Despite the logistics involved it had taken far less time to set up than the period the gates were destabilized. Collective 47 had a total of nine subcollectives to draw upon, less the late Collective 15379. Bosons were energy intensive to generate but six of the collectives had created at least one, in some cases two. Collective 47 was able to generate three.
In addition each of the collectives had disregarded trade and internal improvements to increase combat unit production. Each of the potential gates, and the three that had previously been opened, now had an overwhelming force stationed by it ranging from class one to class seven ground combat units along with twenty percent more air defense units than standard. The biologicals of the new world would not be permitted to throw their fission weapons onto the bridgeheads this time.
Last, and certainly least, all three of Collective 47's subraces had been levied for support. In some cases this included combat units. Primarily it had been contribution of biological materials to be converted to Collective combat units. One gate had been entirely ceded to the subraces and would be assaulted by a combination of Mreee and N!T!Ch, using weaponry the N!T!Ch had obtained from the Slen. They, too, however, would be supported by Collective air defense units.
A new subcollective, designated 16743, had been established at the locus of the former 15379. It was in its infancy, a colony organization rather than a truly functioning collective, but it served to support the forces sent to those open gates by the other collectives. In addition, Mreee biologicals were being added to the subcollective to accelerate its formation; as the holder of two of the open gates it was an important strategic locus and needed the boost.
All was in readiness when the gate fractal stabilized.
"All Collectives," Collective 47 emitted. "Initiate gate formation."
Even for the collective this took a few moments. In the interim, Collective 16743 sent a weak emission.
"Fission detonation, Gate 763, Gate 765, Gate 769. Assault formations destroyed. Gates closed. Twenty percent damage to collective. Initiating repairs."
Best to get this over with as quickly as possible. Collective 47 had considered using the race on the far side as a subrace, but it was simply too dangerous. All would have to be destroyed.
"All Collectives," Collective 47 emitted as the gates popped open. "Initiate assault."
Dave Pearce threw his queen of diamonds on the pile and watched as Jim Horn covered it with a king. That was okay, it was his sole diamond. When somebody brought out that ace they were hoarding they were in for a surprise.
Dave was whistling in his teeth, a sure sign that he was out of one suit, Sergeant Horn thought to himself. He knew the song, vaguely, something about Hallack or Harlack or something. Pearce was always whistling it, to the point that it got on his nerves. Especially when it meant the specialist was out of a suit and waiting to hop on his ace. You'd think that with an ace, king combination, you'd get at least two tricks. But in the last two weeks he swore that he'd seen every possible combination of tricks and rubbers possible in the game of spades. There wasn't much else to do but play.
The duty was incredibly, unmitigatingly, boring. Hell of a lot more comfortable than Iraq, though. The track three boson had formed in the living room of a suburban home in Woodmere, Ohio, a suburb of Cleveland. After the danger of the boson became evident, the house, then the surrounding houses, then a good part of the town, had been evacuated. The house, a pleasant single-story ranch, had been cleared by moving crews and then leveled, as had several of the surrounding houses and most of their landscaping, creating open fields of fire. Last, defensive positions had been scattered around the boson and units of the Ohio National Guard were established in the positions. Well, were supposed to be established in the positions. There was always one member of the unit on the tracks at all times, but most of the rest of the brigade had settled in the abandoned houses; they were far more comfortable. The local electric company, as a gesture of patriotism, had left the electricity running. So the troops had hot and cold running water, a place to sleep out of the weather and flush toilets. Cots, and then beds, had appeared. Except for the boredom, which was relieved by television and endless games of spades, not to mention Nintendo, Sega and Gameboys and for a fortunate few internet connections, it wasn't bad duty. Definitely better than the six months the unit had spent in the Sunni Triangle.
They all knew that the balloon could go up at any time and they'd been told it could occur without warning. But they also figured that the big brains would give them a little warning.
So Sergeant Horn was more than a little surprised when he threw his ace down, fully prepared for Pearce to trump the damned thing, and was rewarded, instead, by the explosion of a claymore mine.
Claymores were directional mines, a small box on legs that could be pointed at the direction an enemy was likely to approach from, in this case directly at the inactive boson. Normally they were command detonated, that is a soldier would close a "clacker" which sent an electrical signal to the mine telling it that it was time to perform its function, namely spilling out 700 ball bearings at approximately the speed of rifle bullets.
When the combat engineers set up the defenses for the boson, however, they laid in a rather extensive minefield around the concrete slab that had once been a ranch house. The first line of defense was a series of claymore mines on trip-wires, so that anything coming through the gate, should it form, would be met by a hail of ball bearings.
It also served as an efficient signal that the shit had just hit the fan.
The four card players tossed down their hands and picked up their weapons, rushing to their bunkers as fast as they could. But there were nine people currently in the house and by the time Sergeant Horn squeezed through the press at the door, more mines were exploding. And then the first incoming hit the house.
The plasma weapon hit on the roof and tossed burning debris down into the living room, setting fire to the table where they had been playing and tossing burning cards through the air.
The overpressure from the blast threw Sergeant Horn and Specialist Pearce out of the door in a tangle of limbs. The sergeant was the first to recover, sitting up and shaking his head, then grabbing his M-16 and continuing on to his bunker. Or where his bunker had been. Which was now a hole in the ground.
There was a protective berm that had been thrown up around the boson and Horn crawled to the top of it, looking over the edge. What met his eyes was a nightmare.
The collectives had not bothered with assaulting the gates with low-class ground combat units. Coming through the gate was a segmental class seven combat unit. It was tossing plasma charges off its horns at everything that looked like a threat. Four Abrams were smoking wrecks as were all the Bradleys and most of the bunkers that were supposed to shelter the infantry. And the thing just kept coming out of the gate, like a giant nightmare centipede, pouring fire in all directions.
As he watched, though, the thing hit one of the antitank mines the engineers had installed. The massive explosion punched up through the thing, sending a self-forging round upward through the first segment. The secondary explosion, even at five hundred meters, tossed the sergeant off the berm and down into the grass yard of the burning house.
He shook some life back into himself, again, and climbed back up the berm, wishing that his LBE hadn't been in the bunker. All he had to fight with was a single magazine for the M-16.
It wasn't going to matter, much, though. The front segment of the monster was a smoking wreck but it had already been detached and the thing continued to extrude. Now fire was leaping into the sky, intercepting incoming rounds of artillery. There were more antitank mines, but Horn was pretty sure there wouldn't be enough.
"Anybody got a radio!" Horn yelled. "Call somebody and tell 'em this thing ain't going to stop any time soon!"
"This is Bruce Gelinas in Woodmere, Ohio, where units of the Ohio National Guard have again been repulsed from an attempt to retake the Cleveland Gate. Fighting is reportedly heavy and from the looks of the casualties I'd have to agree. Besides the segmented tank there are now rhino tanks and something like large spider tanks, along with large numbers of dog aliens and thorn-throwers. The unit has had to retreat, twice, and now is simply trying to slow the monsters down as well as it can. More units are being brought up but the situation looks very bad."
"Bruce have you been able to talk to anyone from the National Guard, there?" the anchorwoman in New York asked.
"No, the spokespeople don't seem to be available," Bruce said. "From what I heard they were issued weapons and have been sent in to replace losses in the infantry units, which are taking a real beating. I spoke, briefly, with a sergeant who had been injured in the initial assault. . . ."
The scene cut to a recording of a soldier on a stretcher, his left arm in a thick bandage and scorch marks on his uniform. His face was partially bandaged and he could only see out of one eye.
"Sergeant Horn, you were part of the gate defense force?" the reporter asked.
"We couldn't stop it," the soldier said, almost incoherently. "It took out the Abrams before we even knew it was there, it was blowing up everything in sight! It took three mines and it didn't stop it, it just kept coming!"
"We have further reports that an attempt to deliver strategic nuclear weapons was unsuccessful," the reporter said, again live. "Orders to prepare for a strike were issued and we were warned, then nothing. Heavy fire could be seen from the direction of the gate and it apparently intercepted and destroyed the incoming nuclear rounds. As I said, at this point it looks as if nothing can stop the Titcher. This is Bruce Gelinas, in Woodmere, Ohio."
"Thank you for that . . . disturbing report, Bruce," the anchorwoman said. "Breakouts are reported at all of the formerly inactive bosons, ranging from Georgia to Canada. In addition to Titcher attacks, the gate in Oakdale, Kentucky, appears to be sending out Mreee soldiers and some sort of giant, silver spiders. We go now to Erik Kittlelsen who is reporting, live, from near the front lines. Erik?"
"We're live in Oakdale, Kentucky," the reporter shouted at the microphone just as an explosion occurred, very close, in the background. "I'm with Alpha Company, 1st Battalion, 149th Infantry Battalion of the Kentucky National Guard!" He looked over his shoulder at the wall of earth behind him and then back at the camera. "The attackers here seem to be Mreee and what the military now believes to be Nitch, the giant spider species we had previously only heard about from the Mreee. It's clear, now, that the Mreee were allies of the Titcher all along!"
"Erik, we're getting some very disturbing reports from other defenders," the anchorwoman said. "How are things, there?"
"Not good, Roberta," the reporter shouted, then hit the ground as an enormous explosion occurred close enough that the flash could be seen even with the camera pointed at the wall of the trench. In a moment he was back up again, though, and the camera was back on him. "The Mreee and the Nitch are using some sort of homing explosive round. Even if they appear to be missing, the round tracks in on our combat vehicles and bunkers! Infantry are doing better but not much. And they have antiair and antiartillery support from some sort of Titcher weaponry. They're holding them to a perimeter for the time being, but more of the Mreee and Nitch are pouring through the gate and the gate is on a hilltop, they can drop fire on our lines and it's hard to even get a head up with all the . . ."
The screen went blank then showed the anchorwoman again.
"We appear to be having some technical difficulties," the woman said. "We'll try to get Erik back as soon as possible."
"Not this side of the grave." Miller grunted, setting down his beer.
"No," Bill said, through steepled fingers.
They were alone in the physics trailer at the anomaly site. The SEAL was wearing a skin-tight jumpsuit, and Weaver fatigues. Bill looked up at the SEAL and shook his head.
"You smell like a goat," Bill commented.
"It's your fault," Miller replied, noncommittally. "What are you going to do?"
"Why does everyone want to know what I'm going to do?" Weaver replied, angrily.
"Because you're always the man with the plan," Miller explained, shrugging, and taking another sip of his beer. "So . . . what are you going to do?"
"By the time we create enough quarks to matter, we won't be able to get to any of the gates," Bill said, thoughtfully. "Even if we were set up in Savannah already. Which we're not. And we can't knock back any of the assaults with nukes, because we've exhausted half our subs firing into them to no effect. Something the news guys apparently haven't found out. But there is one bright spot."
"What?"
"We know that with the right technology, SDI works," Bill said, still in a thoughtful tone.
"Very funny."
"I think there's only one thing to do," Bill said, sitting back.
"And that is?"
"Beg."
"Beg the Titcher to not kill us?" Miller asked. "I don't think that's gonna work."
"No, beg for help," Weaver replied, pulling out his cell phone. The charge was low; he'd forgotten to charge it up last night. He hoped it would last long enough. "First I'm gonna beg for an airplane. A few. One for me, one or more for you."
"Why?"
"I'm going to France. You're going to Kentucky."
"I think I'm getting the better deal," Miller said, watching the world end, live.
"We need Tchar," Bill said, striding through the Adar gate with Admiral Avery. "Even more important, we need that artass guy."
"You don't speak directly to him," Avery pointed out. "That's important. If he's not available we can't even ask where he is."
"We need somebody like him," Bill replied. "Somebody who can make policy decisions."
"We get what we get," Avery said.
Avery spoke to one of the Adar guards on the gate and was directed to the meeting hall where they were directed to sit in one of the cubicles.
"Our world's dying while we sit here," Bill pointed out.
"I know that as well as you do, Doctor," the admiral replied, tartly, and Bill remembered that he had started off life as a "nuke," working the ballistic submarine fleet. His remarkable ability at languages had been put to use later. The admiral, in his own way, was a warrior, a man who had carried a key that could lead to the extermination of millions of lives and who had run the risk on every deployment of having to use it.
"But," the admiral added, more thoughtfully, "the longer we sit here, I suspect, the better."
"Why?" Bill asked.
"If we'd been received immediately, we would have gotten, at most, Tchar," the admiral said. "If we're being kept waiting it's because someone who can discuss policy is being summoned and briefed."
Bill shrugged, then pulled out a calculator and started tapping keys.
It had been a four-hour ride from McCoy to France in another F-15. Bill was logging up some serious hours in that jet at this point. Then a brief ride by helicopter; one had been waiting with the rotors already turning when he landed. By the time he got to the gate, the news had worsened. Huge areas around the gates had been opened by the Titcher and, in those where the areas were in view from a safe distance, the Titcher "fungus" was already spreading. Even if he closed the gates, it might be too late to save the world.
Finally, after an interminable wait that turned out to be all of twenty minutes, another Adar came to the cubicle and waved for them to follow. They were taken to the same meeting room that had been used during their previous, less hurried, visit. Tchar was waiting for them and so, to Bill's relief, was the unnamed artass.
"Tchar," Bill said, inclining his head.
Tchar spoke hurriedly to the admiral, who shook his head.
"They've already been informed of the breakout," Avery translated. "They ask if you think it's possible to stop the Titcher."
"I'm not the Army Chief of Staff," Bill replied. "But the frank answer is: no."
"Why then are you here?" Avery translated. "Do you seek shelter for your people? Our foods cannot be mutually consumed. There is no way that we can support many of you on this side. If you, yourself, and a few others wish to flee, that can be granted."
"No," Bill said, "I've come for help. I have spoken to God, as you told me to, and he has told me that there is a way to break the gates. But it requires a large amount of quarks, free quarks. We have figured out a way to produce them, but not enough and not in time. I am hoping that you have such a way, such a weapon. I think you do."
"And if you get such a weapon, even supposing we have it, what would you do with it?" Tchar asked.
"There is one gate I believe possible to retake," Bill answered. "I would use it on that gate. It should shatter the entire fractal, if the math is right. At the very least it will shut all the gates, giving us time to retake them and set up more effective defenses at each. But, again, my understanding is that it will turn them off, perhaps more."
The artass suddenly leaned forward, examining Bill with the single eye in his forehead. He peered at him for a moment, then spoke.
"You say you have spoken to God," Avery translated. "What did he say."
"To cut matter to the smallest form it becomes, when it will no longer cut because it is light, it is water. That is the secret of the gates," Bill answered, staring back.
"And if I told you we had tried this method and failed?" the artass asked.
"I'd say you didn't use enough," Bill replied. He turned back to Tchar and nodded. "I think I should add something. When the Titcher take our planet, they will gain access to the bosons already generated and the boson generator. That means any bosons you make will be potential gates. You could find yourself in the same predicament we are."
Tchar didn't answer, just sat looking at Avery. Nor did he turn his head to the artass.
"Please," Bill said, looking at the artass, now. "In the name of all that is holy, in the name of God, please. Help us."
The artass looked at him out of both side eyes then said a word.
"I don't recognize that one," Avery said. "Artune a das? There are some similarities to other words. Destroyer of Small Things?"
"There is a device," Tchar said, abruptly standing up. "Come with me."
He led them out of the building to a rank of small cars, somewhat like golf carts. All four piled in one and then he put it in gear.
Bill had previously seen the Adar drive but had never been in any of their vehicles. The thing looked like a golf cart and was open on all sides but it drove like a Ferrari. He held on for dear life as Tchar, who apparently considered this no more than normal, rocketed across the compound and around a series of buildings. Pedestrians, clearly, did not have the right of way and he nearly smashed some poor human that had never heard of Adar driving techniques.
They stopped at the base of the mountains that half ringed the site where there was an open corridor leading into the mountain.
Tchar and the artass led the way; the guards at the entrance, which had the sort of blast doors Bill had only seen at a very few military installations, stood aside at their approach, saluting cross armed in the Adar way.
"I would be delighted to figure out who the artass is," Avery whispered as they strode down the tile-lined corridor. It was sloped downward, with several doglegs, heading deep into the bowels of the mountain.
"I am K'Tar'Daoon," the artass said in very clear English. "The Unitary Council is composed of nine members, each with their own separate area of responsibility. We do not break it out the same way that you humans do. I would be something like your secretary of high technology defense. I am currently the rotating head of the Unitary Council."
"Holy crap," Bill whispered, then realized that the question had not been translated. "Sorry."
"You said that you spoke to God," the artass replied. "And I sensed no lie in you. You are a fortunate man to have been able to speak to God, twice. Such a person does not deserve to die at the hands of the Titcher." He paused in front of a blast door and made a complicated hand gesture. "On the other hand, the philosopher/scientist Edroon pointed out that alliances are based upon mutual need as well as friendship. Your point about the Titcher taking your planet was well timed." There were guards in front of this door, as well, and Bill considered them to be nervous. It was hard to read body language among an alien species, but they didn't look very happy.
The artass placed a hand on a pad and then leaned his forehead on a curved plate. This placed his center eye against the plate and Bill suspected something like a retina scan was being conducted. As the artass leaned back the door swung ponderously open.
It was not, by any stretch of the imagination, the last door to be accessed. There were a total of four, the last requiring that two more Adar, who were awaiting them, give their identity and approval.
When the last door was opened it revealed a small room with shelves along one wall. There were several devices on the shelves, including one long line of what looked like small artillery shells. On the opposite wall was a vault which the artass opened by a combination. It was the first nonelectronic security device Bill had seen.
The artass pulled a box from the vault and then closed it. But Bill got a glimpse in the vault and saw that there were two more. The vault was, otherwise, empty.
The two stranger Adar were standing to one side as the artass came out with the box. They, too, looked strangely nervous, turning their head from side to side to watch the box that the artass carried, with apparent indifference, by one of two handles placed at either end.
The box was about a half a meter long, a quarter meter deep and wide, and colored a rather pleasant shade of violet. It appeared to be made from plastic or carbon fiber. On the top were a series of symbols and some readouts.
"I will brief you carefully upon the use of this device," the artass said. "Then I will carry it to the far side of our mutual gate. After that what you do with it will be up to you."
"Yes, sir," Bill said, eying the box warily.
"This is an ardune," the artass said. "The ardune requires a period of time to become useable." He pressed a key and a bar on the top of it outlined in blue and began slowly flashing. "It will require half a cycle, some fifteen of your hours, for it to become fully useable."
"Fifteen hours," Bill said, looking at his watch. "Got it."
"Each ardune uses a different initiator key," the artass said, pointing to the symbols. Bill noted that there were fifteen, three rows of five. "In this case, you press these five," the artass continued, not actually touching the keys. "When you do, this indicator begins to blink," he said, pointing to a readout that was, at the moment, quite dead. "You press this key and it increments up in time. It is in our sadeen which is about two thirds of your seconds."
"Okay," Bill said.
"It only increments to thirty sadeen," the artass continued. "Twenty of your seconds."
"Okay," Bill said, his stomach clenching.
"You then have to input the code again. You have thirty sadeen to reinput the code, after which the counter resets and you have to start all over again. When you complete the second input, the countdown starts."
"Okay," Bill said, breathing out. "Can I input all but the last key as long as I don't go over the thirty sadeen?"
"Yes."
"Can I turn it off?" Bill asked. "I mean, after the countdown?"
"Key the sequence again," the artass said. "If you have time."
"Key the sequence again," Bill nodded, realizing why the guards and the two other Adar, probably nearly as high rank as the artass, were eying it they way they did. This was a nuclear suicide device. "Just like a security alarm. Got it."
"A few warnings about the ardune," the artass said. "Obviously, it must be used immediately. If you get it to the other side of the gate, and it stays there, all is well. The effect around the gate area, however, may be hazardous."
I bet, Bill thought.
"Last warning about the ardune," the artass said. "It is heavily armored. That is because, as you surmise, the material it contains is explosive. If the armor is penetrated or the containment fails, it will predetonate. The development of material is nonlinear, however. It will be at least one of your hours before it is significantly hazardous. However, by the time it reaches full power, if the case is cracked, say by a Titcher plasma weapon, the results will be . . . unpleasant."
"What's the output?" Bill asked.
"You would define it as six hundred megatons," the artass answered. "If it does not destroy the gates, it will assuredly destroy your world, probably cracking it open and fragmenting it into space. In which case, our world will be secure."
"Unpleasant." Understatement of the . . . of all time!
"How do I know it won't blow up the first time I input the code?" Bill asked, sweating.
"You don't."
When they reached the Terran side of the gate, the artass handed Bill the bomb and then went back to his side without a backward glance. Tchar looked at Bill, unreadably, for a moment, and then stepped back through as well.
Bill looked at the admiral and shrugged.
"You going back over?" Bill asked. "I understand they've set up a greenhouse over there. If this thing goes off, on the wrong side, you'll make it."
"What's the point?" Avery replied. "All my children and grandchildren are over here. Nope, I think I'm going to pack up my tent and see if I can still get a flight back to the States. If we're going to all die, I'd rather die on my own soil."
"Well, I've got a plane to catch," Bill said, looking at the bar on the ardune. It was still barely showing any increase.
"That you do," the admiral said. "Good luck."
"Thanks."
The F-15 had state-of-the-art communications and it was in the middle of the Atlantic. It was an even better place to hold a secure conversation than most secure rooms.
"I have obtained a device from the Adar," Bill told what he'd come to think of as the Troika. "It will destabilize, probably destroy, the gates and the boson fractal. All I have to do is get it to the other side."
"That's going to be hard," the secretary of defense said. "Actually, that's a bit of an understatement. That's going to be damned near impossible."
"We're holding the Mreee, right?" Bill asked. "Can you pull forces off elsewhere and throw them at that gate? I just have to get this thing over for a few seconds and then the Titcher threat goes away, permanently. Or, at least as permanently as we're going to get. We're losing everywhere else, right? Let the Titcher have the territory, we can get it back. We just need to close the gates."
"He has a point," the national security advisor said. "You're sure this will close the gates?"
"Yes," Bill replied, definitely. But a faint quaver in his voice must have given him away.
"What are the secondary effects?" the national security advisor asked, guardedly.
"Oh, if I get it to the other side, minimal on this side," Bill answered. "I'm not even sure there will be a neutron pulse, this time. Don't see why there would be. The gates should just disappear as if they never existed."
"And if you don't get it to the other side?" the President asked. "And it goes off on this side?"
"That gates will still get shut down," Bill replied. "As long as I can get it close to one of them."
"And the secondary effects?" the national security advisor asked.
"Oh, pretty bad," Bill said, his head light. "Just about as bad as can be imagined. Some of the guys in nuke boats might be okay, if they're, say, well out in the middle of the Pacific and really deep. There's women on some of them now, right? So the human race won't be entirely eliminated. If the world doesn't crack and turn into a new asteroid belt," he added, honestly, in a voice out of nightmare.
There was a very long pause that was ended by the secretary of defense clearing his throat.
"Dr. Weaver, what sort of magnitude are we discussing here?"
"Six hundred megatons," Bill said, looking at the device in his lap.
There was another long pause.
"Dr. Weaver," the national security advisor said, in a voice that was high and strange, "I'm reminded of an expression from the Vietnam War. Something about destroying a world to save it."
"We're doomed anyway, ma'am," Bill replied, his voice firm now. "The Adar have had this capability for some time, how long I don't know, but long enough to use it on their own gate. They haven't. The question is: why?"
"Why?" the President asked in a firm tone.
"Because they're not desperate, Mr. President," Bill answered. "I guess the question is, how desperate are we?"
There was another pause.
"Mr. Secretary?" the President said.
"Sir?"
"Transfer all available forces to open the Oakdale gate," the president said. "Dr. Weaver."
"Yes, Mr. President?"
"Try very hard to set it off on the other side of the gate. And may God grant us victory on this day."
The F-15 never even returned to Orlando. Instead, taking a snaking course that followed relatively safe lanes around the area the Titcher interdicted, it flared out and landed at Louisville International, the closest airport with runways long enough. A Blackhawk—a special operations variant, he noticed—was waiting just outside the gates to the airport and as soon as Bill was in and strapped down, in one of the crew-chief seats that had a great view out the Plexiglas window, it took off. The flight started low and got lower the closer they got to the alien incursion.
Bill had thought that riding in an F-15 was wild, and it was, but even though the Blackhawk was going a fraction of the speed of the fighter, the fact that it was doing so, towards the end, actually below the treetops added a certain degree of frisson to the experience. So did jerking up to avoid power lines and then back down, quickly, to avoid fire from the hills to the east.
It was right at 130 miles, straight-line, from Louisville International to the Oakdale gate. Even in a Blackhawk it took over an hour to make the flight, twisting and turning at the very edge of the experienced chief warrant officer five's capability. Towards the end the chopper cut south and, keeping a ridgeline between itself and the gate, actually passed the gate to the Army assembly point in Jackson.
Naturally, Bill thought, the most assaultable gate would be just about the least accessible. The road network in the area was, to say the least, primitive. To get the bulk of the combat forces to the region required going down Highway 402 out of Lexington and through Winchester, to Highway 15. Highway 402 was a multilane highway, limited access for most of its length, and it had been taken out of civilian service to move the vast fleet of tanks and fighting vehicles that were headed for the gate. Highway 15, on the other hand, was a two lane, twisting, road that snaked through the hills in the area, hills which were just starting to leave the rolling bluegrass and edge up into the Appalachians. Highway 402 was a logjam of low-boy trailers trying to turn onto 15, which was worse.
Many of the soldiers being sent to try to retake the gate were Ohio national guardsmen who were, for reasons unexplained, being removed from defending their own homes and driven to the wilds of Kentucky. They were, to say the least, less than thrilled. Others were coming up from Tennessee, again National Guard with a leavening of air assault troops from the 101st at Fort Campbell. They took the Daniel Boone Highway, a limited access toll road that, again, had been placed in military service, and then turned north on the same Highway 15.
What the more astute soldiers noticed was the distinct lack of support vehicles. Missing from the logjam were the fuel, food and ammunition trucks they were used to seeing accompanying their formations. They had been given a basic load of ammunition and food at an assembly point in Louisville and their tanks were full. But there were no apparent plans for resupply. What that told those astute soldiers was far more grim than the fact that they were being taken away from their homes and families.
Furthermore, the assembly area in Jackson was a nightmare. The small town of a bare 2500 souls was more of an elaborate crossroads on two minor highways. It was the county seat of Breathitt County and, notably, its largest town. In an area with barely a square acre of flat land; it occupied a section of large, relatively flat, and therefore flood-prone, shoreline along the North Kentucky River.
"As a spot to assemble a battalion of tanks, much less a short division," Brigadier General Rand McKeen said, dryly, "it leaves a lot to be desired."
Low-boy trailers could be heard in the background, snorting around turns and backing and filling, trying to find places to drop all the tanks and fighting vehicles they carried. The town, even before the heavy reinforcements had arrived, had been largely abandoned and tanks now parked in yards, alleyways and streets, trying to ensure that they knew where their higher control was and, more importantly, which way the enemy might come from.
Even defining "higher" was difficult. The units were drawn from four different divisions, two brigades from Kentucky National Guard, one brigade from Ohio, one from Tennessee and a battalion of light infantry from the 101st. General McKeen, assistant division commander of the 101st, had been placed in overall command.
"And you're not an armor officer," Command Master Chief Miller noted. "Sir."
"Nope," McKeen said, smiling faintly. He was a tall, rawboned man with a lantern jaw, wearing his helmet very straight with the chinstrap neatly fastened. He also was weighted down with an infantryman's combat harness, loaded with magazines, and carried an M-4 rifle. "I'm not. But I suddenly got dumped with four brigades of National Guard armor and a direction of the President to take and hold one hilltop with them. So I guess that's what I'm going to have to do."
"Certainly you have enough forces," Bill said.
"Well . . . yes and no," McKeen replied. "The Mreee and Nitch, if that's who those spiders are, don't seem to be fighting all that hard. The local National Guard commander had positions along all the ridgelines around the boson. Some of them got pushed out and the Mreee took the town of Oakdale, pushed down the valley and took Athol and pushed over the nearest ridge towards Warcreek. But the local National Guard forces held them up in every direction, despite the Mreee having more forces and those damned rayguns of theirs. The rayguns don't appear to track in on infantry. And that's what I meant by 'yes and no.' If I go barrel-assing down 52 with all these Abrams and Bradleys, we're going to get blown to hell, Doctor. Frankly, it would have been much better to just send the whole 101st. But we're spread in penny packets on other missions. So here I sit, a light infantry specialist with a classic light infantry mission and a whole passel of mechanized infantry on my hands."
"So what are you going to do?" Bill asked.
"Take the gate," the general replied, smiling faintly again. "As to how I'm going to take it, Dr. Weaver, that's for me to know. As I understand it, my mission is to get you and your SEAL team up to the gate. And the very least, you have to be alive. That is what I intend to do. How is up to me. The when is, according to my orders, up to you."
Bill looked at his watch and shook his head.
"The . . . device we need to insert will not be ready for nine more hours," the physicist said. "Can we hold on that long?"
"As long as the Titcher don't reinforce their 'allies,'" the general replied. "In fact, I'd appreciate at least that long to get this amazing cluster . . . stuff fixed. Normally this sort of movement would take days, for exactly the reason that you see on the roads. As it is, we're doing the best we can with the time we've got. Ten hours would be preferable."
"The device won't be ready for nine hours," Bill repeated. "Thereafter . . . well, would you like to be sitting on a nuclear hand grenade that already had the pin pulled and was just being kept from blowing up by holding down the little lever thingy?"
"Spoon," the general said, his face going blank. "Is that what this thing is?"
"Worse," Miller said, his face grim. "Much, much, much worse."
"The best scenario is that we get it up to the gate, through the gate and blow it on the other side," Dr. Weaver said, blowing out as he said it. "Then the gates all shut down and we all go have a beer."
"Miller time," the SEAL said, one cheek jerking up in a rictus of a smile. Weaver had explained exactly what Sanson and the rest of the platoon were guarding.
"Next best scenario, and it's a real serious drop, is that we get it close to the gate, this is not close enough, and it blows up," Bill said.
"How serious a drop?" the general asked.
"You don't want to know," Bill replied.
"Really," Miller said. "I wish he hadn't told me."
"That bad?" the general said, lightly. "I wish he hadn't told me, too. If you get it close to the gate and can't get it through, then what?"
"I'll blow it," Bill replied. "It will destabilize this fractal track. It might even blowback along the fractal. I'm not sure what that will do to the Adar, or to us, if it happens, but it's going to do worse to the Titcher. This is about more than America, more than any personal needs, wants and desires, more than the needs of the human race, this is about the future of multiple races. If the Titcher get out on this planet, with that runaway boson generator Ray Chen created, there's no stopping them. If we're lucky, there will be survivors in nuke boats at sea and places like Cheyenne Mountain."
"And the worst case is you never get near the gate," the general said, licking his lips. He hadn't realized it would be that bad. After twenty-five years of service in uniform he was used to taking risks with his life and the lives of the soldiers he commanded. But this was risking the fate of all humanity.
"Yes, sir," Miller replied. "That would really and truly suck."
"Well, for the first time today, I understand my orders," the general said. He gave the physicist a half salute and walked back to the lawyer's office that he had taken over as a command center.
"You think it's gonna work?" Miller asked.
"It'd take a miracle."
"The gate is at the head of this narrow ravine that branches off of the main Clover Branch valley," the S-3 of what was being called Joint Task Force Oakdale said, pointing at the map. The major was normally the S-3 of the 37th Armored Brigade Ohio National Guard. As a full-time reservist he was decently capable of arranging the operations of his brigade, whether it be summer training, training schedules for the battalions scattered throughout Ohio or peacekeeping in Bosnia, Iraq or Afghanistan.
Planning a desperate assault on a mountaintop in Kentucky for four brigades and a battalion of regular soldiers was a different ballgame.
"The Mreee hold most of the Twin Creek Valley as well as Keen Fork and Bear Fork, but are being held up on ridges on three sides by units of the Kentucky National Guard."
There was an "ooowah!" from the back of the crowded tent and the S-3 smiled thinly.
"Part of this is probably because the Mreee seem willing to stand on their gains. But a continual trickle of reinforcements has been coming through the gate, both Mreee and Nitch. It is believed when they have sufficient force they intend to assault, probably in the direction of Jackson. Most of the reinforcements have been moving up the Twin Creek Valley to assemble opposite the defenses near Elkatawa."
He turned back to the map and frowned.
"The assault on the bridge will be along four axes. The majority of the 35th Brigade will move into positions opposite the Chenowee build-up and prepare for a direct frontal assault up Highway 52. In the meantime, 1st Battalion 149th Infantry with supporting units from 2nd Battalion 123rd Armor will move up to the vicinity of Lawson where they will prepare for an assault over the ridges along the axis of Warcreek-Filmore Road. Once established on the ridges they will advance along the axis of Keen Fork. There is an unnamed road running along the creek that junctions with Warcreek-Filmore at the ridgeline. It is anticipated that the majority of this advance will be dismounted as the named roads are the only ones that will be functional for mechanized systems. Thirty-fifth Brigade, less one battalion, will move as soon as possible to the vicinity of Copebranch. When they are in position, they will move down to strike the enemy positions near Athol. This has to be the first assault made. The intention is to force the enemy to redeploy troops to repel it before the other two brigades engage.
"Second Battalion, Third Brigade of the One-Oh-One will be moved up to the vicinity of Elkatawa. They will then dismount and move up onto the ridgelines currently held by 2nd Battalion, 149th Infantry of the Kentucky National Guard. Their objective will be to move, hopefully undetected, along the ridgelines to the vicinity of Highway 541, then stage a dismounted assault upon the gate under cover of the mounted and dismounted assaults from the other directions. Your northern border will be the general axis of Warcreek to the Warcreek-Filmore Road with southern border the ridges overlooking Highway 52. But movement is to be along the ridges. Kentucky National Guard patrols have found what may be a clear lane, nearly to the gate opening. The Second Battalion will be accompanied by units of SEAL Team Five and Dr. Weaver, who will be carrying the gate closure device."
"So, what you're saying," the brigade commander of the 1st Brigade said, "is that we're on the nature of a great big diversion."
"Yes," General McKeen said, looking over his shoulder. "Is that a problem?"
"No, sir," the colonel replied, grinning. "We'll just be as diverting as hell."
"If you can take the gate, any of you, do it," the general said. "Push for it like hell. But the 101st battalion is, hopefully, the key. They've got more experience moving dismounted and they can move through the hills better than your troops probably can. The Mreee seem to be just tacking down the ridgelines, concentrating on forming their forces in the valley. We're going to use that to butt-fuck them. Once Dr. Weaver and the SEALs insert the device, the gates close. At that point, it's all over but the mopping up. Not just here, everywhere. Ohio, Tennessee, Georgia, Alabama, from Florida to Saskatchewan. It's all up to us. And we're going to do the job. Any questions?"
There were none. The S-3 turned over the briefing to the Assistant S-3 who ran through the movement lanes, phaselines and other nitpicky details of the attack. He studiously ignored the portion on artillery support; there was none for the simple reason that it didn't work. He also ignored resupply and postassault consolidation. This was an all or nothing attack. There would be no resupply and if it failed there would be no need for reconsolidation.
Bill tuned that out as he tried to quiet his own fears. He had written down the instructions on how to set the bomb, but if the artass had made a mistake it was going to be a lousy time to find out right in front of the gate. So far it had only been Mreee and Nitch on this gate, but that didn't mean that the Titcher might not show up at any time. They were racing against a series of deadlines, some of them unknown and unknowable. He glanced at his watch again. Five hours.
Finally the briefing was over and the various officers filed out of the large tent, some of them joking halfheartedly. They all knew that they were going into a gauntlet from which most of their forces, their soldiers, their children, would not return.
"Dr. Weaver?" a lieutenant colonel said as they were leaving. "Lieutenant Colonel John Forsythe, I'm the battalion commander from the One-Oh-One. You're with me." He was a tall officer with a clean-cut look and a square jaw. He looked like Hollywood's idea of an airborne battalion commander.
"We'll meet you at the assembly area, sir," Miller interjected. "We've got some special materials we need to assemble and we have our own transportation. It was in the movement supplement."
"All right," the colonel said, nonplussed. "Be there on time."
"We're the timing, Colonel," Bill said. "The whole thing starts when we're ready." He glanced at his watch. "Five hours."
"Understood," the colonel said, clearly not understanding. "Just be there."
"We will, sir," Miller replied. "With bells on."
As it turned out it took just over four hours until all the units were in position and Colonel Forsythe found out what the "special materials" were.
"What the fuck, pardon my French, is that?" the colonel asked, looking up at the kneeling mecha-suit.
After the first Wyverns had worked out so successfully, Bill had convinced Columbia to fast-track construction of the Mark II. The Mark II had a bit more fluidity, less of a tendency to disco at just the wrong moment and the stylish face had been removed. The whole upper half had, in fact, been significantly lowered and the armor had been modified into reflective glacis ridges. The suits were also camouflage covered and, in the case of the nine that the SEALs were now suiting up in, covered further in a special camouflage netting that would break up their outlines.
"It's a Mark Two Wyvern armored combat mecha," Bill responded. He was now wearing the skin-tight black coveralls that were necessary to properly "fit" the Wyvern and he ran his hands over the suit proprietarily. "The Mark Twos are armored about like a Bradley and can carry some serious firepower. They also are going to be better armor for the ardune."
"The what?" the colonel asked.
"The gate closing device," Bill replied, glancing at the light violet box. It had been carefully placed on the back of the truck that had carried the Wyvern to their assembly area and his eyes, and those of most of the SEALs, were never far from it. The blue charging bar on the top now within a smidgeon of reading full. Bill's Wyvern had been hastily modified with a metal box to carry it and he had carefully ensured that the Wyvern finger systems were dexterous enough to key the arming system. He hadn't had the guts to actually key the full sequence, though. "The SEALs and I will let you carry the assault up to the gate but if you get bogged, we're going to go through on rock and roll. The ardune will be placed on the other side of the gate, and it will be triggered, one way or another."
"I want your people to understand something," the colonel said. "I know they're SEALs. I know they're the best of the best. I know that the mission is important. But you don't go until I say you go, understood?"
"Yes," Bill replied. "The flip side being that when it is time to go, you let slip the hounds."
"I will," the colonel said. "But I let them slip. My assault, I'm in command. You're just supernumeraries until we get up to the gate. You're in line between Bravo and Charlie company, right ahead of my section. Get suited up, Doctor."
Bill nodded and stepped into the suit. Once fitted, the Wyverns were relatively easy to take on and off. He simply put his hands in the controls, settled his feet into their holders and pressed a button. The front closed and he was ready to fight. With one small exception.
Miller came over carrying both his own and the doctor's weapons. Miller had insisted on another 30mm but the doctor had opted for a .50 caliber Gatling gun. The Mreee and the Nitch were not as hard targets as the Titcher units and Bill felt that the gun, which was the first Gatling gun accessorized with a semiauto selector switch, was more in keeping with the threat. Miller's philosophy, on the other hand, had not changed. More firepower is better firepower.
Bill picked up the big gun in one hand and waited until the command master chief had hooked up the feed tube and checked the connections. Then he keyed the external speaker and raised one hand in a half salute.
"Ready when you are, Colonel," Bill said.
"Maybe I should think about putting you on point," the colonel replied, then hefted his own M-4. "Okay!" he said, raising his voice. "Let's roll out!"
"This is Juliet Five-Four," the commander of the 35th Brigade said over the command net. He was half whispering despite the rumble from the command Bradley he was in. "Our advance scouts have the Nitch lines in sight. Ready to initiate."
"Juliet Five-Four, this is Sierra One-one," Task Force Command said. "Stand by. We're awaiting word from the Lima Eight-Six units that they're in place."
"Fucking One-Oh-One," the colonel bitched. "They think they're so hot shit and here we sit waiting on them."
"I dunno, sir," his S-3 opined. "Them ridges are a bastard. I hunt in country like this and making that movement, stealthily, in three hours? I would have been awfully surprised."
It had been a total bastard of a march.
The distance wasn't far, no more than three miles in a direct line, but they hadn't taken a direct line. The guide from the Kentucky unit was a short, broad young sergeant, dark hair covered by a floppy "boonie" cap and a dark growth of beard apparent in a five o'clock shadow. He had led them up and down hills, across streams and along knife-edge ridgelines, never in one direction for very long.
Bill was glad that the Mark II had more maneuverability, otherwise the march would have been impossible. It was necessary at times for the mechas to walk one foot in front of the other, something impossible with the Mark I. And while they were not holding up the advance, they definitely didn't feel slowed by the soldiers in front of them; it was all the clumsy mechas could do to keep up with the pace.
But the unit had stopped, all of the soldiers dropping to a squat and facing outward for threats as the colonel held the radio and talked to someone.
Bill kicked in his external directional mike and shamelessly eavesdropped as the Kentucky scout came back down the line and squatted by the battalion commander.
"Honest to God, sir," the scout said. "They wasn't there five hours ago."
"Picket," Miller said over the radio. The SEALs had been training with the essentially effortless suits for two weeks and he'd learned some of the ins and outs, too. Like the directional mike. "The Mreee have a picket up on our line of march."
"What do we do?" Bill asked as the colonel shook his head and looked at his map.
"Take it out," Miller replied, stepping forward in a crouch. "Excuse me, Colonel."
"Yes, Master Chief," the colonel said, clearly annoyed.
"Sir, taking out sentries is our specialty," Miller pointed out, ignoring the fact that the colonel had missed the "command" part.
"I don't think that, despite your wonderful camouflage job, you can exactly sneak up on these Mreee," the colonel said, sarcastically. The suits were well camouflaged, visually, but even with the enhancements they were as noisy as a platoon of regular infantry.
"I wasn't planning on using the suit, sir," the SEAL said, politely. He turned and made a series of hand gestures towards the other SEALs, who were down on their knees and elbows to reduce their visibility. One of the suits sat up and kneeled, opening along the front. The SEAL within stepped out and around the suit, opening up a side-panel on the ammunition storage box. From it he extracted a silenced M-4, a black balaclava, a combat harness and a camouflage "ghillie" suit made, like those over the suits, of netting strung with soft colored cloth. In a moment he was suited up and soft footed over to Miller's position. Bill noticed that he was wearing what appeared to be dyed black moccasins.
"Russell is our team sniper, sir," the command master chief said. "The wind is towards us. He can take down the picket and no one the wiser."
The colonel looked at the two SEALs and shook his head.
"Sorry, Chief," the colonel said. "I should have known you weren't an idiot. Go."
Russell looked at the scout and then gestured with his chin towards the front of the battalion.
Bill dialed up the directional mike and followed them out of sight. He could hear the scout moving quietly through the underbrush along the ridgeline, but not a sound from the sniper despite the encumbering camouflage. He waited what seemed an interminable period and then heard two muted cracks, something like firecrackers that had been placed under a jar.
"They're down," the colonel said. "They didn't appear to have a radio or any other communications devices."
Bill wondered about that, thinking about the Adar and their implants. But the Mreee really did seem to be a relatively low-tech race that had somehow acquired a set of high tech implements. The battalion started moving again but the suits had to wait while Russell made his way back. The SEAL quickly trotted into view, though, and stowed his dismount gear, suited up and they were on their way.
As they passed the two Mreee bodies, Weaver wondered what they had thought, sent to an alien land by their allies? Their masters? Set up on a hilltop that was unlike anything from their home world. What were they thinking? Were they hoping to go home, alive, to their mates? To their littermates? Or were they looking forward to killing the humans?
He also wondered what the soldiers thought at a time like this. He had never even considered joining the military; he had nothing against it but science had been his passion since an early age. What was Russell feeling? Did he have any feelings about killing the child-sized felinoids at all?
He remembered the expression on the SEAL's face as the balaclava had been taken off and he stowed his gear. Cold, clear, professionally interested in getting his gear away and back on track as swiftly and efficiently as possible. What drove these human killing machines?
Bosons made more sense.
The sun had set and away from city lights there was limited visibility. All the troopers of the 101st, though, had flip-down monoculars on their helmets and the reduced lighting seemed to affect them not at all. The suits, of course, had night vision systems and they could see, if not as clearly as day then clearly enough. They even had thermal imaging systems and Bill flipped them on to get a look at how it felt in a real mission. The soldiers ahead of him were white ghosts and the overall impression was, if anything, worse than with the night vision systems. He quickly switched back.
The battalion reached its first phaseline, Highway 541, and spread out to either side, probing for Mreee sentries. They found none. The lone picket on the hilltop seemed to be the only force the Mreee had out on this wing. As soon as everyone was in position, the colonel sent the code word and the whole battalion, plus the mecha, swiftly crossed the road and settled into the woods on the far side. They were within a mile or so of the gate and still seemed to have been undetected.
The colonel spoke into his radio and then waved the battalion down; now was the time to wait. Bill turned up his external audio to listen to the night. There was the sound of an owl, unaware that the planet had been invaded by aliens, calling forlornly for a mate. A cough. A slight rattle of equipment from down the line. Then, in the distance, a sound of firing that rose to a crescendo, quickly. A shattering explosion. Then, more firing, closer.
The colonel still waited, monitoring his radio. Bill looked at his suit clock and noted that the bomb should have fully cooked by now; it had taken that long to get into position. But there was only one ridge between them and the gate. The firing to the south and the west was joined by more to the north and there was a brief flash of actinic fire to the south that lit the crouched infantry for a moment like day. Finally the colonel stood up, saying something on his radio. There was a rustle from either side as the battalion began to move up the steep slope.
Still, as they moved, nothing. Then, from the north, there came the sound of a fusillade of shots and a ball of plasma lit the air.
Contact.
Bill switched over to thermal imagery and could see ghostlike images at the top of the ridge. There were several of them in view and even as he drew a bead on one with the laser mount on the Gatling gun, a ball of plasma flew through the air and impacted near the line of infantrymen, throwing two them to the ground to roll in agony at instant third-degree burns.
Bill closed his finger on the firing mechanism, rolling the fire through the figures on the ridgeline. One of them seemed to separate into two and another flew backwards. He could hear firing on either side of him, now, loud, but the audio sensors quickly dialed down. The figures on the ridgeline had disappeared. He could hear shouting and realized that it was he who was doing it, bellowing in rage as he tried to force the mecha up the steep slope. The ridge got steeper towards the top; a short bluff was apparent. Bill realized he could never get the suit up and over it and looked around for somewhere he could climb up. Suddenly, he felt himself lifted up and half thrown onto the top. He stumbled onto his face and then lay prone, moving forward on knee and elbow wheels to clear the spot he had been lifted up on. Another suit landed next to him and his systems automatically designated it as Seaman First Class Sanson.
Bill was right in the area that he had fired at and he saw, for the first time clearly, the effects of the Gatling gun. Two forms, their images fading with their internal heat, were on the ground. Three, really, because one of them had been cut in half by the fire from the gun. He started to heave but suppressed it with a mighty effort; it wouldn't kill him in the suit or damage the electronics, but it would have been damned messy.
He slid forward, looking to either side and seeing human forms running across the top of the ridge. He pulled up a location map and they were within a few hundred yards, no more, of the gate. He pulled himself upwards then ducked as a ball of plasma flew through the air. More firing was apparent from the area of the gate and Bill popped his head up for just a moment to get a look. He didn't know how many Mreee and Nitch had been passed through the gate, or how many had been moved up close to their intended assault point, or how many had been drawn off by the earlier attacks. But based on the images in the valley, most of them were still down there. His thermal imagery system couldn't separate them out.
Plasma rounds were impacting all along the ridgeline, now, as the forces around the gate realized they were being flanked. Bill heard screams to either side and realized that there was no way to get in view of the fire and survive. On the other hand, there were so many targets down in the valley it would be hard to miss. So he raised the Gatling gun up over the lip of the ridge and fired it without looking.
The other mecha had joined him and were doing the same thing. Most of them had Gatling guns with two 25mms and the chief's 30mm. Miller was one of the few not firing. He was lying on his side, apparently peacefully watching the scene and occasionally reaching behind him and lobbing something overhand into the valley.
"Having fun, Chief?" Bill asked, watching his ammunition counter. The Gatling was going through rounds at an alarming rate. He decided that when he was down to one quarter of his ammo load, he would stop firing.
"Loads," Miller replied. "Made up some improvised explosive devices while we were waiting. Bouncing Betties on a timer. Thought it was an appropriate time to expend them."
"We could use some fire support," Bill said through gritted teeth. Holding the gun overhead and firing it, even with the mecha's powered support, was not easy. One of the SEALs screamed and flopped backwards, his arms blown off by a plasma round. The scream was surprise rather than pain since the area that had been hit didn't vent into the suit and his "real" arms were down in the body.
"Saving it for something worthwhile," the chief replied.
Bill dropped his weapon and snaked forward, taking a quick look over the edge.
Where there had been bodies too numerous to count there were now . . . bodies too numerous to count. But most of them weren't moving. Some were, however, and plasma fire was still dropping on the lines, some of it damned close to the position the mecha had taken. But now fire from the infantry on either side, with the plasma somewhat suppressed, was beginning to get the upper hand. Bill saw a line of tracers lazily float down the hillside, missing their intended target high, then correct into the moving form of one of the giant spiders. It collapsed. The infantry medium machine guns had been set up along the lip of the hollow and now were steadily eliminating the resistance.
He brought the big Gatling gun up and started searching for targets as the rest of the mecha pushed forward on either side and did the same. Even Miller leaned over the lip and started sending individual rounds downrange. Seeing that he couldn't detect if they hit or not he switched to full auto and stroked the trigger, sending burst after burst, almost every one including a tracer, into the carnage in the hollow. The lines of explosions were easily detected by the thermal imaging scope, brief, bright, dots of white heat that gradually faded in the cool night air. Sometimes they left behind cooling bodies as well.
"I think it's time to go," Bill said.
"Roger," Miller replied, tersely. "Switch to the battalion command freq."
It took Bill a moment to fumble for the sheet of paper that had the information, read it by the dim redlight in the suit and switch his frequency. By the time he did, the argument was in full swing.
" . . . don't care, Uniform Two-Four," a voice Bill didn't recognize said. "We're still encountering resistance. Until it's suppressed stay in position."
"They are suppressed, Major," the SEAL said, tightly. "We need to get this box in position, now, before they can regroup or reinforce!"
"Where's the colonel?" Bill asked.
"Lima Eight-Six Bravo is unavailable," the new voice said. "This is Lima Four-Five; I'm in command."
"Colonel Forsythe bought it," Miller said. "Major White was the battalion XO, he's in command, now."
"Have you ever heard the term communications security, Uniform Two-Four?" the officer said, clearly furious.
"This is an encrypted link, Major." Miller sighed. "And our opponents have shown no sign of having intercept capability. And we don't have time to diddle around with codes. We need to move, sir, right the fuck now."
"I am in charge of this operation, Uni . . . Mi . . ." the major spluttered. "You will move when I tell you to move and not one moment before."
"Major, for God's sake," Miller said, nearly shouted. "Take not counsel of your fears. We need to move!"
"That's what you SEALs thought in Panama, right?" the major snarled back. "Well this is a hell of a lot more important than making sure Noriega missed his plane. And we will not move until we have full control of the situation! This is Lima Four-Five, out!"
"Switch back to SEAL net," Miller said. "This is whoever the fuck I am leaving the net."
Bill punched the numbers in for the other frequency, which he remembered, and keyed the mike.
"What do we do, Miller?" he asked. He was down to one quarter ammo and had stopped firing. Miller was still sending the occasional burst into the hollow. Only an occasional burst of plasma, poorly aimed, was returned.
"Miller?" Bill asked as the silence lengthened. "Hey, am I on the right freq?"
"Yes," a voice answered. It was one of the SEALs, but he didn't recognize the voice. "Keep the chatter down."
"Miller!" Bill said, half afraid, half furious.
"SEAL Team Five," Miller said, stonily. "Sound off."
"Six." "Four." "Seven." "Five." "Eight." "Nine." "Three. Here, weapons inop."
"Two?" Miller said. "Two?"
"Two's gone." Bill recognized the voice this time as Sanson. He sounded . . . cold.
"SEAL Team Five," Miller said. "Prepare to assault gateway on my signal. Three, go ground tactical."
Bill manipulated the security settings on his radio as he prepared to stand up. The settings could be reset so that the commanders could speak to subordinates without being overheard. It was on the same frequency but anyone without the proper setting would only get a hissing in their ears. His suit and Miller's were dialed in on the security setting.
"Miller?" Bill said. "Is this a good idea?"
"Tactically?" the SEAL answered. "Yes."
"I mean, doesn't the military sort of frown on chiefs, even command master chiefs, not listening to majors?"
"Yes," Bill said, tersely. "It's called disobedience of a direct order from a lawful superior under combat conditions. It means I won't be getting a pension. On the other hand, I will be boarded by the United States Government, at no expense to myself, at a pleasant place called Leavenworth. Get the fucking box in the gate, Doctor. Leave the rest for me to worry about."
"SEAL Team Five," Miller said, his voice cold and professional as he reset to general communications settings. "Let's roll."
Bill started to stand up, then rolled over instead and lowered his feet over the slight bluff at the top of the ridge. The slope of the ridge down to the hollow was covered in light scrub—had apparently been cleared off a few years before—which broke under the weight of the mecha. But going downhill was, if anything, harder than going uphill in the suits. He more or less slid on his butt, half out of control, down the slope to where it flattened out. He felt rather than saw some plasma detonations, but they weren't close to him so he ignored them. There was no way, as out of control as he was, that he could return fire, anyway. He was having enough trouble just hanging on to his weapon.
Finally the out-of-control slide stopped and he hefted his weapon, levering himself to his feet and getting ready to run to the gate. Then he paused. Face it, it was the job of the SEALs to clear the way. He was just there to set the ardune. Let them go first.
He looked around and found it surprisingly hard to spot them; the suits had a radiator on their back, just below the americium battery pack, but other than that spot they didn't radiate heat. It was another benefit of the suits and if he survived he planned on adding it to his after-action field-test report.
There was no more plasma fire coming at them and as the SEALs slid forward, swinging their weapons from side to side, and scanning for threats, he followed, concentrating on the gate.
It was visible even in infrared, emitting a slightly higher temperature than the background. The planet on the far side must have been warmer and with a slight overpressure because wisps of what looked like fog in the thermal imagery were drifting up and out of the gateway. He quickly ran the fifty meters to the gate and set his Gatling gun on the ground, turning and fumbling to open up the container that held the ardune, just as one of the suits exploded in plasma fire.