Resistance (38 page)

It was gloomy inside the building, and almost entirely silent—except for the sound of breathing. Not by one entity, but by
many
.

The beam projected by Hale's Rossmore caressed the grimy walls and the feces-smeared floor. Then came an ear-splitting screech as a dog-sized Spinner darted out to attack one of the men. It was immediately put down with a volley of gunfire, but continued to snap its jaws futilely until Danby put three rounds into its brain.

“There's bound to be more of them,” Hale warned as the group approached a wall and the opening at the center of it. “Put those Augers to work. Let's find
them
before they find
us.”

Two men carrying Augers came forward. By sweeping their weapons back and forth, they could detect whatever Chimera were up ahead, and they could shoot through walls if necessary. “Bingo!” one of the soldiers said, as his sight lit up.

“Roger that!” the other exclaimed. “There's at least three or four of them! They look like stinks!”

“Take ′em out,” Hale ordered brusquely, and the Sentinels obeyed. A cacophony of screeching sounds could be heard as the Auger rounds phased through the steel wall and struck their hidden targets. And because the Spinners couldn't fire back, they were systematically slaughtered.

Finally, when all the Chimera were dead, Hale led the squad through the opening and into the chamber of horrors beyond. It appeared that at least six Spinners had been lying in wait for the humans, and all were dead.

Farther back, standing in rows like a crop waiting to be harvested, were dozens of man-sized cocoons. Each pod incorporated a small vent which allowed the creature within to take in oxygen and vent carbon dioxide. And that was where the rhythmic breathing sounds were
coming from. “Check ′em out,” Hale ordered. “We're looking for Dentweiler and Secretary of War Walker.”

“Yes, sir,” Danby responded. “But we don't have to open those pods, do we?”

“I'm sorry,” Hale answered sympathetically, “but the answer is yes. And we don't have a lot of time, so let's get to it.”

What followed was one of the most disgusting tasks he had ever been required to carry out. Having slung the shotgun across his back, he removed the commando knife from its sheath, and chose a row of cocoons. By starting the cut at the top of each fleshy pod, and running the incision all the way to the floor, it was possible to pry open the cone-shaped structure. That produced a ripping sound, a sudden gush of puslike fluid that splashed his boots, and a horrible, gut-churning smell.

But that was the least of it. Worse yet were the Chimeran pupae within, some of which looked like what they would eventually become, while others remained recognizably human. They were soft, mushy things for the most part, their glassy eyeballs staring out of faces frozen in mid-scream.

Hale had just opened his fourth cocoon when a soldier called from the other side of the room. “I found Mr. Dentweiler, sir! And he's still alive!”

Hale hurried over to where the soldier was standing. The light from the Sentinel's weapon was centered on the pupa's head. And while his glasses were missing, and his features were partially obscured by a filmy material, there was no mistaking Dentweiler's face. Or the fact that he was still alive, and attempting to speak.

Hale stepped in to make a cut in the membrane that covered the official's face and rip the filmy stuff away. That was when he saw the staring eyes, the goo that had
been injected into Dentweiler's open mouth, and heard a very faint voice.

“Pleeaasse … Kill meeee.”

The words were breathy, because Dentweiler couldn't open and close his lips, but they were understandable nevertheless.

“What's he saying?” Danby inquired from a few feet away.

“He wants us to kill him,” Hale replied matter-of-factly. “He's already too far gone to be saved, and he knows it.”

“So what will we do?” the noncom wanted to know.

“Grant his wish,” Hale said levelly, as he drew the .44 Magnum. “That's what I would want. How ′bout you?”

Danby's throat was dry. He nodded. “Yeah, I guess I would.”

Hale backed away. There was a loud
boom
as the pistol went off. But instead of passing
through
the cocoon, the bullet was absorbed. Then, much to his horror, he saw Dentweiler blink.

So Hale ordered his men to stand back, triggered the bullet buried deep within the cocoon, and heard a muffled
boom
as what was left of the man exploded. Chunks of flesh flew, goo sprayed in every direction, and one of the Sentinels swore as a glob of pus hit him. That was when Kawecki's voice was heard over the radio. “Echo-Five to Echo-Six … We have four birds ten-out and inbound. Over.”

“Roger that,” Hale replied. “Maintain the perimeter, but load the vehicles, and as many men as you can. We'll be there soon. Echo-Six out.

“All right,” Hale said as he surveyed the chamber. “Walker's been here a lot longer, so he won't be as pretty as Dentweiler was, but we need to find him if we can. Let's get back to work.”

That announcement produced a nearly unanimous groan, but the soldiers did what they were told, and it was Danby who made the gruesome discovery. “I think I found Walker, sir … But it's hard to be sure.”

Once Hale was there, standing in front of the partially opened pod, he had to agree. Walker's features had begun to droop as the chemicals within the cocoon went to work on them, and were barely recognizable.

“Open the cocoon and search the body,” Hale ordered. “And there's no need to be gentle … He's dead, and we're short on time.”

Opening the pod wasn't a pretty process, and once the body was exposed, Private Quinn had to search it. His features contorted as he ran his hands up and down the slimy corpse, felt a bump, and announced his find. “I have something, sir … Hold on while I cut it out.”

Two minutes later Hale was holding a package wrapped in layers of carefully sealed oilcloth. “It was under his belt, sir,” Quinn explained. “In the small of his back.”

“Good work, Private,” Hale replied. “When we get back to the base, I'm going to buy you and your squad a round of beers. Now let's pull everyone out of the room, and throw every air-fuel grenade we have in here … I wish we could do more but there isn't enough time.”

The entire Processing Center was on fire by the time Hale and troops arrived at the LZ, where one VTOL had already departed, and the rest were loading.

“There's a whole shitload of stinks on their way down from the north,” Kawecki announced. “The pilots saw ′em on the way in. Plus some of our jets are playing tag with two Chimeran fighters at fifteen thousand feet. They're outgunned though, so we need to haul ass.”

“That sounds like a very good idea,” Hale said mildly. “Let's get the hell out of here.”

Ten minutes later they were in the air and fleeing west. That was when Hale had the opportunity to cut the package open, fool around with the unfamiliar machine he found inside, and listen to the spool Walker had loaded. The recording was pretty boring at first, but it wasn't too long before the possibility of negotiating with the Chimera came up, along with the name Daedalus. A being with whom Hale was
very
familiar, and had strong feelings about. When the anger came it arrived slowly, like a fever that made his skin hot, and forced sweat out through his pores.

Images flickered through Hale's mind. Dead soldiers strewn about the streets of London, the look on Nash's face a fraction of a second before the bullet hit him between the eyes, the empty shell casings that littered the floor of his family's home, Old Man Potter sitting in his rocking chair, Barrie going down on the roof, Spook's tattooed face, Susan in manacles, and the smooth, self-assured man who had promised the people victory, but was preparing to betray them.

And that was the moment when all the pieces fit together, when the slow flush of anger achieved focus, and a new purpose was born.

Walker was dead, but his self-assigned mission was alive, and the man who had chosen to carry it forward was very dangerous indeed.

It was a bright sunny day, and the Chimeran battleship that hung over the area north of Sheridan, Wyoming, threw a shadow to the west, as if pointing at the secret base where Daedalus was being held.

The ship looked like a floating island, with smaller craft darting around it, and Sabre Jets etching tracks into the sky far above. As Purvis sent the
Party Girl
skimming in toward the town's little airport, he knew that the enemy warship could destroy his aircraft with a single shot from one of its energy cannons.

So why didn't it?

There was no way to know as he called Hale forward.

“So,” the pilot said, as the Sentinel crowded into the cockpit. “What do you think of
that?”

Hale was speechless as he stared up through scratched Plexiglas at the monstrous ship hovering above. But what
he
knew—and Purvis didn't—was that Daedalus was being held at a secret facility just outside town. And that President Grace was present as well, supposedly as part of his so-called Victory Tour. His actual reason for being there was to communicate with Daedalus, if such a thing was possible.

More than that, to negotiate with the Chimera in a
last-ditch attempt to slow—if not stop—their inexorable advance. So odds were that the presence of the looming ship had something to do with those talks.

But Hale couldn't voice what he knew, so he made the only kind of comment he could. “That thing is
big
, Harley—so don't piss it off.”

Purvis glanced at Hale, realized that the Sentinel knew more than he cared to admit, and produced a snort of disgust. “I don't know what's going on here—but I hope the brass hats know what they're doing.”

“So do I,” Hale said grimly. “So do I. But don't bet on it.”

Once on the ground, he saw that a Lynx was sitting on the tarmac not far from the specially equipped four-engined bomber that had been used to slip Grace in the night before. A ring of heavily armed Rangers were on-site to protect the plane. The four-by-four's driver came to attention, and delivered a picture-perfect salute.

“Welcome to Wyoming, sir.”

“Thanks,” Hale replied. He returned the salute and placed his duffel bag and weapon in the back. “How long will it take to reach the base?”

“About fifteen minutes, sir,” the Sentinel answered as he slid behind the wheel.

“Okay then,” Hale replied, and took his place in the passenger seat. “Let's hit it.”

The soldier's estimate proved to be accurate as the Lynx followed a two-lane highway north for roughly five miles before turning onto a dirt road. Meanwhile, the Chimeran ship not only blotted out a large section of blue sky but bled ozone into the air which crackled with static electricity. The driver made no mention of it, but continued to glance up occasionally as he negotiated the series of twists and turns that led to the base.

When the four-by-four came to a stop in front of the
main gate an M-12 tank and a platoon of Rangers were there to greet it. Both men were subjected to redundant security checks by Secret Service, Army,
and
some of the SRPA personnel who had been added to the President's security team.

Thanks to Hale's status as officer in charge of the SRPA detachment, he was cleared with a minimum of fuss, and allowed to proceed. Five minutes later the Lynx came to a halt behind a convoy of six heavily armored vehicles that had been used to ferry Grace in from the airport. They were parked in front of a low concrete building that extended back into the hillside behind it and was protected by a number of antiaircraft batteries.

Hale thanked the driver, took both his bag and carbine out of the back, and carried them to the front of the building where it was necessary to pass through security all over again. Once that process was complete, a Ranger led Hale through a maze of starkly bare corridors to the observation deck, which consisted of a long narrow room that fronted an open space beyond.

Roughly two dozen people were present, half of whom were scientists, the rest being members of the President's security team or personal staff.

Major Blake was present because in addition to the Sentinels assigned to help guard Grace, SRPA had been called upon to help secure the entire base. So as Hale entered, the major came over to greet him.

“Good work rescuing those prisoners, soldier … Too bad about Dentweiler.”

“Yes, sir,” Hale agreed. “I can't say I liked the man—but that was a horrible way to go.”

Blake nodded. “Sorry to drag you up here so soon after a difficult mission, but this is turning into a circus, and I need your help.”

Hale raised an eyebrow. He knew Blake pretty well, and could see the anger in the other man's eyes.

“A circus, sir?”

Blake made a face.

“Dentweiler used Hannah Shepherd to lure Daedalus into a trap and brought him here. Now the President wants to talk to him! Lord knows why.”

Hale knew why based on the tape recordings stored in one of his cargo pockets. And he would have said as much if a klaxon hadn't begun to bleat, and most of those present went forward to stare out through the armored glass. “What's going on?” he wanted to know.

“This is it,” Blake answered grimly. “Dentweiler's eggheads have been using the carrot-and-stick approach to gain Daedalus's cooperation. Preliminary talks have been underway for a week now, and according to the people in charge, Daedalus has been receptive to the possibility of bilateral talks. So much so that when Daedalus requested a show of good faith, Grace gave permission for a Chimeran battleship to enter our airspace. Now he's going out to meet with Daedalus face-to-face.”

“Face-to-face? You've got to be kidding,” Hale replied. “Doesn't anyone remember what happened in Iceland? He can't be trusted. You know that … You were there when Daedalus broke out.”

“That's what I told ′em,” Blake agreed bleakly. “But they won't listen. They believe the pain they can administer to Daedalus, plus the fact that they're holding his wife hostage, will prevent him from running amok.”