path to conquest (17 page)

“I don’t get it,” Sari whispered. “Why would Neville do this?” Then she pounded a fist on the desk top.
“Shit
—I can’t believe I misjudged him like that. I feel like such a dumb jackass.”

Pete draped a reassuring hand around her neck. “Hey, Sari, we all do right about now. We all had chances to ask questions. We all saw two and two add up to five and ignored it.” “Well, we’re in great shape,” Sari said with a short, bitter laugh. “Hannah’s been kidnapped, Neville’s killed our computer, the Visitors are about to poison the world’s oil supplies, and we can’t stop them. And all because we ate that goddamned chicken dinner last night. Every drop of wine and wine sauce must have been spiked, except what our illustrious chef had for himself. All I want to know is,
why did he do it?"

Pete sighed. “I have a clue, I think. 1 did check into his background right after I met him. Denise Daltrey did some digging through the CBS News files. We found out something that wasn’t widely known. Remember the company he started a few years ago, after his first company failed? Well, the second one evidently went belly-up not two days before the Visitors reinvaded.”

Sari shook her head. “So what? What would that have to do with his collaborating with the lizards?”

Mitchell cleared his throat. “I may know.”

Peter and Sari looked at him. He took a breath, then continued, “People I talked to at the other places he worked before he came here, some of them knew him pretty well. Seems he was working on a real big deal just before the second company went bankrupt. Word spread, and More decided to cash in on the interest by selling stock. First time he did that. And he made a mint. But then the deal fell apart, the stock price plummeted, loans came due—everything went sour at the same time.”

“Did anyone know what the secret deal was?” asked Pete. “Yeah—some super new software and chips for the Pentagon. More supposedly solved some of the big problems with the Star Wars antimissile system.”

“But that’s all been experimental,” said Pete.

“Yeah, well, More sold the Pentagon on some bag of tricks that
he
said would make the system a reality.”

“What happened?” Sari asked.

“It was supposed to be a long-term-development contract— would’ve made Neville a billionaire in time. But he lied. Not only did he steal other people’s ideas and claim them as his own; at the last second some of those people spoke up and told the Pentagon that the stolen ideas didn’t really work anyway. More screamed he was innocent. And he swore he was set up by industry people who hated him and were jealous of the fact that he was a genius and they were just stupid peons.”

Sari bit a fingernail nervously. “Wow. All this was to get back at the guys he thinks ruined him.”

“Yeah,” Pete said, “and he may do in the whole planet in the bargain.”

“What do you think he’s getting from the Visitors?” asked Mitchell.

“Who knows,” said Pete. “Doesn’t really matter. What does matter is that Neville found out that Hannah can give the Visitors the info they need to make this oil poison of theirs work. Somehow we’ve got to get her back before they ...” There was no need to complete the sentence. Three minds conjured up similar horrific images of Hannah Donnenfeld being tortured aboard Diana’s starship. The bleakness of the situation required no verbalization.

“How do we get her back?” Mitchell asked simply.

Pete took a very deep breath, held it, then blew it out in a slow puff. “I don’t have the slightest idea.”

The first thing Peter did was call President William Brent Morrow to apprise him of the latest developments. The ad hoc network of government agents spread across the country would aid in warning science and defense establishments that their computer systems were in grave danger. In addition, bulletins were circulated to both police and public, asking for help in apprehending Neville More and finding Hannah Donnenfeld.

But Morrow couldn’t disagree with Forsythe’s conclusion that Hannah was more than likely in Diana’s clutches by now. A check of defense surveillance records revealed that a Visitor skyfighter did penetrate New York airspace at about the time More must have been spiriting Hannah off the Brook Cove premises. But the intruder had slipped in and out so rapidly that there’d been no chance to try to intercept it. To all concerned, that pretty much cemented Donnenfeld’s immediate fate. Morrow promised to contact Mike Donovan and Julie Parrish with the Los Angeles resistance and enlist their help, too.

Pete had worked with the West Coast group more than once. In fact, both Julie and Donovan had visited New York. Since Diana’s starship was generally stationed over Los Angeles, Donovan and Parrish had more experience in dealing with Diana than all the other resistance cadres combined. They sent word back via the President that they’d turn over every rock and pursue every tenuous fifth-column link for news of Hannah and for a way to secure her release.

leading Morrow and his advisers to conclude that the drilling platform off the Saudi Arabian coast was some sort of test to determine if the strategy was indeed feasible.

That being the case, and with Donnenfeld in Visitor custody, Morrow had to make a grave decision. First, he had to assume that the Visitors
would
get the data they wanted from Donnenfeld. Once they did, they would be able to bring their oil-destroying bacteria up to full and deadly strength in short order. And the moment it was, it would be injected into the Persian Gulf’s giant undersea oil field. If that worked, Diana would surely do the same thing around the globe.

Morrow could hope that the California resistance platoon would somehow free Donnenfeld before Diana could shatter that starchy New England resolve. But even in the best of times, hopes were rarely sufficient as foundations for critical policies. Today’s world was no Dickensian dichotomy—these were simply the
worst
of times', and they demanded quick, concrete action: air strikes on the Visitors’ Persian Gulf platform before Diana had a chance to make use of it.

Using scrambled phones, President Morrow called the Prime Minister of Israel. Avram Herzog was very different from “Wild Bill” Morrow, slight in stature, urbane, with a short graying beard, but he was a no-nonsense leader and Morrow liked that, feeling they could always speak frankly without resorting to the time-wasting amenities diplomats loved so much.

From his uncluttered Jerusalem office, Herzog told Morrow there had been no additional activity in the Gulf. “They put that one platform in, seemed to finish it, and that’s that, Bill.” “How closely are your people watching it?”

“We’ve got three agents—one of ours, a Saudi, and an Egyptian. Their instructions are not to take their eyes off it.” Morrow chuckled. “Who’d’ve thought your people and the Arabs ever woulda been looking through the same binocs at a common enemy, Avram?”

“Global disasters make strange bedfellows,” said Herzog dryly.

“Amen to that. Anyhow, you’re the expert on what you can and can’t do in that region. In view of these latest circumstances, what do you think of short-circuiting that drilling rig before the lizards try to use it?”

Herzog waggled his dark brows. “I was wondering when you’d get around to that. I don’t think we’ve got any choice. We have to try something.”

“It’s risky. They’ve got to be expecting some kinda move. In fact, they’re probably surprised we haven’t done anything up till now. What shape is your air force in?”

“Pretty good,” said the Israeli. “We were rather ferocious at the outset. With a fair amount of sacrifice of good men, we managed to save most of the air force.”

“You could lose more than a few men on this mission.” “You don’t have to tell an Israeli about the dangers of war, my friend.”

Within the hour a squad of ten K’fir and F-16 jet fighters screamed into the air, bearing the blue-and-white Star of David into battle one more time. But this time it wasn’t only their tiny homeland for which they entered combat. The fortunes of the entire resistance, and the fate of the world might turn on this sortie.

The suspicion shared by Morrow and Herzog, that the Visitors had long been expecting an attack, proved to be an understatement. Even before the Israeli planes were within visual range of the drilling rig, a phalanx of skyfighters met them with lasers blazing.

From their observation post near the coastal dunes, the wiry Jewish agent Lavi Mayer, Abdul ibn Aziz, the bearded Saudi, and their dark-skinned Egyptian comrade, Gamel Nefti, watched the mismatch. A pair of Israeli jets took direct hits and instantly exploded into churning fireballs. A third fighter lost a wing and spun toward the shallow Gulf waters, trailing the black oily smoke of death. It blew up on impact.

The remaining seven planes crisscrossed the sky in a cunning pattern of aerobatics, hoping to confuse the Visitor pilots enough to make up for the alien vessels’ superior firepower and create an opening for shooting a couple of air-to-ground missiles at the drilling platform.

“Hey, look!” Lavi shouted, his finger tracking one jet that ducked impossibly under the Visitor defenders. Two other planes tried to provide covering cannon fire as the lone fighter dove to ground-hugging altitude.

Abdul pumped one fist into the air with short, powerful strokes, urging the plane toward its target. Gamel simply stared, then uttered a short prayer ending with “Allah protect you. ...”

At his last word a laser bolt flashed from a pursuing skyfighter and sliced into the K’fir jet at midfuselage. Two explosions shredded the plane into three distinct parts, and they fell into the Gulf with grotesque clumsiness, like graceful birds shot in mid-flight and tumbling to the ground.

The remaining six jets kicked in their afterburners and fled the combat zone with astonishing speed. Lavi’s entire body sagged, and his two companions physically held him up for a moment until they were sure he had the strength to stand after witnessing the stunning defeat.

“I’m . . . I’m okay,” he mumbled.

“Are you sure?” asked Gamel.

Abdul spoke softly. “You Israelis aren’t used to losing.”

Lavi shrugged. “I guess not. This was a big one to lose.”

“We haven’t lost yet,” Gamel said, his square jaw jutting out in determination.

“Well, if we intend to win, this was a strange way to start,” said Lavi.

Hannah Donnenfeld opened her eyes, took a quick glance around, then shut them again. She counted to three, though she knew the gesture was futile, then took another peek. The only familiar sight in the dim illumination was Neville More, sitting in a chair across the narrow room. Hannah found herself reclined on a firm sleeping pallet, and she sat up for a better view of her surroundings. The walls were generally featureless, except for some sort of electronic-security control panel near the doorway.

“How are you feeling, Dr. Donnenfeld?”

She pursed her lips. “I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore.”

“Ah, yes
—The Wizard of Oi.
I see your sense of humor is intact,” said Neville, offering a reassuring smile.

“I’d be just as happy if I never saw that grin of yours again, Neville.”

He spread his hands in an approximation of apology. “Yes, well, I suppose I can understand that.”

“Presumably, I’m in Diana’s Mother Ship?”

“Good guess.”

“If I’m being charged for the room,” she said with a disdainful wave, “tell them the accommodations stink.” “I’m afraid there’s not much we can do about that—” “Booked solid, are they?”

“And as for the fee, Diana does plan to exact some payment for her hospitality.”

Getting to her feet, Donnenfeld realized she was still dressed in her favorite flannel nightgown and plaid robe. “I hope she doesn’t mind my informal attire.”

“Couldn’t be helped, Dr. Donnenfeld. We had to leave Brook Cove in a bit of a hurry.” He watched her circle the room, examining the ceiling vents, the security panel at the door, the seams in the walls.

“First time I’ve been in one of these ships,” she explained. “I do hope I can get the grand tour.”

“Somehow I don’t think Diana will be able to grant that wish.”

She turned slowly, fixing him with a stem, unwavering gaze. “Just one question, Neville. Why?”

He leaned back casually. “Oh, I’m being very well paid by the Visitors.”

“I don’t think you’re doing this just for money. Not your style, son.”

“I’ve become extremely important to them. Downright indispensable, in fact. I’ve done the bulk of the computer setup on this oil project.
They
recognize my genius, even if my so-called colleagues never did.”

“How did a genius miss the mix-up between crude oil and refined?”

He waggled a finger at her. “Ah, not my fault. Diana has this disruptive habit of keeping certain things to herself. One of her great weaknesses, but then, no one’s perfect, eh? Had I had the complete access to data and plans that I’d asked for, that little oversight wouldn’t have occurred, I’d wager.”

“You planning to tell her that? How does she take to being shown the error of her ways? Not well, from what I hear.” “Perhaps, perhaps. But our relationship is somewhat different. I’m not one of her sycophantic toadies. I regard myself as an outside consultant. More equals than anything else.” Hannah nodded. “Of course. After all, you’re not one of her officers. Not yet, at any rate. Do they commission humans into their ranks?”

“I’m not one of them, Doctor,” he said, glaring.

Her mouth curled into a half smile. “Little sensitive, are we? Neville, none of us gets the recognition we think we deserve in our heart of hearts. We all get slighted, all have to put up with the Philistines who don’t appreciate us. That’s just the way it is. Do you expect me to believe you can’t handle it?”

He stood suddenly, looming over her, his English reserve blasted away by cold rage. “There’s a bloody big difference between the odd slight and a calculated, invidious plot hatched by jealous, small-minded worms,” he snarled. “And you’re the last one to downgrade the value of recognition by one’s peers, you with your Nobel Prize and your honorary degrees. ” Hannah sat calmly on the edge of the bed, keeping her eyes locked with More’s. “I’d be doing the same things regardless of any prizes I might have been lucky enough to win.” “Yes, well, we’re not all saints,” he ridiculed. “Some of us crave a tad more than inner satisfaction. And I don’t want any holier-than-thou pity. Got a bellyful of that after my first company folded. Even then, people were just waiting in line to stab me in the back, kill my career. And when they thought they’d done it, you know what they did? They didn’t even have the honest decency to kick me while I was down.
That
I could’ve understood. Instead, they stood over me like I was a corpse at a wake. ‘Oh, poor Neville, such a bright lad, too bad he’s got this fatal flaw of thinking he’s better than the rest of us.’ Well, I’ve got a clue for those bastards—for all of you. I
am
better.”