Rebellion (22 page)

The guy had pale stubble all over his face, and salt stains were crusted under the armpits of his shirt, "You sure you know how to handle a truck this size?" the Marine asked dubiously. "Call me Charlie," the volunteer said as he and his partner manhandled their crate down to the level. Flexing big but sloping shoulders, Charlie advanced to the Marine. "Drove a rig like this for a coupla years back home in Texas,"

he said. "I can handle it." "And I'll go along-ride shotgun." The gray-clad with him stepped over to an open crate and removed one of the missile tubes. "If you don't mind." Charlie turned abruptly to his companion. "You don't have to do this, Sullivan." Sullivan merely shrugged. "I figure I can't screw things up much worse," he replied.

"I'm coming along for the ride." Charlie Morris swore as he tromped on the clutch, downshifting as sand sleeted from under the wheels of the truck. Yes, he had driven one of these pigs, but back in Texas they'd had paved roads, not dunes and wadis that curved crazily and had treacherous surfaces. The only thing like a real road on this planet was the truck route that UMC had bulldozed and planed. And that, as both Morris and Sullivan knew, already looked like a war-surplus graveyard after the enemy's attack gliders had gotten through with the vehicles fleeing along it. "I still think you're crazy to come along," he told Sullivan. The mercenary only shrugged. "What the hell. You want to live forever?" His flippancy faded. "That fella needed volunteers if they were going to get these rockets out where they'll do some good. You saw what happened to those poor Army bastards by dawn's early light." The two of them had gone to the plateau's edge with binoculars to try to track the progress of the Army caravan. Instead, they'd been treated to a high-tech version of Custer's. Last Stand. At least their interest had probably saved their lives. They were well outside the confines of the UMC camp when the enormous pyramid ship had landed. Both Morris's tent and Sullivan's lay under the acreage crushed by the spacecraft's bulk. Morris shrugged. "I just felt I had to do something. I mean, Lord knows I was busy enough helping to make this mess. Figured the time had come to try to pull things out of the crapper." "Well, you broke the ice back there. After you came forward, other guys began to volunteer to take trucks out." Sullivan glanced over at the driver.

"I'd say you were a big help." Morris scowled in embarrassment. "I ain't no hero, you know. I just did what I thought had to be done."

"Understood," Sullivan said. "You just drive, and I'll shoot anything that looks hostile." They'd given him a gun-Marine issue-and he'd kept the missile he'd taken from the crate. If that wasn't enough, His thoughts were interrupted as something large and white flashed overhead.

It looked like a giant moth, or-no. It was one of those hawkshaped fighter-bombers that had flown out from the spaceship to target the Army vehicles. There was a flash that left dazzling afterimages in Sullivan's eyes, and the sand ahead of the truck exploded in a pyrotechnic display.

Morris stared upward through the windshield, trying to catch sight of their attacker. "He's whipped around and he's coming back at us," he reported. Sullivan gripped the tube containing the rocket and wondered how much good he'd do with it, trying to shoot out the side window of a jouncing heavy truck. Morris brought his foot down heavily on the gas, the truck's wheels flinging sheets of dust as he sent the truck bearing straight for the oncoming glider. It was as though he was playing chicken with the attacking aircraft. "Get ready to hop off," he told Sullivan. "Why?" the merc asked. "You going to crash into him?" Morris hit the gas again and twisted the wheel. The truck seemed to leap aside from the spot where it had been-the spot that the flier's blasters turned to smoking glass an instant later. "You really are a hell of a driver," Sullivan began. "Open your door-you're getting out in a second," Morris interrupted. He dropped speed, sending the truck into a slewing circle. "Now!" he yelled. Sullivan had taken harder falls from faster vehicles. He skidded lightly over a surface that felt like sandpaper. There'd probably be some scrapes to tend tomorrow-if he survived that long. He rose on one knee, still holding the firing tube for the missile. Again, Morris had swung the truck around so it was charging straight for the approaching war glider. The two machines seemed to rush toward each other. Sullivan raised the weapon to his shoulder. At the last moment Morris made the truck zigzag. The glider didn't even fire. It overflew the truck-then the blast-cannon that hung like engine nacelles under its wings suddenly shifted position, tracked the truck from behind, and hit it. The twin-energy bolts must have both landed in the payload compartment, because the vehicle exploded with a force that even Sullivan felt, hundreds of feet away. He had already triggered his missile. It lanced upward, hitting the udajeet right in the central body where the pilot sat. The shock wave from the new blast buffeted Sullivan, nearly knocking him flat. The glider veered off in a graceless curve that intersected explosively with the top of a sand dune. Sullivan pulled himself to his feet and started back in the direction of the plateau and the pyramid. "One down," he said. Not to put too fine a point on it, Gunnery Sergeant Rob Hilliard was bored out of his mind. It was bad enough being a road-block guard. But when the road block you were manning had no traffice passing ... Hilliard's brother was with the Border Patrol, working on the checkpoint on the main highway just north of San Diego. He checked the occasional truck or car for illegal cargo or passengers. But at least he was in the outdoors, with a chance to improve his tan. Hilliard was stationed at the bottom of a hole in the ground where not too long ago, some bigass rocket had been pointed at Moscow or some such city. The only illumination came from fluorescent strip lamps which gave everything and everybody an off-green tinge. The hairs on the back of Hilliard's neck stood up as energy seemed to permeate the big chamber. "Incoming," he called, gesturing his six-man security team to the far wall by the blast doors. Countless repetition had reduced this to a drill like any other.

They no longer hid behind the heavy steel door, but just stood there out of the way. A gout of energy splurted from the ring of the StarGate, then sucked back in a sort of liquid vortex, as if the gate were a giant plug hole in somebody's bath. Then the energy field stabilized to a rippling glow bounded by the quartz ring. "Kinda early for anyone to be coming through," one of the guards said, glancing at his watch. Hilliard shrugged. "Maybe they ended the STRIKE or whatever was going on over there, and are rolling early to make up for lost time." The nose of a truck poked out of the gateway, seemingly covered in iridescence. Then it snapped into reality, nearly running into the far wall. "Watch it there, buddy," Hilliard called. The driver's face was pop-eyed and gray-fleshed. He must have had one hell of a ride. Hilliard's squad stood in line abreast, facing one side of the truck. "You okay?"

Hilliard asked. His answer came as a totaly inhuman head rose in the cab beside the driver. It seemed to be a sort of blackish-gold bird's head that swiveled to look at him with greenish eyes. The olive-drab canvas that covered the cargo end of the truck was torn loose to reveal kilted men with similar helmet heads. They began leveling what appeared to be spears at the security team. Damnation, Hilliard thought as he brought up his rifle. A quick head count told him he was already outnumbered, and his force was under the enemy s guns rather than defilading the Star Gate. As the shooting began, the sergeant was already falling back toward the blast doors. Bullets whined and ricocheted off the truck's body as what seemed to be miniature bolts of lightning 'struck the Marine guards. Hilliard flung himself through the doorway and slapped the electronic control. The ponderous door began closing. Even as that happened, the monster-headed guards were leaping from the truck. The StarGate flashed, vomiting forth more figures. Hilliard aimed his gun at the opening and fired rounds one-handed while snatching up a phone.

It immediately connected him to the officer of the day. "Intruder alert!" Hilliard yelled into the receiver. "StarGate-" Then a flash of intolerable brilliance lanced through the still open blast door and took him. Hilliard's security team was not the sole defense of the StarGate complex. There were perimeter guards, and a whole platoon that slept in uniform with its boots on. This ready team was now roused, and, wiping sleep from their eyes, the defenders clutched their rifles and headed down the hall toward the missile silo that housed the interworld gateway. Then figures out of legend appeared in the doorways lining the hall, and the firefight was on, bullets against energy gouts. The Marines had the advantage of numbers; the invaders had superior technology. In the end it was the Marines who gave ground, their officer screaming into his walkie-talkie for backup. The intruder's weapons gave them a tremendous edge over the defense. A closed, locked steel door was little more than a delay to them, to be blasted out at the lock or the hinges. But as the defenders pulled back, their numbers were augmented as off-duty guards came into the fight. They might not be perfect in uniformsome merely wore fatigue pants and T-shirts-but they all brought rifles to the party. The incursion was held before the intruders could reach the elevators to other levels. More bullets were flying, and there really weren't that many blast-lances to meet them.

The invaders from ancient Egypt began to pull back, concentrating their defenses on the access ways to the StarGate. A lieutenant intercepted a detail of half-dressed Marines as they left their quarters. "You bunch, come with me," he curtly ordered. The noncom who'd been in charge of the group glanced at the officer as the elevator stopped. "Sir? I thought the fighting was on the floor below." The lieutenant gestured for silence as he led the men down a corridor, checking each room along the way. Then he kicked open the door to what looked like a conference room, ducking back as a lightning bolt snapped out at him. "Figured they'd have somebody in here-there's a direct access to the StarGate from this room", he said. The noncom detailed THREE men to clear the room. One got fried, the other two succeeded in shooting down the hawk-headed guard who had barricaded himself behind the long desk that made up most of the room's furniture. More blast-bolts came from through a doorway marked EXIT, which gave onto a stairway. "That's how our friend got up here," the lieutenant said, pulling a grenade from the front of his combat suit. He tossed it down the stairs. "Gunney, I want everybody back to the doorway." The lieutenant stepped to the far wall of the room, a whiteboard setup surprisingly only dimpled by the firefight that had gone on a minute ago. Beside the board was a large button. When the lieutenant pressed it, the writing surface rolled up with a whine of heavy machinery. It was backed by a thick steel plate, and as it moved upward, it revealed a window. The gunnery sergeant backed his people to the door, and the lieutenant took out another grenade. A second later, he was running out of the room, slamming the door. A dull boom marked the grenade's explosion, then they headed back in. The room was smoky and much the worse for wear. But the window was out. And overlooking the StarGate room as it did, it allowed the sergeant and his men to catch the Egyptian defenders in the rear.

General West was in the air, flying to Creek Mountain, when he received word of the attack via the StarGate. "Lieutenant Jorgenson remembered that the conference room overlooked the StarGate complex, and led a squad up there to take the intruders in the rear. Those who survived have retreated through the gate." "How about our own men?" the general inquired. "Heavy casualties, sir." The general's lips became a thin line under his mustache. "As soon as you get things reorganized there, I want you to send a team through the StarGate," he ordered. "We've got to find out what's happening on Abydos." By the time he arrived, the report dead line for the team had passed. There was no word from the people who'd passed through the gateway.

The suns of Abydos had risen higher, and shadows had grown scarce. It seemed as though the driver of the Sheridan tank that clanked to the crest of the dune had given up trying to hide. The tank's turret kept revolving as if on the lookout for hostile fliers, and the fighting vehicle's cannon tube was at maximum elevation. The gun tracked to the right, and, as if on cue, one of the udajeet attackers came streaking in from the left. Suddenly, human figures erupted from the sand, most aiming rifles at the low-flying glider. But two of the men had stubby green tubes which they raised and fired. The Stinger missiles disintegrated the udajeet in midair. Sergeant Oliver Eakins dusted himself off with a grin. He was a large, powerful-looking black man with closely cropped hair. "Got another one," he said. "That makes THREE so far. Guess it's time to move this show somewhere else." The tank unbuttoned, and the sergeant in charge poked his head out of the hatch. "Easy enough for you to say," he grumbled. "You're not the one who has to sit out as bait for those buzz-boys." Even as both of the men talked, their eyes kept scanning the sky. They had met only a couple of hours ago. The sergeant's squad had managed to escape their APC alive after one of the gliders blasted the treads off one side of the vehicle.

They'd been marching back to the base camp when the tank had encountered them, and they'd decided to pool their resources. The squad spread out to offer warning of approaching gliders, and the tank would try to shoot them down using the pintlemounted .50-caliber machine gun mounted on the turret roof. Their survival had been precarious at best. One udajeet had strafed them, though it had flown off after being damaged by machine-gun fire. Still, neither sergeant would have bet on them making it through the day until the mining truck had appeared out of nowhere.

It was driven by a Marine who frantically waved some of the infantrymen over. "We're loaded with antiaircraft missiles," the driver had called.

Two men in the back of the truck manhandled a crate off the tailboard.