The Battle for Terra Two (6 page)

"Senile?" prompted Heather.

"He could barely sign the monthly disability check."

"Disability check?" Social insurance in America had died young. Social security had been converted to war tax in the dark months of '48 and never restored after the fighting died in '53.

Julio nodded. "Two hundred a month. We moved to West Roxbury, bought a trailer." Cleared of rubble, West Roxbury had no gangers and enjoyed nominal social services. Trees and playgrounds dotted the miles of trailer "parks" -—refurbished war surplus units sold and financed for a handsome profit by government licensed brokers to the minorities and ethnics working the industrialized inner burbs.

"How is Raoul?" asked Heather.

"Dead," he said flatly. "Heart failure, arteriosclerosis."

"If we could access UC's data base, we'd know what they're doing up there," said Ian.

"Angel told you nothing?" asked Heather.

"Indirectly he did," Ian smiled wryly. "He asked me if I thought the Berkeley physics department could spare you for a few months. I suggested someone from the Outfit. He said that was 'very tenuous ground,' and changed the subject."

"What sort of physics are they doing up there?" she wondered.

"If we go in, maybe you can tell us." He and Julio rose, giving her a hand up. "But Angel was very firm about wanting a theoretical physicist, .not a bomb guy from Livermore."

"Odd," she said, half to herself. "Now what?"

"Julio and I are going to make a photorecon in the Bell. We did it two months ago, but Angel wants fresh pics." The Bell was the fastest of their choppers, the only one with cameras. "Coming up under their radar, we'll be gone before they can react. But the rest of you get clear first, just in case."

Hiking back to the valley, all but Ian and Julio headed southeast in the big Hueys. After ten minutes, the two took the Bell over the fence at full throttle, following the road up the hill.

Their first pass held no surprises: the same cold architecture as before, no discernible movement anywhere. It was after their second pass, just turning for home, that the Messerschmitt dropped on them from the clouds. Ian tried for the treeline, but the ME's missiles were faster.

Heather didn't see the Bell go down—they were too far away. The orange blip disappearing from her radar told all. Tears streaming unnoticed down her face, she sent the Huey even lower, almost brushing the treetops. Winding out of the Green Mountains and into New Hampshire, she took them home.

It was a setup, John saw. A setup engineered by Guan-Sharick to attract attention to Shalan-Actal's base—to Maximus.

"When did this happen?"

"Yesterday. I sent you the note as soon as we got back."

"That year in CIB, we must have saved each other's lives a dozen times down in that green hell. We were closer than most brothers. He was very proud of you—his sister the scientist."

All true, in its way, thought John. Harrison and MacKenzie had been close.

"You'll have to assume they took either Ian or Julio alive and are interrogating them," he said, collecting his thoughts. "You'd better evacuate."

"We're finishing that up now," she said, matching his brisk tone. "I gave the order last night. The final group leaves within the hour."

"You're staying with the Vipers?"

"Someone has to be in charge, till the Outfit sends another officer. None of the kids are ready. I think I've earned their respect. I'm not as good as Ian, but I put in my four years as a Ranger captain."

"I see," he said, upping his estimate of her age.

"Why are you here?"

This is it, he thought. Fail now, you might as well have stayed home.

"It's been decided to take Maximus," he said. "I'm to extract the Maximus data base from UC's computer—it may be of use. And I'm to help in the attack."

"I see," she said, noncommittal. "Did you know Hochmeister's in the area?"

Hochmeister, Hochmeister. Grand master in German. There was something in the briefing book. He groped desperately for it. Gray. Feldgrau. Wehrmacht. Abwehr. Of course.

"The Gray Admiral? The former Abwehr head?"

"The same," she said, nodding. "Called in by Alliance Intelligence—Kassel's crew. Something to do with Maximus. Nothing firm—just something Ian heard from an old CIB buddy on the last weapons run."

"No one knows what he looks like, do they?"

"No. He's the man without a face. The last photo of him was taken in the forties. The day after
Wolfsschanze,
he somehow got past a brigade of Waffen SS and calmly put a bullet through Himmler's head."

"Thus ending effective resistance to the Putsch," he nodded. "He must be in his sixties."

"Easily. God!" She jumped up. "I almost forgot, and it sounds like you'll need it." Going to the big Governor Winthrop, she pulled open a drawer. Extracting an oblong black plastic case, she handed it to John. "Nixdorf-IBM 7000 series authenticator. Insert it into the authorizer port of UC's computer, and the machine will answer its own challenge."

"You're sure?" he asked dubiously, turning the small device over in his hands.

"No." She smiled for the first time. Thin, but still a smile. "Don't worry, though. They'll give the next poor bastard something better."

"Comforting." He pocketed the device. "OK, if you'll have someone lead me back to St. Mark's from here . . . Where, by the way, is here?"

"Can't do any harm now. This is the Barcroft Estate in Brookline, abandoned in '68, carefully unbooby-trapped and restored by the Vipers. You arrived via the old Green Line subway tunnel, which in turn accesses part of the Underground Railroad, circa 1855. We built the entrances and connectors."

"One more thing." He related the story of Cinzano Bay. "One of yours?"

She nodded, grim-faced. "Lotte. She was to meet someone with information on Maximus. Maybe she was set up, maybe she was just unlucky. We'll probably never know."

"But why the grenade?" John asked. "A lot of innocent people died." Neither saw the bookcase swing wide.

"Innocent?" she snapped, eyes blazing. "The technos get tax-free income, hazard pay, cheap servants and subsidized housing to live here as colonialists. They know the risks. The grenade's our answer to Aldridge's summary justice." Their eyes locked. "We don't go gentle into that good night, Major Harrison."

"But go you shall," came a low voice from behind. "Don't even think of it, Major," zur Linde said as Harrison's eyes went to the distant sofa and his weapon. Stepping into the library, minimac leveled, the German spoke into his starhelm. "Septime to Crispin.

"I couldn't, Colonel," he said to the voice complaining in his ear. "I was in a tunnel. Please respond the alert company on this vector, sir. I'm in a nest of Vipers."

Not for the first time, it struck Harrison how dehumanizing UC battledress was: black uniform, black gloves, black boots, black starhelm. Even the machinepistol was black. Hard to believe anything human existed within that darkness—certainly not a man with a weakness for Oriental women who'd invited him sailing. "May we put our hands down,
Herr Hauptmann?"
he asked.

"Red scum. Keep them up."

"Is that what you think we are, Erich?" John lowered his hands. "How can I convince you
..."

"Hands back up, Major," said the German coldly, "or you lose a kneecap." John complied.

"Don't be a silly bitch," said zur Linde, centering the muzzle on Heather. Her hands went back up, away from the magnum.

"Put the cannon on the sofa, please. Thumb and forefinger." The big pistol bounced onto a cushion. "Thank you."

He turned his back to John. "We're of an age, Harrison, you and I. Your biography says your father died at Second Stalingrad. True?"

Captain Tristram Malory Harrison had been killed at Chosen Reservoir. "Not Stalingrad," said John. "A different battle."

"My father died at Second Stalingrad," said zur Linde, "when Das Reich's Division saved your Third Armored. How could you betray what both died for?" It bothered him, you could tell from his voice.

"I'm here to save, not to betray, Erich. You're counterintelligence, aren't you? Abwehr?"

Zur Linde nodded curtly. "The best."

The great unabridged dictionary, largest made by the Merriam poeple, dropped like a stone from the balcony, its binding cracking as it struck zur Linde's starhelm, toppling him. Rolling to his feet in a blur of motion, his hand streaked for his pistol, only to freeze when he saw the minimac's unwavering muzzle.

"You know the drill, Erich," said Harrison. "Toss the PPK." Heather scooped up both weapons. "Now sit." Zur Linde sat.

"Well done, Jorge," Heather called, looking up at the small brown face bearing over the bannister. He bounded down the stairs to a warm hug from Heather.

Walking to the door she called, "Chin Lee! We have a prisoner!"

A squad of Vipers came at the run, led by a big, tough-looking Chinese with an old knife scar puckering the length of his right cheek.

"Starhelm, Erich," demanded Harrison, hand outstretched. When the Abwehr officer didn't move, Heather said, "Chin Lee."

Drawing a long-bladed ranger knife, the platoon leader stepped purposefully toward zur Linde. Fingers flying, the German unfastened the helmet and handed it to Harrison, scowling.

"Nice to see your pretty face again," said John. Chin Lee sighed and put the knife away.

Touching the starhelm's bottom rim, Harrison flipped the commswitch off.

"Think they had time to vector in?" asked Heather.

Harrison nodded.

"Chin, get everyone together," ordered Heather. "There's a strike force on the way." He ran from the room, shouting orders.

Walking to a bookcase, Heather removed a leather-bound copy of Robert Louis Stevenson's
Infernal Machine,
then threw a small, red switch behind it. She carefully returned the book to its niche. "In forty minutes, the house will blow up," she said. Pulling a big backpack from under the desk, she shrugged her way into it. "Five minutes later, land mines in the lawn will detonate—take out their second wave."

In a few minutes, Vipers laden with packs and weapons were filing through the library and into the tunnel.

"I'll show you to the cathedral, John." Heather picked up zur Linde's starhelm as Chin Lee took the German away.

"You're not going to . . ." Harrison said, staring after the Abwehr officer.

"No." She strapped on the starhelm. "Not that he doesn't deserve it. We'll give him a dose of memscrub— this day will vanish from his life.

"The trick," she added, voice muffled by the helmet, "is to defeat the enemy without becoming him."

"You can believe that, yet hit that reaction force?"

"It's not excessive," she said as he fastened on his own starhelm. "There's too much here we haven't had time to destroy. Also, the carnage will slow them, buy us time. We're going to be exposed for about two hours, relatively defenseless. This'H pull in every chopper UC has."

"Where are you going?" he asked as they stepped into the passageway.

"Warren's Island, in the inner harbor. There's an old fort there." She swung the bookcase shut. "Not quite what we've become used to, but habitable."

They looked up at the roar of choppers coming in low and fast. "UC's about to find out just how hot a hot LZ can be," said Heather coldly. "Let's go."

Most international opinion was won, and any support for a countercoup dissipated, by the General Staff s calculated ' 'discovery'' of the death camps four days after the Putsch. The footage of Guderian's panzers smashing through the gates of Dachau, the horrified reactions of the soldiers to the grisly scene inside, sold the world on "the return of the Germany of Goethe, Schiller and Beethoven." Only the Russians didn't buy it. The war in the East ground on.

—Harrison,
ibid., p. 74

Operations was quiet when John arrived—a paunchy, graying warrant officer, four young techs and a few guards. Up on the big board, Boston was a green island, surrounded by a line of red. Inside the green, another line of red divided three-quarters of the city from the remainder— turf. The yellow blip of an occasional plane or ship was the only movement.

John waved the warrant officer back to his chair. "It's ok, Mr. Blackstone, just familiarizing myself with Operations.

"The red is what?" he asked, pointing up at the board. "Perimeter sensors, Major."

A solid crimson ribbon sat alone above the warrant officer's right pocket: the First Day Ribbon. John wondered what irony had let Blackstone survive the Japan Invasion only to end up in UC.

"We monitor all activity along that perimeter, sir. We respond on anything BOSCO flags suspicious."

"BOSCO?"

"Boston Base Operations Command and Control." His hand swept the wall and its color graphics. "BOSCO— actually, the whole 7117 series—was designed for UC by Nixdorf-IBM."

"And you watch for
...
?"

"Gangers raiding, gangersymps bringing in supplies and weapons. Anything out of the ordinary. We weigh the threat and react intelligently—a strategy of selective response."

The cities are lost, Guan-Sharick had said. Everyone knows it, but no one may speak of it. Policy is that they're not lost. Policy brings in the technos, to tax-free government R&D enclaves. Policy maintains a garrison to protect them. It's all a fragile artifice. The cities are lost. Those garrisons are penal brigades, badly understrength, living on tactical myths and Benzedrine. Let the gangs attack as one, Urban Command and the techno enclaves would vanish, a bloody bit of bad policy.

"Selective response," said John. "Interesting."

"Ah! A situation." Blackstone's eyes focused on the wall. "Excuse me."

John saw it then, the flashing red cross moving across the red line, into the green.

Who says there's no God? he thought as Operations came to life, technicians busy, guards turning to watch. Forgotten, John slipped around into the deserted computer area. Shielded by gray equipment banks, he inserted the authenticator into the slot below the big red arrow.