Resistance: The Gathering Storm r-1

by William C. Dietz

  Then he was inside the taxi, it was pulling away, and Cassie was alone.

  “I’m sorry, Nathan,” Cassie said, as she thought about what had been done to him. And was being done to him. “So very, very sorry.”

  Cassie went to bed after that—and sought to lose herself in sleep.

  But when the sun rose, and sent streamers of light down into the bedroom, Cassie was still awake.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Rolling Thunder

  Washington, D.C.

  Tuesday, November 27, 1951

  The skies were clear, and a cold wind was blowing in off the Atlantic, as President Grace’s Chief of Staff, William Dentweiler, climbed the narrow stairs that led to a small one-bedroom apartment on the third floor of a nondescript apartment building.

  An FBI agent was there to greet him. His name was Milt Wasowitz. He wore a gray snap-brim fedora, a dark blue trench coat, and a pair of very shiny shoes. He had heavy brows, a broad face, and pendant jowls. The two men had been working together for the better part of a week by then, and were on a first-name basis.

  “Morning, Bill,” Wasowitz said cheerfully. “You look like hell warmed over.”

  Dentweiler winced. “And I feel worse than I look. Older women can be extremely demanding, Milt. They know what they want, and won’t give up until they get it.”

  Wasowitz smiled sympathetically. “I’ll have to take your word for that, Bill. Maggie and I have five kids, and by the time I get home, the only thing she wants is a back rub and a glass of wine.”

  Both men laughed as they entered the apartment. It was furnished with pieces of mismatched furniture, and bereft of personal photos, knickknacks, and personal items. Dentweiler had seen hotel rooms with more personality.

  “This is how you found it?” he inquired.

  “That’s correct,” Wasowitz acknowledged. “It was clean as a whistle. There wasn’t so much as an empty beer bottle in the trash.”

  “Fingerprints?”

  The FBI agent nodded. “Plenty of them… Most of which belonged to Secretary Walker and his wife. The rest were a match to the building manager, the maintenance man, and previous tenants.”

  Dentweiler nodded thoughtfully. Originally, when the Walkers were reported missing, everyone assumed that the couple had been kidnapped. But without a ransom note, speculation turned to the possibility of a double homicide, or a murder-suicide, as an all-points bulletin went out to street cops everywhere.

  Then, as the investigation continued and photographs of the couple appeared in the papers, a man reported that a woman who looked a lot like Mrs. Walker had purchased a used station wagon from him. Except that she gave a different name, paid for the car with cash, and was tight-lipped about her plans.

  As more details emerged, the likelihood arose that the power couple had fled Washington voluntarily. A possibility that was of considerable concern inside the Grace administration, due to Walker’s knowledge of and his opposition to Project Omega. If Walker went public with his allegations, it would feed the flames of public discontent already being fanned by Freedom First.

  All of which explained why Dentweiler had been ordered to work with authorities to find out what had taken place, and report back to President Grace. The secret hideaway was the latest piece of a larger puzzle.

  “So they took off,” Dentweiler concluded as he polished his glasses with a white handkerchief.

  “That’s the way it looks,” Wasowitz agreed soberly. “We have an APB out for the car… But no luck so far.”

  “Okay,” Dentweiler replied, settling the glasses over his ears. “But if you find the station wagon and/or the Walkers I want to hear about it immediately. And no leaks to the press. Understood?”

  “Understood,” Wasowitz replied solemnly.

  “Good,” Dentweiler said as he turned toward the door. Then he turned back.

  “And Milt… When you go home tonight, try taking some flowers with you. Who knows? You might get lucky.”

  President Grace didn’t like the British ambassador, and never had. Mostly because Lord Winther was an aristocrat and Grace didn’t trust aristocrats. So as Grace circled his desk to greet the diplomat, he had what his staffers referred to as “the number one smile” firmly in place.

  “Ambassador Winther,” he said warmly, “it’s a pleasure to see you! Please, have a seat… Some tea perhaps? I know how Englishmen love their tea.”

  Winther was an austere-looking man, with gray hair that was parted in the middle, wintry blue eyes, and a carriage reminiscent of the Army officer he had once been. He was wearing a three-piece Savile Row suit, complete with a restrained bow tie and a gold watch chain that formed the letter V across a flat stomach.

  “Thank you, Mr. President,” Winther replied gravely. “A cup of tea would be nice.”

  The two men were joined by members of their staffs, including Secretary of State Moody for the Americans, and Canadian Ambassador Pimm on behalf of the beleaguered Commonwealth. A world-spanning organization which was more imaginary than real in the wake of so many Chimeran victories.

  The first fifteen minutes of the meeting were spent on tea, pastries from the White House kitchen, and small talk. Then Winther launched into what was clearly a carefully rehearsed plea. The essence of which was that rather than have the allies remain on the defensive, the British government hoped to interest the Americans in a joint task force which would attack Chimeran assets in Canada before the aliens could settle in there. Then, if successful, the effort could be extended to England and beyond.

  It was a good idea, or might have been years earlier, before the death of 150 million people in Russia, 450 million in Europe, and untold millions in Asia. But like many governments around the world, the United States had been slow to react to the Chimeran menace, and the British plan was no longer realistic.

  It was something Winther and Pimm already knew, deep down. Grace could see it in their eyes. So he heard them out, promised to give their proposal serious consideration, and was grateful when the pair left.

  Grace’s secretary had an office that adjoined his, and once the visitors were gone, and Moody with them, Dentweiler entered from there. Grace was back behind his desk by that time and nodded as his Chief of Staff appeared.

  “Good afternoon, Bill. What were you up to last night? You look tired.”

  “I had to work late,” Dentweiler lied smoothly. “How did it go with Ambassador Winther?”

  Grace made a face. “I can’t stand the man, but I still feel sorry for him. And the other displaced diplomats as well. The city’s full of them. How about you? Any progress on the Walker thing?”

  Two guest chairs were positioned in front of the antique desk, which was made of timbers from the British vessel Resolute. Dentweiler chose the seat to the right. “Yes, Mr. President, I have. Based on all the available evidence, it’s clear that Walker and his wife left voluntarily. And given the way they went about it, I think it’s safe to assume that they mean us harm.”

  “Damn the man!” Grace said as he brought his fist down hard onto the surface of the desk. A photo of Mrs. Grace jumped and fell flat, and Dentweiler could see the anger in his eyes. “What will Walker do?” the chief executive demanded.

  Dentweiler shrugged. “I suspect he’s been in touch with the Freedom First people, who will be eager to take him in. Walker is from Chicago, and Freedom First’s radio broadcasts originate there, so that’s a likely destination. Once he arrives, my bet is that he’ll be on the air fifteen minutes later.”

  “But Chicago is occupied by the Chimera,” Grace objected.

  “True,” Dentweiler agreed, “but that’s where the Freedom Firsters get their credibility. They live underground, in basements and sewers, and come up to fight. The stinks have made repeated efforts to root them out, and so far they’ve failed to do so.”

  Grace looked thoughtful. “Even if Walker goes on the air, so what? No one would believe him… Especially after we accuse him of treason.”
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  “Unless Walker has something we don’t know about,” Dentweiler put in. “Detailed notes from the cabinet meetings, perhaps. That might be credible enough to do some real harm.”

  “Then we need to stop Walker before he can reach Chicago,” Grace said darkly.

  “He’s got a healthy head start,” Dentweiler cautioned.

  “Then what are you waiting for?” Grace wanted to know. “Get ahold of the FBI, the Domestic Security Agency, and all branches of the military. Put them to work. I want Walker arrested, and failing that, I want him dead! Do I make myself clear?”

  Light glinted off Dentweiler’s glasses as he nodded.

  “Yes, Mr. President. Very clear.”

  “Good,” Grace said, as he came to his feet. “My schedule says we’re due at the Lincoln Memorial in half an hour—and you know how I feel about punctuality.”

  The Lincoln Memorial was intended to resemble a Greek temple, and thanks to tons of Yule marble and thirty-six Doric columns, it succeeded. That—plus the brooding presence of the statue within—made it a favorite with tourists and politicians alike. And now, after a million-dollar-plus renovation, President Grace himself stopped by to inspect the repairs and say a few words.

  Which was why radio reporter Henry Stillman and freelance cameraman Abe Bristow were waiting outside, and they weren’t alone. About thirty other journalists were present as well, along with a crowd of roughly fifty tourists, all of whom hoped to catch a glimpse of the President.

  Stillman had a long gaunt face, a no-nonsense chin, and was dressed in a well-cut gray suit. He flamed another in a long chain of Camels he had smoked that day, clicked the Zippo closed, and dropped the lighter into his coat pocket.

  “So, Abe,” Stillman said as he sucked the rich smoke deep into his lungs. “What do you think Grace is doing in there? Asking Lincoln for some advice?”

  Bristow was short and squat, as if God had taken a normal-sized man and squashed him like clay. He was fiddling with his huge flash camera.

  “God knows the bastard could use some,” he replied sourly. “Not that he’d listen.” Stillman might have said something more, but there was a sudden stir at the top of the steps leading up to the memorial and the crowd surged forward.

  Stillman and Bristow went with the flow, but were soon forced to stop as half a dozen uniformed police officers rushed to block the way. A man dressed in civilian attire appeared immediately behind them and stepped up to a microphone. His voice boomed through speakers set up two hours earlier.

  “Good afternoon… My name is William Dentweiler, the President’s Chief of Staff. There’s no need to push and shove. President Grace will take questions for about ten minutes. Then it’s back to the White House for some important meetings.

  “Mr. President?” At that point Dentweiler took two steps to the right, which gave Grace access to the microphone.

  Grace flashed one of his trademark smiles as he stepped up to the microphone and a coterie of Secret Service agents came with him. It was a sunny day, so there were no flashbulbs for the President to contend with as Bristow and his fellow photographers began to click away.

  In the meantime Stillman pushed his way forward in an attempt to get his new Minifon battery-powered recorder as close to the President as possible. Most of the journalists shouted questions, but it was one of the veteran radio reporters who managed to make himself heard.

  “Mr. President! Arthur Norton, WDC News. There are rumors that sections of the Liberty Defense Perimeter have been breached. Is the government concerned that citizens may panic?”

  Grace frowned. “Panic? Do me a favor, Arthur… Everyone… Look up.”

  Stillman, recorder extended, looked up. The rest of the crowd did as well.

  “Now,” Grace said. “What do you see?”

  Norton was a balding man in his early thirties. He looked confused. “Nothing.”

  Grace nodded knowingly. “Exactly. Nothing. And the reason you see nothing is that taxpayers such as yourself have been gracious enough to put their confidence in my administration. Law and order is the reason our country remains safe while those overseas have fallen.”

  Stillman had successfully elbowed his way forward by the time Grace stopped speaking. “Henry Stillman for USA News, Mr. President… Our reporter in Montana says that a Protection Camp located outside the defense perimeter was overrun by thousands of aliens the day before yesterday.”

  At that point Dentweiler leaned in to speak. There was undisguised anger in his voice. “That camp would have been located inside the defense perimeter if it hadn’t been for all of the raw materials appropriated by the Freedom First people! They forced the government to limit the size of the perimeter.”

  “Bill’s right, I’m afraid,” Grace put in reasonably. “The so-called Freedom Firsters are a greater menace than the stinks are.”

  Apparently Dentweiler wasn’t all that thrilled with the line of questioning because he stepped in to shut the press conference down.

  “All right,” the Chief of Staff said, “the President has a busy schedule to keep. Let’s wrap this up.”

  Suddenly a high-pitched whistling sound was heard, and something fell out of the clear blue sky and hit the roundabout behind the crowd. A taxi was thrown into the air. There was a loud crash as it smashed into the ground and burst into flames. A cloud of black smoke enveloped the scene as women screamed, policemen shouted conflicting orders, and the President was half carried toward a waiting limo.

  As the smoke began to clear, Bristow pointed at the spire. It was shaped like a huge spear, the head of which had penetrated the concrete, and was lodged underground. But unlike a normal spear, this one was made of metal, and thousands of times larger. Vapor out-gassed from the object, the air shimmered around it, and Still-man heard pinging sounds as the missile began to cool.

  “Henry… What is that thing?”

  Stillman shook his head. “I don’t know, Abe… But it wasn’t made by humans. That’s for sure.”

  Some people were lying on the ground where Good Samaritans tried to assist them as sirens sounded and the presidential motorcade pulled away. Meanwhile, like the newsmen they were, Stillman and Bristow went over to examine the spire. The cameraman snapped shot after shot as they got closer.

  “Thank God it didn’t explode,” Bristow said, as he lowered his camera. “But maybe we should—”

  Bristow never got to finish his sentence. An ominous hum was heard as a series of plates were pushed out and away from the spire’s fuselage. Then, without warning, hundreds of softball-sized eggs began to tumble out onto the street. Stillman felt something cold enter his bloodstream as the yellowish globes bounced and rolled in every direction. “I don’t like the look of those things,” he said. “Run!”

  Both men turned back toward the memorial and started to sprint up the stairs as the eggs began to hatch. A cacophony of bloodcurdling squeals was heard as thousands of Spinners were born. Within seconds of breaking out of their soft-shelled containers the horrible-looking creatures began to morph and were the size of house cats by the time they swarmed the slowest members of the crowd.

  People screamed as they were borne to the ground by five or six Spinners. Each stink was equipped with fangs and hollow barbs through which chemicals could be injected into their victims, all of whom instantly began to thrash about.

  Having escaped the initial onslaught, Stillman and Bristow were halfway up the stairs, right behind a mixed group of journalists and tourists. Both men heard something howl, and Bristow felt one of the creatures land on his back as more of them swept up the stairs. He stopped, and was trying to reach back and get a grip on the Chimera when Stillman took hold of the squirming stink and ripped it away. The Spinner was hot to the touch, and it snapped angrily when the reporter heaved it down toward the street.

  Hundreds of additional Spinners were flowing up the stairs by then, so both men turned and ran. People had been trampled and Stillman felt something give horribly
as he was forced to step on a man’s chest. The building was equipped with steel gates, and as a quick-thinking security guard hurried to secure the last one, the duo managed to slip inside.

  There was a loud clang behind them when the door closed, followed by a persistent rattling noise as hundreds of frustrated monsters hit the barrier. It consisted of closely set vertical bars that allowed those inside to see out as the pimply-faced guard emptied his .38 revolver into the squealing mass. Each bullet killed at least two or three Chimera, but there were plenty more, and it wasn’t long before the guard’s pistol clicked empty.

  Then, as if in response to some unseen signal, the tidal wave of alien flesh broke and fell away. That was when Stillman saw a horrible sight as a man stumbled up the last few steps with half a dozen Spinners clinging to his body. But the creatures weren’t stinging him. Not yet anyway.

  “Oh, my God,” Bristow said. “It’s Norton!”

  The WDC newsman reached the top and grabbed the bars with both hands, then began to rattle them. His eyes were wide—and his pupils were dilated.

  “Let me in! For God’s sake, let me in!”

  The security guard produced a large ring of keys and was on his way to the gate when Stillman grabbed an arm.

  “Wait! You can’t do that.”

  The security guard attempted to break Stillman’s grip but Bristow was there to restrain him as well.

  “Are you crazy?” the young man demanded. “There’s an innocent man out there!”

  “And there’s twenty innocent people in here,” Stillman responded urgently. “They’re using him as bait! They want you to open the door so they can get in.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, he’s dead already,” Stillman answered soberly. “And there’s nothing we can do about it.”