“No,” says the man, “sever our link to the rest of it.”
The driver stares at him. “But it’ll stop—it’s not authorized—”
“I don’t feel like arguing.”
Neither does the driver. There’s a bump, then a lurch. The car accelerates markedly as the cars behind them go into automatic shutoff, disappearing in the rearview. The engineer pulls himself to his feet, stares at the major.
“We just dumped twenty fucking cars,” he says.
“And I’ll dump you if you breathe another word,” says the major. “Now floor it.”
“That was our freight,” mutters the driver.
“I’m your freight,” says the man.
The driver nods, doesn’t take his eye from the rail ahead of him. It lances out, not bending for at least the next twenty kilometers. The train builds speed toward the supersonic. The driver exhales slowly.
“So who are you?” he whispers.
“I’m here to make sure we win this war.”
“How?”
“The Americans are killing us,” says the driver.
“Just proceed along the following routes.” The major hands the driver a sheet of paper.
“This is paper.”
“Indeed. Now tell your engineer to sit the fuck down.”
“Sit the”—but the engineer already has.
“And don’t dwell on the baggage we just lost,” says the man. “Tunnel control has already been notified of a breakdown. And no one’s going to believe that the engine disappeared, so they’ll just leave that out of their reports.”
“Someone will think someone’s mainlining vodka,” says the engineer, laughing in a tone that’s just a little too shrill.
“But this is taking us off the maps,” says the driver suddenly.
“Your point being?”
“We should slow down. We’re heading way beneath the Himalayas.”
“Best place to be right now,” says the man.
Hanging in a shaft in the machine to end all machines: Spencer lets his mind expand out into the world around him. Not that it gets very far—he’s stopped at the confines of this vehicle within its microzone, completely shorn from any larger zone. But he can see everything he needs to all the same.
“What the hell’s going on?” asks Sarmax.
“Boarding,” says Spencer—and transmits pictures to the mech’s helmet, letting him take in the shuffle of boots through corridors, the syncopated beat of marching suits. For over a half-kilometer above them, passages are filling with Russian soldiers. The wider galleries beyond that are filling with treaded vehicles.
“Fourth Mountain Division,” says Sarmax.
“You know them?”
“Of them, sure. They’re special forces.”
“They’re just the half of it,” says Spencer, sending more images—these from the half-kilometer of corridors above the Russians. Sarmax laughs mirthlessly, shaking his head.
“Chinese,” he mutters. “Fifth Commando.”
Looking like they’re ready for the fight of their lives and then some. Their suits shuffle forward almost languidly, sit down and start strapping in while swarms of mechanics bolt their vehicles to the walls.
“Time to get this show on the road,” says Sarmax.
“I’m working on it,” says Spencer.
“Work faster,” says Sarmax, as the elevators above them slide into motion.
Haskell becomes dimly aware of faint vibrations. She’s lying on her back, strapped down. She opens her eyes, finds she’s in yet another train. Soldiers stand around her, their guns on her as they make signs to ward off the evil eye. She’s wishing she could find some way to live up to her reputation.
But the soldiers have something else to worry about. Someone more senior is entering the car—the soldiers are saluting, clearly ill at ease. Haskell can see the newcomer only by craning her head inside her helmet—which is abruptly yanked off her. Someone strikes her over the head. Someone puts a metal clamp on the back of her skull. It hurts.
“Fuck,” she says.
“The Manilishi,” says a voice.
She’s looking up at the newcomer—a Chinese officer. His suit’s insignia’s that of colonel. His English is perfect.
“I’m Colonel Tsien,” he says.
“Chinese Intelligence.”
“Of course.”
“And this whole incursion was for my benefit?”
“So to speak,” he says.
“I’m useless to you.”
“No need to be so modest.”
“You know I’m not going to help you.”
“I’m afraid that’s not up to you to decide.”
“Don’t be so sure. A lot could happen between now and Tsiolkovskiy.”
He smiles. “What makes you think we’re going there?”
“Don’t bullshit me. It’s the closest base you’ve got.”
“Tsiolkovskiy’s getting overrun.”
“Yeah?”
“It’s true,” he says. “We just got word. Your accursed Stars and Stripes will be raised over what’s left of it within a quarter-hour. Something that even these soldiers around you don’t know. See how I confide in you, Claire?”
“So where the hell are we going?”
“Somewhere we can hide.”
“You mean somewhere you can interrogate me.”
“I mean somewhere we can finish up.”
“What?”
But Tsien just snaps his fingers—a soldier grabs her head while another slides a new helmet onto her. They lock it into place. She stares up at Tsien as his voice echoes inside her head.
“One chance,” he says.
“Let’s talk this over.”
“We don’t want to damage you.”
“You’ll have to take that risk.”
“This will be painful.”
“Like you care.”
“Of course I care,” he says—his smile increasing. “My people are fighting for their lives. You’re a monstrosity built to destroy them. Such irony if you could be harnessed.”
“Do your worst.”
He does.
The Operative watches on his rear screens as the tunnel behind him collapses. So much for the rest of his force. He’s on his own now. At this point, it’s the way he prefers it. Because there’s nothing left to fight him. The Eurasian rearguard is shattered. Their main force has bugged out, leaving cameras and sensors in their wake. But the Operative’s all over them, hacking them with abandon, snipping off the sensors, getting in there and replacing his image with shots of still more tunnel. He sets course toward Tsiolkovskiy. The tunnel that he’s in merges with others tunnels; those tunnels contain more rails. The Operative knows that if the Eurasians have tossed Haskell onto a train, he’s never going to catch her. But hacking into maglev is the work of a moment: his suit’s insulation protects him as he extends a tendril onto the rail, his view telescoping all the way to Tsiolkovskiy base.
But he can’t see any trains.
The Operative runs the sequence again. Nothing doing. There’s nothing on that line. His mind races, considering all the angles. He’s scanning the last battle management reports he received from Montrose. His side has probably already overrun Tsiolkovskiy. Meaning the East would have been idiots to take Haskell there.
And maybe they have been. People do stupid things in war. But none of what the Operative has seen so far looks stupid. The Operative’s guessing the original idea in digging all these tunnels was simply to disrupt Congreve in the event of conflict. But presumably the Eurasians received intel that gave them a far more specific target. And they must have received that intel recently, because this war’s less than an hour old. Meaning Montrose’s operation has at least one leak. Probably more.
But that’s not the Operative’s main concern right now. The Eurasians will be planning to break Haskell, and they’ll need to break her quickly. The Operative traces along that line again—his mind flashes back and forth to Tsiolkovskiy several thousand times. He starts hacking at the codes that control the line—the data that might reveal what’s happened along it in the last several minutes. He starts feeding in all the other data he’s got on this section of the moon—triangulates from all sides, makes the only connection he can.