Free Range Protocol- Tales of the Tschaaa Infestation

by Marshall Miller

  “That bad, officer?” Adam asked.

  “Yes sir. Half a dozen rocks have hit, a bigger one in the southeast corner. Went up like a fuel air bomb in Iraq. Fire and rescue are overwhelmed.” The trooper glared at the retiree when he appeared to be about to speak, then thought better of it.

  “If you want to climb down off the freeway and walk around, be my guest. Just don’t smoke within a hundred yards.”

  Adam and Willie looked at each other. Adam shrugged. “Well, Chief, nice day for a walk. We’re within two clicks, I think.”

  “Yeah, Boss. Let’s secure the vehicle, and take off on foot.” Willie turned towards the trooper. Thanks, officer. Good luck, and be careful.”

  “Yeah, I could use some luck about now,” the trooper answered.

  Adam and Willie turned around and began walking back to their stolen SUV.

  “Special Agent?” Adam asked in a low tone.

  “Hey, you’re special. You can be my agent. It works. Right?”

  Adam smiled. “Still fast on your feet. Good. We need it.”

  Just then, they heard a loud, un-muffled motorcycle engine nearing the retiree’s RV they were passing. The two men watched it rocket by in between cars and turned to see the state trooper yelling at the driver, trying to intercept the cyclist. The man maneuvered his Harley around the now screaming trooper and tossed what Adam thought was a lit road flare toward the disabled tanker truck.As the bearded and long haired blonde biker tossed the flaming object, Adam noticed what seemed to be a logo of some type of octopus in black and red as his club colors. Adam had never seen that in any law enforcement report before.

  “Down!” Adam yelled as he yanked the Chief behind the RV. Instantly, everything exploded. The retiree had apparently set his vehicle’s hand brake and had it in park. That, plus the vehicle’s weight, stopped it from rolling onto the two men as the blast hit.

  Adam felt a wash of heat go by, his ears ringing. He slowly began to rise and saw the retiree on the ground, on fire and not moving. He heard what must have been the man’s wife screaming from inside the RV. Adam carefully made his way around to the front of the vehicle, as the Chief slowly rose to his feet.

  Jammed into the grill of the RV was the now dead trooper. Burnt, and with his head at an odd angle, Adam saw he was clearly dead. He went over, reached down and gingerly removed the 40 Caliber pistol from the dead trooper’s holster. It looked like it had been protected by the trooper’s body from the blast and heat, and still seemed serviceable. The Chief walked up to his side.

  “Yeah. He won’t be needing that anymore.”

  “Willie, that was no accident, no Act of God.” The heat from the burning tanker was still intense, so they walked back to behind the RV, trying to ignore the woman’s screams inside.

  “Boss, did you see that? What the fuck was that guy doing?”

  Adam paused, staring at the burning carnage. How did this happen? he thought.

  In the hardened Battle Staff Room under the White House grounds, a much-abbreviated National Security Staff was attempting to gain as much information about the situation as they could. The near hit by a rock on the White House lawn had been the first of several in the D.C. Area. A large one had hit a secret underground monitoring, command, and control station outside of D.C., in Virginia. Chaos reigned.

  Vice President Lisa McAuliffe was in over her head, and she knew it. The President had been on a fundraising, press the flesh trip to California when the first rock struck.

  The pretty blonde looked at her notes. Nine fucking thirteen in the morning, she thought. At least four enormous objects had struck worldwide at that exact moment, to be followed by many more.

  The ones that had hit in D.C., at first thought to be random, now seemed to have been aimed and timed to disrupt the operations of the Nation’s Capital to the maximum extent. They were just big enough to pack the equivalent punch of a World War II “blockbuster” bomb.

  However, the psychological effect of flaming balls from the sky seemed to have as much disruptive effect as the actual physical destruction. The Capitol building area had been evacuated, with many of the normal National Security Staff apparently caught in the ensuing panic. After all, at first it was thought to be a natural disaster. Some personnel had stayed in place in such locations as the Pentagon. Now, it looked like no additional staff would make it to the battle staff room.

  Lisa cursed under her breath. She had never been in the military, never been a Governor, never run a large organization. She had been chosen by Congress all along to be eye candy and to soften the image of the President with her more progressive stances on the issues. She knew that. So did the majority of the President’s staff.

  But now they were stuck with her as the authority. The President had been routed to a passenger train when it was deemed too dangerous to fly, thanks to an AWAC’s bird being knocked out of the sky by a piece of apparent space junk. The Vice President, who had been told by the President that she had to step up and hold the fort until the President returned, was reminded she had experienced commanders to help. That had been twelve hours ago. Things were getting progressively worse, the situation was deteriorating hour by hour, as the reports came in.

  “Ma’am, we have that Colonel you were looking for on the line,” the Assistant National Security Advisor to the President told her. Lisa McAuliffe sighed. They were all the second string in this room. Those with real experience were scattered to hell and gone, with a few reported dead. Now, she had to take charge. And she had no idea what to do.

  “Vice President McAuliffe here. Is this Colonel Reed?”

  “Yes, Madam Vice President. Colonel John Reed, Russian Affairs desk at the Pentagon.”

  Lisa took a deep breath to calm herself, as she was afraid of the answers she was about to receive. She stepped in front of the computer with the encrypted real time video feed.

  “Colonel, I understand you speak fluent Russian?”

  ‘Yes, Ma’am. I am married to a Russian former embassy staff member, and we have two sons. She made me learn fluent Russian.”

  “Where is she now?” There was a pregnant pause at the other end of the line. Then, Colonel Reed answered.

  “I don’t know. She was visiting relatives outside of Moscow when this all blew up…Madam Vice President.”

  So, Lisa thought. He has a personal stake in this situation.

  “What are the Russians saying, Colonel? Who are they blaming for this? Are they blaming us, claiming it’s part of some grand conspiracy…?” Lisa tried to catch herself, knowing she was on the verge of rambling.

  “Well, Ma’am, to put it bluntly, they are panicked. I have never seen nor heard this before. Russians do not have a reputation for panic. They are considered ruthless, but not the panicking type.”

  Lisa tried to think of what to say next. Panic? That is what she felt like being on the verge of… a good screaming panic.

  “Ma’am. They are reporting unknown aircraft in their airspace, just as we reported here a few minutes ago.”

  Lisa glared at the other battle staff members.

  “Why didn’t I know about this?” she asked no one in particular.

  “We’re trying to verify the information, Madam Vice President,” a one-star General stated.

  “What? Where in the hell is all of the special surveillance and military equipment we’ve been spending money on all these years? Why is everything so confused? What the hell are you people worth if you can’t figure out who is attacking us?” Lisa asked shrilly, on the verge of screaming when Colonel Reed broke in.

  “Here, I’ll send you raw, open broadcast material the Russians are providing to anyone who wants it, no encryption.” Within moments, the raw feed was coming over the screens to the battle staff. What they saw was so astounding, a person could think it was all faked with modern computer graphics. Only it wasn’t.

  Delta-shaped aircraft, somewhat larger than the typical U.S. fighter bomber (such as the older Strike E
agle) came into the film footage at a high rate of speed, sonic booms resonating off the soundtrack of the video feed, sometimes causing the film to shake. Then huge disc shaped craft, larger than a B-2 bomber by a factor, came into view. At first seemingly to maneuver like a conventional aircraft, it suddenly stopped in mid- air and hovered. Then, it took off like a shot straight up.

  “My God!” exclaimed Lisa. “That doesn’t look like anything I’ve ever seen.” She stopped, realizing what she was saying.

  “Here is some more daylight footage of something bigger. Russia has time zones, it’s daylight there now, eight hours ahead.”

  A shape appeared that looked to be longer than a football field with the characteristic fat body design of an Earthly large military jet transport, only on steroids.

  “Russians are calling these huge things arks. They are transports of some kind, protected by the Delta Fighters and those large disc shaped craft,” stated Colonel Reed.

  “Have any craft like these been seen here, in the U.S., up until now?” Lisa asked, chin quivering.

  “It’s night here, and confusing as hell thanks to all the rocks hitting us. But we just received reports of the Deltas and those other battle cruiser type discs along the east and west coasts. The numbers are unknown.”

  “Any occupants?” the Assistant National Security Advisor inquired. He was late middle aged, just starting to go gray. After tonight, if he survived, the Vice President surmised he would be completely gray.

  “Some Russian pilot claimed to have seen some fleshy tentacles around the cockpit of a downed Delta. That has not been verified…”

  “You mean they can be shot down?” Lisa interjected.

  “Yes Ma’am. At least the Russians are doing it. They also report some very tall humanoid shaped soldiers, apparently in armor, around one of those huge disc shaped craft.”

  “Colonel, why do the Russians seem to have more information that we do?”

  “It’s daylight there. The Russians can see them better.” Colonel Reed paused, then continued.

  “We have run into one problem over here in the U.S, which is not being reported much in Russia.”

  “What is that?” Lisa asked.

  “We have guerrilla actions, a form of terrorist activity by some sort of prepositioned Fifth Column. They all seem to be humans, of the more criminal in nature. These…minions are popping up all over the country, attacking our military and police. They are also committing acts of sabotage on our infrastructure, such as our fuel supplies, power stations and transportation routes.”

  Lisa began to swear like she and her friends did when she was still a cheerleader smoking behind the bleachers after the football games in Massachusetts.

  “Does anyone know what the hell is going on? Is anyone doing anything against these…these Bug Eyed Monsters?”

  No one on the battle staff responded. Then Colonel Reed spoke. “Local commanders are forming quick reaction forces made up of whatever military resources they can find. Aerial strike packages are being formed, and the Navy is recalling all their Carrier Groups. Once we have the targets identified, we’ll hit them. But the idea that this was a natural disaster at first really confused the response.”

  “Colonel Reed. You seem to be the only person who has any idea what is going on. Since I am acting President—congratulations, you’re now in charge. You start organizing any way you want. See if you can get the Russians on board. My red phone to them is not getting answered by the Kremlin.”

  John Reed frowned. “That is really screwed. It means their command and control is breaking down faster than I thought.”

  “Any other Generals or Admirals at the Pentagon with you?”

  “A couple are floating around, Ma’am.”

  “Get them on this connection ASAP. I am going to tell them that you are in charge, per my orders.”

  An Assistant Secretary of Defense, again the second string, started to protest.

  “Ma’am that is going to screw up the Chain of…”

  “Fuck the Chain of Command. I was never in the military, so guess what? I don’t care how things are normally done. This is not normal!”

  Everyone shut up. Then Colonel Reed seemed to be listening to a separate earpiece. Even on the computer screen, the fact his face seemed to go ashen was noticeable.

  “Madam Vice President, we just lost Cheyenne Mountain. Contact was cut in mid-sentence. I have to assume attackers targeted it, just took it out.”

  “That would take a large nuke, wouldn’t it?”

  “Yes, Ma’am. Or the equivalent.”

  Lisa put her face in her hands and groaned. Slowly, she raised her head.

  “We still have some satellite communications, right? Wait a minute, why haven’t these, these objects taken out satellites?”

  John Reed shrugged. “They may plan on taking them over, using them. Though, if they studied us, like I am sure they did, having your satellites destroyed is a tip off someone is attacking you, that it’s not just some large meteors coming in.” He paused, then continued.

  “They played us, Space Command, even the Russians like old fiddles for twelve hours. We did not even know we were under attack.”

  “Work your magic, General Reed. Try to raise the President. When the sun comes up, I want some targets, I want some enemy to kill. I’ll be damned if the acting female President is going down in the history books as being a wimp.”

  Lisa paused for a moment. Damn girl, she thought, I didn’t know you had that in you. And judging by the looks on faces in the room, neither did they.

  In one unified voice, she heard, “Yes, Madam Vice President.”

  For the first time, the Vice President, now in charge for the time being, smiled.

  “Alright, gentlemen. Shall we?” With that, the second string huddled up, looking for a Hail Mary play.

  Fourteen hours after leaving Atlanta, the two men were sitting on the floor of a “Stop and Rob”, passing a bottle of malt liquor back and forth. The only light source was the battery operated emergency exit lights required in public commercial businesses. All other power was off.

  They had made it to Six Flags and the hotel where Chief Hamilton’s family had been. Or at least they had tried. An hour after the tanker explosion, they had woven their way around burning vehicles and groups of panicked civilians to the Wingate Hotel. It was a mass of flames.

  The Six Flags Theme Park itself was on fire in several locations, spreading beyond the confines of the resort. Everyone in the area was fleeing, primarily west, away from Atlanta.

  There were no signs of Willie’s wife Azita, his son Jacob, or daughter Sarah. Adam and Willie decided to follow the panicked crowds west, on the off chance Aznita and the children had been caught up in the groups of fleeing humans. Hours later, they had not seen a sign of the woman and her children.

  As the sun was setting, they came upon the Stop and Rob. It had been locked up by its fleeing owner. That did not stop a group of a half dozen men and women from smashing in the front door glass in an attempt to gain entry. Adam and Willie had approached, and spread out a bit.

  Before they could even try to make a friendly contact, a long-haired young male who looked as if he had just taken a hit off a meth pipe grabbed a high end—probably stolen—pump shotgun. As he pointed it in Adam’s direction, the former Captain had double tapped two bullets in the guy’s chest, then one to the head from the pistol he had taken from the dead trooper. The shotgun wielder collapsed, his comrades frozen in place by the sudden violence.

  “Leave, now!” Adam called out. One of the females started to approach the dead man.

  “Leave him and the shotgun. Go. Death just arrived. You want to stay and say hello?”

  “Hey man!” The woman said. “He has the drugs. Give them to us.”

  Willie strode up, and efficiently rifled the corpse’s pockets. He found a bag and a pipe, and tossed both to the woman. She caught the objects, and the five survivors began to run off. If a
ny of them had other firearms, they had apparently decided discretion was the better part of valor. Within a couple of minutes, they disappeared into the fading sunlight.

  “So much for the veneer of civilization, Chief.”

  Adam and Willie recovered the shotgun, stripped the body of all usable ammunition and items, and then propped it up on the gas pumps in front of the store. It would serve as a warning to others to give the store a wide berth.

  The two men had not seen a single law enforcement official since the tanker truck. They had heard some military jets in the distance, but had not seen them yet. People in the Atlanta area were on their own.

  Now they were sitting on the store floor. Willie had picked the front barred security door lock to get in. Breaking the front door glass had been a futile effort by the departed looters. The power had stayed on long enough for Adam and Willie to microwave some sandwiches and frozen fried chicken, as well as some cups of coffee. The lights had flickered, then went out. The military men had eaten enough, then filled some plastic garbage bags with leftovers, beef sticks, and bottles of water. After a couple cans of beer, they were passing a bottle of malt liquor back and forth.

  Adam looked at his friend. “You know, Azita could have…”

  “We’ll never know, Adam. This area of Georgia is toast. The aliens hit us too hard and fast.”

  Willie took a long drink and looked at the now empty malt liquor bottle.

  “Dead soldier. Give it a proper burial, Boss. Then get us something else from the cooler.”

  Information from the Chief’s satellite phone, plus other info snatched from vehicle radio broadcasts, had confirmed the suspicions that the rocks were part of an attack. Twelve hours in, the alien Delta-shaped fighters and large disc-shaped craft were followed by huge—larger than a football field transport—craft, to be later named harvester arks. It was soon apparent what they were doing. One of Willie’s contacts at the Pentagon he had managed to contact on his sat phone told them one of arks had landed on the White House lawn. Some wheeled robots and some large armored humanoids had disembarked, and began to grab every human in sight, killing those who tried to flee.