Rebellion (21 page)

"You sure you want to wait here?" he asked Skaara. The young man nodded his head. "It's as good a place to start as any other." He lightly hopped out of the vehicle. O'Neil started off again, but he glanced back to a wordless cry from Daniel. Skaara was kneeling by the dead men, collecting their guns and ammunition. The recon Marine gave a curt, approving nod. "Sorry, professor, but this is no time to be squeamish.

Before this fight is over, we're going to need every gun we can get."

Walter Draven had never really admitted his slight tendency to claustrophobia. "Who's afraid of Santa?" he'd joke. That was much more easily done in a large, airy Washington apartment, however. On Abydos, in the room that housed the StarGate, it was harder to laugh off the feeling that one was in the bowels of a pyramid surrounded by a huge weight of dressed stone. Stone underneath, stone to either side, tons and -tons of it overhead, pressing down ... Martin Preston had once explained how the ancient Egyptians had built their huge constructions, with angled stone blocks so that the massive weights involved pressed against each other rather than straight downward. An interesting theory, but Draven was sure the ceilings in the dark high overhead were just waiting to buckle and fall. Only the most urgent of reasons would keep him in here-especially since he was trapped with Eugene Lockwood for a companion. The mine manager now stood beside him in sulky silence.

Draven's overstretched nerves had been unable to stand listening to any more of Lockwood's justifications and idiot plans for dealing with the locals once UMC got the "whip hand." Lockwood had used the phrase at least five times in almost as many sentences. Finally, Draven told the silly idiot to shut his mouth and keep it that way. Lockwood first looked shocked, then angry. But at least the stream of nervous mouth noise had ended. Draven looked around the room. In one corner stood a trio of UMC security people in gray camouflage suits. They huddled together, deep in conversation, their weapons either dangling negligently in hands or propped nearby within easy reach. By the StarGate itself stood the local security chief, Vernon Ballard. He'd returned by military jet to Colorado. And the first thing he'd done after returning to Abydos had been to place an armed guard on the StarGate. Ostensibly, this was to prevent infiltration of any local terrorists to Earth. In cold fact, however, the armed guard was against two troublemakers-Daniel Jackson and Jack O'Neil. Luckily, the orders from General West had come through while O'Neil was still in Nagada.

Draven was just as glad that the start of hostilities would catch the Marine colonel behind enemy lines. With luck, he might even be taken hostage and expended. For all his faults, however, O'Neil had been willing to take orders and keep quiet. Jackson was a more dangerous type, an idealist-and as Keogh's troops moved against his precious Abbadabba, he became even more dangerous-a frustrated idealist. Draven would not put it past the Egyptologist to try to get to Earth, either to get a conflicting report to West-one they'd prefer not to get outor even to try spilling the story to the press. "Do you really think he'd desert his native wife to do that?" Lockwood asked. He sounded like something out of a bad Western movie, talking about a squaw man. If left with no other option, any man might try something desperate. And if Ballard's people didn't seem much worried over an errant professor, the security chief certainly took his duty seriously. Ballard stood on the ramp leading up to the StarGate, his camos pressed and an assault rifle at the ready in his hands. The two UMC executives also had an ostensible security purpose. They were there to be on hand to identify Jackson.

But there was an entirely different reason why they-and the heavy truck taking up most of the chamber-were standing by the StarGate. Keogh had two battalions of troops, tanks, and even a couple of helicopters. His available force should be enough to cow the locals and their uppity Elders into toeing the line. If not, then there'd be fighting. Too many losses among the

Army personnel, and questions would be asked. And what if some unsuspected disaster struck? Draven had arranged for a truck to be loaded with Lockwood's most damaging files, which were then buried under their remaining supply of quartz. If necessary, he proposed to abandon Abydos, then smuggle the whole load past the military people at Creek Mountain. Not, he assured himself, that such extreme measures would be necessary. But it was best to be prepared for all eventualities. He glanced at his watch. "They should almost be there." A low rumbling came from the distance. Draven glanced toward the entrance to the pyramid, uncomfortably far away and out of sight. Thunder? "Is that the guns on the tanks?" Lockwood asked nervously. Ballard and the mercenaries cocked their heads. "Doesn't sound like artillery to me,"

the security chief said. The room seemed to get colder. There was a positive draft coming from the entrance. Some kind of storm? Draven wondered. "Hope this isn't a sandstorm," Ballard said. "That would foul Keogh's approach on the city." Another of the mercenaries spoke up. "I hear a sandstorm is what set up the first party here to get their butts kicked." Ballard silenced his man with a glare. That wind is getting stronger, Draven thought. Then the very rock around them began to shudder. "Earthquake!" Lockwood yelped. He sounded as if he were announcing the end of the world. Whatever was going on, it didn't seem natural. Draven turned to Ballard. "Activate the StarGate." Ballard abandoned his position. He didn't want to be in the way of the sudden wash of energy that extended from the arcanely carved torus ring of the gateway. When Draven had first seen the effect, he'd been reminded of a scene from his childhood, gently blowing into a soap-filled ring. He hadn't quite created a bubble, but the film of soapy water had billowed outward in an amazing display of surface tension. Except, in the case of the StarGate, it would require a god's lips to create the same effect.

Draven shrank against the wall. The hired gunmen seemed unaffected. One leaned into the cab of the truck, awakening the driver, who'd been dozing in the cab. The StarGate cycled into operation. All eyes were drawn to the incredible show of light and energy. So they missed the four Horus guards materializing with a bluish glare in the matter transmitter. Draven's first hint of danger came as the mercenary security men were blown to gobbets of flesh by blast-bolts fired at close range. He stood frozen as the falcon-headed warriors wiped his soldiers out. Draven had seen pictures of the strange helmet-masks. But that was far different from having a falcon's head turn, scan you with greenish eyes, dismiss you as unimportant because you had no weapon, and turn to the next target. Ballard opened fire and downed one of the attackers. The combined fire of the other THREE, however, left him a smoking ruin. And the matter transmitter flashed to deliver four more of the unearthly assailants. As they advanced, blast-lances at the ready, one of the first wave moved to cover the terrified truck driver. Draven sidled toward the operational StarGate. THREE-maybe two steps, and he could dive into the rippling energy interface, warn the people on Earth

... get out of here. He'd taken another step when Eugene Lockwood came out of his semi-coma. "D-don't shoot!" His voice sounded more like the squealings of a stuck pig. "We're civilians!" The StarGate was still tantalizingly out of reach as the hawk heads-and blasters-turned their way. Before the Hare of energy that did him in, Draven had half a second to curse boneheaded subordinates.

Hathor observed the holographic display on the ceiling of the bridge.

The technicians had expanded the scale to serve as a tactical display.

The fighting forces were exhibited as various colored sparks-red for her people, green for the enemy. At the center was the StarGate pyramid, surrounded by a square of red representing Ra's Eye. A cloud of red sparks radiated from the battlecraft, pursuing madly darting green sparks-udajeets on search-and-destroy missions against the invaders'

ground vehicles. Within the red walls around the pyramid, red sparks flashed into existence-and green ones disappeared. "Lady Captain," one of the technicians reported, "the Horus guards have just reported. The chamber of the StarGate is now in our hands." Hathor nodded in satisfaction. "One loss." That wiped away Hathor's smile. "Split the force. Half will search the rest of the chambers for any other enemy troops." She paused. "The other half will secure the far side of the StarGate, with the search force acting as reserve." Her eyes returned to the tactical display. "What's that concentration over by the city?" A clump of green sparks had appeared, moving slowly across the desert toward Ra's Eye. Another technician ran her fingers over glowing control surfaces, achieving a local focus." Infantry, Lady Captain," she reported. "We can afford to ignore them," Hathor decided. "All udajeets are to concentrate on destroying vehicles first." She'd learned her lessons well on Ombos. Destroy the enemy's technology first. Mopping up foot soldiers becomes much easier when they can't transport themselves or any heavy weapons. Mop-up, however, would have to wait until the enemy was first smashed. On this world ... and then on the world they came from. An udajeet flashed over O'Neil's Humvee, and all aboard ducked. But the antigravity glider was after bigger game. Its blast-cannon flashed and something exploded from beyond the next dune.

O'Neil kept the little all-terrain vehicle in the shallows of the sand-and the shadows. "They've certainly got control of the air," Daniel said. "For the time being," O'Neil responded. "But if Kawalsky and Feretti are on the job, we should be able to make the sky much hotter for them." The vehicle's short-wave radio crackled to life. "All units, listen up!" a voice shouted. "This is First Base!" O'Neil, Daniel, and Sha'uri all had to grin. Even over the radio they recognized the staccato speech rhythms of Corporal Feretti. "There are antiaircraft missiles available," Feretti went on. "We're going to use some to try to set up a safe area at the base of the plateau-by Firebase THREE. We think that Big Mama up there won't be able to depress her guns enough to take pot-shots at us. The rest we're loading into trucks, and we'll try to get them out to you." O'Neil picked up the microphone from the little set. "First Base," he said. "Feretti, this is O'Neil. Do you copy?"

"Thank God, Colonel! The lieutenant was afraid you'd gotten smeared."

"Not yet," O'Neil responded, watching another glider swoop up. "What's the situation there?" "In a word, nuts," the radioman replied. "That big mother starship is overlapping about half of the UMC encampment. I'm afraid Mr. Lockwood's air-conditioned office has been knocked flat." "We already knew it was hot around here," O'Neil sent back. "Now it's time to let these guys know." He frowned. "You remember the watch point Skaara's militia used? Send a truckload of missiles that way. We've got some infantry reinforcements arriving." "Reading you five by five, sir,"

Feretti said. "I'll try to rendezvous at the base of the plateau-Firebase THREE," O'Neil said. "ASAP. O'Neil out." He tromped on the accelerator, speeding up, but still taking the route with most cover. "Daniel!" Sha'uri cried, pointing off to one side. "There!" In the distance, rising like a mountain of gold, they could see the top of the pyramid ship. O'Neil jockeyed the wheel. "Give us something to aim for," he said. In the remains of the military camp, Adam Kawalsky helped to heave another case of Stinger missiles out from under the collapsed supply tent. Colonel O'Neil had been insistent on securing the weapons.

So there had been a tent on top-the weapons were actually in an underground bunker. And thanks to the storm and the gales of the starship's passage, considerable digging was required to get the cases out. Additional eager hands appeared to pull the case out of the hole.

One guy wore a sweatencrusted shirt with the UMC logo on it, one of the mine overseers. The other had the gray camo fatigues of the company's security guards. They could have had tails and horns for all Kawalsky cared. He needed volunteers, and would take all he could get. "Hump that over to the edge of the plateau-there's a sort of trail down that way." He pointed, and the two new additions to the workforce staggered away. More and more of the surviving gray-clad mercenaries were gravitating toward his operation. Kawalsky thought he understood. They were soldiers of a sort, after all. Strongly self-motivated, perhaps, to take a job like this. But they needed officers and orders. And this was one of the few corners of the camp where orders were still being given. A picket line of Marines guarded the rocket dump, some armed with rifles, others with the green tubes that held the ground-to-air missiles. Kawalsky had also established a firing party in one of the dug-in strong points that O'Neil had established at the edge of the camp. The firebase also covered one of the trails that led off the plateau. People were bringing in the damnedest things. Keogh's thrust had virtually stripped the base of military transport. But some of the UMC people had managed to rescue wheeled and tracked vehicles from the surviving portions of their camp. Kawalsky now had several trucks and a bulldozer at the edge of the rocky rises. The earthmover was pushing down part of Keogh's encircling wall in an attempt to create an exit ramp for the wheeled vehicles. As the lieutenant directed two more men in manhandling a crate, Feretti came running up, carting a radio set with him. "I broadcast what you said, sir, to all units. And I got an answer from Colonel O'Neil!" Kawalsky felt a smile stretch the skin on his gritty face. "Excellent news!" Feretti nodded. "He said he's heading here to join us ASAP." Kawalsky's shoulders rose a little higher, as if a burden had been lifted. He was a military man, too, after all. Maybe he'd feel better with someone around to give the orders, too. Tense figures stood around the truck, all of them armed with Stinger missiles. The vehicle was half full of cased missiles, about as many eggs as Kawalsky wanted to risk in one basket. It was time for this shipment of antiaircraft missiles to head out to the forces being pounded by the attack gliders. The problem was, who was going to take it? The truck was a soft, unarmored target, and if it went up, its precious cargo would probably explode as well. Which would, as Kawalsky's volunteer force now began to realize, cut down the driver's already slim chances of survival. "Look, somebody's got to drive the damned thing," a Marine noncommissioned officer growled. "We can't send it out on automatic pilot." The scattering of Marines and UMC mercs couldn't meet his eyes. The noncom wiped his sweaty face. In a second he'd have to order somebody, not the best answer to a suicide mission when you're dealing with desperate men with guns. "I'll drive it," a voice came from overhead. A new team of two men were laboring down the steep slope, carrying another crate of missiles. The noncom examined the volunteer carefully. He was a UMC supervisor rather than a fighting man, and frankly, he looked like a blond, shaved gorilla. Well, half shaved.