Overture (Earth Song Cycle Book 1)

by Mark Wandrey

  The women had been organizing for 20 minutes, the first crate-carrying teams already on their way back, when the first setback occurred. A police cruiser passing by slowed to observe the stream of men and equipment flowing into the park. Per their instructions, the team took no notice of the police car, which stopped to further investigate. It was a solo patrol car with only one officer inside. The officer sat for a long moment before reaching for his radio. The side window shattered with a pop, and the officer slumped sideways. The subsonic round wasn’t audible over the street noise.

  “We’re compromised,” the security team leader said over the scrambled radio.

  “Understood,” the transit team leader replied. “Proceed with expedited departure.”

  Quickly and silently the groups by the portal organized and lined up. Five from the security team stationed themselves nearby. Five minutes after the team eliminated the patrol officer, the first woman stepped through the portal into a somewhat swampy arboreal landscape lit with otherworldly light. She only paused for a moment before stepping aside as other members sent crates through. She pulled them aside as best she could until a crate refused to go. At that point she removed a silenced pistol and dropped to one knee to cover the area. One of the transit team members made a note on a tablet and barked instructions. As the next person went through, the other members adjusted the stacks of crates.

  The next four through were all heavily armed, wearing body armor and carrying Tavor battle rifles at the ready. Once their accompanying crates had passed through and the way cleared, more non-combat personnel followed. The security team moved to establish a perimeter on the other side. The one vital piece of intel they’d been missing was whether the Egyptians had yet to send anyone through. If they had, they would neutralize them, too.

  Out on Mahdet Masr, the first confused-looking pedestrians were examining the police car only to discover the man behind the wheel dead from a bloody head wound. The security team was under orders to avoid civilian casualties, so they activated short-range microwave jammers. The panicked civilians found their cellphones had no signal. This confused most of the civilians who continued to mill around, while several others ran. The security team lead estimated distances and time, compared them against the memorized transit team time schedule, and made a mental note before activating his radio.

  “Prepare to go weapons hot,” he said. At points all around the Orman Botanical Garden, safeties clicked off. The first response was a pair of police vans racing across the Cairo University Bridge. They were from the police tactical response unit, dispatched by a screaming call from the General Intelligence Directorate while they organized their own response. The two men in overwatch positions, sitting atop high-rise office buildings along the Nile River, each fired a single shot from their IWI DAN rifles. The hyper-accurate .338 bullets killed both drivers instantly, sending one van careening over the bridge railing and into the Nile, and the other one across the median where it struck a UPS truck head on and burst into flames.

  “Situation is getting hot,” the security team leader said into the second channel.

  In the center of the garden, the team worked as quickly as they could. More than 50 had already passed through the portal. The middle group was going now, which included all of the most pregnant women. It was the slowest part of the operation. The pile of crates had diminished, though not as quickly as hoped.

  “We can’t speed up any more,” the transit team leader said. The security team lead ground his jaw and made a quick sweep of the area. Aside from the small group of civilians observing the dead officer’s car, there were no other signs of unusual traffic. He made a snap decision.

  “Last transit squad, move in to assist.” From his 14-man unit, four broke off and hurried to the park’s center. Once there, they would take over moving crates, expediting the process. The perimeter team was now down to six, a dangerously low number. He hoped he hadn’t made a mistake.

  Another 10 minutes passed before anyone realized someone had neutralized the two vanloads of tactical officers before they ever reached the scene. From high atop the skyscraper, the overwatch team called in.

  “Inbound choppers,” one of them advised, “coming from the northeast.”

  “Tell me they aren’t Apaches,” the security team leader said. Silence reigned as the overwatch team tried to make a positive identification.

  “No Apaches, they’re MI-17s,” the report came. “Two are confirmed, coming in high and fast.” The team leader nodded. The Egyptians had a couple dozen of the Cold War-era Soviet utility helicopters, and they could be armed for ground assault. If they were coming from the north east, they were probably carrying troops.

  “Drop one of them.” Each of the snipers carried a single advanced anti-aircraft missile launcher. Based on the FIM-92 U.S.-made Stinger, the Israeli version was almost half the size and weight; it also had better target acquisition but a shorter range. They were also much harder to counter.

  As the two overwatch snipers had previously agreed on who would fire first, one sniper lifted the weapon from where he’d set it, activated, charged, and ready to go. It only took a second for him to isolate the target on the display and lock it in. The launcher’s focal plane array confirmed it had a lock, and he pressed the fire button. The tiny launch motor pushed the missile out of the tube, and the main engine ignited 20 feet away. The four-foot long missile accelerated to nearly Mach 2 in less than three seconds.

  Just over two miles away, the lead MI-17 pilot, who had only been shaken out of bed an hour previously, gaped in utter astonishment as the “THREAT” alarm on his control console went off. He was just beginning to take evasive action when the two-kilogram, high explosive warhead detonated behind the cockpit, killing most of the soldiers inside the crew compartment and severing the entire engine mount from the airframe. What remained of the 50-year old helicopter became a burning meteor that crashed into the Nile.

  The other sniper activated his missile’s acquisition radar and aimed it at the second helicopter. Having just witnessed his comrades’ spectacular demise, the pilot responded in a high-G turn that nearly sent his helicopter down as well. He just managed to pull out before hitting a building, dropped to street level, and raced back to the northeast. The sniper turned off the missile and set the unused launcher back down. They’d bought a little more time.

  The explosion of the helicopter sent civilians in the area into a panic. There were dozens of traffic accidents, and people on foot began to flee to any cover they could find. To the south, they could hear crying animals from the Giza zoo. With the help of the four men from the security team, the last of the pregnant women was through the portal, and all that remained were 20 men. As the number of people remaining dwindled, the going became increasingly slower.

  “More helicopters,” one of the snipers announced. “At least two Blackhawks, and they’re coming in on the deck.” As the snipers were high in towers, the remaining surface to air missile would be nearly useless.

  “Gunships!” the other sniper announced. A second later, the thrumming of a 30mm chain gun shook the gardens. People on the streets began to scream and run, birds took to the air, and more sirens sounded. The other overwatch didn’t call in again, but the team leader heard the unmistakable sound of a missile firing, and an airborne explosion reverberating. More 30mm fire followed. The team leader knew there wouldn’t be any more transmissions from the sniper.

  “I have a Blackhawk touching down on Charles de Gaulle,” the southeast corner observer reported. A second later they heard his generic M4 rifle laying down suppressive fire.

  “Another on Al Dokki,” the north observation point said, as more fire rang across the park. The security team leader split his unengaged men, and sent half to the two points of contact, the rest to the portal.

  “Get them out of here before they send another gunship!” he barked, and ran to the southeast corner. That copter had the most cover and probably managed to disembark ef
fectively. He reached it in less than a minute and found confirmation. Of the three men he expected, only two were still alive. They were taking cover behind a pair of parked cars, and a rain of small arms fire showered down on them. The team leader ducked behind a tree, fit a 38mm grenade into the launcher on his older M4, and sent the projectile downrange. It landed next to a concentration of troops, turning several into gore, and bought him enough time to reach his men.

  “They gone?” a corporal with a shoulder wound asked. He shook his head, and the man nodded, reloading. They’d all understood what they were up against when they took the mission. The chance of exfil was expected to be zero.

  “Transit team, you have five minutes, tops,” he said over his radio. “God speed.”

  “And to you,” his counterpart on the transit team replied. There were only two of his people left.

  He turned and examined the crates. Only twenty of them remained. He knew they’d miss what the last five contained, but they’d survive without them. The last crates to cross were unwieldy, their occupants were alive. The crates contained baby animals of a dozen different species. The operation’s planners had been incredibly resourceful, and imaginative. Even he didn’t know what was in all of those crates. The five soldiers helped as the last two men went through, leaving only the leader.

  “Remember,” he told them, “follow the numbers on the crates. Toss until they won’t go through.”

  “We understand,” one of the soldiers said. Another stood by the crates that wouldn’t be going. He was placing explosive charges on them. They wouldn’t leave much behind.

  “Thank you for everything,” he said to the men. Machine gun fire in the distance had risen to a furious pace.

  “Shalom,” the corporal said. “Remember us in the mourners’ Kaddish.” The man nodded, and the soldier went back to work.

  The transit team leader nodded, walked up the steps, and into another world. The first crate followed less than a second later and almost hit him. Per their instructions, sequentially numbered crates flew through the portal one after another until one bounced off the invisible barrier. He couldn’t see from where he stood in the strange new world, but he knew from the briefing that all 144 lights were now out on the other side of the portal. The soldiers left behind waved and turned to run into the gardens. A second later, the portal swirled and went dark.

  Back in Cairo, the security team fought a pitched battle for almost an hour before another Apache showed up and strafed the park with 30mm cannon fire. They followed with 2.75-inch rockets and a pair of Hellfire missiles. By one o’clock in the morning, the entire security team was dead. They found most with empty weapons. Two had blown themselves up with grenades.

  General Intelligence Directorate agents moved into the park to examine the carnage. None of the security team had any identification on them. The camouflage uniforms they wore were off the shelf, available in any of a thousand online stores around the planet. The men themselves were not distinctly Jewish in appearance; in fact, many appeared to be Arabs. Their weapons were U.S.-manufactured M4 rifles whose serial numbers would lead to weapons issued during the first Gulf War, and marked as lost. The ammo was civilian manufactured. Only the snipers had Israeli-made weapons, but there was nothing left by which to identify them.

  The Egyptian high command knew it had to be the Jews, although they couldn’t imagine how such a large team could infiltrate so deeply into Egyptian territory. Who else could mount such an operation? More importantly, the portal was dead and wouldn’t respond. The president was demanding answers, and no one knew what to tell him. It was a bad night.

  * * * * *

  Chapter Eleven

  April 25

  Victor’s church had grown far faster then he’d thought possible, from a tiny handful of followers to thousands who called themselves his followers. It was mind numbing. For a time, he managed to happily sleep on a cot in the back of the old theater. That is, until his inner circle felt it was unseemly. They’d rented him a small apartment next door (for next to nothing, actually), and one night he found all his possessions moved there. He could either sleep on the floor in the church, or move to the new apartment. Like many leaders before him, he bent to his assistants’ wills.

  On the morning of April 25th, Victor entered the rear offices of the church to find it all but empty. There were morning sermons planned, and they had been talking about dispatching people to the street corners for some good old-fashioned soap-box preaching, only no one was there. A young member of his church was passing by with some donated food, on his way to the pantry. Victor caught him by the arm and received the kind of look you got when you turned up somewhere you weren’t supposed to be. What he was about to say died in his throat.

  “What’s up?” he asked instead.

  “It’s just…I thought…” the man stammered. Victor was getting extremely worried now.

  “What is going on?” he demanded, his voice becoming angry. Now, the young man was obviously scared. With a visible effort, Victor calmed himself with several deep breaths to avoid completely freaking the kid out. “Look, where the fuck everyone be?”

  “T-they said to have you call this number when you came in,” he stammered and handed Victor a note. The handwriting was simple and blocky, just like Duke would write. Call us when you get this. If you don’t get through, keep trying. His will be done.

  His will be done, Victor thought. Completely forgetting the young man who’d given him the note, he dug the phone out of his pocket and quickly accessed the internet feature. He’d never owned a phone like this before, another luxury his disciples had forced upon him, so it took him a minute to figure out how to get to the local news.

  “NYC Center of Terrorist Attack Again” read one headline.

  “Oh, Duke, damn man, what have you done?” He flicked over to the phone and dialed the number. A message alerted him that all circuits were busy. He tried twice more before giving up and running into the kitchen. Grabbing a bagel and a can of Coke, he raced out the back door and into the street. As a homeless drug user, he’d never used a cab. He never had the money to use a cab. He had money now, but didn’t like to use it. There were so many other things that required the church’s money. Normally, he took the money that his disciples left in his room and dropped it back into the donation tray every day. Today, he hadn’t had time to do that yet.

  Heading south down Manhattan in the cab he’d hailed, he dug out the envelope he’d pocketed without examining earlier. Inside were five $20 bills. Such a short time ago, it would have been a nearly inconceivable amount of money. The driver, a Pakistani man by the looks of him, glanced at Victor absently in the rearview mirror as he dialed the number every few blocks.

  “You know we cannot go south of MLK,” the driver said in a thick accent. “All traffic is moved to Riverside.” Victor hadn’t considered the man might know what was going on.

  “What happened?”

  “Have you not looked at the news?” Victor shook his head. “Some terrorists have taken over the Central Park. The place that satellite crashed.” The portal, Victor thought.

  “Who did it?”

  “The police aren’t saying,” the driver told him. As they drove south on Broadway, traffic got increasingly worse. By the time they reached 135th Street, it was at a standstill. Victor got out, giving the driver one of the bills and not waiting for the change. Central Park was still half a mile away, so he started walking.

  Just as the cab driver said, there were roadblocks up at MLK with police diverting traffic west. It wasn’t hard for him to get past them; the length of MLK was too broad for officers to effectively stop both car and foot traffic. After a couple more blocks, he started to find closed businesses and more police. He could hear helicopters overhead, and he saw fewer civilians. He ducked into an apartment entrance and dialed yet again. The phone was silent for a moment, then rang.

  “Hello, Victor,” Gabriel answered.

  “Gabriel!”
he snapped. “What have you done?!”

  “The portal to heaven is ours.”

  * * *

  Mindy woke early, an hour before she’d set her alarm. Central Manhattan was so loud with sirens and honking car horns, it was a testimony to how tired she was that she’d managed to sleep at all. She got up and looked out the window of the tiny hotel room. The Bristol Plaza hotel wasn’t even upscale, and it had still cost her nearly $500 for one night. It was a good thing she’d had the money, because only a few blocks from Central Park, traffic was at a standstill. She’d been far too tired to walk.

  The nightly rate included a continental breakfast, so Mindy showered, dressed, and repacked her Osprey bag before riding the elevator downstairs to the lobby. There weren’t many guests, so she had her pick of danishes, bagels, and coffee. It was a lot better than she would have gotten in Seattle. For some reason, that surprised her.

  The other guests kept to themselves. They all seemed to be business people; none appeared to be tourists. More importantly, several looked like government types with conservative business suits, secure briefcases, and minimal travel bags. They had the look of people who traveled a lot. She caught one woman staring at her out the corner of her eye, and when she stared back, the other woman didn’t look away. It gave her the creeps.

  While she ate, Mindy used her smartphone, which she’d recharged overnight, to look for information. The media was beside itself with frustration over the lack of news concerning the Central Park terrorist attack. The government had yet to issue a statement with more than the smallest amount of information. So, the media was filling that data vacuum with wild speculation. The satellite contained weapons grade radioactive material and terrorists wanted it for making bombs. The satellite had aliens on board, and the terrorists were right wing Christians out to kill the aliens. Her favorite was that there was some gateway to heaven in the park, and the government was using it to send an invasion force.