Dark Alignment

by David Haskell

  “There’s more to this than you know,” Smythe said, not attempting to move or lower his hands. “The Americans aren’t looking out for your best interests. Nor mine. Just try to keep an open mind. It may just save your life, Ms…”

  She sighed. “Jo.”

  “Jo. The information contained on that device could well destroy the world. I know I sound melodramatic, though in this instance I wish I were. In any case, should you decide to examine other options, I can assure you the compensation would be…considerable.”

  She motioned with the gun, running out of patience. “Access cards, keys, empty your pockets and toss it on the desk. Give me what I need and I might let you live.”

  He said, “Thank you for that, Jo,” and complied.

  She rifled through his belongings and selected the access tools she would need to escape, then ordered him to kneel in the corner with his hands behind his head, fingers interlocked.

  “Don’t say you weren’t warned,” he called out after her as she left the office. She turned back, secure-locked the door, and shot the mechanism to pieces. That would hold him for at least a few minutes, which was all the time she would need.

  22.

  John Masters and his boss, Mayor Quaid, sat side by side, their lead deputy in front of them. The deputy had just returned from patrolling the affected region, and shakily delivered a rundown of the state of their town.

  “It’s still expanding?” Quaid asked, looking as if he’d rather be anyplace else. This was the third report of anomaly expansion since the deputies began checking in, with no signs of relief in sight.

  “Slowly, sir, but yes. It’s definitely expanding. I lost two citizens this morning. Friends of mine, in fact. Damned idiots refused to leave their property.” The deputy looked haggard. They all did. His eyes had taken on a sunken appearance since he’d last checked in. He was shell-shocked. In a normal situation the chief would’ve relieved him and told him to get himself checked out, but there was no such option now. He would have to go back out, as much as the chief would’ve preferred to spare him.

  “I’m real sorry to hear that,”—John Masters gave him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder—“damned awful situation we’ve got on our hands, all the way ‘round. But you’re doing a hell of a job. You remember that, hear?”

  The deputy nodded, then slumped into a chair as his legs started shaking. Masters turned to the water cooler and poured his man a cup, while the mayor ignored his discomfort and turned to a district map. Circles that represented initial outbreaks had been left as-is, with a deeper purple outer ring representing the farthest reaches. The town was being squeezed.

  “Should I give the word, Dennis?” the chief asked.

  “Evacuate?” the mayor shot back. “Then what, John? Where do we go? You think other cities are going to welcome a townful of refugee lepers with open arms? What about our homes? My homestead. Your ranch for chrissakes! We just give up and pack it in?”

  “Dennis, be reasonable,”—the chief’s even, measured tone made it sound as if he were calming a jumper—“what other choice do we have?”

  “There might be another option,” the deputy piped in.

  Both leaders turned to look at the junior officer, who balked at the sudden attention, looking like he wanted to fade into the woodwork.

  “Well?” demanded the mayor.

  “I, uh,” the man stammered, then he swallowed and steeled himself, “myself and the fellas, we were talking it over and realized we’d seen some evidence of, er—”

  “Come on man,” the police chief encouraged, still speaking in that calm, rational voice, “just spit it out now.”

  “Evidence of blockages, sir,” he blurted in a rush, “along the perimeter. Stuff that blocks the effect, I mean. Water, for one thing. That seems to stop it up good. And not just water, neither. Bricks work too. It doesn’t move so good when things are in the way. Not nearly as fast, anyway.”

  “Go on,” Masters encouraged, intrigued by this bit of promising news, “barriers can slow the progress. So you’re thinking, what?”

  “Well, we were thinkin’ about building a barricade or somethin’. You know, dam it up. But then I got to thinkin’, what if we could sort of channel it instead…”

  “What makes you think it’ll continue on a different path?” Quaid challenged. The chief shot him a warning glare. No sense dampening the enthusiasm of people already hard-pressed to summon any to begin with.

  “The measurements seem to bear that out,” the deputy explained, “but we can’t know for sure ‘til we try it.”

  “It’s a fine idea, son,” Masters praised, “something we should give serious consideration to. Thanks for your input.”

  The deputy smiled and nodded, aware that this was a dismissal as much as a thank you. He got up and left, the chief following him to the door and motioning for the rest of the deputies to wait. No sense in continuing with the reports until they could come up with a plan of action, he figured.

  “What’d you think, Dennis? Any merit to it?”

  Dennis Quaid was, in addition to being part-time mayor, a clinical physician. He was the closest thing the town had to a man of science, and in that capacity it seemed likely he’d have an opinion.

  “Can’t say, John. Not until we try it out, like the man said. I have my doubts though.” The Mayor did sound doubtful, though his voice also contained a note of enthusiasm. “The field equipment isn’t exactly state-of-the-art. Could be just bad measurements. That seems more likely than water and bricks stopping this fuckin’ plague, or whatever the hell it is. But maybe a harebrained theory is better than nothing. Maybe.”

  * * *

  Later that day the mayor, the chief and the deputies met in the field, at a designated checkpoint a half-mile from the affected region. They’d assembled in order to get some testing done, see if there was anything to this blockage theory. The risk from that distance was minimal, although close observation would’ve afforded them a better read. Assuming the idea had merit, there would be concrete evidence. Wear and tear marks around the brick, damage to the surrounding materials, that sort of thing. But they couldn’t get close enough to see it. Their portable equipment would have to suffice.

  If the theory held, the next step was to build makeshift barriers, surround some of the buildings and attempt to keep them whole, if only as a stop-gap. If it worked, they’d shore up as much property as they could before making a run for it. Not a one of them intended on staying to the bitter end. This town would soon be abandoned. The only hope was in having something to come back to, once the crisis was resolved.

  At first, it seemed like tampering with the phenomenon might have accelerated it, causing stomachs to drop in collective panic as they watched the instruments. But then, slowly, the tide turned. The effect began to shift, imperceptibly at first, but gaining strength as it took to the new path. They couldn’t see it directly. The effect was invisible, and undetectable as far as anyone knew. But they could gauge the effects on the surrounding materials easily enough. The leading edge behaved much like a liquid. Smaller materials were scooped up, but it tended to flow around certain non-movable objects. Water was indeed one of the barriers, just as the lead deputy had observed. One of the other deputies suggested they dig moats around the properties and leave it at that. But they soon noted the gravimetric effect seemed to have no problem burrowing into the ground itself. Any moat would have to be sufficiently deep, in order to prevent the monster from simply seeping down and pressing on.

  Another oddity was the fact that water seemed to force it downward, but brick and mortar stopped it cold. It didn’t sink down or creep up, but rather oozed along the side of the barrier until it found the edges, then moved its way around. A brick wall could protect anything within, hypothetically. But as they had no time for long-term testing, this was the best they could surmise on short notice.

  Dennis Quaid was glad to play the part of proud mayor back in town, with the media sniffing a
round—he was soon acting as town representative, making grand claims about Joffrey applying small town ingenuity to come up with a solution. John Masters was asked to interview as well, but he begged off, and ordered his deputies to keep their traps shut too. Bad enough they had one loudmouth bringing unwanted attention to the town. He always had to play the politician, part-time or otherwise.

  The town of Joffrey became the human interest story of the week, and was fast becoming the face of the crisis as well. Images of desperate citizens working to save their homes resulted in a flood of donations, enough to supply their efforts and offer some immediate relief. For the first time since the disaster began, people were beginning to feel hopeful. Citizens vowed to stay, defend what was theirs and keep their town safe.

  23.

  “We’ve got reports of confrontations coming in all along the line of demarkation,” the commandant of the marine corps reported—or boomed, more to the point. An imposing figure in any setting, even in this room of luminaries he stood out. “Mostly belligerent locals. Seems our civvies set sail for a little look-see, but stuck around when they smelt blood. They’re spoiling for a fight, and heavily armed. None too sober, either. It has the makings of a real problem.”

  President Webster sighed, then scooted one of the military aids over so he could sit closer to his staff. The desk was weighing on him, he was tired of sitting behind it like some showpiece.

  “I don’t suppose any warning from our own military would do much. What’s the enemy have to say about it?”

  “Nothing so far,” the chief of naval operations offered, “so far they’re bending over backwards to avoid bloodshed. But you know how these things go. As soon as one hair-trigger in a turret takes a potshot, all bets are off.”

  “In other words, we’re running out of time,” the commandant picked up where his colleague left off. “We need to address this now.”

  “What about the situation on the domestic front?” the president asked. “We ready to move?”

  “We are, sir,” answered the chief of staff of the army. “As many as you need.”

  Webster took comfort in the fact that in all their years of service, these men had never been caught unprepared—this situation would be no exception.

  “All we need is your go ahead,” the army representative explained, “the state of martial law takes care of all the legal stuff. So far, though, it’s been relatively quiet on the home front…all things considered.”

  The chairman of the joint chiefs cleared his throat and took the floor. In comparison to the number one Marine, he was a relatively soft spoken man. Yet when he prepared to speak, he had a way of silencing a room that nobody could match—not even the president.

  “Refugees are still pouring out of the afflicted zones,” the chairman said, selecting each word with care. “That’s a humanitarian crisis we’re going to have to tackle sooner rather than later. No sign of aggression there, not on any sort of a large scale anyway, but the potential for a flashpoint is high.”

  “Alright, understood,” said the president, “but it still sounds like we’ve got more of an issue out at sea than here at home for the time being. I want a seventy-thirty split, with the bulk of our forces heading out. We’re going to stare those fuckers down, and if they don’t blink we’ll take them out. Their choice. But we’ll keep our powder dry on the thirty percent, and have plans drawn up to bring more back to shore as needed. Okay?”

  All seven of the joint chiefs acknowledged their commander with a snap to attention when he rose. Randall Webster shook hands, and his chief of staff showed them out. Within a minute the room was empty, save for the president and his closest advisor.

  “You’re doing the right thing, Randall,” the Chief told his boss.

  “We’ll know that soon enough,” replied the president, loosening his tie and leaning against the imposing—even to him—resolute desk. “What’s next?”

  * * *

  With most of the military forces split between the two major assignments, a third force of elites, quietly assembled, had been active since the crisis began. At first charged with information gathering, they had recently been reassigned to track certain assets in the field, ones that might be of interest to the White House. The tracking had been widespread at first, but now the targets had converged on one location, inside enemy territory.

  Their orders were to serve as a listening post, nothing more. They could offer no assistance, only report back and wait. Frustrating, but typical. The man in charge of the squad, Commander William C. Lynch, was a seasoned veteran with plenty of special forces experience under his belt. Tasked to deal with high-value terrorists during Second Gulf, he knew how to lay low and stay alert. He was well respected, and his men would put up with the low-key assignment as long as required, but they were getting antsy. He could tell, even with the lack of external signs.

  “Commander, we’ve got the three on infrared, back together now, and they’re almost out. Four, five and six are holding position within the compound, and seven and eight have moved to an off-site position.”

  The commander strode over to have a look. No human forms at this stage, just radar and heat-signatures, though they could achieve better detail if needed. It looked like the primary trio was on the right track, but there were a number of guards in the way.

  “Jesus Christ, they’re walkin’ right into it,” the commander said under his breath. He stuck out his chin and bellowed, “Okay, people, we’re still on birds-eye here, but get your gear set. We’ve got a possible move sometime in the next shift. Depending on where they go from here, we might be switching to ground tracking.”

  The command resulted in a flurry of activity, soldiers darting about the small command center, preparing their equipment and personal effects for the road. Here’s hoping, the commander told himself. He, too, was feeling antsy, and had been wanting a piece of the action for quite some time.

  * * *

  With the commandos formed up and ready to move out, all that remained was a go-ahead from the brass. At that moment in the nation’s capital, however, there was a crisis far more pressing, easily superseding all other concerns. There, in the heart of world power, mere blocks from the capital building, in front of news cameras from all over, the largest gravimetric shift so far burst into existence. Tearing at the fabric of space and gobbling up matter, it destroyed the Greek Embassy, numerous residential and business properties, and a large swath of Massachusetts Avenue. Some two-dozen civilians were ripped to pieces, hundreds more grievously injured.

  Orders were slow to come, with officials being evacuated to locations outside the city proper. The White House itself was shut down first, and the emergency exodus added to the sense of panic. Although the president would have preferred to stay, there were procedures that had to be followed.

  On the way out, Webster was given a briefing on the state of affairs in all afflicted cities, now including Washington D.C. and three other mid-sized population centers.

  “The situation’s escalating in each hotspot,” said the chief of staff, “and there hasn’t been any letup in the rural sectors either.”

  “Any good news?”

  “A bit. There’s been a marked ease in prejudice towards the victims, now that it’s hitting the cities. More people are being affected, friends and loved ones and the like. Tends to have that effect. People are more willing to help now, hospitals are accepting refugees at this point, where they’d been turning them away out of fear before.”

  “Alright. Good. Anything else.”

  “One bright spot, sir. A novel approach is said to be having a positive effect in Joffrey. They’ve started constructing barriers.”

  “Barriers are capable of containing this thing?”

  “It’s all preliminary, of course. We can’t say for sure how well they’ll hold up. But yes, Mr. President, barriers seem to be working in that particular location.”