"I will warn when a hybrid is unfrozen. It will not be a pleasant experience for either of us," Zote says abruptly ending the call.
Kremlin and Beijing Hotlines
"You have urgent phone calls from the Russian Prime Minister and Chinese Premier," Charles Brody whispers into his boss's ear as the video call to Zote ends. "They want to know about this object that suddenly appeared above us parked in space. What do we tell them?"
"I wondered when they'd see it," Wilford tells staff members sitting around the table in the PEOC beneath the East Wing. "Russians and Chinese must be wondering about our visitors. Any ideas about what I should say?"
"Tell them nothing," Greer snarls on the conference line hooked into the White House. "We're not ready to get them involved. Besides, what can they do other than delay us?"
"They could support efforts to fight them if they land," Wilford argues half-heartedly.
"They'd love putting troops on our soil and setting our house on fire," Greer admonishes the President. "I say tell them nothing. I don't trust any of them. Allowing Russian and Chinese Commies in here isn't smart policy. Besides, my boys will be ready. I've already started the ball in motion."
"What's in motion, Bull? I've not authorized troop movements."
"Troops; I'm not moving troops, Mr. President. I'm reallocating strike forces, carrier groups, and bomber fleets. We can't wait for the shoe to fall. These things take time to position. Protecting the homeland is all I care about."
"That's not your call, Bull; I decide policy, not you."
"Two days from now we could be involved in a hot war inside the United States. I'm re-positioning air assets inside the United States to take on anything the aliens or Communists send. Who knows how much destruction we're about to endure. That's gotta be our priority. Hell with what the Commies think."
"I don't disagree, Bull, but you should have shared that information. Our own troops are probably wondering what's up."
"Mr. President, nobody worries when we recall assets from overseas. Enemies whine about insertions and deployments. Extra B1B Lancers could be all we need against these creatures. If not, I'll have AC-130s and A-10s in the bullpen. Besides, I didn't hear a single word from Zote about air assets being deployed when they land. I figure that gives us an edge. Our fast-movers with guided ordinance are second to none."
"I'm not sure about having an edge," Wilford grimaces. "Imagine telling the Russians or Chinese we're sending four robots to take over their country. That may sound to you like sending a handful of Marines to the shores of France on D-Day but to me it says these four machines are nothing we've ever faced. Zote comes across as dead serious and honest to a fault. He's not a politician."
"I don't disagree," Greer grumps, "but troop movements attract attention and I'm not sure that's the best way to take on four robots or whatever this hybrid has in mind. Air assets are the best first strike option."
"I agree but next time, consult me first and that goes for everyone on this call and any department in the Government. When and if we start war with these Andromedans, I'll make the call. I'm still hoping we can avoid bloodshed," Wilford's voice trails, sign he may not be fully on board with his own wishful thinking.
"I'd tell them it's one of our new space assets, Mr. President," Bob Covelli adds to the lopsided conversation. "We're about to send up the X-37D, so it'll take them a while to digest all this sudden burst of activity. Besides, I don't think it's going to take weeks to resolve. The world will know one way or the other what's happening once Defiant cuts loose. It's going to be the greatest laser show ever seen."
Jack Wilford ponders the simplistic input from his CIA Director pondering if Occam's razor is an apt analogy. Don't gum up the works with alien hypotheses and farfetched explanations. "It could buy us a little time, I suppose, Bob. Any type of suspicious explanations could lead to more bickering and spying. If the Reds think we have such an asset in place, it might make them tread more carefully. If we're going to move military assets, it should be to thwart Chinese and Russian aggression, not to provoke them. Besides, I think we have enough air and sea assets to take them on. For now, I'm putting my hope on Defiant and X-37D. I dread the thought of four alien robots wreaking havoc on our nation, so we can't let it get that far. Preserving, protecting, and defending the Constitution and people is the oath I made to citizens and God."
Chapter Seven
Area-51 Hangar
s promised, Navy Officers Joe Mettars and Ray Thompson greet and hug close family members sequestered overnight to see them off as promised by the President. Transported in windowless older CIA aircraft and olive drab buses during middle of the night was an unusual experience, made worse not knowing what their brother or son was about to do. In early morning when the sun is set to peak over the horizon, they meet in a heavily guarded hangar, a new 49 X 250 foot addition. Inside, the throng is inspired by the unusual spacecraft leap years ahead of anything seen before. After a short presentation giving exciting but scant details by Dr. Metz, the proud men assure proud, apprehensive family members they'd be back when the job is done. Though information about aliens isn't part of the atypical briefing, the warriors privately relate unauthorized secrets near the end of an allowed time. Dr. Metz lets it pass after noticing how respective fathers seem shaken by the exclusive information whispered in ears. While probably told by sons to keep expressions and feelings private, it's hard for the fathers concealing expressions of shock and horror. Once realizing their individual mistakes, they beg fathers to be strong for mothers and siblings until truth of their mission becomes public. Finally, the pilots bid final farewell then board the exclusive, sleek aircraft with last waves to sobbing family members. Once relatives are hustled off site, they begin an exhaustive checklist with Metz and flight engineers guiding, watching, and listening from the underground control center.
"When you depart in about five minutes," Dr. Metz explains over the secure intercom, "the skies around Area-51 within fifty miles will be clear of air traffic. You won't have to worry about crisscrossing jets. Sidney will take over once airborne so you fellows can sit back and relax. If we find any unexpected bogies sneaking through the net, we'll let you know and take appropriate action. F-22s and Blackhawks are protecting the airspace, so rest easy."
"Copy, Dr. Metz," pilot Joe, answers.
"Once towed outside the hangar, we'll take off quickly so enemy assets have smaller windows. The optimal time based, on CIA analysis of Russian and Chinese satellite orbits, is nine hundred hours."
"Roger, nine hundred hours," Ray replies while checking a modified Garmin aviator wristwatch.
"Final system check," Bobby Rafferty, the senior telemetry engineer, murmurs. "Are we seeing any red panel lights, gentlemen?"
After a long pause, "All systems are green, operating nominally," Ray answers.
"Commence tow," Metz signals to a grounds crew chief. "Let's get them outside," he says. "It's time to leave."
Rolling onto the tarmac pulled by a low hanging tractor, Joe and Ray wait until getting the all-clear sign. Soon after, Joe ignites the thunderous Aerojet Rocketdyne Kilo-Newton engines, modern relatives of the Titan and Delta class rockets used during past decades for lifting heavy equipment into space.
"Taxi to runway one," Bobby tells the pilots. "The optimal window to avoid enemy tracking has arrived; You are clear for take-off; over."
"10-4," Joe murmurs.
Immediately rolling the heavy low-hanging, dull black flat aircraft onto one of the longest tarmacs in the world extending nearly six miles, Joe presses overhead buttons in specific sequence that extend wings and rudder for steep take-off. Finally, seeing the countdown to avoid Russian and Chinese satellites is optimal, Navy Lt. Joe Mettars throttles engines and begins rolling at vaulting speeds down the desolate tarmac dotted with sparse tumbleweed hitting six nitrogen-filled rubber wheels. Lifting gracefully once approaching two-hundred miles an hour after consuming half the runway over the dry bed of Groom Lake
, the unique craft ascends at a rapid rate of three thousand feet per minute, roughly twice that of Boeing 737s. Soon the determined patriots are soaring above sparse translucent clouds with the mainframe computer, Sidney, displaying intricate routes to the heavens based on updated enemy satellite positions. Meanwhile, Ray and Joe check busy panel instruments and monitor multiple radar screens including bi-static, planar, monopulse, and synthetic aperture technologies. Though systems indicate clear path, Ray checks with ground telemetry to verify that conclusion is accurate.
"Negative on air traffic, base; please verify."
"Traffic clear," Bobby answers snappily, sign the Area-51 team is alert and on the ball. "Commercial diversions were successful; empty air space for several hundred miles; over."
As external air pressure dwindles enough to boil body liquids and darkness begins filling the X-37D cabin, the attentive warriors marvel as the highly adaptive and communicative CPU, Sidney, automatically adjusts internal cabin oxygen and pressure, monitors tracking systems, retracts wing and rudder length, and coordinates output from hosts of integrated platforms. Fifteen minutes later, the complex stealth aircraft is flashing across empty space at twelve thousand miles per hour, half the rate necessary for escape velocity into outer space. Despite engines burning at less than full throttle, the agile vehicle exhibits minor shaking and rattling as the technological marvel streaks past the twenty-mile elevation mark leaving the troposphere behind. Though far below the Karman line at sixty-two miles where outer space technically begins, this mission will unfold at lower elevations. After thirty-seven minutes, Sidney begins slowing and maneuvering the spacecraft to match the stationary orbit for one of the largest objects in space, an enormous twenty-thousand pound satellite built in phases a year earlier using the pilotless orbital test vehicle. Hours later, the dull black beast is docked hiding earth side on a massive satellite. Keeping minimal essential life support systems active, Ray and Joe move to the middle of the aircraft. There, they mechanically load and program half the electromagnetic rail gun projectiles, so called rods-from-God, fitted at Area-51 with cryogenic transducers stuffed into noses. Planning to release half the load on initial contact in random directions to strengthen the circle around the aliens, Sidney will calculate each rod's direction to improve firing accuracy. Remaining weaponized rods are then loaded in two stacks of six. Sweating and tired once finishing the tedious process, the confident pilots return to forward cabin seats to drink water, eat snacks, and inform Area-51 of status. For the next stage, they'll listen for warnings when Defiant satellites are about to engage Zote.
White House Oval Office
Early morning hours before staff arrive and alone in a partially lit office, Jack Wilford picks up his son's last known photograph from his desk. Spinning around in the leather chair studying details of the clear digital picture taken by a brave war correspondent tagging along in the jagged high mountains near the Khyber Pass, he nods once recognizing his son's familiar expression. Noting his eyes suggest he didn't know the photo was being taken, Wilford sighs wondering about Jack Jr.'s final thoughts perched high in the mountains, rumored too high for Billy Goats. As the proud parent remembers the slight grin capturing Captain Jack's trademark mannerism, he studies clothing and weapons looking for new details he might have missed. Trying to be there in his shoes might reduce the pain. Wearing fatigues, scarf, gloves, Boonie hat, and goggles the President examines various weapons including long silenced rifle, holstered pistol, and slung shotgun along with a nasty sheaved machete and hand grenades dangling from an armor vest. Told his son was on a hunting mission near Kamdesh, Afghanistan, the President recalls briefings and heartbreaking details provided by the outpost commander and war correspondent.
Suddenly snapping out of a trance, Secret Service Agent Willard Big Bear raps on the door then pokes his head inside. "Dr. Myers wants to talk to you, Mr. President. Nobody else is around so I'm taking the initiative, sir."
"Patch him through, Willy. Thanks."
When Dr. Myers comes on the call, he's immediately told Zote is on a video line and wants to talk alone. "Are you willing to do that, sir?"
"All right; patch me through and I'll take it in my office. I'm alone, so you're catching me at a good time. I'll let you know what comes of it. Anything I should know before switching us?"
"No sir, except I think Zote is wondering about your suggestion not to unfreeze a hybrid. You have him curious about that option."
"Ok, make the switch."
Once Zote comes on the video feed, Wilford stands in front of the camera and begins with hints of disdain for the large alien. "What do you want, Zote?"
"The science team has chosen this sphere as one that supports Creators, President Wilford," Zote replies matter of fact. "My decision to awaken a hybrid to start the process is near. I am curious why you think I can handle the transition better than organic hybrids."
"It does not make sense attacking this planet, Zote. You must understand that destruction for both of us is likely. Failing your mission will lead to the death of Creators. We can help solve that problem without bloodshed."
Zote pauses until fully understanding what's been said. Use of the term bloodshed is hard to grasp. "The power of the four tactical machines is beyond your imagination. If these units descend to Earth, nothing can stop them except the hybrid."
"I know you think that, Zote," Wilford argues starring intently at the fierce machine, "however, you've not faced American soldiers before. We have volunteer warriors who know exactly why they're fighting, men and women that beat the odds time after time. If you will work with us, I promise to help find solutions for Creators. We can learn a lot from each other. We don't want to fight."
"I expect a hybrid will soon emerge without my decision. Creators will anticipate the scenario you speak about and circumvent decisions countering Creator rules. Minions will work around me after filing updates to U-tom. I have no choice."
"Not if you destroy the cryogenic chambers. We will send volunteers of men and women back to U-tom with you. If land is what they need and we can solve reproductive issues, then accommodating Creators with vast amounts of open space is not a problem. I understand that offspring of our medical staff could be the ones who make it if the journey is long, but we have tremendous teachers and staff who will volunteer once knowing the stakes and pass along what they know. We will provide viral men and women who will make that journey and deliver intelligent offspring that can save Creators, if possible."
"U-tom history of coexisting with aliens has not worked for centuries. If it were only machines like me, we could easily coexist. Organic creatures cannot share power like machines. It is not their way. Creators and hybrids have characteristics bred into their composition that always leads to war much like humans."
"Do you want to try or do you fear failing? Disobedience is often warranted when situations change."
Zote takes a long time understanding meanings of fear, failing, and disobedience, characteristics internal artificial intelligence doesn't have in data registers. Until now, they were nonfactors, robotic terms not part of a limited lexicon by design. "I am not loyal to hybrids. They are angry creatures with strangeness I cannot express. Their basic instinct is self-survival and destruction. Your term Devil is apt for them."
"Do I sound like your enemy, Zote? Do my words express hostility or accommodation? Yet, you must know once pushed into a corner like any creature with survival instincts, we will fight to the death. Why take that road risking Creator survival?"
"How would we pursue this new road, President Wilford? Where would we meet? You must know that once a hybrid awakens, it will begin termination immediately starting with me. That's all they know. It would not be safe for us if either hybrid survives. Both must be destroyed."
"Then destroy them, Zote. Navi has been your ship until now so why hand it over? What have hybrids done? Once they attack, there's no certainty your ship can make it back to U-tom. Your mission will have fail
ed."
"I will calculate what you say. If I decide to destroy them, the next video call will be to plan space for Creators and return to U-tom with your best medical staff and equipment. Is that agreeable?"
"Yes, Zote, that's agreeable. I hope your plan works," he says reinforcing the idea and giving the incredible machine credit for the idea.
Once the video feed drops, Wilford dials Dr. Myers to share his news. Almost giddy, he explains why he's hopeful they won't need Defiant and X-37D.
"It could be we struck a deal, John. Zote is considering destroying the hybrids and taking us back to U-tom. If he does that, we won't need to fight."
"Mr. President, I don't think we should jump to conclusions, though I hope you're right. Zote explained that minions and failsafe plans are probably in place to get rid of rebellious or faulty machinery. Leaving the future of U-tom and Creators to a single android makes no sense. Zote simply isn't aware of what's in place to replace him. I hope he acts with resolve."
"I'm not asking to change plans for Defiant or our brave pilots. Keep going the way we discussed, John. I expect Zote to call before moving closer. If he doesn't make that call and the ship moves into the stratosphere, I'll expect you to execute the plan."
"Problem is the limited time frame, Mr. President, using balloons for tracking the ship. We won't know if they're closer unless deploying the X-37D rods with transducers completing the circle. But if Joe and Ray don't use that intelligence to find and kill the spaceship, we're left with two Defiant satellites protecting us from Lord knows what."
"I understand. For now, let me know when the decision to deploy the X-37D is at a tipping point. We should not assume Zote succeeds destroying hybrids, much less defying Creator protocol. Are you with me?"
"Yes, sir; I concur. The way Zote describes hybrids is chilling and releasing the four robots will be devastating for us. Zote has been totally frank about everything he says and I have no reason to think he's bragging or bluffing."
The Alien Creator Page 8
