“I mean, I assume you’ll want to burn the Battle Center, if this is a permanent shutdown,” he went on, fingers moving by feel alone as they flew over the keypad, covered by his body, while he prayed no one would notice the row of telltales blinking from amber stand-by to green readiness on the maintenance console in the command center’s corner. “That’d mean someone would have to hike out to its present location in the bush. And if we’re going to salvage the station, don’t you want to salvage the Bolo, too? Once its Battle Center goes, getting it back here for reclamation is going to be a real problem, and—”
“Stand up, Merrit!” Atwell barked. “Get both hands up here where I can see them!”
Merrit froze, cursing the man’s alertness. Another fifteen seconds—just fifteen more seconds. That was all he’d needed. But he hadn’t gotten them. He drew a deep breath and touched one more button, then rose, holding his hands carefully away from his body. He turned, and his blood was ice as he saw what he’d known he would. Atwell and Deng each held a needler, and both of them were aimed squarely at him.
“Colonel?” he looked at Sanders, making himself sound as confused as he could, but his attention wasn’t really on the colonel. It wasn’t even on the two men with guns. It was watching a display behind Deng as light patterns shifted across its surface in response to his last input. He hadn’t had time to reconfigure the armrest keypad, so he’d had to work through the maintenance computers to reach the one he needed. His commands were still filtering their way through the cumbersome interface, and even after they were all in place, they might not do him any good at all. Atwell had stopped him before he could do more than enable the system he needed on automatic, and if Atwell and Deng were real Brigade officers rather than ringers—
“Just . . . just shut the Bolo down, Captain,” Sanders whispered, keeping his own eyes resolutely turned away from the guns.
“But why, sir?” Merrit asked plaintively.
“Because we frigging well told you to!” Atwell barked. “Now do it!”
“I don’t think I can. Not without checking with Central.”
“Captain Merrit,” Sanders said in that same strained, whispery voice, “I advise you to do exactly what Major Atwell says. I’m aware this installation’s hardware is considerably out of date. Admittedly, it would take me some time to familiarize myself with it sufficiently to shut down the Bolo without you, but I can do it. We both know I can, and I have the command authentication codes from Central.”
“If you extracted the codes from Central, then you don’t have the right ones, sir,” Merrit said softly. Sanders jerked, eyes widening, and Atwell snarled. Merrit’s belly tensed as the gunman started to raise his weapon, but Sanders waved a frantic hand.
“Wait! Wait!” he cried, and his shrill tone stopped Atwell just short of firing. “What do you mean, I don’t have the right codes?” he demanded.
“I changed them.”
“You can’t have! That’s against regs!” Sanders protested, and Merrit laughed.
“Colonel Sanders, you have no idea how many regs I’ve broken in the last six months! If you expect `Leonidas’ to get you into Nike’s system, then be my guest and try it.”
“Damn you!” Atwell hissed. The gunman looked at his chrono yet again, and his eyes were ugly when he raised them to Merrit once more. “You’re lying. You’re just trying to make us think we need you!”
“I could be, but I’m not,” Merrit replied, the corner of his eye still watching the display behind Deng. Come on, baby! Come on, please! he whispered to it, and smiled at Atwell. “Ask Colonel Sanders. Psych Ops had its doubts about me before Central sent me out here. Well,” he shrugged, “looks like Psych Ops may have had a point.”
Atwell spat something foul, but Sanders shook his head suddenly.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “You may have changed the codes from the ones on file at Central, but only a lunatic would change them without leaving a record somewhere.” Merrit turned his head to look at the colonel, and Sanders rubbed his hands nervously together. “Yes, there has to be a record somewhere,” he muttered to himself. “Somewhere . . . somewhere . . .”
“We don’t need any records,” Atwell decided in an ugly voice. He stepped closer to Merrit and lowered his needler’s point of aim. “You ever seen what a burst from one of these can do to a man’s legs, Merrit?” he purred. “With just a little luck, I can saw your left leg right off at the knee without even killing you. You’ll just wish you were dead, and you won’t be—not until we’ve got that code.”
“Now wait a minute!” Merrit stepped back and licked his lips as a crimson code sequence blinked on the display behind Deng at last. “Wait a minute!” He looked back at Sanders. “Colonel, just what the hell is going on here?”
“Don’t worry about him!” Atwell snarled. “Just give me that code phrase—now!”
“All right. All right!” Merrit licked his lips again, cleared his throat, and made his voice as expressionless as he could, grateful that computers needed no special emphasis. “The code phrase is `Activate Alamo.’ ”
It almost worked. It would have worked if he’d had the fifteen additional seconds he’d needed to complete the system reconfiguration or if Major Atwell’s reflexes had been even a fraction slower.
Lieutenant Deng was slower; he was still trying to figure out what was happening when the power rifle unhoused itself above the main command console and blew his chest apart. He went down without even a scream, and the power rifle slewed sideways, searching for Atwell. But the bogus major’s snake-quick reaction hurled him to the floor behind the planetary surveillance system’s holo display even as the rifle dealt with Deng. His frantic dive for cover couldn’t save him forever, but it bought him time—a few, deadly seconds of time—before the computers found him again.
The power rifle snarled again, and sparks and smoke erupted from the display, but it sheltered Atwell just long enough for him to fire his own weapon.
Merrit was already sprinting towards Deng’s fallen gun when Atwell’s needler whined. Most of the hasty burst’s needles missed, but one didn’t, and Merrit grunted in agony as it punched into his back. It entered just above the hip and tore through his abdomen, and the impact smashed him to the bunker floor. He rolled desperately towards the command center door, away from Deng, to avoid Atwell’s next burst, and a fresh shower of needles screamed and ricocheted.
Then the power rifle fired yet again. Atwell collapsed with a bubbling shriek, and Merrit rolled up onto his knees, sobbing in agony and pressing both hands against the hot blood that slimed his belly.
Sanders stared in horror at the carnage, and then his huge eyes whipped up to the power rifle. It quivered, questing about, but it didn’t fire again, and his breath escaped in a huge gasp as he realized what had happened. Merrit had been able to bring the bunker’s automated defenses on-line through the command chair keypad, but he hadn’t had time to override their inhibitory programming. The master computer would kill any unauthorized personnel when its commanding officer’s coded voice command declared an intruder alert, but Sanders was authorized personnel. His name, face, and identifying data were in the Brigade’s files, just like Merrit’s . . . and that meant the computer couldn’t fire on him!
Even through the pain that blurred his vision, Merrit saw the realization on the colonel’s face. Saw fear turn into the determination of desperation. Sanders flung himself to the floor, hands scrabbling for Atwell’s weapon, and there was no time for Merrit to reach Deng’s.
He did the only thing he could. He dragged himself to his feet, staggered from the command deck, and fled down the passage outside. He heard Sanders screaming his name behind him, heard feet plunging after him, and somehow, despite the nauseating agony hammering his wounded body, he made himself run faster. He caromed off walls, smearing them with splashes of crimson, and only the fact that Sanders was a desk-jockey saved his life. The needler whined behind him, but the colonel’s panic combined with his inexperience to throw his aim wide.
Merrit reached the vehicle chamber and flung himself desperately into the recon skimmer’s cockpit. He slammed the canopy with one blood-slick hand while the other brought the drive on-line, and needles screamed and skipped from the fuselage. He gasped a hoarse, pain-twisted curse at his inability to use the skimmer’s weapon systems inside the bunker. The safety interlocks meant he couldn’t shoot back, but Sanders’ needler couldn’t hurt him, either—not through the skimmer’s armor—and he bared his teeth in an anguish-wracked grin as he thought of the air lorry outside. He could damned well use his weapons on it, and he rammed power to the drive.