Chapter Twenty-Five

The team that Yuri led numbered just over sixty, which meant that they were rather badly crowded together in the small communications access tunnel. His electronics expert was shoulder-deep in the wiring at a major junction. He craned his head back and said, "They've gone to lockdown."

"Damn! How'd they know we were here?"

"They may not. It's a general signal, no specifics. It might be a drill, or they might have other intel that they were going to be hit."

"No change in plans, then."

"No major change. I've got a few more systems to deactivate now."

"Will that affect our schedule?"

"Not much."

"Good. Carry on."

The man did what he did best – and he was one of the best available – so that shortly they were on their way toward the southern command post, unimpeded by any electronic counter-measures.

The Colonel himself led a contingent of about a hundred and fifty. They were using an ionic disintegrator to make a tunnel that followed the path of the wastewater system, but ran about three meters beneath it. They'd been at it for close to two hours and had come within perhaps four hundred meters of their objective: the laundry in the Manse basement. Their tunnel extended back to the east some fifty-five hundred meters and exited the earth in the lee of a hummock on the edge of a landfill. They anticipated hitting the underground portion of the Wall in five minutes, and exiting in the laundry in thirty-four.

Davidovich's platoon broke ground twenty meters inside the inner fence of the northern end of the compound. One by one, the thirty-five hardened professionals exited the tunnel and melted into the landscape, their suits adapting to the terrain and blurring their outlines. They attacked and overran the two guard posts without raising any alarm, and situated four of their men in the buildings, already equipped with the correct passcodes and uniforms. As far as central command would know, everything was quiet and uneventful. The thirty-one men remaining used the compound's own troop transports and headed south for the Manse. They were to be one of three planned diversions, and had the firepower to pull it off. If they met with superior force, they were to fall back and high-tail it, but they did not expect that to happen. What they did expect was to fetch up outside the Wall, expend a ferocious amount of ordnance in "trying" to breach it, and then retreat at full speed after the Manse blew up. There were only two checkpoints between them and their objective, and they were buoyed with confidence from their success so far.

However, Checkpoint Alpha was not manned. The gates were down and secured, and as far as they could see there was no one around to open them. Davidovich didn't like that at all. "This is not right. On Lockdown they are supposed to keep all checkpoints active. There is no reason for them to be elsewhere."

One of his lieutenants asked, "Is it possible that someone else is trying the same thing we are?"

"I would never believe it. The timing would be too big a coincidence. But I see no ready explanation for this."

"Perhaps," said one of the men nervously, "they have one of their supers stationed here."

Davidovich frowned darkly. "Then we will find out." He pulled out his infrared scanner and slowly panned the area, but found no hot spots at all. He shrugged and said, "In any event, we must go on through. Viktor, disable the gates."

One of the men hopped down and ran to the gate control. He slapped a flat, square box against it and pressed several buttons on a keypad on its side. In a few seconds the box beeped and the gates opened. The two transports moved into the shadow of the checkpoint guardhouse.

A lone figure stepped out from behind the building. He was tall and rail-thin, and sheathed in a black cloak that hung to his feet. His downcast head was covered with a wide-brimmed black hat, and his hands were tucked inside the cloak. He stopped in front of the lead vehicle and lifted his gaze to the driver.

That man shrieked, slammed on his brakes, and shrank back into his seat as far as he could push. The other man in the cab gasped and jerked out his pistol.

The cloaked figure raised a hand that resembled an owl's talon more than a human appendage. An indistinct area of dead black appeared around it, flickering instantly into a thin rod some two meters long. Both men in the truck stared at it in nauseated fascination. Then the figure threw it at the vehicle.

The lightless lance struck the windshield … passed through the windshield … left no mark on the windshield … and sank into the driver's chest. There was a subdued flash as colors near him altered for an instant, counterchanging almost like the negative of a photograph, and then the man slumped lifelessly onto the floor of the cab. The transmission engaged when his foot slipped off the pedals; the truck lurched forward a couple of times and then the engine died.

The dead man's initial cry of terror had galvanized the mercenaries in the back of the transport, and they came boiling out. But Shambles was ready for them. Two more lances of negative energy found their targets, and then two more. Dozens of bullets ripped through him, shredding his clothing and spraying gobbets of … something … onto the road behind him. He didn't seem to notice.

Davidovich had been in the rear transport, and missed the beginning of this action, but he got caught up quickly. He watched in horror as his men went down, gaped in stark disbelief as their bullets struck and struck and struck in retaliation, to no effect.

In blind haste he grabbed up a shoulder-mounted rocket launcher, took aim, and fired. The missile hit the figure in the center of its torso and detonated. At such close range the explosion was deafening, and it didn't do the lead truck any good at all. But there seemed to be nothing left of the nightmare thing that had attacked them.

"Pavel! Yusef! Are those men dead?"

The squad leaders bent to check on the dozen men who had received the black darts. Pavel shook his head. "They didn't make it. I don't know what that … that thing did to them." He stared in morbid fascination at the stretched and yellowed parchment their skin had become. "I've not … seen anything like this before."

Davidovich took off his helmet and wiped the sweat from his forehead. "Move them out of the way. And see if that transport will run."

"Yes, sir!"

They shortly discovered that although the engine of the damaged truck would start, both front tires had blown. The crippled vehicle limped off to the side to let the other one through. They began transferring what of their ordnance that they could to the operative truck.

No one noticed, in the grass and under the trees beside the road, many small, dark objects rolling and creeping and oozing toward a central location.

It took better than five minutes to get everything arranged and secured the way they wanted it. Davidovich got everyone loaded up and then walked back to the cab. He said, "Igor, man that fifty-caliber on top there."

"Yes, sir." Igor headed around to the other side of the big truck where the ladder was. Davidovich had barely gripped the door handle when he heard a strangled cry. The hair stood up along the length of his spine, and he wheeled around to stare at the back of the transport, just in time to see a flash of movement as something disappeared into the open rear.

The men in the transport only caught glimpses of the skeletal thing before it was among them. Shambles had decided to change his tactics. No more thrown weapons. It was time to get up close and personal … time to reach out and touch someone …

A few of the men managed to fire their weapons. Some of the wild shots even hit him, but more often they hit each other. The fight was over very quickly.

Davidovich walked rigidly to the back of the big truck, both pistols out, eyes wide and fixed. The shaking and screaming in the vehicle had stopped. There had been a brief, low scuffling noise. Now all was silent.

"Pavel?"

He received no answer. Subconsciously, he knew he would not. He swung around the back of the truck, arms stiff.

No one there.

He glanced into the interior and the air left him. All of them? It got all of them? How?

He didn't hear anything approaching. He smelled nothing on the light breeze, though he was downwind. But something, some dormant instinct, made him spin around.

Less than a meter separated them. Davidovich fired both pistols into its midsection, but the thing's withered features merely cracked into a grimace that might have been a smile, and its long arms shot out to grip his own. Where the claw-like fingers touched him, his skin went dead. His guns dropped from nerveless hands. Fleeting memories of his grandmother's tales of the evil things that inhabited dark places at the edges of civilization flitted through his mind, and he would have screamed if he'd had the power to do so, but the cold had moved up his shoulders, invaded his chest. His breathing grew shallow and labored. His vision faded.

Shambles let the corpse drop to the ground. He walked over to the building and let himself in, then went to the communications desk. Ignoring the main board, he opened a locker and removed a small tight-beam unit. He took it outside, climbed the steel ladder attached to the building's side, and set it up on the roof. Aiming it due south, he pressed a series of keys and then stated, as clearly as his vestigial equipment would allow, "Checkpoint Alpha secure. Thirty-one bogies neutralized."

The response was immediate. Captain Albert knew what Shambles' report meant in this context and made a slightly squeamish face as he said, "Copy that, Shambles. Looks like the tip about the invasion was on the level. Good job."

"I will go back to the guard posts to see if they left anyone there."

"Roger. Let us know if you need backup."

"That should not be necessary. They did not use energy weapons. I doubt they could hurt me now anyway. I just absorbed a great deal of life force."

"Ah … Good luck, then."

"Once I finish there, may I get back to my study?"

"Um … hang on. I'm getting a … Okay, Chief. Shambles?"

"Yes?"

"To answer your question, not just yet. The Sec Chief wants you to work back toward the Manse, and sweep the area. We've got several hundred on patrol, but from preliminary reports it looks like the enemy is going for a subterranean attack. It won't be easy to track them, and some of them might be very close to the Manse right now."

A few moments passed before Shambles quietly said, "I was working on my memoirs."

"Oh! Still on chapter twenty-seven?"

"Almost done. Up to 1879."

"That's good to hear." Shambles was publishing his life story as a serialized work, a decade at a time, and everyone at the compound was anxious to read the latest installment. He was a talented writer, and was immensely gratified with the response his work was getting. "I know you're anxious to get back to that. But, uh, the President would like for you to be, you know … available. Just in case."

"Of course." If he'd been able to breathe, he would have vented a heavy sigh. "I am always at his disposal. But these interruptions are tiresome."

"Do you need a car?"

Shambles studied the transport that sat just outside. "No. I don't think so. But I think you will want a cleaning crew to meet me when I get there. This vehicle is a mess."

"Roger that."

There were eight pairs of outposts arranged around the central compound, approximately at the eight cardinal points of the compass. Derevenko's plan was to neutralize all of them, hit the Manse from the inside, and leave enough high explosives behind them as they left to make figuring out what had happened very problematic. While he didn't anticipate any significant losses, he had contingency plans for completing the operation using as few as five of the twelve separate forces. His estimates of troop strength and ordnance had been spot on, and he was well prepared to deal with them. However, his knowledge of the compound's 'supplemental' defenses was a good bit sketchier.

Davidovich had failed to report at the last check in. Given the levels of redundancy in their communications setup, that could only mean one thing, and Colonel Derevenko cursed silently. He hated to lose men, made it a point of honor not to lose men, and the loss of this particular man would hurt.

But he couldn't let that distract him. This was a military operation and he would conduct it as such. He had his electronics expert patch into the compound's nexus and check for reports of battles, but there was no such buzz going on. Aside from the fact that the entire compound was still on Lockdown, there was no indication that anything was out of the ordinary.

If they know we're here, they aren't talking about it. That earned some grudging respect. He checked his watch again. Eleven minutes to go. Then the real party begins.