The Descent

Zulu  Four's  dome  of  gases  was  crimson  and  forbidding.  It  was  like  biblical  evidence of a crack in the cosmos. Closer still, the nitrogen had the appearance of  a  huge  flower, petals  curling  beneath  the  nimbostratus  canopy  as  gases  hit  the  cold  air  and  sheared down  again.  Even  as  they  caught  up  with  it,  the  deadly  flower  appeared  on  their PowerScene with a bank of unfolding information in LCD overprint.  The  scene  shifted. Branch  saw  the  satellite  view  of  his  Apaches  just  now  arriving  at  where  they  had already  passed. Good  morning, Branch greeted  his tardy  image.

'You guys  smell it? Over.'  That  would be McDaniels, the eight-o'clock shotgun.

'Smells like  a  bucket  of  Mr  Clean.'  Branch  knew  the  voice:  Teague,  back  in  the  rear pocket.

Someone began humming the TV  tune.

'Smells like piss.' Ramada. Blunt as iron. Quit horsing around, he meant. Branch caught the front edge of the odor. Immediately  he exhaled.

Ammonia.  The   nitrogen  spinoff  from  Zulu  Four.   It   did  smell  like   piss,   rotten morning piss, ten days  old. Sewage.

'Masks,'  he  said,  and  seated  his  own  tight  against  the  bones  of  his  face.  Why  take chances? The  oxygen  surged cool and clean in his sinuses.

The  plume crouched, squat, wide, a quarter-mile  high.

Branch  tried  to  assess  the  dangers  with  his  instruments  and  artificial  light  filters. Screw this stuff. They  said little to him. He opted for caution.

'Listen  up,'  he  said.  'Lovey,  Mac,  Teague,  Schulbe,  all  of  you.  I  want  you  to  take position  one  klick  out  from  the  edge.  Hold  there  while  Ram  and  I  take  a  wide  circle around   the   beast,   clockwise.'    He   made    it    up   as    he    went    along.   Why    not counterclockwise? Why not up and over?

'I'll  keep  the  spiral  loose  and  high  and  return  to  your  grouping.  Let's  not  mess  with the bastard  until it makes more sense.'

'Music  to  my  ear,  jefe,'  Ramada  approved,  navigator  to  pilot.  'No  adventures.  No heroes.'

Except  for  a  snapshot  he  had  shown  Branch,  Ramada  had  yet  to  lay  eyes  upon  his brand-new  baby  boy,  back  in  Norman,  Oklahoma.  He  should  not  have  come  on  this ride, but would not stay  back. His  vote  of  confidence  only  made  Branch  feel  worse.  At times  like  this,  Branch  detested  his  own  charisma.  More  than  one  soldier  had  died following him into the path of evil.

'Questions?' Branch waited. None.

He broke left, banking hard away  from the platoon.

Branch  wound  clockwise.  He  started  the  spiral  wide  and  teased  closer.  The  plume was roughly two kilometers in circumference.

Bristling with minigun and rockets, he made the full  revolution  at  high  speed,  just  in case some harebrain might be  lurking  on  the  forest  floor  with  a  SAM  on  one  shoulder

and  slivovitz  for  blood.  He  wasn't   here   to  provoke   a  war,   just  to  configure  the strangeness. Something was going on out here. But what?

At  the  end  of  his  circle,  Branch  flared  to  a  halt  and  spied  his  gunships  waiting  in  a dark  cluster  in  the  distance,  their  red  lights  twinkling.  'It  doesn't  look  like  anyone's home,' he said. 'Anybody  see anything?'

'Nada,' spoke Lovey.

'Negative here,' McDaniels said.

Back  at  Molly,  the  assemblage  was  sharing  Branch's  electronically  enhanced  view.

'Your visibility sucks, Elias.' Maria-Christina Chambers herself.

'Dr. Chambers?' he said. What was she doing on the net?

'It's  the  old  chestnut,  Elias.  Can't  see   the   forest   for  the   trees.   We're   way   too saturated  with  the  fancy  optics.  The  cameras  are  cued  to  the  nitrogen,  so  all  we're getting is nitrogen. Any  chance you might snug in and give it the old eyeball?'

Much  as  Branch  liked  her,  much  as  he  wanted  to  go  in  and  do  precisely  that  –

eyeball  the  hell  out  of  it  –  the  old  woman  had  no  business  in  his  chain  of  command.

'That needs to come from the colonel, over,' he said.

'The colonel has stepped  out. My  distinct impression was that  you  were  being  given, ah, total discretion.'

The  fact  that  Christie  Chambers  was  putting  the  request  directly  over  military airwaves  could only  mean  that  the  colonel  had  indeed  departed  the  command  center. The  message  was  clear:  Since  Branch  was  so  all-fired  independent,  he  had  been  cut loose  to  fend  for  himself.  In  archaic  terms,  it  was  something  close  to  banishment. Branch had fragged himself.

'Roger  that,'  Branch  said,  idling.  Now  what?  Go?  Stay?  Search  on  for  the  golden apples of the  sun...

'Am assessing conditions,' he radioed. 'Will inform of my  decision. Out.'

He  hovered  just  beyond  reach  of  the  dense  opaque  mass  and  panned  with  the nose-mounted  camera  and  sensors.  It  was  like  standing  face-to-face  before  the  first atomic mushroom.