Backed into a corner, Neverian has no choice but to agree. “You’re right. I’m not a man who bluffs. National borders will be respected, I can assure you and the American people.”
“And I’m sure the ambassador agrees?” Robert asks.
“Of course,” he says.
With that, the meeting is over. The press is escorted out. Many of the members of the room engage in casual conversation, but Robert makes a beeline for the exit, walking with the Secret Service out of the building. Outside the White House, Robert is struck by the silence. It’s a beautiful April day. The sun is shining; it’s almost eighty degrees. He expected to see tourists, walkers, and locals enjoying the day. But the streets and lawns are empty. As he walks down the driveway, many of the same members of the White House Press Corps who were in the Cabinet Room are assembling to get some footage or comments from the attendees. Robert is, as was his plan, the first one out.
“Mister Wilson, do you have a comment on the President’s remarks?” a reporter shouts.
Robert walks over. “Yes. I was very heartened to hear the President forcefully and unequivocally promise to the American people he would not let any country take advantage of the present situation by invading another. I stand ready, as do all the employees of Arbor Ridge, to help in those efforts, should that prove necessary.”
“Yes, but what about the President’s approach to the Aliens and his peace plan?” asks the same reporter who Robert just helped ask the President a question.
Robert bites his lower lip, leans back on his heels, putting his hands in his pockets. He takes a look up at the sun, thinking for a few seconds. Having collected his thoughts, he says, “Well, to be honest, I disagree with every last word the President said. I’m just one person and I may not be privy to all he knows. But it sounded to me like a surrender plan, not a peace plan. I’ve never thought of America as a nation that can be knocked out with one punch, let alone a nation that waves the white flag before a punch is even thrown. I think we can be capable of great things if we just endeavor to try.”
“But is it just a suicide mission?” an incredulous reporter asks.
“No, I really don’t think so. I don’t know what that ship up there is capable of; they haven’t shown us anything other than the ability to travel great distances in little time. And we have tremendously bright people, and we have much more to fight for than they do. But if I am wrong, ask yourself, wouldn’t you rather die a free man than live a slave?”
Having made his point, Robert walks away, down the driveway, off the White House grounds, and into the rear passenger seat of the black SUV that was waiting for him. As his driver pulls away, he loosens his tie a bit and unbuttons his top shirt button. He turns on a TV embedded in the back of the seat in front of him and starts flicking through channels, most of whom are carrying his remarks. The talking heads seem generally positively inclined toward his statement. His phone keeps vibrating with emails from employees, saying variations of “good job” or “proud to be an Arbor Ridge employee.” Robert keeps the TV on, but turns the volume down to a whisper, laying his head back, trying to get at least a little sleep on the drive back.
Back in the White House Situation Room, Neverian is livid. His carefully laid plan is getting blown up. Russia has been withdrawing its troops from its eastern border. Neverian and President Li had been leveraging China’s troop presence to compel Malvodov to vote with them at the Security Council later this afternoon. After Neverian’s comments on the matter, apparently Malvodov felt the odds of invasion were low, leaving him comfortable to remove his troops. It seems likely he will veto the measure this afternoon.
Neverian felt a Russian veto could be explained away, but now the French have signaled they may veto as well. His coalition is collapsing, and he is now berating his top diplomat, Secretary of State Alexander Monroe, a man of about sixty-five who has worked in the State Department his entire career. He is mostly bald with a valiant, but ultimately futile, combover and a bushy mustache. He is not a partisan man, but is one who had forged deep relationships with foreign leaders over his long career in international relations.
“If you don’t get the French back in line, you better not show your face around here again. We can’t have some unelected plutocrat kill two billion people,” Neverian booms.
“Well, sir, you’re the one who invited him to the meeting in the first place.” It’s Vice President Larom, speaking from one of the telescreens in the Situation Room. She remains in West Virginia but is videoconferencing into the meeting. She’s had misgivings about Neverian’s strategy but has largely been sidelined as a peripheral figure, included in these meetings as a formality. But it seems she’s had enough.
“Victoria, now’s not the time for second-guessing and snarky remarks,” the President condescends.
“I agree, but it’s better to pause and find the right answer than continue with the wrong one. As President of the Senate, I’m compelled to suggest we consult with Congress. All three branches of our government should be united on this.”
“We’ve been over this already,” Braddock, the Attorney General, chimes in. “In a crisis like this, the President has legal authority to act unilaterally.”
“What are you still doing here?” the President snaps at Monroe. “Shouldn’t you be off calling the French?”
As Monroe gets up and gathers his papers to leave, the President turns to his intelligence chiefs. “We need to start tracking Wilson and what’s going on at Arbor Ridge. Now. He’s up to something.”
There’s a loud ringing. It startles Robert awake; he must have dozed off a bit. They are on the New Jersey turnpike, he should be back in the office in about twenty-five minutes. Shaking himself awake, he sees that Mark Morrison is video calling him. He picks up and sees Mark and Chris sitting in Mark’s office. Both men are sporting their usual suits with no ties. Creatures of habit, all of them.
“Hey boss, how’s it going?” Mark asks, in clearly a jovial spirit.
“To be honest, you woke me up from a bit of a nap.”
“Ah that explains it, Chris, why don’t you tell him?”
“Sure thing. So you’ll see the email, but in the past hour, we’ve gotten phone calls from four plant managers in the defense business. Massachusetts—they make lasers; Chicago—that’s fighter jets of course; Nevada—defense shields; and Alabama—communications and satellite equipment. It seems that the factory workers reached out to know why they haven’t been classified essential workers. They want to get back to work. I liked this quote from one of them: ‘Now isn’t the time to furlough democracy’s arsenal.’ So they want to reopen. Seems your comments convinced a couple of people.”
“Well, sounds good. I look forward to having them back at work tomorrow.” Robert smiles, feeling a bit more validation about his faith in humanity.
“Not quite, you see. They’re already back on the job. The emails were more of a heads-up than a request.”
“That’s wonderful news, Chris. Seems like I should spend more time out of the office and let you two run things! I should be back in a few minutes.”
“Sounds good,” Mark says. “I forwarded you a press release we want to put out announcing our factories’ operations.”
“Thanks, Mark, I’ll give it a read, but I’m sure it’s fine.”
Robert disconnects from the call, and looks out the window. It’s still a beautiful day. He sees that damn transport destroyer up in the sky, but he feels optimistic, increasingly confident that his faith was well-placed.
“You know, sir…” a voice says. It’s Robert’s driver, a man whom he hadn’t met before.
“Yes?”
“I was just going to say—and this may not be my place, but please permit me a minute.”
“Of course.” Robert leans forward in his seat, giving the driver his full attention.
“You see, when I was a child, my uncl
e had been unemployed for quite some time, gave up hope, and committed suicide. I’ll never forget my father telling me, ‘People are brave, but sometimes they needed to be reminded of that.’ No one reminded my uncle. So please sir, remember that, and don’t let us forget it either.”
“Thank you. I really appreciate you telling me that story,” and Robert means that. As he gained wealth and fame, he had found people treated him differently, acting more formal, awkward even. So when he could have a real conversation with someone, even if it was just a few words, he treasured it.
As they near the Arbor Ridge tower, the scene is chaotic. Cameramen and journalists are everywhere. And the streets are filled, not with rioters, but peaceful marchers, waving American flags, and makeshift signs saying “freedom” or “no surrender.” Robert is struck by the diversity of the crowd, from toddlers to ninety-year-olds, of all races and backgrounds, at least several hundred. It’s not easy, but Robert’s driver is able to get near the entrance of the building, which has been blocked off by police. Robert fixes his shirt button and tie, and tells the driver, “Well done, my friend.”
As he closes the door, he hears the driver say, “God bless you.”
Seeing Robert get out of the car, reporters and their cameramen rush towards him, as do nearby marchers.
Robert walks up to the metal fence barricade. “Excuse me, officer, who’s in charge here?”
The policeman is a young man who couldn’t be out of the police academy more than two years, if even that long. He’s clearly overwhelmed by this entire situation. Stumbling over himself, the officer says, “Um, the chief should be around here somewhere, I’m not sure where exactly, sir. I can try and find him.”
Robert sees the officer’s silver name tag of “Johnson.” He points down along the metal fence. “That’s okay, Officer Johnson, what’s this metal fence doing here? The atrium of the building is open to the public. Here, help me move this.” Robert grabs the metal fence to open it.
“Sir, you shouldn’t be doing that. They’re worried about the building.”
“Listen, officer, it’s my building. I didn’t ask for you to block it off, and I don’t want it blocked off. So if your chief has a problem with that, tell him to take it up with me.”
And so Robert makes an opening through the barricade and lets some of the marchers through. As he nears the entrance himself, several members of the media catch up to him.
“Mister Wilson, there are reports that the President’s motion could fail at the UN tonight. Any comments?”
“I think you know how I feel already about that,” he answers. “But, I do have something to say. And I believe we’ve just released or are about to release a press release with all the details. Only essential employees are at work today. So for us at Arbor Ridge, that means necessary crews at our power plants to keep your electricity running, maintenance techs for our wireless networks so that your phones and internet work and so forth. We did not include any of our manufacturing workers. However, workers at four of our defense plants showed up unsolicited after talking amongst themselves and told management, myself included, they were working whether we liked it or not. Inspiring stuff.
“So I just want to say two things. First, the choice we make regarding Frozos’s offer; I’m just one person, one voice, I can’t make nor do I want to make it. But know that whatever we decide, this company will do everything it can to ensure we are adequately resourced in the coming days, weeks, and months.
“Second, and you’ll see this in the press release, an employee told us something along the lines of, ‘Now isn’t the time to furlough democracy’s arsenal.’ I appreciate that sentiment, but don’t quite agree. Bullets or planes aren’t our greatest weapons; they’re mere tools. Our courage, grit, determination, and willingness to do what’s right, no matter the cost, is our strongest weapon. And today, I’ve been reminded over and over again that that force can never be furloughed. Thanks.”
Robert walks inside, through his atrium, crowded with people, and up the elevator to his office.
Chapter 7
The United Nations
April 3, 2029
The Chamber of the United Nations Security Council is a great cavernous room where many a momentous debate about peace and war have taken place, but perhaps, there was never a more consequential debate than tonight’s. At the base of the room is a large, semi-circular table with a representative from each nation that sits on the council. Five nations—the United States, China, Russia, the United Kingdom, and France—are permanent members who can veto any measure. Then there are another ten rotating members. Behind the semi-circular desk, there is a great mural of a phoenix rising from its ashes, just as the world rose from the horrors of World War II.
It is 7:00 PM, and there has been extended debate over President Nick Neverian’s peace plan. Tensions have grown heated inside the chamber after a two-hour debate that has been at times vitriolic and personal. But tempers are flaring outside as well. Across world capitals from Paris to Seoul there have been protestors on both sides of the issue. There have been increased reports of looting, and several nations have been forced to deploy their military domestically to supplement the police, restore order, and enforce curfews. The shell-shocked calm of last night is increasingly transitioning to panic and chaos.
Now, nearly twenty-five hours into the seventy-two-hour window of decisions, the United Nations Security Council is voting. First, the ten rotating nations vote on Neverian’s resolution:
Ghana: No
Liberia: Yes
Saudi Arabia: Yes
Thailand: Yes
Japan: No
Estonia: Yes
Ukraine: No
Mexico: Yes
Argentina: No
Australia: No
The ten rotating members deadlock five against five. If any of the five permanent members oppose the plan, it loses even if wins a majority.
The United States: Yes
The United Kingdom: No
The People’s Republic of China: Yes
Russia: No
France: No
The motion fails seven to eight with three vetoes—a stunning loss for Neverian, and one which he could not have fathomed even ten hours ago. There is no joy in the Security Council Chamber. The world appears hopelessly divided as to its next steps. While eight nations voted against Neverian’s proposal, they actually have no affirmative proposal of their own. This realization hangs over the room. Meanwhile, the clock continues to tick—twenty-five hours seemingly wasted—what to do in the next forty-seven?
Robert Wilson is in the makeshift tent camp of Project Ridley. He sees reports of the vote failing at the Security Council. He’s relieved that’s the case, but also feels there’s little more for him to do. Ultimately, the world has to decide for itself what it wants to do. For now, he’s focused on keeping morale high, talking with workers and their families, playing catch with kids, trying to keep his mind off of matters as much as he is trying to entertain others.
Inside the White House, Neverian is enraged. He is sitting in the Situation Room as advisors debate next steps. Military officials are increasingly pushing Neverian to increase preparations, but he continues to resist, saying he does not want to antagonize the aliens.
It’s 7:35 PM Eastern time. Suddenly, televisions globally cut out, no matter the channel, in a flash of white. On the screen, there is a figure. He has the shape of a human, but the skin of a reptile. Perhaps on his planet, a lizard-like creature had evolved into the dominant species rather than a descendant of apes. His coloring is dark green, and viewers on Earth are undoubtedly relieved much of his body is covered by a blue military uniform, emblazoned with metals and pins, signifying his rank as Admiral. He has beady yellow eyes off towards the corner of his head with open nostrils that converge like a snout into his mouth. As he speaks, his jagged yellow teeth are ap
parent. From Tokyo to Cape Town, viewers must be wondering how many species make up this League of Planets. What are these distant worlds like? Behind him are windows showing outer space, and Earth can be seen among the stars.
“Greetings, my name is Admiral Tyrone Tiberius. Supreme General Anton Frozos spoke to you just over one day ago. You have nearly two more days to reach a verdict that is to be the unanimous decision of your planet. Some bickering is to be expected, and rest assured, it will not impact your treatment should you accept our most generous offer within the allotted time.
In times of indecisiveness, I have found an event can help crystallize choices, make tangible worries that would otherwise be theoretical. We follow your press closely, and there have been questions about our military power. I believe a display of power may hasten your decision. Given the discretion General Frozos has left me, I have decided to take a symbolic action. This ship is equipped with a laser cannon that will disintegrate the moon.
We’ve realized that all of our actions have been occurring over New York, so we have decided to take this action at 12:00 PM tomorrow New York time, when the moon is visible across most of Asia. Your decision will still be due at 6:00 PM April fifth, New York time, or thirty-six hours after the destruction of your moon. Choose wisely.”
In reality, the destruction of the moon would be far more than a symbolic gesture, but one with profound consequences, altering human life as it is known. As every body of mass does, the moon exerts gravitational force upon the Earth. Consequently, the moon is responsible for the tides of the ocean, which in turn helps to regulate the amount of time it takes for the Earth to rotate on its axis—the twenty-four hours in a day. Without the moon, the magnitude of high and low tides would likely be lower, and the speed of the Earth’s rotation would hasten, perhaps to a mere twelve hours.
These are the long-term changes if the moon were to disappear. Immediately after its disintegration, the resulting loss of gravitational force on the oceans could cause immense tidal waves across the world, perhaps wiping out entire coastal cities like New York, New Orleans, Bangkok, and Hong Kong.
Robert Wilson and the Invasion from Within Page 5
