Outside Context Problem: Book 03 - The Slightest Hope of Victory

by Christopher Nuttall

Daisy almost simpered. “But Karen ...”

  “Was doing precisely as she was told,” Howery informed her. His gaze moved to the guard holding Karen. “Release her at once.”

  The guard was shaking so badly, Karen realised with grim amusement, that it took him several tries to get the key in the handcuffs, let alone release her. She rubbed her hands as soon as they were free, then recovered her pistol and other equipment. Were they simply going to be able to walk out of the room without hindrance.

  “Dismissed,” Howery ordered the guards. They left the room without even glancing at Daisy. “Director Fairchild?”

  Daisy leaned forward. “Yes, sir?”

  Howery hit her, knocking her to the ground. Daisy let out a strangled yelp, then fell silent as her head hit the floor. Howery inspected her briefly, then rolled her over and bound her hands and feet together with plastic ties. Karen looked around, found a large piece of cloth, and passed it to him, who shoved most of it into Daisy’s mouth. When she recovered – if she recovered – she would be thoroughly helpless.

  “You must have triggered an alarm,” Howery said, as he picked up the bound woman and dropped her behind her desk. “Luckily, I was in the security office at the time.”

  He looked over at her. “We need to go see to the resistance fighters,” he added. “You’ll have to stay with them once the fighting begins.”

  “Yes, sir,” Karen said, automatically. Now that the immediate danger was past, she was starting to shake. She’d come so close to absolute disaster. “And you?”

  “I have somewhere to be,” Howery said. He took one final look around the office, then made a show of glancing at his watch. “We have ten minutes before the attack is supposed to begin. I want the resistance fighters primed and ready by then.”

  Karen followed him as he led the way down the corridor and into the elevator, inputting his command code into the security keypad. There were levels in the building that were closed to all, but the Walking Dead and the most trusted collaborators; one of them, Karen had been told, was a prison block. Some of the most important prisoners in the country had been brought there for processing after the aliens or the Order Police had captured them. Most of the poor bastards had ended up as Walking Dead.

  It struck her, as the elevator headed downwards, that they could be trapped in the elevator, but there was no other choice, not really. Most of the other access points had been sealed off or were heavily guarded, just to keep the less-trusted collaborators out of the prison block. It would have surprised her if the aliens and their collaborators hadn't realised that there had been some penetration of the Green Zone, although they clearly hadn't realised just how high-ranked some of the spies actually were. But then, if the resistance hadn't freed General Howery, their faith in their brainwashing techniques would have been entirely justified. She was still mulling it over when there was a ding and the elevator came to a halt.

  Outside, there were a set of brightly-lit corridors, reminding her of a hospital rather than a prison – although she had to admit that she’d never set foot inside a real prison. Howery led her forward and into a guard room, where a pair of guards were watching the screens with unblinking eyes. Both of them, Karen realised suddenly, were Walking Dead. It seemed that the aliens didn’t trust anyone to guard their prisoners unless they had already been implanted and placed under their control.

  Howery drew his pistol and shot the two Walking Dead in the head, before either of them could react. The gunshots seemed deafeningly loud in the confined space; Karen was surprised that their skulls hadn’t disintegrated from the force of the impact. Howery ignored the bodies as they hit the ground; instead, he walked over to a computer display and tapped it with his fingers, unlocking a set of cells.

  “Their weapons were stored in a nearby compartment,” he said, as he walked back towards the door. “Terrible security, simply terrible.”

  Karen found her voice. “What ... what about these guys?”

  “The system is largely automated,” Howery explained, “and isolated from the rest of the Green Zone. There will be no alert until the changing of the guard, in forty minutes. By then, the guards will have other things to worry about.”

  He walked down the corridor and stopped in front of a heavy metal door. “You’d better go in first,” he added, as he passed her an electronic key. “They may react badly when they see my face.”

  Karen scowled, but she had to admit that Howery had a point. His features were still unmoving; indeed, she had the feeling that they were numb too. He’d kissed her a few times yet there hadn't been any real passion behind the kisses. Shaking her head, she reached for the door and pulled it open, staring into the cell. Twenty men sat there, looking back at her with suspicious eyes; their hands, she realised, had been shackled to the railing to keep them immobile. Bracing herself, she pushed the electronic key against the reader and watched as the shackles unlocked themselves.

  “It worked,” her contact said, as he stood upright. He didn’t look to have been tortured, but Karen knew all-too-well that the Order Police were very good at hurting someone without making it obvious. “Where are we now?”

  “Underneath the main collaborator base,” General Howery said, stepping into the cell. “You’ll have a chance to get at them as you head to the White House.”

  Karen’s contact nodded. If seeing the General’s face bothered him, he didn't show it. “And our weapons?”

  “Come with me,” Howery said. He glanced at his watch as they vacated the cell. “There’s three minutes left. Once the attack begins, you know what to do. Make sure you take care of Karen too. Far too many people on both sides will want her dead.”

  Karen shivered. The collaborators would consider her a traitor – and so would most of the resistance, the ones who knew nothing about her. God alone knew how long it would take for word to spread that she’d actually been a covert resistance agent.

  “Don’t worry,” her contact assured her. “You won’t be hurt. We won’t let it happen.”

  ***

  Jasmine smiled to herself as the collaborator party grew louder. Director Kent wasn't quite as successful as Daisy Fairchild when it came to building up a private empire, but he’d done a remarkable job of forming links with the security officers and senior commanders in the Order Police. Jasmine suspected that he intended to leverage those connections – and the patronage he could grant, through the aliens – into a position that would allow him to influence his superiors, if not overrule them at will. At least, unlike some of the others she’d served, he wasn't a sadist. He just wanted to enjoy himself.

  The party would have been fun, she had to admit, if she’d been there of her own free will. Wine and beer flowed freely, music was playing loudly, a trio of naked girls were dancing on three large tables they’d pushed together and the maids, like Jasmine, were either wearing French Maid outfits or nothing at all. Jasmine was used to being naked in public by now – compared to some of the more sadistic members of the collaborator government, Kent was almost normal – even though it exposed her to the gropes of half-drunken junior collaborators. Kent clearly believed that sex, drugs and rock and roll were the key to controlling them.

  And he might be right, she thought, as she poured the wine into the glasses. At least she’d been able to get wine pouring and serving duties for herself; several of the other maids hadn't been so lucky. One of them was having a line of coke snorted off her breasts, while several more were being pulled into a cumbersome dance with three drunken Order Policemen who had received merit awards. Jasmine had no idea what someone had to do to receive a merit award from the Order Police. Extra brutality, perhaps. In the darker corners, she could make out naked bodies writhing, their owners clearly unconcerned about privacy.

  “Wine,” Kent bellowed. He was definitely halfway to being drunk himself. “More wine!”

  Jasmine picked up the tray of glasses and made her way through the crowd, skilfully avoiding a few of the more drunken r
evellers. The wine itself hailed from the South of France by way of the Vice President’s residence; it was, she’d been told, one of the handful of bottles left in existence. Kent was clearly pleased about something if he was serving it to his guests. Jasmine stopped in front of him, bowed low with practiced ease – allowing him to get a good view of her breasts – and held out the tray to him and his guests. One by one, they took a glass and prepared to sip.

  “To wealth,” Kent shouted, as he lifted his glass. “To power!”

  Jasmine smirked inwardly as she watched Kent take a sip, then turned and made her way towards the door. It wouldn't take long for the poison to take effect and by then she wanted to be somewhere else. The collaborators would panic in their drunken state, she was sure, but sooner or later they would realise that someone had poisoned Kent and his closest allies. And then they’d identify Jasmine and start hunting for her ...

  Behind her, she heard the sound of someone hitting the ground. The poison was fast-acting in any case, she’d been told, but it had clearly reacted poorly with the alcohol and drugs that Kent had been handing out freely. She heard someone scream as another person collapsed, followed rapidly by a third. There had been twenty-one glasses on the tray and she’d given them all to a separate person ...

  Shaking her head, she walked out of the room. She didn't look back.

  ***

  There were seconds left when Dave stepped into the command and control room, deep beneath the Green Zone. The collaborators, aided by the Walking Dead, had set up a fairly good defence network, he had to admit. Part of it had been his work, back when the aliens had controlled his mind. They’d forced him to put his expertise to use on their behalf.

  Bastards, he thought, coldly.

  The CO looked up as he entered, then saluted.

  “General,” he said. “There were a pair of security alerts earlier, both from the outskirts of Washington.”

  Dave felt, just for a moment, a flicker of relief at how the aliens had damaged his face. It would have been hard to conceal his relief without it. Given how large the projected operation was, he would have expected a hundred security breaches, no matter how carefully the resistance covered its operations. Under the circumstances, they’d been luckier than they deserved.

  “No need to worry,” he said, as he placed his hand on his holster. “Our masters ...”

  The main display lit up like a Christmas tree. Dave smiled inwardly as he realised that the resistance was definitely pulling out all the stops. There was a suicide bomb attack on the main gates into the Green Zone, incoming mortar fire and snipers taking shots at the guards. Outside Washington, heavier weapons were being brought into play against the garrisons, including several artillery pieces that had been hidden away since the invasion. And further afield ...

  They’re hitting everywhere, Dave realised, as he drew his pistol. Everyone is getting hit.

  “We need to sound the alert,” the CO said, as the heavy door slammed shut. There was a loud click as it locked itself, sealing them off from the rest of the building. “Sir ...”

  Dave shot him. The man’s eyes widened in surprise and horror a moment before he hit the ground, but Dave was already moving on to the other targets. None of them had expected the resistance to attack the command centre – and even if they had, they would have found it difficult to wrap their heads around the concept of a rogue Walking Dead. Dave reloaded his pistol and sat down in front of the main command system, already planning what orders he was going to issue. The defenders of the Green Zone, he told himself, were thoroughly screwed.

  They just didn't know it yet.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  USS Nebraska, Atlantic Ocean/Over Britain

  Day 253/254

  Captain Ryan had known that this day might come, even though it had seemed unlikely prior to the arrival of the alien mothership. He'd always assumed that his SSBN would simply serve as a deterrent, convincing dictators that actually launching nuclear warheads at the continental United States was the last thing they would do before their countries were transformed into piles of radioactive ash. The stories the old sweats had told about the Cold War, when a launch order never seemed too far off, were just alien to him. But now there were real aliens.

  He swallowed hard when the final set of launch orders came in, silently grateful that they’d taken the time to set up so many fallbacks when the alien approach had first been detected. A missing link or two in the message would have forced him to refuse his orders, no matter the situation on the ground. And it didn't look good; what little news they’d picked up from the British, or through listening to radio transmissions, said that the United States was under enemy occupation. And the aliens might well be able to shoot down the missiles in flight.

  “I have a set of launch orders,” he said, grimly. The targeting coordinates were set for the Middle East, thankfully. They’d heard that there were alien cities in the heartlands of America now, but he wasn't sure if he could have fired missiles towards the United States. “Do you concur?”

  The XO looked pale. They’d spent the last hour retargeting the missiles, then waiting for the final order. During that time, his XO had become a sweating wreck – and Ryan was grimly aware that he didn't look much better. If nothing else, merely launching their missiles would tell the aliens exactly where they were. No one knew what the aliens could do to submarines, but he was pretty sure they had something that could be used against an underwater target. Hell, merely dropping a small rock from orbit would kill them all.

  “I concur,” the XO said, finally.

  Ryan nodded, then looked at the other three officers. It took all five of them to actually arm the warheads and launch the missiles – and if even one of them refused, it was supposed to be impossible to fire. There had been some very quiet discussions on the subject of what to do when someone refused the firing command back when he'd been promoted to Captain, none of which had been very reassuring. He’d never had to hold one of his crewmen at gunpoint before and he didn't want to start now. One by one, they gave their concurrence.

  “Confirm location,” he ordered, addressing the navigation officer.

  “Confirmed,” the navigational officer said. Locating themselves was harder without GPS, but the USN had never lost the skill, fortunately. If they hadn't known where they were, the missile was quite likely to go off course and come down in the wrong place – assuming, of course, that the aliens didn't shoot it down in flight. “The missiles are programmed with the correct navigational data.”

  Ryan swallowed, hard. “Insert keys,” he ordered. He pressed ahead as soon as all five keys were inserted. “Turn on three. One ... two ... three.”

  The green lights on the missile status board turned red. “Tubes opened,” the weapons officer reported. “All tubes open and ready to fire.”

  “Begin firing sequence,” Ryan ordered.

  There was a dull rumble as the first missile was ejected upwards from the launch tube, its booster igniting a moment later. The entire submarine shook violently. Moments later, the second missile launched, followed rapidly by the third. Ryan had a sudden vision of how it must look from orbit; each individual launch marking the submarine’s course and speed as clearly as if they were signalling the aliens directly. How long would it take them to respond?

  Time seemed to slow down until the final missile launched from the tubes and vanished into the atmosphere. “Alter course as planned,” Ryan ordered, sagging in relief. Somehow, he’d never expected to get all of their missiles off before the aliens responded. “Get us out of here!”

  ***

  “The missiles are in the air, Prime Minister.”

  The Prime Minister kept his reaction under tight control. Hundreds of ballistic missiles, almost every submarine-based missile left on Earth, were rising up from the waves, aimed directly at the alien population centres. A handful had even been fired at the mothership, although there were problems in hitting a target in high orbit wit
h ballistic missiles. Even so, the aliens would likely interpret the whole display as attempted genocide. If only a third of the missiles made it to their targets, the alien population was about to drop sharply.

  He looked down at the string of reports from America and the Middle East. The UK had been backing insurgents in the Middle East in the hopes that it would keep the aliens busy long enough for Torchwood to produce a viable defence. Now, primed with promises of more aid in the future, the insurgents were adding to the chaos, piling still more pressure on the aliens. What would they do?

  They’d wargamed it out, time and time again. It hadn't been a useful exercise, the Prime Minister had decided – but then, he hadn't been sold on the concept even before the aliens had arrived to upset all of his calculations. If the aliens were human, they would respond in a logical manner ... except humans weren't always logical. Nor, for that matter, did they share the same incentives and desires. How could Saddam have kept his population in bondage for years?

  And if a human could act so unpredictably, how much more so an alien?

  “Good,” he said, finally.

  One way or the other, they were committed now. They’d have to fight it out to the bitter end.

  ***

  Philip shuddered as he saw the alien craft hovering over Fife, advancing with ponderous intensity towards Edinburgh. It was so vast that it was difficult to wrap his head around its mere existence, no matter that he’d been an unwilling guest on one of the other alien command ships before he’d been returned to Earth. From what he’d heard, the craft was causing panic among the civilian population who found themselves under its shadow. It was hellishly intimidating.

  And very well protected, he realised, as he saw the swarm of alien fighter craft fanning out to deflect the RAF and its allies. The RAF had put every remaining aircraft in the air – British, American, French, German, even a handful of Spanish aircraft that had somehow made their way north – and yet he knew with cold certainty that it wouldn't be enough to stop the monster. His Falcon was already lightened because there hadn't been enough missiles to go around; this battle was the RAF’s last throw of the dice. If it was lost, there would be nothing left to stop the aliens from pounding Britain into the dust.