When night fell again, they headed down towards the south of Richmond – skirting the city and its alien occupiers at a safe distance – and kept heading south, towards Elizabeth City. The aliens hadn't considered the smaller city worthy of much attention, the President had been assured, but they weren’t going to go any closer to it than they had to, just in case the aliens had seeded collaborators into the city’s population. At least there hadn't been more than a few cases of collaborators being shot in the area. There shouldn't have been anything to put the aliens on alert.
The President was exhausted by the time Albemarle Sound came into view, a great body of water that led out towards the Atlantic Ocean. Over the years, he recalled vaguely, the area had been overfished, although he couldn't remember much else about it. The aliens didn't pay much attention to small boats, thankfully. These days, it was often the only source of food for seaside communities. They didn't even try to stop sailors from crossing the Atlantic in hopes of a better life away from the aliens.
Probably because there isn't a better life, he thought, wryly. The reports from Europe weren't much better than life in America, with the only real difference being the presence of the alien invaders. Not that they were far from Europe, of course; anyone who doubted that only needed to look up at night and see their craft dancing across the sky.
“There,” his escort said. “They’re waiting for us.”
The President followed his pointing finger and saw a small fishing boat, bobbling in the waves. It was tiny, barely large enough for five or six grown men, but that was an advantage. The aliens weren't likely to pay it any special attention, not when there were thousands just like it in the area. He followed his escort down towards the beach, where there was a brief exchange of sign and countersign.
“Good luck, sir,” his escort said.
The water was shockingly cold as the President waded through the shallows to the boat. It had been a long time since he’d had to scramble into a boat, but he managed it with the aid of two of the sailors. Pepper followed, looking strikingly tired in the semi-darkness; as soon as she was onboard, the sailors started the engine and steered the boat out into the darkness. It was impossible to see if there was anything ahead of them ...
He looked back, towards the American coastline. Only a handful of lights burned through the darkness, the homes of collaborators or alien bases. The rest of the coastline, which had once glowed with light, was dark and silent. He shivered as it struck him, on a raw emotional level, just how far they’d fallen since the aliens had arrived. How much they’d lost that they’d never fully appreciated.
The boat rocked alarmingly as it sailed out onto the ocean. One of the sailors passed him a blanket, allowing him to wrap himself up; he sat on the bench and watched as the sailors steered the boat further away from the United States. They spoke to one another in quiet, hushed voices, using the stars to navigate themselves to a specific location. It had been years since the President had tried to navigate by the stars. In the era of GPS systems, it had seemed an unnecessary skill. Now, those who didn't know how to navigate without them were seriously disadvantaged.
He winced as the boat rocked again, just as the sailors started pulling in the sails. An instant later, a dull thud ran through the hull, suggesting that they’d hit something ... as impossible as that seemed. The President reached for the pistol he’d placed on his belt instinctively before realising what was happening. Instead, he stood up and peered into the darkness. Something dark and massive was coming up from under the boat.
“There,” one of the sailors said. A dark tower could be seen, poking up above the waves. “They’re ready for you, sir.”
The submarine drew closer, until the conning tower was right next to the tiny fishing boat. There was a long moment of silence, then a hatch opened and he saw someone emerge from the submarine, shouting a greeting. The President waved back, then followed the instructions from the sailors as they tied the boat to the conning tower. Trying not to think about what he was doing, the President scrambled over and down the hatch into the submarine. A moment later, Pepper joined him and the hatch slammed shut.
“Dive,” someone shouted, loudly. “Dive!”
The President felt the deck shifting below him as the submarine dived back underwater. If the aliens had spied the submarine, they might have launched an orbital missile at it – or simply sent one of their damned flying craft to sink the boat. They might be about to die ... his hand found Pepper’s and squeezed it tightly as his ears started to pop. How far down were they going?
He shuddered as he realised the truth. They were trapped underwater, surrounded by endless water, and the only thing keeping them alive was a hull that might break under the pressure, or alien weapons fire. And if that happened, they were dead ... he shuddered, inwardly, as he fought off the attack of claustrophobia. He'd never been claustrophobic before, had he? God knew he’d never been reluctant to get into a tank.
“Mr. President,” a new voice said. The President looked up to see a short black man wearing a navy uniform. “Welcome aboard USS Mississippi, a Virginia-class submarine. I’m Captain O’Bryan.”
“Pleased to meet you,” the President said, as he stood upright. “And I’m glad to know that you're safe.”
“Safe may be too strong a word,” O’Bryan said, cheerfully. “We took on a full load of supplies before the war started, but we’ve been draining them ever since. The reactor is supposed to last another thirty-odd years; the crew may be past their sell-by date by then, I’m afraid. We’ve managed to obtain some supplies from the Brits, but every time we risk going near Holy Loch we risk being detected.”
He clasped the President’s hand and shook it, firmly. “Overall, we just hope that this ends soon,” he admitted. “Sooner or later, we’re going to run out of luck.”
The President nodded. It was impossible to be sure, but a number of submarines had missed their scheduled check-in messages, suggesting that they were gone. He allowed himself to hope that they were just running quiet, but there was no way to know and he had to assume the worst. Mississippi might have been lucky so far, yet sooner or later she would run out of luck. If she showed herself in the wrong place, the aliens would kill her and her crew.
He allowed the Captain to show him around the boat, marvelling at how large it appeared even though he still felt claustrophobic. The crew seemed to be in good form, although there were definite signs of strain. Submarine crews had been pressed hard during the Cold War, yet they’d had regular returns to port where they could decompress, meet up with their families and generally recharge their batteries. Now, God alone knew when they would be able to return home. Their wives and families had to assume that they were dead.
“We’ve got one of the first Virginia Payload Modules,” O’Bryan explained. “It means we’re a little longer than I would prefer, but it gives us the ability to hit targets on land by means of non-nuclear cruise or ballistic missiles. Right now, we have a full payload of Tomahawk cruise missiles, ready to ram down the alien throats.”
The President scowled. An American submarine had fired on alien targets in the Middle East, after the location of their cities became clear. The Tomahawks had been shot down in flight and no one had heard anything from the submarine since then. It was alarmingly clear that the aliens had traced the missiles back to their source and attacked it savagely. Given their speed and response time, the submarine probably hadn't had a chance to escape before it was too late.
“It should take no less than seven days to reach the United Kingdom,” the Captain concluded. “Once we’re there, we can pass you to a British ship for transport to the mainland. I’d prefer not to go any closer to the shore than absolutely necessary, because the aliens might see us and then bring pressure to bear on the Brits to do something about our presence. They’ve already been forced to intern an aircraft carrier. I don’t want to add a submarine to the list.”
“Understandable,” the President assure
d him. He couldn't help a yawn. “Thank you, very much.”
“I’m giving you my stateroom,” the Captain said. “The food isn't up to White House standards ...”
The President had to laugh. “Right now, any sort of food tastes great,” he said. It had been such a relief to escape the bunker’s rations. Neither Pepper nor himself had been able to turn ex-Cold War stocks into something edible. “But I also need to sleep.”
“Some people do have problems if they’re new to submarines,” O’Bryan admitted. “We weed such personalities out at the Submarine School, but visitors have been known to have problems.” He grinned. “Would you believe that we had a bunch of SF troops who found being inside the submarine a deeply unnerving experience?”
“Probably,” the President said. The poor bastards would probably have been gently teased by the submariners too. “How do you cope with them?”
“Depends on the person,” the Captain said. “The doc can prescribe something to help you sleep for a few days, if you can’t sleep naturally. We can't use that for submariners, of course, but there shouldn't be any problems with you taking it. Failing that, we recommend reading, watching movies and mental exercises.”
He paused, just long enough for the President to notice. “We’re putting Agent Reid in a separate cabin,” he added. “I hope that won’t be a problem.”
Pepper’s eyes narrowed. “I am required to protect the President ...”
“There’s no one on this ship who might be dangerous,” the President said, quickly. He could understand the Captain’s unspoken point. Women were few and far between on USN submarines and it would only upset people if he seemed to be sleeping with Pepper. “Besides, you need to sleep too.”
Pepper frowned, then nodded reluctantly. “Very well,” she said. “But please stay in your cabin if I am not with you.”
***
Over the next few days, the President started to wonder if he had traded one form of imprisonment for another. The submarine was more populated than the bunker and it had access to better forms of entertainment, but it was just as confining, if not more so. Captain O’Bryan gave him a formal tour the day after he had boarded the submarine, yet it only served to highlight just how restricted he was. If he ever got back to Washington and returned to the White House, he promised himself, he would never bitch about being confined to the White House again.
Life on the submarine, while it was in transit, was strangely boring, something the crew frankly admitted happened to them too. The surprising informality of the crew was a safety measure, the President had been told, preventing them from becoming so rigid they shattered. Officers and men chatted freely, in a manner he had never seen in the army, yet snapped back into military discipline as soon as it was needed. When they weren't on duty, the sailors read books on Kindle – Kindles and other electronic readers had been an absolute godsend to the sailors; they loaded every book they could find onto the readers before leaving port – or watched movies on the boat’s computers. The President had been amused to discover that many of the movies were actually childish, although there were quite a few war movies mixed in.
Perversely, he felt even more isolated on the submarine than he’d felt in the bunker. There, at least, he’d been able to read messages, scan intelligence briefings and generally feel as if he was paying attention to what was happening. On the boat, there was absolutely nothing coming in at all; the outside world might as well have vanished completely. It was a regular problem, the Captain admitted, but it had grown worse since the aliens had arrived. They were completely dependent on undersea cables for their news. The President had found himself giving briefings to the officers and crew, explaining just what was happening in America. He left out a few of the details, knowing that they would only upset them. There was nothing the crew could do.
The most touching part of the trip had come on the last day, when the sailors presented him with a USB stick and explained that it carried messages for their families. It might have become a security nightmare, but the President had taken it and promised to have the messages forwarded on, once they’d been vetted. Most of their families would have gone into hiding anyway, hoping to remain undiscovered by the aliens. The President had no doubt that they would pressure the families if they ever discovered who they had as relations.
“I’ll take it,” he promised, and stuck the USB stick in his shirt.
It was six days since departure when they found themselves rounding Ireland and approaching HMNB Clyde, the home of the Royal Navy’s ballistic missile submarines. All four of the British submarines, the President had been told, were deployed at sea in the hopes they could avoid prying alien eyes. The American submarine linked into a hidden cable and waited, well away from British shipping. An hour later, a minisub arrived and docked with the Mississippi.
“She’ll take you to your destination,” Captain O’Bryan assured him. “Good luck, Mr. President.”
“Just forget you ever saw me,” the President said, to general amusement. “And stay ready to hit the aliens.”
He scrambled into the minisub, which undocked the moment Pepper joined him in the tiny cabin. There were no windows, nothing he could use to see outside the craft as it powered its way towards their final destination. It seemed to be hours before the craft finally docked and the hatch was opened, revealing a small welcoming party.
“Mr. President,” a voice said. “Welcome to the United Kingdom.”
The President smiled at him, a little tiredly. “Thank you,” he said. “It’s good to be here.”
Pepper had a more immediate concern. “Is this place secure?”
“We’re moving you to another location,” the greeter said. He hadn't given his name, a security precaution that would help to obscure the trail. “There won’t be many people who will know you’re there. After that ... that’s up to higher authorities.”
The President scowled, inwardly. He’d taken one hell of a risk coming to Britain, even though the aliens didn't occupy the country. They could put immense pressure on the British to hand him over ... and, given what else was cooking in the country, the British might see that as the lesser of two evils. Offhand, he couldn't recall if there had ever been an American President in such a dangerous spot, outside bad B-Movies. No one had successfully hijacked Air Force One or held the President hostage in real life.
Of course, he reflected, aliens had been the stuff of bad movies too ...
“Good,” The President said, bluntly. He had little patience for diplomatic formalities at the best of times. “The sooner we can get started, the better.”
The last time he’d visited Britain had been shortly after his inauguration, when he’d wanted to hold talks with the previous Prime Minister about future counter-terror deployments in Afghanistan or the Middle East. Then, he’d come in Air Force One and had been surrounded by heavily-armed security officers from both countries. Now, he was effectively a supplicant, begging for assistance. It struck him, suddenly, just how other world leaders had felt as they waited on Washington’s whims.
He shook his head, pushing the thought aside. They had to defeat the aliens before it was too late. Anything else was secondary to that concern.
Chapter Thirteen
Virginia, USA
Day 211
“That's one of their craft now,” the technician said.
Nicolas nodded. Active radars might have drawn attention – and swift destruction – from the aliens, but passive sensors provided a way to track the alien craft without being noticeable. The resistance had hidden sensors nearby, providing some early warning if the aliens suddenly started to focus on West Virginia. They were of limited value, however; the alien craft moved so rapidly that they would be on top of their targets before the warning could be passed up the chain.
He scowled as he studied the tiny display. The aliens had been alarmingly active in the region lately, moving up several new regiments of Order Policemen as well as at least four manip
les of alien warriors. There had been no choice; the resistance had had to pull in its horns and go undercover, instead of harassing the aliens and their collaborators. Nicolas knew that Oldham had seriously considered pulling some of their forces out of the area completely, rather than risk discovery. They couldn't win a stand-up fight with the aliens.
“It’s on the right course,” the technician insisted. “And the timing is right. Other than that ...?”
Nicolas peered into the dark sky with his binoculars, trying to see the tiny craft as it passed overhead. A streak of light flashed by and then vanished in the distance; the aliens weren't even trying to be stealthy. Not that they couldn’t, he had to admit; several resistance bases had been destroyed by alien craft that weren’t visible in the sky for miles around. He wasn’t sure if the aliens were being subtle or if they just didn't care if their craft were visible, unless they were trying to stay concealed. The soldier in him found that careless, but they’d already established that the aliens didn't think like humans.
Something moved, high overhead. It blocked out stars and alien orbital installations for bare seconds as it drifted downwards, heading towards the RV point. Nicolas sucked in his breath sharply as the object, its fall slowed by a parachute, finally hit the ground not too far from their location. Cursing, he stood up and ran through the trees. It wouldn't be the first time that supplies dropped by aircraft had missed their intended target by some distance, but if the package was discovered by the wrong people, it would be absolutely disastrous.
He slowed to a halt as he saw the package half-tangled in a nearby tree, slowly slipping down towards the ground. Carefully, he reached up, caught it and pulled hard, tugging it out of the trees. It didn't weigh as much as he had expected, but it wasn't as if the aliens were supplying weapons, ammunition and food. He broke it open and peered inside, sighing in relief as he saw more of the alien nanite vials and a handful of devices. One of them was clearly intended to link human and alien technology together.
Outside Context Problem: Book 03 - The Slightest Hope of Victory Page 12