Part 7 (1/2)

”That message could be faked, to throw us off,” Wilson said. ”I think your whole aid package is some kind of plant . . .”

”Sir!” That was Major Durant, turning in a controller's chair to look at the Coordinator over the top of her old-fas.h.i.+oned gla.s.ses. ”Sir, I've been checking the satellite data. The Bolo was attacked. . . .”

”Somebody responding to the attack on Hot Springs Pa.s.s,” Wilson shot back. He didn't look quite so sure of himself now.

The woman shook her head slowly, frowning. ”I don't think so, Coordinator.” She gestured to the master monitor on the wall, summoning up satellite photographs on the keypad beside her. ”Look, sir . . . time index 1332 . . . a missile launch from the bottom of Hot Springs Pa.s.s. A second one three minutes later. Artillery from this position launched both attacks . . . on our own lines!”

Wilson rounded on Kyle. ”Get me confirmation, d.a.m.n it. Now!”

”Sir . . .” Fife gave up the physical struggle, now, but not the whole battle. ”Sir, what about the Bolo?”

But the Coordinator didn't answer.

”The infidels are in complete rout,” Hyman Smith-Wentworth said with a grim smile. ”Proceed with Alternate Plan Three as outlined . . . pour everything we've got through that pa.s.s.”

”Father Hand . . .” Lieutenant Bickerton-Phelps looked uncertain, then plunged ahead. ”The plan calls for a rolling barrage across the entire infidel position. We can't guarantee the safety of the traitor. Should we modify the attack to try to protect him?”

Smith-Wentworth made a dismissive gesture. ”He has served his purpose. I doubt we could find further use for him now anyway.” He fixed his aide with a cold stare. ”In fact, he should be eliminated no matter what. Even if he survives and presents himself to us later. An infidel who betrays his own . . . doubly cursed of G.o.d. See to it.”

”Yes, Father Hand.” The aide saluted and left the command van, leaving Smith-Wentworth to contemplate the battle unfolding beyond the rugged peaks that looked down on the Lord's Host as it moved forward to final victory.

It was hard to believe that mere minutes had pa.s.sed since the first rocket strike. Colonel Vincent Chaffee felt as if he had aged a lifetime since giving those orders, though the clock on the console beside him claimed it was less than ten standard minutes in all.

He heard someone hammering on the door to the van, calling his name, but he ignored it. That was the last part of his orders, to keep the rest of his command staff out of the mobile headquarters, away from access to the rest of the regiment, for as long as possible. He had sealed the door with an electronic lock and refused to answer any of the increasingly desperate messages that came through his board.

Somehow, he knew, acknowledging any of those urgent signals would only make real the horror he had been responsible for this day.

”Warning . . . warning . . . incoming artillery fire.” The battle computer blared an attention signal as it recited the message. Chaffee reached out a careless hand to silence the alarm and the harsh mechanical voice.

Ordinarily the attackers would have been more cautious than to throw the full weight of their artillery into a barrage. Counterbattery fire could quickly silence those guns and missile launchers. But the ANM knew that the Second Montana wouldn't be able to coordinate a response. A few individual batteries might get off shots, if they hadn't responded to the retreat orders by now. But without centralized control the Sierrans would be hard-pressed to mount a coherent defense. If Chaffee had been taken out by an attack, command might have s.h.i.+fted smoothly to his Exec, but in this situation the chaos was simply too pervasive to allow the chain of command to function. No doubt Major Reed would have control in a few more minutes. . . .

But by then it would be too late.

I am forced to conclude that the Commander's failure to respond can only mean a successful enemy strike against Headquarters. Obviously enemy forces have penetrated our defenses, to launch an a.s.sault intended to disrupt the Sierran army. There is no way to calculate how far friendly forces have been compromised by these simple infiltration tactics, but there is one inevitable conclusion I must accept.

I am on my own.

Without direction from higher authority, my duty is plain. I have monitored confused communications from other Sierran units which suggest a breakthrough in the pa.s.s 23.6 kilometers east-north-east of my present position. The failure of the defense there, properly exploited and coupled with the breakdown of higher direction for the Sierran defenses, has a 78.9 percent probability of leading to a total collapse of the front. I cannot stand by, idle, while the battle disintegrates around me. This was the error of Marshal Grouchy at Waterloo, to fail to march to the sound of the guns. I will not make the same mistake. My programming and my loyalty to the First Robotic Armored Regiment alike forbid me to stand idly by in this moment of danger. . . .

Although partly buried under 610.71 metric tons of rock and rubble from the collapsed cliff side, I break free with a minimal energy expenditure. Backing away from my original position, I contemplate the crest of Alto Blanco pa.s.s, then release four rapid shots from my h.e.l.lbore at carefully selected points along the cliff. This produces a satisfying additional acc.u.mulation of debris across the narrowest portion of the pa.s.s. It will take a minimum of 5.2 hours for engineering forces to clear a usable path for vehicular traffic over this route, and this should be more than adequate for my purposes. Briefly I consider using N-head missiles to more thoroughly block the choke point, but reject this. My new programming indicates that the use of nuclear weapons of any sort on New Sierra calls for the consultation and approval of three independent civilian leaders to approve release of these systems, and though I am now forced to act on my own initiative tactically I am constrained from making policy decisions in opposition to my new army's standard operating procedures.

Instead I use a final h.e.l.lbore shot to add to the blockage, revise my delay estimates accordingly, and turn away from the position to make my way back down the pa.s.s toward the point where I previously disembarked from the CSS Triumphant just hours before.

I am confident that I can still turn the tide of battle, if only I can get to grips with the enemy in time. And if I can find an effective way to distinguish between friendly forces and those which have been taken over or duped by that enemy . . .

”That thing's coming down from Alto Blanco, Coordinator,” someone reported. David Fife looked up at the main monitor, saw the tiny blip that represented the Bolo slowly moving across the map. He was no longer being physically restrained, but the two guards hovered close by, intent on keeping him from causing trouble.

”I thought you said it would obey orders, Fife,” Wilson said harshly, the edge of suspicion plain in his voice. ”It was supposed to defend the pa.s.s. . . .”

”Jason's been trying to file a situation report,” Fife said, voice grim. ”When he got no response from Command, he would a.s.sume that he had been cut off from higher authority, maybe by enemy action. He's not just a machine, Coordinator, to sit still and accept the situation. Once he's sure he's on his own, he'll use his own initiative. You saw those h.e.l.lbore bursts a couple of minutes ago. First he blocked the pa.s.s to keep it secure. Now he's going into action.”

”You're saying it's run amuck,” Wilson said. He laughed, a dry, humorless chuckle. ”So much for all your a.s.surances. We can't stop it. . . .”

”If you'd let me get back on the command channel, I'll give him whatever orders you want him to carry out,” Fife flared. ”For G.o.d's sake, man, stop thinking about him like he's some kind of runaway truck! He's doing exactly what a good officer would do if he was cut off from his high command and knew there was a breakthrough in another sector. He's using his own best judgment! But he's not out of control . . . not yet.”

”Not yet,” Wilson repeated, almost under his breath. He shook his head abruptly. ”No . . . d.a.m.n it, Fife, for all I know that last signal of yours is what made it run wild in the first place.” The Coordinator swung around, his finger stabbing in the general direction of Major Durant. ”You . . . you're supposed to take charge of those monstrosities. You were shown how to talk to them. Do it. Make the d.a.m.n thing heel . . .”

”It won't work . . .” Fife began, but no one was listening to him now. Durant still didn't have a voiceprint on file in the fighting machine's computer, and Jason wouldn't accept orders without proper identification. In fact, on top of everything else this was just the sort of thing to make it harder to stop the Bolo. Once Jason heard an unauthorized voice on the command channel, he'd become suspicious of any attempt to stop him. He might even shut out Fife on the suspicion that he was captured and being forced to issue false commands. . . .

He slumped against the wall. All he could do now was trust in the Bolo's programming . . . and hope the Sierrans couldn't do anything to make the situation worse.

There wasn't much cause for optimism.

”Command to Unit JSN. Stand down. Stand down and await instructions.”

My programming does not recognize the voice, and I quite naturally reject the order for the enemy falsehood that it is. I am still not sure if the enemy presence behind our lines represents an infiltration force or an act of treachery, but this attempt to subvert me confirms my deepest suspicions. Headquarters has been taken by hostile forces, and there is no telling just how far the rot has spread. I must a.s.sume that no other loyal forces are available to a.s.sist me. The resolution of this battle is up to me and me alone.

I am free of the narrow, twisting confines of the pa.s.s now, and there is an open highway leading straight to my objective. Climbing over the berm that lines the paved surface, I increase speed quickly. My sensors continue to tap in to every available source of information, including real-time satellite reconnaissance feeds and the chaotic communications channels, but I know I cannot fully trust any outside information source. It seems that I must rely, when all is said and done, more on my perceptions and internal projections than on conventional sources of data.

For .05 seconds I contemplate the similarities of my situation and that of Lee before Gettysburg. Perhaps this is what it is like to be a human commander, forced to make decisions without being able to process, or even to collect, all the relevant facts.

It is not a situation that stimulates my pleasure center. I realize, as I continue to drive toward my objective at maximum speed, that I finally have a referent for a word I have long pondered the meaning of.

The word is doubt.

”Nothing. It won't respond.”

David Fife didn't react to Dupont's cheerless words, but Coordinator Wilson did. Pacing angrily back and forth across the narrow confines of the command center, the civilian's features were black, drawn. Suddenly the man stopped in mid-stride and gave the two guards bracketing Fife a curt gesture, dismissing them.

”All right . . . I don't have any choice now. Stop it, Fife. But if you're not playing straight with us, I swear I'll kill you myself. . . .”

Fife ignored him, springing across the chamber to bend over Durant and key in the microphone. ”Command to Unit JSN. File immediate VSR and stand down to alert mode two!” He transmitted the message in a compressed, high-speed burst and waited, fingers digging into the back of the chair. There was no way to tell what the Bolo would do now.

The pause was unusually long, nearly three seconds, before a reply came back. Fife was surprised when it didn't come as a voice transmission, only as a printout on his monitor. ”Unit JSN on independent operations mode. Request positive identification; transmit code 540982.”

”You're in!” Durant said. ”What's the code group?” Her fingers were poised over the keypad, ready to enter the appropriate numeric code.

Fife shook his head. ”I know the code group he's asking for. It's a null . . . he's just trying to play with an enemy by asking for a series of meaningless entry codes. It keeps the bad guys talking while he keeps on closing in.” He looked back at Wilson. ”I tried to warn you, Coordinator. He has no way of knowing if he can trust me anymore. So he'll carry out whatever mission he's a.s.signed himself before he stands down.”