Duty, Honor, Planet: The Complete Trilogy

by Rick Partlow

  “Colonel Stark,” Franks said, and Manning could hear his broadcast in her earphones; she figured he was including all of them in the call. “This is Franks.” His voice was rough, the words strained more than they should have been from the running. She wondered if he’d cracked a rib when he was thrown from the truck.

  “I’m inbound, Franks,” the reply came after a moment. “What’s your situation?”

  “We stopped the enemy vehicle,” he reported. “We are pursuing six biomechs and three armed humans north through the Sherman District on Pedestrian Walkway Three.” He hesitated and she could hear him taking in a breath. “If I had to guess, ma’am, I think they’re trying to get to the air treatment plant at Central City.”

  Manning found herself nodding. That made sense. Trans-Angeles was more dependent on air processors than any of the other mega-cities both for comfort, because of the dry climate, and because of the danger of lingering radiation from the Sino-Russian War. Parts of China were still very hot and occasionally a large storm would bring clouds of radioactive dust over Southern California and parts of Mexico.

  If you were looking to spread something like the nanovirus as far as possible, getting it into the air processing units would do it…and with all the havoc being caused city-wide by the biomechs, it was likely going to be hard to get the units shut down.

  “Captain Franks,” Shannon Stark said, her tone very deliberate, “you need to get them into one of the open courtyards and hold them there. They should be sounding the alert for everyone to get to the shelters, so hopefully they’ll be clear. Either way, I need them in an area that’s open to the sky.”

  Manning’s focus shifted for a moment from the group they were pursuing to their surroundings and for the first time, she noticed the sirens blaring and the civilians hurrying along the sidewalks. Sherman was an upscale area, with a lot of old-fashioned storefront shops that sold hand-crafted goods at outrageous prices to people with more money than sense. The monthly rent on a townhouse in Sherman was more than she made in a year and any of the designer outfits she could pick out on a random pedestrian cost more than she made in a month.

  And now those fashionable, comfortable shoppers were running, their faces contorted in fear and she couldn’t bring herself to even resent them for their money. They were just people, just like her…and her mother.

  Jesus, she thought, her stomach twisting, it’s like a nightmare.

  “What are we talking, ma’am?” Franks asked, the strain in his voice almost disguising his unease. “An airstrike?’

  “Thermobaric missiles.” Shannon Stark delivered the words with a matter of fact tone, which made them seem even more horrifying to Tanya Manning. Using a thermobaric warhead in the middle of Trans Angeles…

  “Jesus,” she breathed.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Franks said. “I’ll contact you when we’re in position.”

  Manning hit a control on her wrist and a map of the area overlaid her HUD. She saw that the closest open courtyard in the direction they were heading was three kilometers away, nearly to the Central City air handling plant; and she could tell from the curse he bit off that Franks saw it too. That was cutting things way too close, with no room for a backup plan.

  “Patel,” Franks broadcast, again including her frequency, “do not cut off the biomechs. Our plan is to funnel them to the Central City courtyard and contain them there. I need you and Carr to make damn sure they don’t veer off this course. Don’t spook them, don’t fire on them even if fired upon unless they try to leave this path. Do you copy?”

  “We got you, boss,” Patel responded. “We’ll ride herd on them.”

  Boss, Abshay had said. It took Manning a second to realize it and she wondered if Franks had caught it. She was jogging beside him, to his left, and she didn’t see any hint on his face that he had. His eyes never left the group of biomechs and humans about seventy meters ahead of them, the artificial workers clustered around the trio of armed men as if protecting them.

  “There are four entrances to the courtyard,” Franks said after a moment. “Abshay and Caitlyn, once you get there, I need you to block off the east and west entrances. Tanya, you’ll take the south and I’ll take the north.”

  Manning caught on immediately what he was doing. The enemy wanted to go through the north exit to get to the Central City air treatment plant. He was putting himself right in their path.

  “When you move into position,” Franks added, “tell any civilians you see in the courtyard to get the hell out.” His voice was grim. “Anyone left there when the bomb drops is going to die.”

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  “This is a nightmare, Mr. President,” Pedro Ortiz said, his lean face drawn and pale, a trickle of sweat running down his high forehead. “People are dying and we just don’t have enough police to be everywhere.”

  “I understand, Governor Ortiz,” Gregory Jameson intoned in his best concerned-chief-executive voice as he stared at the life size hologram of the man standing across from him in his office. The City Governor of Trans Angeles was normally a jovial, good-natured man, but at this moment he looked as if he were about to cry. “We have help on the way…they should be landing within minutes and they are going to get this situation under control.”

  “How did this happen, Mr. President?” Ortiz demanded, his despair turning abruptly to frustration. “We were assured that there was no way that the biomech workers could harm anyone…there were supposed to be safeguards!”

  “We’re still investigating,” Jameson told him, shooting a sour glance at CIS Director Philip Ayrock, who was seated on the other side of the President’s desk, “but our initial intelligence is that this was a deliberate act of sabotage by the bratva. They apparently bribed a technical supervisor at the Lunar biomech production facility to change the programming on the biomechs sent to Trans Angeles.”

  The President had to push the words out through his teeth. He had been the one to allow the production and use of the biomechs, and he was certain he would be the one blamed for this. Although Daniel O’Keefe had been the one to actually sign the bill authorizing the initial experimentation…maybe something could be made of that.

  “Are we sure it’s just the biomechs here?” Ortiz asked, horrified. “What if this happens everywhere?”

  “I can assure you, Governor Ortiz,” Philip Ayrock spoke up finally, “that we will be taking every precaution to see that doesn’t happen. We don’t have any indication that this is more widespread than the Trans Angeles Public Works Department at the moment, but we won’t be taking any chances.”

  Jameson forced himself not to look at Ayrock; if he had, he was sure he would scowl at the man, which would sabotage the message of reassurance he was trying to deliver to Ortiz.

  “If you’ll excuse me, Governor,” Jameson interjected, “I need to coordinate the efforts of our forces in the field. I would encourage you to contact General Rietveld: he’s personally leading the forces coming to your aid.”

  “I will do that immediately, Mr. President,” Ortiz assured him, still looking glum and desperate. “Thank you.”

  The transmission ended and the hologram faded into nothingness.

  “Marquesa,” Jameson said to his chief of staff, still facing the wall, not trusting himself to look at either of the other two people in the room, “could I have a moment alone with Director Ayrock.”

  “Of course, sir,” Fiorentino replied, slipping quietly out and closing the door behind her.

  By the time Jameson turned to face Ayrock, he finally had enough of a rein on his anger that he was able to keep his face neutral.

  “Philip,” he said, keeping his temper under tight control, “I’d like to know why I am just now finding out about this vulnerability, and why I have to find out about from Fleet Intelligence instead of your office, since that would seem to be your job.”

  Ayrock’s face didn’t seem nearly as apologetic or guilty as Jameson had assumed it would. The pudgy, pa
le man leaned back in his chair and regarded the President calmly.

  “No one wanted to know about vulnerabilities, Mr. President,” Ayrock told him. “The economy needed this technology---even more then than now. I don’t recall any requests from your office to search for weaknesses in biomech programming, only to see to the security of the manufacturing facility when it was built.” He raised his hands palm up. “The CIS has a huge area of responsibility, sir. I don’t have enough agents or enough resources to investigate every possible threat.”

  Jameson was about to give in to his temper and snap back that investigating every possible threat was the man’s job when he heard Marquesa Fiorentino’s voice in his ear.

  “Colonel Stark for you, Mr. President.”

  “Put her on the office speakers,” he ordered.

  “Mr. President,” Shannon Stark’s voice came through the room’s sophisticated audio system, sounding as natural as if she were sitting next to him. “Captain Franks and his team are pursuing a half dozen biomechs and three armed humans on foot. He believes the biomechs have the nanovirus inside them and his best guess is that the bratva terrorists are trying to get them to the Central City air processing plant.”

  “He believes?” Ayrock snapped. “How the hell does he know that?”

  “Director Ayrock,” Shannon Stark ground out, her voice as harsh and menacing as a naked nuclear core, “why in the hell else would armed terrorists be running six unarmed biomechs towards Central City? We know they’ve concealed hyperexplosives inside biomechs in Houston but there’s no reason to be taking a load of HpE to Central City: it’s not a high-density population area, it’s a retail and entertainment center. They set the other biomechs to attacking people to drive them inside, into their homes and into shelters to make sure as many people as possible were breathing processed air. Now unless you have something useful to say, shut the hell up and let the President talk.”

  Jameson couldn’t help himself; he grinned at that. He suppressed it quickly though, sobered by the dire nature of the situation.

  “Colonel Stark,” he said, “how do you plan on dealing with the nanovirus?”

  “Mr. President, Captain Franks and his team are making sure they follow the main pedestrian walkway to Central City. In just a few minutes, they’re going to pass through an open courtyard…open to the sky.” She paused, and he could hear her taking a breath. “They’re going to cut off the exits and trap them in that courtyard. I’m over Trans Angeles in an assault lander as we speak. Once the targets are in the courtyard, I’m going to hit them with a thermobaric missile.”

  “A fucking what?” Ayrock blurted, leaning forward in his chair as if Shannon were in the room. “Are you insane?”

  “Shannon,” Jameson interjected, giving Ayrock a quelling glare, “that seems like overkill…”

  “Mr. President,” Shannon cut in, “I spoke with Dr. Mandila about the nanovirus…the only thing he was sure that would destroy it was temperatures in excess of 10,000 degrees. The only other option I could be sure would kill it is a strike from an orbital laser, and that would take too long to set up…we have minutes, if that.”

  “This has the potential for significant collateral damage, Shannon,” Jameson said quietly.

  “Yes, sir,” she replied. “You wanted to be kept informed.”

  Bitch, he snarled inside his head. She meant since he wanted to be kept informed, he could damn well be the one to make the decision and to hell with plausible deniability. Smart bitch, he amended with grudging respect.

  “There are nearly twenty million people in Trans Angeles,” he said with a fatal finality, the words seeming like a sentence. “Do what you have to do to stop the nanovirus.”

  “Yes, sir,” Shannon said. “Stark out.”

  Ayrock stared at Jameson, and not with the disbelief or shock Jameson had expected. It was more like…amusement? Derision?

  “Is there something you’d like to say, Philip?” he asked, his voice frosty, his eyes boring into the man.

  “No, sir,” Ayrock said, his voice sounding as if he were keeping it carefully neutral. “Unless you need anything else from me, I need to get my people on this biomech problem. We may need to take them all offline if there’s actually a chance they can be hacked.”

  “That sounds like a good idea,” Jameson said, biting back the irritation he felt with the man. “In fact, I’d say you should start implementing that immediately.”

  Ayrock rose from his chair and headed out of the office. Jameson watched him go, not trusting himself to say another word. Maybe Philip Ayrock’s political usefulness had ceased to outweigh his incompetence…

  No. Jameson shook the thought off. It gave him a headache and he wasn’t certain why…

  * * *

  Caitlyn Carr was out of breath and she hated herself for it. She’d been behind a desk for too long and she’d already had an adrenaline spike from the crash and the gunfight and now she’d been sprinting for nearly five klicks in full battle rattle, something she hadn’t done since the Academy. Thank God Abshay was able to follow the city map on his HUD and run at the same time, because she knew if she had tried that, she would have busted her ass within a block.

  And then there was the city. She’d spent a lot of time in Trans Angeles in her career and she’d grown to appreciate the vitality and diversity of the megacity. Now, it seemed dead. There was hardly anyone on the streets and those she did see were in a rushed panic, fleeing the alarm of the sirens, heading for shelter.

  Was this what the future held for all of them? Repeat after repeat of Houston, Tintagel, the Danube Corridor, Fairbanks…slaughter after slaughter, terror upon terror, interrupted only by the narrow escapes when they got lucky; or the government crackdowns that did more damage than the actual attacks? It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Yet here she was and there was no time for recriminations…there never seemed to be time for anything except racing to head off the next disaster.

  They had been running for almost twenty minutes and she hadn’t seen the bad guys since they’d left the flitter, but finally she followed Abshay through a cut that led between two shopping malls and then they were at the Central City courtyard. The sky opened up above them in an oval bowl two kilometers in diameter, and she could barely make out a star in the blackness against the glare of the surrounding lights.

  The courtyard was a cluster of small parks, resplendent in the brown and green of oak, walnut and sycamore trees; broken up by rows of vendor booths, mostly selling food and refreshments and, from what she could see, all closed down and deserted at the moment.

  “I’ll take this entrance,” Abshay told her, moving into a position behind an abandoned food kiosk, crouching down and resting his grenade launcher on his knee. “You get the east, okay?”

  More running, she moaned inwardly, but she didn’t think it would be professional to argue about it, so she simply nodded and sprinted across the courtyard. Another two fucking kilometers…

  “The targets are entering via the south entrance,” she heard Franks’ voice over her earpiece. “Are you two in position?”

  “West is secured,” Abshay replied. “East is on the way.”

  Carr risked a glance to the left as she sprinted across the well-maintained sidewalk, its borders lined with decorative flowers. In the distance, she could see glimpses through the trees of the orange jumpsuits glowing neon in the courtyard lights.

  “Caitlyn,” she heard Franks’ voice again. “Fire a couple bursts at the guys in armor…I need them slowed down for just a minute so I can get past them to block off the north exit. Do not hit the biomechs! Disengage once they stop to fire back and head for the east entrance.”

  “Got it,” she gasped out, slowing down from a sprint to stumbling halt behind a thick California walnut tree. As dangerous as the task sounded, she was just happy to get a brief rest from running.

  “Colonel Stark,” Franks called, including all of them in on the broadcast, “the targets are
in the Central City courtyard. We’re sealing them in now.”

  “Copy,” Shannon Starks’ voice sounded flat and emotionless, and Carr wondered idly if that was a coping mechanism. “I’m moving into position for launch. You’ve got approximately three minutes.”

  Three minutes? Jesus Christ…

  Carr leaned out around the tree and saw that the armored humans and the biomechs they were leading were less than a hundred meters away. That would have to be close enough.

  “Firing,” she announced, bringing her submachine gun to her shoulder and aiming just in front of the lead human in the group.

  Her finger stroked the electronic trigger and she felt a slight push against her shoulder as the gun stuttered out a pair of three round bursts. She could see the slugs impact the sidewalk less than a meter in front of the lead man’s feet, sending up a spray of concrete fragments. The armored terrorist stumbled and nearly toppled forward as he tried to sidestep the bullet impacts, then was nearly knocked over by the biomechs behind him. She felt like laughing at the absurdity of it, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to even smile.

  “I’m moving,” Franks told her. “Give me ten seconds then take off.”

  Carr knew she was walking a tightrope…she had to delay the enemy for a few seconds without forcing them to change directions. She decided the best course of action was to convince them she was a lone, scared cop that saw a bunch of biomechs and took a shot at them. She leaned back further out from the tree and sprayed the rest of her magazine into the ground in front of the group, then pushed away from the walnut and dashed across the broad, white stretch of the main pedestrian walkway.

  She heard the hammering report of unsuppressed assault rifles firing and knew the rounds were chasing her as she ran, but she didn’t dare look back. She didn’t think she could make the entire kilometer to the entrance she was supposed to be guarding in one rush, so she aimed for a small band shell where local amateur musicians would play on weekends.