Dark Alignment

by David Haskell

  “I appreciate that, John. I really do.”

  “Good.” He opened his mouth to say more, but was interrupted by the shock of another quake. It hit with a piston-like jolt, lifting binders clear off the table and spilling to the floor in a fluttery mess. Both men had to steel themselves to remain standing. It didn’t last long, but it was more powerful than the last.

  “Jesus!” Masters said, his eyes darting to the ceiling, checking for danger. Fortunately there was no large debris, just dust and splinters. “You okay, Dennis?”

  The mayor nodded, looking equally disturbed. “You think this is part of the gravimetric thing?”

  “No idea,” the Chief admitted, “but it don’t bode well. Let’s go see how bad things are.”

  Rejoining the rest of their staff in the command center, they listened as the deputies report in. Not too much fresh damage, fortunately. It seemed the up and down motion hadn’t set too many structures off kilter, including the protective walls. But the town wasn’t built to handle seismic activity. No town within a thousand miles was.

  Looking over at the Mayor, the police chief expressed his concern, “We’re going to have to find a way to keep those walls up if this gets worse. I think it’s time we called in some reinforcements.”

  * * *

  The national guard units were tasked with helping to shore up the protective walls first, then prop up any additional structures as time permitted. Their inspectors went through public buildings to make sure the foundations were sound, but there wasn’t time to take care of everything before more aftershocks rolled through.

  “We have to prioritize,” the lead inspector told Masters, “there’s no way to keep all those temporary structures standing if the tremors intensify. We’ve got to shore up the floodgates, and forget about the rest for now.”

  “How do you mean, exactly?” Masters asked.

  “We allow non-essential buildings to fall. It’s the only way we can keep the important ones up.”

  “These are people’s homes we’re talking about here. Are you sure?”

  The inspector nodded, looking every bit as regretful as Masters felt. The Chief knew something like that was likely sooner or later, but that didn’t make it any easier to hear. Until now, the all-for-one attitude of the town had been to save all the homes. Switching to a triage system was heartbreaking. But he had a sick feeling that the earthquakes would only get worse. They had to prepare.

  “Okay, get out there and make your assessments. Work fast, and don’t tell anyone what you’re doing. And report straight back to me, okay? I’ll get the word out to the work crews myself. As long as we keep that goddamned monster from wrecking our town, they’ll understand. But it’ll be better coming from me.”

  Even though the Chief wasn’t technically in charge of guard personnel, the inspector accepted the orders without complaint, heading out immediately to start his work.

  29.

  “Those warships are a threat to the stability of the world, and I want them gone!” The president banged the table for emphasis, kicking up a flurry of papers but otherwise provoking no reaction.

  “And if they refuse?” The General Secretary of China’s silky tone smoothed over what would otherwise be seen as a serious threat. An imposing man, he had more of a western carriage and bearing than the norm, and was impressively tall. But that voice, polished as a used-car salesman’s and twice as charming, that was his true calling-card.

  “Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Webster challenged. “Your two greatest adversaries tearing each others’ throats out while you sit back and watch.”

  “I resent the implication, sir,” the Chairman said, his voice raising with every word, “that I am indifferent to such a threat to world peace. Your trust in the Kremlin, over our strong objections I might add, may well endanger us all.”

  “Come on,” Webster shot back, “why the hell should you care about a threat to our eastern seaboard? None of your forces are in danger.”

  “The Russians have friends, Mr. President.”

  Randall Webster lowered his eyes and looked away. The fact was, he’d taken it a step too far. Terrorist strikes on Chinese civilians over the past few years did lead straight back to Moscow, and the White House had been all too willing to help cover it up, prior to the recent breakdown in relations. These facts were an open secret in diplomatic circles, further souring a decade-long deterioration of the U.S.-Sino relationship.

  “Okay, let’s all take a breath now,”—the chief of staff held up calming hands—“and let’s not get ahead of ourselves. The Russians aren’t going to attack us, not without provocations, and we won’t attack an ally. The rest is posturing, so let’s admit that and get past it. Our concern is with securing the region, nothing more.”

  The Chinese leader sat back, temporarily silenced. Straight talk didn’t suit him as well as saber-rattling.

  “It goes without saying,” President Webster added, “that our domestic concerns have to take precedence. But I have reason to believe we’ll be seeing more activity in the Pacific region soon. Of the cataclysmic sort, I’m afraid.”

  “You refer to gravimetrics?” asked Zhang. “That problem is already on record sir, we’re just as concerned about it as—”

  “No, not gravimetrics. Something even worse. I would, of course, recommend that you consult with your own scientists if that would make you more comfortable. I’d be happy—“

  “Thank you, Mr. President. I would be grateful for a briefing from your people. If, as you say, there’s no room for delay…”

  “I wish it weren’t so, Chairman Zhang.”

  The president didn’t want to give the Chinese leader any more information than necessary, but the time for normalized, slow moving relationship-building was at an end. He would have to trust someone, fast, and not just anyone either. They needed powerful friends. If he couldn’t create a global coalition and get to work, border skirmishes and local uprisings would be the least of their problems.

  * * *

  The truce had more to do with informational blackmail than diplomatic prowess, but either one suited Webster fine. As other nations began to feel the effects of gravimetrics, it no longer seemed a problem that would weaken America to the benefit of everyone else. Working together finally seemed to be gaining appeal, now that Webster had begun to reveal his hand.

  Until the shaking began, it had seemed as though the conference would simply wind down to glad-handing and photo-ops, but the sudden tremors forced the leaders into pre-selected bunker assignments, and that’s how President Webster wound up sharing a bunk with his Chinese counterpart.

  “May we live in interesting times, that’s your motto isn’t it?” Webster quipped.

  Leader Zhang was in no mood for sarcasm. He rolled over on his bunk, fastidiously ignoring the president. But akin to cellmates in a prison, they couldn’t go on ignoring each other forever. As the aftershocks intensified, it began to look as though they would be sharing quarters for quite a while. That’s when the Chinese representative began a long, angry dialogue with his military liaison.

  The soldiers were from different countries, neither Chinese nor American, as per agreements that were codified when nobody thought they would ever be used. Having neutral protectors had seemed a smart idea when the idea of emergency sequestrations had more to do with talks breaking down than natural disasters. Now, neither of the men had any support to rely on. Since their staff was similarly indisposed, there was nothing to do but negotiate with the soldiers at hand. And none of them were inclined to show favoritism.

  “You sure picked a hell of a time to turn belligerent,” Webster said, rolling to one side and peering down from the top bunk. “Did you really think we’d try and bluff our way through this?”

  The general secretary looked up at his bunkmate. “Truthfully, Mr. President, I didn’t know what to think, considering the aggressive threats made by your predecessor.”

  “Call me Randall,” Webs
ter replied, sweeping an arm out over the room, “I’d say the circumstances warrant a little less formality.”

  The Chairman seemed to accept that. “And you may call me Jian,” he said formally.

  Webster silently repeated the name three times in quick succession. He wasn’t entirely sure he’d even heard it before, much less been invited to use it.

  “So, Randall?”—he said the name with cautious respect, mixed with what sounded like curiosity—“Why is it so many of your enemies insist that you are mistaken?”

  Webster thought about it for a minute. He’d already heard the arguments his advisors had come up with, and agreed with their logic. He just wasn’t completely sure he was ready to start spreading it around just yet.

  “Like always, Jian,”—Webster attempted to pronounce the given name perfectly, feeling that same sense of cultural unfamiliarity he’d detected in the other man’s voice—“because they stand to gain from it.”

  Zhang laughed.

  “Something funny?” asked Webster.

  “Just the fact that capitalism and socialism, as with most other structures, all share the same fundamental flaw.”

  “Oh?” This was quite the turn of topic, and surprisingly on-point for such an obtuse man. “What flaw is that?”

  “Human nature, Mr. President. The fundamental flaw we all share. The flaw without which we could all join hands in harmony.”

  Webster snorted, mostly to himself. Leave it to Zhang to come up with something meaningful, only to toss it away with a followup so trite it could’ve come from a children’s book. But bunk-beds aside, there was still diplomacy in the works here, and he still needed allies, so he allowed the comment to stand.

  The Chairman shrugged and sat up, slipping into footwear Webster hadn’t even noticed before turning in himself. Is there a valet around I’m not aware of?

  “So, Mr. President,” Zhang continued, “you have enemies who stand to gain from your demise. The next question becomes, what do your friends stand to gain from supporting you in your hour of need?”

  Webster refrained from shooting back a snotty retort, something about the support of the Navy Seals being more than enough in a pinch. Let’s all join hands, he thought in a singsongy voice. China on America’s side was still the best way forward. Others would fall easily in line once that was accomplished.

  “The truth, Jian. You stand to gain the truth. So my question is, how much is that worth to you?”

  30.

  The abductors were almost on top of them. Besides those tracking them at ground level, the group had also launched drones of their own. Not sophisticated like the one that shot up the compound. That one was military grade, Shane had informed the group. No, these were off-the-shelf, intended to stream video and shoot pictures and little else. But that was bad enough, as it would be impossible to hide for long. They’d been forced to split up, just as Shane had feared.

  One of the drones buzzed in and out, honing in on Dean as he skirted the tree line. He stayed under cover as best he could, keeping low and moving quickly. His aims were simple—avoid the attackers, rejoin his friends. But that damned drone was throwing off even that simple plan. He couldn’t very well outrun the thing, and he wasn’t having much luck hiding from it either. To make matters worse, it was flying ahead of him, blocking his path to the rendezvous, forcing him to head in the wrong direction every few dozen yards.

  When they’d split up, Shane had held back and given Dean his pistol. There were only two weapons between them, he explained, and Jo had the long rifle. Dean protested, pointing out the fact that Shane was injured, not to mention he had no idea how to use the thing. Valid arguments, but Shane insisted.

  “Bad leg or not, I can still fight better than you,” he’d said, adding a quick ‘no offense’ gesture which wasn’t the least bit necessary. “And it won’t come down to that anyway. If you get in a bad spot, just get behind some cover and start shooting. It’ll keep ‘em off your back.”

  Now Dean fingered the pistol and thought about using it, but he knew the noise would attract attention. Lost in thought, the machine caught him by surprise, humming in fast and low, forcing him to duck. As it passed over his ear, he heard a faint click. Camera shutter? At this rate they’d soon have it all mapped out; a clear record of where he’d been, and a very good idea of where he was going. It would be an easy thing for them to get there first, lie in wait, then jump them once they got back together. Three for one.

  Sliding down into a ditch, Dean looked around for something to use. He had the inkling of an idea, born of Shane’s shooting suggestion, but more simple. He found what he needed almost immediately, the most primitive weapon imaginable. Piled up at the base of the ditch, likely the result of thousands of rainfalls and minor dirt-slides, was a cache of stones. Some too tiny, a few too big, but a good number of them were somewhere between a tennis ball and a softball in size, and smooth enough to hurl with some accuracy.

  Dean waited until his tracker came back around. It hadn’t picked up on him in the ditch yet, cruising back and forth as it tried to pick him up again. Peering up at it, he noticed something odd, and oddly familiar, too, in it’s flight dynamics. It was listing, and seemed to be having trouble getting lift on the lame side. He listened carefully, but detected nothing whinny or broken-sounding in the engine noise. Then he saw it. That familiar sheen he’d watched so many times, on so many disturbing videos he’d lost count. Gravimetric effect. Had to be. Nothing else looked quite like it, nor caused air currents to shift so strangely.

  But way out here? He still had no idea where he’d landed, but it was pretty damned far from North America. So how could the effect be so far from ‘home’? The implications were enormous, and disturbing, but he had more immediate problems to contend with. He filed it away for a safer time, a time when he could think through the geographical math.

  For now, he decided to find out if the badly listing machine was vulnerable. He weighed the first stone in his hand, gave himself a few seconds to prepare, then flung it as hard as he could. He watched it sail off the mark by a good margin. He quickly picked up a second one and let loose. This one was aimed better, but fell short.

  The third try not only missed, but added two strikes against him in short order. First off the rock flew close enough to catch the attention of the machine, or its remote operator at least, prompting it to swing around and start tracking the scientist. And worse, the effort of heaving three in a row had finally wrenched his shoulder. Trying to ignore this, he grabbed a fourth rock, but the burning pain in his abused, underworked arm informed him that this was the do or die moment. He’d surely hurt himself worse this time. That, plus the drone operator was already factoring in the new situation, slowly backing away from its suddenly dangerous quarry. When they figured out exactly what he was trying, they’d surely back off to an impossible range.

  He reached back, stared straight at the machine he was trying to destroy, and with a grunt of exertion, let the rock fly. He felt a knife-like rip in his arm upon release, but the missile sailed in a high arc, nicely thrown and on target. It spanged off the side of the drone and the flyer dipped, it’s whirring sound turning labored. It began to loose altitude, and Dean gathered up as many rocks as he could carry and started back up the ditch.

  It didn’t land, but neither was the thing able to get away. Throwing caution to the wind, he chucked another rock at the thing, aggravating his shoulder further but making contact with the rotors. Rock on metal made for a satisfying grinding noise, and the drone fluttered brokenly to the ground.

  Dean lobbed one more rock into the mechanism, grinding the rotors to a stop. The only thing left alive in the machine was the click-clack of the camera mechanism. Putting his face right down in front of it, he pointed to himself as a form of identification and—feeling giddy with accomplishment despite his dire circumstances—gave his tormentors the finger. Favoring his injured shoulder, he used his good hand to smash a rock straight into the lens, gr
abbed the drone by it’s side, and flipped it into the ditch.