The Cresperian Alliance (7 page)

"Now, it is just over one klick straight down the tor to the shoreline. Like I said, it's steep, but it's doable, and the most direct path.
Sea Wolf
will be waiting in the center of the fjord, about two klicks from your shore. There will be seven large rubber dinghies waiting on shore. With any luck, they'll have the new ultra-stealth engines. If not, you'll all have to row like hell. From the time you extract the Crispies until you reach
Sea Wolf
, you have forty-three minutes. And this includes a pad for resistance at the house, and the possibility of rowing. At the end of that time,
Sea Wolf
dives whether you're on board or not. Thirty seconds later, the fireworks commence."

"Why so short?” Nunez asked.

"You're coming out, presumably with three prizes,” Anderson said. “If the British get a call out requesting backup, you have to be out of there before that backup arrives. Besides, like I said, it's downhill."

They all nodded. “What about the sea monster?” Wersky asked.

Hand smiled. “With any luck, it'll work FOR us,” he said. “Anybody living along the loch who might spot
Sea Wolf
will think they've seen Nessie's cousin."

"Oh..."

"Point men on First Unit, and Second Unit Crispy liaisons, will be provided invisibility devices. All personnel will also have the new camouflage suits. Use them. They'll help more than you know,” Anderson said simply.

"So...” Bangler began, tallying in his head. “From the time we jump, until the time we dive, we have..."

"Ninety-one minutes,” Anderson finished for him. “Plus an additional half a minute to get under cover if you don't make it to
Sea Wolf
. Just about an hour and a half.” He paused. “And that's pushing it. If the terrain were easier, or the weather better, we'd cut that in half. Remember, you've got aircraft overhead jamming for you through the whole operation, and part of the time issue is due to their fuel levels. You have to get the hell out in time for them to leave and rendezvous with the refuelers well away from British shores. So we expect you to—and you'll have to—haul serious ass. We're not talking record marathon speed here, but it's definitely a decent marathon pace. So I hope you haven't let up on your training, just because you're here."

Second Unit drew a deep breath. In unison.

"Unit designations will be as follows, with leaders named appropriately on any NECESSARY communications: First Unit—Faith. Second Unit—Hope. Third Unit—Celebration. Does everyone copy?"

A chorus of, “Roger,” went around the room.

"Good. Go get your gear and suit up. You leave at 1100 hours GMT tomorrow. Your jump occurs at precisely 1900 hours GMT."

Nordyke smiled as he emerged from the cellar. “One of our pets has begun to change,” he announced. “Coming along quite nicely, too. Piki is already a furry little hotcake, and when she finishes her transformation, she'll be astounding."

"I take it you're laying claim to her?” Secretary of State for Industry Charles Blessingham smirked.

"Of course,” Nordyke smiled broadly. “After all, if an American commoner can take one to wife, surely the British Prime Minister can have one as a... consort."

"When?"

"Oh, I'll give her a few more hours. According to what I could tell, she isn't fully... developed... there... just yet."

"Ah. Right in time for bed."

"Exactly."

The two men chuckled, glancing at their watches.

Having already put in a good physical workout, Bangler spent the rest of the day in his quarters, practicing with his camo suit and his invisibility device, which had been designed as a small torc-like neck collar. All he had to do was think the word “invisible,” and due to the autonomic nervous system's response of forming the word in his mouth without annunciating it, the device read the muscle motions and activated.
Sub-vocalization, they called it,
he thought. He stared into the shaving mirror in the tiny head, and thought,
Invisible.
Instantly his mirror image vanished.
Appear.
His image was back. He grinned.
I could play with this all day. Guess I better not wear the gizmo down though, before I really need it.

He moved into the main room of his quarters and sat down in the chair to study the plans once more.

Shortly after dusk, Nordyke descended the stairs to the basement. The half dozen other high ranking officials, including the Chief of Staff, noticed the swelling bulge in his trousers.

Some time later the sound of high pitched, alien shrieks floated up the stairwell. This continued for some minutes, then a loud male roar—human—echoed upward. The others smirked, until they heard it change into a scream of rage and agony. Nordyke's voice erupted into cursing, and more high frequency screams of pain floated upward, as a pounding and crashing clatter broke out below. Only when the alien screams ceased could Nordyke's footsteps be heard ascending.

The others stared at him in dismay as he appeared at the top of the stairwell, face flushed and contorted in pain, clothing in disarray.

"Bloody alien bitch,” he cursed, and turned toward his bedroom without another word.

At precisely 1100 hours the next day, three nondescript C-130 cargo planes took off from the same unadorned airfield Bangler had flown into, days before. One White Horse team was aboard each plane, fully geared up. Refueling aircraft were scheduled to rendezvous with them mid-flight; meanwhile in Teams Faith and Hope, practice was going on with the invisibility devices.

"Okay, Bang, it's your turn to be ‘it,'” Sira declared.

Bang subvocalized
Visible,
and appeared, whipping the blindfold off his eyes.

The interior of the cabin appeared completely empty. He stopped, paying close attention to all his senses: eyes, ears, and nose most of all. Holding up his hands, he tried to notice any stray air currents on his fingertips.

A slight scuffing noise made him spin to his left, just in time to see two small depressions in the artificial turf mat which lined part of the deck. A quick leap, and he groped what appeared to be empty air, coming up with something soft and fleshy in his hand.

"Eep!” Nunez’ voice said, directly in front of him, and Bang let go hastily.

"Um, uh, oh shit, sorry, sergeant,” Bangler stuttered, flushing. “I uh, I meant to grab your arm, not, um, your..."

Nunez appeared and took off her blindfold, giggling. “It's okay, Bang,” she told him. “I knew it was a possibility from the time the training was explained. Gotta admit, though, I never expected to get my breast groped by a fellow Marine without calling him up on charges.” She giggled again, and the flush subsided from Bangler's face as he grinned sheepishly.

Sira's laugh tinkled out. “I think they're ready for formation work, John,” she told her mate.

"I agree,” Tomlinson's voice replied. “Blindfolds off, everyone."

A dozen bandanas fell to the deck from unseen hands.

"All right, find me and fall in. Stealth mode."

"Above the sound of the engines?” someone asked; Bangler didn't recognize the voice.

"You betcha, cowboy,” Tomlinson replied. “Let's go. Right now."

Five minutes later a line of barely discernible footprints slunk across the artificial turf in single file, making virtually no noise. “You've got it,” Sira's voice noted in immense satisfaction. “This is a very good team you have, John."

"We pick the best, Sira, honey,” Tomlinson smiled, becoming visible again. “And I picked the cream of the crop for this team. I—"

Suddenly the speaker from the cockpit blared. “All crew, this is the flight deck. Sit down and strap in. We have a situation."

From his seat by one of the windows, Bangler could look out and see the C-130 containing Faith Unit, but couldn't see the one holding Celebration. “Oh no. Damn it. Down there,” Nunez, beside him, noted grimly, pointing down.

"Shit,” Bangler whispered as the third C-130 containing their diversion team ditched in the Atlantic Ocean.

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"Pilot reports covert mayday sent and received, Sarge,” the jump leader, whose name Bangler vaguely remembered was Greene, reported as she returned from the flight deck. “Navy destroyer
USS Hiawatha
will pick ‘em up. Everything else is ‘crunchy green.’”

"Good. Okay, we get to do this without diversion, then,” Tomlinson declared to his team. “'Crunchy green’ is the code name Intel picked. It indicates that all other teams are on schedule and on target. So if we do our jobs, guys, the U. S. of A. will have all of the Crispies."

"Which is probably where they will be safest, at this point,” Sira interjected. “Disappointing, but there it is."

"So we continue with the mission?” Wersky asked.

"Absolutely,” Tomlinson averred. “We arrive at dusk right on schedule."

The rest of the flight proceeded according to plan. The two cargo craft were met by refuelers just outside of Great Britain's radar range, then ascended to maximum altitude in preparation for the jump.

Hope Unit activated their invisibility devices and active camo suits, then prepared for the jump. “In three... two... one... go! Go! Go!” the jump leader ordered in cadence.

Not even the sounds of shuffling feet could be heard above the roar of the aircraft engines and the wind through the door of the aircraft. The jump leader counted to herself as she called jump cadence, and when she'd reached the total number of personnel in the unit, she added, “Anybody left?"

When she got no answer, she nodded to herself, then looked down.

Dim, active-camouflaged parachutes began to bloom below her. She counted, came up with the right number, and closed the door.

"Thumper to Eagle,” she radioed forward, “Hope floats."

"Roger that, Thumper,” came the response. “The order to replace the jelly with jam has already gone through."

Nearly invisible parachutes drifted slowly downward through the deepening twilight, some with barely discernible passengers, some with no apparent cargo whatsoever. They all landed in an oat field, whereupon the parachutes vanished mysteriously, and an intricate crop circle pattern began to form, seemingly from nowhere.

Precisely one minute later, a soft voice called, “GO!” and a single stem, as of some strange flower image, drove toward the edge of the grain field—which also just happened to be the direction of the base of the tor at the head of the loch.

At the foot of the tor, the covert group took a moment and surveyed this Scottish mountain they were expected to climb, along with its environs.

Somewhere in the heights of the tor, an osprey called its mate home; toward the water, noisy gannets flocked toward their roosting place on a stack just offshore to the north. Far down the loch, the barks of a colony of grey seals echoed. No motion was detectable on the mountainside.

"That's what we gotta climb in twenty minutes?” Jan Wersky murmured in disbelief, staring at the tor.

"Yep,” John Tomlinson confirmed. “Let's get going, guys and gals. We got a timetable, here. And we definitely don't wanna be around when that timetable's up."

As one, the two units shrugged and started up.

This side of the tor was indeed less steep than the other sides, but that wasn't saying much. Large rock outcrops and thick brush covered most of the slope, and the fastest way of getting up the side turned out not to be running, but hauling oneself, hand by hand, from rock to bush to stunted tree.

In a couple of areas the gradient eased and they regained lost time by sprinting along some animal trails. Bang noticed deer tracks in muddy areas along the trails, and decided they were following in the footsteps of a native red deer population. He privately hoped the deer would be near the tor's base in about an hour and fifteen minutes.

They topped the windy tor under cover of brush and by dim twilight, as if their invisibility devices and active camo suits weren't enough. At that time of day, the wind was borne seaward, so there was little chance of anyone in or around the house hearing them, either. Heavy overcast moving in also gave the White Horse team an advantage; darkness was advancing even more rapidly than usual, with sharp contrast between light and shade already nonexistent.

The house sat quietly in the center of the small clearing, lights in a few of the windows, both downstairs and upstairs. The view was magnificent, both seaward and inland, but they had little time to note it, save for the fact that a distant curtain of rain was moving in from off the North Sea. Bangler started forward.

"Stop,” Sira commanded, her low voice urgent. “Trip wire.” With her active camo blending into the surroundings, she appeared to the others like a chameleon; no one farther off than her own team mates could have detected her. “I can show you.” She pointed into a scrubby clump of heather. “Right here."

"Hotshot, take it out,” McAllister, their unconventional warfare unit commander, ordered.

Their bomb and trap expert, Sergeant Shane “Hotshot” Taylor, eased in front of Bangler and studied the area, spotting the device immediately. Within three minutes he'd disarmed it. “There,” he said in some relief, his Southern accent even thicker than usual from the release of tension. “But while we're about it, ma'am,” he addressed Sira, “anything else around here I'm gonna need to take care of?"

"Let me see,” Sira murmured. She let her eyes defocus, and concentrated on their environs. “There is a guard in the rear of the house; infrared detectors under the eaves; and a motion sensor at each corner. Several more trip wires in the landscaping, but I can lead you around those. Stay within the cover of the foliage for a moment."

They all hunched down in the bracken and heather while Sira adjusted something on her hand. Then she pointed. Several times.

Slight puffs of smoke emerged from the eaves of the house, and one corner sparked once, as her disintegrator beam took out the detectors there.

"There,” Sira said in satisfaction. “All of the sensors under the eaves are now gone. Sergeant McAllister, prepare to follow my instructions."

"Yes, ma'am."

Sira vanished again.