Dark Alignment

by David Haskell

  “Alright, everyone,” Mansfield said, wrapping up the meeting, “that’s enough for now. We’ll do it again once Doctor Eckert’s had a chance to revise his calculations. See you back in the training room after lunch.”

  Dean hoped nobody would notice his sudden flash of fear at the mention of the training room. Once more back on the bottom of the totem pole. He’d never felt so unhappy about ending a lecture in his life.

  46.

  The advance on North America was the first of three waves. Millions more marched north into Europe, and east over the Asian continent, threatening to overrun the civilized world. Though the South American attackers struck first, the Euro-African advance was the strongest in terms of numbers. In Asia, where most of the mercenaries hailed from countries already organized for war, they had split into hundreds of individual strike forces, field-commissioning leaders as they went. The single most coordinated assault in human history was underway.

  Homeland reserves, who’s main armies had long since departed for the front lines, were ill-equipped to repel the onslaught. With thin ranks and low morale, there was a sense of doom in the air. Politicians claimed the oncoming hordes were mere mobs, easily dispersed, but internet communications—complete with video—told a different story. This was an unstoppable force, with nothing to lose, and plenty of disposable soldiers to spare.

  The videos were striking in their brutality. When short on ammunition, the enemy killed with blunt force, tossed victims out skyscraper windows, buried people alive using steamrollers to pack the mass graves flat. When short on supplies, they pillaged their way along, taking everything they could get their hands on from terrified locals, leaving nothing but scorched earth in their wake.

  * * *

  Central America served as base camp for the invaders. Waves of them surged north, support and supply lines advancing along with them, making full use of territories either historically or recently aligned against the United States. With America on the ropes, it was easy to cobble together coalitions of convenience; local militias ready to aid and assist, if unwilling to fight head-on. Such support roles were vital, and so the South Americans were happy to accept the help.

  The rag-tag nature of the campaign was nowhere more apparent than in their vast staging area. Convoys of battered trucks and prop planes ferried food and ammunition from deep below the equator. Hastily assigned teams raided cargo containers and offloaded ship-holds. Manpower was plentiful, making up for what they lacked in heavy equipment. Efficiency wasn’t where it should have been, but the brute-force enthusiasm more than made up for it.

  Disorganized though they were, there was a kind of symmetry to their actions. Without layers of bureaucracy to contend with, needs were met as they arose, and waste kept to a minimum. But it was stretched razor-thin. Any disruption would prove disastrous. The leaders were aware of this fact, but they kept it from the troops. If the men on the ground realized how precarious their situation was, they might turn for home. Anger and outrage only propelled an army so far—direction and sense of mission was becoming more vital by the day. For now, just approaching the border was motivation enough, but the real fighting had yet to begin.

  * * *

  The tide was turning fast. With sympathy at an all-time high following the nuclear strike, any collateral damage south of the border would only recruit more to the cause. And Central American countries had plenty of supplies. It would be easy for the enemy to barter for their needs.

  “We hold the line.” That was the Presidential proclamation, backed by the full support of his military commanders. There was no better option, aside from the Hail Mary he was soon to launch into space. Meanwhile, it would take time to turn world sentiment around, if it could be done at all.

  “Mr. President,”—this was Admiral Hitchins, according to Webster’s new cheat-sheet the chief of staff had provided—“any attempt to stave them off at the border will only buy us time, sir. There are too many of them.”

  The president nodded. He understood as much. “How much time, Admiral Hitchins?” He waited for a sign he’d gotten the name wrong, but the admiral didn’t act as though it was a mistake. He repeated the name over in his head several times. One down.

  “A few days to a week, sir. If we re-assign some of the emergency relief troops, maybe as much as ten days. After that, we’re looking at a massive ground assault against our own citizens.”

  He was afraid of that. “Well, then it’s a damned good thing we’ve got citizens who’re armed and ready. If ever there was a time for a well organized militia, eh?” He turned to the chief of staff. “Harvey, get the speechwriters on it. I’m going to have to deliver that one sooner’n we’d hoped. Make it good.” He added a sharp warning; “No leaks!”

  Harvey Roberts mumbled something the president couldn’t hear, stepping back to head for the west wing. Webster let it go, even though he suspected the comment had been something negative. He understood the need to vent—the pressure was getting to all of them.

  * * *

  The White House staff’s quarters and offices, designated ‘the west wing’ even here in Cheyenne, were cramped, crowded, and increasingly filthy. Desks were lined up one behind the other, like a grade school classroom, and little privacy was available to any, chief of staff included. His desk was at the head of the row, but there were no partitions. Only a small conference room off to the side offered any seclusion at all, but it was occupied around the clock. Roberts could pull rank, if he wanted, but he preferred to keep the staff on his side.

  Walking to the back of the chamber, he threaded his way through filing cabinets and boxes of supplies until he reached the edge, the wall of which swept up and merged into the mountain itself. He stopped, leaned his back against it, and slid down to the floor. Burying his face in his hands, he took long, deep breaths, trying to hold back the unwanted upheaval of emotions.

  It was unbelievable they were actually discussing an invasion of U.S. territory, never mind under circumstances so bizarre nobody could possibly have dreamt them up. How had the world fallen so far, so fast? It was impossible to wrap his mind around the events of the past weeks, even though he’d been in the thick of every significant decision that had brought them here.

  Was Webster doing a good job? Yes, he told himself, not entirely convinced. As well as could be expected, at any rate. Who could’ve done better? He’d managed to negotiate with the leaders of the world in a way that bore fruit. Had almost brought the situation under control before the damned Russians had stepped in and destroyed everything.

  He’d done everything he could. And so had Roberts. Everyone had. But even so, it seemed like things were fast going from bad to worse. This ridiculous launch scheme was nothing but a last-ditch prayer, and the entire universe was conspiring against even that scant hope. It was growing damned near impossible to remain hopeful, Roberts realized. Even cautiously so.

  Forcing himself to get up, he went to find the president.

  * * *

  Forward ranks were nearing the border. They would flood into Texas first, followed by New Mexico and Arizona. Boats crossing the gulf would make landfall in Eastern Texas and Louisiana. The coast guard was handling water operations, but it was like attacking a swarm with a flyswatter. For every boat sunk, ten more pressed on. Mexican authorities weren’t even attempting to stop the flood, knowing their meager law enforcement capabilities would never hold up.

  Armed forces had opted to shore up their positions, allowing the hordes to assemble in Mexico, under the assumption they would be easier to handle one wave at a time. Air power would come into play once the battle was engaged, but for now they, too, were holding back. It was all coming down to the border. An impenetrable barrier, product of the strongest military machine ever assembled, was rising fast. A monolithic wall of steel supports and gun barrels, but not a single solder in sight. They were behind the barrier, well protected, grouped by the hundreds in forward and support positions, training their weapons on
an as-yet unseen enemy. Behind the regular army stood the national guard, and behind them, millions of Americans. Everyone knew what was at stake. The United States of America had never been threatened with all-out invasion—they were ready to respond.

  * * *

  Citizen militias assembled short of the border, with volunteers traveling from as far as the midwest and the northeast to join up. Some estimated the fighting force to number in the millions, though there was no official count.

  For such a disorganized initiative, the volunteers fell easily into a command structure. Former soldiers and law enforcement professionals took up leadership roles. The rest took instruction without complaint, setting to work preparing their weapons and handling routine prep and maintenance duties. Cooking, cleaning, inventory bookkeeping, vehicle repair. Not everything got done, but everyone worked hard, finding their niche and making themselves useful in line with their skill set.

  With so many gathered in such close quarters, the problem of supplies began to take its toll. The local infrastructure was beginning to suffer, and water and food were not getting through fast enough. The president had ordered emergency supplies, first to the front lines by air, and to the remaining citizen fighters by train and truck. Voluntary rationing had begun in the safe states. Even Canada was getting involved, dropping supplies at the border for American volunteers to pick up and continue moving to the south.

  With the intimate surroundings came a sense of community, a camaraderie that went beyond civic duty. Dividing themselves into makeshift squads and platoons, they named themselves based on shared histories or places of familiarity. Troop Grand Canyon. The Mudcat Brigade. VFW Post 331. Chickasaw Regiment. Flags and insignia soon followed.

  As the volunteer effort spread, charity groups began boxing necessities into portable packages. Each kit contained either containers of water, rations for ten days, or clothing repair and toiletries. Each regiment and group had a decent share, taking the strain off emergency services, and ensuring that the regular army’s needs at the front were met.

  * * *

  The first of the border skirmishes was inept—surprisingly so—an altogether futile attempt to overrun the border on foot. The few that remained alive were taken, indirectly revealing the true strategy. These were young, rural youth. Nonessential and numerous. The enemy planned to overwhelm through sheer numerical force, and they were testing the waters.

  The fighters themselves were quick to surrender once their comrades began to fall. They weren’t ready for this, and had no idea what they were walking into. Once they were cleaned up, given medical aid and food and a bed, they were quick to reveal everything they knew. But there was little the American army wasn’t already aware of. Huge numbers of fighters, a base camp where everyone was gathering, plans for a massive assault. The only new information was how thinly their supply lines were stretched. Compared to the enemy, America was in far better shape. The strength of a common culture, coupled with the wealth of the nation, had given rise to a great grassroots supply chain. Not so from South America. Bickering nations with little to spare meant great difficulty in keeping so many fed. Medical care, too, was scant. They had already resorted to a triage system, getting rid of the weakest, patching up those who could still fight. And this before the main assault had even begun.

  Difficulties aside, the prisoners confirmed vast numbers of fighters encamped at the base. Tens of thousands more along the roadways and waterways to the south. All moving on America with a sense of hateful purpose. While grateful for the decent treatment, the prisoners also confirmed their own hatred for the west. Not only were they blaming the Russian nuke on America, but they were convinced the gravimetric hellholes were somehow the work of Americans as well. When confronted with footage of the same phenomenon happening in America, they called it fake news. A smokescreen, intended to throw suspicion off of DARPA or NASA or whatever other agency had ultimate control over heaven and Earth. They were impossible to reason with.

  47.

  The commander, dispensing with radio communications, threaded his way from one module to the next, ordering the crew to assemble amidships in the tactical center for a briefing. Interrupting drills and prep this late in the game was an imposition, to put it mildly, though they all knew enough to keep quiet about it. It seemed like just another part of the pre-flight rigamarole. He chose not to indicate otherwise, simply issuing the order and moving on. Only he knew the significance of this meeting, but had decided not to share, figuring the surprise was worth a few minutes of grumbling.

  One by one they worked their way into the common space. As the craft was not designed for a vertical working environment, navigating the ups and downs could be treacherous, and there were more than a few knocks and bumps along the way. As they slithered, climbed, and shimmied to the center, each in turn experienced the same jaw dropping, ‘What am I looking at?’ sensation. Before them, hunched into uncomfortably tight quarters, stood the President of the United States. Sporting a NASA flight jacket, he looked just like a coach before the big game.

  He was smiling, but it was a tight smile, and his eyes further betrayed his worry and concern. “Sorry for the interruption, everyone. I won’t take too much of your time, I know you’re working hard to stay on schedule.”

  The commander had planned to make a brief introduction, but quickly realized he was just a part of the audience. He worked his way into position behind one of his crewmates and snapped to.

  As the president delved into the specifics of the mission, not shying away from the danger as he illustrated the stakes, the attitude of the crew grew somber. The president didn’t bother with trite invitations to ‘back out now, nobody will think less of you’. Not one of them harbored such thoughts, and he knew it, though he imagined they all must have given thought to writing that last letter home sooner, rather than later.

  He thanked them for all they’d done so far, and for what was to come. He wished them Godspeed, and expressed the hopes of a proud nation, a sentiment he invited them to carry along with them on their heroic journey. His voice never broke, but he did pause a few times at the end. The camaraderie—and respect—was palpable. Normally the commanding officer would give such a speech, but it was all the more special coming from the president. These were professionals, they didn’t need any rallying cry to gear up for duty, but they appreciated it all the same. Finishing with handshakes, selfies and smiles, the president left the ship, and the commander once again took charge.

  “Okay people, back to it…”

  * * *

  The voice of Commander Mansfield boomed out over the shipwide com. All hands. Ready quick-launch initiation. Launch in twelve minutes. Prepare for countdown. All stations check in.

  The crew began their check-back to the flight deck, reading off dials and instruments as unfamiliar to Dean Eckert as a foreign language. Not a damned thing on this whole damned ship struck him as familiar. All told, there were about thirty check-in’s he listened to before his overloaded brain tuned out. He tried to shift focus to what came next, rather than waste energy trying to catch bits of jargon he had no hope of comprehending. And yet the unfamiliar was so all-encompassing, there was no way to ignore it. This was going to be a long ride. He wished he could enjoy it, but he knew his next happy moment would be the one where he stepped down off this contraption, set foot back on terra-firma and—likely as not—dropped to his knees to kiss the ground.

  The checks finally ended, and there was a minute of silence before the commander came back on. Folks, one more heads-up from control. The president wishes us safe journey, and would like us to be aware that he’s officially assigned his designation to our vessel by executive prerogative. Our callsign will remain Space Force One throughout the mission. Space Force One, ready for go in T-minus eight point five. Updates in thirty-second intervals. Eight point five at mark…

  * * *

  President Webster stood watching Space Force One spark, smoke and shudder to life. This bei
ng the most critical mission in human history, everything had to go perfectly. Shifting his attention to the ground control staff, he watched for signs of concern, like one starts to watch the flight attendants when the flight gets bumpy. But they were as stoic as those onboard, unmoved, carrying out their duties. As the retractible roof slid aside, moonlight flooded the chamber, casting a blueish glow onto the ship. The president was surprised to realize it was night now, having lost all track of time.