Resistance Read Free Page A

treacherously slippery, and freezing water splashed away from their combat boots as the two of them zigzagged backand forth across the riverbed in order to avoid rocks and patches of slick ice.
    Then the VTOL shot into sight, coming straight at them and traveling only ten feet higher than the top of the riverbank.
Marilyn's
engines roared as she passed overhead, and Hale could feel the plane's prop wash.
    The pilot opened fire. He turned to look back, and saw a curtain of spray appear as hundreds of high-velocity bullets chewed their way through both the water
and
the oncoming Howlers. They went down screaming their defiance, and the river ran red with their blood, as the resulting waves broke around his boots.
    “Tell
Marilyn
I love her,” Hale said appreciatively into the mike, as the aircraft flashed overhead.
    The VTOL turned upstream and waggled its wings as it roared overhead in search of a secure landing spot. Ten minutes later what remained of the team was safely on board and strapped in.
    The mission had been successful—but had the tradeoff been worth it? Had Jasper died for something? Or was his death just one more sacrifice in an unwinnable war?
    The Sentinel closed his eyes and allowed his head to rest against the bulkhead. He was exhausted, but sleep refused to come. In his hand, clutched so tight that the metal cut into his flesh, was a pair of dog tags.

CHAPTER TWO
BANDIT DOWN
Near Valentine, Nebraska
Friday, November 16, 1951
    The chasm was hundreds of feet deep, and as Hale made his way out onto the flexible conduit, he was careful to keep his eyes fixed on the far side of the canyon. If he looked down, he would almost certainly lose his balance and fall.
    So Hale placed one foot precisely in front of the other, and felt the conduit start to sway.
    Suddenly someone knocked on the door. The bottom fell out of his stomach, and he was snatched into the
real
world, where he lay panting on a sweat-soaked sheet.
    “Lieutenant Hale?” a voice inquired from the hallway outside. “Sorry to wake you, sir … but the major wants you in the briefing room by 0400.”
    Hale peered at his wristwatch. It was 0325.
    “Okay,” he croaked. Swallowing, he added in a firmer voice, “What's up?”
    “Don't know, sir,” the voice answered. “It's above my pay grade.”
    Hale swung his feet off the metal rack, planted them on the cold floor, and began the process of making himself look halfway presentable. Less than twelve hours had elapsed since he and Kawecki had returned from the field. Two of those hours had been spent telling a teamof debriefers the same things, over and over again. Finally, having been wrung dry, he'd been released, and used his freedom to eat some chow, and grab some much needed shuteye. He had fallen into bed without even hitting the showers.
    Now Hale stripped down to his boxers and took a turn in front of the mirror that was mounted over the sink. Only a slight trace of redness could be seen where enemy fire had sliced his left arm open. The puncture wounds caused by the exploding drone were completely healed, and he felt better than he had any right to. Ironically he had the Chimeran virus to thank for his quick recovery, although if left to its own devices, the alien bug would likely turn malevolent.
    Fortunately, frequent inhibitor shots kept the virus in check, and were supplemented by aerosolized doses he took into the field in his I-Pack. But everything depended on access to a military treatment center. Without regular inhibitor treatments his cells would begin an inexorable transformation.
    That was a possibility Hale preferred not to think about.
    He wrapped a towel around his neck, slipped his feet into a pair of moccasins, and carried his shaving kit out into the hall. From there he followed a line of naked light bulbs down a windowless corridor toward the communal showers. The SRPA base wasn't equipped with a lot of amenities, but there was plenty of hot water, and Hale was