Resistance: The Gathering Storm r-1

by William C. Dietz

  Liar, Liar

  Washington, D.C.

  Monday, November 19, 1951

  President Grace stood in the Oval Office and looked out into the Rose Garden. It was pouring rain, just as it had been on the morning when he was born.

  His father had chosen to name him Noah after the man selected to rescue all living things from the Great Flood. It was one of many decisions that had been made without any input from his wife, who was treated as a member of her husband’s staff, and given very little authority over anything other than her garden.

  Perhaps that was why Grace actually liked the rain, because it was in a way symbolic of the role reserved for him, although the deluge he faced was far worse than the events described in the book of Genesis. A time when people had doubts about the first Noah, even though he was correct about the coming flood, and how to best prepare for it.

  That thought made Grace feel better as he turned his back on the garden, stepped out into the hall, and followed it to the Cabinet Room. Most of the cabinet members were present, including Director of Special Projects Ridley, Secretary of Commerce Lasky, Secretary of State Moody, Secretary of War Walker, Secretary of Transportation Keyes, Vice President McCullen, and Attorney General Clowers. And last, but not least, Grace’s Chief of Staff, William Dentweiler.

  Secretary of the Interior Farnsworth and Secretary of Agriculture Seymore were both in the country’s heartland dealing with a multitude of issues related to the Protection Camps, the ever-growing shacklands, and persistent food shortages.

  Some of the officials already were on their feet, chatting with one another, and those who weren’t rose as the President entered. Grace knew how important appearances could be, so he was careful to shake each man’s hand as he made the rounds. And with the exception of one man Grace felt good about his team.

  Choosing Henry Walker as Secretary of War had been a mistake—one that Grace was planning to correct as soon as a suitable replacement could be found.

  But there was no sign of what Grace planned to do as he slapped Walker on the back, then made his way to the chair located at the center of the table. The back of the chair was two inches taller than the rest, and fitted with a brass plaque that proclaimed, “The President.”

  The meeting began with the usual prayer, followed by a series of reports, the most interesting of which came from Secretary of State Harold Moody. He had a receding hairline, a bulbous nose, and a well-trimmed mustache. His bright blue eyes darted around the table as he spoke.

  “Many of you will remember Operation Overstrike, during which a force comprised of United European Defense troops, also known as the Maquis, and British forces went after a number of Chimeran targets in Paris. During the assault Major Stephen Cartwright, of the British Royal Marines, led a successful attack against the enemy’s central hub tower. Its destruction resulted in a disruption of the entire Chimera power grid in Western Europe.”

  Many of those present nodded approvingly.

  “What most of you weren’t aware of was the fact that Overstrike was a diversionary attack,” Moody continued. “The actual purpose of Overstrike was to deploy a retrovirus designed to infect Carriers, the Chimeran creatures that collect humans for conversion. And I’m happy to announce that the plan was successful. Carrier corpses have been found on the ground everywhere from Ireland to Spain. And without Carriers to supply them with bodies, Chimeran Conversion Centers have shut down all over Western Europe.”

  That announcement produced a couple of “Hear, hears” and a round of light applause.

  “Unfortunately,” Moody went on gloomily, “the Chimera have already begun to adapt. New forms—unofficially called Spinners—have been reported. The new creatures bypass the Crawler/Carrier conversion process by cocooning victims in whatever nook or cranny may be available. A process that makes both the victims and the Chimera more difficult to find. Obviously these new reports are troubling,” Moody added, “and all available information has been channeled to the Secretary of War and the Pentagon.”

  Moody’s somewhat downbeat report was followed by updates from the Secretaries of Commerce, Transportation, and War. The latter being of most concern because Chimeran battleships had been sighted over the English Channel, off the Atlantic Seaboard, and in Canada as well.

  The good news was that weapons of all sorts were coming off American assembly lines, and at a record pace. The draft had been expanded to include all males between the ages of eighteen and fifty, and the United States would soon have another million men under arms.

  Grace had to acknowledge that Walker had done a truly remarkable job of bringing the U.S. military onto a wartime footing, and Vice President McCullen led the rest of the cabinet in a round of applause.

  But the show of confidence was quickly swept away as Grace cleared his throat.

  He eyed the faces around him, then turned his attention to Chief of Staff Dentweiler. “And now it’s time for an update regarding the Omega Project. Bill? If you would be so kind…”

  Dentweiler was ready. He nodded and light reflected off of his glasses as he looked down at his notes.

  “I’m sure you’ll recall that during our last meeting I raised the possibility that a missing soldier named Jordan Shepherd, aka Daedalus, might represent our only realistic channel of communication with the Chimera.” He paused, and several men nodded.

  “Since that time I’ve met with various experts, including SRPA’s Dr. Malikov. All the people I met with were told that the purpose of the interview was to obtain information regarding the circumstances under which Daedalus was freed from custody, and to assess what kind of threat he might pose. At no time was any information given regarding the Omega Project.

  “There were several different opinions, of course,” Dentweiler said, as his eyes flicked from face to face, “but there were areas of agreement as well. Especially where the subject’s medical history was concerned.

  “As part of a top secret program called Project Abraham, Private Shepherd received an experimental vaccine intended to counter the effects of the Chimeran virus. After Shepherd was inoculated, a genetic recombination took place. In retrospect Dr. Malikov—who was in charge of the program—believed that Shepherd was immunocompromised at the time of the vaccination.

  “In any case, the genetic recombination altered both Shepherd’s physical and mental state far beyond projected parameters, and produced what most of us would regard as a monster. But,” Dentweiler added meaningfully, “according to those who had an opportunity to interact with Shepherd-Daedalus before his escape, it was determined that he can communicate with humans. Although the process is often difficult.

  “That’s partially due to the fact that Daedalus seems to be in what amounts to telepathic contact with hundreds, if not thousands, of Chimera at any given time. As a result he has been known to pause in mid-sentence for up to three or four minutes before resuming the conversation.

  “Making the situation even more difficult,” Dentweiler continued, “is the fact that Daedalus can be totally incomprehensible at times. He seems to be especially inclined toward obscure rants which even the experts are hard-pressed to follow. Some of the people with whom I spoke claim that Daedalus can impinge on their thoughts, although the evidence of that is rather thin.

  “With all of those considerations in mind,” Dentweiler concluded, “I came away with the impression that Daedalus could indeed serve as a go-between, if we can find a way to motivate him.”

  He took his seat, and after a few moments of silence, McCullen was the first to speak up.

  “All right,” he said evenly, “let’s say Bill is correct. Let’s say there is a way to communicate with the Chimera. That still leaves a very important question unanswered. What kind of offer would we make?”

  But if McCullen hoped to lead the discussion into a dead end, he was quickly disappointed, because the President had given the matter considerable thought.

  “Good question, Harvey,” Grace responde
d approvingly. “And the answer is clear. If the Chimera agree to leave what remains of the United States alone, we will withdraw our forces from other countries, and allow them to rule the rest of the world unimpeded.”

  “That’s outrageous!” Walker interrupted, his face beet red. He stood to address the group. “Such an offer would run counter to what we promised the citizens of the United States—and it would violate mutual defense agreements with more than a dozen governments!

  “Not to mention the fact that it wouldn’t work. Would the Chimera honor such an agreement? Or would they use it to buy time? I say they’ll use it to buy time, and turn on us like the monsters they are!”

  Grace remained unperturbed.

  “The Secretary of War may be surprised to learn that I agree with him,” he said calmly. “Only a fool would trust the Chimera. However, the notion of buying time cuts two ways—because we may need to do so as well. And remember, Henry, the Omega Project is an option, not a formal policy statement. So there’s no need to get your boxers in a knot.”

  The comment produced a round of chuckles, just as it was intended to, and Walker took his seat. But nothing in his appearance suggested he was going to let the matter go.

  The meeting ended a few minutes later. McCullen approached Walker in an attempt to mollify him, but the Secretary of War was in no mood for compromises. When the Vice President reached out to touch Walker’s arm, he jerked it away.

  Walker took his hat and raincoat off the rack in the hallway outside, and made the long walk from the Cabinet Room to the front lobby alone.

  There was no one to see Walker off, but had the Secretary of War glanced back over his right shoulder as he stepped out into the rain he would have seen Dentweiler standing inside the press room looking out. He was smoking a cigarette—and the expression on his face was anything but friendly.

  But Walker’s attention was elsewhere as he entered the back seat of the black town car.

  “The office, sir?” the uniformed driver wanted to know. “Or home?”

  “Home,” Walker said. “And step on it.”

  Having pulled the recorder out of his pocket, Walker pressed the stop button.

  There was a definitive click as the recording ended.

  Henry Walker and his wife, Myra, had rented the large house near Dupont Circle because neither one of them liked Washington, D.C., nor had any intention of remaining there once Grace left office or Walker was replaced.

  But as the town car pulled into the circular drive in front of the three-story building, it was still home—if only for a few more hours.

  A servant with an umbrella hurried to open the door, and rain rattled on the taut fabric as the man escorted Walker to the formal entry where a maid stood waiting to take his hat and coat.

  “Mrs. Walker is in the library, sir,” the young woman said. “Would you like some coffee?”

  “Yes, please,” Walker replied, and he made his way down the first-floor hallway to the library. It was the one thing that Myra liked most about the house. The pocket doors were halfway open, and she was sitting in her favorite chair next to the bay window. She rose to collect a kiss.

  Though well into her fifties Myra was still slender, fit, and pretty. Too pretty for a grizzled old warrior like Walker, some said, but Myra was in love with the inner man, and one look at her husband’s homely face told her everything she needed to know.

  “So nothing has changed? Grace still plans to negotiate with the Chimera?”

  Walker scowled.

  “He says that the Omega Project is an option, not a policy, but that’s a crock. Things are going poorly, dearest… Very poorly. And it’s only a matter of time before he tries to contact them. He says we could use the negotiations to buy time. I think Grace has something else in mind.”

  The maid entered the room at that point, so Myra was forced to wait for her to serve the coffee and go out before she could ask the obvious question.

  “You said Grace has something else in mind… What would that be?”

  Walker took a sip of coffee and put the cup down.

  “I don’t know for sure, but if I had to guess, I’d say he hopes to cut a deal for himself.”

  Myra shook her head sadly.

  “The rotten bastard. So this is it? We’re leaving?”

  “Yes,” Walker said soberly, “assuming you agree. I have all of it on the recorder. We’ll make our way to Chicago and link up with Freedom First. Then, once they broadcast the recordings for the American people to hear, Grace will be forced out of office.”

  Although the Walkers’ hometown of Chicago had been overrun by the Chimera, a few hundred brave men and women still lived there, hiding in basements, sewers, or any other spot they could find. Places from which lightning-fast strikes could be launched against the Chimera, even as uncensored radio broadcasts went out over the airwaves.

  Something which, ironically enough, would have been almost impossible to accomplish in government-controlled areas.

  So Myra knew that what her husband proposed to do verged on suicidal, but she also knew it was important as well, and she smiled bravely.

  “Yes, Henry, of course I agree. All of the preparations have been made. I can be ready in an hour.”

  He stood and took Myra’s hand as she came to her feet.

  “I love you,” he said.

  “Yes,” Myra answered softly, as his lips met hers. “I know.”

  As Walker and his wife left the house they knew they had about eight hours—twelve at most—before they would be missed. Although the couple normally made use of a chauffeur, they had been careful to take outings on their own as well, so the servants would think nothing of it as their employers drove away.

  Later, once the truth was known, each staff member would receive a full month’s severance pay.

  Walker took the wheel of the black Bromley and guided the car out into traffic. Their destination was in the southeast quadrant of the city, but rather than head there directly, he chose a meandering route which provided him the opportunity to make sure they weren’t being followed. Not so much by the police, but by members of the Domestic Security Agency, the increasingly aggressive arm of government tasked with identifying dissidents and taking them off the street.

  When he was confident that no one was following them, Walker drove the car to a working-class district where they parked behind a church, then walked the last three blocks to a small one-bedroom apartment that had been rented under a false name. That was where two suitcases were waiting, along with a selection of equipment, all of which would come in handy once they made it to Chicago.

  An hour later, with the recorder in one coat pocket and an Army-issue Colt .45 semiautomatic in the other, Walker was ready to go. Myra was right behind him as he carried both suitcases down three flights of shabby stairs and out to the street, where it was still raining. A battered station wagon was parked at the curb. Having loaded the suitcases into the back, Walker opened the passenger-side door, waited for Myra to get in, and circled around to get behind the wheel.

  The engine caught on the third try, the wipers slapped from side to side, and a siren could be heard off in the distance. No one was present to see them off, other than the local postman—and he was busy delivering the mail.

  After years spent living in a city which neither one of them enjoyed, it felt good to be free. Even if their next home was likely to be a good deal less pleasant.

  The car pulled away.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Home Sweet Home

  Near Draper, South Dakota

  Wednesday, November 21, 1951

  Snowflakes continued to swirl down out of the pewter gray sky as Hale stood in front of the mass grave, and paid his last respects to his parents and their ranch hands. Then came the clang of metal on metal, which caused him to pivot toward the barn, Rossmore at the ready.

  But rather than the sudden burst of gunfire he half expected, the only sounds were the gentle tinkle of the wind
chimes hanging from the porch of his childhood home, the rasp of his own breathing, and the steady crunch, crunch, crunch of his footsteps as he made his way over to the barn.

  There was a yawning black hole where the big doors hung open. Hale entered cautiously, shotgun at the ready, but saw nothing other than what he expected to see. His father’s office was located at the near end of the cavernous building, the workshop was next to it, and stalls lined the west wall. Stalls Hale had been responsible for mucking out each day along with all the other chores his father insisted on. He’d been resentful then, but those duties didn’t seem so bad now, and Hale would have been glad to return to that carefree time.

  The north end of the barn was stacked high with bales of hay intended to get the family’s livestock through the winter.

  Hale’s father had purchased sheets of steel and laid them just inside the entrance, where they would protect the wooden floor from the wide range of abuses that the entryway would otherwise have suffered. Now, as Hale took a step forward, he saw a hunting knife lying in the middle of the metal ramp.

  His head went back and his eyes focused on the half-loft located directly above his father’s office. A central walkway led across the rafters to the point where the hay was stacked. All of which had been an indoor playground for Susan and himself.

  Is someone up there now, concealed by the darkness? Yes, Hale thought so, and he felt certain that the knife’s owner was human. Because had any of the Chimera been present they would have attacked.

  “I know you’re here!” Hale shouted. “Come on out… I won’t hurt you. My name is Hale… Lieutenant Nathan Hale. And this is my parents’ ranch.”

  There was a long moment of silence, followed by a vague rustling, and the sound of footsteps somewhere over Hale’s head. Then he heard what sounded like a boy’s voice. “Don’t shoot! We’re coming down.”

  Moments later the end of a rope slapped the steel ramp, and a boy in his late teens slid down, followed quickly by a younger girl. The boy hurried to retrieve the knife—leaving the girl to speak for both of them. She had big brown eyes, a slightly upturned nose, and a wide mouth.