Worlds in Chaos (121 page)

Clara Norburn had told Major Gerofsky that Cade possessed an infectious charisma that turned people who started out as opponents into willing collaborators. That was how he had prospered in his unique business of trading commercial and political contacts. The South American TV documentary that had helped propel the Federation to secession had been the work of a mix of Terrans and Hyadeans that he, more than anyone, had brought together. And then Gerofsky had experienced it himself in the space of a few hours, when he found himself reversing his initial position to first endorse, and then join, the enterprise they were committed to now. Admittedly, Cade had failed to win any converts among the high command he had met in Beijing, but the fact that he had even gotten a hearing was in itself an accomplishment not to be belittled.

After hearing Hudro voicing his doubts, Gerofsky was even more mindful now of Cade’s warning that a head-on clash with the aliens could only lead to disaster. If the news they were getting of the Federation’s offensive being hurled back all the way down the southern Mississippi front was correct—never mind what was happening farther north between St. Louis and Indianapolis—the war was not going to be won in a rapid pincers movement through Pittsburgh and up the east side of the Appalachians as had been intended. But the mood permeating from Sacramento was still to defy and fight, not look for ways of winding down. What disturbed Gerofsky most after hearing Hudro’s pronouncement on mobility was the speed with which counter-thrusts seemed to have materialized out of nowhere, already this side of the river—in less than a day! It went against all the accepted norms and doctrines of what should have been possible. Conceivably for that very reason, the commanders were failing to grasp the implications and still preparing for defense against the kind of war they knew.

They drove past pits and emplacements being prepared among the low hills overlooking the plains extending away toward Stuttgart and the Mississippi valley: 125 mm howitzer batteries; 155 mm self-propelled howitzers being dug in hull-down; medium-range ground-to-ground missile launchers; mobile AA missile carriers and multibarrel antiaircraft cannon. Heavy-lift helicopters
whup-whupp
ed
their way overhead, hauling dangling artillery pieces and crates of missiles to forward positions. Finally, the carrier bearing him and the others came to a false crest ahead of a ridge line, behind which the battery they were delivering to had been situated. The view over the lowlands ahead showed tanks spreading out and deploying behind cover; weapons emplaced along a creek bed; a command post undergoing camouflage and concealment. . . . All according to the book. But this was over a hundred miles from the Mississippi. If they were already facing a credible threat as far advanced as this, then what they were facing was from a totally different book.

Nyarl kept busy throughout, capturing anything that caught his interest. Since there was no quality connection back to the plane, he was storing the clips offline for delivery later. Some of the troops they passed reacted sourly to seeing a Hyadean, once or twice with open hostility, and Gerofsky had to defend Nyarl’s presence repeatedly. He himself was having to work at accepting Marie—until so recently one of the enemy in the form of CounterAction. He studied her as she sat perched on one of the carrier’s box sides, cradling her weapon, clearly awed by the extreme to which those efforts had finally contributed, yet also deeply apprehensive. She saw him from the corner of her eye and turned her head.

“It feels strange, us being on the same side.” Gerofsky looked around. “A bit overwhelmed? Not what you expected?”

“We wanted to awaken the people,” Marie answered. “Not all-out war. Somehow it all went out of control. Do you understand it?”

“I’m not sure anyone understands it. These things take on lives of their own.”

The whoosh came of an outgoing missile launching distantly, followed by another. Marie gazed after them as they cleared the skyline. “And now we’re trying to do the same thing again, only this time on Chryse.”

“Is it possible to make it work there, when it didn’t seem to here, do you think?” Gerofsky asked.

“Nyarl thinks so. He says minds work differently on Chryse.”

Gerofsky stared across at him on the far side, panning the camera at a field radar being set up. “Let’s hope he’s right. It might be the only chance we’ve got.”

As a precaution, Powell had moved the C22-E out to a corner of the field, away from the airport buildings and the crush of aircraft loading or maneuvering into a takeoff line to evacuate the field. That was probably what saved it when the attack came in.

Cade was in the cabin, keeping an open radio channel to Hudro and Davis in the tower; Powell was standing outside, taking in the general scene. Suddenly a shriek of warning sirens went up, and within moments, all over the airfield amid shouted orders and calls to stations, figures were jumping into slit trenches, running for cover, manning antiaircraft weapons. Short-range ground-to-air missiles were already flaming away all around like birds lifting in response to a spreading alarm call. Cade grabbed the helmet he had been given and tumbled out of the plane to join Powell in the ditch by the perimeter taxiway. The thudding of gunfire, felt as continuous jolting to the ears rather than heard, was already coming from the north. Then the harsher barking of fast-firing, smaller-caliber weapons joined in, getting nearer.

They came in low over the hilltops with a roar rising to a scream, a loose formation of maybe ten or twelve. Cade didn’t know the type—they were just glimpses of bodies and wings outlined against the sky. One disintegrated as it cleared the ridge and fell on the slopes below in a cascade of flame. The lead group blanketed the ground defenses with rockets and fragmentation cluster. The rest went down into strafing runs to pour cannon fire and scatter low-yield bomblets across the field. One aircraft failed to lift with the others, hitting the ground and exploding somewhere beyond the far end of the field. Cade pushed himself up slowly from the ground, dazed by the suddenness and the violence of it. Slowly, he registered planes sagging and broken amid the smoke; figures picking themselves up, staggering among the wreckage, pulling others out; the cacophony impressing itself from all sides as his numbed ears recovered, of exploding ammunition, screams for help, voices shouting. Beside him, Powell straightened up, looking about. A transport on the main runway, one of its wings torn at the root and draped back over the fuselage, erupted into a fireball. Smoke billowed outward over the ground in a churning curtain, and then several figures ran out covered in blazing fuel. Somebody from a rescue tender doused them with foam while others grabbed them and tried to roll them on the ground. Another was trying to unfold a tarp. Cade could only stare, numbed by the horror of it. Then the sharp
crack
of something detonating overhead made him look up. It was like a Fourth of July star burst, except that the objects being ejected from the center were not incendiary submunitions but self-powered devices like birds that seemed to be dispersing. Another exploded above the far end of the field. Then another, off to one side. Still bewildered, Cade turned his head toward Powell. “What the hell are those?”

Powell shook his head. “It beats me. All I know is, I’ve never heard of anything like ’em before.”

The side of the tower facing the field had been raked by cannon fire. In what was left of the day room on the ground floor, Hudro groped his way through the smoke and dust, lifting aside a steel locker that had been thrown at an angle against the wall. A body that had been pinned behind it slid down into a heap. Somebody was groaning and calling for aid in the direction of the stairs. A corpsman in a helmet bearing a red cross appeared from outside and went on through. Hudro came to the daylight but kept back within the frame of the doorway while he took in the situation. Sergeant Davis, his face bloody and covered in dust, stumbled up beside him.

Flocks of what looked like gliding, stubby-winged birds were spiraling down to settle all over the airfield. A plane that seemed to have escaped serious damage lurched its way out from behind a transport that was starting to burn and turned toward the main runway. A swarm of maybe a dozen small shapes, some rising from the surrounding ground, others not yet landed, converged upon it like dogs around a bear, each exploding on contact to leave the aircraft crippled and immobile. Two more homed on a staff car racing along the nearby verge, causing it to swerve and overturn. One came down off a hangar roof to explode among a group of figures running toward the fire shed. Another rose up from the sand to pursue a soldier who jumped up from a foxhole, getting close enough before detonating to blow off his upper body.

“What in the name of Christ are they?” Davis asked fearfully.

Hudro scanned the surrounding. Similar things were happening in every direction as panic took over. The sounds of intensifying battle were coming distantly but insistently from the east. “Smart drones,” he replied. “Is way to deny use of base but not destroy. Means they plan to take over soon. Next attack will be with fragmentation—like rain of razors.”

Davis gulped. “You mean we’re supposed to just sit here, waiting to get blended?”

“Terrans don’t have defenses.”

“So what are we supposed to do?”

“Must first stop fear and movement. Need radio.” Hudro led the way back inside, where they picked up a dazed tower crew operator in a blood-streaked shirt. “Find working radio,” Hudro told him. “Local channels, all commanders you can talk with outside. Tell nobody to move. Stay still, is okay. Tell them pass message on.”

A Marine private who had come down from the upper level overheard. “There was a Hummer out back. Its radio should be okay. It may have a loud hailer too.” He thought about it. “Would that be safe?”

“Is good,” Hudro said. “Drones don’t use sound sensor. We go see.”

While the tower officer started checking the equipment, Hudro, Davis, and the Marine made their way through to the rear of the building and looked out. A Hummer command car was parked along with several other vehicles, all looking unscathed. Hudro raised a warning hand as they were about to emerge. “Now must move very slow. Good chances. You see.” They approached the Hummer like slow-motion mimes. Hudro indicated the driver’s seat to Davis. “I never learn to drive Terran machines. Is yours.”

Davis looked nervous. “With those things everywhere?”

“Must drive very careful. Move no more than one foot in two seconds. Can do, yes?”

They climbed in. Davis started the motor, and with his knuckles white on the wheel, negotiated the Hummer foot by foot around the building until they could see out over the field again, then stopped. The Marine located the loud hailer and began addressing the general area. “HEAR THIS. HEAR THIS. GENERAL ALERT. BE AWARE OF MOTION DETECTION. MAKE NO RAPID MOVEMENT. REPEAT, DO NOT MAKE RAPID MOVEMENTS. . . .”

Hudro, meanwhile, toyed with the vehicle’s radio and raised the operator they had left inside the tower. “We’ve managed to contact some of the units out there,” the operator reported. “Still trying more.” Sure enough, the panic seemed to be abating, giving way to a strained, nervous paralysis spreading across the field.

“Maybe there is way to get out,” Hudro said finally.

“What?” Davis asked.

Hudro squinted, peering through the intervening smoke in the direction of a large, four-turbofan freighter that he had spotted earlier, stopped at the far end of the runway. It had been about to turn for its takeoff run when the attack came in. Its tail was in tatters, but it seemed otherwise intact. “What kind of aircraft is this?” he asked Davis.

“Which?”

Hudro pointed. “Far away distance. Other end of runway. Tail in pieces.”

“Looks like a C-17.”

Hudro talked to the operator in the tower. “This airfield. It has electronics for take-off blind, yes?’

“Yes sir. The Marines set up mobile ILS system that would do that. Don’t know if it’s still functioning, though.”

“So we have to risk. Is C-17 plane at other end runway. Can speak with captain?”

“Let me try.” The operator did, and got a connection.

“Tell him this,” Hudro instructed. “Turn plane very, very slow so that engine fans blow down along field, yes. Contact officer who commands unit that end. Must get together tires, spare wheels from trucks . . . whatever. Cover with gasoline and set fire. C-17 must blow across field. Thick rubber smoke confuses drone sensors. Is even better if they add magnesium flare or white phosphorus from smoke rounds. Set plenty fire to grass.”

“You think it could really work?” Davis asked dubiously.

“You want wait for blender instead?”

While the instructions were being relayed to the far end of the field, Hudro told Davis to begin heading back to where the C22-E was parked. The Marine private opted to stay with them. They inched their way agonizingly toward the edge of the field, Hudro remaining outwardly impassive, the Marine white-faced and rigid. Davis had to stop three times to calm his nerves. They had about fifty yards to go, when a desperate voice called out to them. Davis stopped. They looked around. “There,” the Marine said, pointing.

It was Koyne, lying in the grass behind a mound of sand where he had taken cover—presumably on his way back from the workshops, where he had gone to check for some parts. “Are you hurt?” Davis called over. Koyne shook his head in a short, jerky motion, then inclined it to indicate a spot to the side of him. A drone was lying there, just a yard or two away. It was yellow with black markings, about the size of a crow, but at close range looking more like a malevolent giant insect.

“Oh shit. . . .” Davis hissed.

“Is okay if you move slow,” Hudro called over, striving to keep his voice calm. “But careful.” In a lowered tone he muttered to the other two, “More close, gets riskier.”

But Koyne just shook his head again. “I can’t.” Clearly, he was petrified. He must have been pinned there for over thirty minutes.

Hudro looked around. There was a fire extinguisher behind the seat on the Hummer’s passenger side. “Give that,” he said to the Marine, motioning with his head. The Marine moved warily, as if he were picking up Koyne’s terror, unclamped the extinguisher and passed it forward. Hudro took it, removed the pin, and clasped the activating lever in readiness. Then, moving in carefully controlled slow motion, he straightened up from the passenger seat to place one foot outside the vehicle, following it slowly with the other.