“Good,” the other man said. “Tell me something, son. . . . Are you an angler?”
Foley thought it was strange to have someone who appeared to be the same age he was call him “son.” “No, sir,” the offi?cer replied. “I grew up the city, so I never went fi?shing.”
“Well, it’s never too late to learn,” the businessman observed. “Go ahead and fi?nish what you were doing. The concept of meeting with citizens on a regular basis is a good thing to do by the way. . . . And it makes you different from the pretenders who would like to set up shop out there. So once you’re fi?nished, we’re going to take a run down to the bay. You know the huge hab that Homby Industries built just off Angel Island? Well, the condos took a beating from the bugs, but there’s nothing wrong with the marina located underneath the complex. And that’s where our fi?shing boat is hidden.”
Foley thought that the whole notion of a fi?shing trip was strange, very strange, but nodded anyway. “Yes, sir. Will I need some sort of pole?”
Admiral Chien-Chu smiled indulgently. “No, son, you won’t.”
It was nearly pitch-black off Point Bonita, but there was some light from the moon, as large swells passed under the yacht. The ride out had been relatively smooth, thanks to the winglike hydrofoils that lifted the hundred-foot-long boat out of the water and enabled speeds of up to forty-eight knots. But now that the vessel was hull down, it was subject to the motion of the waves like any other boat, and Foley felt increasingly nauseous. Not Chien-Chu, though, who had just fi?nished explaining how the yacht had been “borrowed” from a wealthy acquaintance of his, who was among those who had fl?ed the planet. The crew consisted of ChienChu Enterprises employees, who wore black hoods and were heavily armed. A group which, Foley suspected, would be assigned to keep an eye on him.
“We’re getting close,” the admiral promised, as another wave broke over the plunging bow. “Earth is two-thirds water you know. . . . That makes for a lot of surface area to keep track of. And even though they have to drink the stuff, the bugs aren’t all that partial to H O. That’s because they 2
evolved on a planet that doesn’t have any oceans.”
All of that might have been more interesting to Foley had his stomach felt better. As it was, the naval offi?cer was battling the urge to vomit, which for reasons he wasn’t altogether sure of, he didn’t want to do while Chien-Chu was looking on. “Okay,” the cyborg said, as a stream of data continued to scroll down the right side of his “vision.” “Here it comes!”
There was a clap of thunder as whatever “it” was broke the sound barrier, followed by a tremendous explosion of water as something big smacked into the surface of the ocean a thousand yards off the port bow. “There’s our fi?sh!”
the businessman proclaimed enthusiastically. “Now to reel it in!”
It took the better part of twenty minutes to bring the yacht alongside the heaving object, hook on to a submerged tow-point, and begin the process of hauling the object ashore. The boxy container would have been very diffi?cult to tow had it not been for extendable hydrofoils that provided the same amount of lift the yacht enjoyed.
“You can sink it, too!” Chien-Chu said proudly, as he looked astern. “And program it to surface whenever you want!
That feature will become increasingly important once the bugs realize what’s going on. There’s a whole lot of ocean out there—and even with orbital surveillance they can’t track everything that goes on. Plus, we’re going to throw empties at them, just to keep the bastards busy!”
Now that the yacht’s foils were deployed, the ride was a good deal steadier, which allowed Foley to focus on something more than his stomach. “That’s amazing, sir. May I ask what’s in the container?”
“Yes, you may,” Chien-Chu replied cheerfully. “This one contains automatic weapons plus lots of ammo. . . . Just the sort of thing that an up-and-coming resistance leader like yourself would ask for if he could! Future loads will include heavy weapons, medical supplies, and food.”
Foley felt a steadily rising sense of hope. “That’s terrifi?c, sir. . . . Can I make a suggestion?”
“Of course,” the cyborg said indulgently, as the boat passed under the partially slagged Golden Gate Bridge.
“Suggest away.”
“Some or all of those dummy containers could contain bombs,” Foley said. “That would not only infl?ict casualties—
but slow the chits down.”
“And discourage any criminals that might get a hold of one!” Chien-Chu added gleefully. “I can see that we chose well! I will forward your idea to the proper people. They’ll love it.”
Foley nodded. “Thank you, sir. But one more question . . . The last time I was up in orbit, the bugs were in control. Won’t they intercept and destroy our ships before they can drop more containers into the atmosphere? Frankly, I’m surprised this one got through.”
“No, they won’t be intercepted,” the admiral answered confi?dently. “Because there aren’t any ships! Not in the conventional sense anyway. . . . We’re using specially designed drones, each of which has its own hyperdrive and onboard NAVCOMP. Rather than exit hyperspace six planetary diameters out, the way all incoming traffi?c is normally required to do, the drones are programmed to drop hyper inside the moon’s orbit! That means the chits have very little time in which to respond before the vehicle enters the atmosphere, opens up, and dumps up to four individually targetable cargo modules into any body of water we choose.
“Oh, sure,” the entrepreneur continued matter-of-factly.
“The Ramanthians will nail some of them. And others will go astray for one reason or another. . . . But we calculate that about sixty-three percent will reach the designated target area even after the chits have come to expect them. That means your organization will have more supplies than all the rest of the gangs and armies forming up out there. So make good use of your advantage. . . . Because it’s your job to keep the bugs from settling in and to prevent the criminals from becoming too powerful while the government regroups. Got it, Commander?”
Foley looked back along the bar-taut tow cable to where the matte black cargo module was skimming the surface of the moonlit sea. Admiral Chien-Chu made it all seem so obvious, so simple, but he knew better. Even though the yacht’s power plant was shielded, there was the possibility of a heat leak that would attract attention from above. Or that a passing aircraft would spot them—or that one of a hundred other calamities could occur. Which meant that every time someone went out to retrieve a cargo module it would be a crapshoot. But there was only one thing the offi?cer could say: “Yes, sir, we’ll do our best.”
DEER VALLEY, EAST OF SAN FRANCISCO
As the sun rose and Margaret Vanderveen emerged from the old mine shaft to look down on the valley below, she marveled at how beautiful it was, in spite of the charred ruins of what had once been her second home. Some of the buildings had been torched by looters. And, after stripping them of everything that might be useful during the coming weeks, months, or, God forbid, years ahead, Benson had set fi?re to all the rest. Because any signs of habitation, or prosperity, would serve as an open invitation to both the Ramanthians and the human looters—a breed the society matron had come to fear more than the insectoid aliens. A doe and a fawn were grazing on what had once been Margaret’s front lawn as she took a sip of tea and considered the day ahead. Having taken in the teenager named Christine, and the orphans in her care, the three adults had their hands full trying to feed all the hungry mouths, keep the youngsters halfway clean, and prevent them from attracting the wrong sort of attention. The latter was the most diffi?cult task because the children had lots of energy and hated being cooped up inside the mine.