William Dietz - Resistance - The Gathering Storm

“Not so fast,” Ridley countered soberly. “I’m sorry to inform you that Shepherd—now referred to as Daedalus—is no longer in custody. He was being transferred from a temporary holding facility at Offutt Air Force Base, to a specially built maximum security lab in Florence, Colorado, when the convoy he was riding in was attacked by a force of what we would classify as Chimeran commandos. Half of the stinks were killed, but Daedalus escaped, and remains on the loose.”

“How long ago was that?” Farnsworth inquired doubtfully. “I didn’t hear about it.”

“Three days ago,” Ridley answered tightly, “and no, you didn’t hear about it. The report went to those with a need to know… The SRPA people are very upset by the way… They claim they should have been given responsibility for the transfer rather than the DSA. Which is ridiculous, given the fact that they were the ones who lost Daedalus to begin with!”

Grace had a need to know, or thought he did, but chose not to say anything, fearing that the relevant report was somewhere in the stack of papers on his desk. As for Ridley’s complaints regarding SRPA, he agreed. The people in charge of the organization had become increasingly combative of late. The Sentinels would be a critical part of any military victory—which made it difficult to rein them in. But that was a problem he would deal with later on.

Dentweiler smiled bleakly. His dark hair was combed straight back, his round wire-framed glasses sat high on his nose, and his prominent cheekbones gave his face a gaunt appearance. “That’s a tough break,” he said smoothly. “But it serves to support my point… Because if the Chimera chose to free Daedalus, it implies that he can call on them. Or that they need him.”

“Daedalus may provide a channel for negotiations!” Grace put in brightly. “See? We can accomplish anything if we put our minds to it.”

Then, turning to Dentweiler, Grace said, “Bill, please follow up on the Daedalus thing, and report back as soon as you have something. This could be a real opportunity, and we need to be ready to take advantage of it.”

He stood, and the meeting would have come to an end at that point, except that Walker couldn’t remain silent any longer. He brought a fist down onto the table so hard that a pen jumped into the air and landed with a clatter.

“Are you insane?” he demanded loudly. “Didn’t you hear what the Vice President said? What you propose is treasonous! What about Congress? And the American people? Shouldn’t they have a say?”

Grace just stared at him across the table. Finally he responded.

“Congress had its say when it approved the Emergency War Powers Act of 1946,” Grace replied stiffly. “As for the American people, you’ll recall that they elected me to an unprecedented third term in November of ’48.

“That being said,” the president added tightly, “I take exception to the notion that anyone who doesn’t happen to agree with your idealistic nonsense is a traitor!” He paused, and seemed to relax. “For the moment, Henry, I choose to believe that you’re overworked and distraught about our losses.”

Then his voice hardened again. “But if I’m wrong, and you wish to resign, you know where to send the letter.” He stood, and addressed the room. “This meeting is over.”

Vice President McCullen was the only person to direct a sympathetic look at Walker as Grace led the rest of the cabinet out of the room.

Once they were gone, Walker put his head back, closed his eyes, and battled the overwhelming sense of despair that threatened to drown him. The recorder still was running—but it stopped when a button was pushed.

The rest of the world continued to spin.

East of the Badlands National Park, South Dakota

Monday, November 19, 1951

A miniature snowstorm billowed up around the Party Girl’s hard angular lines as the battle-scarred VTOL descended out of the grayness above.

There was a thump as the transport’s landing gear came into contact with the ground, and Hale came to his feet. He was wearing four layers of clothing, counting the winter-white parka and matching trousers. And, in spite of the viral inhibitor shot he had received prior to takeoff, he was wearing a combination combat harness and white knapsack over his I-Pack. The emphasis was on health, food, and ammo. Everything else having been eliminated to keep the weight down.

He was armed with a Rossmore 236 shotgun for clean-up work, and an L23 Fareye for use on targets up to six hundred yards away. Although it was Hale’s hope to avoid enemy contact if at all possible.

Last, but not least, were ski poles plus a pair of snow-shoes that Hale would don once he left the plane. His thoughts were interrupted as the Party’s Girl’s pilot—a long, lean officer named Harley Purvis—appeared at his side. Purvis sported a New York Yankees baseball cap, a well-worn leather jacket, and a pair of fleece-lined boots. He had dark brown skin, even features, and had been given the call sign “Hollywood” in flight school.

“You are one crazy bastard,” Purvis said as he slapped Hale on the shoulder. “You know this could cost you your bars.” The pilot had to yell in order to be heard over the sound of the engines.

Hale knew that what Purvis said was true, but he didn’t care. He was tired of being dead.

Like all the soldiers in the Sentinel program, he was officially listed as “Killed in Action,” which meant his family believed him to be dead. It was a precaution intended to prevent information about the top secret SRPA program from leaking out.

But as the Chimera continued to push down into his home state of South Dakota, most people fled or were killed. As a result, Hale had no idea what had happened to his mother, father, and sister. Were they still alive?

The question had haunted Hale ever since his return from overseas—and repeated attempts to obtain information had been fruitless. None of them was listed as having entered one of the government-run Protection Camps. Was that because they weren’t willing to take what his father would regard as a handout? Or was it because they were dead? Like millions of other people around the world.

Hale was determined to find out.

“Yeah,” he responded, “if they catch me, I’ll have to call you ‘sir,’ and that would be ridiculous.”

“Actually, given the fact that I’m a first lieutenant, and you’re a butter bar, you should call me ‘sir’ anyway,” Purvis responded loftily. “And I plan to keep my bars… So if you get caught roaming around the countryside, be sure to lie about how you got here.”

“You can count on it,” Hale assured him. “And you can consider that IOU paid in full. Where did you learn to play poker anyway? The Girl Scouts?”

“At UCLA,” Purvis answered with mock indignation. “But having lost to a lowlife like you, it looks like I need a refresher course.” Then he turned serious. “Remember, thirty-six hours, that’s all I can give you! And one more thing…”

“Yeah?”

“Watch your six… It’d be a shame if a Hybrid blew your ass off and ate it for lunch.”

Hale just grinned, gave a wave, and left the plane through the rear hatch. After a one-foot jump his boots sank four inches into the soft snow—a sure sign that snowshoes would be needed.

Hale knew Purvis had a mission to complete, so he hurried to clear the LZ quickly so the Party Girl could take off. Once he had waded out to a point where he could be seen from the cockpit he waved again, and saw the pilot give him a thumbs-up in return. There was a dark-skinned beauty painted on the VTOL’s nose, and Hale noticed that one of her eyes was closed in a sardonic wink. Then the engines roared, snow swirled, and the ship went straight up.