by Bruce Bethke
"I hear somebody's looking for a lift?" The gunship pilot's voice was laconic, as if he flew into hot LZs every day just before breakfast. "This is Blue Dog One. What side you coming out on?"
"North side. There's fifteen of us all told. Do you have room?" Houston led his men out of the control center and into a long white corridor. Behind them, the Grimaldi engineers did their best to run with them, but in their unpowered vacuum suits, they couldn't keep pace with the others, who wore servomechanically enhanced battle-suits.
"Room enough," the pilot said. "Here's the drill. I'll hold and cover Dog Two while he picks up the first eight, then he'll lift and cover me while I get the rest. It'll be tight, but we can do it."
"Roger. See you there, Dog One."
Chuck Houston was sure he'd never seen anything so beautiful as the sight of the two gunships arcing over the horizon toward them. At a distance they looked like two small black objects flying out of the blue-white half-circle of the Earth, which was floating in the black sky far behind them. He fired a bright blue flare into the airless void, then returned the gray rod to his belt and looked back over his shoulder.
Staff Sergeant Saunders, who'd been bringing up the rear, was just coming out of the airlock. He waved her forward. "You were the last one out, right?"
"From our platoon, yeah. The garrison guys fell behind, but they should be here shortly."
"Right. The question is, how far behind them are the Loonies?"
"Good question, sir. Wish I knew."
"Yeah, me too. Goddammit, the engineers knew they had to keep up!"
He looked up toward the sky again and saw the first gunship start to descend. "All right, looks like they see us."
He pointed to the airlock. "Take up a defensive position facing the lock. Remember, some of our people will be coming out of there, so don't go shooting at the first thing that moves. And three of them are civs, so look first even if you see white."
The remnants of the Third Platoon scrambled to obey, ringing the closed lock and holding their lasers drawn as they assumed prone positions.
"Saunders, if those Loonies show their ugly faces, you call a mike-mike at the door."
"Roger, Colonel."
"Comm Tech, patch me in to the gunship that's flying cover." "Yes, sir."
Houston waited and watched impatiently as the approaching gunship grew from a small speck high above them into a lethal dark gray arachnoid vehicle.
"Here you go," the comm tech said. "Dog One is online."
"Dog One, this is Colonel Houston. Do you read?"
"Roger, Colonel. Looks like your boys are expecting some heat. Romeo looking for a little lovin'?"
"He's on our tail all right. Want to set your sights on the door?"
"Nothing like a welcome mat measured in megajoules. We'll give him a ride he won't forget. And speaking of rides, looks like your taxi just showed up."
"Thanks, Dog One. Houston out."
Saunders already had the men up and running for the gunship, which was hovering barely two meters above the broken rock of the lunar sea. In the low gravity, Houston and his men covered the ten meters to the gunship in two bounds, then leaped up into the ship's belly. As soon as they were in, the ship began to rise and tilt away from the curved outline of the Grimaldi dome, but before the floor panel finished sliding over the opening, the airlock door of the dome began to open.
Houston was never sure whether the figures silhouetted in the light coming out of the lock were blue- or white-suited soldiers, because before they managed to step out onto the lunar surface, the covering gunship opened fire. The airlock disappeared in a hellish flash of yellow-green laserfire, destroying the lock and everything in it.
"Damn!" He swore, not realizing that his comm link wasn't off.
Saunders turned to look at him, and although her faceless helmet concealed all emotions, he knew there was a grim look hidden behind her silver visor. "They weren't ours, were they, Chuck?" she said on tight beam.
Finding it hard to swallow, he switched over to tight beam before replying. Hating himself, he nevertheless said what needed to be said. "No, of course not, Sergeant. Those were Whitesuits—rebels."
But as the gunship flew them to the safety of Imbrium, Chuck Houston knew he would hear reproachful voices in his dreams that night.
Dalton would never forget the sheer terror he'd experienced that day at Grimaldi. Without his squad members, his norton, and, after a surprise encounter with a fast-retreating UN garrison patrol, his pistol, he was unequipped to do anything but run through the corridors of the dome, hiding whenever he heard movement nearby and hoping for a miracle.
The collision with the two-man patrol notwithstanding, it was the drones that were the worst. The patrols you could hear coming, if not their comm chatter, then the sharp clanking of their hard plaz boots on the equally hard plaz floors. Twice he'd rounded a corner and found himself at eye level with a silently floating probe; fortunately, both times he'd been behind it and managed to retreat before its sensors detected him.
The utility drill he'd found lying on the floor of an abandoned workshop was a comfort, but nothing more. He hoped it would somehow prove useful in close combat with the roving Bluesuits, but against the flying drones it was useless. Still, it was better than nothing.
More than two hours after he'd parted from Akkerman he heard yet another group of soldiers approaching. Spotting a framed panel ahead of him, he ran forward and slapped the large green button he assumed would open the door next to it.
"Access denied." The message glowed challengingly in red, and he fumbled for his norton before he remembered it was gone. The footsteps grew louder, and he looked frantically around the corridor for another means of escape. But there wasn't any.
He raised the drill in both hands, but before he could turn it on, two men in white battlesuits turned the corner and leveled their weapons at him.
"Starkiller, is that you?" one of them asked.
"Britt?" he replied, as a warm wave of relief swept through his body, so intense it was almost orgasmic. "Oh, my God," he said. "Oh, my God!"
"A simple 'Yes, Sergeant,' will do," Britt said, sounding embarrassed.
Dalton sank to his knees as twenty more LDF troopers came marching around the corner to join them. The remote, analytical side of his mind registered and wondered at the sheer number of them, but mostly he was too relieved to care. Inside his suit, he shook with an almost hysterical intensity as the fear and tension washed out of his body.
It took him a long moment to notice Jeff Mahoney pounding him on the shoulder. "Get up, Icehawk. We did it, dude! We sent those bastards running back dirtside where they belong!"
Chapter 16
New York City
16 November 2069
03:00 A.M. EST
The bedside comm unit chirped urgently. Jurgen Flanders rolled over, brushed his unruly blond hair back from his face, and fumbled around until he found his glasses. Groping for the light switch, he found his alarm clock instead. "Three a.m.? Oh, not again." Cursing fluently in five languages, he cleared his throat, switched on the bedside lamp, then tapped the acknowledge button.
"Yes, Senor Aguila. Sorry I don't have the weapons analysis done yet, but it's huge job. I can report, however, that there definitely is a pattern—"
"Never mind," Aguila interrupted impatiently. "Forget that. I've got a new job for you. The rebel team at Grimaldi has a new weapon: it's called MANTA. No one seems to know what it is, but their radio chatter is full of it, and it apparently gives them a tremendous tactical advantage."
Jurgen yawned. "And you want a full report by eight a.m.?"
"You read my mind, Jurgen."
"Sir? Where am I supposed to get this information?"
"From the battlesuit vid records, Jurgen. That's why we have those helmet cameras and black-box backpack recorders. Dozens of ATFOR troops were involved in that debacle; someone must have seen something."
Jurgen scratched his r
ight armpit and glared at the comm unit. Good thing the video was off. "Those records are classified. Even if they've been uploaded to UNET, they'll be in either the ATFOR or CWP partitions, neither of which I'm supposed to have access to."
"You're right, but I won't accept that as an excuse. Don't let me down, Jurgen." Aguila rang off.
Jurgen flipped the comm unit the finger, then dragged his weary carcass out of bed and got to work.
Briefing Room, LDF Omega Company
16 November 2069
09:00 GMT
Colonel Josef von Hayek was adamant. Sergeant Britt Godfrey was uncomfortable. "But, sir. Starkiller?"
Josef nodded. "Absolutely. I know, he's not much good in combat and he has the emotional maturity of a fourteen-year-old. But the little geek did volunteer for the Grimaldi Raid, after all, and he came through for me when the chips were down. I want him in my company, and I want him on Three-Card Monte."
Britt winced. "I'll try to talk 'im into it, sir. But no promises. I doubt 'e's forgotten who talked 'im into Grimaldi."
Josef shook his head slowly. "Don't try, Britt. There is no try, only do. I want him." Britt shrugged, then saluted. "Yes, sir. As you will."
New York City
17 November 2069
6:30 P.M. EST
The coffee house off Washington Square Park was dark, smoky, and filled with the accents and smells of a dozen Third World cultures. Botschafter Heinrich Graf, head of the NDE legation to the UN, was clearly put off by the place, and pulled his trench coat tightly about him, as if to protect himself from the risk of infection by foreignness.
Aguila found Graf's reaction perversely amusing, and made a point of squeezing the little blond German through a party of arguing Pakistani students as he led him to a small round table in the back of the place.
Shi Cheng Wu, chair of the UN Committee on World Peace, was waiting for them there. He acknowledged Aguila and Graf with a slight nod. Aguila dropped into the chair to Wu's right; Graf looked around himself nervously, then squeezed into the chair to Wu's left. A waitron wandered by; Aguila waved it away.
When the androgynous thing was safely out of earshot— about two meters, in this place—Chairman Wu turned to the ambassador. "So good of you to come, Herr Graf," he said softly, speaking English with a Hong Kong BBC accent.
Graf shuddered at the sound of his name and darted nervous eyes around again. "Is this absolutely necessary?" Graf asked, his voice barely more than a sibilant whisper. "I do not approve of clandestine meetings."
"Clandestine?" Wu asked, smiling innocently. "We are simply three ... business associates who have chosen to meet away from the office for a change. This is a charming and colorful place, don't you think? It's such a joy to be stationed in New York."
Graf shuddered. "My appointment is up in six months. If I have succeeded in doing nothing to embarrass the Fatherland, they will let me leave this pestilential dunghill and return home."
A young Rastafarian brushed up against Graf as he staggered by, heading for the men's room. The ambassador, clearly disgusted, brushed imaginary soil from this left shoulder.
Aguila leaned in then and took charge of the conversation. "Trust us, Herr Graf. What we have in mind will bring nothing but honor and accolades to your government."
Graf looked skeptical. "I don't know. The world gets nervous when Germans make plots. Why can we not deal with this through the Security Council and formal diplomatic channels?"
Shi Cheng Wu frowned. "You heard today's session. This MANTA weapon has the Security Council spooked. And the prospect of seeing UN soldiers as prisoners and hostages always robs them of their manhood. It is only a matter of time before they vote to suspend this operation."
"Besides," Aguila added, "we have reason to believe the Security Council has been compromised. There is an intelligence leak."
Graf gasped in mock horror. "No, really? Only fifteen ambassadors and sixty staff members, and we cannot keep a secret? How shocking!"
Wu responded. "We're not sure where the leak is. It could be in my committee or in the CLD."
Aguila tapped a finger on the table. "The point is, we can still win this war if we act quickly. We are offering your government the opportunity to play a decisive role in the solution. Think about it: for the first time in two centuries, the German army will be seen as a force for peace."
From the look on Graf's face, and the slow way he set his left elbow on the table and brought a finger up to tap his lips, Aguila knew he had the ambassador hooked. "I will have to discuss this with the chancellor," Graf said slowly. "But tell me, what did you have in mind?"
Halfway through the explanation, Aguila's phone chirped. He fished it out of his pocket, flipped it open, and answered.
"Sir?" It was Allegria. "Is there a vidscreen where you are?"
He craned his neck and looked around. "No. Why?"
"I suggest you get yourself to somewhere where there is one and turn it to GNN. Now." Aguila was puzzled. "Right now?" "Now," she repeated emphatically.
Office of the Governor, Port Aldrin
17 November 2069
23:30 GMT
Patrick Adams paused in the doorway to watch them. It was always strange to see Pieter and Josef von Hayek together. The governor and the colonel, the aging professor and the twenty-eight-year old military man. They seemed less like father and son than mentor and eager student or commanding officer and fiercely loyal underling. Both had the same aquiline nose, piercing blue eyes, and strong jawline. Both were haunted by the ghost of the long-dead Erika von Hayek, wife and mother, and both blamed the Committee on Lunar Development for her death in a dome blowout twenty years ago. Watching the two of them together, chatting, playing chess, and occasionally laughing, Adams was once again struck with the idea that this was an exquisite story of revenge worthy of a Japanese Noh play. Even now, in what should have been a touching moment of family togetherness, they were exulting in the way they had tricked the UN generals.
Operation Three-Card Monte was a success, pure and simple. The LDF now held ATFOR prisoners of war; by keeping them on the move, they prevented General Daniels and the SAS from knowing where the POWs were, so she dared not attempt a rescue mission. Thus, in exchange for informal assurances of the POWs' continued good treatment—no one had used the H-word ("hostages") yet—Daniels had informally ordered the gunships to back off and had allowed the rebels to start flying "mercy shuttles" between their domes. True enough, these shuttles did transport urgently needed medical supplies, but unknown to General Daniels they also carried a far more important cargo: MANTA disks.
And now, to look at the two von Hayeks playing chess and chatting, you'd think the project was all their idea, their personal revenge against the UN.
Pieter von Hayek laughed at something Josef said, looked up, and noticed Adams hovering in the doorway. "Patrick, do come in." He beckoned and smiled. Adams didn't realize until that moment how rare von Hayek's smile had been recently. The governor had been cold-blooded these last few weeks—almost as cold-blooded as his ruthless son.
Adams bowed slightly and walked into the room. "Governor?" He turned to Josef and nodded. "Colonel?" The younger von Hayek responded with an unreadable look that made Adams feel relieved to turn back to Pieter. "How goes the game?"
The first councilor lounged back and waved a hand over the board. "Hard fought, as always. We've traded bishops and a knight apiece, but I've still got my queen and both my rooks."
Josef chuckled and leaned forward. "Ah, but, Vati," he chided. "I outnumber you two-to-one in pawns. You have always undervalued your pawns."
Adams smiled, looked at the chessboard—which made as little sense as ever to him—then back to the von Hayeks. "Tell me: does the game of chess allow a deus ex machina?"
Josef considered the question and answered. "In a way. Just point, shout 'Look, there's Elvis!' and while your opponent is distracted, tip over the board."
"Well," Adams said, smiling smugly, "in tha
t case, Elvis has just been sighted. Watch this." He strolled over to the UNET terminal on the wall—inactive these last three weeks—and turned it on.
"UNET is back on-line?" Pieter asked, eyes wide.
"Even better." Adams tapped through the menus and picked a real-time channel. "This report is in heavy rotation on GNN." He turned up the volume.
The face on the screen was the almost iconic Colin Covert, GNN's top investigative reporter, with his trademark black suit, serious expression, and hair so heavily sprayed it could have been white vinyl. The scene was an outdoor shot on a gray and rainy November afternoon: the familiar building in the background was the United Nations Headquarters in New York City.
"We apologize for the poor quality of this recording," Covert was saying, "but to repeat, this video was recovered from the battlesuit camera of Colonel Hamilton Bowen, which somehow miraculously survived the destruction of Volodya. GNN obtained this copy from a highly placed United Nations source, and we must warn you in advance, it is extremely graphic.
"The images you are about to see will speak for themselves. The voices you hear will be those of Colonel Bowen and the late General J. T. Jackson, commander of the secret UN-authorized military force code-named ATFOR."
The picture cut away from the shot of Colin Covert in front of the United Nations complex to a grainy, jerky image speckled with noise bits. What was being shown was unmistakably clear, though: heaps of tiny corpses, contorted in death agonies, their young faces smeared with vacuum-frozen blood. "The Volodyans must have been short of pressure suits," a nervous, breathy voice was saying. "They were using this as a staging area for civilian evacuation. As near as we can tell, there were about sixty children in here, mostly infants and toddlers." The voice cracked, and something that could have been a sob filtered through.
"Explosive decompression," a second voice growled, coming through a radio link. "What a hell of a way for babies to die."