The War of Immensities

by Barry Klemm

  “Why not wait?” Brian suggested. “The US air force is coming to do this.”

  “We can’t wait for them. It has to be sorted now,” Maynard said. Suddenly everyone was in such a hurry, Brian was thinking. “You might need the extra firepower.”

  “We have all the fire power we need, and think of the damage that an air strike might do the facility anyway. We have the troops and the guns to do the job—we go in now.”

  “Not without me you don’t,” Brian said.

  “Nor me,” said a quiet voice from the shadows.

  “Fabrini! How the hell did you get here?”

  “The UN has taken over moving the pilgrims here from Brazil. There was nothing left for me to do there. This seemed to be the place to go.”

  The Italian, with his drooping moustache, armed to the teeth as always, a one-man army, Brian smiled. “Maybe we got enough firepower after all,” he grinned at Maynard.

  *

  Joe Solomon was a prisoner still, facing an astonishing array of charges relating to his fund raising efforts—he had somehow become one of the worst white collar criminals in history. But he was a prisoner with privileges—presently his cell was a guest room in the White House. Eventually, inevitably, there came a late night visitor—a secret service man knocked on the door, and President Grayson hurried past him and entered the room, closing his guardian outside.

  “I wanted a private word with you, Joe,” he said, as if he thought he needed permission.

  “Certainly, Mr. President,” Joe smiled.

  “I’d like to be able to say that there’s something I can do to help you with your legal problems, but unfortunately such matters lie beyond the scope of my powers.”

  Grayson moved across the room and stood by the window, gazing through the bars, out into the darkness beyond.

  “Perhaps the courts will be lenient when they realise it was all done in a good cause. This situation is so unique, it’s hard to say what will happen.”

  “One of three things will happen, Mr. President. Either nothing will happen at Lake Chad and everyone will go home and I will spend the rest of my life in one of your excellent prisons. Or else everyone at Lake Chad will be killed by the earthquakes caused by the singularity—thus proving its existence—whereby I doubt that any of us will live long enough for my case to make trial. Or else, Thyssen’s plan will save us all, which ought to indeed create serious confusion amongst your most experienced legislators. I’m fully prepared to face each possibility.”

  “In third case, I won’t be much of a president if I cannot arrange you some kind of pardon.”

  “In the light of things, it is a small consideration.”

  “A fourth possible outcome has arisen, Joe. Right now, there is a fire-fight occurring on the Plain of Confrontation. Intelligence reports are unclear about who is fighting who, but it does raise the possibility that the pilgrims might never get to the focal point. Whereby nothing will be proven.”

  “A battle, hmm? I’ll bet Wagner’s cut-throats have something to do with it.”

  “That is considered likely. Which poses the question of US military intervention.”

  “It would be wise to figure out which side you are on first.”

  “That is a luxury a president cannot always afford. The urgency of the situation directs that perhaps we ought to go in and clear the area of all fighters, and get the pilgrimage underway again.”

  “So where is your dilemma.”

  “The alternative is to let matters take their course.”

  “I see. How does that involve me?”

  “I needed to speak to someone with absolute and unquestioned faith in Thyssen. Something that, one way or another, all of my advisers lack.”

  “And you think that might be me?”

  “You, with the things you’ve done, have shown remarkable faith in him.”

  Joe smiled sadly and shook his head. So it had come down to this. He wondered if he should have been surprised. All sorts of lies that he might tell occurred to him at that moment, but he firmly decided that he had told his last lie, if indeed he had ever told any. This was the most powerful man in the world, and he needed the truth. “I’m afraid I must disillusion you, sir. I have never liked nor trusted Thyssen. I think him to be the worst scientist on the planet. He proceeds with guesswork and assumptions at all times. He changes his mind and his plan and tells everyone something different. Faith is not possible.”

  Grayson stared at him for a long time. “Good Grief. Is that what you really think?”

  “It is.”

  “But you stole billions for him!”

  “Not for him. I don’t know why I did it really. It was there to be done. It was great fun. It was a deathwish. And maybe, just maybe, it might save a great number of lives. But I never believed it and I still don’t.”

  “Joe, I am horrified.”

  “Would you rather that I had lied to you?”

  “No. No, I appreciate your candour. But it doesn’t help much with the decision facing me.”

  “Yes it does. You must do what you believe, Mr. President. Don’t do it because you believe in Thyssen, or don’t believe. He’s not God. He’s just a man. You must decide how it feels for you. In your heart, do you think this terrible thing is real, or not. Just like I did. I had the choice between living out life as a cripple with a limited expected lifespan, or else maybe being a hero who saved the world. It was always a very easy choice.”

  “Mine is not so easy.”

  “Yes it is. If we survive, you have the choice between trying for a second term as a fair enough president, or else as the greatest of all presidents—the one who made the decisions that saved all humanity. It, too, is an easy choice.”

  “I begin to see how you persuaded all those people to part with their money, Joe.”

  “You really don’t have any choice, Mr. President. The pilgrims are going to Lake Chad anyway. Either they walk into a war zone or else they don’t. It’s simple.”

  “I’m beginning to wish I had never embarked upon this conversation.”

  “It’s what happens when you associate with known criminals, Mr. President.”

  *

  Within hours, Maynard—now aided by Brian Carrick and Fabrini—had thirteen helicopters full of assault troops and five gunships to cover the assault. And in addition, US Marines from a carrier in the Atlantic and UN troops from several locations around Africa were on the way, but they would take a day or two to arrive. Maynard’s assault troops would have to take and hold the position until then.

  Kevin Wagner, atop the scaffold platform that served as a control tower, knew all that. His computer scanners were picking up messages from all over, for it was all being done in such haste that there was no security. He could listen to the reports flowing back and forth on his own radio and understand their intention. He expected it all anyway. What it lacked in security, it made up for in speed. He had not imagined that Maynard would be able to gather a sufficient force and return the day after he had been evicted. And he did not expect that the US and UN would be willing to commit themselves militarily without the usual diplomatic dithering. But he was ready and confident anyway.

  “It’s all right,” he told Magambo, the rebel leader who was his lieutenant. “My men will be able to hold them off until your main force arrives.”

  “They will be much outnumbered,” Magambo fretted. “And be against superior firepower.”

  “But we are a superior species and will fight like the supermen we are,” Wagner assured him.

  In fact his men had little time to prepare any serious defence, and they had only the weapons that they had brought with them.

  “It would be against history and against evolution if we were to be defeated,” Wagner explained. “Always, the superior being prevails over its fore-runner. To lose would be against nature.”

  Admittedly, the interception of the Caribou was a bitter blow. Maynard would arrive before any of the extra equi
pment now.

  “Still, we have only to hold them off until your forces arrive,” Wagner said assuredly. Magambo shook his head doubtfully.

  Soon Maynard’s airborne assault force appeared in the southern sky. They were coming straight in, intending to land on the airstrip and assault head on. It was just the sort of fight Wagner was sure he could win.

  Almost as soon as Wagner’s perimeter forces opened fire, a rocket hit one of the helicopters and it limped toward the ground, trailing smoke. Immediately, all the others took defensive action, and turned away, and soon disappeared back over the horizon.

  “See how easy it was,” Wagner smiled. But he knew that wasn’t true. Maynard would not have given up so easily. Unless, of course, it was the chopper bearing him that was destroyed, the smoke from it’s ruins rising out of the plain as the sunset came on.

  “Tell the men to stay alert. They may be back,” Wagner warned.

  He listen to the radio interceptions in the control tower to try and establish what had happened. It had been too easily. Surely they expected that much resistance. It was strangely silent.

  “Extinguish all lights. They may try a night assault.”

  Toward midnight, he heard the first distant gunshot and knew he had been right. Before he could get outside and try to assess the situation, sporadic gunfire was bursting out all around the base. Magambo ran behind Wagner as he hastened to his command post to try and establish the nature of the assault. Tracer rounds sliced through the night all around, along with the dazzling blossoms of explosions. He already guessed what had happened. The heliborne assault had been a feint. In fact they had landed their troops just out of sight of the airstrip and come in overland under cover of darkness.

  Already, after the initial onslaught, the firing was diminishing. In places, it had stopped altogether. Wagner reached his tent and got on the radio, seeking contact with each of his posts in turn. The first two did not reply at all, the third offered only frantic babbling from which the word Americans was most prominent.

  “You promised that USA would not fight,” Magambo fretted.

  “Those aren’t US troops.”

  “Who else could they be but American soldiers. You have betrayed us.”

  “It is not the Americans. It was just Maynard and his men returning. Our troops will be able to fight them off,” Wagner seethed.

  He kept pressing buttons, shouting call-signs, getting no further response. Maybe the radio was faulty.

  He dashed out of the tent, seeking another radio. The control tower—that was the place. He would be able to get the best perspective of what was happening from there. But already, once outside, he could see plainly that the gunfire had all but ceased. Now there was just the occasional flash and detonation amongst the dark buildings. There were no longer voices yelling. The flares were slowly spluttering out. Why weren’t his men reporting in?

  “What’s going on over there?” he bellowed at the nearest post. He could see indistinct images of men moving, close enough to hear him and respond, he was sure. Wagner hurried on. Evolution was irresistible. His men would hold and overcome. The very thought was in his mind when he was thumped in the middle of the back and fell forward, tumbling into the mud at the bottom of a sewage ditch. He tried to right himself, unable to comprehend what had happened. He looked up, and saw Magambo standing at the edge of the ditch with a pistol in his hand. The great stupid black man had not understood, and had cut him down from behind. Straight out of the trees, these dickheads, Wagner muttered in his disbelief as he tried to get to his knees. He’d show the stupid bastard what superman meant. He was about to stand when his boots slipped and he fell again. Then the pain completely enveloped him.

  Maybe Magambo had fired again—he wasn’t sure what had happened. It just wasn’t right. He was the next stage in evolution and surely it could not end here, in the shit, like this. He fell forward on his face and the last thing he knew was the disgusting taste of the slime that filled his mouth and nostrils…

  *

  When the soldiers burst in the door, Lorna emerged abruptly from what must have been some sort of trance. She had been raving, saying her stuff, as the crew called it, droning on and on for what must have been hours, lost in her words and herself. She shook her head, trying to shuffle her brain into reality. The autocue that she was supposed to be reading was stalled, and she realised that it had been for some time. She had never really needed it, and adlibbed mostly, using the cue to remind herself of where she was up to from time to time. But it had stopped and she went on, completely unaided, robotic, as if she too needed someone to press her off button.

  The red light showed the camera too was running, but there was no longer an operator. Vaguely she remembered people leaving, but she had continued, talking and talking, saying her stuff, over and over, every time different but every time the same message.

  “Go to the focal point. Leave what you are doing and go. This is our last chance and everyone must be there. Put down what you are doing and go.”

  And now there were soldiers, breaking in the door, hurling a devastating light into the studio. She saw their silhouettes against the outside world. They had come for her. Still mostly functioning on remote control, she looked up toward the control room as if they could help, could change things. The lights were on and she could see that there was no one there.

  “We can’t be sure of what will happen. Nothing is guaranteed. But there is the hope that we can make this disaster go away, all of us, all of humanity, and even if you can’t go, think of those who are there, be there in spirit if not in fact, be a part. This is the greatest event ever to happen in all history. Don’t be the one to miss out.”

  It was coming back to her vaguely. From time to time, people had approached her; the production assistant to ask if she wanted to take a break; the make-up girl to dab her brow and ask if she was feeling okay; the floor manager to assured himself she wanted to continue. She remembered Louie, her director, saying; “We’re going now. Do you want to come with us?” She didn’t remember what she answered, if she answered, she supposed that she had just shrugged them off and continued her diatribe. The studio nurse too, telling her she was exhausted. How long had she been at this?

  “We are all united in this, the people of the planet earth, regardless of colour, religion or nationality. We are as one, against a singular force. Only our unity can stand against it. All of the pilgrims are there. Anyone who can get there, do so. Anyone who can watch it on television, join us with your thoughts. We are as one today.”

  She remembered people raving, talking about her as if she wasn’t there. “This is the largest television audience ever,” they cried jubilantly. “And you, Lorna, are the most popular person to have ever lived.” Oddly, she didn’t feel any different for that. “And everyone is behind you. They all love you. No person, not Christ nor Buddha nor anyone else, in all history, has ever been loved by so many people as you are today.” “You are the queen of the world, Lorna,” the PR person babbled. “They’ll make you the first President of the Global Republic.” Errant nonsense, she was sure. She pressed on, not because of what they said but in spite of it, because she knew Harley had been right and that this gathering of humanity, this unification, was the pure form of love that she had been so desperately seeking. The love of all humanity for all humanity. They could make her President some other day—today she was only Harley’s messenger.

  “This is love. This is what those emotions and confusions that plague us all have always been about. We are capable of any deed imaginable, good or evil, and any emotion, kind or cruel, that is possible. But most of all we seek love and this is the love we seek. We, all of us, love one another, totally and selflessly, and for no other reason than because we want to love. It is our greatest right, and it is ours, here and now. Grasp it with both hands and refuse to let go. This is what we have sought for all history. Take it and hold it to your breast. This is why we are honoured with the name Humanity.�
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  She remembered there had been crowds, a huge multitude outside the studio and her crew was trapped inside for many hours. The vast throng waited for her to emerge but she stayed and talked and said her stuff. But now they were gone and she was alone. Except for the soldiers.

  The officer approached her now, unarmed and unthreateningly. “Miss Simmons? Will you come with us now? Everything is finished here.”

  “Everyone has gone?” she said, or asked—she wasn’t sure which.

  “Yes. Everyone has gone. Bakersfield is completely deserted now. Only you are left. I think they forgot that you are not a pilgrim anymore, and would stay on.”

  “Of course,” she smiled. She had forgotten it herself. “Are you sure they are all gone?”

  “Every one of them. And we have a plane waiting for you, to take you there if you want to go.”

  “I have to maintain the broadcast,” she said. “I have to keep telling them what to do.”

  “They all know what to do, Miss Simmons. They are all gathering at the focal point. Everyone who can, from all around the world. They have all heard you, and listened, and believed. There’s only you left, and only just time to get you there.”

  “Of course. I’d forgotten. I get to choose.”

  “Yes, Miss Simmons. It’s up to you.”

  She paused, but she didn’t need to think about it really. It was just that she had been here, immobilised, for so long that she didn’t quite know how to leave.

  “It’s Lorna,” she said, giving the soldier a flirtatious flash of her eyes.

  He almost fell over backwards in his surprise. “What?”

  “My name. It’s Lorna. Please call me that.”

  “If you wish…” the soldier said uncertainly.

  “What’s your name? You’re real name—not the one that goes with your rank and serial number.”

  “Ryan.”

  “Okay, Ryan. I’d like to go, but really I must maintain the broadcast, until the event is over.”