Meanwhile, all manner of people came and went, the occasional robot sauntered past, and a steady stream of announcements were heard. The irony, in Margaret’s opinion at least, was that thousands of bugs were living in an underground complex located fifteen miles away. Because unlike most humans, they liked to live under the surface.

Foley’s office was located inside a steel shipping container that was supposed to protect the resistance leader in the case of a rock fall. No one knew if it would work, but the fact that they had gone to the trouble was indicative of how important the onetime thief and deserter had become. Everybody knew the story. Foley had been in Battle Station III’s brig, awaiting a court-martial, when the bugs arrived.

The stories about how Foley and his followers escaped from the platform before it blew up varied. But even he agreed with the basic narrative. It had never been his intention to take part in the resistance, much less lead it. And Sergi Chien-Chu, who was a shrewd judge of character, had given Foley a choice. He could either participate in the resistance or pay the price for past crimes.

But as Margaret tagged on to the end of a long line of the people waiting to see Foley, she had to admit that he’d done a good job of pulling a number of disparate groups into a single organization focused on fighting the Ramanthians. Even if it had been difficult to capture his attention where the so-called Dead Bug project was concerned.

The line moved forward in a series of fits and starts as people were admitted to the resistance leader’s office, stayed for a while, and left. There had been talk of having Foley delegate more authority to his subordinates. In spite of repeated promises, things were the same. So an hour and fifteen minutes had elapsed by the time Margaret stepped into the dusty shipping container and Foley rose to give her a hug. “Margaret! Here we are, living in what amounts to a cave, and you look wonderful. How do you do it?”

“I don’t,” Margaret replied. “But I like liars, especially charming ones, so keep it up.”

Foley laughed and returned to his seat. The officer had changed a great deal over the last few months. His formerly full face was gaunt, his clothes hung loosely on his body, and he had the demeanor of a much older man. The changes were understandable but unfortunate. Margaret wondered what her husband Charles would think of her appearance when they met again. If they met again. “So, what can I do for you?” Foley wanted to know.

Was he being polite? Or had he forgotten? Margaret wasn’t sure. “It’s about the Dead Bug project,” she replied. “I know you’re busy, so I’ll keep it short. My team has made progress. Good progress. In fact, I believe we’re very close to being able to weaponize the disease. But we need more resources.”

“That’s good news,” Foley responded brightly. “And I look forward to hearing the details. Unfortunately, I won’t be able to give you more resources until Operation Roach is over. But that’s only a day away, so you won’t have to wait for very long.”

Foley’s eternal optimism was one of the things that made him a good leader. But there were times when it blinded him to other possibilities. Margaret frowned. “I don’t know what Operation Roach involves. And I don’t want to know. But what if something goes wrong? Could the Ramanthians track the effort back to the mine? Because if they could, my project is at risk.”

Foley shrugged. “Anything is possible, Margaret. You know that. But no, I don’t think that will happen. Come see me the moment the operation is over. I’ll get what you need. I promise.”

Margaret was lost in thought as she made her way back to the lab. She had seen the certainty in Foley’s eyes. He was so committed to Operation Roach, so certain of success, that he couldn’t imagine failure. So what to do?

Margaret vacillated for a while. But her mind was made up by the time she arrived. The group was so small that only a couple of minutes were required to call a staff meeting. Once all of her people were gathered together, Margaret made her announcement. “Our work is very important. Because of that, Commander Foley wants us to move to an even safer location. I concur. Start packing.”

Operation Cockroach was timed to kill as many Ramanthians as possible. That meant during the night, when most of the roughly twelve thousand troops that made up the Third Infantry Division were asleep. The problem was that they were deep underground within a complex that was safe from orbital as well as surface attacks. Or so they believed.

But as Foley stood on a platform deep inside the Lucky Fool mine and watched the specially manufactured weapons being loaded into their tubes, he knew there was one thing the bugs weren’t prepared for. And that was an attack by computer-guided subsurface torpedoes. The ugly-looking weapons had been widely used back during the Hudathan wars but had fallen into disfavor since, largely because they were like a club. Effective but brutal, in a time when both military and political leaders wanted to minimize civilian casualties.

But such niceties no longer applied where the Ramanthians were concerned. So when Foley submitted his request through Admiral Chien-Chu, it was approved. And with no subsurface torpedoes in its inventory, the Confederacy had been forced to manufacture the weapons and ship them to Earth. Which was why the mission to pick up the drone in the San Pedro Channel had been so important. There weren’t any backups. Foley estimated that if four of the six torpedoes were able to reach their targets and only two of the tactical nukes went off, the explosions would kill six thousand Ramanthians. Because, thanks to escaped slaves who had been forced to build the underground complex, the resistance knew where to direct their weapons to inflict the maximum number of casualties.

But Foley wasn’t satisfied with that. He wanted to kill all of the bugs in the 3 ^ rd Infantry Division. Once the torpedoes were detonated, thousands of Ramanthians would swarm up to the surface. And that was when a remotely piloted aircraft would drop a nuke right on top of them. Because the attack was slated to take place in Death Valley, the people on Algeron had been willing to green-light the plan. Even if the nuclear explosion resulted in a radioactive crater. Things were that desperate.

There would be survivors, though. Ramanthians lucky enough to survive both the subsurface and air attacks. And Foley had no intention of allowing them to escape. That was where the fleet of armed vehicles would come in. As the enemy soldiers attempted to flee, the resistance would be just outside the blast zone, waiting for them. And Foley planned to be there. The thought brought a smile to his lips as the last fusion-powered torpedo slipped into its horizontal launch tube. A whole lot of roaches were about to die.

A series of five underground explosions rocked Death Valley at 0302 in the morning. There were firsthand witnesses, but none of them lived for more than a few seconds as galleries caved in, tunnels collapsed, and life- support systems failed. Thousands of Ramanthians were buried alive, crushed, or killed by the nuclear explosions themselves. Survivors scurried toward the surface.

Foley, who was watching from miles away, felt the ground shake and saw columns of fire shoot up out of ventilation shafts. A series of secondary explosions followed. A cheer went up from those standing around the trucks, and Foley felt a deep sense of satisfaction. After millions of human deaths and uncountable atrocities, the bugs were finally feeling some pain. Then Foley’s sense of well-being was snatched away as a voice came over his headset. “Shoshone Six to Shoshone One. Over.”

“This is One. Go. Over.”

“We have a malfunction on the bird. Over.”

Foley felt a sudden sense of foreboding. “What kind of malfunction? Over.”

“It’s in the air over the target-but the release mechanism is stuck. Three attempts were made to lay the egg. All of them failed. Over.”

“You must be kidding.”

“We weren’t able to test-fly the bird,” Six said defensively. “Over.”

“All right,” Foley replied tightly. “Crash the bird and trigger the egg on impact. Do it now. Over.”

“Roger,” came the reply. “Six to all Shoshone personnel. Protect your eyes. Over.”

Foley turned his back and began to count. But 120 seconds later, the flash he’d been expecting to see had yet to appear. “Six? Report. Over.”

There was a pause followed by the sound of Six’s voice. “Sorry, sir. The bugs blew the bird out of the air. And two attempts to detonate the egg failed. Over.”

Foley swore as he turned back again. More lights were visible. “This is Shoshone One. Initiate phase three. Repeat, initiate phase three. Kill as many of the survivors as you can. The bugs will send reinforcements. So we will withdraw at 0330. No exceptions. Over.”

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