Stephen Berry - The Battle for Terra Two

"As a statement of American race relations," said the African. "Your country has no black officers. So the Committee turned to us for help."

"In exchange for what?"

"In exchange for help, or at least neutrality, in our war against the Boers and their German allies."

She shook her head, not satisfied. "Why Maximus? The whole story."

"Shortly after Maximus started up, the Committee, its principal members anyway, began noticing certain… anomalies. Odd things not at first associated with Maximus. Key officials who'd visited the site invariably brought back glowing reports of insubstantial progress. These formerly vigorous, aggressive men became strangely complacent, going thrugh the motions of work. This malaise…"

A series of shock waves boomed over the island. From the mainland, a pillar of black smoke billowed out over the water. The fire had reached Logan Airport's fuel tanks.

"This malaise," he continued, "seems confined to the second-secretary rank-the people who allegedly make government work. Our foreign strategy became more irrational and the economy grew worse, if that's conceivable.

"The Committee became worried-hell!-the Committee got scared. Half of them are second-secretary level. They needed Maximus destroyed, without risk to them. I'd been out of it for a while, living in Canada, teaching, writing. Harwood leaned on me and here I am. Malusi and Ian were already in place, part of the Committee's long-term commitment."

And all true, thought John, with a few last-minute improvisations-like a new John Harrison. He was acquiring a grudging respect for Guan-Sharick's ability.

"Why didn't they just send in agents?" asked Heather.

"Agents were sent in. They never reported back. And we couldn't just bomb the place-not on suspicion alone. It is an American installation."

"So you explain this away as a ganger raid," said Heather. "But why did you have to break into the UC data base if the information's all in Frederick?"

"It isn't," said John. "Strangely, all references to Maximus were lost last month in an electrical fire. That was when the decision was made to act. Actually, it was to convince you to go, Heather. Boston's burning as a result. You better say yes."

"Choppers!" someone shouted from the wall. "Army choppers! Headed this way."

"Now or never, Heather."

Germany has the bomb. Russia has the bomb. They guard it jealously and watch each other warily.

America has poverty, ignorance and class warfare. It is a mercantile fief of the Fourth Reich, with an economy based on the export of raw materials, the import of finished and semi-finished goods. American draftees-those who cannot afford to pay a stand in-fight for German foreign policy in a dozen countries. Coming home, they can join the Urban Corps, the gangs, or, if fortunate, win a service job in the burbs.

– Harrison, ibid., p. 169

Aldridge's chopper was barely down before he was out, heading for Maximus's one-story Admin building.

The sandbagged entrance was deserted save for two black-sweatered British soldiers. Inspecting his ID, they saluted, waving him past.

"Get Fwolkes up," Aldridge ordered, identifying himself to the sleepy-eyed QIC, a competent-looking brunette in her midtwenties, with captain's pips and parachutist's badge. Nodding curtly, she picked up the phone.

Brigadier Charles Wesley Fwolkes arrived in five minutes, every inch the British officer, despite the hour: olive tunic and red-striped pants neatly pressed, brown shoes gleaming under the fluorescents, swagger stick tucked under his left arm, red-banded cap at just the right angle. He might have been inspecting Parade at Sandhurst. Only his graying moustache betrayed concern, twitching as he returned Aldridge's salute. "Bloody hell, Colonel," he complained. "0330 on a Sunday? This better be good."

"Rather." Aldridge's mimicry of the other's accent was flawless. Bristling, Fwolkes opened his mouth, only to be ridden down by the UC officer. "In the past twenty-four hours, Brigadier," he said, sweating in the humid, overheated room, "I've seen my command decimated and my headquarters razed. I've been compelled to destroy one of our major cities in order to save it. Imagine how I feel about your beauty sleep."

Fwolkes tried to interject again, face flushed. Aldridge would have none of it. "Go to full alert, Brigadier. You're about to be attacked by a thousand well-armed, ably-led gangers."

"You have no authority here, Aldridge. And you could have radioed, as you normally do. Just what are your reasons for this extraordinary request? Do you know what a full alert costs the taxpayers?"

"Radio transmissions can be intercepted, Fwolkes. I am never wrong, given a bare minimum of data. And I don't care about the taxpayers. As to my authority…" Extracting a small leather case from his breast pocket, he passed it to the brigadier. "I am Grand Admiral Hans Christian Hochmeister, Reich Security Administrator and Chairman of Alliance Intelligence. This officer," he indicated zur Linde, just entering, "is Captain Erich zur Linde of the Abwehr.

"Now, sir, will you stand to." It wasn't a question.

Fwolkes swallowed hard. "I shall have to confirm, sir," he said hesitantly, returning the ID and touching swagger stick to hat visor, saluting a legend. "Until then, though…"

He turned to the OIC. "Captain Mathieson, stand to, if you will. And someone get me a message pad," he added, as the alert sirens wailed.

Maximus was ready in five minutes, battened down and waiting. Reviewing the status board and TV monitors, Hochmeister nodded approval. "Excellent, Brigadier, excellent."

"Why, thank you, sir," said Fwolkes.

"I'd like Hauptmann zur Linde and you to accompany me on an inspection of your defenses."

"Very good, sir," nodded Fwolkes. "We must stay inside the perimeter." He pointed at the ground radar screen on which red blips were spreading like a pox. "And my apologies, Admiral. You were right. Hostiles approaching. It's going to get hot out there."

Hochmeister smiled thinly. "Good to see the old master hasn't lost his touch." He led them through the double-guarded entrance and down the floodlit driveway. Hands clasped behind his back, the Gray Admiral walked slowly past the sandbagged bunkers and razor wire, the mortar and machine-gun emplacements, nodding approvingly. This part of Maximus was all Security and Admin, halfway between the perimeter and the compact installation uphill from it. It was toward the distant gate, though, the one scouted by the now-dead Ian, that the trio went, walking briskly down the road. Arcflares burst overhead, lighting the area brighter than a July noon.

Passing through the final line of bunkers, Hochmeister continued down hill. Zur Linde and Fwolkes slowed uncertainly.

It was unnaturally still, no sound from the bunkers, armored vehicles or the forest. Only the occasional dull plop of an arcflare broke the silence.

Fwolkes cleared his throat. "Where are we going, Admiral, if I may ask?"

Hochmeister never broke stride. "Out into the night, Brigadier," he said, not looking back. "Zur Linde and I are going to join the gangers." Peering ahead, he thought he saw movement along the distant fence.

The British officer halted. "Sir, with respect-are you crazy?"

Brushing past him, zur Linde caught up with Hochmeister.

Stopping, the admiral turned, facing the brigadier. "Cagey, yes, Charles. Crazy, no." Hands thrust deep into the pockets of his baggy, black fieldjacket, pants wrinkled, face in need of a shave and some sleep, Hochmeister looked every bit his age, there in the pitiless light from the flares. "I'm somewhat surprised, Charles," he said easily, "that you don't remember me. Not only did we serve together at the Armistice Conference, your cousin Reggie is married to my niece Gabriela. We had a grand time at the wedding, last June in Salzburg."