But the soldiers held him fast, obedient to the curt orders Wilson had given them when the Coordinator first spotted him at the communications panel.
“Nobody touches that console,” Wilson ordered. He turned to look Fife in the eye. “Just what the hell are you playing at, Terry? If that monstrosity of yours has attacked our lines . . .”
“But Jason didn’t do it!” Fife said. “Hell, he’s ~reporting friendly fire on his position, too! Listen, goddamn it!” He pointed toward the Bolo communications link as a fourth VSR message came from the speakers in the same flat monotone as all the ones before.
But Fife knew that the Bolo’s mechanical voice was no clue to what was going on inside its computerized brain. Bolos were more than cold machines. And if this one reached the wrong conclusions in the wake of being cut off from higher command, it would certainly take action. Even Fife wasn’t sure what form that ~action would take.
“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-fashioned glasses. “Sir, I’ve been checking the satellite data. The Bolo was attacked. . . .”
“Somebody responding to the attack on Hot Springs Pass,” 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 Pass. A second one three minutes later. Artillery from this position launched both attacks . . . on our own lines!”
Wilson rounded on Kyle. “Get me confirmation, damn 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 pass.”
“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 God. 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 passed 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 shifted 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 assault ~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 pass 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 pass, then release four rapid shots from my Hellbore at carefully selected points along the cliff. This produces a satisfying additional accumulation of debris across the narrowest portion of the pass. 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 Hellbore shot to add to the blockage, revise my delay estimates accordingly, and turn away from the position to make my way back down the pass 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 pass. . . .”
“Jason’s been trying to file a situation report,” Fife said, voice grim. “When he got no response from Command, he would assume 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 Hellbore bursts a couple of minutes ago. First he blocked the pass 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 assurances. We can’t stop it. . . .”