Resistance: The Gathering Storm

footage wasn’t very good.

It looked as if it had been taken late in the day, when the light level was low, and snow swirled in front of the camera, making it even more difficult for the viewer to tell what he was looking at. Centered in the middle of the screen was what many people would have called a hill—and a rather unremarkable one at that, except for the way it towered over the surrounding plain. Most of that area was flat as a pancake.

Being a native of South Dakota, Hale recognized the geological feature, which, according to his seventh-grade science teacher, was a laccolith, a juncture where molten magma had been injected between two layers of sedimentary rock, forcing one to bulge upward.

“You’re looking at Bear Butte,” Blake confirmed as the camera began to move, indicating that it was airborne. “A little more than 1,200 feet tall, and located near the town of Sturgis, South Dakota.”

Hale shifted in his chair, and wondered why the major was wasting their time on a relatively unremarkable piece of landscape. He reached for his food as Blake spoke again. “And here, as we come around the other side, we find the wreckage of a Chimeran shuttle.”

That got Hale’s attention. As the video froze he put the rest of his sandwich down.

The Chimeran aircraft was positioned high on the hillside, just below the snow-capped top. And while the fuselage was intact, large pieces of debris could be seen. There were no signs of an explosion or post-impact fire, however, and that was promising.

“This footage was taken late yesterday. We don’t know what happened to the shuttle,” Blake said, as his pointer tapped the image of the crash site. “Perhaps it suffered a mechanical problem of some sort, or given the weather conditions late yesterday—when we think the incident occurred—it’s possible the pilot didn’t see the hillside until it was too late. Whatever the reason it was a stroke of good luck for us, because if we can put a team in there fast enough, we can search the wreckage for Chimeran tech. The kind of stuff that will help us to defeat the bastards.

“But we’ll have to be quick,” he added, “because the stinks are onto our SAR strategy and will probably put some sort of freak show on the butte to secure the crash site.”

At that point Blake turned to gesture toward the two men seated at the mission table. “Please welcome Captain Anton Nash to the team… He’ll be in overall command of the mission—and I’m sending Lieutenant Hale along to provide backup. The rest of the team will consist of two squads, each led by an NCO. You’ll leave at 0630. Are there any questions?”

There were questions, at least one that Hale could think of, though he didn’t give voice to it. Has the major lost his mind? Nash was green as grass. Anyone could see that. And lives were at stake.

So Hale waited for the staff officers to stop peppering each other with questions and comments. When the hubbub died down, and the group made ready to leave, he sidled up to Blake. “Sir?” Hale said. “Do you have a moment?”

Blake smiled grimly. “Don’t tell me—let me guess. You’re pissed off at the prospect of reporting to Nash.”

A muscle twitched in Hale’s left cheek. “Permission to speak freely?”

Blake sighed. “I’ll probably regret it, but yes, go ahead.”

“I think it’s bullshit, sir… My men deserve an officer with combat experience.”

“And they have one,” Blake replied pointedly. “You! As for Nash, you’re lucky to have him. Rather than swoop in and secure a location so the techies can sweep it for artifacts, the way you have in the past, this mission is going to be different.”

Hale started to speak, but the major raised a hand to silence him.

“Think about it. Let’s say you’re one of our guys, rummaging around in the Chimeran shuttle, and it’s loaded with fancy-looking equipment, but your men are under attack. Which thing would you take? The box with the most knobs? If so you might come home with the Chimeran equivalent of a toaster! We’ve had that happen too many times, because we weren’t prepared to take advantage of the situation.

“This is serious business, Hale… The freaks are way ahead of us where technology is concerned, so we’re always playing catch-up. Nash may not look like much, but he’s smarter than you and me. He knows more than we’ll ever forget about the enemy’s tech, and if push comes to shove he’ll know which box to take. So he goes, and you will make the best of it. Do you read me?”

“Sir, yes, sir,” Hale replied stiffly.

“Good. Now get going. You’re on the clock,” Blake replied. Then his tone eased. “Be careful out there… You may not be as smart as Nash, but you come in handy from time to time.”

The mech deck, as the Sentinels referred to it, was a huge space in which banks of bright lights stood in for the sun, and the frigid air was thick with the combined odors of Avgas, oil, and exhaust fumes. Engines roared, chain hoists rattled, and power tools screeched, as the ubiquitous public address system produced a nonstop flow of incomprehensible gibberish. It was a chaotic atmosphere to anyone who wasn’t used to it, and that included Captain Anton Nash.

In his eagerness to do everything right, Nash was already standing next to the big, twin-engine VTOL transport when Sergeants Kawecki and Alvarez arrived, each leading a squad of Sentinels. All of the soldiers wore I-Packs over white winter gear, and were armed to the teeth. Each one carried two firearms, a variety of grenades, and as much ammo as they thought they could get away with. It was a balance that had developed through practical experience, since too much weight could slow them down.

Nash hoped to score points by being early, but Kawecki and Alvarez seemed to interpret his presence as a lack of trust, since it was their job to have the men ready before officers arrived on the scene. The NCOs didn’t say anything, but Nash could sense their resentment, even though no slight had been intended.

So all he could do was stand next to his utility bag and feel useless as containers of climbing equipment, C rations, and other equipment were loaded onto the plane. Every now and then a soldier would glance up and smirk. Nash followed one man’s gaze and realized he was standing directly below a likeness of the big-eyed cartoon character called Betty Boop. Before he could move, however, Lieutenant Hale arrived.

Having been a sergeant himself, Hale understood the theater involved in getting ready for a mission, and knew the part he was supposed to play. So at exactly 0615 he strolled across the oil-stained concrete toward the point where an awkward-looking Anton Nash stood waiting. Hale directed a glance at the blank-faced NCOs, felt pretty sure he knew what the situation was, and was careful to approach Nash first. The salute was parade-ground perfect.

“Good morning, sir… It looks like we’re ready to go. If it’s okay with you—let’s take a look at the team.”

Nash gave off a tangible sense of relief. He returned the salute.

“That would be fine, Lieutenant. Thank you.”

Nash watched with interest as the soldiers were ordered to pair off and check each other’s gear while Hale strolled among them, closely followed by both sergeants. With the exception of a man who was carrying too much ammo, and a soldier who was equipped with a potentially faulty I-Pack, all the Sentinels passed inspection.

So by 0628 the SAR team was boarding the plane, the soldier with the I-Pack malfunction was donning a new one, and the rest of the Sentinels were strapped into their seats.

Nash felt an intense need to yawn, and tried to hide it as he did so, and more than once. He should have been amped—should have been high on adrenaline—but for some reason he felt sleepy. Maybe that was a good sign. Maybe it meant that he wasn’t as tense as he thought he would be. And maybe it would cause him to appear calm, even confident. He hoped so.

In someone else, the yawns might have been the sign of a cool customer, the sort of officer who could take a nap on the way to a firefight. But Hale knew better. In part because he felt a strong desire to yawn himself, and knew it was a sign of fear.

Which—all things considered—was a logical reaction to the situation.