Resistance (27 page)

Hale should have felt jubilant, but as he put half a dozen bullets into one of the Steelheads, he felt as if something was
wrong
. Nothing specific—just a crawly sensation that caused the hairs on the back of his neck to stand up straight.

But why?

The answer came as a shock as a blast of mental energy hit every human within a thousand feet, killing four of them, including Private Cooper, and bringing the rest to their knees. A few managed to fire anyway, but most were incapacitated, as Hale struggled to stand.

“There's an Angel on that train!” he croaked.
“Kill it!”

Many experts believed that Angels were in charge of lesser Chimera, capable of giving them orders via mental telepathy. If so, the Angel on the train might well have planned the surprise attack based on intelligence gathered by subordinate forms.

Hale's order went out over the team frequency, but the response was anemic at best, because so many of the Sentinels were incapacitated. As a second flood of stinks poured off the train, he staggered out of the office and onto the body-littered platform. Spook was there, facedown on the concrete, having been rendered unconscious by the mental blast. Ralf had positioned himself next to her body, and growled menacingly as Hale shuffled past.

Energy projectiles and plasma projectiles pinged, zinged, and whined around Hale as he staggered head-down, searching for a weapon that might make a difference. So complete was his concentration that he didn't even notice the loud
clang
as one side of a maintenance
car dropped away to reveal the monster within. Finally he looked up.

The creature had a vaguely triangular head, glowing eyes, a mouth full of needle-sharp teeth, and multiple limbs. Leathery, parchmentlike skin covered its hideous body and rippled as the Angel floated out over the metal ramp. It uttered another scream, accompanied by a new blast of mental energy, and Hale brought both hands up to cover his ears—even though the sound was
inside
his head.

Spines flew off the monster, penetrating whatever they hit, including concrete.

But then Hale spotted what he needed, lying only feet from Obo's prostrate body, and he staggered forward to pick it up. The L210 LAARK was prepped with one round and ready to fire.

Hale swore as a projectile knocked his right leg out from under him. He hit the concrete hard, fought to roll over, and brought the launcher into position. There wasn't enough time to use the scope properly, to take careful aim, but the Angel was only fifty feet away.

So Hale pulled the trigger, felt the rocket leave the tube, and gave thanks for a direct hit. Judging from the horrible caterwauling noise it made, the stink was hurt, but he knew how tough Angels could be, so he struggled to reload as the Chimera spidered forward.

Meanwhile, Tanner had struggled to his feet and leveled the minigun at the surviving Hybrids. The weapon's multiple barrels produced an ominous whine as they began to rotate, followed by a throaty roar as the gun began to fire. Waves of advancing Chimera fell as he hosed them down, his teeth bared, blood pouring from a shoulder wound.

That gave Hale the time he needed to finish loading the LAARK and fire a second rocket at the Angel. There
was a loud
BOOM
as it hit, followed by an explosion of blood, meat, and bone that sprayed the entire area.

The Angel was dead, but by some miracle a Steelhead had survived Tanner's barrage and gained the platform. Auger firing, it was advancing on Hale.

The Sentinel thought about the Rossmore, and realized it was back in the office. He was waiting for the stink to kill him when Ralf attacked. Because the Auger bolts were a threat to Spook, who was just coming around, the Howler went for the Steelhead's throat, tore it out instantly, and remained crouched over the body.

Jacoby wheeled himself out onto the platform. Broken glass made a persistent crackling sound as it broke beneath the chair's wheels. Coming to a stop, the Freedom First leader aimed a glob of spit at one of the lifeless Hybrids. It hit dead-on.

“Bastards,” he said defiantly as Hale regained his feet. “This is
our
fucking city, and you can't have it.”

The battle for the Adams/Wabash station had been won.

It had been a clear winter's day in Santa Barbara, as the sun began to sink over the Pacific Ocean, and shadows gathered between the houses that lined Garden Street. It was a quiet neighborhood, in which people had a tendency to keep to themselves, so other than the elderly man watering his lawn on the opposite side of the street, there was no one present to witness the arrival of a black Humber town car in front of Hannah Shepherd's house.

The house was a modest affair, indistinguishable from the homes around it except for the gold star displayed in the front window, and the meticulously kept garden out front. The man watched expressionlessly as the car's driver got out, circled the town car, and opened the rear passenger-side door. Then, as a man in a gray business suit made his way up the walk that led to the Shepherd house, the neighbor heard his wife call him in for dinner.

It was Thursday, and that meant meatloaf, one of his favorites. So he turned off the hose, walked around to the side door, and went inside.

Life was good.

*  *  *

Having arrived on the tiny front porch, Dentweiler switched his briefcase from his right hand to his left, straightened his tie, and pressed the button located next to the door. He could hear the distant
bing-bong
as a chime sounded followed by rapid
click, click, click
of leather-soled shoes on a hardwood floor.

As the door opened Dentweiler found himself facing a woman with shoulder-length brown hair, a narrow, almost patrician face, and an expressive mouth. Her eyes were big, brown, and warily neutral. He recognized her from the photos in her husband's voluminous personnel file.

“Yes?” Hannah Shepherd said, careful to keep one foot behind the door. “How can I help you?”

The ID case was ready and Dentweiler flipped it open to expose a picture of himself over a full-color presidential seal. “My name is William Dentweiler,” he said. “May I come in? There's something important that I need to talk to you about.”

Hannah looked up from the ID case and frowned. “Are you from the Department of Veterans Affairs?”

“No,” Dentweiler said smoothly. “I'm from the Office of the President.”

Hannah's eyes grew wider. “As in President of the United States?”

“Yes,” Dentweiler replied matter-of-factly. “It's about your husband, Jordan.”

“But he's dead,” Hannah objected, as the color drained out of her face and her eyes flicked toward the star in the window. “He was killed in action.”

“Yes, and no,” Dentweiler countered mysteriously. “May I come in?”

She nodded and pulled the door open, waited for the man with the rimless glasses to enter, and closed the door behind him. There was no hallway—the front door
opened directly into the small living room, the main feature of which was a brick fireplace and a highly stylized oil painting of Jordan Adam Shepherd that hung above it. He was dressed in an Army uniform, and judging from his expression, was determined to wear it with honor.

Dentweiler crossed the room to examine the portrait more closely. Even allowing for some help from the artist, Shepherd looked quite handsome. A far cry from the monstrous
thing
the innocent-looking soldier had become.

“The painting was a present,” Hannah explained. “From Jordan's parents … after his death.”

“It's nicely done,” Dentweiler replied. “May I sit down?”

“Yes, of course,” Hannah replied apologetically. “Where are my manners? Can I get you something to drink? Some coffee perhaps?”

“No, thank you,” Dentweiler responded as he unknowingly sat in Jordan Shepherd's favorite chair. A contemporary-looking couch took up most of the wall across from him. That was where Hannah sat down, careful to sweep her housedress back under her thighs and keep her knees together.

Dentweiler had two categories for women. Those he deemed worth having sex with—and those he wasn't interested in. And Hannah Shepherd fell into category one. Partly because of her slim good looks, and partly because she came across as so pure that Dentweiler felt a perverse desire to bring her down. But that would have been pleasure, and he was there on business.

He cleared his throat.

“First, please allow me to apologize on behalf of the United States government. Simply put, most of the things you were told about your husband's death weren't
true. Jordan, and hundreds of men like him, volunteered to take part in a top secret program that resulted in a serum which helps our soldiers survive wounds that would kill you or me. He wasn't allowed to tell you about it, nor were we, and the program remains secret even now.”

“So, Jordan's alive?” Hannah inquired eagerly, her voice full of hope. “He wasn't killed in action?”

“No,” Dentweiler allowed soberly, “he wasn't. But I'm sorry to say that as a result of the program, your husband underwent many mental, emotional, and physical changes. That didn't happen to all of the volunteers, but our experts believe Jordan was immunocompromised at the time of initial treatment, which produced some unanticipated results.

“It was the government's intention to care for him, of course,” Dentweiler added quickly. “But all such efforts came to an end when he escaped.”

“Escaped?” Hannah echoed. “How? And from
where?”

“Due to all the changes he underwent Jordan could be violent at times,” Dentweiler explained darkly. “He was undergoing treatment at a government facility in Iceland when he killed a number of the people stationed there, and disappeared.”

“My God,” Hannah said feelingly, as tears trickled down her cheeks. “Where did he go? What did he do?”

“I'm sorry,” Dentweiler replied gravely. “But subsequent to his escape, your husband went over to the Chimera. He was recaptured later, but then freed by Chimeran commandos. Our understanding of the Chimeran hierarchy is iffy at best, but judging from the casualties the stinks were willing to suffer in order to release Jordan, they place a high value on him. We don't know why.”

Hannah was sobbing into her hands by then—shoulders shaking as Dentweiler went over to comfort her. “I know this is difficult,” he said sympathetically, as he took a seat on the couch. The pocket square he offered her was so immaculate it clearly had never been used. “I wish there was a better way to tell you, but this is the best I can do.”

Hannah accepted the handkerchief and made use of it to blot her tears as she got up and excused herself. She was gone for a good five minutes, and Dentweiler heard the sound of running water before she returned, her eyes red, and her face still a bit damp.

“I'm sorry,” Hannah said, as she sat on the couch. “It's all such a shock.”

“Yes,” Dentweiler agreed understandingly, “it is. And I wish I could give you some time to absorb the news, but there's a war on. Simply stated we need your help.”

Hannah looked surprised. “Really? In what way?”

“We want to contact your husband,” Dentweiler replied gravely. “In hopes that he can help us open a channel of communication with the Chimera.”

Hannah frowned. “Like an interpreter?”

“Yes,” Dentweiler agreed, “like an interpreter. But first we need to pull him in, and while he has undergone a lot of changes, we have reason to believe that the human part of him is still in love with you. And, because he has developed some very unusual mental abilities, it's possible that Jordan could communicate with you if conditions were right.”

Hannah looked down at her hands then back up again.

“The
human
part? Does that mean what I think it means?”

“I'm afraid it does,” Dentweiler admitted. “I haven't seen him myself, mind you, but I understand that he
looks more Chimeran than human at this point, and will probably become more so as time passes.”

Hannah swallowed, albeit with difficulty.

“I see … So what would you have me do?”

“There's no way Jordan could come
here,”
Dentweiler said, “not without getting killed. So, if you're willing, we'd like to take you to a facility located just south of Chimeran-held territory. A place where Daedalus could come.”

“Daedalus?”
Hannah inquired.

“It's the code name we use for him,” Dentweiler replied smoothly, “from Greek mythology. Daedalus was said to be a very skilled craftsman.”

That seemed to satisfy Hannah, who was silent for a few moments as she wrestled with everything she'd been told. Finally, she nodded in response. “Okay, I'll do it.”

“That's wonderful,” Dentweiler replied. “Your country will be most grateful.”

Suddenly there was the sound of engines, followed by the squeal of brakes and the slamming of doors. Hannah rose and went to the front window. The blinds were up, and even though it was now dark outside, she could see the military-style trucks, and the goverment agents who had taken up stations out front. There was anger on her face as she turned back into the room.

“You were going to take me anyway, weren't you? Even if I said no.”

“Of course not,” Dentweiler lied. “When we move you, we want to make certain you're safe, so the troops are for your protection. Now, if you would be so kind as to pack a bag, we'll depart in fifteen minutes.”

Hannah Shepherd had never been on a plane before. So the trip north on the military DC-3 transport was not only exotic, but scary. The first part of the ride was
bumpy, too, and at one point Hannah was afraid that she was going to be sick, but managed to keep down the box lunch Dentweiler had given her, and thereby avoided the embarrassment of barfing into a bag.

Things smoothed out after that. The plane was a fourteen-seater, and the only other passengers were Dentweiler and two agents, so Hannah had plenty of room to spread out. She tried to sleep, but was too keyed up, and was left to stare at the little clusters of lights that slid past below, all the while thinking about Jordan.