David Weber - Bolo!

“I’m not convinced Central isn’t making a mistake, sir,” he heard himself say easily, “but I’m only a captain. I assume you’d like to at least look the depot over-make a preliminary inspection and check the logs?”

“Certainly.” Sanders sounded far more relieved than he should have, and Merrit nodded.

“If you’ll follow me, then?” he invited, and led the way into the bunker.

I have reached Hill 0709-A. I approach from the southeast, keeping its crest between myself and the possible positions I have computed for Colonel Gonzalez’ fourth detachment. Soil conditions are poor after the last week’s heavy rains, but I have allowed for the soft going in my earlier calculations of transit time to this position, and I direct additional power to my drive systems as I ascend the rear face of the hill.

I slow as I reach the top, extending only my forward sensor array above the summit. I search patiently for 2.006 seconds before I detect the power plant emissions I seek. A burst of power to my tracks sends me up onto the hilltop, broadside to the emissions signatures. My fire control radar goes active, confirming their locations, and the laser-tag simulator units built into my Hellbores pulse. The receptors aboard the Wolverines detect the pulses, and all four vehicles slow to a halt in recognition of their simulated destruction. Three point zero-zero-six-two seconds after reaching the hill’s crest, I am in motion to the southwest at 50.3 kph to intercept the next Aggressor unit.

“So much for Suarez’ company,” Gonzalez sighed as her com receipted the raucous tone that simulated the blast of radiation from ruptured power plants.

“Yeah. It’ll be coming after us next,” her gunner grunted.

“Join the Army and see the stars!” someone else sang out, and the entire crew laughed.

“… and this is the command center,” Merrit said, ushering Sanders, Atwell, and Deng through the hatch. “As you can see, it’s very well equipped for an installation of its age.”

“Yes. Yes, it is.” Sanders mopped his forehead with a handkerchief despite the air conditioning and glanced over his shoulder at Atwell. The major was looking at his chrono again, and the colonel cleared his throat. “Well, I’m sure this has been very interesting, Captain Merrit, and I look forward to a more complete tour of the facility-including the Bolo-but I really think we should go ahead and shut it down now.”

“Shut it down, sir?” Merrit widened his eyes in feigned surprise.

“That is why we came, Captain,” Atwell put in in a grating voice.

“Well, certainly,” Merrit said easily, “but I can’t shut it down immediately. It’s not here.”

“What?” Sanders gaped at him, and Merrit shrugged.

“I’m sorry, sir. I thought I mentioned it. The Bolo’s carrying out an autonomous field exercise just now. It’s not scheduled to return for another-” he glanced at the wall chronometer “-six and a half hours. Of course, I’ll be glad to shut it down then, but-”

“Shut it down now, Captain!” Atwell’s voice was no longer harsh; it held the clang of duralloy, and his hand settled on the butt of his needler. Merrit made himself appear oblivious of the gesture and turned towards the console with a shrug.

“Are you sure you really want to shut it down in place, Colonel Sanders?” he asked as he sank into the command chair. Turning his back on Atwell was the hardest thing he’d ever done, but somehow he kept his voice from betraying his tension, and his hand fell to the chair’s armrest keypad.

“I mean, I assume you’ll want to burn the Battle Center, if this is a permanent shutdown,” he went on, fingers moving by feel alone as they flew over the keypad, covered by his body, while he prayed no one would notice the row of telltales blinking from amber stand-by to green readiness on the maintenance console in the command center’s corner. “That’d mean someone would have to hike out to its present location in the bush. And if we’re going to salvage the station, don’t you want to salvage the Bolo, too? Once its Battle Center goes, getting it back here for reclamation is going to be a real problem, and-”

“Stand up, Merrit!” Atwell barked. “Get both hands up here where I can see them!”

Merrit froze, cursing the man’s alertness. Another fifteen seconds-just fifteen more seconds. That was all he’d needed. But he hadn’t gotten them. He drew a deep breath and touched one more button, then rose, holding his hands carefully away from his body. He turned, and his blood was ice as he saw what he’d known he would. Atwell and Deng each held a needler, and both of them were aimed squarely at him.

“Colonel?” he looked at Sanders, making himself sound as confused as he could, but his attention wasn’t really on the colonel. It wasn’t even on the two men with guns. It was watching a display behind Deng as light patterns shifted across its surface in response to his last input. He hadn’t had time to reconfigure the armrest keypad, so he’d had to work through the maintenance computers to reach the one he needed. His commands were still filtering their way through the cumbersome interface, and even after they were all in place, they might not do him any good at all. Atwell had stopped him before he could do more than enable the system he needed on automatic, and if Atwell and Deng were real Brigade officers rather than ringers “Just… just shut the Bolo down, Captain,” Sanders whispered, keeping his own eyes resolutely turned away from the guns.

“But why, sir?” Merrit asked plaintively.

“Because we frigging well told you to!” Atwell barked. “Now do it!”

“I don’t think I can. Not without checking with Central.”

“Captain Merrit,” Sanders said in that same strained, whispery voice, “I advise you to do exactly what Major Atwell says. I’m aware this installation’s hardware is considerably out of date. Admittedly, it would take me some time to familiarize myself with it sufficiently to shut down the Bolo without you, but I can do it. We both know I can, and I have the command authentication codes from Central.”

“If you extracted the codes from Central, then you don’t have the right ones, sir,” Merrit said softly. Sanders jerked, eyes widening, and Atwell snarled. Merrit’s belly tensed as the gunman started to raise his weapon, but Sanders waved a frantic hand.

“Wait! Wait!” he cried, and his shrill tone stopped Atwell just short of firing. “What do you mean, I don’t have the right codes?” he demanded.

“I changed them.”

“You can’t have! That’s against regs!” Sanders protested, and Merrit laughed.

“Colonel Sanders, you have no idea how many regs I’ve broken in the last six months! If you expect ‘Leonidas’ to get you into Nike’s system, then be my guest and try it.”

“Damn you!” Atwell hissed. The gunman looked at his chrono yet again, and his eyes were ugly when he raised them to Merrit once more. “You’re lying. You’re just trying to make us think we need you!”

“I could be, but I’m not,” Merrit replied, the corner of his eye still watching the display behind Deng. Come on, baby! Come on, please! he whispered to it, and smiled at Atwell. “Ask Colonel Sanders. Psych Ops had its doubts about me before Central sent me out here. Well,” he shrugged, “looks like Psych Ops may have had a point.”

Atwell spat something foul, but Sanders shook his head suddenly.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “You may have changed the codes from the ones on file at Central, but only a lunatic would change them without leaving a record somewhere.” Merrit turned his head to look at the colonel, and Sanders rubbed his hands nervously together. “Yes, there has to be a record somewhere,” he muttered to himself. “Somewhere… somewhere…”