“Computer?”
“Yes, Jenny?”
“Call Alan Lister.”
“At home?”
“Yes. If he isn’t there, find him. I don’t care if he’s put a block on traces. Find him. This is important.”
Alan Lister was already eating when the computer announced the incoming call. Inwardly he cursed, but it came with the territory. Being commissioner of Crisium meant that he was the one that people came to when things went wrong.
“Answer the call.”
Jenny’s face appeared, seemingly across the table from him. “Alan, somebody on Earth is building a Door,” she said without preamble.
He blinked. “A Holmes Door? How do you know?”
“That jet that ended up in the rock quarry.”
“I saw something about that. I assumed that it was silly season stuff.”
“Anything that kills a couple of hundred people isn’t a joke, Alan.”
“Point taken.”
“They don’t know what they’re doing. Obviously, they’ve managed to create a singularity, but they can’t control it.”
Belatedly, he was beginning to see where she was going. “And that’s dangerous.”
“You might say that,” she said dryly. “If the next jet ends up here in Crisium, I imagine it might cause us a few problems.”
Alan put down his fork. “What are the odds of that happening?”
“Virtually zero,” she admitted.
“The Door being what it is, theoretically they can place a mass anywhere in a sphere surrounding the Door apparatus. The radius of that sphere will depend on how much power they’re using. Frankly, I doubt that they’re using enough to put something up here, but in the meantime they could kill a lot of innocent people if they keep going the way they’re going.”
He chewed his lip for a moment. “So what do you want to do about it?”
“Honestly, I don’t know. I haven’t gotten that far. I saw something on the news twenty minutes ago, checked into it, then called you. I thought it was something you ought to be aware of.”
“What do they want with a Door? Surely they aren’t going to try to open a Door up here.”
She shook her head. “I don’t think that’s what they’re up to, Alan. I think they want one for the war. Even though I don’t know much about military strategy, I can see how the ability to put troops down behind enemy lines would come in handy. No transit time. Just step out, do your job, then go home. You could sleep in your own bed that night.”
Nodding slowly, he said, “Can’t be shot down or blown up like a ship or a plane. The element of surprise alone would be worth it. Be anywhere, anytime.” He took a deep breath. “OK, so the military wants a Door for the war.”
“The Navy,” Jenny put in. “When the jet disappeared, it was the Navy who showed up, issuing denials right and left.”
Anne, seated next to Alan, spoke for the first time, “The Navy?”
Alan shrugged. “I guess that makes sense. Put a Door on a troop ship and have instantaneous amphibious landings. Storm the beaches and that sort of thing.”
“Alan, there’s no need for that,” Jenny reminded him gently. “Just put the Door on a base back safely within the States. Ships, planes, and tanks just became obsolete. All you have to do is open a Door a thousand meters above a target, roll a bomb over the threshold, then close the Door, wash your hands and send out for pizza.”
“Right,” he said sheepishly. “I guess I’ll need more time to get used to the idea.”
Anne said, “What about the Brazilians? Surely, they’ve had the same idea. What if they develop a Door first?”
Alan flinched. “Jenny, how about it? Do the Brazilians have anybody good enough to do the math?”
“Well,” she said slowly, “there’s Barros… and Vargas might be able to do it.”
Something feral came into his eyes. “Then we’ll just have to move first.” Jenny’s eyes widened. “I think I just opted out. Every time you want me in on the Door, people get killed.”
Alan’s mouth tightened. “That’s what war’s all about, Jenny.”
Supercoagulants had been around for about twenty years. Applied topically, they acted quickly to reduce blood loss. The technique was nothing more than an extension of the body’s own ability to scab over a wound. They were not, however, at their best with shredded tissue. There was simply too much surface area involved.
Lawrence Enceas was weak from loss of blood. In an earlier war he would already have been dead, or risking gangrene from the overlong application of a tourniquet. As it was, the supercoagulants had done their best, reducing his blood loss to a slow seepage.
Under ideal conditions, he would have been removed to a hospital for surgery to debride and reconstruct his mangled arm. Transfusions of blood and antibiotics, and plenty of bed rest would have stabilized his condition; his prognosis would have been good. However, he had had no choice but to remain active. The Brazilian patrols would find them sooner or later, but there was nothing to be gained from making it easier for them—the Brazilians did not take prisoners.
Eyes closed and breathing slowly, Enceas listened to the buzzing of the flies. He no longer had the energy to brush away the ones that landed on his face. He knew where the rest were, but tried not to think about it. The bandages would have to keep them from landing directly on his arm. Of course, under the circumstances, it didn’t matter. He would be dead long before infection could become a serious problem.
Brewster shifted position only to wipe the sweat from his eyes. It was late in the afternoon and the temperature was beginning to drop, but the heat and humidity were still oppressive.
Harry Hughes roused himself on one elbow. “How long do you think it’ll take them?”
“Take who?” Brewster asked.
“The Brazilians. That radio’s been broadcasting our position for over an hour now. They know damn well where we are. One Jaguar would be enough to do us in.”
Brewster chuckled softly. “They don’t know that period. The last one they sent didn’t come back. They don’t know that there are only three of us, and they don’t know how well we’re armed. When they come after us, it’ll be with a regiment.”
“If we’re broadcasting for pickup, they know we’re hurting. Elseways, we’d be walking out.”
Brewster seesawed a hand. “Judgment call. Could be that we’re setting a trap for them.”
“That’s a joke,” Enceas put in bitterly. “We were worried that this clearing might be a trap that they had set for us. This whole thing’s nothing but a battle of nerves.”
Brewster nodded philosophically. “Always is. Whoever blinks first, loses.”
Enceas narrowed his eyes. “Is there anything we could do to make them think that there are more of us? It might buy us more time.”
“Not that I can think of.”
A single flat crack came from off to his left. The bark next to Brewster’s ear scarred. He smiled sardonically. “Gentlemen, I believe we have company. Shall we show them how Americans fight?”
“Do we have a choice?” Enceas asked as he painfully rolled into position to face the incoming fire. With his good arm, he dragged his gun up his side and into position, careful to keep low so as not to give the Brazilians a good target. To his left Hughes was doing the same. Brewster slid into position beside him.
Nothing happened. No shots followed the first.
Hughes frowned. “Something’s wrong. Nobody is going to fire one shot and quit.” He craned his neck to look back over his shoulder across the clearing. “I’ll bet they’re—”
The nerve-wracking whine of the Brazilian Gatling gun was simultaneous with the sound of metal fragments sleeting horizontally through the underbrush. Hughes’s head dissolved. Enceas and Brewster reacted simultaneously, flattening themselves against the ground.