Guardian Ship

by Mark Wayne McGinnis

  “Yes, of course. That will not be a problem,” the alien replied, taking up the helm controls in his hands.

  Down we went, descending through the surface pavement, then what seemed to be a layer of stone or cobblestones, till we were inside a large sewer tunnel that ran right beneath 12th street.

  “Keep going. We need to be at least one hundred feet down,” Caputo said.

  Looking out the window portal, all we could see now was rock and dirt and an occasional subterranean trickle of water. Although nothing physical from the outside world was coming into the ship, the dank, earthy smells certainly did.

  “We have descended one hundred feet below street-level,” Hannig said. He looked up to Tito for further direction.

  “Okay, now slowly, let’s turn clockwise forty-five degrees and proceed on forward. But take it easy. It won’t be far.”

  I figured we were now beneath that dingy five-story building we’d seen up on the street level. And suddenly, light was streaming in through both port and starboard windows. We were inside a room—no, not a room, but a long, very long, tunnel. It was maybe thirty feet wide, and the walls were comprised of hundreds and hundreds of old, stacked, rustic-looking, nine-foot-long railroad ties. The smell of creosote invaded the compartment. To our left was a timber staircase that led up to a large, metal, vault-style door.

  But it was what was stacked along those walls that most piqued my interest. Weapons. Weapons of every imaginable kind. Some in crates. Some out in the open, like the GAU/8A Avenger Rotary Cannon I spotted lying across two side-by-side saw horses. The monster of a gun was manufactured as an anti-tank weapon. And it was specifically designed to be mounted within a heavy aircraft. It was the heaviest and most powerful Gatling-type rotary cannon in the United States’ inventory. I had no clue what it was doing here.

  Clearly, this subterranean cow tunnel was in fact an armory of epic proportions. One that would give any number of military bases across the U.S. a run for their money. I half-expected to see some missiles lying around.

  Caputo said, “There’s only one way into this tunnel. A two-foot-thick metal door that used to hang within the vault of the Public National Bank. And if that didn’t keep you out, the five armed men guarding the vault door would.”

  “Hannig, how about you open the rear hatch? I’d like to take a look,” I said, already on the move, not waiting for his answer.

  “Hold on, I’m coming with you,” I heard Lori say behind me.

  I stepped out of the ship onto a worn stonework floor. Suspended fifteen feet overhead was a thick electrical cable, and every fifteen to twenty feet an exposed light bulb provided just enough illumination for us to see our surroundings.

  Lori joined me at my side. “This is all Army surplus stuff, right?”

  “Army, yes. Surplus? Not likely. Probably stolen.”

  “But it will serve our purpose?” Gordo said, coming up behind us.

  I made my way over to the Avenger Rotary Canon. I ran a fingertip along one of its seven steel barrels. It was slick with oil, which was good. Likely still operational. But there was some dust and grit there too.

  “Some of these weapons are pretty old,” I said. “Like from decades ago. But new in the sense they haven’t been used.” I looked up and all around us. “This tunnel is basically clean and dry. Not too much in the way of moisture or even dust in the air. Even so, this weapon should have been crated, or at a minimum, covered beneath a tarp.”

  By now, everyone else had emerged from the Watcher Craft. Even Hannig was, albeit tentatively, looking around the space. I continued on deeper into the tunnel. There were too many crates to count. This section seemed to be mostly storage for various-caliber boxes of ammunition. I kept going. The olive green crates grew in size as I got further along, and I recognized the longer contours typically used for rifles. They were stacked head-level high. One of the shorter stacks was only waist-high, and someone had used a crowbar to open the lid. Loose straw surrounded what was unmistakably a Colt M4 assault rifle. It was similar to the types of weapons I’d used while deployed in Afghanistan. I freed the short-barreled assault weapon from its crate and assessed it. This particular gun was fitted with an M203 under-barrel grenade launcher. A sweet weapon.

  Caputo was standing next to me. “Will this do?” he asked.

  “Better than I possibly could’ve expected. How it will stack up against alien ray guns, force fields, and the like? Well, that may be a different story.”

  Chapter 24

  “Good God! What is all this used for?” Lori asked, leaning down over a particularly large crate farther down the tunnel. Struggling a bit, she hefted up what looked like an old Vietnam-era bazooka. “It’s not like any of this stuff is legal, even in other states where the gun laws are more lax. So who’s your buyer?” She stood with her hands on her narrow hips, directing her attention toward Caputo. “Since when does the mob get involved with making war, anyway?”

  It was strange, seeing Lori Tedesco, the dedicated police officer, and Tito Caputo, the mob boss, together, actually teaming up like this. But their underlying polar-opposite mindsets weren’t going to just evaporate because of the issues at hand. They’d clearly have some things to work out on their own.

  “Young lady, not everything that ‘the mob,’ as you so crudely refer to it, does, is solely concerned with the making of a buck. There are people in this city, in this country, that are profoundly patriotic. That feel it is not only their right but their duty to be fully prepared.”

  “Prepared for what?” she asked.

  “Anyone and everyone who attempts to take away our liberty.”

  I moved on to another stack of crates. These wooden boxes were much older. I tried to tune out Lori and Caputo’s conversation. Neither was going to win that argument. Although the thought of some of this stuff getting into the hands of non-military personnel was truly frightening—hell, I was working with Tito now and it being in his hands was still frightening.

  Stenciled on the crate, in faded white lettering, was a year, 1943, and the letters ‘S-LIQUID.’

  Hannig chimed in. “Dominic, you may want to bring some of that with us.”

  “Really? Whatever it is, it’s like seventy-six years old. World War II era. You know what this is?” I asked the alien man, perplexed.

  “I believe that this . . . weapon . . . could be uniquely effective against the Wikk.”

  “So you know what is in this crate?” I asked him.

  Hannig nodded. “The Watcher Craft, as you well know, has highly advanced scanning technology. I have an idea of what is in each of the crates.”

  Caputo finally overheard and turned his attention from Lori over to the two of us.

  “Let me explain,” the slick gangster interjected. “In the early days of World War II, the Allied Forces were desperate to disrupt Hitler’s Third Reich, as well as the forces of the Empire of Japan.”

  Now everyone had stopped what they were doing and was listening to Caputo.

  “A top-secret program was initiated to help undermine German and Japanese officers while in occupied countries. The objective? Undermine the authority of the commanders, specifically those within their own ranks. The S there, that refers to Stench.” Caputo smiled. “It was determined through secret testing that very little could undermine one’s confidence in their superior better than a bad smell. This stuff? They’re stink bombs. Get any of this scent on you, and you have unmistakable evidence of extreme personal uncleanliness. Basically, you smell like you’ve shit your pants. You want to take orders from a general or a captain that’s crapping himself?”

  Everyone laughed.

  “Hannig, you mentioned this would be effective against the Wikk?” I asked.

  “Yes, the Wikk are an insectile species, as I’ve mentioned. They have a highly sophisticated sense of smell. Although they devour human flesh quite readily, they are thoroughly disgusted by a human’s bodily odors, sweat, urine, and excrement, for example.
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br />   I said, “Okay, sure, we’ll bring some of this along. But we’re already fairly tightly packed into the Watcher Craft. We’re going to have to be selective about what we can and cannot bring with us.” That reminded me of something. “Hannig—that Wikk ship. Will we even be able to breathe in there? Is there a compatible atmosphere?”

  “Quite compatible, yes. Space suits or the like will not be required. Although I suggest everyone wear the type of garment you and I are wearing now. There are built in protective qualities that will help guard against external assailment.”

  Gordy understood. “Those shiny suits, they’re like, bulletproof?”

  Hannig shook his head. “Far more than that.” The alien inclined his face toward the ship. “LOP, please derive each of the human’s specific sizes and deliver manufactured garments. Please hurry.”

  I watched as everyone looked at Hannig and then over to the ship—not comprehending who the alien was speaking to. Within a minute, the spider-like, multi-legged utility bot was making its way over to Lori. Its six thin, mechanical appendages held a stack of shiny material. Lori, now wide-eyed, watched as a ten-fingered, phalanged claw offered her one of the garments. Before moving on, the LOP said, “This utility suit is far less effective if you wear your undergarments beneath it.”

  Lori’s cheeks reddened. “Okay then, naked it is.” She looked around and then settled her gaze on the ship. “Dibs on changing in there. Everyone else, except Georgina, stay out!” She hurried off, holding the strange garment in front of her. She murmured something indecipherable before disappearing into the back of the Watcher Craft.

  The others were, in turn, handed their own utility suits by the LOP. Georgina, apparently not all that shy, ducked behind a tall stack of crates for her changing of clothes. I saw the top of her head, her short red hair beneath the dim lights above. The men simply changed clothes right where they stood. In the meantime, Hannig and I continued on, taking inventory of what other weaponry we could find. Some things looked useful, some not so much.

  Several of the overhead light bulbs deeper into the tunnel were out. I saw the silhouette of a large shape, perhaps a vehicle of some kind. Interested, I was about to investigate. Hannig reached out a hand and touched my wrist.

  “Dominic?”

  “Yeah?

  “I have mentioned that my people—that I—that we are pacifists. I will not stop you from engaging in violence. The killing of your enemy. I understand you are doing it to prevent much greater violence. But do not expect me to also do so. That, I still cannot do.”

  “I understand, Hannig. And thank you for doing as much as you are. I mean it. I’m grateful. What do you say we check out this . . . whatever it is?”

  It was a new one. An 8x8 M1126 Stryker, one I recognized as the Dragoon variant model. They didn’t even start making these until 2016. I moved around the big vehicle, sliding my hand along the green-painted armored steel. I said, “This military vehicle is close to nine feet wide, nine feet tall, and over twenty-two feet long. A beast! Mainly used as an armed personnel carrier and supplies transport. But it has weaponry too. Big machine guns.” I smiled over to Hannig. “Too bad you don’t have a trailer hitch on the back of your Watcher Craft. All our limited space problems would pretty much disappear,” I said, kidding.

  “So you would like to bring along this . . . ‘Dragoon’?”

  “Well yeah, but it’s practically the same size as your ship.”

  But Hannig seemed to have an idea spinning in his head.

  Chapter 25

  Commander Prime Strength

  Commander Prime stood upon a wide catwalk above the Dominate’s bridge. Her orbital, compound eyes were locked onto several overhead viewing screens—each simultaneously tracking the progress of the five Acquisition Shuttles now en route to the blue world’s surface below. Prime’s mouth watered just thinking about those fresh food samples that soon would be cloistered together within the Dominate’s lower holds. Finding a world such as Earth—one teeming with humanoids—was a welcome surprise. Praises from her superiors, those back on Wikkam, had been coming in via multiple recent interstellar communication messages. Humanoids and their derivatives were a rare delicacy within the known galaxy. Yes, the taste of humanoid flesh was sublime, yet it was far more than just that. The species were fairly intelligent, and they tended to be ferocious fighters. Even the thought of devouring something that wasn’t kicking, fighting back for its very life, was nauseating.

  The bridge below her was busy and crowded; five hundred insectile crewmembers milled about, each at their respective post. Prime took in the virtual sea of twitching green bodies. Yes, her kind preferred to dwell in crowded spaces. They thrived in close-proximity conditions—like how life was back home, where six trillion of their insectile kind lived on a planet merely twice the size of this barbaric Earth. She tried not to think about the distinct, sour odors these fleshy beings emitted. Or the nauseating way in which they communicated. Through their mouths—disgusting!

  Intending to get a more diverse cross-selection of the sample quarry, or prey, the five Acquisition Shuttles separated upon entering the planet’s upper atmosphere. Each moved off on a divergent target vector. Prime watched Shuttle Number 3, a vessel oblong in shape, bulbous and uninteresting. Nothing was sleek or aerodynamic about any Wikk vessel. Organic aesthetics were more preferable in the Wikk eye. Number 3 was already slowing its descent, its landing thrusters fully engaged. Prime continued to watch as the shuttle touched down, while simultaneously reviewing the local environmental data via her compound eyes. Not the largest Earth metropolis, one the natives called Chicago. Prime’s continually smiling face tilted to one side. A swarm of humans could be seen clamoring frantically about—practically tripping over one another to put some distance between themselves and the shuttle—while others, those arriving in green vehicles and fully dressed in green, armored clothing, charged forward.

  With a rapid flurry of distinctive clicks and musical chords, Prime verbally directed the assault team to scurry forward, to get while the getting was good! So many humanoids present and all in one place. The Acquisition Shuttle’s hatchways opened, and designated Wikk hunters emerged without hesitation—a mere twenty of them—marching jointly together into the cityscape in a kind of military lockstep.

  Boom! Boom! Boom!

  Prime’s eyes widened in shocked surprise—three of her hunters were literally torn apart by explosive projectiles. Ah, so you’re going to make this a tad more interesting, are you, humans? Good! She watched as the other hunters separated, moving fast now, blurs of motion. The green vehicles, those responsible for the projectiles, were being dealt with first. Their doors were pried open by strong Wikk appendages. Prime watched as one human was pulled outward from a seated position. Clearly terrorized, the flailing human went headfirst into the Wikk hunter’s gaping, elastic mouth. The Wikk team was sent there to apprehend, only, not to feed themselves. But could she have resisted such a temptation herself? Prime barked off another command: Stop eating the quarry! Then she chuckled aloud, which came out in melodic, singsong tones.

  When two Wikk hunters captured a human brood—one consisting of two adults and their three offspring—more flailing about ensued. Screams erupted from the little ones. Excellent, Prime thought, a breeding adult couple! Their lives would be spared until they were either too old, or too exhausted, to further propagate additional youngsters.

  She watched as the human military quickly organized and regrouped. More weapons fire erupted. Clearly, these projectile rifles were more problematic than anticipated. What kind of ill-bred dullard species still used projectile weapons in this day and age? One by one, she watched as her Wikk team were being shredded. “Abort!” she commanded. “Before we lose that shuttle to the humans.” Four of the last remaining Wikk, all of which were injured, disappeared into the vessel with their quarry. Within seconds, it was airborne. The uniformed humans fired their guns, and now seemed to be celebrating this pitiful vi
ctory. Fine. Enjoy your small triumph. It will be your last.

  The original plan was for these five shuttles to bring back no more than a few hundred humans—total. But now, in the spur of the moment, Prime changed her mind. “I want no less than one thousand humans captured!” she ordered aloud, but to no one in particular. Her bridge crew continued on—ignoring her outburst. It would mean a somewhat longer stay here. Perhaps two days, instead of just the one.

  Chapter 26

  Dominic Moretti

  “No way.”

  “Oh, yes, quite possible. I can share with you the physics, the scientific principles that make such a practice possible if you would like,” Hannig said enthusiastically.

  “Um. Maybe later.” I looked at the big, undoubtedly stolen military transport vehicle and shook my head. If what Hannig was telling me was true, some of our logistical problems may be solved. We could bring this big vehicle along with us, or more like send it ahead to predetermined coordinates, and we’d have ready access to much more of the weaponry and ammunition, and other items, currently being stored here in this old cow tunnel.

  “Dommy!”

  Georgina was calling me from the back of the Watcher Craft. She motioned with her hand for me to hurry up. I hurried over to her. “What is it?”

  “You’ll want to see this.” She turned and disappeared back into the ship. We were just entering the forward compartment when I noticed Lori had followed in right behind me.

  Georgina gestured toward the view screen. “It’s hard to watch. They keep playing the footage. Oh, God . . .”

  True to her words, the MSMBC news feed was indeed awful. An alien ship of some kind was there off in the background—and horrific green creatures, perhaps a little larger than human, in the foreground, were moving with incredible speed. Attacking.