Resistance_ The Gathering Storm Part 19

Hannah had been systematically tortured over the last thirty-six hours, and was only barely conscious as the Chimeran attack began. She stood facing the pole, her arms wrapped around it as in a lover's embrace, supported by the eyebolt to which her wrists were tied. Her bare back was covered with red welts where she had been whipped, no matter how much she pleaded for mercy. There had been periods of unconsciousness-albeit brief ones, because each time the merciful darkness claimed her a bucket of cold water had been used to bring her back.

"I'm sorry about this, Hannah," Dentweiler had said as the stinging water ran down her bare legs. "But Daedalus isn't likely to respond to anything other than genuine pain." Hannah told him to f.u.c.k himself, which produced an appreciative chuckle from the agent in charge of whipping her.

She didn't know how long ago that had been-she had lost all sense of time. All she knew was that she was alone now, and there was a roaring-as if some sort of machine was approaching, greeted by light small-arms fire. Two sets of hands roughly cut her free, and there was a horrible smell that made her want to retch.

Moments later, she was aboard a strange aircraft, and felt it lurch off the ground.

Dentweiler witnessed the raid from the safety of an underground bunker, and watched the shuttle take off and bank toward the north. "We're tracking it?"

It was a stupid question, since that was the whole point of the exercise, but the major who was standing next to Dentweiler understood.

"Yes, sir ... The tracking device woven into her hair is working, a Sabre Jet is following the shuttle north, and and we have it on radar." we have it on radar."

"Good," Dentweiler said grimly. "Notify the recovery team. Let's grab that b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

Hannah was terrified and with good reason. The stench inside the shuttle was incredible; she was surrounded by heavily armed Hybrids, and they were even more hideous than they appeared in photographs. And the fact that most, if not all, of them would have been happy to eat her made the situation even worse.

But they didn't, which left her to sit with arms crossed over her bare b.r.e.a.s.t.s, shivering from both fear and the cold air. Her badly lacerated back felt as if it was on fire, and if she survived, Hannah knew she would be forever scarred.

The flight was mercifully short, and if Dentweiler was correct, Jordan would be waiting for her. Hannah felt something like liquid lead trickle into the pit of her stomach as the shuttle put down, machinery whined, and a ramp slid down to touch the ground.

One of the brids growled menacingly, which Hannah took as a signal to deplane, so she rose to make her way down onto the landing pad. The motion opened some of her wounds, and caused her to wince as blood began to flow.

The landing pad was located at the center of an enormous cylinder and was large enough to handle at least three aircraft. The purpose of the surrounding facility wasn't clear to Hannah, but as she looked up she could see circular galleries, free-floating drones, and the half-visible sun, which was split by the structure's curving rim. She "heard" Jordan's "voice" a fraction of a second before his considerable shadow fell over her. Hannah Hannah.

The single word flooded her mind. It was heavily freighted with love, sorrow, and anger. They hurt you They hurt you.

As she continued to look up, an airborne grotesquerie appeared. Jordan, or the thing he had become, was about twenty times larger than she was. Its body consisted of overlapping lobes of translucent flesh, all bisected by spiny ridges that flared away from a tiny human head, to stream back and form a long whiplike tail.

Jordan.

Just below the head and a cl.u.s.ter of glowing yellow eyes were two tentaclelike tool-arms and, farther back, four spiderlike legs dangled, ready to support the monster's weight should it decide to land. The creature was breathtakingly horrible, yet some aspect of the presence that had invaded her head was recognizably her husband, and Hannah reacted accordingly. "Yes," she responded, too numb and too weary to feel the fear she knew she should have been experiencing. "They tortured me in order to get at you." you." At that point she wondered who the real monsters were. At that point she wondered who the real monsters were.

"You're safe now," the disembodied voice a.s.sured her. But rather than feel better, the way she might have, Hannah experienced a sudden stab of terror as Daedalus pumped what she perceived as gibberish into her mind. Was Jordan communicating in Chimeran? To her or someone else? Yes, Hannah believed he was still talking to her, and began to suspect that the man she had married was no longer sane. Not in the human sense anyway, as the thing farted internally produced hydrogen, and began to lose alt.i.tude.

As Daedalus loomed above her, Hannah could see the last vestige of her husband's form staring down at her. It appeared that Jordan's head was slowly being absorbed into his tumorlike body, and she guessed that it would eventually disappear. The skin covering his scabrous skull was drum-tight, and his eye sockets were deep caverns from which he peered out at her. "Jordan?" she inquired. Can you hear me? They're using me as bait ... They followed me here, and they're going to attack you."

At that moment explosions shook the ground and a specially rigged VTOL appeared overhead. Men were visible at the doors, crouched behind a pair of harpoon guns-both loaded with what looked like huge spears.

The VTOL had been equipped with harpoon guns capable of firing specially fabricated darts, each carrying 2,000 cc of a fast-acting sedative. A potion developed by SRPA, tested on captured Chimera, and proven to be effective.

The starboard gunner saw his shot, took it, and sent a huge dart into the airborne creature that was floating below.

Daedalus "screamed" as the harpoon entered his flesh, and the woman below him was driven to her knees as the "sound" echoed through her brain, and the brains of everyone in the vicinity.

The VTOL's pilot was incapacitated, and when he took his hands off the controls to slap them over his ears, the aircraft ran into the curved wall that loomed in front of him.

There was an enormous explosion, followed by a momentary ball of flame, and a series of crashes as chunks of flaming debris fell onto the landing pad below. Some of the smaller pieces. .h.i.t Daedalus, as he struggled to remain conscious, but was ultimately unable to do so.

Daedalus. .h.i.t the landing pad with a loud thump thump not ten feet from the spot where Hannah was kneeling. not ten feet from the spot where Hannah was kneeling.

And as unseen troops battled with one another outside the ma.s.sive cylinder, another another VTOL appeared above. It, too, was armed with harpoon guns, plus a specially designed harness, which was slung below the aircraft's tubby fuselage. VTOL appeared above. It, too, was armed with harpoon guns, plus a specially designed harness, which was slung below the aircraft's tubby fuselage.

Hannah's hair whipped from side to side as she stood and the VTOL lowered itself down to a point twenty feet off the ground. That was when a team of Rangers slid down ropes and immediately went to work pa.s.sing straps beneath Daedalus's form.

Hannah, no longer conscious of her nudity, knew it was time to do something. But what? what? The problem was solved for her when a sergeant appeared at her side, threw a jacket over her shoulders, and pointed at the bosun's chair that dangled below the aircraft. He had to shout in order to make himself heard over the roar of the VTOL's engines. The problem was solved for her when a sergeant appeared at her side, threw a jacket over her shoulders, and pointed at the bosun's chair that dangled below the aircraft. He had to shout in order to make himself heard over the roar of the VTOL's engines.

"All you have to do is sit on it, ma'am ... They'll pull you up."

Hannah wanted to thank him, was determined determined to thank him, but that was when she fainted. to thank him, but that was when she fainted.

There was light. But in order to reach it Daedalus knew he would have to make the long difficult journey up out of the black hole he found himself in. So he willed willed himself upward, and the light grew gradually brighter, until it was all around him and he could open his many eyes. himself upward, and the light grew gradually brighter, until it was all around him and he could open his many eyes.

That was when it came back to him.

Hannah's pain, her warning, and the attack. Which-as he took a long slow look around-Daedalus knew had been conceived to recapture him.

A silly notion really, since it didn't matter where his physical body was located, so long as his mind was free to roam. The meat people didn't know that, of course, because they were captives of their own limited capabilities, and therefore unable to grasp the truth of the matter.

His prison, because that's what it was, consisted of a cube-shaped concrete cell which was approximately one hundred feet to a side. It was featureless except for the cameras that peered at Daedalus from every possible angle, the harness that held him aloft, and the rectangular drain below. A convenience that would allow the food things to hose his excrement away. Except none of the creatures were anywhere to be seen, and Daedalus thought he knew why.

In order to test his hypothesis Daedalus summoned a bolt of mental energy and let it fly. He knew the weapon was sufficient to render most humans unconscious, if not actually kill them. The result was a 900 kV shock, which not only hurt, but told Daedalus what he needed to know. An electrode had been implanted in his body, thereby allowing the meat creatures to punish him whenever they chose to.

Meanwhile, judging from what Daedalus could see, his captors were elsewhere watching him via the cameras. Far enough away that mental attacks would be ineffective. That theory proved to be correct when a voice boomed over speakers mounted inside the cube. "Greetings, Daedalus, and welcome back. My name is Dentweiler. We want to speak with you."

Daedalus offered no response. None that the meat person named Dentweiler could perceive. But his mind was working. Daedalus knew he wanted to exert more control over the millions of Chimeran forms currently converging on North America. Whether that was a personal choice, or something the virus wanted him to accomplish wasn't clear, and really didn't matter.

Because Earth was about to fall-and that was the only thing that mattered.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

OUT OF THE BLUE.

Near Custer, Montana Monday, December 10, 1951 Gray clouds hung like a lid over Montana, as the VTOL swept in from the south with a beat-up four-wheel-drive pickup truck dangling below its belly. There was a lot of open country north of Hardin, so there wasn't anyone around to witness the moment when the aircraft lowered the truck down to a point just a few feet off the snow-covered road, and the crew chief pulled the harness release lever. The pickup bounced once, then came to rest, as a tangle of steel cables fell on top of it.

Freed from its burden the VTOL shot up, scooted sideways, and came back down as the prop wash hit a layer of light powdery snow and sent it swirling in every direction. Then, as the Party Girl Party Girl touched down, a couple of crewmen went out to retrieve their harness and drag it inside the aircraft while Hale carried his duffel bag down the sloping ramp. touched down, a couple of crewmen went out to retrieve their harness and drag it inside the aircraft while Hale carried his duffel bag down the sloping ramp.

Once on the ground he circled around to a point where Purvis could see him. The pilot grinned, and gave Hale a cheerful thumbs-up. Both engines began to spool up as the ramp was retracted and the ship started to vibrate. Moments later it shot straight up again, turned to the south, and sped away.

Hale was on his own.

But unlike the recent trip to Chicago, Hale was well within government-controlled territory. So while he made his way over to the truck, the Sentinel felt none of the usual gut-wrenching fear that went with being dropped into what some of his peers referred to as stink land.

Still, there was some risk involved in his current mission, since Hale had been given the task of infiltrating a Freedom First training camp near Custer. The idea was to find out if Secretary of War Walker and his wife were heading there, since they weren't in Chicago. The Grace administration was still determined to find them, or confirm that the two dissidents were dead, either outcome being quite acceptable.

The pale blue truck had clearly seen hard service, and was equipped with muddy Montana plates. Hale opened the driver's-side door, threw the duffel bag onto the far side of the bench-style seat, and slid in behind the big black steering wheel. The key was in the ignition and the six-cylinder engine started with a throaty roar roar. Which wasn't too surprising since SRPA mechanics had gone over the vehicle less than twenty-four hours before.

The four-wheel-drive differential was already engaged, so all Hale had to do was put the pickup in gear and head north along the two-lane highway. Local ranchers had left tracks in the snow, but judging from the way they were partially filled in, it had been at least six hours since the last vehicle had pa.s.sed.

As Hale looked to his left he could see snow-covered range land, the Absaroka Mountain range beyond, and a strip of cold winter light that divided the ground from the pewter gray sky. The heater was on, but hadn't made much progress warming the cab, since all of its strength was directed up onto the slightly foggy windshield. It was a familiar scene-and one that was reminiscent of Hale's childhood.

The truck was equipped with an AM radio, and it wasn't long before Hale was listening to "Long Gone Lonesome Blues" by Hank Williams and His Drifting Cowboys. The music carried him north past ranch houses set back off the road, barns shingled with snow, and bare-branched trees. He came to a gravel road marked only by a mailbox mounted on a rusty old plow and that-according to the instructions he had been given-was the point where he was supposed to turn right.

So Hale put the wheel over and soon found himself on a well-churned road that ran straight as an arrow along a barbed wire fence, and pointed toward the rise beyond. As the truck sent waves of slush rolling right and left Hale began to feel the hairs on the back of his neck rise.

He often played the part of a hunter, as well as the hunted, and knew the feeling well. Somewhere, perhaps from the pile of snow-frosted boulders two hundred yards to the left, eyes were watching him. And unless he missed his guess the lookout had a radio, and was already in the process of reporting the new arrival.

A discipline Hale understood and was respectful of.

As the truck topped the rise Hale saw a collection of buildings that lay beyond. Some were old and weather-beaten, clearly part of a ranch that had been there for a long time; others had the bright yellow-orange glow of new lumber. They looked like military-style barracks and that made sense, since even though government officials frowned on it, the property had been rededicated as a boot camp for Freedom First volunteers. Once trained, they would be sent north into stink land, or if Montana was overrun, the fighters would remain behind to carry out hit-and-run raids against the Chimera. Missions Hale not only approved of, but thought the government should sponsor, rather than playing defense so much of the time.

A pole-gate made from a freshly barked log blocked the road, so Hale brought the truck to a stop, as two men dressed in deer hunting outfits came out to greet him. Both were armed with Bullseye Mark IIIs rather than deer rifles, which suggested that they had other game in mind. One of the sentries kept his weapon ready as Hale cranked the window down and the other man sauntered over to greet him. He had a craggy outdoorsy sort of face, half of which was invisible behind a thick beard. A wisp of vapor drifted away from his mouth as he spoke. "Hey, bud, this is private property. If you're looking for Custer, then turn around, and head back. The first right will put you back on the highway."

"Thanks," Hale replied neutrally, "but I think I'm in the right place. a.s.suming this is the Freedom First training camp that is. I'm here to volunteer."

The sentry frowned. "You got stink eyes ... Anyone tell you that?"

"Lots of people," Hale replied nonchalantly. "Yellow eyes run in the family. My father had em, and his father before him."

The man looked doubtful, but nodded anyway, and he pointed to a parking lot where about two dozen vehicles were parked. Some were covered with snow, and clearly hadn't been driven for a while, while others were bare.

"Put the truck over there, bud," the sentry said brusquely. "If you're carrying weapons, lock them in the cab. Follow the signs to the admin building. Ask for Mr. Munger. He's in charge of recruiting, and just about everything else around here."

Hale thanked the man, waited for the second sentry to push down on the weighted pole-gate, and drove through. Then, having turned into the parking lot, he chose a spot between a late-model sedan and an old flatbed truck. Hale was carrying nothing more than a .45 semiautomatic pistol, which was consistent with his cover story and small enough to put in the glove box.

He got out of the truck and crossed the lot, then followed a trail of hand-painted signs to what had once been a one-story log home, but now functioned as the "Administration Building." Somewhere off in the distance the steady pop, pop, pop pop, pop, pop of gunfire could be heard, suggesting that some of the trainees were on the rifle range. of gunfire could be heard, suggesting that some of the trainees were on the rifle range.

At least he hoped that was what it was.

Two more men were waiting for Hale inside the admin building. Both wore wool shirts, faded jeans, and sidearms. One was chewing on a wooden match. His eyes were nearly invisible inside a convergence of wrinkles. "Mornin'," he said conversationally. "Please turn to the left and put your weight on the wall. Lester here wants to feel you up." It was an old joke, but still sufficient to elicit an appreciative guffaw from Lester, who ran a pair of rough hands over Hale without finding any weapons.

Having pa.s.sed that inspection, he was ordered to take a seat in what had once been a s.p.a.cious living room. It was still homey, with a dark green rug, worn overstuffed furniture, and a crackling fire in the river-rock fireplace. The walls were covered with a variety of black-and-white photos. All of them were of the same man who could be seen fishing for trout, kneeling next to all manner of dead animals, and sitting atop a succession of fine-looking horses as he looked out over some vista or other. The ranch's owner then? Yes, Hale thought so, as he took a seat.

Hale was scanning old copies of Field & Stream Field & Stream when a man dressed in a tweed coat, corduroy trousers, and highly polished brown cowboy boots came out to meet him. Hale recognized him as the man in the photos. "h.e.l.lo," the man said. "My name is Munger. Homer Munger. And you are?" when a man dressed in a tweed coat, corduroy trousers, and highly polished brown cowboy boots came out to meet him. Hale recognized him as the man in the photos. "h.e.l.lo," the man said. "My name is Munger. Homer Munger. And you are?"

"Nathan Leary," Hale replied. "Glad to meet you."

Munger had a thin, somewhat ascetic countenance. "We'll see about that, Mr. Leary," he said grimly. "Many hear the call-but few are chosen. Please follow me."

Hale followed Munger back into what had been the home's master bedroom but was now furnished as an office, complete with a large wooden desk, lots of bookshelves, and a military-style two-way radio that occupied most of a side table. An extremely detailed map of Montana covered most of one wall. Munger had circled the desk, and appeared ready to sit down, when he spoke. "Atten-hut!"

After years in the Army, then SRPA, Hale very nearly snapped to. It took an act of will to frown and look confused, straighten up, and a.s.sume the sort of sloppy brace that a brand-new recruit might. Munger nodded approvingly and smiled.

"Sorry about that, but the Grace administration doesn't approve of our activities, and they continue to send spies from time to time. Soldiers mostly, men who look the way you do, and almost always pop to attention." With that, he took his place in the chair. "Have a seat, Mr. Leary, and tell me about yourself."

So Hale told Munger about losing his parents, growing up on a ranch in South Dakota, and drifting from job to job. All of which was true as far as it went. The only lie being his failure to mention his time in both the Army and SRPA.

Munger listened intently, interrupting occasionally to ask questions, but allowing Hale to do most of the talking. Finally, as the narrative came to an end, Munger formed a steeple with his fingers.

"So, tell me, Mr. Leary, what makes you think you have anything to offer Freedom First?"

Hale shrugged, but when he spoke his voice carried an undercurrent of menace.

"I grew up outdoors, and I'm a pretty good shot, and I hate the stinks."

"Montana is full of good shots," Munger observed dryly. "My mother can bag a rabbit from a couple hundred feet away with a .22-and she's pushing eighty. What we need are exceptional exceptional shots. More than that, we're looking for men and women who are willing to go where the U.S. Army won't, and hunt stinks until they get themselves killed. Which is what happens to 90 percent of the people who work with us. So, tell me, Mr. Leary, are you shots. More than that, we're looking for men and women who are willing to go where the U.S. Army won't, and hunt stinks until they get themselves killed. Which is what happens to 90 percent of the people who work with us. So, tell me, Mr. Leary, are you that that kind of man? And are you willing to make kind of man? And are you willing to make that that kind of sacrifice?" kind of sacrifice?"

Hale looked directly into Munger's eyes. "Yes," he said unflinchingly. "I believe I am."

Munger was silent for a moment, as if considering what he had heard. Eventually, having reached a decision, he nodded his head. "All right, Mr. Leary, fair enough. We'll put you through the wringer and see if you can take the pain. Then, if you're still here three or four days from now, the real real training will start. Take your gear over to Bunkhouse 1, find an empty bed, and make yourself to home. But get lots of sleep-you're going to need it." training will start. Take your gear over to Bunkhouse 1, find an empty bed, and make yourself to home. But get lots of sleep-you're going to need it."

Bunkhouse I was empty when Hale entered, although half of the sixteen beds had been claimed, judging from the personal possessions on or around them. Were the other recruits being put through what Munger called the wringer? Yes, Hale thought so, as he put his duffel bag on a bare mattress and went about the process of making it up using the bedding piled on the foot of the bed. The result was way too Army, so he pulled the corners out, and let the covers hang civilian-style.

Having spotted the cookhouse on the way over from the truck, Hale ambled back to see if he could get a bite to eat and, more important, to look for the Walkers. Because the whole idea was to ascertain if they were present, and then get out. Which he could do by looking incompetent the next day. Then, if the Walkers were were present, a SAR team would drop in to pick them up. present, a SAR team would drop in to pick them up.

But when Hale entered the cookhouse, there was no sign of the couple. One table was occupied by three men and a woman, all of whom wore the weary look of combat veterans, and none of them offered him a smile. Having checked Hale out and filed him under "newbie," they continued their conversation.

A few other people were present as well, singles mostly-including an older man who was poring over some financial records, a youngster with his right leg in a cast, and a retired bird dog who welcomed Hale with a single thump thump of his tail. of his tail.

There was plenty of coffee, and some of the best cinnamon rolls he had ever tasted, but no sign of the people he was looking for.

The rest of the day pa.s.sed slowly, as afternoon faded into night, and the recruits arrived back at the bunk house. Some were triumphant, and some were dispirited, but all of them were exhausted. Having introduced himself, Hale listened with interest as the other men described a h.e.l.lacious obstacle course, a demanding exercise called hide-and-seek, and expressed the universal hope that something really bad would happen to a man named Anthony Puzo.