The Battle for Terra Two (8 page)

"I mean, really, look at these reports. Much initial excitement, everyone wanting a crack at it, then nothing."

"More. The reports are almost the same after the first year. Verbatim."

Checking, she saw he was right. Maximus's staff kept sending the same negative reports, with only superficial changes in text. "Something's very wrong up there," she said. "It's almost as though the phenomenon's manipulating the experiment."

Their eyes met. "Then the Vipers
will
support my mission, Dr. MacKenzie?"

"Yes, Major Harrison. Once the situation in the city becomes clear."

The UC battalion's route of march took it through the heart of Lord's turf. Bull watched from a tenement roof as the column wound through Roxbury's broken streets.

Midmorning usually found kids playing in the rusting junk cars, women trudging to and from water and food points. Not today. The delapidated three-decker houses were hushed, the streets empty. Nothing moved, no dogs barked. Even the rats were still, hiding from the rising throb of powerful engines, the crunch of broken glass under clanking treads.

"Shee-it. Only fifty tanks, rest APCs," said Bull's lieutenant, called Chop for his karate-calloused hands. "We can wipe those mothers." Hundreds of gangers paralleled the convoy, well-ordered platoons skillfully leapfrogging through alleys and over rubble.

Bull shook his head. A big man, rippling with muscle, he'd come to Roxbury from Chicago's South Side three years before. His finely honed street smarts and instinctive grasp of infantry tactics had soon put him at the head of the Lords. Over the top of his flak vest, gold chains glinted against rich ebony skin.

"They got trouble." He nodded at the column, nearing their camouflaged bunker. "Hit 'em," his voice rumbled, "then two, maybe three days, gonna be a sweep—wipe a few more miles an' couple thousand niggers to make an ex-sam-ple.

"Pass 'em," he ordered.

Zur Linde radioed to Aldridge, "Ground sensors show hostiles all around us, Colonel. About five hundred, armed with TOWs and automatic weapons."

"If they haven't opened up yet, Erich, they probably won't," said Aldridge. "But we can't take that chance. All strategy's predicated on enemy capability, not perceived intent. Kill them."

"Acknowledged."

Zur Linde switched to the command channel. "Manatee Leader to Manatee Pack. Execute Golf Alpha Sierra."

"What they doin'?" asked Chop, suspiciously eyeing the tanks as they slowed, turrets swinging, cannon cranking too high to hit the gangers.

Bull grabbed the radio. "The tanks! Hit 'em!"

The first shells burst overhead with a dull
whump,
vomiting greasy, grayish-yellow clouds that drifted gently down.

Rocket volleys answered from all sides, some hitting just so, where turret met body. Twelve of the M80s went up, volatile chemical munitions flaming blue, melting metal and turning men to ash. There was no second volley.

Shrouded in the oily, yellow pall, the column rolled slowly through Roxbury, firing methodically, cloaking itself in the slimy mist.

Seeping into cellars, attics, rough-hewn bunkers, the gas brought ethereal calm to young and old, male and female, animal and human. There'd be no rat problem for a while.

Bull carried Chop well away from the death zone, blood from the smaller man's orifices trickling unnoticed down his flak jacket and clothes. "Hey, man," he said, gently lowering his friend to the floor of the old elementary school, now an impromptu mortuary-hospital. Chop tried to speak, but managed only a rasping, wet gurgle. Shouting for a medic, Bull stood, speaking into the radio. "This Bull. What's it like?"

It was bad. At least three hundred gangers dead, no one yet knew how many civilians. "Old folks, kids, dogs," reported a woman dully. "We're goin' in as it clears, doin' what we can.

"You gonna let 'em get 'way with this, Bull?" she demanded, tone suddenly vibrant with hate.

"No way," he said softly. "Put out a call on the Viper channel. Get me Heather Mac."

Moving at the same careful pace, the convoy reached a deserted Copley Square at twilight, halting before the Ital-ianate masterpiece that was the Boston Public Library. The cobblestone square should have been aflow with the early evening theater crowd, the cafes crowded.

Not tonight. The rattle of machine-gun fire had sent many of the urban pioneers scurrying north over the expressway, until mortars atop Bunker Hill had mangled the evacuation, sealing the technos into their enclaves. Now they huddled in their town homes and condos, as much afraid of UC's shoot-to-kill curfew as of the approaching rage.

Aldridge mounted the worn granite steps of the library, turning to face the troopers forming up between the fountain and stairs.
Homo fascis,
he thought, watching the black-uniformed, starhelmed troopers dressdown, each indistinguishable from the next save by position. You were wrong, Plato. The best guardians of the State aren't like obedient watchdogs; they're automatons, as much a machine as the needs of the psyche allow.

"At ease." His dry voice cracked over them like a whip. "You've done well," he said, a wireless microphone carrying his voice into every helmet. "But it's not over yet. With the red line breached and the Army hours away, it's going to be a long night. You'll be assigned to this and the Harbor subgarrison, maintaining zonal integrity. I know you'll acquit yourselves as honorably as you did today. Good luck."

Returning Grady's salute, he and zur Linde entered the library, heading down into the basement command post. The distant gunfire faded as the elevator's blastdoors closed.

"Hardly Pompey's battle oration, was it, Erich?" the colonel said as the elevator sank.

"Adequate, sir, if not enduring," said the German. The doors opened. Stepping into the CP, his became a gray uniform in a sea of black. Colors shifted, swirled and reformed on the big situation board as reports came. Alarms competed for attention.

The two stopped as a hollow-eyed officer came up, saluting Aldridge. "How's it going, Sardon?" asked the colonel, sketching a salute.

"Not well, sir, as you can see." They turned toward the board. Tired as he was, the Copley CO's voice was crisp, efficient. "Three projected breakthroughs—Brookline, the South and North Ends." As he spoke, three red gashes moved deeper into the map's green.

"Any hint it's a coordinated attack?" asked zur Linde.

"None," said Sardon, absently running his fingers through his thinning, close-cropped hair. "But that doesn't help much. That Brookline incursion's headed straight for here. My Charlie and Delta companies are fighting house-to-house less than a mile away. Fighting and losing. Those animals are born urban warriors."

"Any gunships at all?" asked Aldridge, turning from the board.

"None."

The lights and air wavered, died, came back up.

"Got the mains," someone called as the ground shook. "We're on no-break."

"Make that half a mile," said Sardon, stating the distance to the Edison plant.

"Get some napalm down on them, Erich," said Aldridge. "I'll authorize air strikes. Also, have Air Command hit all turfs. We may go down, but so will the gangers."

Zur Linde frowned. "Simultaneous napalming of so much of the city might trigger firestorms, sir. Remember Leningrad and the Japanese cities."

Aldridge shrugged. Raising his voice, he spoke to the small group of officers his presence had attracted. "Recall, gentlemen, that Urban Command is an instrument of both domestic and foreign policy. We're not merely suppressing insurrection. We're also sending a message to Moscow, a firm demonstration of our resolve. If ever the Kremlin is convinced that the Alliance will flinch when attacked, anywhere, anytime, by anyone, then the West and five hundred years of humanism dies.

"Our willingness to incinerate many of our best people, to destroy one of our great cultural centers, can only be seen as a stand against barbarism.

"Never forget, gentlemen," he concluded with quiet passion, "it is we few, we valiant few, who hold back the long night.

"Sardon, coordinate with Erich. Erich, call in those air strikes."

"No need to worry about a sweep now," said John, watching Boston burn.

"Napalm. Those bastards used napalm."

Heather hadn't believed it at first, none of them had, watching from the fort as the bombers roared in, dumped their loads, then veered inland—not until the hungry flames began licking skyward. Only well after midnight had the last wave winged homeward. By then the beaches were packed, aristocracy and outcasts all fleeing the wind-whipped walls of flame.

Heather had sent their too-few choppers to ferry out as many as possible, but after a dozen trips the heat and wild downdrafts had forced them back. The thousands left on the beaches now streamed across the sand of low tide, seeking the water's safety.

"Firestorm!" John pointed to where three great fires had now joined. Trebled, the flames lanced thousands of feet into the air, greedily sucking in oxygen. A small gale raced over the island, bringing fresh sea air to feed the flames. Even this far from the city they could feel the heat as the firestorm danced howling to the water's edge, snuffing out life, choking the outgoing tide with twisted open-mouthed bodies.

Jorge came running up with a note from the commwatch. Putting down her binoculars, Heather read it, passing it to John.

"Who's Bull?"

"Lords of Darkness," she said as they turned from Boston's pyre and walked down the stairs to the parade ground. "They're
the
black gang in the city. Tough. Basic command structure, good leadership, decent weapons. They're Cuban-backed, supplied by Quevara's DGI. It looks like Aldridge mauled them, falling back on Copley."

"Roxbury's a charnel house now," said John. "Where are they?"

"Well away from the fire. Blue Hills, maybe. They've got choppers."

"The man wants to talk. Let's talk."

Aldridge looked up at the board, then back to the G2 reports. "Something's wrong, Erich," he said, ignoring the ongoing bustle of evacuation: boxes of hastily gathered documents, computer disks, code books, small arms, all being hustled outside.

It was a classical Aldridge understatement. The napalm had burned off the ganger attacks, at the cost of two firestorms now converging on the enclaves.

The Army choppers had arrived as the bombers left, following a closing corridor between the flames. Evacuation was under way, with troops ordering residents to staging areas soon littered with forced castoffs: video recorders, leather luggage, miniature stereo-TVs, microcomputers.

General Wyvern, the Army commander, was half listening to Aldridge. He had a problem: there wasn't enough transport to move all the evacuees in time. His men would mutiny before giving up their spaces. Panic and friendly machine-gun fire would sweep the staging areas long before the flames. By dawn, many of the best and brightest would be ash.

"How can something be wrong, Colonel?" said Wyvern. "You gas and burn one of our principal cities, killing thousands. You lose most of your command. Why don't you just shoot yourself and save Frederick the trouble?"

"See, Erich," Aldridge continued, ignoring the general,

"no Vipers." He tapped the action reports. "Not a sign of the largest, best-trained, best-led gang. Nor, within the past four hours, of the Lords. Where are they?" He stared at the situation board, mind far from the noise and confusion of the CP.

"Site Y, Erich!" He snapped a finger. "It's Harrison and that renegade MacKenzie. They're after Maximus. Get us a chopper!" he ordered, heading for the door.

"Hold it, Aldridge!" General Wyvern's hand dropped to his .45. "What the hell are you doing? Deserting in the face of the enemy?" He made no effort to lower his voice.

Aldridge turned. "I remind you, General, that I hold extralegal authority. I'm not subject to your orders. As for the enemy, I am rushing to meet him, while you, sir, remain to contend with mere chaos.

"Good day, General."

Wyvern's glare followed him to the elevator.

To date, the invasion and occupation of Japan has cost America almost three million lives. The war with the Axis and then with the Soviet Union, another two million. The wealth of centuries, the lives of two generations squandered, all because Prometheus' s gift went to the Old World instead of to the New.

—Harrison,
ibid., pp. 143-4

The Lords came to Fort Todd by chopper, wounded filling three of the machines.

"That'll have to be it for evacuees," said John as the last of the wounded were carried to the Viper's dispensary.

"I got people there!" Bull stabbed a thick finger at the mainland.

"We need what fuel is left for a mission, Captain," said John.

Bull glanced around. Except for Heather, they were alone, huddled between the choppers. "Ten Tango?" he challenged.

"Bravo Romeo."

"Your show, old man." Gone was the ghetto patois, replaced by the clipped accent of an English public school.

"Good God!" said Heather. "The city's going up in flames, thousands are dying, and you two play spy.

"Who the hell are you?" she demanded.

"This is Captain Geoffrey Malusi, Southern African Peoples Liberation Army," said John. "Captain Malusi, Dr. Heather MacKenzie, University of California at Berkeley."

"Delighted, Dr. MacKenzie."

She ignored the big outstretched hand. "Level," she snapped at John. "The whole truth now. Or I take the Vipers and our choppers and do what I can for the refugees.''

John looked at the burning sky before answering. "Did Ian tell you about the Committee?"

She shook her head.

"They're the people your brother, Malusi and I work for, through the Outfit. Very senior government officials who don't like what's happened to America. It's the Committee who got Harwood to organize the gangers, using officers like Ian. Malusi's here as . . ."

"As a statement of American race relations," said the African. "Your country has no black officers. So the Committee turned to us for help."