by Richard Mann
‘How far underground are we?’ asks Wilson, his voice echoing in the chamber.
‘About half a mile,’ answers Scott.
They walk down a corridor, past more security and enter a large room full of computer screens. Air Force General Schmitt meets them. He is large, round-bellied and jovial by nature, but today he is grave and under pressure. Wilson shakes his firm hand.
Scott is shocked when he sees his colleague Schmitt. He only saw him last month at a Pentagon meeting, but he seemed to have aged ten years in the last month. His grizzled face looks shell-shocked as if he had gone ten rounds with Mike Tyson.
‘So Mike, you’re in charge of Sirius, what’s the situation?’ asks Scott.
Schmitt wipes the sweat from his brow with a handkerchief and points at the main screen where a camera mounted on an F22 shows the action. An alien ship is hovering several miles above New York. It’s black ugly bulk is covering the city in shadow.
‘The F22s have engaged ‘Bogey 1’. So far the alien’s shields are holding—we’re having no effect.’
‘What about our shields on the F22s?’ Scott asks.
‘That’s the thing I don’t understand, Bill—they’re not working,’ says Schmitt shaking his head. ‘Our shielding is based on a fractal encryption code. We adapted the alien technology we got from the Roswell ship—the aliens shouldn’t be able to crack it.’ The President’s interest piques.
‘Who adapted the technology?’ asks Wilson.
‘It was Professor Picard.’
‘Oh yes I remember now, the man’s an absolute genius. Archaeologist as well. A polymath,’ says an admiring Wilson.
‘I have sent for him,’ replies Scott.
‘Are our F22s being shot down?’ pressed Wilson.
Schmitt scratched his head, ‘Yes sir, we have a screen here so we can see the F22s coming up on target.’ On screen, hundreds of alien fighter craft emerge from the ship and the F22s are being shot down at will, the top gun F22 pilots are no match for the alien fighters’ manoeuvrability and firepower.
Scott stands with his legs apart, his face slowly turning red.
‘Only four other people apart from myself had access to those encrypted shielding codes, General Schmitt here, the President, Grimbald and Fraser,’ a stony faced Scott stares at Schmitt, then he phones Chip at Space Command, and puts it on speaker phone.
‘Chip, any sign of Grimbald?’ shouts the general to his nephew. ‘No sign of him. The whole of Space Command is searching for him, sir.’
‘Where the fuck is Grimbald?’ General Scott’s face turns red.
President Wilson looks at the screen: ‘At this attrition rate we will have no 22s left. Can we change the codes?’
‘Yes sir, but as most of our comms are down, we cannot do it electronically. We will have to hardcode it manually. Shall I tell the squadron to abort?’ says an exasperated Schmitt.
‘Yes for Christ’s sake, abort, abort!’ replies President Wilson.
Chapter 34
A Rat in the Pack
General Scott sits in grim silence. Schmitt and President Wilson look at him. Scott closes his eyes and a bead of sweat drops from his forehead. The blood drains from his face as speaks. He goes white then goes from pink to red as his voice breaks.
‘Frank, do you remember that meeting we had with Cassian? Maybe it’s nothing…’ Scott takes a pill from his pocket and drinks some water.
‘They said there would be an alien invasion, and they were proved right,’ Wilson is subdued. ‘He was also spot on about me needing to see a doctor too.’
“Yes he was right, maybe these vampires aren’t scum after all. But there was something else—something he hinted at, says the General. ‘We have reason to believe there is a traitor amongst you.’ Those were his words.”
Wilson looks shell-shocked as he recalls the conversation and leans on a table for support. Schmitt looks as though he is going to throw up.
‘My God, you think Grimbald is the traitor?’ whispers Schmitt, recalling the Pentagon meeting between himself, Scott and Grimbald last month. ‘Grimbald seemed pensive, evasive as if he was hiding something. Shifty.’
Scott stands up, his face turning a darker shade of red.
‘I never did trust him back at the academy he was a Nazi sympathizer.’
‘How the hell did he ever get to be a general if he was a closet Nazi?’ asks Schmitt.
‘I checked him out myself, he has kept himself spotless, his political and family connections helped him get to where he is today. They protected him.’ replies Scott. ‘Mike, do you remember that meeting we had with Grimbald last month. In the Pentagon?’
‘Yes, he seemed shifty,’ replied the Sirius Chief.
‘Evasive,’ whispers Scott, remembering,
‘We will need to change all our nuclear launch codes—just in case,’ Scott adds. President Wilson faces General Scott.
‘Do it. What about Fraser? He’s missing as well. He also had access to the nuclear codes, as well as the F22 codes.’ The president looks ill. Schmitt is sweating with fear.
‘But we don’t actually know he is a traitor,’ Schmitt says in a hoarse whisper.
‘Who, Fraser or Grimbald? Do you want to take the chance?’ Scott is incredulous. Wilson was frantic. ‘Change all the codes! Change all the fucking codes!’ The President steadies himself as he regains his composure.
‘Now, what are our next steps, Gentlemen? Are you alright, Mike?’ Wilson wipes his brow.
‘Yes,’ says Schmitt his voice now hoarse.
‘I will handle the nuclear codes. Mike, you do the F22s. How many do we have left?’ General Scott has regained control of himself but is still sweating.
‘Around 200, they’re flying back to base now. It will take thirty minutes to change the encryption codes. Then we can have them refuelled, rearmed and ready to attack again,’ replies Schmitt as he wipes his face with a towel.’
‘OK. Initiate the emergency broadcast system, we cannot rely on satellites for our communications anymore,’ orders President Wilson.
‘Schmitt smiles. ‘Sir, we also have Morse code, the technology is too simple for the aliens to break.’
‘Bill, any reply from the alien spaceships after our UN broadcast message?’ asks Wilson.
‘No, nothing sir.’ Schmitt looked glum.
‘Were you expecting an answer?’ asks Scott, a hint of sarcasm in his voice. Schmitt ignores him as he looks at the main screen in front of them. It has gone blank and fuzzy.
‘We have now lost nearly all satellite and electronic communications; switching to analogue.’ General Schmitt presses a red button. A fuzzy black and white image appears on the screen showing the monstrous mothership in high Earth orbit. General Schmitt makes some adjustments, and the screen becomes coloured.
‘I need to call my nephew Chip, see what’s going on in Space Command,’ says Scott, pouring himself a large cup of coffee.
‘What about Grimbald’s deputy, Colonel Mack?’ asks the President.
‘He’s disappeared too,’ answers Scott reaching in his pocket for his blood pressure pills. He swallows two, swigged down with his coffee, then sits down, wiping his brow.
Schmitt faces the president.
‘Mr. President, in the Sirius project we predicted that we would lose all electronic and digital communications, even the internet. So we went back to basics. We have installed underground analogue lines to key installations and to our allies. London, Paris, Moscow and Beijing are now connected in the Sirius system.’
‘Let’s hope that gives us the edge,’ says President Wilson as he pours himself and Schmitt some coffee.
Chapter 35
The President’s Speech
President Wilson became solemn, ‘I need to make a speech to the American people. Give them some glimmer of
hope.’
‘We will use the emergency broadcast system,’ replied Scott. Generals Schmitt and Scott stood nearby. ‘Bill, how do I look?’ asked the President.
‘You look like shit Frank.’ Half an hour later Wilson nodded and smiled as he looked at the camera in front of him. His hand shook and he looked pale, then he began.
‘People of America. The question about whether we are alone in this universe has now been answered. At 0100 today alien spaceships entered our atmosphere. I am not going to beat around the bush or try to paint a rosy picture. So far, they have destroyed many of our major cities, Washington is gone, Los Angeles is half destroyed. London and other cities around the world are being evacuated - I’m sure you get the picture. Our attempts to communicate with the aliens have failed so far. Their motives for attacking us are unclear. Our conventional forces are having no effect, so I have held these back. These forces are being utilized to assist people to evacuate to safer areas. We have been preparing for this contingency—an alien invasion—for fifty years; we developed new technologies to defend ourselves, but with limited success. Our best weapons are courage and patience. We will find their weakness and find a way to fight back. That is my promise. My advice to you is this: If you cannot leave your home and you have an underground basement, stay there for the time being. Alternatively, go to the subway stations, you will get food and water there. Stay off the streets, and keep calm. If you have any short-wave ham radios or walkie-talkies, use these and stay alert. Listen to radio messages. Now is the time for nations to unite. We must put aside our petty differences for the sake of the human race. Americans, Russians, Chinese, Arabs; east, west, Catholics, Hindus, Muslims, and Buddhists must unite to fight this alien threat. People of America, take courage, be resourceful, and pray to your God. In God we trust.’
‘Good speech Frank,’ said Scott patting him on the back.
‘Someone get me a large cup of coffee.’ The President sank back in a chair looking exhausted, the weight of responsibility heavy on his shoulders.
‘It’s always darkest just before dawn,’ said Scott trying to cheer him up.
‘Update, Bill?’ The President sat down next to Scott. ‘News just in. The Pentagon and the White House are gone. They have deployed an alien ship over New York, it’s bigger than the rest, about three miles wide. But the city is intact—why? However, their main asset, their mothership, is in high Earth orbit.’ General Scott rubbed his chin.
‘Looks like they’re making New York their main HQ. They must have a reason. Most of our other major cities are rubble,’ pondered Wilson. Scott continued.
‘I have ordered our troops to retreat while we organize ourselves. Los Angeles seems to be less well defended by the aliens than other western cities, maybe they are not expecting much resistance there. Chicago is lost, but we have a Sirius base there, so I’m planning to re-group for a new offensive, Washington is also completely destroyed. Our Mid-West has been left untouched by the aliens. Odd. They seem to be focused on our Eastern and Western seaboards. I haven’t heard from our other major cities.’
‘Bill, I think they have limited ships, and limited resources. That may be their weakness. What about our allies?’ asked the President.
‘News is patchy. London, and the eastern part of England is under alien occupation, but the western half is being fiercely contested, there is a full-scale battle going on in Birmingham. Moscow no news. Paris nothing.’
‘I wish we could bottle some of that British fighting spirit,’ the president drank his coffee and sighed.
‘Frank, we’ve been promised some British SAS in exchange for some Sirius kit,’ The general reminded the President, trying to cheer him up.
‘Yes Bill, that is good news. I hope this Captain Morgan is as special as everyone says he is. Let us hope he can help us, be our silver bullet, God knows we need help.’ The president sighed. ‘It is times like this I wish we had Winston Churchill by our side. He was a great wartime leader. What was his famous saying? “Sometimes doing your best is not good enough. Sometimes you must do what is required.” ’
‘Roosevelt was a great leader too. You are a great leader. Everyone respects your judgment,’ said Scott.
‘By the way, any word about our missing professor? I was hoping he would have some insights,’ asked a hopeful President.
‘I sent a Special Forces team to get Picard. I received a coded message saying they’re holed up in the basement of his university.’
‘My wife?’ President Wilson looked worried.
‘Sorry Frank. No word. We have two teams in New York looking for her, but movement is difficult.’
Wilson looked at a picture of the First Lady and his son Michael. ‘Vanessa, come home safely my love.’ But inside he felt guilty for letting her go to New York.
Chapter 36
Vinnie’s Business
EAST END LONDON PUB
Vinnie is wearing a leather jacket and jeans. He is persuading a frightened looking geezer to give him some money.
‘Now we can do this the hard way or the easy way. Personally, I prefer the hard way cos I don’t like you. You’ve got a boat race like a cow’s arse.’
‘Vinnie please, I promise I will pay, on my mother’s life Vinnie, please!’
Vinnie head-butts the man who falls to the floor, holding his bleeding face. The pub telephone rings. The landlord calls Vinnie over.
‘Vinnie, it’s Gill for you. She can’t get through on your mobile. Mine’s not working either.’
Vinnie takes the phone.
‘Speak up, it’s a bad line. OK, sweetheart, I will pop to Tesco’s later, promise. No, I won’t forget.’ Vinnie rings off, looking even more annoyed than usual. The frightened man cowers, and starts shaking. Vinnie picks him up from the floor and holds him by his lapels.
‘Now then, Cow’s Arse, give me the fucking money cos I don’t want to keep my wife waiting, she has run out of washing powder. Do you know what they call me?’
‘Er, I don’t know. What do they call you?’ Cow’s Arse pleads with Vinnie.’
‘They call me “The Terminator!”’ Vinnie bangs the man’s head against a wall, causing a framed photo to fall on the floor and smash.
‘Now look what you made me do, that’ll be extra,’ he winked at the landlord and grinned. The sort of grin that would make most people run a mile.
‘OK, OK, I’ll give you the money!’ The shaking man reaches for his wallet.
‘Here’s a monkey, the rest tomorrow.’
‘That wasn’t so difficult now, was it?’ says Vinnie, tucking the money away. As he raises his finger, the man flinches.
‘Tomorrow.’
But as Vinnie walks out the pub, everything is in shadow. People are running in all directions, in a state of panic. A man is running while looking up and knocks himself out on a lamp post. Vinnie looks up and his heart misses a beat as his mind tries to comprehend what he is seeing. A huge black object sits in the sky above. Huge, black and ugly. It emits a shrieking sound, then a deep throbbing noise every five seconds, as it turns slowly in the sky above. Nearby windows shatter and the ground vibrates as it groans and throbs again.
Vinnie tries ringing Pete on his mobile, but the network is dead. Then his bleeper goes—his SAS bleeper, carried wherever he goes, whenever there is an emergency, somewhere in the world that only the SAS can deal with.
As Vinnie looks up his brain tries to compute the object by reference to existing experiences, and fails miserably. Fear grips him as his bleeper sounds again. The SAS did not have a scenario for this, and he realises this will not be a normal mission.
Then his thoughts turn to Gill—where is she?
Chapter 37
Leaving Home
PETER’S HOUSE IN WALES
It is breakfast time in Peter’s family home. He ducks his head under a low wooden
beam in the kitchen and looks at his kids playing in the garden. The flowers are blooming and his vegetables are doing nicely. He sits down to read a letter from the Readers Digest, and dips toast soldiers into an egg. He sips his pint mug of tea trying to wake up, looks up and admires Jennifer as she stands in her skimpy nightie, her long brown hair flowing over her shoulders, looking like a Greek Goddess; elegant, beautiful and timeless.
The TV is on. Jennifer is admiring Peter’s bald head, keen blue eyes and bullet-hard muscles through tight jeans and a T-shirt. Peter yawns as he admires Jennifer in her nightie, who is now looking out the kitchen window, the nightie riding up her legs, showing her knickers. His ancient warrior bloodlust starts to rise as he looks at her.
Peter’s sharp blue eyes sparkle. ‘My favourite colour is pink,’ Peter’s deep voice echoes around the kitchen as Jennifer pulls down her nightie, smiling, wagging her finger.
‘Something’s odd. All the birds have disappeared from the wood,’ Jennifer becomes serious.
‘That is a mystery. I have hardly slept the last couple of days—like I’m going on a mission or something.’ He opens an envelope.
‘I keep getting these letters from Readers Digest telling me I’m going to win £100,000.’
‘I don’t know why you bother, you never win,’ Jennifer complains and then crosses her arms. Peter looked at the unknown painting from Sir Nigel hanging on the kitchen wall. It’s probably worth a fortune—a nest egg.
