Oberheim (Voices): A Chronicle of War by Christopher Leadem (top books of all time .txt) 📖

footage, along with the New York Press commentary, of the Presidential funeral, and the later trial of Admiral Hesse. This was followed in turn by Plant's exigent inauguration, and lastly, by Bacon being sworn in as the new Secretary of State, vowing to check the spread of anarchy and military adventurism, and bring the traitor Hayes to justice. Calder stood like a rueful statue just inside the doorway.

"Idiot!" screamed Hayes when all was over. Calder closed his eyes, crumpled in shame, but the exhortation had not been directed against him alone. "Now he's left me no choice." He got up and waved a threatening finger at the other. "No choice!"

It was not clear whom this 'he' might represent, since Stone was dead and buried, and Plant and Bacon two separate beings. Perhaps it was merely meant in the military sense—-the pronoun replacing, both verbally and psychologically, that mass of humanity opposed to one's aims, who therefore must be killed. The enemy, which in Hayes' mind continued to multiply all around him.

At length he became calmer. "You're sure there were only two of these planted at Westmoreland? No mistakes this time." His lackey began to answer, but he interrupted him. "Nevermind. We can't take that for granted."

Almost tearfully. "What. . .what will we do now?"

"NOW?" What I should have done a long time ago. I'm not out of aces yet! No sir, not by a damn sight! Pull yourself together, and report back to me at 0450."

The 'ace' that Hayes referred to was simply this, hitherto, and to the sane mind still, unthinkable. He would construct a star gate straight to Earth, overthrow Plant and install himself as President, simultaneously eliminating the Soviet Union from the face of the globe. Then they would HAVE to rally behind him: the Fourth and decisive Great War. The dream wasn't ended, just pressed to its last, supreme effort and need. His only mistake to date had been that he underestimated the greatness of God! Ruthless, that was the way of Heaven. The way it must be, by damn!

If he had been tireless, aggressive and energetic before, that was nothing to the way he now threw himself, and his men, into action. Construction of the final Gate was begun immediately, and every vessel that could still fly or fire a shot, along with the Dreadnought itself, was issued to defend it. Let the red bastards come! It would take twice his own number to defeat him now. His men were battle trained and battle hardened, and what was more, they were desperate. (He continued to find it impossible to separate his own emotions from those of his men).

But. . .ONE THING AT A TIME, AND NOT MISSING A SINGLE DETAIL. That had been his motto, and he stuck to it for all the current frenzy. He detached the mythical '21st Airborne' once more to Westmoreland, this time not to talk, but to fight.

Along with it, and all in the same vessel, went the ground crews that had serviced and realigned the Detachment upon their return from the first encounter, including the man who had brought him the two canisters. These possible witness/subversives must not live to tell their tale.

Hayes no longer cared if the fuel cells were lost. Who needed them, or anyone or anything else? They would find all the supplies they needed on Earth. Enough of this mucking around! He was going home in bloody triumph, and good-night sweet prince to anyone who stood in his way.

He decided also, on one of the many sleepless nights spent waiting for the star gate, to tell his men the truth—-at least that was how it then appeared in his mind. YES, OF COURSE. One thought followed another in rapid succession.

STONE HAD BEEN MURDERED, BUT NOT BY THE ARCH-CONSERVATIVES. NO! BY
THE SNAKE'S BELLY LIBERALS. AND BY THE COMMUNISTS AND THEIR
SYMPATHIZERS, WHO FEARED THE SWORD HE HAD PUT IN HIS GENERAL'S HAND.
PLANT WAS A MERE PUPPET. OF COURSE! HE HAD NO CHOICE BUT TO USURP
HIM, AND DEAL THE AVENGING BLOW TO SOVIET SPACE. He could even use the
footage of Stone's funeral, to commentary written by himself…..

He dressed quickly, took out of its locked drawer the remaining microvideo, and made his way impatiently to the InterCommunications Studio, where he spent the rest of the night alone, cutting and editing, then in a late flurry, recording and polishing his own address. Age and fatigue tried to rankle, but he was not let them. The Gate was nearly completed and the Russian threat, unseen but strongly felt, grew nearer each day. Surely by now they had secured a lock on his position, and dispatched their Armada…..

There was no time to lose.

IV

The Coalition had decided to attack the Belgians and Swiss at the place they were now weakest—-the occupied Dutch holdings at Larkspur. There were several other considerations behind this choice.

For one thing, it was unexpected. For another, it placed the field of battle on neutral ground, where if the assault was beaten back, or the fighting became intense, there could be no reprisals, or increased danger to the civilian populations. Lastly, and of no small importance, the Soviets insisted upon it. Apparently something had developed in their search for Hayes and they could not, so they said, spare sufficient force to insure victory at the tri-colonies of Athena. At least not yet.

After their most recent assault against Joint Africa, at the heart of the Kurtz quadrant—-the one that had triggered, or at least legitimized the Soviet response—-the Alliance had drawn themselves into a more defensive posture. But they were still, by all reconnaissance, overextended. Their expected help from the German States, both in weapons systems and personnel, had not materialized, and upon last contact with Hayes, himself now a renegade, he had told them flatly to, "Go play soldier in a barn."

At the outset of the conflict, the relative strengths of the Alliance and the Coalition had been approximately equal. After the Schiller debacle and concurrent destruction of the Coalition First Combat Fleet, the scales had for a time been heavily tipped in favor of the Belgians and Swiss. But with Soviet Space now backing their rival, the (legitimate) American forces now hostile because of Hayes' earlier complicity with them, and the German States coolly indifferent, they found themselves in a position where not only was offense impossible, but defense became equally precarious. The overall anarchy which they had counted on to cover their tracks, was now on the wane, as United Nations peace-keeping forces—-mostly Japanese, British and Australian, along with the implicit aid and cooperation of the Commonwealth—-were dispatched to patrol the troubled areas.

The prowling leopard was caught in its tree, alone, surrounded by foes.

But a treed cat is far from a dead one. Teeth and claws and sinew it still possessed, along with the added ferocity of desperation. And not all of those on the ground below it were unified, or come with the same purpose.

The fight was far from over.

V

For all his medicines and reckless determination, by the time the
Coalition/Soviet fleet came within striking distance of Dutch Larkspur,
Captain Brunner was a physical and psychological time-bomb.

He knew this, did not know how to change it, and for all his efforts at callousness, could not keep creeping fears from sprouting in his mind. He was like a man on a tight-rope through dense fogs of desolation. Did hope lie forward, or back? It might have been easy but for thoughts of Ara that still came to him in his despair. If only she would come and kneel beside his deathbed, kiss his brow and say it was all right. Then he could surrender his spirit and be at peace. But she did not come, and because of it, the tiniest part of him still held on.

Four days out from Dutch Rembrandt/van Gogh, his mind and body together reached an impasse. His intestines throbbed with a dull ache that pervaded all with weakness and chills. The sleep lozenges he counted on to end the horror of each day had begun to show side-effects, and he could hardly take one in mid-afternoon. So he struggled on, eyes wincing yellow weakness as he stirred uncomfortably in his Group Leader's chair, amid the upper bridge of the first destroyer. Whatever that might mean. Until a surge of liquid anguish overpowered him, and he knew he could not go on.

So that was the way of it. At the bitter last his pride was broken, and his will rendered useless.

He got up from the chair, leaning one arm heavily on the padded rest, and waited for the tiny squares to pass from before his eyes. Then mumbled something to his exec about IN MY QUARTERS, CALL ME IF THERE IS ANY NEED. And turned and walked weakly, sweatily from the enclosure.

As he made his way down the long corridor to the elevator leading downwards, he tried dully to reckon the number of lozenges it would take to end his life. He had perhaps fifteen. That would have to cover it. . .only. . . the convulsions would be unpleasant if he failed. He stepped into the wide double cylinder, mumbled "Six," and felt the world fall away beneath him.

That he was not thinking clearly he knew. That his death was at hand he also knew, but could not make the words form into any kind of meaningful pattern in his mind. All was dark, blank, and unintelligible. Not the slightest emotion stirred inside him. Stepping once more into a formless corridor, he walked past floating gray shapes he imagined must be men, and came to the portal of his latest hell. The door opened silently before him.

Looking into room he saw upon his dresser the vial, the photograph, and the nearly empty glass of water. He studied the trinity for a time before entering. Almost it would have seemed poetic, something from the epics….. Coming closer he looked first at the one, then at the other, then back again. To the photograph. . .of his lover. Why was she so damned beautiful? Even now.

Through countless layers of dust, his heart throbbed a single pang of pain and remorse, causing in its turn the irritation of a parched corner of one eye. From some unseen source, where he had been sure that no moisture lay, there came a gurgling bubble of mud, followed by a tiny flow of water. A desert spring in the midst of choking sands. He lifted the frame, brought it gently, then crushed it to his chest, and let out a sob of life that told him he could not yet die.

He drank the water in the glass, down to the bitter and confused sediment. Then with tears, real tears in his eyes, he heard as if from far below the ground his own voice, set loose this utterance.

"I cannot do it. It is not for me to say when all is lost. Dear God, please help me hold on."

He set down the empty glass, looked around him, tried to think. Then made his way to the Infirmary.

*

The new doctor examined him thoroughly, including a scope of his intestines that the first had considered unnecessary. He sighed to himself as he studied the computer screen.

"What is it?" asked Brunner impatiently.

"You no doubt had an intestinal virus, but that only exacerbated the more serious problem."

"Which is?"

… "Crohn's disease."

"What? What is that?"

"An inflammation of the intestines: similar to arthritis, and that the body incorrectly identifies a part of itself as an alien invader, and sends out anti-bodies to attack it.

Brunner felt the breath catch at his throat. "Am I going to die?"

The doctor shook his head firmly. "No. The disease, though incurable, need not be fatal. There are some fairly effective medicines, and at final need, surgery. But until we can reduce the swelling, you must avoid all further stress."

He started to reply that this was impossible, but