Suffrage (World Key Chronicles Book 1)

by Julian St Aubyn Green

  Sarge squeezed her husband’s hand reassuringly. “With the bigger weapons on the ships here, they might make a difference. I think we should hide out near the base and try and rest before the Royals get here.”

  Snake shook his head. “I think we should walk up to the base and say g’day, tell them we want to get a message to Doctor Stanford Ellis, and how would the Americans like to know where the frigate is going to be?” He stubbornly set his jaw and nodded to the television screens, “Or that will happen everywhere we go.”

  Sarge frowned. She didn’t think she could trust the Americans, but the idea of leading the frigate into a series of coordinated ambushes when Jay was already looking for the world key was just too tempting an idea to refuse. Sarge considered the suggestion for a while, rubbing her chin thoughtfully.

  “I don’t like the idea of any one of us being taken by the Americans, but I agree with Snake. It might be better if we warn them where we are going to be so they can prepare. Let’s try it your way and see, but if it looks like they want to detain us, it will be up to you to transfer us out of there.” She gave Snake a stern look.

  Snake grinned. As they stood up to leave and make their way towards the base, the televisions displayed an emergency contact number for if any civilian should happen to see the ship. Sarge opened her mouth to speak, and stopped as she saw everyone else do the same thing.

  Sleep beckoned Stanford with its siren song, making his eyelids droop. The adrenalin that kept him watching the footage from New York ebbed and left him feeling hollow and raw.

  His analysis of the footage hadn’t revealed much, but he thought he had a handle on how the enemy weapons worked. Those devastating black and silver balls of energy, all of different sizes, appeared to work on the same scalable principle, whether it was a handgun from one of the drones, or a massive cannon on the strange aircraft.

  Sergeant Leve of Fox Platoon had left a short time ago with a high-definition picture of one of the assassin drones. He seemed to think that these drones weren’t as indestructible as the footage indicated. The man was a military sniper and Stanford trusted him to know the capability of his weapon and ammunition, but Stanford wasn’t sure about Leve’s confidence about the drone.

  The sniper needed to see the damn things first if he intended to take the shot.

  No one had actually seen the machine appear in Florida until it was in the room with them. These robots were heavily armored, armed, and possessed a light-altering camouflage technology that made them invisible to the naked eye, even when standing only a few feet away.

  Stanford held his stomach gingerly as it complained to him. He’d drunk so much of the bad, military-issue coffee, it felt like his stomach was filled with battery acid. Feels like I am working on my first stomach ulcer.

  After meeting with the brass, he managed to get a few hours of restless sleep on one of the cots, but nothing like what he needed. He was restless with worry for his family. It was one thing to be told your partner was alive and well, another entirely to hear them on the phone and know they were okay. No matter how much he missed her voice and wanted reassurance that the military were looking out for her like they promised, it wasn’t as if he could call Helen. They wouldn’t let him near a phone unsupervised. He knew too much.

  Apparently the solution for engaging with a superior technological aggressor was to not use technology that could be compromised. A piece of paper couldn’t be hacked. That’s why he’d been flown up here with as much secrecy as the considerable skill of the US government could manage. He rubbed his face, feeling the stubble grate across his fingers.

  One more day in the frigid conditions up here, and then he could go home to Florida, see Helen and the girls, and get some real sleep in a real bed instead of a hastily erected camp cot at the frozen ass-end of the world.

  But he was worried about more than just his own family. “So, brother. Welcome to the revolution, because they’re here already, and now it’s a race.” The words that Snake had uttered under the welcoming embrace of Christo Redenter in Brazil haunted Stanford. Uncertainty gripped him with near paralytic effect.

  These Royals brought a ship bigger than a supercarrier. It shrugged off all their attacks against it like a horse ignoring flies. It had advanced energy weapons, and apparently could cripple nearby electronics with some sort of pulse weapon.

  The scientific team in Florida had concentrated on Sheila after Sarge’s gun shocked Dr. Brown. Now he wished he’d paid it more attention. If it worked like he suspected it did, no current technology could defend against those strange black and silver bolts of destruction.

  This isn’t a race … this is the start of World War Three. With that depressing thought, Stanford slumped onto the cot. He decided taking off clothes beyond his shoes was too much effort. As he closed his eyes, he pictured Helen and the kids, wanting nothing more than to hold them and tell them he loved them.

  As Stanford closed his eyes and exhaled deeply, he heard a man clear his throat. “Ah, Doctor Ellis? They need you in the command unit urgently,” relayed one of the army technicians outside his tent.

  Damn.

  Three caves down, Jay thought, and nothing to show for it. She sat at the narrow, cramped entrance to the cave, out of the wind that was blowing ice crystals around like tiny knives, and carefully repacked her backpack. She’d trek out there soon enough. The next cave was a kilometer-and-a-half to the north west, according to the map. It was difficult terrain, slick with frozen creeks and drifts of snow she’d have to slog through.

  It had taken her five hours to locate the entrance to this last cave. In the end, she’d resorted to the squealer. It was designed to map underground spaces via echolocation, not locate cave entrances while being pummeled by arctic winds, but it worked after her own fruitless four hours of searching left her near hopeless.

  Drained the blasted battery finding this entrance. She’d lost precious time and energy navigating the cave by hand while the battery recovered. It was exhausting, using ropes where she could and free-climbing on the frozen rock, risking frostbite on fingertips in constant contact with cold rocks. She blew on her hands and rubbed them together while giving the conditions outside the stink-eye.

  It’s too much to hope this wind will die down. Jay felt miserable and lonely. There was nothing but trees and snow and cold rocks. She took out the map and checked it again.

  Three more Xs on a hand-drawn map. Three more chances to find the most precious object on the planet. She wondered what it looked like. No one she’d met had ever seen it. She’d seen the scan of the key of the Walker King: blue crystal with microscopic details etched into it. Her friend Alex at the Florida base deciphered the strange symbols. Alexander Tesla. Jay wondered if he existed in this timeline with his strange ideas about crystal technology and purpose.

  She returned the map to her pack, slid the strap of the heavy bag over an aching shoulder, and straightened. The one thing she regretted losing when the team made their emergency transfer to Rio was the snow boots. The tiny force emitters in the heels and toes created a bowl-shaped depression beneath them that let you skate across deep drifts. Without them, she would have to posthole her way through any drifts she encountered.

  What would take a few hours in snowshoes would take her half a day, and then she would have to search for an entrance that might be covered in snow with little more than a rudimentary, hand-drawn map. Her breath misted in the air as she rolled her tired shoulders.

  “Halfway there, Mom and Dad. Miss you,” Jay said, feeling the words lift her spirits. She pulled the hood of her jacket over her head and tucked away an errant strand of dark hair before wrapping a scarf around her mouth and using the polarized goggles.

  The wind bit at tiny parts of uncovered cheeks as she stepped into the open. Adjusting the scarf so only her goggles were exposed, she glanced skywards. Flint and graphite-colored clouds obscured the sun. After she drew the display unit for the squealer out and orientated herself, she
picked a tree in the distance as a landmark and set off.

  It was a hard slog trudging through the winter conditions, but Fox Platoon were professionals at this type of terrain. They used every trick in their considerable repertoire to navigate the distance from the command post outside White River to their designated reconnaissance positions.

  After setting off at first light, they made good time. The surface of the snow supported their distributed weight thanks to the snowshoes. Leve enjoyed the snow like this. As a wise, old member of the Algonquin told him, it was far more enjoyable walking on top of the snow than trying to walk through it. Had this been recreational, they would have camped in the afternoon rather than trekking across the valley situated between them and their objective. But this was a mission of utmost importance.

  Moving through this kind of terrain required the squad to bring their A-game for attention. If this enemy was watching, one slip-up likely meant they’d all be compromised.

  Gritting their teeth, they pushed forward, relying on brute strength to muscle through the laborious process of snowshoeing through deep drifts while ensuring they couldn’t be spotted. Speed was also of the essence. They had to get into position unseen before the enemy arrived.

  With the substantial weight of a McMillan Tac-50 and dozens of heavy armor-piercing rounds apiece, plus smaller rifles, food, water, and enough gear to not freeze to death, they were heavily laden with supplies for two weeks, which made walking through deep drifts even harder.

  Those images from New York—those were what kept Philippe going. First responders mowed down like they weren’t even people. Aircraft blown out of the sky by those surreal alien weapons the invaders used. The explosion of the invading robots caused fires in the subway that filled the tunnels with smoke and suffocated commuters just trying to get home to loved ones.

  These invaders had far too easy a time causing so much destruction. They needed to be dealt with, and knowing where the ship would arrive, Fox Platoon would be the ones to spring nasty surprises on them.

  The squad just needed to reach the target in temperatures that could give an exposed person frostbite within minutes. They took turns in trail breaking, cycling the lead position every twenty minutes with the rest of the platoon stepping in the leader’s footprints to minimize the effort of breaking through the snow crust with every step.

  When the platoon reached the final rally point, Captain Tremblay would split them into their regular two-man teams for the last push. Each team would find a hide site on one of the ridges that dotted the landscape so they could cover more ground.

  Given the size of the ship and the information from Dr. Ellis, their primary duty was to paint the target for smart missiles hidden in the surrounding hills or launched from nearby aircraft.

  Should a high-value target present itself, they were authorized to take a shot, but otherwise they were to remain hidden at all costs until the main assault. They would basically be buried in ice for a week, spotter and shooter taking turns on watch until their targets arrived.

  “Captain Tremblay,” one of the squad called, “you need to take a look at this.”

  Philippe struggled forward through the fresh snow to stand beside the captain. “What have we got?”

  “There, Sir.” Ivanovich pointed out two sets of prints in the snow, fresh snowfall already starting to fill them in. One smaller and more easily visible set of deep postholes meandered through a drift between two stands of pine. The second set, wearing snowshoes, stalked the first.

  “Who the hell would be out here without a vehicle?” Sacks asked, his features obscured behind a cold weather mask.

  “Someone like us with a damned good reason. We aren’t alone out here.”

  Numerous public service infomercials gave citizens a means to contact the federal government to report a possible sighting of the mysterious ship. Snake stood at a public phone, free-call number scrawled on a slip of paper, and tried to think of what to say while the others stood lookout. They decided to call the hotline and warn the Americans about what was coming, but Snake really wanted to contact Stanford. He was the one person they knew with connections and he knew their voices. Snake just felt more comfortable talking to him than anyone else.

  He placed the call, and the telltale click of someone accepting it cut the second ringtone short. He was about to speak when a woman announced, “This is the automated emergency sighting hotline. Please tell me the state in which you are located.”

  “Um, Ilya—sorry, Oahu.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t recognize that state. Please tell me—” Snake frowned at the phone in confusion. Sounds like Sheila’s stupid younger sister.

  “Try Hawaii,” Mack quickly suggested, pointing to a brochure about something called Hawaii Helicopter Tours.

  “Hawaii,” Snake said, speaking as clearly as possible.

  “Please hold.”

  “This is the emergency hotline, Jenna speaking.”

  “Uh, yeah. I want to tell you that the ship, the one on the vid screen, is coming here to Oahu. It’ll head for Waikiki beach in a few hours.”

  “You’re not seeing the ship right now, Sir?”

  “No. But it’s coming. You have to believe me and you need to alert the military base here, get the civilians to evacuate.”

  There was a slight pause from the other end of the call. Her voice indicated that she was either bored or didn’t believe Snake in the slightest. “What makes you say that, Sir?”

  “Because the ship is tracking me. Listen Jenna, I know it’s hard to believe. I’d like to speak to Dr. Stanford Ellis. He was the scientist who traveled with us from Florida to Rio. He knows us, knows I’m telling the truth.”

  “I don’t—look, this is a prank call, isn’t it? I’ve had five already. This is serious. The FBI will be informed and might charge you for lying during an official—”

  “Bugger me, Jenna, I wish it was. Take this message to your superiors and have them track Ellis down. Tell them that Snake is trying to contact Dr. Stanford Ellis; he was at Patrick Air Force Base. I’ll call you back. I really want to speak to him.”

  “Wait—”

  He hung up and looked to Sarge. “How was that?”

  “Well done. Let’s see how they respond.”

  From a safe distance of three blocks away, hidden in an abandoned building, they waited. Sarge kept a telescopic eye on the phone he’d used. It didn’t take long before she reported a dozen cop cars and three unmarked SUVs arriving.

  “Shit,” Snake swore. I guess that means Sarge was right. They want to contain us.

  They made their way to another payphone and waited before Snake tried the number again, getting past the automated computer easily.

  “This is the emergency hotline, Jenna speaking.”

  “Jenna. It’s Snake again.”

  “Mr. Snake. Hold on, I need to transfer you. Just hold on, okay?”

  The line gave several clicks and he waited, anxious about what Stanford might say. Does he blame us for New York?

  “Snake. Thank goodness you called back, is everyone okay?” He heard only relief in Stanford’s voice.

  “Err, yeah, we’re all okay. Listen Stanford, you gotta warn everyone, we’re in Oahu near Waikiki Beach. The lightship, it’ll be coming here as soon as it traces us. You need to hurry, evacuate the people and alert the military.”

  “You were in New York, weren’t you?”

  “Yes,” Snake admitted.

  “Right. It’s what you said; they can trace you?” Stanford half asked, half stated. He’s putting the pieces together. That might come back on us later.

  “Yeah, they must have a way of tracking Sheila.” Snake glanced around for any black SUVs.

  “What happens if you jump again? You think they’ll still go to Hawaii?”

  “I don’t know.” Snake hesitated before continuing, “Stan. When we called before, people showed up. What’s that about?”

  There was a pause, followed by a si
gh. “That wasn’t me, Snake. That was local law enforcement, and some of the other people involved. There are a lot of people watching, and they’ve pulled out all the stops.” Snake couldn’t hear a lie in Stanford’s voice. But what Stanford implied was heavy. Powerful people and their own secretive organizations were taking notice. He wasn’t sure Sarge had figured on that kind of attention.

  “We won’t be taken in, Stan. What we’re doing is too important.”

  “I know, I know. Look, where are you going next? These public phones aren’t secure. I’ll get you a phone we can make a secure call on and give you a drop site.”

  Barely an hour later, the ship arrived, and Snake watched as the battle started.

  By sheer luck, the military engaged the frigate over the bay and not over the city. The ship’s cannons took out an unwitting aircraft that appeared to be on a collision course with the huge vessel. From that point, it was easy enough for the military to locate the frigate. The smoke in the air went around the ship, and the Americans poured on the firepower in a stunning show of force.

  Snake almost wet himself when the city tsunami sirens sounded. They started with a terrifying, deep roar that was loud enough to drown out the normal city noises of traffic and echo off the mountains in the distance.

  To his ear, it sounded like the angry, challenging roar of a beast unleashed. The roar of a city once wounded, now eager to fight, as the sounds and smells of battle drifted towards the shore on the sea breeze.

  Thirty minutes after that first salvo and now, in the background, smoke rose from crash sites where American warplanes had impacted the surrounding city. A slick of flaming debris showed the watery burial site of a half-dozen US warships several miles off the coast.