Resistance_ The Gathering Storm Part 12

"So, Abe," Stillman said as he sucked the rich smoke deep into his lungs. "What do you think Grace is doing in there? Asking Lincoln for some advice?"

Bristow was short and squat, as if G.o.d had taken a normal-sized man and squashed him like clay. He was fiddling with his huge flash camera.

"G.o.d knows the b.a.s.t.a.r.d could use some," he replied sourly. "Not that he'd listen." Stillman might have said something more, but there was a sudden stir at the top of the steps leading up to the memorial and the crowd surged forward.

Stillman and Bristow went with the flow, but were soon forced to stop as half a dozen uniformed police officers rushed to block the way. A man dressed in civilian attire appeared immediately behind them and stepped up to a microphone. His voice boomed through speakers set up two hours earlier.

"Good afternoon ... My name is William Dentweiler, the President's Chief of Staff. There's no need to push and shove. President Grace will take questions for about ten minutes. Then it's back to the White House for some important meetings.

"Mr. President?" At that point Dentweiler took two steps to the right, which gave Grace access to the microphone.

Grace flashed one of his trademark smiles as he stepped up to the microphone and a coterie of Secret Service agents came with him. It was a sunny day, so there were no flashbulbs for the President to contend with as Bristow and his fellow photographers began to click away.

In the meantime Stillman pushed his way forward in an attempt to get his new Minifon battery-powered recorder as close to the President as possible. Most of the journalists shouted questions, but it was one of the veteran radio reporters who managed to make himself heard.

"Mr. President! Arthur Norton, WDC News. There are rumors that sections of the Liberty Defense Perimeter have been breached. Is the government concerned that citizens may panic?"

Grace frowned. "Panic? Do me a favor, Arthur ... Everyone ... Look up."

Stillman, recorder extended, looked up. The rest of the crowd did as well.

"Now," Grace said. "What do you see?"

Norton was a balding man in his early thirties. He looked confused. "Nothing."

Grace nodded knowingly. "Exactly. Nothing Nothing. And the reason you see nothing is that taxpayers such as yourself have been gracious enough to put their confidence in my administration. Law and order is the reason our country remains safe while those overseas have fallen."

Stillman had successfully elbowed his way forward by the time Grace stopped speaking. "Henry Stillman for USA News, Mr. President ... Our reporter in Montana says that a Protection Camp located outside the defense perimeter was overrun by thousands of aliens the day before yesterday."

At that point Dentweiler leaned in to speak. There was undisguised anger in his voice. "That camp would have been located inside inside the defense perimeter if it hadn't been for all of the raw materials appropriated by the Freedom First people! They forced the government to limit the size of the perimeter." the defense perimeter if it hadn't been for all of the raw materials appropriated by the Freedom First people! They forced the government to limit the size of the perimeter."

"Bill's right, I'm afraid," Grace put in reasonably. "The so-called Freedom Firsters are a greater menace than the stinks are."

Apparently Dentweiler wasn't all that thrilled with the line of questioning because he stepped in to shut the press conference down.

"All right," the Chief of Staff said, "the President has a busy schedule to keep. Let's wrap this up."

Suddenly a high-pitched whistling sound was heard, and something fell out of the clear blue sky and hit the roundabout behind the crowd. A taxi was thrown into the air. There was a loud crash as it smashed into the ground and burst into flames. A cloud of black smoke enveloped the scene as women screamed, policemen shouted conflicting orders, and the President was half carried toward a waiting limo.

As the smoke began to clear, Bristow pointed at the spire. It was shaped like a huge spear, the head of which had penetrated the concrete, and was lodged underground. But unlike a normal spear, this one was made of metal, and thousands of times larger. Vapor out-ga.s.sed from the object, the air s.h.i.+mmered around it, and Still-man heard pinging sounds as the missile began to cool.

"Henry ... What is is that thing?" that thing?"

Stillman shook his head. "I don't know, Abe ... But it wasn't made by humans. That's for sure."

Some people were lying on the ground where Good Samaritans tried to a.s.sist them as sirens sounded and the presidential motorcade pulled away. Meanwhile, like the newsmen they were, Stillman and Bristow went over to examine the spire. The cameraman snapped shot after shot as they got closer.

"Thank G.o.d it didn't explode," Bristow said, as he lowered his camera. "But maybe we should-"

Bristow never got to finish his sentence. An ominous hum was heard as a series of plates were pushed out and away from the spire's fuselage. Then, without warning, hundreds of softball-sized eggs began to tumble out onto the street. Stillman felt something cold enter his bloodstream as the yellowish globes bounced and rolled in every direction. "I don't like the look of those things," he said. "Run!"

Both men turned back toward the memorial and started to sprint up the stairs as the eggs began to hatch. A cacophony of bloodcurdling squeals was heard as thousands of Spinners were born. Within seconds of breaking out of their soft-sh.e.l.led containers the horrible-looking creatures began to morph and were the size of house cats by the time they swarmed the slowest members of the crowd.

People screamed as they were borne to the ground by five or six Spinners. Each stink was equipped with fangs and hollow barbs through which chemicals could be injected into their victims, all of whom instantly began to thrash about.

Having escaped the initial onslaught, Stillman and Bristow were halfway up the stairs, right behind a mixed group of journalists and tourists. Both men heard something howl, and Bristow felt one of the creatures land on his back as more of them swept up the stairs. He stopped, and was trying to reach back and get a grip on the Chimera when Stillman took hold of the squirming stink and ripped it away. The Spinner was hot to the touch, and it snapped angrily when the reporter heaved it down toward the street.

Hundreds of additional Spinners were flowing up the stairs by then, so both men turned and ran. People had been trampled and Stillman felt something give horribly as he was forced to step on a man's chest. The building was equipped with steel gates, and as a quick-thinking security guard hurried to secure the last one, the duo managed to slip inside.

There was a loud clang behind them when the door closed, followed by a persistent rattling noise as hundreds of frustrated monsters. .h.i.t the barrier. It consisted of closely set vertical bars that allowed those inside to see out as the pimply-faced guard emptied his .38 revolver into the squealing ma.s.s. Each bullet killed at least two or three Chimera, but there were plenty more, and it wasn't long before the guard's pistol clicked empty.

Then, as if in response to some unseen signal, the tidal wave of alien flesh broke and fell away. That was when Stillman saw a horrible sight as a man stumbled up the last few steps with half a dozen Spinners clinging to his body. But the creatures weren't stinging him. Not yet anyway.

"Oh, my G.o.d," Bristow said. "It's Norton!"

The WDC newsman reached the top and grabbed the bars with both hands, then began to rattle them. His eyes were wide-and his pupils were dilated.

"Let me in! For G.o.d's sake, let me in!"

The security guard produced a large ring of keys and was on his way to the gate when Stillman grabbed an arm.

"Wait! You can't do that."

The security guard attempted to break Stillman's grip but Bristow was there to restrain him as well.

"Are you crazy?" the young man demanded. "There's an innocent man out there!"

"And there's twenty innocent people in here," Stillman responded urgently. "They're using him as bait! They want you to open the door so they can get in."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, he's dead already," Stillman answered soberly. "And there's nothing we can do about it."

The security guard had stopped struggling by that time and stared in horror as the Spinners allowed Norton to plead.

"Please! I have a family ... Don't let me die." Norton tugged at the bars as his eyes went from face to face. "Why?" he wanted to know. "Why won't you let me in?"

Then, as the Chimera realized that Norton was of no further use to them, they took him down. A man began to retch and a woman sobbed pitifully as the Spinners went to work. Norton screamed while the Chimera wound layer after layer of glistening pinkish brown webbing around his body, but it wasn't long before the sounds were silenced, as it became impossible for him to breathe. Then all the struggling came to a stop as a large group of Spinners bore the newly coc.o.o.ned body away.

The gibbering sounds continued unabated, but the gate held, so most of the people pulled back from the bars as the security guard put in a call to the police. A waste of time, in Stillman's opinion, since there were bound to be other spires, and the police sure as h.e.l.l had to know about them.

"Hey," Bristow said. "Have you seen my camera? I lost it."

"No," Stillman said matter-of-factly, "I haven't."

"Then how bout a smoke?" Bristow inquired.

Stillman removed a pack of Camels from his pocket, shook one of them loose, and offered it to Bristow. "You smoke? Since when?"

"Since five minutes ago," Bristow said, as he accepted both the cigarette and the light. Then, having pulled some smoke into his lungs, he began to cough.

Stillman was putting the pack back into his pocket when he felt the recorder-and realized he had tucked the device away prior to the desperate run up the stairs. He pulled it out, turned the recorder on, and held the microphone to his lips. "This is Henry Stillman ... Today, during a tour of the newly refurbished Lincoln Memorial in Was.h.i.+ngton, D.C., the President of the United States paused for a moment to rea.s.sure reporters and citizens alike as to the integrity of the much vaunted defense perimeter.

"No sooner had the President concluded his remarks than a huge spire fell out of the sky, landed about five hundred feet from the memorial, and killed at least a dozen people. Soon-within a matter of minutes-thousands of eggs poured out of the missile. They hatched quickly, releasing hundreds of vicious creatures, which are outside the memorial now.

"I'm approaching the gate as I speak, and the next thing you will hear is the sound of screeching, as the Chimeran horde tries to get in. It's a horrible sound, ladies and gentlemen-and one I hope none of you have occasion to hear in person."

The Spinners grew more agitated as Stillman neared the gate, the intensity of the gibbering sound increased, and the reporter extended the microphone in an attempt to capture the sound for the benefit of his audience.

But suddenly there was the roar of a diesel engine from somewhere just out of sight. Moments later, the Spinners fell away from the gate like a wave being sucked back into the sea, as an armored personnel carrier bucked its way up the stairs. Spinners screeched angrily as they were crushed by the half-track's metal treads, and a vehicle-mounted machine gun began to yammer madly, with hundreds of Chimera disappearing into a blood-mist cloud.

Orders were shouted as a dozen soldiers wearing black hoods jumped down from the half-track to battle the Chimera with shotguns, Bellocks, and flamethrowers. Stillman heard a flurry of gunshots followed by a loud whump whump as a gout of flame consumed more than fifty Spinners and filled the air with the throat-clogging stench of burned flesh. as a gout of flame consumed more than fifty Spinners and filled the air with the throat-clogging stench of burned flesh.

The battle ended five minutes later when the last stink was hunted down and dispatched with a blast from a Rossmore.

Keys rattled as the security guard unlocked the gates and swung them open. Stillman was one of the first to leave and found it difficult to walk without stepping on a body. The stairs were slick with blood and littered with hats, purses, and other debris. By placing each foot with care, he was able to make his way halfway down the stairs to the point where a badly mangled camera lay. As Bristow arrived, he bent to pick up the object. "Here," he said, "I believe this belongs to you."

Bristow accepted what remained of his camera and took a long slow look around. "We're lucky to be alive."

Stillman was silent for a moment as sirens wailed in the distance, a woman sobbed as she cradled a dead child in her arms, and a flight of Sabre Jets roared overhead.

"Maybe," Stillman replied somberly, "or maybe the lucky ones are already dead."

CHAPTER TEN.

PAYBACK IS A b.i.t.c.h.

Near Hot Springs, South Dakota Wednesday, November 28, 1951 The s.h.i.+mmery blue Stalker crawled crablike up over a rocky ridge. Then, having successfully crossed the barrier, its articulated legs made whine-thud-whine whine-thud-whine sounds as they spidered down the steep slope toward the ravine below. sounds as they spidered down the steep slope toward the ravine below.

Occasional bursts of static, fractured sentences, and the sounds of fighting could be heard over the headphones Hale wore, but there was no way to tell who was winning the battle miles to the east. Two additional machines, both of which had been captured months earlier, followed along behind his.

The notion of using Chimeran vehicles to penetrate the enemy base near Hot Springs, South Dakota, had been Hale's idea, yet now as he and his team battled the rough terrain, he was beginning to doubt the wisdom of the plan.

The goal had been to surprise the Chimera by arriving in three of their own vehicles-thus avoiding the antiaircraft batteries located on top of the target building. But after hours of tedious cross-country travel, their slow progress was eating up valuable time, and Hale was worried lest he and his team miss the narrow window of opportunity created by Lieutenant Colonel Jack Hawkins and the 5th Ranger Battalion.

Hawkins's job was to advance up the main highway from Chadron, Nebraska. Then, as the stinks located in and around Hot Springs streamed south to engage the invaders, pre-positioned American troops would sweep in to crush them from both sides. Which was why the attack had been code-named Operation Iron Fist.

Meanwhile, as the battle took place, Hale and his team were supposed to sweep around to the west in an effort to bypa.s.s the action. If all went as planned, they would enter Hot Springs unopposed, break into the storage building, and s.n.a.t.c.h one of the fuel cores before the Chimera could bring a large force back to oppose them.

It was all dependent on good communications and perfect timing. Except that the radio link to Battalion Command was spotty at best, and according to Hale's wrist.w.a.tch, the team was running fifteen minutes late. Hale glanced to his right.

Despite the way the Stalker was lurching up, down, and sideways, Dr. Barrie appeared to be completely unruffled.

"I've been studying the map," Barrie said, "and I have a suggestion."

Hale sent the Stalker sideways to avoid a cl.u.s.ter of boulders, and did his best to sound casual. He still wasn't entirely clear whether she was his superior, equal, or subordinate. "Yeah?" he said. "What's that?"

"The top of the next ridge is one of the highest points between us and our objective. Once we hit the top of this slope, let's park the Stalkers just below the skyline, and take a look. Then if everything looks okay, we'll commit."

That made sense. According to his own calculations, and the map-board strapped to his right thigh, they were coming up on the separation point. Beyond that spot, the Stalkers would pa.s.s the Rangers off to the east, and be entirely on their own.

A meaningless exercise unless the overall plan was working.

"Okay," he said. "That makes sense, but only if we can't reach BatCom, since we're running fifteen minutes late."

Hale made two attempts to contact BatCom subsequent to that, received nothing but gibberish in return, and was forced to conclude that the Chimera were jamming Ranger communications. So with no other course open to him, and having found a ledge on which the Stalkers could pause, Hale brought his machine to a halt.

Fortunately the highly localized squad-level frequency that connected him with the other two machines was working fine.

"Echo-Six, to Echo-Five, and Echo-Four ... Here's your chance to take a break. The doctor and I are going to take a look over the ridge. I want one unit manned and ready to fight at all times. So take turns. Do you read? Over."

"This is Five ... Roger that," Sergeant Marvin Kawecki replied. "Over."

"This is Four ... I read you Five-by-Five," Corporal Tim Yorba echoed. "Over."

Five minutes later all three of the Stalkers were parked as Hale opened the hatch and allowed Barrie to precede him. She was wearing trousers, and he couldn't help but notice how well they fit as she disappeared through the hatch.

Once outside, Hale was pleased to see that the civilian had remembered to take a Bullseye a.s.sault rifle with her as she dropped onto one of the machine's ma.s.sive legs and jumped to the snow-covered ground. With the exception of Hale's .44 Magnum pistol, the entire team was equipped with Chimeran weapons because, once they arrived, there wouldn't be any American ammo lying around to scavenge. And they were likely to need more than they could reasonably carry. Hale was carrying a Marksman rifle as he jumped to the ground. Though manufactured by humans, the weapon was based on Chimeran tech, and chambered to eat enemy ammo. It could fire twenty-one rounds in three-round bursts and was devastatingly accurate.

The moment they left the confines of the Stalker, they could hear the muted sounds of the distant battle as they rolled across the land. Once in position both flopped onto their stomachs and brought binoculars up to their eyes.

The ridge ran southwest to northeast, allowing a clear view of the snow-covered gra.s.slands that lay between them and the north-south highway. A pall of gray smoke hung over the scene, but there were places where the fog was less dense, and the battlefield could be seen. It extended at least a mile to either side of the badly cratered road and was carpeted with the carca.s.ses of burned-out M-12 Sabertooth tanks, smoking Stalkers, and the skeletal remains of Lynx APVs.

And there were bodies, too-thousands of them, representing both sides-which lay in drifts on the bloodied snow. Hale could read the lines of casualties the way a fortune-teller might read a palm. The northernmost line, the one that zigzagged west to east, was comprised of dead Rangers. Judging from the way they lay, like successive waves of flotsam on a beach, they had been the first ones to make contact with a southbound tsunami of Chimera. of them, representing both sides-which lay in drifts on the bloodied snow. Hale could read the lines of casualties the way a fortune-teller might read a palm. The northernmost line, the one that zigzagged west to east, was comprised of dead Rangers. Judging from the way they lay, like successive waves of flotsam on a beach, they had been the first ones to make contact with a southbound tsunami of Chimera.

The stinks had literally rolled over the Rangers, in some cases stomping their vehicles under enormous feet while they rushed forward to collect what looked like a certain victory.

But as Hale panned his binoculars across the smoke-drifted battlefield, he could see the points where the freaks had been hit from both flanks. The Chimeran bodies were piled high there, where they had been forced in on themselves, and had been slaughtered in the hundreds.

Beyond the field of the dead, the survivors were preparing to continue the carnage. As Hawkins sent his reserves forward, another colossal confrontation was about to take place. American sh.e.l.ls arced over the battlefield and threw columns of dirt and snow into the air when they exploded. Heard from a distance, the artillery fire made a low muttering sound.

A squad of gigantic bipedal t.i.tans plodded their way south, launching fireb.a.l.l.s as they went. The monstrous aliens seemed immune to the automatic weapons fire that sleeted their way. They were supported by Stalkers, though precious few, since dozens had been destroyed earlier.

Slightly to the rear of the widely s.p.a.ced t.i.tans, and positioned to defend them from infantry attacks, there was a company-sized force of Ravagers. Their nearly impervious energy s.h.i.+elds had been raised to protect both themselves and the horde of Hybrids following along behind. The incoming artillery sh.e.l.ls blew holes in their ranks, but those gaps were quickly filled as more stinks came forward.

Suddenly there were Steelheads pus.h.i.+ng to the front of the shambling pack, their Augers at the ready, with at least a thousand standard Hybrids close behind. Meanwhile, out along both flanks, dozens of Howlers were visible, das.h.i.+ng this way and that and baying like wolves.

It was a terrifying sight, and from the safety of the ridge, Hale felt a combination of thankfulness and guilt as the Rangers fought back. Tanks targeted the t.i.tans, quickly blowing half of them into b.l.o.o.d.y hamburger, as LAARK-equipped hit teams rushed in on Lynx APVs to deal death to the Ravagers, all of which were vulnerable from behind. And Hale's fellow Sentinels were present as well, their uniforms making them distinguishable from the rest as the infantry swept forward to engage the bloodthirsty Hybrids.