Read Online The Battle for Terra Two by Stephen Ames Berry - Free Book Online
Authors: Stephen Ames Berry
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sections. And phone Copley and Harbor substations—assuming the underground lines are intact. Advise our situation, order up choppers."
"Erich, get . . ." The door slid open, admitting a begrimed Captain Grady, uniform singed. "Useless, Colonel," he coughed. "Top two levels are gone. It'll be here in thirty, forty minutes."
"Nothing you could do, Jack," said Aldridge, laying a hand on Grady's shoulder. "Get your men down to motorpool level. We'll deploy into the killzone and await the choppers."
"Colonel." The watch officer set the securfone down. "Major Sardon reports a general assault across the red line. They started probing as soon as they saw our smoke. BOSCO's blind and the gangers know it.
"The major's thrown a defense perimeter around the techno enclaves. He thinks he can hold until dark—if he keeps all his choppers."
A pall settled over the room.
Aldridge slowly polished his bifocals, then wrapped them back around his long ears. "Then we'll have to march out and face the enemy, just like real soldiers."
"That's five miles through ganger turf, Colonel," said Grady.
"Thank you, Jack. You may recall that zur Linde and I are the only ones who have ever taken a foot patrol through any part of ganger turf."
A throat cleared.
"We have armor, gentlemen. The gangers don't."
"They've got good antitank weapons, Colonel. And the terrain favors them."
Aldridge shrugged. "You can fight beside me, like men, or die here like cattle. Your choice." He walked to the door, then turned.
"Erich, get everyone down to the motorpool. Full combat uniform. Get the armor ready to roll. Deactivate the minefields. I'll join you in fifteen minutes."
Fort Todd's five granite bastions commanded Boston's inner harbor. Her rusting cannon had been silent over a century when John's chopper passed the weathered parapet, setting down on the island's weed-choked parade ground.
Running from the durable stone headquarters, Heather reached the gunship as John cut the engine and jumped out, triumphantly waving the microfiche.
"Idiot!" she shrieked, delicate high-boned cheeks red with fury. "Did you start that?" She stabbed a finger toward the distant city.
Confused, John turned, looking to where a great column of thick, black smoke billowed out over the harbor. "Sure I did! If I hadn't hit their heliport, we wouldn't have this." He handed her the Maximus fiche.
"I'd sacrifice this to stop what you've set in motion." Calming, she led him back toward the headquarters building.
"And that is?"
"A sweep. A fully bloody air and armor sweep of turf." They stepped inside.
Decades of water had stained the walls mucous-yellow, dropping great chunks of moldy plaster down onto the warped, broad-beamed floor. Heather perched atop a battered gray-metal desk. "Tell me about it," she said, ankle-crossed legs swinging over the edge.
"OK," she said when he'd finished, "let's make the best of it. If we assault Maximus, we'll do it during the sweep. It'll pull both New England divisions into Boston."
"If?" asked John, raising an eyebrow. "You mean when, don't you, Heather?"
Leaving the desk, she rummaged through an equipment stack, extracting a compact metal case. "We work for you, John. You don't own us." She plugged the case into one of the generator leads snaking the floor. "Ian was a dedicated CIA officer. He saw the Outfit as a counterforce to a lot that's wrong with this society—endless warfare here and abroad, pervasive German influence. He thought maybe, just maybe, the Agency could help bring us back from the broken, soulless nation we've become."
Unfolded on the desktop, the case became a microfilm viewer. She turned it on, slipping in the film.
"What are you telling me, Heather?"
She looked up from the machine. "I'm telling you I'm not taking my kids up against that horror in the mountains just because I'm told to. Life is too short and hard here. I'm not making it any shorter or harder without damn good reason."
How about two universes?
"Erich, get . . ." The door slid open, admitting a begrimed Captain Grady, uniform singed. "Useless, Colonel," he coughed. "Top two levels are gone. It'll be here in thirty, forty minutes."
"Nothing you could do, Jack," said Aldridge, laying a hand on Grady's shoulder. "Get your men down to motorpool level. We'll deploy into the killzone and await the choppers."
"Colonel." The watch officer set the securfone down. "Major Sardon reports a general assault across the red line. They started probing as soon as they saw our smoke. BOSCO's blind and the gangers know it.
"The major's thrown a defense perimeter around the techno enclaves. He thinks he can hold until dark—if he keeps all his choppers."
A pall settled over the room.
Aldridge slowly polished his bifocals, then wrapped them back around his long ears. "Then we'll have to march out and face the enemy, just like real soldiers."
"That's five miles through ganger turf, Colonel," said Grady.
"Thank you, Jack. You may recall that zur Linde and I are the only ones who have ever taken a foot patrol through any part of ganger turf."
A throat cleared.
"We have armor, gentlemen. The gangers don't."
"They've got good antitank weapons, Colonel. And the terrain favors them."
Aldridge shrugged. "You can fight beside me, like men, or die here like cattle. Your choice." He walked to the door, then turned.
"Erich, get everyone down to the motorpool. Full combat uniform. Get the armor ready to roll. Deactivate the minefields. I'll join you in fifteen minutes."
Fort Todd's five granite bastions commanded Boston's inner harbor. Her rusting cannon had been silent over a century when John's chopper passed the weathered parapet, setting down on the island's weed-choked parade ground.
Running from the durable stone headquarters, Heather reached the gunship as John cut the engine and jumped out, triumphantly waving the microfiche.
"Idiot!" she shrieked, delicate high-boned cheeks red with fury. "Did you start that?" She stabbed a finger toward the distant city.
Confused, John turned, looking to where a great column of thick, black smoke billowed out over the harbor. "Sure I did! If I hadn't hit their heliport, we wouldn't have this." He handed her the Maximus fiche.
"I'd sacrifice this to stop what you've set in motion." Calming, she led him back toward the headquarters building.
"And that is?"
"A sweep. A fully bloody air and armor sweep of turf." They stepped inside.
Decades of water had stained the walls mucous-yellow, dropping great chunks of moldy plaster down onto the warped, broad-beamed floor. Heather perched atop a battered gray-metal desk. "Tell me about it," she said, ankle-crossed legs swinging over the edge.
"OK," she said when he'd finished, "let's make the best of it. If we assault Maximus, we'll do it during the sweep. It'll pull both New England divisions into Boston."
"If?" asked John, raising an eyebrow. "You mean when, don't you, Heather?"
Leaving the desk, she rummaged through an equipment stack, extracting a compact metal case. "We work for you, John. You don't own us." She plugged the case into one of the generator leads snaking the floor. "Ian was a dedicated CIA officer. He saw the Outfit as a counterforce to a lot that's wrong with this society—endless warfare here and abroad, pervasive German influence. He thought maybe, just maybe, the Agency could help bring us back from the broken, soulless nation we've become."
Unfolded on the desktop, the case became a microfilm viewer. She turned it on, slipping in the film.
"What are you telling me, Heather?"
She looked up from the machine. "I'm telling you I'm not taking my kids up against that horror in the mountains just because I'm told to. Life is too short and hard here. I'm not making it any shorter or harder without damn good reason."
How about two universes?
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