“Lieutenant Hale?” a voice inquired from the hallway outside. “Sorry to wake you, sir… but the major wants you in the briefing room by 0400.”
Hale peered at his wristwatch. It was 0325.
“Okay,” he croaked. Swallowing, he added in a firmer voice, “What’s up?”
“Don’t know, sir,” the voice answered. “It’s above my pay grade.”
Hale swung his feet off the metal rack, planted them on the cold floor, and began the process of making himself look halfway presentable. Less than twelve hours had elapsed since he and Kawecki had returned from the field. Two of those hours had been spent telling a team of debriefers the same things, over and over again. Finally, having been wrung dry, he’d been released, and used his freedom to eat some chow, and grab some much needed shuteye. He had fallen into bed without even hitting the showers.
Now Hale stripped down to his boxers and took a turn in front of the mirror that was mounted over the sink. Only a slight trace of redness could be seen where enemy fire had sliced his left arm open. The puncture wounds caused by the exploding drone were completely healed, and he felt better than he had any right to. Ironically he had the Chimeran virus to thank for his quick recovery, although if left to its own devices, the alien bug would likely turn malevolent.
Fortunately, frequent inhibitor shots kept the virus in check, and were supplemented by aerosolized doses he took into the field in his I-Pack. But everything depended on access to a military treatment center. Without regular inhibitor treatments his cells would begin an inexorable transformation.
That was a possibility Hale preferred not to think about.
He wrapped a towel around his neck, slipped his feet into a pair of moccasins, and carried his shaving kit out into the hall. From there he followed a line of naked light bulbs down a windowless corridor toward the communal showers. The SRPA base wasn’t equipped with a lot of amenities, but there was plenty of hot water, and Hale was determined to get his share.
The countenance in the mirror was pale and thin. It was the face of an ascetic, rather than a man of action. He’d been teaching classes at MIT only six months earlier, had never fired a weapon until he entered Officer Candidate School, and was scared shitless. But Captain Anton Nash knew things, important things that had to do with physics, which was why he had been given the brevet rank of captain.
Now he was going to lead soldiers into combat.
A lot of men had been called up under President Grace’s Emergency Mobilization Order, and placed in jobs they weren’t qualified for. But what made Nash different, or so he assumed, was the fact that he was absolutely terrified. Not only of the Chimera, but of his own weaknesses, of which there were many. So as Nash looked himself in the eye he wasn’t very impressed. Was this the day he was going to die?
Yes, Nash thought to himself, it probably is. And with that he made use of a washcloth to wipe the beads of sweat off his forehead, buttoned his jacket with palsied fingers, and took one last look at the photo that was sitting on top of a utilitarian dresser. The woman in the picture was beautiful, very beautiful, and more than a man like him deserved. Above all else he wanted to make her proud.
With that thought in mind Nash went to meet his fate.
Each SRPA base was different, but all of them had certain things in common, including underground bays in which aircraft and vehicles could be maintained and stored. Subsurface levels were dedicated to administration, medical, and food services. Typically, living quarters were located even deeper underground, where they were protected by a matrix of passageways in which prepositioned explosives offered a defense against incoming Burrowers.
Nevertheless, Hale was armed as he made his way through the maze of corridors and boarded an elevator that would take him up to the admin deck. Standing orders called for every Sentinel to be armed while on duty, so Hale was carrying an HE .44 Magnum in a cross-draw holster, plus two six-shot speed loaders in quick-release belt pouches. Though not fully combat-ready he was wearing thermals and a cotton shirt, with a waist-length gray jacket. It would do in a pinch.
The gold bars on Hale’s collars drew salutes from the enlisted people he passed, and having only recently been promoted to second lieutenant, he was self-conscious about returning the courtesy. As the elevator door started to close, a sergeant darted in and, finding Hale there, quickly tossed him a salute.
There was no such thing as central heating in a SRPA base, so the air was chilly and Hale was glad of the wool uniform as the elevator lurched to a stop and he followed the sergeant off.
Before Hale could enter the briefing room, it was first necessary to pass through a security checkpoint manned by three heavily armed soldiers. Having shown his SRPA ID card and the number that had been tattooed onto the inside surface of his left arm, he was allowed to make his way down the spartan corridor to the point where a table was loaded with coffee, orange juice, and thick ham and egg sandwiches.
It was simple food, but Hale knew better than to take it for granted, because as the planet’s atmosphere grew colder and the Chimera took more and more land, food shortages were becoming increasingly common. It made him feel slightly guilty as he carried a heaping plate into the briefing room and looked for a place to sit down. A corner preferably, where he could maintain a low profile while consuming his breakfast.
Any such hopes were quickly dashed, however, as Major Richard Blake spotted him from the front of the room and gestured for him to come forward. There were about thirty officers and other SRPA officials in the room, and at least a dozen heads turned as Hale made his way forward, partly because he was in motion, but mostly because of who he was. He’d had a hard time maintaining a low profile since he’d come back from the battle for Britain—one of the few who had survived.
He was also one of the first Sentinels, and a key member of the Search and Recovery team that was slated to leave the base at 0630.
Captain Nash, who was already seated at the mission table at the front of the room, watched Hale approach. There was no question about the lieutenant’s identity. After being infected with the Chimeran virus in England, and somehow surviving the normally fatal experience, Hale’s eyes had changed color. They were yellow-gold, and therefore reminiscent of the Chimera, despite the fact there were only two of them.
Hale’s hair was little more than stubble on the top of his head, and there was something hard about his features, as if he was a man who didn’t suffer fools gladly. As Hale set his food and a steaming cup of coffee on the table and prepared to take a seat in the front row, Nash rose to greet him “You’re Lieutenant Hale… It’s a pleasure to meet you. My name is Nash. Anton Nash.”
As the gold eyes came up to meet his, Nash saw a good deal of intelligence there, as well as what might have been caution—which was understandable, given the circumstances.
“Glad to meet you, sir,” Hale replied, his voice neutral. He might have said more, except Blake chose that moment to begin the meeting.
Blake was a big man with prominent brows, cavelike eyes, and a pugnacious jaw. His gray SRPA uniform was immaculate, and it was well known that he expected every SRPA uniform to appear that way, regardless of who was wearing it. His parade-ground voice carried to every corner of the room.
“Please take your seats… As many of you know time is of the essence—so let’s get this briefing underway.”
There was a scraping of chairs, followed by a rustling sound as everyone got settled. Hale found a seat, and grabbed the opportunity to take a big bite out of his sandwich, then wash it down with a swig of hot coffee. Peering around, he noticed that there seemed to be a heightened air of expectation, and wondered what the source might be.