Resistance (15 page)

The familiar emptiness began to form in the pit of his stomach as he considered the coming battle. Clearly, the 5th Ranger Battalion would have a major role to play, but it would be up to his team to recover the fuel, and that—Hale realized—made him understand what he and Nash had in common.

A fear of failure.

Operation Iron Fist was going to involve nearly two thousand people, including support personnel, all of
whom had to be pre-positioned, equipped for the mission at hand, and in some cases trained for specific tasks. So once the larger briefing was complete, the participants were directed to various conference rooms where topics such as logistics, matériel, and tactics would be discussed.

Hale was directed to a door with a “Command” placard on it.

Once inside, he saw that dozens of aerial photos had been taped to one wall while a detailed map of South Dakota took up most of another. As a former NCO only recently promoted to second lieutenant, he found himself nervous at being included in a meeting attended by the likes of Lieutenant Colonel Hawkins, his XO, Major Murphy, and a half-dozen other people, including Dr. Barrie. The glasses had disappeared for the moment, and as the two of them shook hands he was struck by how serene her eyes were. When Barrie smiled, Hale saw that a gap separated her two front teeth. A tiny imperfection that was endearing somehow—although he wasn't sure why.

“It's a pleasure to meet you, Lieutenant,” Barrie said coolly. “Shouldn't you give my hand back?”

“Sorry,” he mumbled as he let go, and hurried to escape as Major Blake brought another officer over to meet the scientist.

Having made a fool of himself, Hale was glad to take his place at the long conference table, only to discover that the same sergeant major was seated next to him.

“The name's Guthrie, sir,” the noncom said genially. “It's nice to know that the SAR team will be led by a Ranger. Even if he is wearing a funny-looking uniform.”

Hale laughed, and felt better now that he had a sergeant to protect his right flank. The two of them continued to chat until the meeting began.

“Time to get down to business,” Blake said from the head of the table. “Now that all of you are aware of the general outlines of what we're going to do, it's time to review the specifics. Colonel Hawkins …”

Hawkins was tall and lanky, so when he stood it took a while, and two steps were sufficient to carry him to the map. He had a collapsible pointer which made a series of clicking sounds when he extended it. Hawkins had brown hair that was starting to gray, a deeply lined face, and an eternally downturned mouth.

“We're here,” he said brusquely, as the end of the pointer tapped the town of Valentine, Nebraska. “And the assembly point will be here.”

Hale followed the pointer to Chadron, Nebraska, which looked to be forty or fifty miles south of Hot Springs, South Dakota. “The plan calls for us to send a tank company north along the main highway,” Hawkins continued. “They will be supported by Lynx All-Purpose Vehicles, and by two infantry companies.

“That should bring most of the freaks out of the woodwork. Then, as they stream south to meet us, we'll engage them from the east and west using troops dropped into position by VTOLs. And that's when the fist will close,” he said grimly. “With any luck at all, we'll kill at least a thousand of the bastards.”

Although Hawkins was technically senior to Blake, the Sentinel officer was part of the SRPA leadership team, which was responsible for the SAR aspect of the operation. So no one thought it strange when Blake spoke approvingly. “I think all of you will agree that it's a good plan,” he said, “and one that's likely to catch the stinks by surprise.

“However, as important as the conventional part of the operation may be,” Blake added tactfully, “the primary reason for pulling the enemy forces south is so that
Dr. Barrie and Lieutenant Hale will be able to successfully penetrate the Chimera base near Hot Springs. And more than that, to find a fuel cell, and bring it out. Dr. Barrie?”

Hale was startled to discover that the civilian would accompany the SAR team, and the announcement set off alarm bells he needed to squelch. Having accompanied Captain Nash to the crash site on Bear Butte, he knew why Barrie was being sent. Still, the prospect of entering a heavily defended Chimeran complex with a female civilian in tow didn't sit well.

Barrie was on her feet, glasses back in place, standing next to the montage of aerial photos. “This is the complex where the fuel is stored,” she said evenly, and pointed her pen at a cluster of cylindrical constructs, all viewed from above. “These pictures were taken by the pilot of a specially equipped Sabre Jet on a clear day
before
we made the find on Bear Butte. So things may have changed a bit since then. The complex was built to exploit energy from a geothermal tap. It's fed to a standard tower over
here
—and from that location to a hub tower located near Rapid City.”

Having dealt with the system of Chimeran towers in England, Hale knew that they were often located near sources of geothermal energy, and were used to funnel the power to larger hub towers via physical conduits. Where, if scientists were correct, the energy was used to cool the Earth's atmosphere, and for some other purpose that was still being studied.

“The tower complex near Hot Springs has another function as well,” she said. “The structure next to the geothermal tap, and adjacent to a building about which we have very little information, is almost certainly used to store nuclear fuel. Because only thirty feet of the facility extends aboveground, we assume that most of the
fuel cores are located deep below, where they are safe from air attacks.” Then she paused. “Any questions so far?”

There was a brief moment of silence before Hale raised his hand. “Yes, ma'am … I notice that there appear to be four small structures positioned on those roofs. What are they?”

“You have a good eye,” Barrie said, as she touched each of the tiny blocks with the tip of her pen. “Those are antiaircraft weapons. Some fire missiles, others fire explosive projectiles, and all of them are dangerous.”

Hale didn't like the sound of that. Not if he and his team were slated to arrive in a VTOL. But rather than voice his misgivings then and there, he decided to hold back and give the matter some thought.

The meeting—which was to be the first of many—came to an end shortly thereafter. Lieutenant Colonel Hawkins, Major Murphy, and Sergeant Major Guthrie left the room in order of rank. And as Hale rose to follow them, Barrie appeared at his side. The glasses had disappeared again. “Lieutenant Hale, do you have a moment?”

“Sure,” Hale replied. “What can I do for you?”

“You frowned when Blake announced that I'll be coming with you,” Barrie said seriously. “You're unhappy with that decision, aren't you?”

Hale shrugged.

“No offense, Doctor, but it would help if you were a soldier.”

Barrie's brown eyes locked with Hale's yellow ones. “Like Captain Nash?”

“Yes,” Hale answered honestly. “Like Captain Nash.”

“You were with him when he was killed?”

“Yes,” Hale replied soberly. “I was there.”

“And he died bravely?”

It was a strange question, or so it seemed to Hale, and his eyebrows rose.

“Yes,
very
bravely.”

“That would have pleased him,” Barrie said evenly.

“I suppose it would,” Hale agreed. “Why do you ask?”

“We were engaged,” Barrie answered simply. “Don't worry, Lieutenant … I may be female, and I may be a civilian, but I'm not helpless.”

And with that she was gone.

After three days of on-again, off-again snow, the clouds had finally been blown away by a wind out of the west, and bright sunlight was streaming through the top portion of the tall narrow window on the east side of Cassie Aklin's bedroom.

The sun hit Cassie in the face, and when she tried to open her eyes, it forced her to close them again. She brought one hand up to block the light as the other fumbled for the alarm clock. A quick peek confirmed what Cassie suspected. It was only 7:10, and she wasn't due to get up until 7:30.

But there wasn't any point in going back to sleep for such a short period of time, and the prospect of feeling the sun on her face as she walked to work made her want to get up. So Cassie turned off the alarm, swung her feet over the side of the bed, and began the process of getting ready for another day.

Cassie shared the tiny one-bedroom apartment with a woman two years older, who was in charge of the clerks working the night shift at the Denver Federal Center. So the twin bed next to hers was empty as Cassie showered, put on her makeup, and got dressed. As a psychologist
employed by the Army and assigned to support SRPA, it was important to look professional.

So even though Cassie would have preferred to wear something more casual, she chose a dark blue suit from the three hanging in the closet. The jacket ended at her waist, and the long, slightly flared skirt fell below her knees. A crisp white blouse, plus some hard-to-find hose, completed the outfit. A pair of black high heels went into her leather briefcase and would replace her galoshes once she arrived in the office.

Breakfast consisted of tea, made from a bag that had been used twice before, and two pieces of toast smeared with a tiny bit of butter and some strawberry jam. Due to persistent food shortages the scrambled eggs and bacon she had once enjoyed almost every morning were a special treat now, and would constitute a good dinner if she could afford them. All of which seemed to run counter to what Secretary of Agriculture Seymore had said on the radio the day before.

He had referred to the shortages as “temporary allocation problems,” then “seasonal commodity anomalies,” and finally “transitory market fluctuations.” Not that it mattered much since the result was the same.

Cassie finished her second piece of toast and chased it down with the last of the weak tea, before washing the dishes and putting them in the rack to dry. Then it was time to put on her overcoat, slip her feet into a pair of galoshes, and pick up her purse and briefcase as she passed the table in the hall.

Locking the door behind her she made her way down two flights of stairs, through the small lobby and out the front door. It was only a few blocks from the apartment house located on Virginia Avenue to the sprawling Denver Federal Center where she worked. There was still a
lot of snow on the ground, but stretches had been shoveled, making it easier to walk.

Even though it was a residential neighborhood, subtle signs of the war and its effects could be seen all around. Both sides of the street were lined with cars because, as people had been displaced from the northern states, many came south to stay with family or friends, filling Denver to the bursting point. Renters like herself added to the pressure, which left thousands with no choice but to enter one of the hastily constructed Protection Camps, or make a place for themselves in the shack-lands in and around Aurora to the east.

Reports from the shacklands painted the picture of a slum where people built shelters out of anything they could buy, salvage, or steal, and raw sewage ran through open ditches while people were forced to burn anything they could find for heat. Food was scarce, and medical care was nonexistent. The situation had led to a restriction intended to force as many people as possible into the Protection Camps.

Other signs of the war's impact could be seen in the snow-covered vegetable gardens that had been planted on the parking strip, the gold stars displayed in the windows of families that had lost a father, son, or brother in the fighting, and the American flags that hung limply from porches, drooped from poles, and were tied banner-like between houses.

In order to reach the Center, as employees referred to it, Cassie had to cross Alameda Avenue. It was busy as usual—and she had to wait for a fifteen-vehicle military convoy to pass before she could hurry over. The two-and-a-half-ton six-by-six trucks threw waves of slush to both sides as they rolled by. The last five were open, with warmly dressed soldiers sitting in back, and some of them whistled.

Cassie waved as the convoy pulled away.

There was a great deal of construction going on beyond the center's twelve-foot-high, six-foot-thick outer walls. Defensive towers had been erected at the corners and midpoint along each stretch of wall. They bristled with weapons, and at night there were high-powered rotating spotlights that the civilian neighbors hated.

Dozens of buildings made up the Federal Center, and she had even heard that a top secret facility was under construction at the very heart of the complex. There were lots of theories about what the new building would be used for, but those who knew weren't talking, and guards had been posted to keep the curious away.

Regardless of the reason, hammering, sawing, and other construction-related din could be heard around the clock.

There were a number of gates, and because all the guards knew her, Cassie was permitted to enter with little more than a wave of her ID card. The Center employed hundreds of women, but they were outnumbered ten to one by the men, so Cassie drew some admiring looks as she made her way to what was called Central Hospital. It was much more than that, however, since it also housed the medical facilities required to support the burgeoning Sentinel program.

She belonged to a team of civilian psychologists who were paid to make sure all the Sentinels remained mentally stable—a task made all the more difficult by the fact that the soldiers were prone to medical issues associated with the inhibitor shots. Most were struggling to cope with combat-related stress, and were entirely cut off from their families—all of whom believed them to be dead.

Having passed all the checkpoints, Cassie approached her building. The brick and masonry structure had an
art deco sensibility about it. Metal-clad doors opened into a large lobby with mural-covered walls and a wraparound reception desk with a stern-faced matron behind it. She sat under three clocks, each of which was associated with a different city. It was 12:00 in New York, 10:00 in Denver, and 9:00 in San Francisco.