Resistance (7 page)

Another long moment of silence followed the last statement.

Walker was tempted to speak but wanted to get
all
of the traitors on the record before he told them what assholes they were.

The Director of the OSP spoke. Because Ridley's famously large head sat atop a relatively small body, his detractors sometimes referred to him as “the troll.” He was also known for the colorful bow ties he wore, a surprisingly beautiful wife, and his ability to play pool. His voice was smooth and cultured.

“I agree with the notion that all of the possible alternatives should be explored … But I would like to share some observations about the Chimera.”

He was famous for his mini-lectures, and Farnsworth rolled his eyes. Ridley continued, undeterred.

“As all of you know, the Chimeran forms have one thing in common,” he said. “They are constructs—tools, if you will, created by an alien virus that arrived on our planet in June of 1908. As such, the Chimera don't have a government, military, or culture as we think of such things. In fact, as far as our experts can tell, they have no formal hierarchy whatsoever. Everything they do flows from common instincts, shared desires, and biological imperatives.

“So,” Ridley continued carefully, “taking those realities into account, it's difficult to know who we would talk to … And more importantly, to what end? It would be like trying to negotiate hurricane season with the wind. Besides they already have most of Europe and Asia. There isn't much incentive for them to negotiate at all.”

Grace had a lot of respect for Ridley, even if he didn't like having his programs subjected to criticism, but he nodded tolerantly.

“Thank you, Tom. You make some excellent points. Still, just because some difficulties appear to block the way, it doesn't mean we shouldn't try.”

Dentweiler had been silent up to that point, and now he cleared his throat.

“We
might
be able to contact the Chimera through an infected soldier named Jordan Shepherd. He had already begun to change when he escaped from SRPA custody in Iceland, and by the time he was recaptured a couple of months ago, the reports I read described him as a new form of Chimera. Part-human and part-Angel. Yet, interestingly enough, one that is still capable of communication.”

Grace could see where Dentweiler was headed and hurried to seize upon the opportunity.

“Good thinking, Bill … This could be the opportunity we're looking for!”

“Not so fast,” Ridley countered soberly. “I'm sorry to inform you that Shepherd—now referred to as Daedalus—is no longer in custody. He was being transferred from a temporary holding facility at Offutt Air Force Base, to a specially built maximum security lab in Florence, Colorado, when the convoy he was riding in was attacked by a force of what we would classify as Chimeran commandos. Half of the stinks were killed, but Daedalus escaped, and remains on the loose.”

“How long ago was that?” Farnsworth inquired doubtfully. “I didn't hear about it.”

“Three days ago,” Ridley answered tightly, “and no, you
didn't
hear about it. The report went to those with a need to know … The SRPA people are very upset by the way … They claim they should have been given responsibility for the transfer rather than the DSA. Which is ridiculous, given the fact that they were the ones who lost Daedalus to begin with!”

Grace had a need to know, or thought he did, but chose not to say anything, fearing that the relevant report was somewhere in the stack of papers on his desk. As for Ridley's complaints regarding SRPA, he agreed. The people in charge of the organization had become increasingly combative of late. The Sentinels would be a critical part of any military victory—which made it difficult to rein them in. But that was a problem he would deal with later on.

Dentweiler smiled bleakly. His dark hair was combed straight back, his round wire-framed glasses sat high on his nose, and his prominent cheekbones gave his face a gaunt appearance. “That's a tough break,” he said
smoothly. “But it serves to support my point … Because if the Chimera chose to free Daedalus, it implies that he can call on them. Or that they
need
him.”

“Daedalus may provide a channel for negotiations!” Grace put in brightly. “See? We
can
accomplish anything if we put our minds to it.”

Then, turning to Dentweiler, Grace said, “Bill, please follow up on the Daedalus thing, and report back as soon as you have something. This could be a real opportunity, and we need to be ready to take advantage of it.”

He stood, and the meeting would have come to an end at that point, except that Walker couldn't remain silent any longer. He brought a fist down onto the table so hard that a pen jumped into the air and landed with a clatter.

“Are you
insane?”
he demanded loudly. “Didn't you hear what the Vice President said? What you propose is treasonous! What about Congress? And the American people? Shouldn't
they
have a say?”

Grace just stared at him across the table. Finally he responded.

“Congress had its say when it approved the Emergency War Powers Act of 1946,” Grace replied stiffly. “As for the American people, you'll recall that they elected me to an unprecedented third term in November of '48.

“That being said,” the president added tightly, “I take exception to the notion that anyone who doesn't happen to agree with your idealistic nonsense is a traitor!” He paused, and seemed to relax. “For the moment, Henry, I choose to believe that you're overworked and distraught about our losses.”

Then his voice hardened again. “But if I'm wrong, and you wish to resign, you know where to send the letter.”
He stood, and addressed the room. “This meeting is over.”

Vice President McCullen was the only person to direct a sympathetic look at Walker as Grace led the rest of the cabinet out of the room.

Once they were gone, Walker put his head back, closed his eyes, and battled the overwhelming sense of despair that threatened to drown him. The recorder still was running—but it stopped when a button was pushed.

The rest of the world continued to spin.

A miniature snowstorm billowed up around the
Party Girl's
hard angular lines as the battle-scarred VTOL descended out of the grayness above.

There was a
thump
as the transport's landing gear came into contact with the ground, and Hale came to his feet. He was wearing four layers of clothing, counting the winter-white parka and matching trousers. And, in spite of the viral inhibitor shot he had received prior to takeoff, he was wearing a combination combat harness and white knapsack over his I-Pack. The emphasis was on health, food, and ammo. Everything else having been eliminated to keep the weight down.

He was armed with a Rossmore 236 shotgun for clean-up work, and an L23 Fareye for use on targets up to six hundred yards away. Although it was Hale's hope to avoid enemy contact if at all possible.

Last, but not least, were ski poles plus a pair of snow-shoes that Hale would don once he left the plane. His thoughts were interrupted as the
Party's Girl's
pilot—a long, lean officer named Harley Purvis—appeared at his side. Purvis sported a New York Yankees baseball cap, a well-worn leather jacket, and a pair of fleece-lined
boots. He had dark brown skin, even features, and had been given the call sign “Hollywood” in flight school.

“You are one
crazy
bastard,” Purvis said as he slapped Hale on the shoulder. “You know this could cost you your bars.” The pilot had to yell in order to be heard over the sound of the engines.

Hale knew that what Purvis said was true, but he didn't care. He was tired of being dead.

Like all the soldiers in the Sentinel program, he was officially listed as “Killed in Action,” which meant his family believed him to be dead. It was a precaution intended to prevent information about the top secret SRPA program from leaking out.

But as the Chimera continued to push down into his home state of South Dakota, most people fled or were killed. As a result, Hale had no idea what had happened to his mother, father, and sister. Were they still alive?

The question had haunted Hale ever since his return from overseas—and repeated attempts to obtain information had been fruitless. None of them was listed as having entered one of the government-run Protection Camps. Was that because they weren't willing to take what his father would regard as a handout? Or was it because they were dead? Like millions of other people around the world.

Hale was determined to find out.

“Yeah,” he responded, “if they catch me, I'll have to call you ‘sir,’ and
that
would be ridiculous.”

“Actually, given the fact that I'm a
first
lieutenant, and you're a butter bar, you should call me ‘sir’ anyway,” Purvis responded loftily. “And I plan to
keep
my bars … So if you get caught roaming around the countryside, be sure to lie about how you got here.”

“You can count on it,” Hale assured him. “And you
can consider that IOU paid in full. Where did you learn to play poker anyway? The Girl Scouts?”

“At UCLA,” Purvis answered with mock indignation. “But having lost to a lowlife like you, it looks like I need a refresher course.” Then he turned serious. “Remember, thirty-six hours, that's all I can give you! And one more thing …”

“Yeah?”

“Watch your six … It'd be a shame if a Hybrid blew your ass off and ate it for lunch.”

Hale just grinned, gave a wave, and left the plane through the rear hatch. After a one-foot jump his boots sank four inches into the soft snow—a sure sign that snowshoes would be needed.

Hale knew Purvis had a mission to complete, so he hurried to clear the LZ quickly so the
Party Girl
could take off. Once he had waded out to a point where he could be seen from the cockpit he waved again, and saw the pilot give him a thumbs-up in return. There was a dark-skinned beauty painted on the VTOL's nose, and Hale noticed that one of her eyes was closed in a sardonic wink. Then the engines roared, snow swirled, and the ship went straight up.

Hale watched it go, but it wasn't until the plane had disappeared into the lead gray sky, and the drone of its engines died away, that he felt the full weight of his decision. Maybe he
was
crazy, but what else could he do?

If his family was dead, well, the reality of it would be hard to take. But
not
knowing was even worse. Frank and Mary Farley weren't his
real
parents. They had been killed during the influenza epidemic of 1924. But the Farleys had raised Hale as if he was their biological son, and now it was his duty to do what any son would, which was to help his mom and dad if such a thing was possible.

So Hale found a spot where the wind had blown away most of the snow, sat down, strapped the snowshoes to his boots, and got back on his feet with help from a ski pole. Then, having checked his compass, he set off.

The surface of the snow was frozen, so each time Hale brought one of the snowshoes forward and shifted his weight to it, there was a soft
crunch
as the shoe broke through the top crust. Hale had used snowshoes throughout his childhood, but it had been a while. The key was to maintain the correct distance between his feet, because if he placed them too far apart he would consume more energy than was necessary. And if he brought them too close he would bark his shins.

It took a while to find the old rhythms again, but once he had, Hale made much better time. Good thing, too, because the Rocking F Ranch was still fifteen miles away.

It would have been nice if Purvis had been able to put him down in the front yard of the family home, of course, but that would have forced the pilot to enter prohibited airspace. “Prohibited,” meaning airspace that had been ceded to the Chimera. It was off-limits to any aircraft not on an authorized mission.

So he had to do it the old-fashioned way. Still, Hale was confident that he could make the round-trip with time to spare, so long as the weather held and he didn't encounter any of the enemy. The low cloud cover would keep most of the Chimeran aircraft on the ground, and the steady snowfall would obliterate his tracks as well.

That was the theory anyway.

But as Hale topped a rise and made his way down the opposite slope he discovered that he was unexpectedly tired, and welcomed the opportunity to rest next to a group of trees. After less than an hour of walking his thigh and calf muscles were already sore. He knew they
would hurt even more the following morning. The weight of his food, weapons, and ammo was a factor as well.

The break offered him an opportunity to eat a hard Hershey bar and scan the whiteness that lay ahead. He knew he would be easier to spot out in the open, and if forced to defend himself, he'd have no place to hide. With that in mind he panned the binoculars across the rolling prairie, looking for even the tiniest hint of movement, a color that shouldn't be there, or a feature that wasn't consistent with its surroundings.

Between the misty haze that hung like a backdrop across the land, a veil of thinly falling snow, and the dim winter light, visibility was poor. But Hale spotted some movement off to the right and felt a sudden surge of adrenaline, only to discover that he was looking at three gaunt horses. Left on their own by the war, they stood huddled next to the building where they had once been fed.

Satisfied that the way was clear, Hale left the relative protection offered by the trees and slip-slid out across the unmarked snow. Lung-warmed air jetted out in front of him, the snowshoes made a consistent
swish-thump
sound, and the Rossmore thumped against his chest. The alternative was to carry the weapon across his back, along with the Fareye, but that would open him up to a sudden attack by Leapers. The dog-sized creatures could jump six feet in the air and had a lethal bite. It required quick reflexes and a powerful weapon to bring them down, so having a shotgun at the ready increased one's chances of survival.