of water as something big smacked into the surface of the ocean a thousand yards off the port bow. “There’s our fi?sh!”
the businessman proclaimed enthusiastically. “Now to reel it in!”
It took the better part of twenty minutes to bring the yacht alongside the heaving object, hook on to a submerged tow-point, and begin the process of hauling the object ashore. The boxy container would have been very diffi?cult to tow had it not been for extendable hydrofoils that provided the same amount of lift the yacht enjoyed.
“You can sink it, too!” Chien-Chu said proudly, as he looked astern. “And program it to surface whenever you want!
That feature will become increasingly important once the bugs realize what’s going on. There’s a whole lot of ocean out there—and even with orbital surveillance they can’t track everything that goes on. Plus, we’re going to throw empties at them, just to keep the bastards busy!”
Now that the yacht’s foils were deployed, the ride was a good deal steadier, which allowed Foley to focus on something more than his stomach. “That’s amazing, sir. May I ask what’s in the container?”
“Yes, you may,” Chien-Chu replied cheerfully. “This one contains automatic weapons plus lots of ammo. . . . Just the sort of thing that an up-and-coming resistance leader like yourself would ask for if he could! Future loads will include heavy weapons, medical supplies, and food.”
Foley felt a steadily rising sense of hope. “That’s terrifi?c, sir. . . . Can I make a suggestion?”
“Of course,” the cyborg said indulgently, as the boat passed under the partially slagged Golden Gate Bridge.
“Suggest away.”
“Some or all of those dummy containers could contain bombs,” Foley said. “That would not only infl?ict casualties—
but slow the chits down.”
“And discourage any criminals that might get a hold of one!” Chien-Chu added gleefully. “I can see that we chose well! I will forward your idea to the proper people. They’ll love it.”
Foley nodded. “Thank you, sir. But one more question . . . The last time I was up in orbit, the bugs were in control. Won’t they intercept and destroy our ships before they can drop more containers into the atmosphere? Frankly, I’m surprised this one got through.”
“No, they won’t be intercepted,” the admiral answered confi?dently. “Because there aren’t any ships! Not in the conventional sense anyway. . . . We’re using specially designed drones, each of which has its own hyperdrive and onboard NAVCOMP. Rather than exit hyperspace six planetary diameters out, the way all incoming traffi?c is normally required to do, the drones are programmed to drop hyper inside the moon’s orbit! That means the chits have very little time in which to respond before the vehicle enters the atmosphere, opens up, and dumps up to four individually targetable cargo modules into any body of water we choose.
“Oh, sure,” the entrepreneur continued matter-of-factly.
“The Ramanthians will nail some of them. And others will go astray for one reason or another. . . . But we calculate that about sixty-three percent will reach the designated target area even after the chits have come to expect them. That means your organization will have more supplies than all the rest of the gangs and armies forming up out there. So make good use of your advantage. . . . Because it’s your job to keep the bugs from settling in and to prevent the criminals from becoming too powerful while the government regroups. Got it, Commander?”
Foley looked back along the bar-taut tow cable to where the matte black cargo module was skimming the surface of the moonlit sea. Admiral Chien-Chu made it all seem so obvious, so simple, but he knew better. Even though the yacht’s power plant was shielded, there was the possibility of a heat leak that would attract attention from above. Or that a passing aircraft would spot them—or that one of a hundred other calamities could occur. Which meant that every time someone went out to retrieve a cargo module it would be a crapshoot. But there was only one thing the offi?cer could say: “Yes, sir, we’ll do our best.”
DEER VALLEY, EAST OF SAN FRANCISCO
As the sun rose and Margaret Vanderveen emerged from the old mine shaft to look down on the valley below, she marveled at how beautiful it was, in spite of the charred ruins of what had once been her second home. Some of the buildings had been torched by looters. And, after stripping them of everything that might be useful during the coming weeks, months, or, God forbid, years ahead, Benson had set fi?re to all the rest. Because any signs of habitation, or prosperity, would serve as an open invitation to both the Ramanthians and the human looters—a breed the society matron had come to fear more than the insectoid aliens. A doe and a fawn were grazing on what had once been Margaret’s front lawn as she took a sip of tea and considered the day ahead. Having taken in the teenager named Christine, and the orphans in her care, the three adults had their hands full trying to feed all the hungry mouths, keep the youngsters halfway clean, and prevent them from attracting the wrong sort of attention. The latter was the most diffi?cult task because the children had lots of energy and hated being cooped up inside the mine.
The answer was to take small groups of them on expeditions like the one planned for that morning, where they could get some exercise while foraging for edibles, and checking Benson’s artfully concealed snares. There were lots of rabbits in the area, and they were a welcome source of protein.
Such forays were dangerous, not only because the group might be spotted from the air but because it took constant vigilance to avoid etching trails into the hillsides. Visible paths that, if allowed to develop, could lead the inquiring eye straight to the mine shaft.
Such were Margaret’s thoughts as an ominous thrumming noise was heard—and she automatically backed into the jumble of boulders that helped conceal the entrance to the mine. There was a cord there, which the matron pulled three times to alert her companions to the possibility of trouble. Both of the deer bolted as the thrumming sound stopped, then started again. And that was when the small two-seat Ramanthian scout ship passed over the valley headed west. It was trailing a stream of black smoke, and as the engine continued to cut in and out, the aircraft lost altitude and disappeared from sight as it passed over the opposite ridge. “It looks like the bastards are going to crash,” Benson said heartlessly, as he appeared next to Margaret with a rifl?e clutched in his hands. “Here’s hoping they die a painful death.”
Margaret understood how Benson felt, but couldn’t bring herself to wish anyone a painful death, even a Ramanthian.
