Dark Alignment

by David Haskell

  Giving up on the conference for the moment, Quaid followed his wife and manager into the hall, getting swept up into the throng that surged toward the main studio. He tried turning to the nearest reveler to ask what was happening, but she was making too much noise and didn’t seem to notice him. Looking over at his manager, who was shouting into the ear of another staffer, Quaid shuffle/padded his way through the room to join them.

  “What is it?” Quaid shouted.

  “They pulled off a rescue!” the campaign manager shouted back, looking less pleased than the rest of the crowd. Quaid couldn’t even see his wife any longer, the flash-party was so thick and fluid.

  “That’s good news, isn’t it?” Quaid said. Then the reality hit and he felt a sudden gut-lurch.

  “Not him?”

  The other man just nodded. The one fly that could contaminate his entire ointment. That’s why everyone was so joyful. A national hero, their hero—back from the dead.

  38.

  ‘Worldforce’. The fighting men and women brought together to defend the planet from threats, both foreign and native. Melodramatic, without a doubt, but the strategy of unifying the world did make sense. The eradication of enemy combatants—first of their concerted efforts—was as much a way to reveal the initiative to the public as anything else. A warm-up, a preparation for graver missions to come. Even so, it was no light task.

  The Americans and Chinese played fair, relatively speaking, waiting on enemy aggression before making a countermove. The Soviets had no such compunction, bearing down on former territories, as well as the splinter armies formerly of India and Pakistan, without provocation. Each time, Webster called Sokolov on it, trying everything from formal protests to inviting her into the fold. Each time, she made some excuse. One day it was patriotism, the next expediency, and always it was everyone’s fault but theirs. The effort was exhausting. The last they spoke, their conversation ended abruptly over what sounded like explosions. Webster’s update indicated Moscow had taken some damage. A handful of civilian casualties, a few strikes to the power grid making life difficult. The government, however, weathered the bombardment with ease.

  Intent upon getting in on the action, North Korea began lobbing short and medium range missiles into enemy territory, exhausting their entire supply within hours. They hit nothing, but the act of aggression put them in the fray nonetheless. Assuming they would have China on their side, the People’s Republic government was gearing up for a U.S. assault when China hit them full-on from the friendly side. The battle, such as it was, was over in minutes, and the Chinese flag was run up in the center of Pyongyang.

  In the confusion of the first wave, Japan had seized the initiative to go after their ancient enemy, putting Seoul in the crosshairs. Like the North Koreans, they expected retaliation. But when their advance was blocked by the Americans, it was all but certain the next move would ignite a conflagration nobody could stop. Knowing this, Webster ordered a strategic retreat, giving the Japanese troops some breathing room. Fortunately for everyone, they chose not to pursue, holding their ground for just one hour before falling back. Historians would long note that this constituted an unprecedented rematch of World War II forces, although without a shot being fired it seemed a theatrical stretch. Even so, close allies turning on each other portended a serious escalation.

  * * *

  The bulk of the fighting occurred in third-world, dangerous areas, as was usual in modern warfare. The world-at-large continued on in the face of it like always, more concerned with atmospheric events than with airstrikes. Occasional updates from obscure cities overrun by worldforce troops, or flattened under a volley of missiles, were the only reminders. Communications were at a near-standstill in most rival nations—even the internet had been quashed in the early stages of the fight.

  All that changed when a volley of missiles flew out of the eastern bloc, sailed into friendly territory, and rained death upon key American targets. Bases in Germany, Austria and Belgium were bombarded, along with the American Embassy in Kosovo. Hundreds were killed in that hellscape of an afternoon. While the Soviet Socialist Territories themselves were able to feign innocence in light of the fact that breakaway militant groups had been behind it all, the fact that these were USSR-era weapons meant they were at least partially culpable.

  American retaliation was swift, brutal, verging on barbaric—but world leaders in unaffected territories stood silent. They had no choice. All-out war was already at their doorstep. None had the stomach to invite it in purposefully. Combat correspondents left footage behind, reporting only statistics and objectives, ignoring the outright vengeance enraged American soldiers were meting out on defenseless populations. Where present at all, worldforce troops stayed out of the way. This was America’s fight. They provided logistical support and humanitarian relief, nothing more, and even that was sparse. There simply was no one left to help once the Americans reduced their targets to ashes.

  * * *

  “I’ve been wanting to get my hands on that rock of yours for a long time, Doctor Eckert,” Director Zee told Dean. “I understand you’re the one who realized it’s significance. Put you on the map, didn’t it?”

  “Yes, I suppose that’s true,” Dean answered. Wanted to get her hands on it? It was an odd thing to say. As far as he knew, it was still available at the Smithsonian.

  Zee took in his expression with a smile. “Why don’t I just apply for a research permit,” she said, “is that what you’re thinking?”

  Dean nodded. This woman didn’t miss a beat.

  “Easier said than done, for someone in my position. You see, we had our own specimens.”

  He watched her closely, she in turn taking note of his widening eyes.

  “Yes, that’s right,” she continued, “and our friends at the Smithsonian are none too happy with what we did with them. Can’t really say as I blame them, but we had to use…extreme techniques in order to unlock the secrets. Secrets that you seem to have discovered all on your own, isn’t that right doctor?”

  The math swam into his consciousness at the very mention of it, never too far from his conscious thought process. “It’d be better if I could confirm it,” he ventured, wondering if there was any hope.

  She dismissed that hope with a wave. “Our samples are nothing but dust. At any rate, the president seems to be banking on your theories for now, but these things change on a dime.”

  “Does the president know you have the solution too?”

  Zee stood up, smoothed out her pantsuit, and walked to the wall like she was examining it. “I have a solution. I’m not sure I have the solution. There may be many.”

  More riddles. Dean just shrugged.

  “You want to ameliorate it, and that’s understandable. Logical even. But others have their own ideas on what to do. Political ideas, doctor.”

  “I don’t understand,” Dean said, “if they can stop it, why in hell wouldn’t they?”

  It suddenly hit him what ‘political’ meant.

  “They want to weaponize it!”

  “Some do,” Zee admitted. “Others would simply like the option. The threat. And you yourself have admitted that it has to go somewhere.”

  “Yes, somewhere safe. Like the middle of the pacific. I can direct it. I’m sure I can, if I can just send someone out there. You’ve got to tell the president I can do it.”

  Zee laughed. Dean couldn’t see anything funny about any of this.

  “You don’t want them to direct it someplace uninhabited.”

  She stopped laughing, but the smile remained. “Oh, doctor, I most certainly do. Most all of us do.”

  “Then what’s so damned funny?”

  “The idea that you think you can just send someone off to handle your dirty work for you, that’s what.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Doctor Eckert, someone is going ‘out there’, as you put it, to fix this problem. And that someone is you.”

  * * *

  Che
yanne Mountain. Just one of five main bases from which the allies operated. The leadership was similarly split up. Such measures served to safeguard against any lucky strike that might destroy any one command center. Still, everyone knew Cheyanne was the genuine headquarters of American executive authority in a time of war. And although the brass had been trying ‘Worldforce Headquarters’ on for size for quite some time, there wasn’t a soldier alive that didn’t think of it as Cheyanne, or simply ‘The Mountain’.

  President Webster, now engaged in the business of war at least as much as with disaster relief, lived and worked deep inside the mountain. There he was given, among other combat related documentation, up-to-the-minute casualty reports. The numbers were sobering. There was no end to it. The damage too extensive, the troops spread too thin. Webster could have repurposed a few Red Cross units from hopeless zones, but it would take days, time they could ill afford. Better to keep them where they were, get the populations of the smaller towns to safety, and let the cities fend for themselves. They had enough supplies for local efforts, but mass movements were counterproductive.

  Already overburdened by the guilt of so many crisis decisions, the fate of his people was foremost on Webster’s mind. He would have to speak to them soon. A speech that reassured a beleaguered populace, while simultaneously encouraged stoicism and self-reliance. Winston Churchill himself would’ve balked at such a hopeless directive, but Webster had no choice. The decision had been made for him, by circumstance. All he could do was react.

  Coordination of counter-strikes occupied his attention even more urgently, forcing homefront concerns to the back burner. The countries, unaccustomed to working as one, desperately needed his leadership. Even the nations familiar with United Nations peacekeeping protocols railed at the extreme centralization, never before having given up so much control. And as for the Chinese troops, it was nothing short of dishonor, taking orders from soldiers they considered inferior. On that front, thankfully, orders direct from Zhang demanded they suck up their pride. Still, the situation was tenuous at best, as Webster knew full well.

  A few miles from the border, tensions came to a head. A military police team tried to break up a bar fight. There was a quick escalation along racial lines, spiraling out of control as many of the MP’s—themselves a prideful mix of nationalities—refused to attack their fellow countrymen. Nine were wounded. One unlucky bartender lost his life. And the slapdash board of inquiry that followed was universally condemned.

  America declared an amnesty for all troops under their command. The Chinese, British and French governments followed suit. The families of the wounded were quietly compensated. Only too glad to see their loved ones return home, they weren’t about to rock the boat. The only injured party left unwhole was the bartender’s family—the sad fact being that civilian lives had grown cheaper the longer the crisis had persisted, and weren’t worth much at all so close to the front.

  39.

  “President Webster has a difficult decision to make,” Director Zee said. She sounded almost congenial—a far cry from the intimidating figure that was able to cow someone like Jo, nevermind when she prompted a room full of soldiers to offer up unconditional allegiance.

  Dean knew better than to relax too much, but he did sense the woman wasn’t trying to intimidate. His position had solidified over the past weeks, even more now that he’d survived his abduction. He was becoming more of an asset than a burden, at any rate. Somehow he doubted any of that mattered so much to this diminutive lady agent though. He sensed that she had plans B through Z already mapped out, just in case, and could get by with or without his help.

  “I hope I can make his decision easier, give him the information he needs,” Dean said. “I mean, I know what he needs, I just hope there’s enough time to prove it—”

  “There’s never enough time, doctor, especially now. The anomaly waits for no man. Not even you.” That simple statement was delivered in such a chilling way, it actually gave him a shudder. So much for congenial. “Just you be sure and give him all the information, not just what you think he wants to hear. Sacrifices will have to be made. It’s not up to you or I to determine what those ought to be.”

  Dean was reminded of the prisoner’s dilemma, in that she seemed to imply he wanted one outcome over another. But with all that had transpired, he had zero interest in being involved with such decisions. Why would she think otherwise?

  “I hope you’re not implying I’d put my own safety first?” he said, giving voice to his thoughts.

  The way she turned her head—like a teacher disappointed in her pupil—made him regret his words. There weren’t many people who could make him feel stupid. Awkward, definitely. But not stupid. This woman held an uncomfortable amount of power over him.

  “You think in narrow terms, doctor. An entire squadron is tasked with your protection now. You’re safe enough. And when you no longer are, your life will be out of your hands anyway. You won’t have any choice in the matter, and you won’t have anything to gain. So no, it’s not self-preservation that will turn your head. What’ll tempt you is nothing so ordinary. Let’s just hope it doesn’t come to that.”

  * * *

  After milling around each other for the better part of an hour, most of the military men seemed to realize that whatever mission they’d been assigned to wasn’t happening yet. As they broke off into small groups to find food or catch a nap, Shane waited until the rest were out of earshot before approaching Jo.

  “I don’t suppose you know what we’re supposed to be doing?”

  Jo stared at her partner-in-crime. He looked a million times better than he had when she’d last seen him. Obviously a doctor had seen to his wounds, but beyond that, he had regained some of his old swagger.

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t there—” It came out in a rush, both speaking saying the same thing at once. They laughed, dispelling the tension.

  “I wanted to go after you,” he said. “I didn’t agree with their decision, but if I’d tried to…well, it would’ve made things worse. I thought so, at least. Now I’m not so sure.”

  “I’m just sorry I didn’t find you before all this shit…” Jo stopped, letting the rest of her thought drift away.

  With sorries out of the way, the two fell into their natural pattern, debriefing each other. They knew what to skip and what was relevant, and quickly came up with a working theory about the mystery mission everyone was whispering about.

  “What if they think he won’t come through?” Jo suggested. “Or even might not? Maybe they’re figuring on buying some insurance or something?”

  “That’d make sense if he wasn’t set to go along with us.”

  “True”, Jo said. There had to be another piece to the puzzle. Why would they be sending an amateur on a military mission? What possible use could he be, away from his computers and calculators?

  “We’re missing something,” she stated.

  Shane threw her a ‘that much is obvious’ eye-roll, but at least they were on the same page. The mission was dangerous, related to infiltration, and had something to do with the anomaly. That was enough information to get them piecing more of it together, if they kept their ears to the ground.

  “Any thoughts on what that anomaly expansion talk is all about?” Might as well bring it to light, she told herself, since the eggheads are doing it anyway.

  “You heard that too?” Shane answered, looking a touch relieved to hear it spoken aloud.

  “Haven’t heard it from the brass, which doesn’t tell us anything except for who’s got the loose lips. But we already knew that. If they’re all talking it up around the computer terminals, it’s got to be something related to the gravimetrics. A ramping up effect that changes the mission parameters, maybe?”