or the hot fury of grenades. The cheerful Flaco would drink no more bottles of tequila. Faithful, resolute Mary—his eyes stung at the memory of his last sight of Mary Stephenson: unable to walk, holding off the Union soldiers with a final burst of strength so her comrades could escape.

  And for a time, it had looked as if her sacrifice would be in vain. In all his previous engagements with the Union, the enemy soldiers had feared to follow the guerrillas once they melted back into the jungle. The jungle was the guerrillas’ home; they knew its twisted paths and dangerous heart better than any Union soldier ever could. The heavy vehicles and powerful armaments that gave the Union such an advantage in open battle became a liability in the close confines of the jungle. That was why José had started a guerrilla campaign in the first place; he knew he could never hope to defeat his former comrades by fighting on their terms.

  But this time, perhaps emboldened by their overwhelming victory at Revancha, Diego’s troops had pursued. The guerrillas, weakened, wounded, and demoralized, had been hard-pressed to evade them. For hours Diego had chased them, occasionally picking off one or two stragglers with well-placed fire. As they moved deeper into the jungle, the Union vehicles became ensnared in the trees and undergrowth. Diego attempted to continue the pursuit on foot, but José and Consuela had sent the rest of the survivors ahead, then slipped back silently through the jungle and caught unawares a few Union soldiers who had become separated from their fellows. The sight of their bodies, torn throats gaping bloodily as they lay on the trail, had convinced Diego that the fight was best left for another day.

  Diego. José had always loved his younger brother—even after the disastrous raid three years ago that resulted in the deaths of so many innocents—but he had never respected him. It was José who’d had the brilliant mind, José who’d been top in his class, José who could plot dazzling strategies on the battlefield. Diego had always been the plodder, the methodical one. Competent, yes, but not particularly creative, and try as he might, José could not help looking down on him for it.

  He had seen no reason to change his opinion over the years he had opposed his brother. Time after time he had thwarted Diego’s attempts to maintain order, had undermined his authority in Chiapas, had sabotaged his supply routes and killed his men. Always José had been several steps ahead.

  But this time he had underestimated his younger brother. José had to give him credit, even as he sat staring at the bloody aftermath of his handiwork. Diego had planned and executed perfectly what must surely have been a last-minute defense strategy. He had lured the guerrillas into a trap and sprung it at precisely the right moment. It had been a masterful stroke.

  José thought back to that moment on the battlefield when he had locked eyes with his brother. It had been years since they had actually seen each other, and he had been shocked at how much older Diego looked. He wondered if Diego had thought the same about him. It was hard to know how to feel about his brother anymore—the love they had shared since childhood was now so tangled up with hatred and resentment and fear that there was no separating them.

  Right now the fear was paramount. Diego had anticipated José’s every move, had broken his forces, had made a shambles of all his carefully laid plans. Diego had done his work thoroughly—so thoroughly that now, as José looked around at the tattered remnants of his army, he had no idea what to do. Two of his most trusted lieutenants were dead, along with three-quarters of his force. It was a crushing defeat, the worst the guerrillas had ever suffered.

  But it was more than the shock of defeat that kept José slumped on the ground, uncertain what to do. He had spent months planning for the attack on Revancha: gathering intelligence on the plant’s defenses, raiding to build up a cache of ammunition and weapons, carefully plotting diversions to divide the Union forces. He had spent countless sleepless nights poring over maps and drawing up supply and troop lists. He had poured his entire being into the attack, and all those months of planning and obsessing over the smallest detail had been swept away in a few disastrous moments.

  He had rested everything on victory at Revancha, and he had failed. But he had been thinking for so long in terms of the attack that now he could not think of anything else.

  José did not look up from the ground as a pair of booted feet came into his field of vision. Then the owner of the boots squatted until a pair of brown eyes could look into his. Consuela.

  “Your head is bleeding,” she said in a brisk, practical tone. José absently touched his forehead, dully surprised to see that his fingers came away red.

  “Here,” Consuela said, holding out a bandage fro
m a stolen Union medkit. When José failed to reach for it, she sighed, pushed his matted hair back from his forehead, and applied the bandage herself. She stood, moved out of his sight, and returned a few minutes later carrying a canteen.

  “Drink,” she said firmly, thrusting it at him. Automatically, José took the canteen and drained the little water it held in a few swallows. He had not realized until then how thirsty he was.

  Consuela took the empty canteen back and stood looking at José, her expression a mixture of disapproval and concern. She said nothing, and a few seconds later she walked away. As always, Consuela saw what was, accepted it, and did what she could. José watched her as she moved among the guerrillas, dispensing bandages to some, water and food to others. As she worked to restore them physically, she also strove to renew their spirits: joking with one, lecturing another, commiserating with a third on the loss of a friend.

  They had all lost friends this day, but José knew all those deaths would have been as nothing if he had lost Consuela. She was the glove to his hand, the rock against which he leaned, the earth beneath his feet. Without her, he was nothing.

  José’s view of Consuela was abruptly blocked. He looked up to see Gunther standing over him, his body taut, his features distorted almost unrecognizably by rage.

  “This—this is your great victory?” he spat, waving at the pathetic remnants of José’s force. “For years you have told us the Union is nothing, your brother is nothing! Is this the result of nothing?”

  José was dismayed but unsurprised to see a number of the others nodding agreement with Gunther’s words. They had never faced such a devastating defeat before, and their confidence in their leader had been shaken, if not irrevocably shattered. He couldn’t blame them—at this moment he didn’t have much confidence in himself either.