He was gung-ho and ready to ramble, and I couldn't think of any good reasons to hold him back—except the possibility of unexpected terrain hazards, and my resentment at the way he'd challenged my authority. To be fair, I tried putting myself in O'Toole's place. He wanted the mission to succeed so he could retire in style, but he was saddled with a leader who was a disgraced cop turned cowboy adventurer, clearly lacking in recent combat experience. He knew exactly what he was doing and suspected that I didn't.
Maybe Iron Nuts was entitled to a little attitude.
"Okay," I said. "Permission granted. You'll make a continuous holovid record of the recon, of course, blink-transmitting the compressed data back to us via the lasercom relay. I also want a verbal report from you every fifteen minutes. Sooner if you make an important find."
"Affirmatory. If there's a way to penetrate that target, I'll find it. Guaranteed."
He gave me a hard smile before clapping on his helmet. It enclosed his entire head and featured a multifunction power-optic visor, holovid camera with continuous map-revise data stream, laser communication capability, and an omnifilter respirator. Like his soft-armored combat jumpsuit, it had an environmental system to keep him comfy. His belt held a Kagi sidearm, a monster commando knife in place of the usual Ivanov stunner, small flexcanteens of water, coffee, and nutrigoo, and a bulb of trailblazer spray. He strapped on an open-frame instant-access backpack loaded with fifteen kilos of fighting equipment and survival gear. Its scabbard mounts held a Talavera-Gerardi 333 actinic blaster with auto targeting, and a compact LGF-18 30-mm grenade launcher that carried standard and magnum HE, flare, and the newly developed AG97 sleepy-gas rounds.
Armed to the teeth, tough as the calluses on a barfly's elbow, ready for anything, Commander Zorik O'Toole, CHW Zone Patrol SWAT (Ret.), opened the rear hatch of the tuqo and marched out into the Dagasatt morning without a wave or a backward glance.
I stared after him in wordless bemusement, knowing he'd make good on his "guarantee" if any man could. Also knowing there was no way I'd ever want him guarding my back.
Never rely on a man who won't call you by your name.
Ildiko and I agreed on three-hour watches. I crashed first, laying out a pad and sleeping bag in the aisle of the tuqo, the only place on the cramped aircraft where I could stretch out full-length. My sleep was dreamless and so profound that when the pillow buzzer woke me I found I'd hardly shifted position.
I went forward. Ildiko showed me the plot of O'Toole's progress on the computer's greatly revised map, which continuously incorporated topographic data sent in by his camera. The monitor showed him approaching the tall sandstone formation called Corkscrew Pinnacle. Gaps between the incremental dots representing his quarter-hour call-ins were getting closer and closer together.
"He's moving more slowly than I would have expected," I remarked.
"The surface has gone tricky." She passed me the e-book with details of his verbal reports.
I skimmed it. During the first couple of hours, he'd moved at a brisk pace among the crags on a winding easterly path, traversing firm ground that was mostly broken volcanic rock or level red sand and gravel. But as his route curved northward toward the Corkscrew, he encountered a floorlike expanse of deeply fissured igneous rock that he speculated might represent an old lava flow. Some of the crevices showed glints of oily liquid in their depths.
Zorik's last message had reported that areas of the fractured surface now had a cindery crust, as though the oozing petrochemical material had burned at some time in the past.
He noted that tiny wisps of vapor were rising from some patches of cinders.
I cursed. "He's over two and a half kilometers east of the Three Smokes. But it's beginning to look as though a similar region exists around the pinnacle approach. We could be facing serious shit if it's extensive."
"His next report is due in four minutes."
I did a quick check of her scanner log. The Haluk facility seemed to be under a total electromagnetic blackout.
Again I found myself speculating whether Schneider was still there, exiled to this godforsaken place until Galaphar-ma's takeover of Rampart made it safe for him and his co-conspirators to resurface in the Perseus Spur and assume remunerative employment under the new regime. The notion of a life-preserving "insurance policy" was logical. But why hadn't Alistair Drummond simply commanded his minions to hook Schneider up to the psychoprobe machines until he disgorged any incriminating data?
Maybe they had. And maybe the reaming attempt had backfired. Knowing where the hot poop was buried and being in a position to dig it up and neutralize it didn't necessarily equate. Cunning old Ollie could have come out of the interrogation with his policy and his skin intact.
And very, very pissed off...
"O'Toole to base," said the lasercom.
"Copy," Ildiko replied. "Go ahead, Zorik."
"Position approx one-forty-five meters due south of Corkscrew Pinnacle eastern extremity. Attempting approach to vantage point, but I'm hampered by increasing areas of highly unusual terrain. Old volcanic crust has disappeared now and surface is mostly sand and red gravel with patches of black cinders. Some of the cinders are smoking. We have no gas vents, craters, or large plumes—-just a kind of diffused fuming in the hot spots, like from a raked-over campfire. Incidental comment: these cinders don't resemble the substance comprising Stump Mountain. And the gassy emanations seem to be real smoke, not steam like the Stump gave off."
Ildiko said, "Copy that. Have you taken surface temperature readings?"
"Affirm. Every dozen or so meters since last report. Variable temps up to a max of 62.8 degrees on current leg of the trail. We definitely have increasing thermal activity in the region. We need that new portable subterrain scanner to figure what's under the ground here."
But he'd left it behind in the tuqo. The device weighed nearly eight kilos, and Zorik had probably figured he wouldn't need it since he didn't plan to explore near the Three Smokes.
I leaned toward the mike. "Helly here. Does the zone of smoking cinders extend all the way up to the base of Corkscrew?"
"Conditional negatory. It seems intermittent. Sometimes windblown sand makes it tough to spot the borders of the high-temp material. Not all of the really hot stuff smokes, either. Proceeding with care and marking the trail with frequent spritzes of Lublaze."
"I'm concerned about this situation," I said to him. "If patches of subterrain combustion extend north of Corkscrew-between the pinnacle and the Haluk facility—we'll have to ditch the approach."
"I don't think the hostiles would build their installation on a firepit," Zorik remarked sarcastically.
"No," I said. "But they sure might have used them as natural perimeter defenses."
That shut him up.
Ildiko said, "Zorik, do you have ETA for vantage point at base of pinnacle?"
He gave the estimate in Zebra Time—ten minutes from now. "But I'll want to do a preliminary survey before reporting. I'll get back to you on the regular sked, Lieutenant Szabo. O'Tooleout."
"Base out," said Ildiko. She looked at me over her shoulder. "What do you think?"
I shook my head. "He picked the south approach because it's the best available, and he really wants to make it work. But there's an old country song about playing poker that we sing where I come from. The refrain goes: 'You gotta know when to hold 'em, know when to fold 'em.'"
She nodded and sang softly. " 'Know when to walk away and know when to run.' We sang it in Hungary, too."
I gave her upper arm a gentle punch. "My turn at the monitor. Time for you to sack out. Three hours of sleep. By the time you wake up, old Iron Nuts will be on his way back."
But he wasn't.
Zorik's camera stopped relaying terrain data eleven minutes later. He didn't respond to my call and missed the next fifteen-minute sked as well. I checked the relay equipment, even queried Joe Betancourt directly. He confirmed what I already knew: the carrier beam from Zorik was out.
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"You want me to try finding him with enhanced optical, Helly? We're at extreme range, but—"
"No. He's too far under the GBD umbrella by now. We'll have to risk a dissim-penetration scan from Chispa, extrapolating from his last known position. Use a minimum diameter punch-through."
"Copy. Stand by."
Minutes passed. Then Joe came back. "Negative for a human body at the LKP. But there is something. Here comes the image."
The holovid map on my monitor acquired new detail in the immediate vicinity of Corkscrew Pinnacle. I pulled in an extreme close-up and studied it, feeling my spine go icy.
It was a new column of smoke.
"Thanks, Joe. I'll take it from here. Out."
Had Zorik met with an accident—or did his abrupt disappearance signify something else altogether?
Unlike Ivor Jenkins, whose father was an old chum of Mimo's, and the Library irregulars, who had been recruited by Karl from his circle of over-the-hill ex-security personnel, the three newest members of my team were virtually unknown factors. Matt Gregoire's computer had vouched for their professional skills but very little else.
Of the three, O'Toole had always been the most problematical. I'd felt an instant empathy for quiet Joe Betancourt and competent, amiable Ildiko Szabo. With Zorik, it was just the opposite. And he'd been forced into retirement for some unspecified transgression.
Ildy had spoken of corruption in the Perseus Spur arm of the patrol. Belatedly, I wondered if Zorik O'Toole had been part of it, paid off by Galapharma to look the other way while Concern starships secretly prowled Rampart space, sabotaging Starcorp operations and doing God knew what else.
I'd offered Zorik a whopping fee for his services.
What if Gala had topped it?
I woke Ildiko and we both began to suit up in full combat gear.
Chapter 9
We were about 250 meters south of Corkscrew Pinnacle, emerging from a dense group of volcanic crags, when we caught our first clear glimpse of the new smoke plume rising straight up into the dead calm morning air. Its source was very close to the base of the twisted sandstone formation, concealed among large broken rocks at the far right-hand side.
Our excursion had so far been rapid and uneventful. I hadn't shared my fear that we might no longer be safe in the tuqo, nor my doubts about the loyalty of Zorik O'Toole. If Commander Iron Nuts had sold us out, Ildiko didn't need to know about it yet.
"That's the new smoke Joe spotted from orbit," I said. "Right about at Zorik's last known position."
"A lot smaller than the three plumes farther west," she murmured into her helmet mike. "Almost like a burning pile of rubbish or something."
I said, "Yeah."
Or something.
We hunkered down together behind a desk-sized fragment of black basalt. Our filo ponchos turned us into part of the scenery. The entire base of Corkscrew was hidden from our view, nor could we see anything beyond it because of other intervening formations.
Earlier, I had spoken about the very real possibility that O'Toole might have accidentally broken through the cinder crust and plunged into a fiery crevasse. Now Ildiko proposed a more hopeful scenario.
"Maybe he came under attack. I know you said Joe couldn't find any live-body signatures, but how about this: a Haluk sniper hits O'Toole's packframe or one of his weapons with a glancing beam. The EM pulse fries his com equipment instantly. Maybe wounds him pretty bad. He takes cover, launches an HE grenade. Whammo! Exit the hostile sniper down a furnace hole that opens up. O'Toole dives deep into the rockpile out of sensor range and starts regrouping."
"Mmm." I was noncommittal, but it was a possibility.
Over two hours had passed since Zorik's scheduled transmission. We'd raced out from the tuqo as fast as we could, following coded polarized trailblazes that were only visible through our powered visors. I half expected Haluk fliers or Galapharma hoppercraft to appear overhead at any moment, but the sky remained empty.
So had the sublight communications spectrum on the portable scanner Ildiko carried.
An enemy force alerted and on the hunt would not be able to use a stealthy laser relay system to keep in contact, as we did. Hoppers or goons on the ground would probably communicate via ordinary radio because the Qastt planet had no com satellites. I doubted that they'd bother keeping radio silence during a search-and-destroy mission—ergo, nobody was out looking for us yet. And it seemed fairly certain to me that no ambush had taken down Zorik, either, or the sniper would have reported the incident to base.
Gently, I pointed the latter out to Ildiko. "Besides that, if O'Toole had been struck by a hostile shot, we'd have picked up a last squawk as his LC unit went out. There was nothing. But if he dropped through the cinder crust, the relay beam would have clipped off silently. Just as though he'd moved into a dead zone, out of sight-line ofChispa."
"But isn't there a chance he might have survived if he did go down? I mean . .. maybe it wasn't burning all that much where he fell in."
"Anything's possible. We're sure going to check out the smoke site and finish the reconnaissance."
And decide whether or not two people had a ghost of a chance of breaking into the Haluk facility.
Know when to hold 'em, know when to fold 'em.
I said, "We'll have to move along now. Sooner or later somebody in the installation will send a hopper to check out the new smoke."
Ildiko nodded silently. Her grotesquely helmeted head flashed in and out of view as the filo units in the poncho hood did their best to render her invisible.
"I'll take the point," I said. "I'm going to hoover along with the new subterrain scanner from here on in—make sure we don't end up in Crispy Critterville ourselves. I have to learn how to use this thing, so I'll go pretty slow to start with. You hang back about ten meters and watch for moving targets. Sweep the northern heights and the sky behind the pinnacle with your Tala-G scope. If you spot anything, give a shout. We both freeze under our ponchos. The hostiles won't find us unless they land smack-dab on our heads."
"Check."
Unshipping the STS wand and holding it just above the ground, I called up its device display on the left side of my visor and cut a test slice. The image revealed an underground cross section only two meters wide but fifty meters deep and about half that in length. The rock strata were neatly labeled in terminology that might have been crystal-clear to a geologist but was a trifle abstruse to the likes of me. I was able to rotate the slice freely with verbal commands and even magnify portions for close inspection. When you moved the wand from side to side, a lingering afterimage gave a wider section. Pretty neat.
"How's it look?" Ildiko asked.
"We got a layer cake. The frosting is a very thin skin of old lava, cracked all to hell and covered with sand in some places. Below that are broken-up sandstone strata shot through with intrusions of different kinds of igneous stuff, mostly basalt and andesite. The sandstone has little pockets of what the scanner calls 'complex liquid and volatile hydrocarbon compounds.' "
"Crude oil."
"Yep. What I was afraid of, Ildy. Let's go."
We set off in a northeasterly direction toward Corkscrew, crossing an open area nearly free of protruding red formations. The surface was largely fissured dark rock with scattered drifts of scarlet sand and gravel. In some places the oil seeps were clearly visible, soaking the sand or down inside the cracks. The petroleum reservoirs in the subterranean layers got larger as we approached the pinnacle, and scorched areas appeared on the surface where oil had burned once upon a time.
We came upon the first patches of cinders. The scanner called them "petroleum combustion residue and fused mafic mineral granules." They were associated with underground pockets of identical cold, slaglike stuff, each linked to the surface by a kind of clogged vent or natural chimney. As we moved north my visor display showed cinders mingled crazily with broken red rock beneath the volcanic crust in a manner entirely mystifying to my layman's eye.
Then my scanner indicated that we'd reached the first of the hot spots. I stopped suddenly in the middle of the flatland, forgetting how vulnerable Ildy and I were to enemy observation. A light wind had begun to blow, flapping our ponchos and compromising invisibility. Corkscrew towered ahead, 144 meters of eroded red and ochre sandstone, partially veiled by torn black smoke.
I told my helmet computer to expand the subterrain display over my entire visor, providing a stereoscopic vision of what lay beneath my feet. With the scanning wand in my extended right hand, I rotated slowly where I stood.
The Dagasatt of air and sunlight disappeared and I saw its amazing underworld in three dimensions. It almost seemed as though I were back in the caverns of Cravat, turning as I surveyed stygian galleries, corridors, and grottos. There were miniature natural catacombs beneath the surface of this part of Dagasatt, too—not carved by groundwater but born of some bizarre combustion activity. The rock underfoot was honeycombed with holes. Most of them were very small, but others were as large as rooms, fantastic in shape, interconnected with their neighbors by an intricate web of narrow channels and an occasional chimney leading to the surface.
Almost all of the chambers were partially full of granular cinders. In some the filling was dead black and cold. Others had hearts that glowed a fitful deep carmine, like banked furnaces. A very few, lying directly ahead of me and linked together with vermilion veins, were pockets or seams of red-hot living coals, burning oil-soaked mineral matter sandwiched between layers of rock. Cracks supplied the fires with oxygen from the upper world and also let the smoke escape.
Ildiko's shout echoed in my helmet. "Aircraft! Aircraft!"
I dived flat, pulling my limbs beneath the camouflaging poncho, shutting down the scanner, collapsing its sensitive wand. The surreal technovision of hell vanished. Welcome to a new and different kind!
"How many?" I asked. "Can you identify type?"
"One hopper, sixty meters above the deck. Popped out from behind the pinnacle. It sure as hell looked human. Maybe a Vorlon ESC-10."