These Few Brave Souls
Page 23
London, England
The Prime Minister raised his head an anger. “What the bloody hell happened?”
“Unexpected clear air turbulence over the Mediterranean during refueling,” replied AVM McClearun. “One of our Tornados slammed into the tail of the tanker. Both aircraft and their crews were lost and the debris from the impact disabled two other Tornados.”
“What does that do to the mission?” the PM asked.
“RAF Strike Command has aborted the Morocco strike while continuing with Chad. Bloody balls up and the French had nothing to do with it.”
“This time…” mumbled Billy West. “This time.” The PM paused. “How many dead?”
“Five,” was the answer.
“So what do we do now?”
“Staff is meeting next door in COBRA to determine their recommendation,” was the answer.
Cabinet Office Briefing Room A, also known as COBRA, is a secure briefing near the Prime Minister’s office.
“Find out their recommendation Marshall, find out now!”
“Let’s take a walk next door.”
The Prime Minister of the United Kingdom hung his head in a moment of silence. Damn it, he thought. Why is it that the best of his people were the ones to pay the highest price?
Secretary of State for Defence Michael Huffman quietly stood up as the Prime Minister and Marshall McClearun entered the room. This caused General Sir Douglas Rather, Chief of the Defence Staff, to pause speaking and look up from the document in his hand. He stood as well and the rest of the room followed suit.
Billy West took the vacant seat at the head of the table and motioned his Defence Chief to continue. Marshall McClearun stood behind the Prime Minister, his back to the wall.
“To recap our earlier discussion sir, Black Group is ready to take out the objective. They have the necessary explosives on hand. They will infiltrate the area, plant the explosives, exfiltrate and blow it. Simple and straight forward.”
“I see,” Billy said as he nodded his head. “Are they in position now?”
“Yes sir.”
The Prime Minister put his hands flat on the table and leaned forward. The room was silent as every eye turned to their leader. “The stakes are as high as they have ever been,” he paused. “The fate of all of us may very well be on their shoulders. Success is vital and necessary.”
He paused and let his eyes work around the table, meeting the gaze of everyone seated. “We have our best men and women in the right place at this critical moment in history. We are at the fulcrum. Events will turn on the actions of these few brave souls. Please join me in a silent prayer.”
The room was absolutely silent for perhaps 15 seconds as those present bowed their heads.
Finally, the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom looked up. Every eye in the room was upon him as he turned his head to his Chief of Defence Staff, General Sir Douglas Rather.
“Go.”
CHAPTER 47
Holloman Air Force Base
Alamogordo, New Mexico
Inside Goatsucker one-one, Lieutenant Colonel Wilson James led the flight of six Nighthawks into the sky. The aircraft, unfairly nicknamed by the press 'The Wobbly Goblin', were headed due west, bound for Southern California.
They were the second operational flight to leave the base today. Almost eight hours earlier a flight of six left, bound for South America. The timing was such that they would each perform their mission within seconds of each other.
Colonel James, callsign 'Sticky', was a professional Air Force Officer. Still, he felt the burden of responsibility almost too large for him to shoulder. Literally, the civilization of Earth partially rested on his ability to get to the target and, more importantly, put his ordinance on it. A similar responsibility was placed on the group headed south. Together, they formed one half the basis of Earth's defense, and her future for the next thousand years.
Directed by an E-3 Sentry AWACS, they became aware of the rest of the 'package' as the Raven's and YF-22's were given steering instructions. Their invisibility was nearly complete as the only identifying marker was the IFF transponder that responded to an interrogation signal from the Sentry. Soon that too would be silenced as they headed into 'Indian Country'.
UFO Park
Pacasmayo Sand Dunes
Wemar was pleased with the progress of her mate. She ached with anticipation of his presence in her thoughts. He was soon to leave the alcove next door and join her both mentally and physically.
It had been a very long time since they had joined, the time mostly spent in cold sleep. The Sleep of Ages.
Their technicians had been correct. Time passed quickly, almost as if she had been asleep, but not quite. She had awoke with the impression that a long time had passed and her memories were dimmed slightly, as if by the passage of time.
But now they had a whole new world to enjoy, to do with as they will.
The module on the wall gained her attention with an error message. The warning cast a pall over her joy as the main shuttle refused to answer correctly. Another malfunction was an unwelcome irritant.
The repair required replacement of an entire module in the navigation pod. Wemar directed the robot to the task when the monitor spotted the puncture in the door.
She sent the robot to scan the hole closely, then she directed it to examine the damaged module. Her reptilian brain recoiled in horror at the implication. A heavy metal projectile had imbedded itself in the device.
There were intruders aboard the ship!!
In orbit
Twenty-two thousand three hundred miles above Quito, Equador
The silence was deafening. The background of scurrying activity had become normal as the group continued their search. Now the sudden squelch into silence snatched their attention away from the task at hand.
Jorgenson held his hand up, palm out in the universal stop gesture. The group paused behind him and each listened to the silence.
"What's up?" asked Sarah Von Framden.
She stood right behind Christopher and the sound was but a whisper.
"I don't know. Everything got quiet all of a sudden," replied Jorg.
The noise was enough for Wemar to localize the sound source. The humans weren't near her brethren and her breath whistled between her scaled lips in an almost human sigh of relief. Then she had another thought. What if they're trying to destroy the ship. Or shut it down.
Less than five minutes of thought decided the issue. She formulated a response, considered the ramifications, and acted.
Twenty-two thousand miles over her head and slightly to her north, electronic devices answered their orders. Automatic hatches and doors closed and valves cycled. Air began to bleed off into space. Only those systems required for her brothers and sisters were supplied with atmosphere. Computers and robots work in a vacuum, but animals don't.
She was confident that the threat was a short lived one.
Jorgenson pause was short as the silence of inactivity hastened his motion. He didn't know why everything stopped, he just instinctively felt that it was bad news. They began to jog down the corridors, looking into every room and storage bay.
The Station was enormous and the chance of finding the main computer quickly was small. Christopher passed his hand over yet another glowing rectangle when he was greeted by a short blast of air. The opening door was accompanied by the same stiff breeze normally felt when entering a large building that was slightly over-pressured.
The room revealed was empty and ordinary in every respect, so they continued. The next door opened the same way, only with more wind. The next rooms were progressively worse until Christopher noticed his breathing growing deeper. His suspicion aroused, his thoughts turned to possible detection and alien action. Letting the air out seemed a horrible way to die.
His thoughts were mirrored in some of his companions and panic seemed to get closer to the surface. Christopher's actions quickened as his breathing became labored.
Sarah Von Framden was leaning against a wall for support when she voiced what was on everybody's mind. "What was happening back there?"
Christopher spoke first, cutting off Harlin in the process. "I think we were detected and the alien decided to let the air out. I suppose we're now in a pressurized area."
Christopher traded looks with Lieutenant Harlin and said, "Let's take a quick break." He had almost said quick breather, but caught himself just in time. While he was sure his group was a hardy lot, he saw no reason to push their sense of humor.
They sat down right in the corridor. Benuchi opened his canteen and passed it around. Sergeant Adams brought out two MREs, or meals ready to eat, and passed them around. No one was hungry.
Christopher found himself next to Lieutenant Murphy and tried to make small talk.
Warren's thoughts turned toward his father, searching for the reason the nightmares were so strong, so dominating in their intensity.
Warren was in no hurry to get home from high school today. His father had assumed his normal position at the dingy kitchen table yesterday afternoon and this morning he had showed no sign of leaving any time soon. When that happened, he was best left alone.
His father would sit with a bottle of bourbon and a small glass in front of him. A sticky bottle of warm orange juice would be next to the bourbon. A white kitchen towel was usually around his neck as his head lolled in drunken relaxation. More often than not there was a puddle of urine beneath the chair. This sequence of events would continue until his alcohol saturated body could no longer tolerate the toxic abuse and the D.T.s would begin.
The D.T.s were a violent reaction to prolonged alcohol exposure that severely constrained further consumption, which led to withdrawal and the associated symptoms. Warren had experienced his fathers reaction to all of the above many many times.
Warren opened his front door to be met by the smell of drying urine. Disgusted, he put his school books on the dining room table and got a towel to clean up the mess.
"What d'ya think your doin?" came the drunken challenge from his father.
"I'm cleaning up your mess. You should at least try to make it to the bathroom and not piss all over the floor!" Warren's anger was getting the better of him.
"Don't you tell ME what to do, god damn it! I'll kick your ass!"
"Yeah, sure you will." Disgust was evident in every word he spoke.
The backhand struck from behind as Warren was kneeling down cleaning the floor beneath his father's chair. Warren jumped back, scrambled to his feet and brought his fists up instinctively. His father lurched to his feet and tottered drunkenly, a scowl twisting his face in anger.
"So, you’re big enough to fight your old man, huh," his father slurred. "Come on, take a swing at me, little man!"
Warren stood, facing off with his father. His heart pounded within his chest as the moment he both hoped for and dreaded came to be. He wanted to beat this man within an inch of his life. To beat even that last inch from him. His frustration at years of helpless abuse came welling to the surface and he wanted to strike out at this excuse for a human being. But he stood frozen in helpless paralysis as the moment passed.
Warren's father swung just then, stealing Warren's single opportunity at justice. Warren easily stepped aside as the poorly aimed and executed punch missed badly. The once towering, now equal in height monster fell to the floor in an alcohol induced absence of reflex. He seemed not to realize that he was even off balance until just before impact.
Frank Harlin struck his head on the sharp corner of the step-to-open part of the kitchen garbage can. His forehead caved in to match the shape of the edge of the trash can. Blood flowed onto the floor in a steady stream of red fluid.
Warren stood, shaking with fight-or-flight emotion. His father, tormenter of Warren and his mother, lay in a growing puddle of blood.
Warren was ambivalent to his father's fate. He feared him above all else in life, and yet he felt a concern for his safety that mystified him. In his confusion over his feelings for his father, the fluid of life steadily flowed onto the kitchen floor from the concave indentation in his father's forehead.
Warren counted to twenty in cadence with his beating pulse in a futile effort to calm down. Finally, he went to the telephone in the hall and dialed 911.
His father died two hours later.
Warren spent hours and hours mentally going over the events. He was seething with pent frustration.
First was the loss of opportunity at beating the man he had grown to hate. And how he hated that man. Countless nights of fear. Nights when he would beat Warren and his mother. Worse, nights when Warren would huddle in bed fearing attacks that never came. Nights of promises to himself that the next time he would fight back, but events never happened in the manner of his plans and fear held him back. Fear, and maybe something stronger. He didn't know what that stronger force was, but he knew that he would have overcome fear alone.
Second was the guilt at having waited so long before calling for help. He had told the police that he had found his father lying on the floor. His father was a notorious neighborhood drunk so that story was believable, but Warren knew the truth.
Last was the most surprising of all. He felt pity for his father.
When Frank Harlin lay on the floor, his blood draining onto the kitchen tile, Warren saw him as he was for the first time in his life. A man who had ineffectually struggled for self-respect. This pathetic struggle most often involved abuse toward his own family in an effort to feel good about himself. Good that he was stronger and tougher and, above all, better than those around him. He may have been stronger and tougher, but he never was better, for there is a certain nobility in the inevitable suffering at the hand of a tyrant. Nobility that would evade Frank Harlin all his life. Yet that very same nobility was delivered to Warren in abundant quantities. Nobility that demonstrates a capacity for sacrifice and the willingness to test that capacity.
With the SBS on the Plateau
Near Bouafra, Morocco
Captain Wesley Agricom led his demolition troop down the plateau toward the UFO Park. His men moved with silence and stealth, rippling forward in surges as men sprinted from cover to cover as if in a choreographed ballet.
Captain James Harder led his troop in the same ballet motion as he positioned them on the western edge of the UFO Park, taking cover to offer fire support while Agricom’s men began to place the explosives at the base of each vehicle.
Suddenly the UFO a meter away from Staff Sergeant Wilbur Jones surged into the sky without warning. The demolition team froze and Harder’s troop began to look for active targets to engage.
Major Mumsford, from his observation point on the plateau, turned his head. “Double H,” he called in a stage whisper. Captain Hershel Harrison was the designated reserve troop.
Double H looked up from the scene below and turned toward his Commanding Officer. “Yes sir!”
Just then a hatch on the largest UFO began to open. Corporal William Beasley was closest, less than a meter from the hatch. He turned to face the opening as a gigantic creature moved to fill the hatchway void.
Willie B moved to bring his weapon to bear as a hand like appendage reached out from the creature to grasp his shirt front and jerk him forward.
Fire discipline was maintained as Harder’s troop all tracked the alien with their firearms, but no shots rang out.
Willie B, was pulled off balance but quickly recovered as he stumbled toward the alien. At such close quarters, his long gun was virtually useless. His pistol was secured in his holster and effectively out of reach, but his knife was quickly at hand. He dropped his rifle and reached out to grasp around the alien’s torso as he thrust th
e four inch bladed weapon toward the abdomen of the creature with his other hand, barely puncturing the alien’s flesh with several repeated jabs.
The Kajan roared in complaint as the strength and aggression of the alien exploded in rage. Quethia pulled Willie B off his feet and shifted her position, as if to toss the troublesome Marine aside. Willie B, having none of this, continued his assault, jabbing and slashing his much larger opponent in the upper abdomen and neck. Dark red/brown blood like fluid began to spurt from the neck wound as the knife suck deeper into the alien’s flesh. They fell to the ground with the alien on top and continued their struggle.
Grappling with the larger and stronger alien was difficult as they rolled around in the sand. Willie, whose hands were now slick with the thick viscous alien blood, was losing his grip as the creature started to pummel the Marine in the chest with an iron like three fingered fist. With the alien on top of Willie B, the Kajan was momentarily in the open.
A trio of shots rang out nearly as one as the alien’s head exploded in a shower of blood and brains. Quethia slumped lifeless on top of Willie, who was now being literally bathed in the thick red/brown gore.
“Jesus Christ,” exclaimed Willie as he struggled to push the reptile off the top of him. “Fuck!”
The Kajan rolled off to the side as Willie emerged from underneath her. He managed to get to his hands and knees as he drew one ragged breath after another. “Jesus Christ,” he repeated.
Major Mumsford led the remaining troop down toward the parked vehicles.
“Double H,” Cecil called
“Sir!” Double H barked.
“Take your troop and secure that,” he paused. “Secure that UFO,” he finished. “Make sure that thing was alone!”
Staff Sergeant Wilbur Jones made his way to the now standing Corporal. Jones reached down and retrieved Willie’s weapon. He handed it back to Willie and said quietly “Well done Marine, but if you ever throw your weapon like that again I’ll make you wish you hadn’t.” Sergeant Jones smile belied his comments as Willie’s shaky hands took position of the bloody and sand crusted rifle.