White House PEOC
"Where is our closest response team, General?" President Jack Wilford snaps at General Moore as others in the room and two remote locations tense up due to sounds of the leader's voice. "How long before they arrive?" he demands, surprised by a city not on the high potential list. Looking at a wall television, Wilford cringes as a gutsy WGN camera crew moves too close. Hoping the decision to allow national broadcasts was the right thing to do, all PEOC participants cringe when the TV crew receives the wrath of war-bot.
As murmurs and complaints rise, General Moore is multi-tasking with a base commander while the dramatic scenes from Chicago register in a frazzled brain. "It's Luke Air Force Base outside Phoenix, seven-hundred miles due south, Mr. President," he announces with a hand over the receiver. "They're scrambling two C-130s and A-10s as we speak. Wheels are up any moment."
"Any moment, General?" Wilford replies angrily "Our people are being slaughtered. What have we learned about the two locations so far? Chicago I can see but why Salt Lake City? What did our analysis miss?"
When nobody offers suggestions or ideas why Cyborg picked Salt Lake and Chicago, Billy Goddard speaks up, though intimated by the audience. "I may know, sir. This is Billy Goddard at Area-51," he follows.
"Go ahead, Billy; we're listening," Wilford answers, shushing staff in the PEOC.
"Yes, sir; I think Cyborg is picking spots with large populations next to significant bodies of water, perhaps influenced by observed air traffic before flights were grounded."
"Cities make sense but why lakes, Billy; please explain why water matters to these machines," Wilford asks the teenage phenomenon.
"Sir, I'm guessing but Zote told me a little about his home when conversing about several topics. Andromedans value water more than precious stones or metals since Creators rely heavily on large amounts of fresh water for food supplies. These are probably spots that would please Creators."
"Salt Lake isn't potable water, Billy. Brine shrimp might like it but that's about it."
"Yes, sir; I know but it's a huge body visible from space about seventy five miles long and half as wide. I seriously doubt Cyborg can study potable contents twenty miles high. Regardless, water is a precious resource. It's the largest body of water outside the Great Lakes heading west and it's easily visible from space. I think they're trophies Cyborg can show to Creators."
"How does that help, Billy? We have a lot of big lakes," he says as others ponder Billy's unorthodox clothes, hair, demeanor, and wild guess about lakes.
"Sir, Cyborg has two remaining locations. I believe I can find the last two spots with high probability. If not these, we'll be closer for rapid deployment."
"Go for it, son, but I'll expect your analysis in an hour. Cyborg won't spend much time over Utah."
"Yes, sir; the next two sites will be mid-South and East Coast."
Chicago, Lincoln Park
UH-60 A/L Blackhawks approach the battlefield loaded with rugged Navy Seals about to deploy in multiple locations about a mile from the carnage. Hovering over avenues west of the park, six loud aircraft deploying fast escape ropes extend down to Armitage, Belden, Dickens, and Webster avenues west of the alien and shuttle. Dangerously close to residential buildings, street poles and signs below the aircraft, dozens of Seals, representing several elite teams, rappel down 40-mm ropes with speed and skill despite heavy gear, weapons, armor, and violent rotor air-blasts above. Mere seconds after the first men exit the helicopters, the others, some with Belgian Malinois and German Shepherd dogs strapped to them during descent, are quickly on the ground deploying into four-man units.
Once aircraft leave the airspace and noise dwindles, the aggressive teams fan out heading toward their target blocks away. Double-timing toward the menace, soldiers keep abreast from a tough Navy Commander riding shotgun high above in a single-engine five-blade MH-6 Little Bird.
"Be advised, the target is moving onto W. Dickens south of the zoo," Commander Mick Brasco advises troops wearing tactical noise cancelling Bluetooth headgear. "Two disabled police vehicles are burning next to a tall garage structure on the corner. The smoke will guide you. The robot is now approaching the Clark Street intersection. A kill zone is forming between N. Orleans and Sedgwick streets if it stays on Dickens. The street is lined with tall residential multiple family dwellings and I'm not seeing civilian collateral on Dickens. You are clear to engage. I repeat; you are clear to engage. Take it down."
Chapter Twenty-Three
Great Lakes Naval Station
ilitary and civilian contractors, along with visitors, gather when a thunderous heavy-lift aerial crane, with powerful rotors cutting moist air, comes into view from Lake Michigan toting a dangling futuristic object. Inside the base along cordoned Kansas Street near the visitor center, gathering crowds are held back by aggressive MPs barking orders and directing traffic as the curious onlookers marvel at the strange dull-back object. Moving into place above an extra long flatbed tractor-trailer, the skilled pilot guide the powerful crane until the heavy package softly touches a special-built flatbed aided by maintenance crews on the ground and in the aircraft. Once in place, thick loose stranded fiber cables unhook and retract before the powerful crane moves to another part of the base.
After the classified cargo is firmly strapped to the sixty-wheel flat bed and covered with heavy olive-green tarps, an armed caravan forms rapidly, supported by FBI agents and gun-toting soldiers and Humvees with 0.50-caliber machine gun turrets. Their short, though laborious, trek will take them to a cordoned loading dock on the Chicago River equipped with mobile cranes that normally handle ocean-bound freight. Once at the dock, a fixed overhead crane sliding on rails will move the package onto the awaiting seven-hundred eighty-five foot USNS John Glenn, an expeditionary ship geared for huge loads using a flexible, modular platform.
Soon after leaving port, a team of engineers and scientists from the military complex and Area-51 will begin studying the Andromeda craft. Though they'll find a seamless shuttle casing as if poured into a mold, the team will focus on the rear where the thirty-foot war-bot exited and walked down a thick gauge ramp into Lincoln Park.
Dickens Street, Chicago
Meanwhile, determined Navy Seals scramble setting up another attack after the first assault failed. Though amazed by the war-bot's resilience and robustness, they feel better about their next chance with more firepower. Guided by confident Navy Commander Mick Brasco directing traffic high above in MH-6 Little Bird, the White House watches the overhead view provided by Little Bird and listens as the mentally and physically tough men prepare for their next ambush.
"Be advised, target changed direction," Brasco says calmly. "I repeat; target changed directions. It's now moving northwest on North Lincoln. Next chance is the intersection of N. Larrabee and Webster," Brasco explains slowly. "I want Stingers, M-47s, M-32s, and 50s in place, so double-time. Space out and let it get close before engaging," he orders. "This menace took out three Bravo team members and who knows how many civilians. Use roofs if possible for better firing angles."
As Brasco and White House leaders nervously watch and wait as the muscular athletic men scramble to set up the next crossfire, war-bot suddenly halts and looks up. "Get us out of here," Brasco orders the pilot as his view of the robot's eyes meet despite the distance. "It's onto us," he clamors eyeing the monster through 10X42 binoculars.
Though immediately darting the two-man helicopter vibrates and shudders when the first of two short blasts strike. Hope of safe retreat ends as the helicopter's belly camera shows the agile machine spinning, smoking, and spurting oil. "We're going down; we're going down," the veteran pilot shouts as the panel indicates danger. "Hold on Commander; I'm looking for a place to set down. It won't be a soft landing, sir."
White House brass are amazed at war-bot's pinpoint accuracy using what appeared to be a laser device strapped on a mighty forearm. Simply pointing and shooting, possibly guided by the robot's vision or mounted radar was ade
quate guiding the invisible energy beams to the moving target despite significant speed and distance.
"Be advised, ground units," General Moore advises Navy Seal team leaders after patching into the call. "This is General Moore; Colonel Brasco is out of the hunt. War-bot was able to pinpoint laser beams so expect precision shots once engaging the target. Suggest timing fire for maximum effectiveness; over."
As a backup Predator drone, equipped with cameras, satellite antennas, and ground sensors, quickly replaces the downed MH-6, viewers watch Naval Special Warfare forces prepping for an ambush traditional tanks and troops could not survive. Anxiously waiting as the seemingly unstoppable war-bot continues unbiased carnage, the moment-of-truth in this war is close.
Area-51
Lead scientist Richard Metz comes on a White House bunker video screen along with Billy Goddard, the young scientist borrowed from Global Space. While waiting for President Wilford and top brass to finish a private conversation about rising civilian panic, it's clear the PEOC bunker team is rattled by lack of progress slowing or stopping the war-bots, now in two cities spreading fear, death, and chaos. Metz and Goddard cringe seeing live carnage on other video inputs provided by a drone zipping over the east side of Chicago.
"What do you have for us, Billy? Have you figured out landing spots for the last two war-bots? I'll give you five minutes, son."
"Yes, sir; my observations and calculations are Lake Lewisville and Chesapeake Bay," the scruffy young man explains.
"I can see Lake Lewisville near Dallas but why Chesapeake Bay; that's not even a lake, Billy."
"Yes, sir; there are several larger bodies but none have the right population. Cyborg wants to kill many as possible to instill terror and fear. The water is simply a bonus or prize. Besides from space, Chesapeake looks like a lake. That distinction, like salt water, isn't important."
"What observations and calculations?" DoD Greer says, suspicious of the teenager's boast, much less his conclusions.
"Distances, sir; Cyborg is picking distances from point to point of twelve to fourteen hundred miles. I believe it thinks spreading our forces is a tactical advantage. For Cyborg, the gaps are minor and it doesn't expect us to be able to stop war-bots based on how Creators programmed them to think and act."
"What does that mean for deployment, if Billy is right, Bull?" Wilford presses the ornery Defense Secretary.
"It means we need to move a lot of equipment right away, but we're listening to a teenager," Bull snorts. "I don't like subjective analysis from a civilian," he adds shaking his head at the teen's disheveled appearance.
"Darn it, Bull; I asked for Billy's opinion and he gave it," Wilford snarls. "Besides, what's your revised guess for deployment? We still don't have enough men and materials to wad a pop gun in Salt Lake City. Right now, our beloved Utah citizens are being mowed down thanks to DoD miscalculations."
Bull backs off and sighs after the major put down. "I'm sorry, Billy; it came out wrong on my end. It's simply a logistics nightmare if you're right, kid."
"No offense taken, Director Greer; it's just one opinion."
"All right, thanks Billy; we'll mull over what you said and make the call soon; anything else for us," Wilford asks shaking his head at his friend.
"Yes sir, I don't think conventional weapons will stop war-bots. They might slow it but not kill it."
"We can't deploy nuclear bombs, Billy. That's too over the top at this point."
Greer snarls, "We don't need advice how to kill robots, Jack. This isn't a video game. Billy Goddard may know landing locations better than me but not how to kill these damn machines."
"Sir; I agree about that," Billy offers kindly, "but I'm not recommending nuclear or any kind of bomb, for that matter."
"Explain Billy," Wilford says as Bull Greer snorts disgust as if a military solution is the only logical way. "Shut up a minute and let him talk Bull; his five minutes aren't up yet."
Billy waits as PEOC noise dwindles after the sharp reprimand from the boss, apparently displeased at his DOD Secretary's attitude. "Liquid helium or nitrogen, sir; freeze it first then disassemble it with a single well-placed shot."
"How much liquid nitrogen or helium do we need per machine to kill them?"
"A lot of it, sir; ambushes with the liquid must rupture tanks at once using rigged explosives so massive amounts spew quickly. In minutes, we should be able to destroy all the robots into fragments with single shots."
"Have you calculated how many tons of nitrogen or helium is needed to pull this off?" Bull inserts himself despite the previous scorching reprimand.
"Not yet sir, but I'd surround it with several tank trucks, maybe fifteen- to twenty-thousand gallons and drop more tanks from aerial cranes to finish them off. I don't know of any mechanical device or biological entity in the universe that can withstand minus four-hundred twenty degrees. However, assuming these machines adapt fast as we saw before, I'd hit all four simultaneously. Since liquids will boil and evaporate rapidly, we might have extra tanks in the wings. We should assume they have multi-core wireless processors that are lightning fast and highly integrated. In other words, sir, information for one is information for all four."
"So young man, let me get this straight," Bull frowns at the youth, amused this imposing body of leaders with vast experience is listening to a frumpy teenager. "We're supposed to sit back while four of these over-size genocidal maniacs kill civilians, FBI agents, city cops, and soldiers? I think it's reckless advice."
"All right, Bull; that's enough commentary," Wilford chides the top civilian leader. "Nothing has been decided but I think Billy's input has merit." Turning back to the monitor, "All right, thanks Billy; we're going offline to discuss what you've told us. Good work, son. This is an obviously controversial decision and a lot to absorb. I'd like you and Dr. Metz to stand by as we discuss this and other options."
Chapter Twenty-Four
Alien Spacecraft
ccepting visual and electronic feedback from the Creator's magnificent robotic inventions, Cyborg navigates to the next location twelve hundred miles southeast of Utah as the crow flies. Once the third shuttle is airborne a decision to immediately move to the last spot, reinforced by performances of the first two unstoppable invaders, gives comfort to the diabolic creature. Constant feedback from his invincible ground units indicates mass casualties, fire and destruction, and terrified populations. Thus, applying limited pulse energy of the vessel's meganewtons of thrust, the biomechanical menace directs bridge minions toward the final body of water twelve hundred miles east of Lake Lewisville, Texas.
Meanwhile, handpicked Army street-fighters inside the X-37D hydraulically clamped atop the massive alien ship grow anxious as time for bold, dangerous action nears. Keeping anxious soldiers steady, Delta Force Captain Alvin Beck needlessly comforts them while seemingly unafraid of they might face. Images of death and destruction in city streets, based on Zote's emotionless description of war-bots, makes them eager to prove their value. With Zote and minion sidekick sitting across from them in the cargo area waiting patiently for a chance to destroy Cyborg, save Navi, and eventually return home, human moods grow antsy sensing the last location is nearing sooner than expected. Now a learned sensation based on previous host ship movements and sounds, it's clear they're over the fourth location. Sensing uneasiness, Captain Beck carefully repeats instructions and reminds them what's expected once the unmistakable sound of the shuttle, a loud swooshing echo, puts them into motion led by Zote.
Chicago City Streets
As the White House crew debates Dr. Billy Goddard's plan using liquid helium and nitrogen to stop war-bots, Navy Seal teams have the next makeshift ambush ready to spring at the intersection of N. Larrabee and Webster streets. Using combinations of shoulder rockets, grenade launchers, and high-power heavy weapons, the disciplined men coordinate locations and timing using wireless tactical headsets without Colonel Brasco's overhead expertise. While the trap is being set, an upgraded MQ-9 Pre
dator drone armed with laser guided Hellfire missiles and managed by remote pilot and sensor operator provide live pictures from twenty-thousand feet. Maintaining an elevation higher than Little-Bird making it practically invisible, most wonder what capabilities allow war-bots to sense overhead threats.
As eight four-man Seal teams report readiness to engage along either side of three converging streets, the Seals listen for Senior Commander Richard Jacko's order. While the war-bot advances seeking additional targets including brick apartments and townhouses, everyone is surprised when the huge machine stops cold, instead standing erect in center of N. Lincoln several hundred feet shy of the sharp triangular intersection. Rotating it's massive dull-black head scanning left, right, and behind, the giant menace appears to sense or recognize signs or conditions for another ambush, likely based on the first experience. Without seeing an enemy, the robot's artificial intelligence or instinct causes it to fire at estimated positions on rooftops, building doors, and windows ahead.
Lying prone on damp grass between apartment buildings, Commander Jacko hesitates giving the order until seeing two bodies fall from a roof across the street above a craft and beer retail outlet. Sheer anger and rage foment as the war-bot hits them again when sprawled in agony on the bloody sidewalk.
"Commence firing," he orders ambush teams as reserves move closer for backfill support. As tremendous noise ramps in the neighborhood, including explosions and high caliber automatic gunfire, Commander Jacko taps a Petty Officer First Class lying nearby toting a thirty-three pound Stinger missile designed for tanks and aircraft. Soon, both fighters are hustling between parked cars lining the normally busy street.
The Alien Creator Page 18
