Resistance: The Gathering Storm

That’s why it’s absolutely imperative that you find Walker, and bring him back. Or, failing that,” Dentweiler said darkly, “eliminate him.”

Blake had been silent up until that point, but the last comment caused him to frown and clear his throat. “I’m sorry, Mr. Dentweiler, but the charter under which SRPA operates specifically prohibits our personnel from participating in assassinations. However, if we can find Mr. Walker, I can assure you that we will bring him back.”

For a moment the Chief of Staff was silent, and then he nodded agreeably.

“Yes, I’m sure you will. And that brings us to the question of where Secretary Walker is hiding. Based on information provided by the FBI and other sources we believe he’s in Chicago.”

Having already identified the photos on the wall, Hale wasn’t surprised. Nor, apparently, was Richards—who was busy cleaning his fingernails with a switchblade. Hale wondered how he got away with it, but Major Blake hadn’t seemed to notice.

“We tracked him from Washington to Indianapolis,” Dentweiler continued, “and we damned near nailed the bastard, too, but two hours before our agents closed in on the hotel where Walker and his wife were staying, the two of them left town in the company of a so-called runner named Twitch. According to Twitch’s common-law wife, he was headed for Chicago.”

Richards sat up straight upon hearing that news and the knife vanished. “Twitch Saunders?”

Dentweiler raised an eyebrow. “I believe that was his name—yes.”

“Then they had a pretty good chance of getting through,” Richards mused. “Twitch is expensive—but he’s the best. But why? What can the Walkers accomplish in Chicago? The city is crawling with stinks.”

“There’s no way to be absolutely certain,” Dentweiler replied, “but we believe Walker plans to contact Freedom First and ask for their assistance. You’re acquainted with the organization, I believe?”

“Yes,” Richards answered. “I am. They hate President Grace, but they hate the Chimera even more, and fight the stinks every day. In fact, some people claim that something like five thousand ?brids are tied up trying to track the rebels down. If true, that’s five thousand stinks who aren’t headed south.”

“I’ve heard that argument,” Dentweiler responded, and his voice was strangely cold. “I might even buy into it if it weren’t for all the lies they tell via their illegal radio station. Which, when you think about it, is probably why the Walkers were drawn to them.”

Hale could sense the tension between the two men—as could Blake, who was quick to intervene. “In spite of the illegal radio station, it should be noted that Freedom First people continue to be a valuable source of intelligence,” the major pointed out, “which they funnel to Captain Richards here. I’m sure his knowledge of the group will prove to be invaluable in determining whether the Walkers are in Chicago or not. In fact,” Blake added, “I daresay we wouldn’t be able to execute the mission without him.”

The last was intended as a warning, which Dentweiler received loud and clear. He forced a crooked smile. “Yes, of course. Well, that’s the essence of the situation, and I have only one thing to add. If you apprehend Walker—no, when you apprehend Walker—he may be carrying a diary or other materials. If so, bring them back. And such materials, should they exist, must be treated with the utmost secrecy. Under no circumstances will unauthorized personnel be permitted to read them, copy them, or share them in any way. Is that clear?”

“Very clear,” Blake replied, as he directed meaningful glances at Richards and Hale.

“And Mrs. Walker?” Hale wanted to know. “Are we to bring her back as well?”

“Of course,” Dentweiler replied harshly. “She’s a criminal. Just like her traitorous husband.”

The briefing came to a close shortly after that, Dentweiler was escorted up to the mech deck where his VTOL was waiting, and the junior officers were allowed to remain behind.

“So,” Hale said as he and Richards made their way to the elevators. “You’ve been to Chicago.” “Yes,” Richards answered grimly. “I have.” Hale glanced sideways. “How bad is it?” “On a scale of one to ten, it’s a fucking twelve,” Richards said. “I know you were in England—and I know it was a freak show. But this is going to be just as bad, and maybe worse. Bring your A game, Lieutenant. There won’t be any second chances.”

The trip from SRPA 6 to the Chicago area was interrupted by two intermediate stops. One to refuel, and one to wait for a storm front to pass, because Echo Team had enough problems to deal with without flying into the side of a hill. Which, given the plan to come in low and fast, was a very real possibility, especially in the dark.

Except that, as Hale crouched between Purvis and his copilot, and stared out through the Party Girl’s badly scratched canopy, what remained of the city of Chicago was anything but dark. What looked like bolts of lightning strobed between half-seen structures of uncertain purpose, fireflylike blobs of incandescence floated here and there, and clusters of tightly grouped greenish blue lights marked the location of Chimeran fortresses. A convenience at least some of the stinks were about to regret.

“Okay,” Purvis said tightly, “we’re ten minutes out, so it’s time to get ready. Good hunting.”

Hale nodded soberly, “Thanks, Harley. Watch your six on the way out.”

“Count on it,” Purvis replied. “Now get the hell out of my cockpit. I have work to do.”

Hale grinned, stood, and backed into the cargo compartment as Purvis spoke into his headset. “Hollywood to Eagle-Three… I’m eight out. Come on down and kick some ass. Over.”

“Roger that,” came the reply. “Stay low, stay slow, and we’ll show you cargo camels how it’s done. Over.”

A few months earlier Purvis might have taken exception to the cheerful arrogance inherent in the fighter pilot’s transmission, but he’d seen the latest stats. Chimeran fighters were three times faster than their human counterparts, more maneuverable, and better armed. In fact, the only edge human pilots had over the stinks was skill, because, good though their aircraft were, Chimeran pilots lacked imagination and were delightfully predictable.

Still, the life expectancy of a Sabre Jet pilot was even shorter than that of a VTOL cargo camel, so Purvis let the trash talk slide.

“I’ll be sure to take notes,” he promised dryly. “Hollywood out.”

Cold air roared into the VTOL’s cargo compartment as the twelve-man SAR team prepared to execute one of the most difficult evolutions any of them would be called upon to carry out. The plan was to rappel from a hovering VTOL into a stink-held city in the middle of the night. It was, as Sergeant Kawecki so eloquently put it, “a chance to do something really stupid.”

Both side doors were open, the sliding gantries were extended, and the men were lined up ready to go as the Party Girl made her final approach, and a series of explosions rocked the northeast sector of the city. Hale knew that a Chimeran tower was located up that way, but the real purpose of the Sabre attack was to create a diversion calculated to pull Chimeran resources away from the area where the SAR team was going to put down.

The strategy wouldn’t work entirely of course, but it couldn’t hurt, and he was eager to improve the odds any way that he could.

Both Hale and Richards checked each and every soldier to make sure their harnesses were clipped to a descender and that each rope was properly threaded. Once that process was complete Richards took his place at the head of the line and waited for Kawecki to check his hookup.

Hale, meanwhile, was at the tail end of the other line, so that if Richards was killed during the insertion, he would be available to take command. That was the theory anyway, although there was always a chance that both men would be killed, which would leave a noncom like Kawecki to take over.

All such thoughts ended abruptly as Purvis switched from horizontal to vertical flight and battled to keep the Party Girl steady. It was no small job, as gusts of wind hit the ship from the west and gravity did its best to pull her down.

Hale saw the green jump light flash, heard the VTOL’s crew chief yell, “Go, go, go!” and watched his Sentinels exit, one after another. There were no signs of ground fire, and the ship was positioned above a so-called fresh point, meaning a set of coordinates that hadn’t been used before. A precaution intended to