Stephen Berry - Final Assault

"Have you looked under your bunk?" said K'Raoda.

"I've looked everywhere." John sank lower in the chair, the duraplast glass on his belly. "I've used internal security scan-we're all present and accounted for save one."

"Scan blocker of some sort," said Zahava.

"I don't think so," said John.

"He doesn't think so," said Zahava, setting her glass on the bunk.

"I ran a back check-full scan pattern. Got ship's computers to correlate all of Guan-Sharick's appearances with any anomalies of any sort."

"And?" asked K'Raoda, intrigued.

"There's a weird energy pulse on something called the Tau frequency every time Guan-Sharick is seen."

"Computer said that?" K'Raoda sat up. "It said Tau frequency?"

"That's why I've called you in, my dear commander K'Raoda. What the hell's a Tau frequency?"

K'Raoda examined his empty glass. "The Tau frequency, my dear Mr. Harrison, is a pre-Fall myth, evidently brought here from the AI universe by our forebears. It supposedly sweeps aside time and space-no, more -it is time and space, it's the lifeblood of all universes, all realities."

"You're babbling," said Zahava. "Can't you be more precise?"

K'Raoda nodded. "If there is a Tau frequency," he said after a moment, "and Guan-Sharick's tapped it, then he or she can be anything, anywhere. And powerful-very powerful." He shook his head as he reached for the bottle. "Gods. The Tau frequency."

"Amazing they haven't blown themselves up," said K'Raoda, turning from the tacscan. "Primitive guidance systems, crude triggering devices-the failsafes are a bad joke."

"Is there enough?" said R'Gal, turning to Guan-Sharick.

The transmute stared at the small screen for a moment, then turned from K'Raoda's console. "Yes."

"Just how do we get them?" asked John. "Drop our scan shield, let them pick us up on radar, threaten them?"

"Absurd," said R'Gal. "They'd expend those needed missiles against us piecemeal."

"I suggest we have John ask for them," said Guan-Sharick.

"And who do I ask?" said the Terran. "The tooth fairy?"

"All units are in position, Admiral," said Colonel Ritter.

Hochmeister turned the collar of his sheepskin coat against the glacial wind sweeping down the mountain valley, then lifted the big 12x50 binoculars. Across the valley, just below the top of the opposite ridgeline, he could see where a rough shaft had been sunk perpendicular to the slope. Silhouetted against the rising moon, two lines of dark figures moved through the soft snow toward the entrance.

"The American president's at Aspen this weekend," said Colonel Ritter, raising his own binoculars.

Substitute a two-handed sword for the machine pistol slung over his shoulder and armor for the black uniform, and Ritter'd be the perfect Teutonic Knight, thought Hochmeister, glancing at the colonel.

"He'll have a memorable evening if they set off any of their little treasures," said Hochmeister, looking back at the hill and the commandos. The two files were now at the mine entrance, weapons raised, waiting.

"And we'll be just a memory," said Ritter, lowering his binoculars.

"Ready when you are, Admiral," he added.

Hochmeister said nothing, remembering another cold night, not so long ago-a night filled with arc flares, machine gun and blaster fire, the screams of the dying, a world hanging in the balance.

"The point squads are waiting, Admiral," said Ritter. A handset had replaced the binoculars in his hand.

Hochmeister was aware of the colonel's stare. "Not yet, Ritter." He slipped his field glasses back into their case. "First, a talk between old comrades."

"Two battalions," said Hargrove, face a greenish tint from the perimeter scope. For an installation its size, the hole had a very sophisticated combat information center, a circular little room under the main level, its five consoles now manned by casually dressed young men with suspiciously short hair.

"Can you hold them?" asked MacKenzie, bending forward to look at the perimeter scope filled with slowly moving multicolored triangles, squares, circles with little numbers, all advancing along the dark green outline of the Hill, toward the Hole.

"Go do whatever you can in ten minutes, lady," said Hargrove, his eyes meeting Heather's as the physicist stepped away from the scope. "I've got fifty-two men against eight hundred of the gray admiral's Praetorians." He jerked his head toward the perimeter scope.

"Schwarzekommando?" said Heather. "You're sure?"

Hargrove nodded. "We should be honored, ma'am-best they've got: saved Patton's ass from the MDV at Second Warsaw, stood off the Siege of Cape Town." Taking a surprised Heather by the arm, the officer steered her through the door and out into the access stairs. "Now, if you'll excuse me, Professor, we've got some dying to do."

The upper level was deserted, the alarm having sent the staff scurrying down to the level 7 shelter. Not that it would do them much good, thought Heather, walking quickly back to her cubicle and the drawer with its terminal, awaiting the destruct sequence she'd long ago memorized.

As Heather stepped into the cubicle, Hochmeister looked up at her, hands folded in front of him. "Captain," he said with an almost imperceptible nod. "Or do they call you Professor here?"

She whirled, hand drawing the big. 357 Magnum from the holster belted at her waist.

"I'm alone," said Hochmeister. "For the moment-unless my impatient colonel has too much of your night air." Opening the bottom right drawer, he took out the bottle of rye and two fairly clean glasses. "Care for some of your whiskey?"

She shook her head, watching him, transfixed. "How did you get in here?"

"Through your top-secret bolt hole."

MacKenzie took out her handset. "Hargrove, they know about the bolt hole," she said.

"How…" came the static-filled reply. "Don't argue-blow it!" "Yes, ma'am."

A second later the cavern shook to the rumble of preset charges bringing down a tunnel.

"Really, you should." The admiral had filled both shot glasses and slid one across the desk. "It may be the last drink for both of us, MacKenzie."

Surprising herself, she picked up the glass, keeping the revolver in her right hand.

"Cheers," said Hochmeister.

The two empty glasses clinked down on the table. "I hate liars, MacKenzie," said Hochmeister, pouring a second round.

"I hate tyrants," she said, not touching the glass.

He smiled sadly. "Nothing so grand-just the last proconsul." He glanced at his watch. "I'm afraid Colonel Ritter and his men will be coming soon-the SK take no prisoners, you know."

"Very humane," she said. "What do you want?"

"You, Dr. MacKenzie." Hochmeister stood. "I want that keen brain, that unwavering courage, that indomitable spirit.

"Are you proposing, Admiral Hochmeister?" she said wryly.

"Full professorship-America, Germany, France or Britain. Occasional sabbaticals for research at Peenemunde and detached duty to the Abwehr."

Her grip tightened on the Magnum. "Go to hell."

He spread his hands. "MacKenzie, you can never succeed against us. We're too entrenched, our agents are everywhere, your government's a perverted joke. You're one of the last virulent guardians of a failed dream, an empty culture, a cancer-ridden state. America's dead, MacKenzie. With us, you'd make a difference-a difference for this tired, blood-soaked world. Here you're just grist for the mill."

Hochmeister watched dispassionately as, pale-faced, lips compressed, MacKenzie slowly raised the Magnum, took careful aim at his chest and squeezed the trigger.

The alert klaxon and the pistol report sounded together, just as the lights failed.

R'gal turned from the screen. "Those bombs go up, we're here for a long time." Behind him, Devastator's main bridge screen showed an aerial view of the Hill. Hargrove had sent a suicide squad up through a hidey-hole-they were busily raining hand grenades and machine-pistol fire down on the SK sapper unit at the main entrance. Orange tracer rounds snapped back, raking the hilltop, followed by a dual stream of rockets exploding among the defenders as a Fokker-Cobra chopper came in low and fast.