Chapter 3
"Really boo-te-ful, mon! That black hair ... and I could get lost following those legs." Lieutenant Jocko Duval, Jamaican born and bred, lifted his hand from Mobile zeta's steering to adjust a dial on the fuel panel, then tapped his companion on the right knee. "You work with her, boy-o; you think you could put in a good word wid Lieutenant Johnson for me? If you catch my drift."
"Put in a word?" Former Royal Air Force pilot Paul Foster snorted, brushing away his friend's hand with a light swat. "You've known Ayshea a good bit longer than I have -- she's worked for SHADO almost six years now. Why don't you ask her yourself?"
Duval sighed dramatically and pressed both hands to his heart, then had to make a quick snatch when the treacherous ice dissolved under the snowcat's treads. "Me tongue don't work around her, mon frer," he said, fighting the vehicle back onto course. "Turns right to mush, it do. Don't have de cool style you London boys do."
"If you knew the so-called style of the parts of London I grew up in, you'd be asking someone else." Foster's dark blue eyes scanned the sky ahead of them even as he zipped his jacket tighter around his throat. Each movement he made was smooth and controlled, the results of many hours spent either in the gymnasium or in simulated combat. "Besides," he went on with a wry smile, "I haven't had much success on the romantic score myself lately. Might make a mess of it for you."
Jocko tsk'd, shaking his head pityingly. "We heard about that. Dat Colonel Lake, she threw you over quick, did she? Guess it was good while it lasted, eh? If you catch my drift."
The younger pilot stared at him. "You're awfully blasé about it. I might have been in love with her for all you know."
"In love? After ten days with only chat-chat on Moonbase?" It was Jocko's turn to stare. "Colonel Lake, she be what we like to call Hot Stuff, boy- o, but she not the type to go the long term, if you catch my drift."
Foster muttered something, repeating it louder at his friend's request. "I said, I wonder why Colonel Grey even bothered to run a computer sim on us as a couple. He must have known she was only looking for a replacement when she thought her lover was dead."
"Wonder if he done run one on her and Colonel Freeman," Duval suggested tactlessly, cutting his eyes in Foster's direction. The younger man flushed, relapsing into a semi-sullen silence at the remark. Duval chuckled softly and backslapped his companion on the arm. "Come on, old son, everybody know about it. Just like everybody know about Gay Ellis and Mark Bradley. There be no secrets in this secret organization."
"What're we running," Foster grumbled, hunching a little lower in his seat, "a military organization or a bloody soap opera."
"No need to be sensitive; de older woman never work out long for de younger man. And we all got de girls we want to forget." Duval leaned closer, dropping his voice conspiratorially. "Or get a chance to know better? If you ban catch me drift?"
Not temperamentally capable of holding a snit for long, and not having been in love with Virginia Lake anyway for all that his ego had been bruised at having been thrown over so quickly, Paul had to laugh at his friend's words. "I'm asking you again, Jocko, why don't you talk to Ayshea yourself? You don't really expect me to believe that clap-trap about your being tongue tied, do you?"
White teeth flashed against light brown skin in an delighted grin. "Can't fool you, can I? All right, so maybe I did try to talk to the good Lieutenant and got ..."
"... shot down." That evoked another smile, boyish and nearly as rare as one of Straker's own. Paul Foster was a generally quiet and somber young man, and where his responsibilities were concerned, a humorless professional; more, rank placed a solid wedge between himself and most of the staff in his age bracket. Despite all this he'd found a rare, easy rapport with Jocko Duval, one that had grown since nearly his first day in astro-training with this man as his teacher. He stood, slipping between the seats and making his way aft toward the auxiliary lockers. "I brought a thermos; want a cuppa?"
Duval waved his negative and Foster helped himself, then returned to the leather upholstered seat. "What makes you think Lieutenant Johnson would listen to me if she didn't you?" he asked, sipping the steaming brew. "We're friendly but not friends."
"You underestimate yourself, me boy." A tread climbed a hidden rocky ridge, tilting the mobile precariously to one side. It righted itself with a thud, dropping both men heavily eight full inches; Foster cursed and dabbed coffee off his black trousers. "Ayshea with de bedroom eyes, she go for the rank," Duval went on, passing him a handkerchief. "And you, me boy, be a full Colonel, while I ..." He tapped his blue jacketed chest. "... am only a lowly Lieutenant after all these years of faithful service."
"You talk like you've been here a thousand years," the Londoner chided; Jocko Duval was only thirty-five. "And I started off in SHADO as a Colonel from the Air Force Reservists. My training and experience suited SHADO's immediate needs as part of its command structure."
"You quoting that from that policy book again," his friend jeered good naturedly, patently unimpressed. "And why you looking so smug about it, anyway?" Foster grinned; he was proud of his rank. "Test pilots, dey get all the glory," Duval continued mournfully. "And the rank get the girls."
Full lips parted as though he would go on for some time, causing Foster to throw both hands up. "All right, I give up. I'll ask Lieutenant Johnson if she'll go out with you." He gulped the rest of his coffee, offering the black man a fish eye. "With that manipulative tongue of yours, you'll probably end up on the wrong end of a court marshal some day, Jocko."
"You been that route, too, boy-o," the Jamaican replied mildly, scowling at the single small snowflake that plastered itself against the windscreen. "And after only a few months past mah training. Didn't think you were going to make it to your first paycheck much less command back then."
Foster repressed a shudder at the reminder. "That was over a year ago," he reminded the other, running a hand through his longish hair. "A lifetime ago."
"And you become Commander's favorite right after the hot seat, if you catch me drift. Not bad."
"If you don't cut it out," the younger man warned, waving one fist under Duval's nose, "it'll be your turn in the hot seat. Catch my drift?"
The black man grinned unrepentently but obediently changed the subject. "How 'bout you hand Jocko some of that food you got stashed, boy-o. We got something good for once?"
Foster felt under his seat, dragging out a small red tin. "Protein bars and packets of apple juice. Not much to choose from." He passed across one of each, and deposited his now empty cup before returning the tin to its niche. "Not 'C' rations, at least."
Duval tore open the protein bar packet with his teeth, wolfing half of it in one bite. "You not hungry?" he asked between swallows.
Duplicates of the original satellite photos lay scattered on the pull-down ledge to their left; Foster turned his attention to them, answering the other man with an absent lift of one shoulder. "Never eat much on a mission. Always ravenous afterward, though."
Duval nodded, devoting his attention to chewing for five long minutes, until the communicator beeped and they had received Straker's message. He waited until they'd heard the sign-off then tossed his wrappers to the side and plucked the mike from Foster's fingers, resetting the frequency with his thumb. "You get that, delta?" he hailed the third mobile, which trailed them by seventy yards. "Peg? Ali?"
"Peg, here, Jocko," British Navy Captain Chapman replied from the last mobile. "Roger, that. We go ahead." Static drowned out several words and she had to repeat them. "Sounds like communications are going down after all. Bet there's a lovely aurora overhead past the clouds."
"Probably so. Not that you two be missing much conversation-wise. Our Colonel Foster is just here complaining about his rank."
"What's he want, to be General?" the fourth and final member of the squad asked in a heavy bass powerful enough to be heard over the mounting static. Lieutenant Mehdi was from the Saudi Republic, and was a close friend of Jocko's, as was Chapman. The three had been members of SHADO for a long time, and teamed often. "The boy don't know when he's well off. Generals do nothing but paperwork."
"Behind a nice, warm desk," Chapman added with a throaty chuckle. "Maybe Colonel Foster knows what he's doing after all."
In a great show of analysis, Duval examined his companion up and down. "I be picturing him as a General. Captain Chapman, you see our boy-Colonel as a General?"
"You mean bald and pot-bellied?" the woman returned promptly. "Goodness. We'll end up with another General Henderson on the roster."
Foster's right hand automatically went to his flat stomach. Proud of both his lean physique and boyish looks, he couldn't help but be amused at the good-natured teasing. "You three are using airtime for personal conversation," he reminded them nonetheless, regulations and military protocol ever to be considered.
"Just need to tell them to move in another hundred feet," Duval said, also a professional for all his jesting. "Do you have a lock on my running lights, delta?"
"Visual lock confirmed, zeta," Ali returned crisply. "We'll follow you all the way in."
"Out." Duval handed the microphone back to Foster, who rehung it. "See, boy-o, all military and ship-shape, just like me gran'fadder used to say."
"Your accent comes and goes like a bad cold, Jocko," Foster pointed out by way of revenge.
Rich laughter filled the small compartment, Duval's dark eyes flashing merrily. "Part of me charm, boy-o!" A comfortable silence fell between them for awhile, during which each concentrated on their individual duties. It wasn't long before the white flakes began to fall in volume, small and crystalline. Duval closed the distance to the lead snowcat, gaze firmly set on the red running lights. "You think maybe the Commander is right in going on in this? We be looking at a white-out condition pretty soon."
"Commander Straker knows what he's doing," Foster replied stoutly, innate loyalty bringing the words almost without thought. "We've got SkyDiver standing by in case we're attacked, and two or three satellites watching our every move. Not bad support team, eh?
As if on cue the satellite linked map winked and went out. "Not good if none of dem can get to us," Duval remarked, mood growing more taut with the changing circumstances. "And we be now officially cut off. Let's just hope dese snowcats are as good as deh manufacturer claim. This boy grew up in the tropics."
"The East End isn't exactly Alaska."
One hour later they were entering an area no Eskimo would have dared traverse. What terrain could be seen through the blowing snow was even more rocky than before, pressure ridges and old magma flows dividing the ice covered landscape. Their route was even more circuitous than before, winding over glaciers and around moderately sized mountains at a steady four miles an hour. "We're getting close," Foster reported, ardently studying the hard copy charts open in his lap. "The Ufo should be just around that ridge."
"You think that blob on the photos really is a frozen Ufo?" Duval asked, guiding the tractor closer to the lead one when a wind-driven burst of snow temporarily obscured it from view.
Fine drawn lips quirked on one side, irrepressible enthusiasm rising in dark blue eyes. "Straker thinks so. I haven't seen him this pleased about something in months."
"Not since his son die last year," Duval added with genuine sympathy for their hardbitten commander. "You didn't know him well back when that happen, did you?"
Foster looked up from the laser xeroxed photo he was studying, regarding his friend inquiringly. "I was still pretty new at the time. He seemed to handle things well -- better than I would have, I think."
"Seemed to," Duval agreed. "With Straker it never easy to tell." He made a palm up gesture. "He's due for a break -- we all are. We bin fighting dis lousy war a long time."
That won a sharp glance. "You sound tired, Jocko."
"Sometimes." White teeth flashed again. "Traipsing through a Ufo should rejuvenate dis old bird, eh?" He stiffened and leaned forward as the snowcat circled the indicated ridge, entering what appeared to be a shallow, bowl-shaped valley half enclosing the largest glacier they'd seen so far. "Wait! There it--"
There was no warning. One minute they were looking at the silhouette of an upthrust piece of metal, barely visible through the blowing snow; the next they were gaping in the aftermath of a nova bright burst of purple light. A dull roar emanated from behind them, shaking the ground and rocking even the stable snowcat. Dazzled, they blinked several times, clearing flare dazzled vision. "What happened?" Duval asked, staring hard out the window. "Did the Ufo destruct?"
"Not bloody likely," Paul snapped grimly, hands already reaching for the mobile's weapons controls. "That was delta that went up; the Ufo is still active!" A second laser flared in front of them, missing their own mobile only by virtue of Duval's quick maneuvering. "Can you get me a firing angle on the Ufo?"
"We try, mon," Duval returned, fighting the snowcat as it skidded off course toward a hidden slope under the snow. "Seems like he can see us, but we can't see him." A ruby muzzle-flash shattered the murky surroundings as Straker's barely seen mobile returned fire; violet again stabbed out, the alien retargeting on the skewing gamma. "Are they hit?" Duval yelped, bringing the mobile into a straight course.
"Can't tell." Foster targeted their single 20mm forward cannon to the extreme of its shallow arc capacity, pressing several switches on the arms console. "We need an accurate bearing on the Ufo. Radar targeting won't lock in."
"We can't even see it from here," Duval pointed out alarmedly. "Sunspots are messing up the E-M all across the spectrum, and the snow is too heavy for visual."
The younger pilot struggled to his feet, grabbing the seat for balance against the rocking snowcat, as Duval continued to dodge the extra- terrestrial lightning bolts that were now evenly distributed between their own mobile and Straker's. "I'm going aloft," he declared, snatching up a headphone. "The extra height should increase my range of view. I'll radio you targeting instructions from up there."
"Better hurry," his companion replied, casting him a single, intense glance. "I think the alien is getting a bearing on us."
It was a struggle to climb the metal ladder against the inner wall to the tiny round turret atop the vehicle. Paul twisted open the hatch, balancing himself against the side of the vehicle and shivering in the blast of sub- zero air that caught him full in the face. He drew up the hood of his down- filled parka and pulled on his gloves, squinting against the wind whipped snow. Even from this vantage, the uneven topography blocked much of the hollow though the glacier itself rose as a blue wall from the opposing end. "Still too low," he yelled into the headmike. "I'm going out onto the hull."
It was tricky climbing out onto the ice-coated metal, the zig-zag course nearly sliding him off the vehicle altogether. He lowered his body onto the rounded turret itself, and locked the fingers of one hand in the hatch wheel. His free hand came up to shield his eyes from the blowing snow, thus giving him a clear view of the ominous metallic, circular shape against ancient ice.
"Retarget bearing seventeen degrees," he called into the throat mike in a powerful voice. "Range one hundred fifty yards."
The snowcat skewed to the side again as Duval obeyed the instructions. From above, Foster was now looking directly down the deceptively spindly barrel of the enemy weapon. He squinted when Duval fired the forward cannon; snow absorbed much of the dull boom of the explosives, and red spattered off the alien vessel. Through the brief window of vaporized water, dark scorch marks were visible on the alien alloy. "Got it!" he cheered, clenching his fist when the feat was repeated by the forward mobile. "Continue fire!"
Again the cannon roared, this time disintegrating a small section of both ice and vessel; the scene was now brightly lit, illuminated by the red muzzle flares of the mobiles' cannons, the impact of high explosives on alien alloy, and the continued violet laserlight of enemy weaponry. "We have--!" Foster began. The light was halved suddenly when the snake-like bolts of violet fired a multiple starburst pattern, one tendril touching the forward mobile. There was a dull thud and it went dark.
"They got the Commander!" Foster screamed, blue eyes wide with horror. "Jocko--" That was a far as he got. With only one target left, the alien concentrated several beams, sweeping the icefield from two directions. The snow sizzled into steam wherever it touched, evaporating with a clap of pseudo-thunder. Two beams met, their juncture marked by Mobile zeta. There was a loud roar, the windshield shattering inward simultaneous with the liquid fuel tank going up.
Light and sound ceased, while the snow continued to fall softly onto the gloomily, lifeless landscape.
***
"Really boo-te-ful, mon! That black hair ... and I could get lost following those legs." Lieutenant Jocko Duval, Jamaican born and bred, lifted his hand from Mobile zeta's steering to adjust a dial on the fuel panel, then tapped his companion on the right knee. "You work with her, boy-o; you think you could put in a good word wid Lieutenant Johnson for me? If you catch my drift."
"Put in a word?" Former Royal Air Force pilot Paul Foster snorted, brushing away his friend's hand with a light swat. "You've known Ayshea a good bit longer than I have -- she's worked for SHADO almost six years now. Why don't you ask her yourself?"
Duval sighed dramatically and pressed both hands to his heart, then had to make a quick snatch when the treacherous ice dissolved under the snowcat's treads. "Me tongue don't work around her, mon frer," he said, fighting the vehicle back onto course. "Turns right to mush, it do. Don't have de cool style you London boys do."
"If you knew the so-called style of the parts of London I grew up in, you'd be asking someone else." Foster's dark blue eyes scanned the sky ahead of them even as he zipped his jacket tighter around his throat. Each movement he made was smooth and controlled, the results of many hours spent either in the gymnasium or in simulated combat. "Besides," he went on with a wry smile, "I haven't had much success on the romantic score myself lately. Might make a mess of it for you."
Jocko tsk'd, shaking his head pityingly. "We heard about that. Dat Colonel Lake, she threw you over quick, did she? Guess it was good while it lasted, eh? If you catch my drift."
The younger pilot stared at him. "You're awfully blasé about it. I might have been in love with her for all you know."
"In love? After ten days with only chat-chat on Moonbase?" It was Jocko's turn to stare. "Colonel Lake, she be what we like to call Hot Stuff, boy- o, but she not the type to go the long term, if you catch my drift."
Foster muttered something, repeating it louder at his friend's request. "I said, I wonder why Colonel Grey even bothered to run a computer sim on us as a couple. He must have known she was only looking for a replacement when she thought her lover was dead."
"Wonder if he done run one on her and Colonel Freeman," Duval suggested tactlessly, cutting his eyes in Foster's direction. The younger man flushed, relapsing into a semi-sullen silence at the remark. Duval chuckled softly and backslapped his companion on the arm. "Come on, old son, everybody know about it. Just like everybody know about Gay Ellis and Mark Bradley. There be no secrets in this secret organization."
"What're we running," Foster grumbled, hunching a little lower in his seat, "a military organization or a bloody soap opera."
"No need to be sensitive; de older woman never work out long for de younger man. And we all got de girls we want to forget." Duval leaned closer, dropping his voice conspiratorially. "Or get a chance to know better? If you ban catch me drift?"
Not temperamentally capable of holding a snit for long, and not having been in love with Virginia Lake anyway for all that his ego had been bruised at having been thrown over so quickly, Paul had to laugh at his friend's words. "I'm asking you again, Jocko, why don't you talk to Ayshea yourself? You don't really expect me to believe that clap-trap about your being tongue tied, do you?"
White teeth flashed against light brown skin in an delighted grin. "Can't fool you, can I? All right, so maybe I did try to talk to the good Lieutenant and got ..."
"... shot down." That evoked another smile, boyish and nearly as rare as one of Straker's own. Paul Foster was a generally quiet and somber young man, and where his responsibilities were concerned, a humorless professional; more, rank placed a solid wedge between himself and most of the staff in his age bracket. Despite all this he'd found a rare, easy rapport with Jocko Duval, one that had grown since nearly his first day in astro-training with this man as his teacher. He stood, slipping between the seats and making his way aft toward the auxiliary lockers. "I brought a thermos; want a cuppa?"
Duval waved his negative and Foster helped himself, then returned to the leather upholstered seat. "What makes you think Lieutenant Johnson would listen to me if she didn't you?" he asked, sipping the steaming brew. "We're friendly but not friends."
"You underestimate yourself, me boy." A tread climbed a hidden rocky ridge, tilting the mobile precariously to one side. It righted itself with a thud, dropping both men heavily eight full inches; Foster cursed and dabbed coffee off his black trousers. "Ayshea with de bedroom eyes, she go for the rank," Duval went on, passing him a handkerchief. "And you, me boy, be a full Colonel, while I ..." He tapped his blue jacketed chest. "... am only a lowly Lieutenant after all these years of faithful service."
"You talk like you've been here a thousand years," the Londoner chided; Jocko Duval was only thirty-five. "And I started off in SHADO as a Colonel from the Air Force Reservists. My training and experience suited SHADO's immediate needs as part of its command structure."
"You quoting that from that policy book again," his friend jeered good naturedly, patently unimpressed. "And why you looking so smug about it, anyway?" Foster grinned; he was proud of his rank. "Test pilots, dey get all the glory," Duval continued mournfully. "And the rank get the girls."
Full lips parted as though he would go on for some time, causing Foster to throw both hands up. "All right, I give up. I'll ask Lieutenant Johnson if she'll go out with you." He gulped the rest of his coffee, offering the black man a fish eye. "With that manipulative tongue of yours, you'll probably end up on the wrong end of a court marshal some day, Jocko."
"You been that route, too, boy-o," the Jamaican replied mildly, scowling at the single small snowflake that plastered itself against the windscreen. "And after only a few months past mah training. Didn't think you were going to make it to your first paycheck much less command back then."
Foster repressed a shudder at the reminder. "That was over a year ago," he reminded the other, running a hand through his longish hair. "A lifetime ago."
"And you become Commander's favorite right after the hot seat, if you catch me drift. Not bad."
"If you don't cut it out," the younger man warned, waving one fist under Duval's nose, "it'll be your turn in the hot seat. Catch my drift?"
The black man grinned unrepentently but obediently changed the subject. "How 'bout you hand Jocko some of that food you got stashed, boy-o. We got something good for once?"
Foster felt under his seat, dragging out a small red tin. "Protein bars and packets of apple juice. Not much to choose from." He passed across one of each, and deposited his now empty cup before returning the tin to its niche. "Not 'C' rations, at least."
Duval tore open the protein bar packet with his teeth, wolfing half of it in one bite. "You not hungry?" he asked between swallows.
Duplicates of the original satellite photos lay scattered on the pull-down ledge to their left; Foster turned his attention to them, answering the other man with an absent lift of one shoulder. "Never eat much on a mission. Always ravenous afterward, though."
Duval nodded, devoting his attention to chewing for five long minutes, until the communicator beeped and they had received Straker's message. He waited until they'd heard the sign-off then tossed his wrappers to the side and plucked the mike from Foster's fingers, resetting the frequency with his thumb. "You get that, delta?" he hailed the third mobile, which trailed them by seventy yards. "Peg? Ali?"
"Peg, here, Jocko," British Navy Captain Chapman replied from the last mobile. "Roger, that. We go ahead." Static drowned out several words and she had to repeat them. "Sounds like communications are going down after all. Bet there's a lovely aurora overhead past the clouds."
"Probably so. Not that you two be missing much conversation-wise. Our Colonel Foster is just here complaining about his rank."
"What's he want, to be General?" the fourth and final member of the squad asked in a heavy bass powerful enough to be heard over the mounting static. Lieutenant Mehdi was from the Saudi Republic, and was a close friend of Jocko's, as was Chapman. The three had been members of SHADO for a long time, and teamed often. "The boy don't know when he's well off. Generals do nothing but paperwork."
"Behind a nice, warm desk," Chapman added with a throaty chuckle. "Maybe Colonel Foster knows what he's doing after all."
In a great show of analysis, Duval examined his companion up and down. "I be picturing him as a General. Captain Chapman, you see our boy-Colonel as a General?"
"You mean bald and pot-bellied?" the woman returned promptly. "Goodness. We'll end up with another General Henderson on the roster."
Foster's right hand automatically went to his flat stomach. Proud of both his lean physique and boyish looks, he couldn't help but be amused at the good-natured teasing. "You three are using airtime for personal conversation," he reminded them nonetheless, regulations and military protocol ever to be considered.
"Just need to tell them to move in another hundred feet," Duval said, also a professional for all his jesting. "Do you have a lock on my running lights, delta?"
"Visual lock confirmed, zeta," Ali returned crisply. "We'll follow you all the way in."
"Out." Duval handed the microphone back to Foster, who rehung it. "See, boy-o, all military and ship-shape, just like me gran'fadder used to say."
"Your accent comes and goes like a bad cold, Jocko," Foster pointed out by way of revenge.
Rich laughter filled the small compartment, Duval's dark eyes flashing merrily. "Part of me charm, boy-o!" A comfortable silence fell between them for awhile, during which each concentrated on their individual duties. It wasn't long before the white flakes began to fall in volume, small and crystalline. Duval closed the distance to the lead snowcat, gaze firmly set on the red running lights. "You think maybe the Commander is right in going on in this? We be looking at a white-out condition pretty soon."
"Commander Straker knows what he's doing," Foster replied stoutly, innate loyalty bringing the words almost without thought. "We've got SkyDiver standing by in case we're attacked, and two or three satellites watching our every move. Not bad support team, eh?
As if on cue the satellite linked map winked and went out. "Not good if none of dem can get to us," Duval remarked, mood growing more taut with the changing circumstances. "And we be now officially cut off. Let's just hope dese snowcats are as good as deh manufacturer claim. This boy grew up in the tropics."
"The East End isn't exactly Alaska."
One hour later they were entering an area no Eskimo would have dared traverse. What terrain could be seen through the blowing snow was even more rocky than before, pressure ridges and old magma flows dividing the ice covered landscape. Their route was even more circuitous than before, winding over glaciers and around moderately sized mountains at a steady four miles an hour. "We're getting close," Foster reported, ardently studying the hard copy charts open in his lap. "The Ufo should be just around that ridge."
"You think that blob on the photos really is a frozen Ufo?" Duval asked, guiding the tractor closer to the lead one when a wind-driven burst of snow temporarily obscured it from view.
Fine drawn lips quirked on one side, irrepressible enthusiasm rising in dark blue eyes. "Straker thinks so. I haven't seen him this pleased about something in months."
"Not since his son die last year," Duval added with genuine sympathy for their hardbitten commander. "You didn't know him well back when that happen, did you?"
Foster looked up from the laser xeroxed photo he was studying, regarding his friend inquiringly. "I was still pretty new at the time. He seemed to handle things well -- better than I would have, I think."
"Seemed to," Duval agreed. "With Straker it never easy to tell." He made a palm up gesture. "He's due for a break -- we all are. We bin fighting dis lousy war a long time."
That won a sharp glance. "You sound tired, Jocko."
"Sometimes." White teeth flashed again. "Traipsing through a Ufo should rejuvenate dis old bird, eh?" He stiffened and leaned forward as the snowcat circled the indicated ridge, entering what appeared to be a shallow, bowl-shaped valley half enclosing the largest glacier they'd seen so far. "Wait! There it--"
There was no warning. One minute they were looking at the silhouette of an upthrust piece of metal, barely visible through the blowing snow; the next they were gaping in the aftermath of a nova bright burst of purple light. A dull roar emanated from behind them, shaking the ground and rocking even the stable snowcat. Dazzled, they blinked several times, clearing flare dazzled vision. "What happened?" Duval asked, staring hard out the window. "Did the Ufo destruct?"
"Not bloody likely," Paul snapped grimly, hands already reaching for the mobile's weapons controls. "That was delta that went up; the Ufo is still active!" A second laser flared in front of them, missing their own mobile only by virtue of Duval's quick maneuvering. "Can you get me a firing angle on the Ufo?"
"We try, mon," Duval returned, fighting the snowcat as it skidded off course toward a hidden slope under the snow. "Seems like he can see us, but we can't see him." A ruby muzzle-flash shattered the murky surroundings as Straker's barely seen mobile returned fire; violet again stabbed out, the alien retargeting on the skewing gamma. "Are they hit?" Duval yelped, bringing the mobile into a straight course.
"Can't tell." Foster targeted their single 20mm forward cannon to the extreme of its shallow arc capacity, pressing several switches on the arms console. "We need an accurate bearing on the Ufo. Radar targeting won't lock in."
"We can't even see it from here," Duval pointed out alarmedly. "Sunspots are messing up the E-M all across the spectrum, and the snow is too heavy for visual."
The younger pilot struggled to his feet, grabbing the seat for balance against the rocking snowcat, as Duval continued to dodge the extra- terrestrial lightning bolts that were now evenly distributed between their own mobile and Straker's. "I'm going aloft," he declared, snatching up a headphone. "The extra height should increase my range of view. I'll radio you targeting instructions from up there."
"Better hurry," his companion replied, casting him a single, intense glance. "I think the alien is getting a bearing on us."
It was a struggle to climb the metal ladder against the inner wall to the tiny round turret atop the vehicle. Paul twisted open the hatch, balancing himself against the side of the vehicle and shivering in the blast of sub- zero air that caught him full in the face. He drew up the hood of his down- filled parka and pulled on his gloves, squinting against the wind whipped snow. Even from this vantage, the uneven topography blocked much of the hollow though the glacier itself rose as a blue wall from the opposing end. "Still too low," he yelled into the headmike. "I'm going out onto the hull."
It was tricky climbing out onto the ice-coated metal, the zig-zag course nearly sliding him off the vehicle altogether. He lowered his body onto the rounded turret itself, and locked the fingers of one hand in the hatch wheel. His free hand came up to shield his eyes from the blowing snow, thus giving him a clear view of the ominous metallic, circular shape against ancient ice.
"Retarget bearing seventeen degrees," he called into the throat mike in a powerful voice. "Range one hundred fifty yards."
The snowcat skewed to the side again as Duval obeyed the instructions. From above, Foster was now looking directly down the deceptively spindly barrel of the enemy weapon. He squinted when Duval fired the forward cannon; snow absorbed much of the dull boom of the explosives, and red spattered off the alien vessel. Through the brief window of vaporized water, dark scorch marks were visible on the alien alloy. "Got it!" he cheered, clenching his fist when the feat was repeated by the forward mobile. "Continue fire!"
Again the cannon roared, this time disintegrating a small section of both ice and vessel; the scene was now brightly lit, illuminated by the red muzzle flares of the mobiles' cannons, the impact of high explosives on alien alloy, and the continued violet laserlight of enemy weaponry. "We have--!" Foster began. The light was halved suddenly when the snake-like bolts of violet fired a multiple starburst pattern, one tendril touching the forward mobile. There was a dull thud and it went dark.
"They got the Commander!" Foster screamed, blue eyes wide with horror. "Jocko--" That was a far as he got. With only one target left, the alien concentrated several beams, sweeping the icefield from two directions. The snow sizzled into steam wherever it touched, evaporating with a clap of pseudo-thunder. Two beams met, their juncture marked by Mobile zeta. There was a loud roar, the windshield shattering inward simultaneous with the liquid fuel tank going up.
Light and sound ceased, while the snow continued to fall softly onto the gloomily, lifeless landscape.
***
