With the aircraft annihilated, the battloids approached the buildings and bunkers that housed the base’s equipment and weapon stockpiles. Air field defense personnel ran for cover, firing small arms, rifles and machine guns, while weapon arms laced the air, effortlessly cutting them down. A squad of US Marines managed to launch a shoulder fired javelin missile, but the battloid shot the missile out of the air, then the marines vanished in a sea of flame. The battloids swept on through the fires, gliding over charred corpses and incinerating the buildings with their eight weapon arms, determined to leave nothing standing. Bombs and missiles stored in underground bunkers were hit by blasts that tore through the concrete and steel protecting them like paper. The explosions sent massive black plumes into the sky, carving deep craters in the earth and scattering debris across the runway.
A US air force general who carried a briefcase chained to his wrist, and a colonel holding a small tool set, ran to an isolated building surrounded by army trenches and razor wire. The building stood alone, beyond the end of the runway, far away from the operational areas of the base. The soldiers guarding it knew the officers by sight, but still took a moment to glance at their IDs. Once past the checkpoint, the officers ran inside, slamming the door behind them, partly to conceal what they were doing, partly to block out the heat that was already radiating from the furious inferno consuming the eastern side of the runway. They ran to the first of thirty nuclear-tipped missiles, neatly stored on carriages ready for transport out to strike aircraft that no longer existed. The weapons had been brought in at tree top level from the south the day before, after having undergone a rapid deployment from their storage facility in the US.
The colonel began unscrewing a panel on the side of the first missile, while the general keyed open the security locks on his brief case. There’d been no Presidential order, no agreement of governments, but they had a standing instruction not to allow these weapons to fall into enemy hands. The general pulled out a red folder, glanced at the serial number on the side of the missile, then looked up its arming code.
The sounds of explosions and the chatter of automatic fire grew louder as the battloids approached and regular and special forces fought vainly against an enemy they could not match.
“Got it,” the colonel said, as he pulled the panel clear of the missile. He was sweating as much from fear as from the rising heat, but he was determined to carry out this last order.
The building shook from the shock waves of nearby explosions then a burst of searing yellow energy punched through a metal wall, flashed across the storage facility and tore through the opposite wall. The general winced at the heat, but didn’t waste time looking up. Instead, he read out the arming code in as clear and methodical a voice as he could muster, while the colonel typed the long series of numbers and letters into the control panel. When the colonel finished, a red light activated forming the word ARMED.
“Set the timer to zero seconds,” the general said.
The colonel quickly carried out the order. “Done.”
“Let’s see how these sons of bitches like fifty kilotons!” the general said, knowing he was about to die.
Together, they reached for the fire button, their last act. Before their fingers touched the control, the building was sliced apart by super heated particles, killing them both instantly and shattering the nuclear missiles. Radioactive material from thirty exposed cores scattered across the floor as the roof collapsed. The building was soon engulfed in a fire storm so hot, steel supports burned like paper.
Seven minutes after the drop ship had appeared, the two battloids ceased firing. The base and its aircraft had been destroyed and its small arsenal of nuclear weapons neutralized.
There were no survivors.
* * * *
“Emergency action message incoming,” Master Chief Joe Paxton, the chief of the watch, declared as the printer kicked to life.
Captain Bourke, commander of the nuclear powered cruise missile submarine USS Michigan, watched the coded message print out. He stood in the sub’s nerve center, surrounded by crewman seated at their consoles, aware something strange was happening topside. The Michigan had been on alert ever since they’d been ordered to make a high speed run across the Java Sea, through the Sunda Strait into the seas north of Australia. There’d been no explanation, yet the urgency and secrecy of the directive had been clear. The boat was now at its highest state of readiness, although the skipper was still unsure if this was a drill, or something more serious.
When the chief retrieved the EAM from the printer, the skipper glanced at Commander Thompson. Keeping his voice relaxed to mask his tension, he said. “Break out the code book, XO.”
“Aye sir,” the boat’s executive officer said, turning to the stainless steel safe that contained the boats most secret documents.
While the XO retrieved the launch codes, two officers translated the EAM into plain English. When they’d finished, they presented themselves to the captain. Lieutenant Biddle, the communications officer, and Ensign Caldwell both fell into the rigid formal speak of the decoding procedure.
“Message seven, sir,” Lieutenant Biddle reported in a clipped Bostonian accent.
“Report message seven,” the XO said from the captain’s side.
The lieutenant drew breath, and replied crisply, “Report message seven, aye sir. Captain, message seven is valid and requires authentication using code ID golf, lima, delta, oscar, tango.”
Captain Bourke leaned forward to study the EAM verification code a moment, then nodded. In practiced unison, all four officers read aloud the nine word verification code, checking each word with the greatest of care as they did so.
When they finished, Lieutenant Biddle said, “Captain, the message authenticates.”
Ensign Caldwell added, “I concur, sir, the message authenticates.”
Commander Thompson nodded, “Captain, I concur, the message authenticates.”
A cold chill ran down the skipper’s back as he declared, “The message is authentic. Action directed?”
“Captain,” Lieutenant Biddle began. “Message seven directs Michigan to launch a Tomahawk nuclear missile at the site specified in the message. The launch window opens at zero five hundred local time, and closes at zero five fifteen.” The lieutenant then read off the latitude and longitude of the target site.
Captain Bourke said, “Very well, obtain the captain’s key from the captain’s key safe.”
“Obtain the captain’s key from the captain’s key safe, aye sir,” Lieutenant Biddle replied.
The skipper picked up the intercom microphone, and announced to the ship, “Now hear this, this is the captain speaking. Authorized entry into the captain’s key safe has been granted. Disregard all captain’s key safe alarms.” The entire procedure had taken only minutes to perform, as carefully choreographed as the finest ballet, now properly completed, it had unlocked the use of tactical nuclear weapons.
While the two junior officers went to retrieve the captain’s key, the skipper and the XO pored over a map of the region, carefully plotting the coordinates with a grease pencil.
“It’s just jungle,” the XO whispered, confused.
Captain Bourke furrowed his brow. “The Australian Government must have agreed to this.” But why would they? There was absolutely no reason to fire a nuclear weapon at empty wilderness. It made no sense. Surely the message couldn’t be wrong?
“Should we seek confirmation?” The XO whispered.
There was a nagging doubt in the captain’s mind, yet all his years in the service told him he had to proceed. He shook his head slowly, “No, the message is authentic. We launch as ordered.” He swallowed, aware he was sweating. He knew there was only one thing he could do with such an order, execute it immediately and without hesitation.
The click of footsteps on the metal deck roused him from his reverie. He and the XO stood erect as the two junior officers, each holding the chord attached to the captain’s key, approach
ed.
Once again, Lieutenant Biddle recited his part of the procedure, exactly as he’d been trained to do. “Captain sir, entry into the captain’s key safe is complete. We have obtained the captain’s key.”
In accordance with procedure, Ensign Caldwell added, “I concur, sir.”
The skipper held out his hand, into which the two junior officers placed his key. “Very well, I accept custody of the captain’s key.”
Once the captain had possession of his key, Commander Thompson said, “Captain, I recommend battle stations missile.”
“Very well. Officer of the Deck, man battle stations missile.”
The Officer of the Deck repeated over the intercom, “Man battle stations missile.”
Throughout the boat a series of commands rang out as the USS Michigan shifted to a war footing. While some crewmen studied computer consoles, occasionally marking them with grease pencils, others checked equipment readings, power levels, seals and pressure.
Chief Paxton announced, “Con, Chief of the Watch, prepare to hover at normal launch depth.”
The captain checked the coordinates one last time. “The target is verified as correct,” he said as he wondered, But how can it be? He pushed the thought out of his mind, forcing himself to focus on the chain of command, on his duty and to trust the code authentication process.
The weapons officer replied, “The target is verified as correct, aye sir.” The officer then retrieved the missile control key from a nearby safe, and handed it to the officer seated at the missile launch console.
The Michigan carried the high yield, one hundred and fifty kiloton version of the sub launched Tomahawk land attack missile. She’d fired conventionally armed Tomahawks against littoral targets before, but never a nuke. In the midst of his anxiety, Captain Bourke was struck by the thought that this was the first time in history a submarine would launch a nuclear weapon in anger.
Finally, the weapons officer confirmed the missile was ready for launch, then read out the firing solution. “Bearing one seven four degrees, range to target, seven hundred twelve nautical miles.”
The captain swallowed, then took the intercom. “Weapons con, the firing window is open, you have permission to fire.” He said a silent prayer, then turned his key.
“The firing window is open, you have permission to fire, aye sir,” came the precise response as the weapons officer turned his missile key. A moment later, the missile was expelled from the sub in a bubble of highly compressed air that carried it to the surface. The Tomahawk burst up out of the sea, then as onboard sensors detected the missile start to fall back towards the water, the rocket motors burned to life. In seconds, it was streaking over the calm blue waters of the Timor Sea.
“One away,” The weapons officer announced, watching the telemetry, satisfied it had been a perfect launch.
Over the intercom, the captain announced, “Weapons con, permission to fire is removed.”
“Aye sir,” the weapon’s officer replied. “Permission to fire is removed.”
“Secure from battle stations missile,” Captain Bourke said. His hands were sweating, his heart beating, although the crew would never have guessed. In his mind, one question burned.
What the hell am I attacking?
* * * *
Laura woke to the sound of rustling backpacks, hushed whispers and sleepy yawns. It was still dark except for a glimmer of dawn on the eastern horizon. She sat up to discover the aborigines had returned, having slept a safe distance from the camp in case the soldiers were attacked during the night. Old Mulmulpa sat cross legged, waiting patiently for the soldiers to rouse, while Bandaka and Liyakindirr leaned on their spears. Mapuruma and her mother squatted on their heels chatting, paying no attention to the soldiers, who were checking their weapons and sealing their packs. Xeno stopped pushing her sleeping bag into her pack long enough to toss Laura a RLW-30 ration pack.
Laura caught it with a grateful smile. “Thanks.”
“Dehydrated, calorie dense boot leather,” Xeno said with distaste.
“Yum, I’ve never had calorie dense boot leather before.”
Laura tore open the ration pack just as the western horizon flashed from darkness to brilliant white. Trees became starkly silhouetted by the harshness of the light blazing low in the sky. Overhead, the dome became instantly visible as vibrating waveforms rippled out across its surface near the horizon and the air filled with the crackle of static. The ripples reached two thirds of the way up the dome before petering out, while a glowing mushroom cloud rose into the sky beyond the dome. Soon, the sky darkened again and the dome melted back into the sky concealing the nuclear cloud on the horizon.
Tucker’s jaw tightened. “That’s torn it.”
“Arma-fucking-geddon,” Cougar declared.
“Shit!” Nuke exclaimed as a thought struck him. He snatched up the headphones with a concerned look on his face, and listened to the hybrid communications device.
Beckman stared at the sky with a strangely impassive expression. “I’d say that was a hundred, maybe a hundred fifty kilotons. Outside the dome.”
“They nuked us?” Laura asked incredulously, thinking the attack came from the mothership.
“No, they didn’t,” Beckman replied soberly. “We did.”
Markus wiped sleep from his eyes. “Had to be a Tomahawk, judging by the low detonation point.”
“We must be in serious trouble to go nuclear so fast.” Beckman said.
“Why’d they let it detonate?” Markus wondered. “Even flying nape-of-the-earth, they should have been able to take it out before it hit the shield.”
“The dome’s still up,” Beckman said. “They’re showing us how tough they are.”
Tucker grunted in disgust. “So much for dropping the big one.”
“I can still hear their chatter!” Nuke said relieved, looking up. “I don’t know how, but the EMP didn’t fry our gear!” He put the comms gear down and opened his backpack, being careful to use his body to shield its contents from Laura.
Xeno checked her notebook computer, and video camera. “Same here. Electronics are good.”
Markus whistled, impressed. “So the shield lets in light, but can stop an EMP in its tracks! Impressive.”
“What’s an EMP?” Laura asked.
“An electromagnetic pulse, from the explosion,” Nuke replied without looking up. “It’s death to anything electrical.”
Beckman watched Nuke anxiously. “What’s the payload status?”
Nuke looked up from his open pack. “I don’t know how, but it’s still working.”
Relief showed on Beckman’s face. “Then it’s up to us.”
Laura sensed a change in attitude of those around her, from despair to grim resolution. She leaned sideways to catch a glimpse of a metal object in Nuke’s pack, a keypad and digital display sitting on a silver metal housing containing a glistening black ovoid. The device was snugly wrapped in black foam, which filled much of Nuke’s backpack. Glowing in green lettering on the display panel were the words “Diagnostic Mode”, and below it a list of tests, all marked with “100%”.
When Nuke saw her staring at the device, he calmly pulled the pack’s flap over the device, hiding it.
“What is that?” she demanded.
“A weapon,” Beckman said as Nuke secured his pack’s straps.
Her eyes widened suspiciously. “What kind of weapon?”
Several of the soldiers exchanged knowing looks, avoiding Laura’s gaze.
“A bad ass butt kicker,” Tucker muttered menacingly.
Laura looked puzzled, then shocked. “It’s a nuke?”
“No,” Beckman said in a way that didn’t reassure her.
She glanced at the recovered communicator visible inside Virus’ pack, noting how it was cradled inside a housing built for it by the Groom technicians. It resembled on a smaller scale the housing in Nuke’s pack. She turned back to Beckman, wide eyed. “Oh my God, it’s one of their weapons!
Isn’t it?”
“They could be a million years ahead of us. This evens the odds.”
“What is it?”
“An antimatter torpedo.” Beckman replied. “We pulled six out of a wreck in 1947.”
Nuke stood, shouldering his pack. “The anti matter inflates spherically at the speed of light, annihilating everything it touches.”
“Everything?” She repeated uncertainly.
“Dirt, rock, air,” Beckman said. “Alien motherships. Phht! Everything out to three clicks, gone in the blink of an eye.”
“Adios muchachos!” Nuke said grimly.
“How can you be sure it’ll work?”
“There’s a crater on the dark side of the moon,” Beckman said. “It’s a perfect circle six kilometers across. It’ll work.”
“The moon!” Laura exploded incredulously.
“We couldn’t risk detonating it on Earth,” Beckman said. “Not until we knew what it was.”
“You launched a mission to blow up the Moon, and no one knows about it?”
“Not exactly. There was a NASA probe called Mars Polar Lander,” Beckman explained. “It supposedly crashed on Mars because a bunch of egg heads couldn’t get the math right. Truth is, it didn’t go to Mars. It made a perfect landing on the dark side of the moon, then we blew it up.”
“This is not the dark side of the Moon!”
“Might as well be,” Tucker muttered.
“The outside world tried to nuke them, and failed,” Beckman said. “That means that warhead is our only hope.”
Laura swallowed anxiously. “How much will be destroyed?”
“Everything within the blast sphere,” Nuke said. “The crater will be six kilometers across, and three deep.”
Laura tried to imagine a crater that size where the Goyder River currently flowed. In time, it would become the world’s deepest freshwater lake. The idea repulsed her. She glanced at Markus, who was watching her impassively.
He knew! She realized. That’s what he’d meant about the military destroying what they didn’t understand. She wanted to ask him what he thought, but she could tell from the look on his face, he wanted no such question. Laura turned to Mulmulpa, sitting cross legged, listening to every word. “What do you say? This is your land.”
The Mothership Page 22
