by Tom Clancy
The robot paused, tracking the emission source, but it had quickly backed out of sensor range.
Its computers triangulating the object's line of movement to project its likely path of retreat, the hedgehog gave chase, slinging across the rocky soil on its all-terrain carrier.
Suddenly another source of human IR emissions appeared, this one behind the hedgehog.
Then a third on its right, and a fourth on the left.
The robot stopped again, boxed in. Its various turret sensors needed just an instant to perform a sweep extending for fifty meters in a full circle. At the same time, its infrared illuminator was casting a light field that enabled its night video equipment to scan for images in the pitch darkness.
Again the four anomalous radiation sources dashed into and out of range, still surrounding the robot, their pattern of motion keeping them roughly equidistant from it.
Its logical systems correlating the input from its probes, the hedgehog had definitively classified the circling objects as human entities and potential threats. But very much by design, its programming did not include any options for dealing with them.
Instead, it was transmitting the processed data to its monitoring site via an encrypted radio channel, leaving its flesh-and-blood handlers to decide what to do next.
"What's up with Wally?" JEZOIRSKI SAID. "You see how he's sniffing around?"
"Yeah," Delure replied with concern. "And I don't like it a bit."
Beside them, Cody, the senior man in the room, leaned pensively over his surveillance monitors and said nothing.
At their monitoring station in the bowels of the Brazilian ISS compound, the guards were studying a complex bank of dials, controls, and electronic displays that placed them at the informational heart of its security network. All three wore the indigo uniforms and newly issued shoulder patches--these depicting a broadsword surrounded by stylized satellite bandwidth lines--of UpLink's global intelligence and threat countermeasure force, dubbed Sword as a reference to the legend of the Gordian knot, which Alexander the Great was supposed to have undone with a swift and decisive stroke of his blade. It was a method analogous to Roger Gordian's no-nonsense approach to crisis management, making for some interesting word play, and forming the direct basis of the section name.
Jezoirski slid forward in his chair, his features limned by the pale green radiance of an infrared video display, his eyes on the IR meter directly beneath it.
"Shit," he said. "Look at that heat emission. Somebody's definitely out th--"
Jezoirski broke off midsentence as a warning indicator lit up on the panel. He glanced over at Delure, who took hurried note of this development and then pointed back at the video screen.
Green-on-green images flashed across the monitor--a group of human figures moving around the security robot, alternately closing in and backing away.
Cody thought of bloodhounds harrying their prey. But why would those sons of bitches play tag with the 'hog? The robots' main effectiveness lay in their early alert and standoff capabilities against a perimeter attack. Their purpose was to buy time until human reinforcements arrived, to repel or delay an intrusion attempt while it was in progress. Their purpose was not to engage in close skirmishing once the grounds were already compromised. At that stage getting past them would be easy, and crippling or taking them out just slightly more difficult.
His forehead crunched with tension, he scanned the radar imagery in front of him. On screen, the hedgehog and the men surrounding it showed up as color-coded shapes positioned against a set of grid lines and numerical coordinates.
"This doesn't make any sense," Jezoirski said. "There's nothing to show the outer fence was breached--"
"We can worry about that later." Cody was already reaching for the phone as he broke his silence. "Key the 'hogs for full gamut intruder suppression. I'm getting Thibodeau on the horn."
On Jezoirski's Radioed Command, Wally hit them with a barrage of light and sound.
Its first optical counterstrike was a burst from the neodymium-YAG laser projector on its turret. To the four men around the robot, it seemed almost as if a small nova had ignited at ground level, momentarily filling the night with diamond-edged brilliance.
They scattered rapidly, fanning out over several yards--but the flash was something for which they had come prepared. They had known that a laser pulse could temporarily impair the vision or burn out the retina, dazzle or blind, depending on its power, intensity, and length. They had also known that the weapons used by Sword's robotic defenders were calibrated to produce no lasting damage. And they had worn dark filters on their visors to shield them from the brightness, correctly betting this would make its effects tolerable.
The hedgehog's sensory assault, however, was about to kick into overdrive. The laser flash had barely faded in the air when a group of red-and-blue halogen lights on Wally's main equipment case began to strobe in a preprogrammed sequence, its pattern and frequency closely matching that of normal human brain waves. At precisely the same instant, the robot's acoustic generator had begun transmitting 100-decibel soundwaves at a controlled rate of ten cycles per second. It was a resonance the invaders seemed to feel more than actually hear, a sour, abrasive humming that remained just below the level of audibility, working its way deep into their bodies, swelling thickly in their stomachs and intestines.
Each directed-energy weapon worked on the same principle, targeting specific areas within the human body, coupling the spectrum of its emission to characteristic waveforms within those areas, and manipulating them by hyperstimulation. The flashing lights attacked the visual receptors of the hindbrain, triggering a storm of electrical activity akin to the sort that occurred during a sudden attack of epilepsy. The acoustic generator had multiple targets--the inner ear, where abnormal vibrations of the fluid within its semicircular canals would throw the sense of balance into upheaval, and the soft organs of the abdomen, where similar vibrations would lead to convulsions of pain and nausea.
The combined effect of these measures overtook the invaders at once, scrambling their senses and motor functions, confusing and sickening them, provoking a hallucinatory and physically wrenching disconnection from their surroundings. Shaking, gagging, and retching, they staggered in confused, purposeless circles. One of them dropped onto his back, his bladder releasing, grotesque herky-jerky spasms running through his limbs. Another sank to his knees, clutched his heaving stomach, and vomited.
Partially overcome, Manuel knew he had bare moments in which to act. Forcing his legs to remain steady underneath him, he turned in what he thought was the hedgehog's direction, clenched his eyes against its strobing lights, raised his FAMAS rifle, and pumped a 20mm HE round from its grenade launcher attachment. It was a crude, inaccurate use of an extraordinarily refined weapon, but it achieved its desired results. The shell struck the 'hog's carrier scant yards from where he stood, detonating with an explosive flash.
Manuel dove to the ground as the concussion swept over him, waited a second or two, then got back to his feet and dusted himself off. A quick look around revealed that one member of his band had been killed in the blast, his flesh and clothing shredded by flying shrapnel. He himself had an open gash above the elbow. But the robot was wreckage. It leaned sideways on the burning remains of a rubber track, smoke and flames spitting from its mangled carrier. He could smell the odor of its fused wiring.
Wreckage.
He saw his remaining teammates struggling to regain their equilibrium, allowed them a few moments to recover, then hurried to gather them to his side. There was no time to linger over their single casualty.
"Vaya aqui!" he hissed. "Come on, we still have work to do."
Much as Rollie Thibodeau loved his job at Uplink, Much as he felt it was an important job, he hated how its hours screwed up his biological clock, turned his daily routine inside out, and cramped his lifestyle in more ways than he could have stated.
Take sex, or the lack of it, for one thing. W
here would he find a woman who'd be in amorous sync with his schedule, falling into bed with the sunrise, emerging after sunset like a vampire? Take sleep for another. This was Brazil, land of bronzed bodies and the fio dental. How could he get any rest with the tropical daylight pressing against his window blinds, tantalizing him with its warmth, reminding him of the long, gorgeously romantic afternoons dancing past? Take, for a third example, something as important to a man as eating. Could cheerfulness truly be expected of him when his meals were fouled up beyond description? It was rotten enough being a hundred miles from the nearest city and having to subsist on the bland, unseasoned fare they served in the commissary. Rotten even when those tasteless dishes were hot out of the kitchen. But consuming them after they'd sat in a refrigerator for half a day, and then been warmed over in a microwave, was a gross indignity. And the hours at which one was forced to eat when working the night shift, calous ve, the hours were nothing short of unspeakable!
Thibodeau sat in his small but tidy office in a sublevel of the ISS compound's main headquarters building, staring down at the plate of overcooked beef and watery, reconstituted mashed potatoes on his desk with a kind of savage contempt. It was slightly past eight P.M., and a new kid on his shift by the name of McFarlane had just strolled in with the meal, holding a dish for himself as well, looking as if he could hardly wait to get back to his post and dig into it ... something that had so annoyed Thibodeau, he'd been unable to even feign appreciation as he dismissed the youngster, which left him feeling still worse for having rudely punished the messenger for the message.
Well, he would just have to make it up to him later. Explain that even the most upbeat person in the world could have his disposition ruined by two years of eating lunch at eight o'clock at night, and a repulsive approximation of dinner between midnight and three in the morning. Breakfast alone provided a modicum of satisfaction, and only because the prep cooks would arrive for work around six o'clock, giving him an opportunity to send for some fresh eggs or waffles before the end of his shift, and thus eat at least one relatively decent meal at a relatively sane hour.
"Lord, thank you for our fuckin' daily slop," Thibodeau muttered in his thick Cajun accent.
His features glum, he was about to reach for his knife and fork when the phone at his elbow shrilled. He glanced over at it, saw the redline light blinking, and promptly snatched up the handset.
Other than for training drills, the extension had never been used during his term at the facility.
"Yes?" he said.
The man on the line was Cody from the monitoring station.
"Sir, there's been a penetration."
"Where?" Thibodeau sat up straight, his culinary woes forgotten.
"The western quadrant." Cody's voice was edged with tension. "Wally detected several intruders. Thing I don't understand, we aren't seeing any damage along the fence. No sign perimeter integrity's been violated."
"You sic the li'l bastard on 'em?"
"Affirmative. We actuated its VSI banks and acoustic cannon, but ..." A hesitant pause. "Sir, Wally's gone off-line. It doesn't look good."
Thibodeau breathed. He'd insisted a thousand times that the 'hogs couldn't be trusted. The hell of it was, he'd never once wanted to be proven right.
"You hear from Henderson and Travers at the gate?"
"We've been trying to radio them and there's been no response."
"Christ," Thibodeau said. "Send some men out right away. I also want a full detail around the plant and warehouse buildings. Seal 'em up tight, hear me?"
"Yes, sir."
Thibodeau paused to collect his thoughts, gripping the receiver in his fist. He was anxious to get into the monitoring room and see what was happening for himself. But first he wanted to be sure he was covering all his bases.
"We better have us some air support ready," he said after a moment. "Laissez les bons temps rouler."
"What was that, sir?"
Thibodeau rose from his seat. "Tell the chopper pilots to fasten their goddamn seat belts, out."
Manuel crouched behind the gate, his arm throbbing, the sleeve of his jumpsuit warm and moist where he'd been injured. His rapid movement had worsened the bleeding, but the sentry robot's destruction was certain to draw security personnel to the area, and any holdup would increase the risk of capture. He'd have to attend to the wound later.
Making an effort to ignore his pain, he took a triangular slice of C4 explosive from his gear bag, peeled off its outer foil, and molded it carefully around the bottom of the gatepost. Next he extracted a twelve-inch segment of Primadet cord, one end of which was connected to an aluminum blasting cap, the other to a battery-powered timer about the size and shape of a marker pen. He inserted the end with the blasting cap into the saddle charge and set the timer's simple dial mechanism for a five-minute delay. When he pulled the safety pin holding it in place, the arrow on the dial would start to turn, initiating the detonation sequence--but he couldn't do that until his teammates finished wiring together the charges they had already planted on supports along the fence. The thin orange detonating cord would set off the linked charges almost instantaneously, and he intended to be well away from the area before that happened.
He settled down to wait. Several yards to his left a light shone in the guard booth's broken window. The single wall he could see from his position was spattered with blood. A limp, upflung arm rested against it above the spot where one of the lifeless guards had fallen.
Manuel looked away from the booth, moving his gaze out along the perimeter fence to where the others were at their tasks, dark blurs against the deeper darkness. Blowing a gap in the fence hadn't been his own idea. The watchmen on duty would have known the gate's electronic access codes, and he'd proposed they be captured and made to unlock it at gunpoint. But Kuhl had formulated a minute-by-minute plan and wanted them killed before the jump team's arrival. With the robot and guards in the compound's western sector eliminated, he had reasoned there would be a surveillance lapse until backup security units could arrive. This would give Manuel's group an opening to set their explosives while Teams Orange and Yellow carried out their end of the plan.
Manuel hadn't argued. It was Kuhl's role to make the final calls, and his to carry them out.
Now Manuel saw one of the other jumpers come scurrying up toward the gate, a length of 'det cord winding out behind him. Not a moment too soon, he thought. His wound was large and ugly, the torn flesh imbedded with sharp fragments of metal. He would need to take care of it soon.
He inhaled to clear his head, then took the cord from his teammate and inserted it into the charge he'd just primed.
"Bueno, Juan," he said. "Where is Marco?"
"Coming," Juan said. He gestured toward Manuel's arm. "You all right?"
Manuel looked at him.
"Yes, all right," he said. He willed himself not to stumble as he rose to his feet. "Radio Tomas and the others. Let them know we're through here. Then I pull the pin."
In the center of the compound, three levels underground, Thibodeau rushed through the monitor room's entrance to find Jezoirski, Cody, and Delure agitatedly studying their displays.
"What the hell's goin' on?" he said, noting their flustered expressions.
Delure swiveled his chair around to look at him.
"Sir, it's Ned ... the 'hog's detected a group of intruders in its sector. Could be the same ones we saw at the western perimeter, there's no way to tell."
Thibodeau eyed the screen and made a low, apprehensive sound in his throat. He cared less about whether these were the same trespassers Wally had encountered than how they had gotten into the compound without initiating any perimeter alarms, and what the purpose of their intrusion might be. A man who relied heavily on instinct, he saw a pattern and tempo to their movements that took him back to his days as a Long Range Recon Patrolman with the 101st Air Cav in Southeast Asia, awakening suspicions that were almost too crazy to share.
But he could not ignore
the guideposts of his own experience, and commanding a LRRP unit out of Camp Eagle had taught him plenty. Outrageous as it seemed at first blush, what was happening had all the earmarks of an airborne insertion. That would account for the intruders' seeming ability to materialize out of nowhere, and also explain their otherwise mystifying cat-and-mouse game with Wally. They hadn't taken on the 'hog because they needed to, but because they'd wanted to, as if their aim was to put the goddamned contraption through its paces.
Thibodeau pictured the confused expressions he'd seen on the faces of the men around him when he'd come bolting into the room--expressions that must have perfectly mirrored his own. He felt sure those looks would have given tremendous pleasure to the unwanted visitors rushing around out there at the installation's margins. Certainly he'd have enjoyed that sort of thing on his runs through the jungle between 1969 and 1970. The slicks would swing down low over the trees wherever they saw pockets of North Vietnamese and quickly insert their LRRP teams, who would plunge into the brush seeking out targets of opportunity, causing disruption and confusion for the enemy. Faire la chasse.
"Can you give me a better fix on those bastards?" he said.
Delure fingered a button on his console to superimpose a digitized map over the radar image they'd been viewing.
"How's that?"
"Good, good, now bring it in closer."
Delure hit another button and zoomed the image. Thibodeau saw geographical features of the compound's western grounds enlarge and clarify around the blips of light, indicating the intruders' position.
"A non." He pointed at a curving blue line on-screen. "Take a look at where they are."
Delure gaped up at him. "Near the west drive. That's the quickest route from our motor vehicle pool to the perimeter."
Thibodeau nodded.
"Get the 'hog on their asses, an' this time hit 'em with something stronger than fancy lights," he said. "Our chase cars gon' be on that road any minute!"