Earth Afire (The First Formic War) (26 page)

Patu was beside them with the med kit in an instant. Mazer took out the Med-Assist Kim had given him and examined Bingwen’s arm. There was a hairline fracture on the boy’s lower radius. Mazer scanned again to be certain and smiled. “Your arm’s going to be fine, Bingwen. Lieutenant Patu here is going to give you something for the pain, then we’ll slip a cast on you. Have you ever had a cast before?”

“No.”

“You’ll love it. It’s like having a giant muscle on your arm.”

Patu readied a syringe, wiped at a spot on the boy’s arm, and administered the shot. Bingwen flinched. The drug worked quickly. Mazer could see the boy relax, as if a knot inside him was unraveling. The old man hovered over them, watching their every move.

“Let’s get him in the HERC,” said Mazer. He got his arms under Bingwen’s back and legs and lifted, holding the boy’s frail body close to his chest. He weighed next to nothing.

Bingwen winced, cradling his arm.

Reinhardt flew the HERC in close. The talons were tucked away and secure, the tree tossed off to the side in the mud.

Patu helped the old man aboard, and Mazer and Bingwen followed. Fatani slammed the door shut behind them, and they were soaring upward again, leaving the valley far below.

Mazer lay Bingwen gingerly on the floor and secured him with a strap. Patu knelt beside him, carefully taking the boy’s arm in her hand and wiping it clean with gauze.

“What’s the status on the lander?” said Mazer.

“No movement,” said Fatani. “All’s quiet. But if it so much as flinches, the whole world will know. Every major network is running our feed live.”

“Good,” said Mazer. “Keep the cameras rolling.”

Patu took the sleeve cast out of its bag. It was long and loose and fibrous and made for an adult. She dug a pair of scissors out of the med kit, eyed the length of Bingwen’s arm, and cut the cast down to his size. Then, moving slowly so as not to jostle his arm, she slid Bingwen’s hand into the sleeve cast. “Now hold your arm up a bit so I can slide this on. That’s it, nice and straight.”

She slipped the sleeve cast up his arm, stopping just below the shoulder. Then she pulled the pin. The cast inflated, molding to Bingwen’s arm. Then the fibrous exterior tightened and went rigid. A single beep issued, signaling the cast had set.

“How does that feel?” asked Patu.

Bingwen gave it a tentative wiggle. “Heavy.”

Then his eyes widened, and he tried to sit up. “Stop! We have to go back. My friends. Hopper and Meilin. They’re still down there. Turn around. Please. We have to go back.”

Mazer exchanged a glance with Patu.

The old man came over and put an arm around Bingwen. “Lay down, boy.”

“No, Grandfather. We have to dig them out. We have to.” The boy looked desperate, his eyes welling with tears, his good hand clutching the old man’s filthy shirt. “Hopper and Meilin, Grandfather. Hopper and Meilin.”

The old man shook his head sadly, wrapped his arms around the boy, and pulled him close. Bingwen buried his face in his grandfather’s chest and began to sob.

Mazer watched, feeling helpless. There had been two other people down there. Children, probably. But where? Mazer hadn’t seen anyone near the tree. And his scanners hadn’t picked up anyone either. He wanted to reach out to the boy, calm him, reassure him, tell him that his friends had gotten out in time, that they had escaped the mudslide. But he knew it wasn’t true. The old man’s face said as much.

“I got aircraft coming in from the northwest,” said Reinhardt. “Helicopters and VTOLs. Twelve of them. All medevacs from the military.”

“About time,” said Fatani.

They were coming because of the camera feeds, Mazer knew. They’re coming because of us, because of what we were showing the world. The video the HERC was taking of the lander and villagers in distress had forced the Chinese to act. The whole world was watching. In homes all over the planet, families stared in horror as Chinese rice farmers screamed and cowered under the onslaught of the lander. But where was the Chinese military? the viewers at home would ask. Where were the emergency crews? Where was the help? Why wasn’t China doing more?

Mazer had given them no other option. They either had to act and help or face a public-relations nightmare.

As if on cue, Shenzu appeared in the holofield. His composure completely different than it had been before. “Captain Rackham. You are to be commended for following our orders so thoroughly and assisting the wounded as we requested you to do. China praises your rescue efforts. We, of course, have been doing the same at the other landers.”

He’s performing for the recording equipment, Mazer realized. He’s covering China’s butt in case we’re also broadcasting radio chatter. Mazer played along, eager to do whatever was necessary to keep the Chinese help coming.

“Thank you for getting here as soon as you could. We have wounded. Where should we take them?”

“There’s a ridge to the northeast. An old farming barn at its peak. We’ll use that as a temporary hospital. I’m sending you the coordinates now.”

There was a chime, and the data appeared in the holofield.

Reinhardt gave a thumbs-up, signaling that he had the coordinates. Then he turned the HERC northeast.

“Good luck,” said Shenzu. Then he clicked off the holo.

“Maybe they won’t shoot us down after all,” said Reinhardt.

“Fingers crossed,” said Mazer.

They flew for three klicks until they reached the coordinates. The barn proved to be two buildings, one an actual barn and the other a wide hut that was likely the farmhouse. Both were made of bamboo and thatch and local timber, weathered and worn and faded in the sun. A strong gust of wind seemed capable of blowing them both over, but they were apparently stronger than they looked. They stood atop a wide ridge of terraced rice fields filled with water. In the morning sun, the water glistened, making the terraces look like giant staircases of glass. The wind in Mazer’s face was light and cool and free of dust, carrying with it the sweet, green smells of the jungle to the west. To his right a flock of sparrows swooped down into the valley. It was quiet and peaceful and felt like a world away from the lander.

Reinhardt set the HERC down between the two buildings on an access road. An old pickup truck, with its hood up, was parked nearby, rusted and dented and tilting to one side, a few leafy vines twisting up the side of it. A dead relic.

The barn was to the right. It was three-sided, open in the front, with two water buffalo tied up inside beside a few bales of hay. Crude hand tools and farming implements hung on nails along the interior wall.

Mazer got out and took Bingwen into his arms. Patu ran ahead to the farmhouse and banged on the door. No one answered. The door was unlocked. Mazer carried Bingwen inside. The house was empty. A single room, twenty meters squared, void of any furniture. It smelled of smoke and age and dust. Holes like windows in the far wall offered a sweeping view of the valley.

Mazer lay Bingwen down on the concrete floor and told him to lie still.

The grandfather thanked Mazer profusely. Mazer noted how the old man struggled to walk and the bandages wrapped around the man’s chest.

“You’re hurt.”

The old man shrugged. “I’m old. The two go together.”

Mazer went back to the HERC for the Med-Assist. He returned, cut the man’s bandages away, and scanned his chest. “Two cracked ribs.”

“I could have told you that without the fancy equipment,” said the old man.

Mazer pulled a handful of pill packets from the kit and offered them to the old man. “Take these for the pain.”

The old man waved them away. “I’ll be fine.”

Mazer took the man’s hand and closed the old, weathered fingers around the pill packets. “Your hands are withered with arthritis. Your chest probably burns with every breath. These pills speed the healing and help you rest. Your body needs both. Save your strength to care for Bingwen. Don’t argue. And here, take these.”

Mazer emptied his pockets of his rations and pulled two emergency water bags from the kit. “This should hold you until the doctors arrive.”

The old man accepted the items, his eyes wet, and nodded his thanks.

“Mazer!”

It was Patu, shouting from the HERC. “We’ve got to move.”

Mazer hurried outside and climbed aboard. Reinhardt had them up before Mazer was buckled.

“The lander,” said Patu. “It’s opening.”

CHAPTER 14

India

Captain Wit O’Toole stepped out of the command tent and into the frigid morning air of the Kashmir Valley roughly 350 kilometers west of the Chinese border. To the east the sun was just beginning to rise over the outer Himalayas, casting long shadows across the valley floor and bathing Wit in a golden glow. Soon this would all be snow, a thick blanket of white that would cover the landscape until next summer. But for now it was steep green meadows and thick pine forests and vibrant wildflowers living out their brief existence before the snows came. It was a sight Wit would never tire of seeing. Earth in its purest form. No industry, no buildings, no people. Just mountains and green and a river at the bottom. It was breathtaking and beautiful and worth fighting for.

Wit looked down again at the images on his wrist pad. Three alien landers in China. He flipped the images away and called up a button, one that when pressed would alert everyone in his unit and call them to assembly. Wit pressed it.

Around him were twenty two-man tents, clustered together on the hillside. Almost immediately there was movement inside the tents. Seconds later men began to emerge, their hair unkempt, their clothes disheveled. Many of them were barefoot. But they were all alert and eager for news.

Six hours ago Wit had ordered his men to get some sleep. They would have preferred to stay up and watch the live coverage of the alien ship in space, but they had already been awake for thirty-six hours at that point, and they needed their rest. They were MOPs—or Mobile Operations Police—the most elite special forces unit in the world. Yet even soldiers as skilled and lethal as they were needed sleep.

The men gathered around Wit, some of them wearing only their long underwear, hugging themselves in the morning chill. They were a diverse group. Forty men from thirty different countries. Europeans, Asians, North and South Americans, Africans, Middle Easterners—all of them handpicked from special forces units in their respective countries. They had all discarded their old ranks and uniforms and agreed to represent their country in an international force in which they were all equal and all devoted to a single cause: stop human suffering, anywhere in the world.

Wit thought it unfortunate that there were no Chinese soldiers among them. He could use one right about now. He had tried over the years to recruit from China, but the military there had always patently refused his offer. They would stand independent and not insert themselves into international matters. Or so said the official memo Wit had received from China. He would not have access to their soldiers under any circumstances. Period.

“The aliens have sent three large landing crafts down into China,” said Wit. He removed his holopad from the pouch at his hip and held it in the palm of his hand. He then extended the projection antennas at each of the four corners and turned on the holo. An image of one of the landers appeared in the air. Some of the soldiers in the back strained to look over the heads of those in front of them.

A supply truck was to Wit’s left. He climbed up onto the back bumper to give everyone a better look.

“You can’t tell from the holo,” Wit said, “but these landers are massive, many times larger than the world’s biggest sports arena. Each of them could easily hold tens of thousands of troops or hundreds of aircraft or land vehicles. We don’t yet know what’s inside them. At the moment, they’re just sitting there. They landed only a moment ago.”

“Where in China?” said Calinga. “We’re close to the border.”

“Nowhere near us,” said Wit. “Southeast China, north of Guangzhou.”

“When do we deploy?” asked Calinga.

“I haven’t asked Strategos for orders,” said Wit. “And I won’t be asking them either. In fact, I cut off all communications with Strategos three minutes ago.”

The men exchanged looks.

Strategos was the high commander of the Mobile Operations Police. The general, so to speak. Except, instead of being a single person, Strategos was actually thirty people. Twenty-two men and eight women, each from a different nation, and each with a wealth of experience in black ops and peacekeeping operations. Some had been leaders of intelligence agencies. Others were military leaders still in active duty. Together they identified and planned MOPs missions and gave Wit his orders. Sanctioned by the U.N. Security Council, Strategos was a model of international military cooperation, a fraction of the size of NATO and far more effective on small-scale ops. Where NATO was a show of force, MOPs was a lightning strike, hard and fast and out before the enemy knew what hit him.

“You cut off lines with Strategos?” said Calinga. “Far be it from me to tell you how to do your job, Captain, but won’t that make it difficult for us to get our deployment orders?”

“You won’t get deployment orders,” said Wit. “Even if the lines were open. Strategos won’t send us to China. If orders come through it will be for us to stay put and maintain our position.”

“Why?” said Deen. “The war’s in China.”

“China is the reason why,” said Wit. “They’re a stable state. Strategos won’t send us in without a referendum from the U.N. Security Council and the blessing of the Chinese government, neither of which will likely happen any time soon, if at all. China won’t ask for help.”

“Why not?” asked Deen.

“Because they’re China,” said Wit. “If the landers had set down in Europe or Australia, we’d already be on a plane. China will be less cooperative. They’ll want to handle this alone. Accepting help would be a show of weakness. Their military would take it as an insult. They won’t abide that.”

“This isn’t solely their problem,” said Calinga. “It’s everybody’s.”