He sat up and looked at the gate. There was a large crater in front of it. The bulldozer was over on its side. And there was nothing coming through.
The chief was looking at him and saying something. Weaver realized he could hear it, if barely. He was asking if he was okay.
“No,” he said, shaking his head and pointing at his ears. “I can’t hear!” He suddenly noticed that he had the world’s worst headache.
The chief nodded and pointed at his own, mouthing “Neither can I.” He opened the bolt of the Tyrannosaur, wearily pulled some rounds out of his fatigues and thumbed them into the action. Then he shot the bolt forward, leaned back, closed his eyes and shook his head, clearly spent beyond human endurance, clutching the gun to his chest. After a moment he set his jaw, leaned forward and pointed the gun at the gate. He looked over his shoulder at Weaver and reached into his pocket. What he held out was a large goldish coin. He pointed to one side. It had a human figure on it and the motto: “The only easy day was yesterday.”
Doctor Weaver looked at the SEAL, who was also bleeding from the nose and ears but clearly prepared to do battle, shook his own head and passed out.
CHAPTER FIVE
“First report on Gate 417,” Collective 15379 emitted.
“Go.”
“Initial reports favorable. Group of ten level one ground combat units sent on survey. Encountered minor resistance.”
“On immediate entry?”
“Yes. Or shortly thereafter. One GCU sustained terminal injuries, recovered and recycled. Two sophonts recovered, one terminal, one critical. Both terminated and examined.” It sent a blip of biological information on the late Edderbrooks. “Initial invasion packet was started but before it completed gestation there was a magnitude 249 explosion at the gate and five farside combat units, estimated level one to three, entered the gate area. Sentries engaged and one reported full engagement. Slight variations from initial survey of sophonts.” Another blip of data, this one defining Howse’ protective suit as an extruded armor. “A response packet was sent through consisting of level one and two ground combat units. Level one units were repulsed by a heavy force of farside ground combat units designated one to four. Level two units pushed back first wave but were stopped and repulsed by a reinforcing wave of level two to four units; farside units manually blocked the gate. A group of level six units had arrived by then and reopened the gate. Initial entry appeared successful but first level six unit was destroyed, method unknown, which backblast severely damaged two more level six units, still recoverable. With only two level six units functional and all level one and two units terminated in the immediate gate area the attack was called off while more level six units are gestated. Colonization packet is gestated and only awaits successful opening of the gate.”
“Heavy defense,” Collective 47 noted. “Weapon type?”
“Chemical propellant and explosive. No plasma or quark weapons detected.”
“I have sent a message to all nearby collectives and those with localized gate ability to forward all available level three though seven ground combat units and to begin a ten percent increase in gestation of all combat systems. When you have an overwhelming force available, strike. That will require at least seven cycles.”
“I understand and comply.”
“And send an emissary unit.”
“An emissary?”
“Let us see how gullible they are.”
“Dr. Weaver?” a voice said.
Bill opened his eyes a crack and then closed them against the light. It was moments like this that he dreaded. So far, it seemed okay. He felt sheets and the brief glimpse he had seen overhead indicated a hospital. So did the smell.
“Dr. Weaver?” the voice repeated. It was a woman. Nurse or doctor? Have to open the eyes again to check.
A large breasted redhead wearing one of those vaguely comical multicolored smocks that nurses seemed to be enamored of was standing by the bed with a cup of water.
“Before you ask, you’re in Shands Hospital in Gainesville, Florida,” the nurse said, holding a straw up to his mouth.
Bill took a sip, clearing what felt like a mound of plaster out of his mouth, and grunted.
“Bathroom?”
“How about a bedpan?” She smiled.
“No,” he said, sitting up and wincing at the headache. “I can move.” He checked his extremities to ensure that this was, in fact, the case. All working. All weak as hell but that would pass. He’d been in the body and fender shop before. “I can walk.”
“You’re not supposed to,” the nurse said, firmly, pushing him back.
He slid his hand onto her thumb and exerted just enough pressure to prove that it could hurt. “I can walk. I’m going to walk. All I need is for you to help me with the IV cart.”
She looked at him sternly, then shook her head and helped him to the bathroom. By the time he made it back to the bed he wondered if it had been a good idea; he was weaker than he’d thought.
“The gate?” he asked. He wasn’t too sure exactly where Gainesville was from Eustis but if they’d lost the gate he didn’t want to be close.
“Nothing else has come through,” the nurse said, helping him into bed and settling the sheets to her satisfaction. “It’s been all over the news. There’s more National Guard and some Regular Army and Marines around it, now.”
“There were some SEALs with me,” Weaver said. He had a clear view of Sanson lying in the bottom of the hole.
“They’re both here,” the nurse said. “The younger one is still unconscious, not a coma, he’ll be okay. The older one is already out of bed, against doctor’s orders, and swearing at anyone who tries to get him back in. Now you just lie down and rest. A doctor will be here to see you soon.”
After she had left Weaver elevated the bed — lying down hurt more than sitting up — and turned on the TV. He didn’t have to flip through many channels; everything but the Discovery Channel and Disney were running all news all the time.
“We’re reporting live from Eustis, Florida, where units of the Third Infantry Division, the same units that captured Baghdad, are just beginning to arrive. Bob Tolson is embedded with Bravo Company, First Battalion Ninety-Third Infantry, over to you, Bob.” The voiceover was from New York or Washington but the video was from a news helicopter. There were green Army bulldozers and some yellow civilian ones digging big holes and a shot of a whole line of tractor trailer cars loaded with tanks and APCs. Bill thought about the flaming debris falling from the sky and wondered at the balls it took to fly a helicopter in the area for no other reason than getting some nice stock footage.
“Peter, you should be able to see the activity around me,” the local reporter said. “From the air it probably looks like chaos but I’m told it’s a well orchestrated drill. I’m talking with Captain Shane Gries who is the commander of Bravo Company. Shane, thanks for taking a moment to talk to us.”
“No problem, Bob.” The video had cut back to the ground and now showed a youngish man with a square jaw, his helmet fastened and looking very neat.
“What do you think our chances are?” the reporter asked.
“Well, Bob, the enemy clearly has some very good firepower,” the company commander responded. “But its action plan is going to have to be very simple, there is only one avenue of attack available. And if light infantry, which is what it faced before, could hold it and push it back, well, my boys will turn it into dog meat with their Bradleys and Abrams.”