0300 Book 3 - 16. Chapter 16: California . . . and Mt. Zion

Chapter 16: California . . . and Mt. Zion

 

2010-01-01/0300
Camp Santa Ana

 

Slowly and silently, a boxy aeroplane without wings circles above the camp, invisible in the moonless, overcast night. Three times it makes its circuit while sensors probe the buildings, and the mountains surrounding the camp. Then, it settles to the ground in front of the headquarters building. Only then does the boy on guard see the aeroplane. He scampers into the building.

A door in the side of the shuttlecraft opens. A dozen boys carrying rifles run out and take defensive positions. Four of the boys are in the black and gray of the California Army; four are in blue jumpsuits; four are in desert camouflage. Three figures follow the soldiers. The door of the shuttle closes, and it departs as silently and invisibly as it arrived. The USF Buckley, which had maintained hi-cap above the clouds, follows.

In the headquarters building, lights come on. They are barely bright enough to illuminate the waiting figures. A man steps from the headquarters and walks toward the figures. When he is about ten feet from them, he stops. “I am Don Renaldo. Welcome.” His eyes have widened but only slightly. “Artie? You are a brigadier, now? Why am I not surprised?”

Artie smiles broadly. “Don Renaldo, this is my brother, Commodore Cory Long, commander of his world’s forces. This is my father, Commodore Paul Stewart, commander of his world’s forces. We have come to take our world back from the Reverends—and anyone else who would stand in our way.”

* * * * *

The Don spoke quietly to the boy who stood behind him. The boy ran into the building. The outside lights went out; only a dim, red bulb illuminated the porch. The sound of crickets was loud in the otherwise undisturbed silence.

“There may be watchers in the hills,” the Don said. “Artie, welcome back. Will you and your brother and father—and your friends with those rather impressive looking weapons—come inside? I would like my staff to join us.”

“Yes, sir,” Artie said.

The Don ushered his visitors into the building, and sent his guard to waken others. The Don, himself, made and served coffee to Paul, Cory, and Artie while other boys from other worlds waited patiently.

People came in by ones and twos: Dr. Furman, Major Chastain, Hamish and Matthew, several of the men who routinely questioned Hamish and Matthew about what they saw on the televisor, and others. Those who recognized Artie went to him, and shook his hand or hugged him. They and the others looked hard at Paul and Cory, and at the dozen uniformed boys who lined the walls, MK-8s at port arms, but then at the Don’s gesture, they relaxed and sat. After some time, the Don spoke to one of the younger boys, who shook his head. The Don shrugged, then closed the door and walked to the couch.

“We are here except for one boy who could not be located,” the Don said. He named the members of his staff and the boys who were present. Artie introduced Cory and Paul, George and Danny, and the other boys.

 

“Major Chastain?” Paul said when that man had been introduced. “You were on the ground at the Grand Canyon for Fatima—the Miracle of the Sun, were you not?”

“Yes, sir, I was.”

“You saved the life of a boy, about twelve years old?”

“Perhaps.” The major shrugged. “The soldier might not have killed him.”

“And he might have survived the stampede that followed the destruction of the gas generators, and he might have found his way back to Williams, and he might have found a way to reach a place from which he safely could summon us,” Paul said.

“Please allow me to think differently,” Paul continued. “The boy is the son of someone who is my very good friend and mentor. On his behalf, thank you. I am sure that someday he will want to thank you, himself.”

 

The Don overheard this. “What you said makes it a little easier for me to say what I must say.

“Artie must have told you that many of the boys who died in the Battle of Las Vegas were children, youngsters . . .” The Don’s voice broke. “ . . . children as young as twelve, who were prepared to sacrifice themselves . . . children who did just that. You must have known that we allowed this, even encouraged what became a slaughter, yet you came . . .”

“We knew,” Paul spoke softly, but his voice filled the silence. “Some of the youngest survived. We saw others in the video of the battle. We learned more from Artie and his soldiers. We also learned that these children knew what they were going to do. We learned that they had given informed consent to their own deaths and that they were mature enough to do so.”

Paul thought about his service on the Enterprise. “I was six years old when I was given my first combat assignment. I was in little danger until our enemy managed to get a powerful weapon within a few hundred yards of the ship.” He wasn’t about to tell them about nuclear weapons, not yet and maybe not ever.

“Our society has established criteria under which even a child can give informed consent to many things.” He wasn’t about to say that Danny had been only ten years old when they’d had sex for the first time, not yet.

“The boy at Fatima was one of your soldiers who survived the Battle for Las Vegas and was rescued by Commodore Long’s forces. He’s a twelve-year-old—thirteen, now—named Terry. He had volunteered for a very dangerous mission—to be an intelligence resource on the ground, disguised as a serf—at the South Rim of the Grand Canyon when we spoiled the Reverend’s attempt to replicate the Miracle of the Sun.”

“You did that?” burst from someone’s lips. The Don’s gesture hushed whoever it had been, and Paul continued.

“Further, we have learned of the evil these boys were determined to fight, of the evil represented by the Reverends, and we understand that there are times when even children may be called upon to sacrifice. We do not hold you culpable for their deaths.”

The Don nodded his thanks to Paul. “After we saw the results of the battle, we realized how horrible was our mistake,” the Don said. “We learned how poorly we understood the power of the Reverends. These were mistakes we vowed not to make, again. We have, in just the year that has passed, converted what was once a school into an army post, home of the Reconstituted Santa Ana Division of the Army of the Free Republic of California. The speed with which this has been done, and our success in recruiting and training older boys, is the proof—the test—of our determination and resolve.

“All the boys in the First Battle of Las Vegas were orphans—but few of the boys who live here, now are orphans,” the Don said.

“None of the boys who survived the First Battle, nor those whose bodies were brought to us, are orphans,” Paul said.

The Don looked at Paul over the top of his glasses. “I don’t understand . . .”

“Every one of the boys who survived, and every one of those whose bodies were recovered, was adopted by a member of our Fleet,” Paul said. “Artie is my son, as are two of the boys who in their death blazed across the sky over Las Vegas. The others all have fathers; many have mothers, as well. Some have brothers and sisters on our world. They all—including those who did not survive—have brothers, for all the boys from your world, all the boys from Cory’s world, and our entire fleet have sworn brotherhood and amity.”

“How many?” The Don whispered. “How many boys lived?”

Cameron, who wore a baldric with a satchel in addition to his cartridge belts and ammo pouches, handed Artie a document.

“Six hundred eighty six,” Artie said. “Here is the list. It includes the names of the 68 dead. You saw the funeral?”

“We saw,” the Don said. “We saw your announcement, and we saw their bodies burn.”

“How did you get them high enough?” one of the men asked.

“We’ve told you we were from another world,” Paul said. “At least, we’ve dropped enough hints that I’m sure you understand that we are.

“The doorway between our world and yours is about 250,000 miles above the surface of this Earth and ours—the same as the distance to the moon. Our shuttlecraft are easily capable of making that flight.”

Despite the Californians’ almost sure knowledge of what Paul had said, there was still shock and awe. Then, one of the men, apparently a scientist, asked, “How far does the atmosphere extend?”

“About 300 miles,” George said. “After that, it’s vacuum—for billions and billions of miles.”

“Space fight,” one of the California boys whispered.

“Have you been to the moon?” This question came from a youngster—Matthew. “Will you take me there?”

The Don frowned, but did not interrupt when Danny spoke. “Sure,” Danny said. “As soon as operationally feasible.”

“What’s operationally feasible?” Matthew asked.

“First,” George said, “is operational security. We call that opsec, and it means things like not letting the Reverends know too much about us or what we can do. That’s why we landed when it was dark, and why the shuttlecraft didn’t remain.

“Don Renaldo,” George continued, “it’s going to be impossible and unnecessary to conceal that Artie has returned and that he brought with him others who are soldiers. We ask you to ensure that the fewest number of your people necessary know that we are from different Earths, that we arrived on a craft capable of reaching the moon, and that we are here to explore an alliance with you and the Free Republic of California as a prelude to invasion.

“I would also like someone on your staff to coordinate opsec with,” he concluded.

“Ensign Stewart, you said different Earths,” someone asked.

“Our Earth, and yours, and Cory’s are very much alike in some ways, but different in others,” Paul said. “That will take much time to explain.”

 

Treaty of Amity

 

The Don nodded. “I think I understand what you have said, but there’s something that must be addressed, first. You said an alliance. I must know more about that.”

Paul nodded to Cam who opened his satchel and removed another document.

“This is a copy of a treaty signed by Artie, Cory, and me,” Paul said. “It bears original signatures, and has been certified by the Fleet Council of my world. They are, de facto and de jure, my world’s government, except for a few small enclaves. Cory has signed on behalf of his world government, which also has ratified it. We would like to submit it to the government of the Free Republic of California, which we have determined is the government most closely aligned with our beliefs and values.”

The Don surprised his visitors. Rather than read the document, he set it aside, and asked, “What are those beliefs and values?”

Cameron answered. “The dignity of the individual. The right of each person to seek happiness in his or her own way, as long as doing so does not infringe the rights of any other person. The notion that all people are of value and that all work is of value. The notion that mental and emotional maturity but not age determine what rights and privileges a person should have. The notion that reason and logic can explain all of nature and the universe without the need for miracles or magic.”

Don Renaldo listened carefully. When Cam had finished, Paul watched closely the Don’s face as he digested what he’d heard.

“I can agree with all you have said. I believe our government will largely agree, in private, at least. However, despite the bad example the Reverends offer, there are people in our government and citizens of California who are still followers of the Catholic faith. I’m not sure how to describe it, but—yes, Cameron?”

“Sir, there are Catholics on our world. They control much of the country of Italy, and have some isolated adherents in the central and southern parts of the American continent. We understand their beliefs.”

“Then you know that not everyone in our government will accept you or this treaty that you offer.” The Don picked up the document, read it in an instant, and set it down, again.

“Artie was within his authority as the commander of an army in exile to sign this document. It does bind him and his boys, since they all swore to follow lawful leadership, and it is clear that Artie was—and still is—that lawful leadership. On the other hand, Artie did not and cannot speak for the rest of the Republic of California.”

Before anyone could protest, the Don continued. “On the other hand, I will agree to these terms on behalf of those beholden to me, which includes everyone at this school . . . this base. As far as the Free State of California is concerned, I promise to do everything I can, I will use every resource I have, to make their agreement a reality. I will try, but that’s all I can promise.”

The Don saw the look that Paul and Artie exchanged. “What?” he asked.

“Those were the words Paul used a year ago when he promised to bring us home and to help us overcome the Reverends,” Artie said.

The Don nodded, but then abruptly changed the subject. “Artie, you left here as a battalion commander. You appeared on the televisor as a colonel. Now, you’re a brigadier,” the Don said.

Paul answered. “Artie commands not only three hundred or so of the boys from California, but a force that includes over 1,000 soldiers, sailors, and engineers from our world, and 100 soldiers from Commodore Long’s world. Commodore Long commands a force of similar size—plus a battleship and a fleet of shuttles similar to the one which brought us here. We have worked hard to integrate our forces. Brigadier Stewart wears rank appropriate to his command.”

Before we could discuss this further, a knock at the door was followed by a message whispered to the Don.

“Breakfast is ready,” the Don said. “I accept the treaty you offered, I swear amity for myself and the others at this camp. I trust you boys will not object to slinging your weapons so that you can join us at the table.” He looked at Paul, who nodded to George.

George gave a signal. There were a dozen snaps as weapon safeties were activated.

In the ensuing hubbub, Matthew grabbed Hamish’s hand and pulled him to Artie. “Artie! I’m Matthew! This is my boyfriend, Hamish. Will you take him to the moon, too?”

“You’ll have to ask Danny, that,” Artie said. “I think he’s in charge of shuttle flights.” He would have walked away, but Hamish took his arm, stopping him.

“Artie, there’s something we have to talk about. And it’s a lot more important than breakfast—or a trip to the moon.”

 

Ten minutes later, there was a knock on the door of Matthew and Hamish’s room. A boy put his head into the room where Artie sat, alone.

“Artie?” he said. “There is someone here who very much does not want to see you. He’s with his friends who have, I’m afraid, forced him somewhat against his will.”

The door opened wide to reveal Martin, standing between Matthew and Hamish. Hamish gently pushed his corporal into the room and closed the door.

“Martin!” Artie rushed to the smaller boy, and scooped him up in his arms. He pressed Martin’s head to his chest, and began crying.

“I thought I’d never see you again! I looked for you before we left for Las Vegas, but things were so confused, we were in such a rush, I couldn’t find you! I’m so sorry, but I couldn’t find you to tell you how much I loved you—”

“Martin, what’s wrong? You’re upset.”

“You couldn’t find me because I was hiding,” Martin gasped. He struggled a little, and Artie set him on his feet, but kept his arms tightly around the smaller boy.

Martin pushed his head against Artie’s chest. His words were muffled, but Artie understood them. “I was angry that you were leaving, I was angry that you were leaving me, I . . . I hated you! I was selfish, and I was afraid to tell you how much I loved you. I hid. Artie, I’m so sorry! I’m so—”

Martin’s words were smothered when Artie lifted the boy’s face and kissed him. When they could breathe again, Artie spoke. “Martin, do you still love me?”

Martin knew the answer. It was yes. But he couldn’t say that. Instead, he said to Artie, “You have a daddy, and Danny and George, they’re your brothers, aren’t they? And you’ve probably got a boyfriend, too. It’s too late for us—”

Artie once again hushed the younger boy with a kiss. “Yes, I have a daddy and actually a lot more brothers than just Danny and George. And, uh, I do sex stuff with some of them. We’re boys who are friends, and we are brothers, and we love each other, but there’s no one who is my boyfriend.

“That place in my heart is still open, Martin. Boyfriend is a very special place that I’ve been keeping open because my daddy said we would someday come back, and that I would find you, again.

Artie repeated his question. “Do you still love me?”

Martin blushed, and then said, “Yes, Artie. I do love you, and I want to be your boyfriend.”

He giggled, blushed more brightly, and said, “And I want to have sex with you. I’m getting really bored with just my hand.”

Now, Artie was blushing. “Later, Spanky,” he said, and rushed Martin out the door before the younger boy could ask what Artie meant.

 

Artie and Martin found Hamish and Matthew waiting for them in the dining hall. After filling their trays, the four boys sat together.

Hamish saw the connection that had been made, and felt the love between the two boys.

“Artie, he said, “I swore I would hurt you if you ever hurt Martin,” Hamish said. “I’m glad I didn’t have to do that, and I’m glad we’re brothers, now.”

“How did you know?” Artie asked.

“Um, I’m like you, Artie—telepathic? And like Andrew is. He’s not here, but he’s with you, right? Where you live, I mean. In space? I’ve heard you and Andrew talking, so I knew you were telepaths. I didn’t know what you were saying, though.”

 

* * * * *

 

The Don’s staff, which now included Martin, and members of Task Force Rift reassembled in the Don’s office/living room after breakfast.

“You said that all the boys had been adopted, and I see they all have last names.” The Don scanned the list of survivors. “Which raises the question: where is their first loyalty? To us or to their new families and your fleet?”

“I believe I am the best one to answer that,” Artie said. “Both.”

The Don and Paul waited. Paul knew what Artie was going to say, and focused his attention on the Don.

“We are loyal to an idea. It is an idea we learned here, and which was nurtured during the year we were with Paul . . . Commodore Stewart. It is the idea that good and evil only exist in the minds of people who would do good or who would do evil. It is the idea that we each must decide for ourselves which side we will be on, and then do something about it.

“We are on the side of good,” Artie concluded. “And we know that Commodore Stewart and you are good. There can be no divided loyalties as long as that is true.”

 

“How will California fit into these plans?” the Don asked.

“That is going to depend on California, and—in large part—on you,” Paul said. “We will describe our battle plan; you may offer to assume a role or roles. However, neither you nor the rest of the Republic of California may interfere. Can you accept that?”

“Well and truly,” the Don said. “For myself, that is. I will communicate with our leadership, and advocate for you with them.” And, as soon as I can get this Commodore alone, I will introduce him to The Brotherhood.

“We kidnapped one of your soldiers—a corporal from Monterrey,” Paul said. “In return for his cooperation with our intelligence people, he extracted a promise that we would not attack California without giving California a chance to negotiate. We will abide by that promise. Please communicate that, too.

“And tell them that we will protect him. He did not betray his trust in any way. Your leadership must understand that, as well.”

 

Paul

I was not reluctant to accept the Don’s invitation for a private meeting. I could read him easily, and knew I was in no danger, but I knew he had a secret to share. I did not try to read that.

“Commodore, when I offered to ratify the Treaty of Amity for those beholden to me, I said that included all those at this camp. There are, however, others for whom I can speak.

“There is a group of soldiers, of all ranks, who are members of a brotherhood. It is a secret group, and members are vetted carefully not only for their knowledge, skills, and abilities, but also for their willingness to keep the group secret, even in the face of their deaths, if necessary.

“The only reason I can speak of it to you is that the leadership of The Brotherhood ratified a plan to establish an alliance with you—long before we knew who you were or the depth of your understanding of the Enlightenment, which Cameron so eloquently expressed.”

“You know of the Enlightenment?” I asked. “We were sure it had been suppressed on this world.”

The Don chuckled. “The Reverends tried, in their territories, as did the Pan-Asians and the Mujahedeen. However, there were too many copies of the critical books for all to have been destroyed, and The Brotherhood has been their custodians. One of the main repositories is here, at Camp Santa Ana.”

This time, the Don laughed at my reaction, but sobered when I offered to share with him whatever books he did not have. He was fascinated with my iPad, and I promised to get him one that could be charged from an outlet on the comms terminal we installed before we returned to the Charleston.

* * * * *

Artie and Martin had a private talk with the Don. I was sure that George knew what was discussed, but neither he nor Artie revealed anything except to ask me if Martin, Hamish, and Matthew might return to the Charleston with us.

“The Don said it would be okay,” Artie said. “And Danny did promise . . .”

“And Martin’s the boy you told me about,” I said. “I’m so happy you found him, Artie. Of course, those boys may return with us.”

 

Every meta and most of the other telepaths onboard Charleston felt Artie and Martin’s first night together, and Artie got a lot of teasing the next day. Eventually, all the boys at Camp Santa Ana learned what was meant by spanking the monkey, but even among the metas and other telepaths, only Artie was allowed to use Martin’s nickname, and he was careful to do so only in private.

 

2010-01-03
USF Charleston

 

Andrew and John Patmos’s reunion with Hamish and Matthew was eclipsed when I assigned Andrew command of a shuttle so that he could fulfill Danny’s promise. Hamish and Matthew giggled at the skin suits, had the usual problem with tumescence when first fitted with a catheter, almost panicked when the force-field came on, but otherwise were thrilled with their trip to the moon. Their moon.

I thought about giving them a flag to plant, but couldn’t decide what flag it should be. Certainly it could not be one of ours, and not one from California, either. That was something for a long-term to-do list. Meanwhile, there was something much more urgent. I assembled the core group of the Flag Intel Team.

“We still don’t know what’s going on at Mt. Zion other than that they appear to be building an atomic pile. We need information. George? Get some more information. Ops Team, please give me a plan.”

Yeah, I know. I didn’t say ‘please’ to George. Didn’t need to. I was ordering him to kidnap people. I didn’t need to say ‘please.’

* * * * *

The omnibus stopped at a checkpoint. Men in the uniform of the Holy Inquisition boarded and looked closely at the identification offered by each of the workmen before allowing the bus to proceed. It entered the tunnel in the side of the mountain. Electric lights illuminated its path as the bus drove farther and farther into the mountain. The tunnel opened into a cavern. The walls and ceiling were studded with metal plates a foot or so square, bolted to the rock. Despite these precautions, rock occasionally fell. The men put on hard hats before they left the bus.

* * * * *

Imint teams reviewed historical as well as more current data, and captured the patterns, the essence. “Men are bussed into and out of the mountain every day except Saturday but including the Sabbath,” Alex said. “Our conclusion is that they are Jewish, and that the Inquisition recognizes Saturday as their Sabbath. That is unusual.”

He put up another slide, and continued his presentation. “They live in these barracks; eat morning and evening meals in this mess hall. They carry sacks out of the mess hall after breakfast, and with them onto the bus. Likely, the sacks are their lunch, as they do not return with them.”

Alex paused and added, “That they appear to be fed lunch is unusual, and suggests that they are considered to be valuable servants.

“We see an occasional flare and spark outside the barracks in the early evening. John Patmos has told us that these men are allowed an expensive and rare habit: smoking.”

“Tobacco?” Danny asked.

“Yes,” Cam said.

I grimaced. Another result of the Enlightenment had been the destruction of the tobacco industry that had grown up in the colonies, including Jefferson’s home of Virginia, and which had been largely responsible for the importation of slaves into what later would become the United States. The Enlightenment also ended the institution of slavery in the United States, and later the rest of the world as it fell under the aegis of Fleet.

 

George had selected a time of night when the moon had set. The Kidnap Team took two shuttles: one for the kidnap, the other to provide fire support should it be needed. The second shuttle was a Guns-a-Go-Go, equipped with Gatling guns that fired 1.00-caliber slugs. Cory assigned four of his phaser-qualified teens to supplement the Guns firepower. Even though his people had promoted Cory to Commodore before he returned, he was thrilled when I offered him operational command of the gunship. Actually, I was a bit jealous that I couldn’t go along.

 

Admiral Davis sat in on the briefing that followed the first kidnap mission to Mt. Zion. The Admiral was, of course, in his office in Geneva, and the signal was relayed through the rift. There was a several-second speed-of-light delay, which meant that briefers were likely to be interrupted in mid-sentence.

“Admiral, there’s been a development so important that I wanted you to have it in real time,” I said.

“We kidnapped a workman from the Inquisitors’ underground headquarters near what would be Colorado Springs, Colorado, and confirmed that they are building an atomic pile under the mountain.”

George picked up the briefing at that point. “There’s more, sir” he said.

The admiral smiled. “George, how are you? Been to K-2 lately?”

George and the admiral had met after George had been arrested for stealing a Fleet shuttle and flying it to K-2, and then been brought to the Admiral’s office to be drummed out of Fleet. That’s where Danny and I had met him.

George grinned. “No, sir. I’ve got my sights set on bigger things.”

Admiral Davis’s eyes widened, and then he relaxed. He assumed that George was kidding. I wasn’t nearly as sure, and I knew that George had been talking a lot recently with Dr. Adams who now was in charge not only of the CERN-Higgs facility, but also the Fleet shipyards at Perth—where our first fleet of FTL ships was being built.

George continued in the same breath. “It’s more than a nuclear reactor. It’s a breeder reactor. They’ve created enriched uranium 235 for shotgun-type bombs, and they’re assembling them. They’re building at least three.”

Nova sol. That was what I had thought when George first explained it to me, and as it seemed, what all the Geeks thought. How could someone be so stupid!

“What they are building is perhaps the simplest way to create a fission reaction: bring enough enriched uranium close enough to set off a chain reaction. It’s easy, it’s dirty, and it’s foolproof.”

“Shotgun?” the admiral asked.

“Put half of a critical mass of uranium at one end of a tube, half at the other end. Keep them far enough apart that they won’t go critical. Six feet or so would do it. When you’re ready to blow up the bomb, use an explosive charge to push one mass down the tube into the other.

“Given the likely purity of the uranium, I estimate they would need about 30 pounds of uranium per bomb. Our source indicates they have over 100 pounds—in widely separated stockpiles—under the mountain. At least, they seem to be aware of what they have, and of its potential.”

The quiet that greeted George’s description was long enough for Admiral Davis’s voice to come through without interrupting anyone. “Any idea what their targets are? How much would these things weigh? Any chance they could launch one against us?”

“If the bomb weren’t shielded?” George thought for a moment. “If they didn’t care about the health or lives of the people who handled it . . . and we suspect that might be the case . . . a bomb might weigh only a couple of hundred pounds. It could be carried by one of their aircraft, but we’ve seen no capability to launch something like that against us.”

John Patmos had brought his “Inquisitors Team,” and led the discussion that followed.

“What are their likely targets, then?”

“California?”

“Not likely; they’re too dependent on trade with the Pan-Asians.”

“The Army is dependent; the Reverends are, too. We don’t know that about the Inquisition.”

“Could they attack the Pan-Asians?”

“Only if they targeted one of California’s west coast ports. There’s no way they could deliver a bomb to Asia.”

“The Mujahedeen?”

“Even if they got a bomb to Europe, the Mujahedeen are too diffuse; there are no targets. Their largest city has a population of fewer than 10,000.”

The discussion was going nowhere, so I interrupted. “John? Can you provide a summary and your team’s best estimate of targets in, say, one hour?” I asked.

John agreed.

* * * * *

At John’s signal, Marty began the briefing. “The Inquisition, which we call Arcana, have not changed their telegraph code, despite their certain knowledge of our activities in the Reverends’ territories. This strongly suggests that they do not believe we are tapping their lines or have broken that code. This briefing is merely a summary of what we know. Details are in our report, which is available on the Task Force server.”

Cam spoke next. “They know we exist and have satellites in synchronous orbits; they know we are a space-faring power. They probably know we’re responsible for kidnappings of Reverends and the end-times messages we’ve left on their bedroom walls. They probably suspect we kidnapped their worker from Mt. Zion and that we know about their nuclear reactor and capability to make bombs. They almost certainly know we’re responsible for the psyops messages on the televisor and for the holographs.”

John Patmos picked up at this point. “They are likely to believe that we will overcome the Reverends, their Army, and the Sheriffs. They probably believe we would not establish an outpost on Earth and that there are, therefore, no targets against us.

“That leaves the Reverends.”

“What would be their motivation for attacking the Reverends?” I asked.

“To show that they’re not aligned with the Reverends; to get on our good side.”

“What might they target?”

“Lynchburg and Las Vegas seem the most likely. We know they have people in Chicago and Miami whom they might like to protect.”

Danny had pulled up a satellite version of RAWIND data on his iPad, and displayed dispersion patterns on the big screen. “As much as I’d like to see Lynchburg and Las Vegas destroyed, we can’t let them do that. Their bombs would likely be surface bursts, and using the default wind data, the dispersion, even from a bomb at Lynchburg, would be devastating.” He put images, complete with dispersion and radiation predictions, on the screen. Without being asked, Tobor added population figures. Tens of thousands would die.

“Is it perhaps more likely that they’ll go after California: Camp Santa Ana, the Pacific Ocean ports, perhaps Monterey?”

“No matter what their targets, we have to stop them. The long-term effects of nuclear radiation are impossible to predict; however, we know they would be awful.”

“How long before they have a bomb assembled?”

“The scientist we kidnapped said it would take at least another week, even if they worked 24-7,” George said.

“I need a plan of action, guys,” I said. “What should we do?”

 

The general who is skilled in defense
hides in the most secret recesses of the earth.
He who is skilled in attack
flashes forth from the topmost heights of heaven.
—Sun Tzu Maxim 4-7

 

Tobor assured me that the sensors we had put in low orbit could detect any attempt to remove the bombs—or the refined uranium—from the mountain. Marty was adamant about not using the Inquisition’s telegraph system, much less their code, to contact them. Cam was sure they knew we were the people with boxy aeroplanes, and that showing them a shuttle wouldn’t be risky. Those parameters were sufficient for John Patmos’s Team, working with Casey’s Flag Ops Team, to plan the mission. George put on his “opsec hat” and joined the discussion. He didn’t like the mission, at all, but finally agreed.

 

We sent three shuttles. One landed in the road just outside the mountain while two Guns-a-Go-Go shuttles commanded by Cory and Danny remained overhead. Casey, wearing a skin suit with an integrated force field stepped out and handed an envelope to the startled driver of the bus that had come to an abrupt halt when the shuttle had cut off its path.

“Good morning,” Casey said. “Would you please deliver this to the Commander of the Inquisition, Colonel-General Brewster?”

 

We—meaning George’s kidnap teams—had kidnapped seven men in one night before learning the Colonel-General’s rank and name, but we believed it was important to be able to address him that way. He wore four stars, so the message was on Admiral Davis’s letterhead, which included an image of his four-star flag.

 

The message called for their surrender and the removal of all “radioactive material and devices” from the mountain. The materials and devices would then be picked up by us. Their reply was to be broadcast on a televisor frequency.

 

The immediate reply from Colonel-General Brewster was long. Too long for his own good, in fact. Cam and John’s people poured over it, wringing from it every possible nuance. Marty fed them the telegraph messages that began to flow from the mountain, and the responses. The messages were orders to assemble in the mountain for a meeting “critical to the Order.”

 

John and Cam were ashen when they came onto the Flag Bridge. “They’re going to detonate the bombs in the mountain. They’re going to do a mass suicide!” Cam said.

I didn’t have to ask Cam if he were sure. As I have said, except for quantum fluctuations, Cam was always 100% correct in his assessments.

Danny had been working on a contingency plan. He and Tobor had contacted geologists and maintained a database of current wind data. George consulted the kidnapped scientist and then huddled with Danny.

“Sir,” George reported. “They can probably detonate only one of the bombs. They likely do not have the technology to detonate more than one simultaneously. On the other hand, they may make it as dirty as possible by using more uranium than necessary.”

Danny added, “Even one bomb would likely blow out sufficient radioactive material through the entrance adit before the mountain collapsed to poison the country from Chicago to New Orleans, and cause illness from New York to Miami. The residual radiation would last for years.”

 

It was the hardest decision I had ever had to make: to attack, destroy, kill without warning and with technology so superior it would appear to be magic. The time was 1500 on a weekday. There would be collateral deaths, including the scientists still in the mountain as well as hundreds of people in the town just outside. Still, I did not hesitate. I could not hesitate.

“Commodore Long? Orders for the Endeavor, please.” I named the warship from Rigel. It had been placed under my command; however, relaying the order through Cory was more than a courtesy.

“My compliments to the Captain, and would he slag Mt. Zion. Seal it off and melt it before they can detonate or remove their bombs. George will provide coordinates for the aim point.”

Cory’s eyes narrowed for a second, but only for a second before he sent the order.

It took the Endeavor less than a quarter hour to maneuver into position. The two-mile cannon along its keel poured a stream of ionized gas—plasma at temperatures that equaled those of the sun—into the adit. Everyone in the mountain was certainly killed instantly, even before the mountain began to slump.