Resistance: The Gathering Storm

There was only one way to find out.

Nash turned as if to orient himself to the hatch, and found the assault weapon with his right hand. Slowly, working by touch, he flicked the safety to the off position, as his eyes scanned the cargo area. Then, having pressed his back to the bulkhead, he brought the rifle up and pointed it toward the spot where he thought the Chameleon might be.

There was a scritching noise, and being too afraid to do anything else, Nash opened fire. One of his bullets must have hit the Chameleon’s field generator, for where there had been nothing, suddenly a hideous creature appeared, and it was only four feet away. Its right arm was poised to slash at him when one of Nash’s bullets passed through the Chimera’s open mouth and blew the back of its skull out.

The Chimera staggered as more bullets hit it, but stubbornly refused to fall, and even managed to lurch forward. That was when Hale arrived and opened fire. Two blasts from the shotgun were sufficient to blow a hole in the Chimera’s barrel chest and bring the monster down.

Nash was out of ammo by that time, but still pulling the trigger, as Hale slowly pushed the carbine down. “Good work, sir… You nailed the bastard.”

Nash stared in astonishment at the body on the floor.

“I did?”

“Yes, you sure as hell did,” Hale confirmed. “And that’s saying something, because Chameleons are damned hard to kill. Now let’s get out of here.”

“Not without this!” Nash said triumphantly, and turned to retrieve the box. “I think we stumbled across something extremely valuable. We can’t be sure, of course, not until experts examine it, but I’m pretty sure it’s what we’ve been looking for. That’s why the Chimera fought so hard to protect the wreck.”

“Good,” Hale responded, but the tone of his voice indicated that his mind was elsewhere. “Follow me.”

Thirty seconds later Hale was through the hatch, and immediately he hit the ground, bullets whipping around him, as Nash made his way out onto the blood-slicked wing. There was no sign of Unver.

Nash had both arms wrapped around the metal box and there was still a look of triumph on his face when the energy bolt hit him between the eyes. His head jerked back, and the box tumbled free as he fell backward, landing with a meaty thump as his body struck metal. The cube bounced off the wing, and Hale rushed to catch it.

He wanted to climb up to get Nash’s dog tags, but there wasn’t enough time.

“Come on!” Kawecki yelled, “the Boop is two minutes out!”

Hale, with the cube clutched in his arms, turned to make sure that the rest of the team had begun to withdraw.

The Chimera were streaming down the hill at that point, intent on overrunning them. But at the last moment one of the Sentinels—Private Budry, Hale thought—stepped out from his cover. He was a big man, and very muscular, which was a good thing because it took a lot of strength to hold the Wraith minigun and fire it.

Budry’s lips were pulled back into a snarl, and his white teeth made a stark contrast to his dark skin, as the machine gun growled and sent 1,200 slugs per minute racing upslope.

The hail of lead caught half a dozen Hybrids in mid-stride, cut them down, and sent the survivors scuttling for cover as Hale took advantage of the momentary lull and threw an air-fuel grenade into the shuttle. There was a loud whump as the bomb detonated, and a gout of flame shot out through the hatch.

Budry was out of ammo by then, but it would take the Chimera a few minutes to regroup as the Sentinels withdrew to the LZ.

Ten minutes later all the surviving soldiers, Unver included, were aboard the VTOL as it lifted off and Hybrids streamed into the LZ. Machine guns rattled and empty casings arced through the air as the door gunners swept the area below with a hail of bullets.

Finally, as the Betty Boop leveled out, the men had time to suck I-Gas out of their packs, and wonder why they were still alive while others were dead.

Meanwhile, Hale stared at the box positioned between his boots, and thought about Nash.

“So what’s in it?” Kawecki inquired, as he toed the box.

Hale didn’t have an answer. So he opened the latches, flipped the lid back, and was surprised to watch the sides fall away.

There, sitting on the deck, was a roughly twelve-by-twelve-inch cube made of a translucent material. Deep within the gelatinous mass thousands of sparkling lights could be seen. They looked like stars in a miniature galaxy and were beautiful to behold.

“What does it do?” Alvarez wanted to know.

“I don’t know,” Hale replied soberly, as he restored the cube to its container. “But Captain Nash thought it was worth dying for—and that’s good enough for me.”

CHAPTER THREE Red, White, and Blue

Washington, D.C.

Friday, November 16, 1951

It was still dark outside as President Noah Grace awoke at exactly 5:58 A.M., and reached over to silence the alarm clock before it could go off. What little light there was came from the streetlamps beyond the curtains or slid in under the door from the hallway.

Careful not to disturb his wife, Grace rolled off the bed. His bare feet were silent as he padded across the soft carpet, entered the bathroom, and closed the door behind him. At that point he could flick the lights on without bothering Cora.

He blinked at the sudden brightness, made his way over to the commode, and lifted the seat.

Having emptied his bladder, Grace stepped in front of the pedestal-style sink, opened the medicine cabinet, and laid his implements out on the shelf above the basin. The array included a toothbrush, a tube of Ipana toothpaste, a nearly new Gillette Super Speed safety razor with an aluminum handle, a can of Molle shaving cream, and a pair of tiny scissors, all laid out like surgical instruments.

Ten minutes later the President used a warm washcloth to wipe the last traces of shaving cream off his face and took a moment to survey the person reflected in the mirror. His hair was black, except for a little gray at the temples, and it was parted on the right. A broad forehead suggested intelligence, he thought, two perfectly shaped eyebrows served to frame his large brown eyes, and a long straight nose conveyed a sense of strength and purpose. All anchored by a firm jaw.

There were imperfections of course, like the hairs that threatened to sprout from his nostrils and ears, but a snip here and a snip there left Grace ready to go.

Satisfied with what he’d seen, Grace returned each implement to its rightful place. Then he checked the time on his Rolex Royal Stainless Steel Oyster wristwatch. It was 6:26 A.M., which meant Grace was running a minute late as he slid his arms into a white bathrobe.

The lonely wail of an air raid siren could be heard off in the distance as Grace entered the bedroom and paused for a moment.

A Chimeran attack? No, more likely a false alarm, triggered by a nervous volunteer out in the suburbs.

There was a soft knock, and Grace opened the door to the hallway. Bright light gave Bessie a halo of white hair, framing her kindly face, and there was so much starch in her gray and white uniform that it crackled as she moved.

“Good morning, Mr. President,” she said respectfully. “Here’s your coffee.” And with that she extended a tray loaded with a coffeepot, creamer, a bowl of sugar, two cups, and two spoons. It was a ritual the two of them had shared for eleven years.