The vial of swirling material rests on the platform, just out of reach of the dead man's outstretched hand, still spinning slowly from when it was involuntarily let go.
Eight hours later the station is re-opened amid a flurry of police and civil activity. Commuters enter the station as workers are still painting the now repaired walls and ceilings. Many of the evening commuters begin to wonder at the mornings exaggerations, the station looks fine. The evening news carries little on the carnage and death toll, and leans more on the mild inconvenience to the public these terrorists caused.
“A shocking morning in Kyoto Train Station, as commuters were faced with an unsuccessful Sarin attack by a group of terrorists calling themselves ‘Malak’s Hand’. Casualties were low as the local security force contained the terrorists, preventing their escape. These extremists took their own lives rather than being captured…” - The Japan Times
Hayato withdraws himself from the past, and looks about the room one last time, wondering if he will ever be back. Standing and stretching to his full height of five feet eight inches, he clears his mind of the past, gathers a few personal items, and heads to the locker room. While changing into civilian clothes he takes from his locker a few photos, but leaves his body armor and all his weapons. Grabbing his passport, he leaves but a one word note inside the lockers belonging to a select few of his men. He knows that over the next few days they will all meet up with others from around the globe.
Hayato considers the team quite carefully. Being able to only select three members out of nineteen, he wonders at the strategic and tactical implications. Daitaro is the only pilot in the group and an expert in demolitions. He can create and disarm pretty much any explosive, thus, he is a practical choice when facing unknown missions. Chokichi is selected as the communications expert, adding to the fact that he has knowledge of just about every weapon on the planet. The team would be incomplete without a competent medic, thus, Akira joins the small team. A navy man in his earlier days, he is quite competent in and out of the water.
It takes Hayato quite a while before he can board a ferry bound for the Chinese mainland. He wonders why he and some of his team are being sent to Europe at this time. With Japan being spared any ground impact, Hayato is further perplexed at this group’s activation. He is also bothered by having to limit the team to four members including himself. Besides, what can they possibly do against attackers from space? None of this makes any sense to him, but he is disciplined and follows his orders. He sighs as he considers his route to Germany. He expects it will take his team a few days to make the long journey.
Location:
10 Downing Street,
Westminster, United Kingdom
The British Prime Minister and most of his cabinet having assembled, are all in humbled debate over many issues. Particular concern leads itself to the loss of the French carrier, clearly the aliens mean it when they say ‘no military missions’. Without a single asteroid hit on English soil, much of the debate leads itself to being left in the dark by the other countries, and then about the brief call from the Russian President.
The Prime Minister finally stands, with a polite cough, and both hands in his vest pockets he begins his oration.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, we have not been left out of the loop as much as you think. The Australians did call us, as did the Americans, Europeans, and even the Russians. It's just that our own space program is just not up to snuff with those chaps. But here we are today, and as you know our own military has been ordered to stand down. I do believe we should follow that up with a stern reminder, especially following the sinking of the FS Charles De Gaulle. She was a mighty ship, so many lives lost.”
The talks go on and on about action, and counter action, but finally, they all have to agree that compliance seems the best course of action right now. With communications cut, or at the very least hampered around the globe, the island nation has received little information. The cabinet has basic reports of the Manhattan and St Petersburg asteroid strikes, and fear of such an impact on London or any other major city definitely influences their final decision.
The Prime Minister retires to his quarters, makes a few local phone calls, signs papers, and for all intents and purposes, is having a 'business as normal day'. In the back of his mind he does have to wonder about this project 'Archangel'. His information on it is so scant he wonders why the military even bothered to tell him anything about it at all. His greatest concern for his island nation is the drop in imports, especially fuel, as global trade grinds to a halt. With this in mind, he considers using the strategic oil reserve, especially as they have been spared any ground impacts.
He spends the rest of the afternoon writing a public address, even though he knows it will have to wait. He is a man that likes to be prepared.
Location:
London
United Kingdom
Radclyf stares at his computer, his dark blue eyes wide in disbelief, an email, oh yeah the most secret group of SAS in the United Kingdom. So secret they have no designation and yet, here he is getting an email. Running his fingers through his short brown hair, he reads the email telling him that he and his group are disbanded. 'Z' Squad is no more, just like that. Storming off to the lockers, he sees the other members of his team, all standing there, with scraps of paper in their hands. At five feet nine inches, muscular and solid, no-one says anything to Radclyf, their leader, especially when he is angry. Looking at his team some of his wrath is replaced with curiosity. He opens his locker to find a scrap of paper with one word on it, 'Archangel', scribbled in rough hand writing.
“All four of us?”. He says to the group. “Well that’s better then, let's get moving. We have ferries to catch.” His mood lightens, secret missions are his favorite.
In civilian clothes, and leaving all his military gear behind, Radclyf feels almost naked, not having a hand gun or a knife. During the drive to Dover, he recalls a mission last year on the northern Iraqi border. This mission has been bothering, him for even though it was deemed a success, some few days afterward the Japanese were attacked. He often wonders about the timing of it all.
Five members of the elite ‘Malak’s Hand’ carry their cargo of infidels. The old truck bounces down a rough goat track toward a large hillside cave. Once inside, the five men park the truck. With the help of some guards the drugged captives are carried downward. A man in a long white coat greets them and leads them through to a laboratory where electric lights reveal a well-provisioned facility. The five would not speak of it, but having gone without food for two days the stock piles of food and water distract them.
The lab man notices their looks. “Eat, my friends you have done well. You have brought me four infidels to work with.” He motions to a table where some guards are seated. “I won't be long then you can return these fools back to wherever it was in Rawandoz you found them.”
The four-man SAS team halts outside the cave. Well camouflaged, they blend with the sand and rocks. A quick hand signal from Radclyf, and the four rush as one, silently into the cave. Two lazy guards are no match for swift shots from silenced weapons. Stealthily creeping downward, another guard is dispatched equally efficiently by Paul's knife as he slits the unwary guard’s throat.
Entering the room stealthily is not very difficult, as supply boxes being are stored around the walls, and these elite of the SAS are all third tour veterans. With silencers removed from their guns they await the signal to attack the twenty plus guards in the room.
The SAS ear pieces have some trouble receiving at this depth, but the helmet mounted cameras pick up enough detail. Their transmitters are more powerful.
Radclyf gives the signal, bullets fly, the battle is very one sided. A well dressed man wearing a white lab coat stands with all his guards dead. He holds a hypodermic needle to the throat of one of the drugged captives, his other hand is held high with a vial of swirling green material in it.
“Shoot me and we all die, infidels!”
He looks frantically about, like a trapped rat.
The SAS ear pieces splutter. “Extraction protocol six, NOW.”
Their training ranks with the best, and they run like there is no tomorrow. Donning hazmat masks as they run, small oxygen tanks pump air into their masks creating positive pressure buying the team precious seconds. They have seven minutes to be anywhere but within one mile of ground zero.
“Where are you going fools? I have Allah’s breath in my hand.” The man laughs zealously.
Forty-five seconds later, a ballistic missile launches from a British submarine stationed just south of the Gulf of Iskenderun.
Exiting the cave, Radclyf'’s team runs toward a small clearing. A special purpose fast attack helicopter comes in, it’s friendly. The chopper barely lands to let the four men board, before it takes off at breakneck speed. Purely designed for fast extractions, the heroic flight crew pushes the craft to its limits. Radclyf can see the looks the flight crew exchange as they push the chopper beyond its limits, now racing for all they’re worth.
A few minutes later a magnitude 7.3 earthquake is felt in northern Iraq. The explosion is just devastating, the entire hill is instantly vaporized, as is the cave system. Not a nuclear explosion, but close to it. The helicopter is struck by a powerful shock wave. The chopper is tossed about like a rag doll in the turbulent air as the flight crew fights the controls.
The Submarine never surfaces but heads out of the area at maximum speed.
The flight crew, along with Radclyf's team makes it to a friendly base and all are held in long term quarantine.
Another amazing escape was also made that day. But these escapees already so filled with hatred, are now even further fueled by the loss of their compatriots. They also took with them a small but precious cargo.
Oh and the News, the cover up, if only people knew. Thinks Radclyf as he continues his recollections.
“At 10:42pm local time last night a massive earthquake strikes a remote area of Northern Iraq. Coalition forces are expected to work with local authorities in cleanup efforts. The 7.3 magnitude earthquake was felt as far away as….” - CNN
“The Syrian Nation will not stand by whilst weapons of mass destruction are fired across our borders. Such actions are not peacefully productive. The western powers of this coalition think they can do whatever they like and get away with it. Our brothers in Iraq continue to suffer under the iron rule of western…” - Damascus Daily News
“The Coalition did not, does not, conduct any military operations over Syrian airspace. Satellite feed does confirm the existence of a small meteor travelling across the Syrian night sky at about the time of this claimed incident.” - Coalition Military Response
Radclyf, with his thoughts returning to current events, arrives in Dover to find a ferry about to leave. He hurries with passport in hand, and surprisingly makes it in time for the ninety minute trip to Calais. He had expected more people at the ferries, but is also glad that his countrymen are standing tall and not falling into panic. If all goes as planned a car will be waiting for him there, for the next leg of his journey. His team will follow as they were instructed, each making their own way to the destination. People about him are scared and talking of the destruction in Saint Petersburg and New York. News of the carriers sinking has yet to make it to civilian ears. Radclyf finds a place to sit and rest as he ponders what this is all about. Why is high command sending his team to Europe, especially at a time like this?
A discerning eye would perhaps notice another man. One that rests against a hand rail, smoking a pipe. Every now and then, this tall man glances down at Radclyf. Sitting, deep in thought, an uneasy feeling of being watched overcomes him. Snapping his head up and looking about, he sees nothing unusual. The man at the hand rail has gone, a tell tale wisp of smoke dissipates quickly in the breeze. Radclyf becomes suddenly alert, his instincts tell him something is wrong, every fiber in his body is screaming 'danger'.
At the end of the trip Radclyf hangs back to peruse the other passengers, but none stand out. Finally disembarking, he gets through customs to his awaiting car easily enough. Flashing his passport to the driver he gets in and tries to rest during the long trip.
He considers his team and knows they are as prepared as is possible. Having handpicked these veterans from a long list of accomplished soldiers from various covert missions, he feels a great sense of pride in his team.
Paul 'Da Bomb' is their resident demolitions expert and can pretty much operate any ground vehicle as well. He is also a hit with the ladies, which only adds to his ever growing ego.
Jim brings not only his communications skills, but it's said that he is able to build a radio with the proverbial ‘spit and wire.’ Well the truth is a little different. He was on a strike mission where the small team he was with found themselves trapped in an underwater cave. With enemy forces closing in on the surface, he managed to boost his transmitter, and in Morse code call in an airstrike saving them all.
Henry, oh poor old Henry, their medic is a mountaineer, and the team’s eldest at thirty-eight. He has a few pot plants that he takes with him from barracks to barracks earning him his nickname, 'Pots.' Some people mistakenly think his nickname is 'Pops' instead, due his age, but they are soon shown the error of their ways. His family heritage is market gardening, which he has never fully abandoned.
Radclyf is very happy and proud of his men. They have proven themselves individually, and as a team many times over. Radclyf smiles a little at his team of 'Old Guys'. With Jim being the youngest at thirty-one, his team is definitely old, considering their profession.
Location:
Planetary Orbit
Earth
After some hours of waiting, the video conference detailed in the text message from the orbiting space fleet, begins. Around the globe many government and religious leaders sit at their computer terminals, as instructed. They are about to be a part of the largest video conference ever conceived.
Again the metallic and artificial sounding voice sounds out.
“Be prepared to receive the words of Regent Voknor of the Gamin.”
The creature, Regent Voknor, is again seated on his throne. The alien is draped in the same multi colored garments as before, rings glint on his three long clawed fingers, if the claws can be called fingers. The bright yellow eyes stare out over the long teeth filled snout. The eyes blink, vertical lids close, then open quickly.
“I greet you all with the respect due to all leaders. I am sure you all have many questions, but first the Gamin will allow communications to resume for your citizens.”
With a nod and a wave of his hand, Voknor indicates to someone, something, off camera. On Earth, technicians are amazed and baffled as television channels are restored to normal. Internet communication which had also been hampered or even blocked in some areas, is again open. Cell phones come back online. It's as though nothing had happened to the satellites at all.
“In time, we shall place new satellites, but for now this fleet shall allow your various peoples to return to a normal life. They can have their entertainment which will make your task easier. Two landing craft will repair the damaged areas and provide training facilities for those that volunteer. Your medical and science technologies are insufficient to meet our needs and thus, will be enhanced. We will land more craft as deemed necessary. Shipments of various metals and foods will be sent to the two primary locations. Those that supply the materials requested shall receive our gratitude, those that do not, will not. I will answer questions now.”
The questions are initially timid, as most are fearful of repercussions, however, as the talks progress, and Regent Voknor seems amenable, the questions become more and more brazen. During these talks it is, however, made abundantly clear that these visitors from space will take what they want and we can either provide what is asked for, or die.
The bureaucrats end up debating who will pay the costs, which employment opportunities will be created, and the like,
as Regent Voknor makes promises of technology to all who agree. But not everyone is happy with the outcome, though publically they smile, and even agree, privately many are saddened. One man in particular has paid very special attention to the proceedings. What else can be done against such an obviously superior force? He ponders. No matter the way it's all presented, Earth is now a prison, with all of us at the mercy of those orbiting above. They will provide new satellites, new medical and mining technologies. They will help us live longer, be healthy and happy, oh yes. The Russian President is not alone in wondering what else is next as he considers his Matryoshka doll. To him it is not only symbolic of his homeland, but also represents political dealings. And this meeting with Regent Voknor is very political. But what is it they really want from us?
The Gamin also promise to provide technology for a new power source. A radioactive free method of nuclear fission. Something to do with harnessing radioactive nuclei as additional energy. The end result is more energy, and no radiation, other than that, the politicians have no real idea of what they are getting in exchange for their full cooperation.
Many governments around the world publicly proclaim the success of the conference. With telecommunications back online and a new power source soon to be made available, they have much to boast about. Most governments insist that civilian air travel is now safe, and that people should return to their work places. The two cities that were devastated are somehow overlooked, as is the way with politics. Some of the world’s governments, however, feel cheated and left out. Overshadowed by the larger more powerful nations, these smaller nations are left feeling bitter and resentful. A few of these smaller nations are looking at the way events are unfolding and can see unusual opportunities presenting themselves.
First Contact (Terran Chronicles) Page 8
