Behind her, CSM Jabronsky’s voice rang out as he organized the masses into the chalks that had been requested. In the distance, engines whined, and rotors slapped the air, creating percussive sounds. Five CH-47 helicopters flew low and level, each with two large rotors, one on the front, the other on the rear, approaching the same runway where they all stood.
She extended her hand to greet the Air Force officer. “Colonel Freeman?”
He nodded. “Space command, intelligence section.”
“The Air Force is in charge of this operation?”
“No. This is a new combatant command. Provisional.” Freeman handed her the envelope, still warm. “You’ll need these,” he said, raising his voice to carry over the thunder of the approaching helicopters. “The first is a suspension of posse comitatus.”
“Good.” That gave her people authority to perform law enforcement tasks with U.S. civilians. She hoped they wouldn’t need it.
“Then, there are some instructions we threw together, based on the President’s guidance.”
She glanced over the notes. She was not to make contact. Just wait for the State Department representative to arrive. Prepare for the aliens to be unfriendly but do nothing to antagonize them until someone determined what they wanted. Weapons should be ready to fire when the aliens appeared, but soldiers should not shoot unless the leaders on the scene determined it was necessary.
The first Chinook set down, blasting dust-filled wind, sandblasting her skin. She lifted an arm to protect her face. The rotors slowed, and the ramp in the back dropped.
“Okay, let’s go!” Mehta shouted. “First chalk!”
Twenty soldiers stomped past her, Specialist Child, a petite blond from the admin section, tears flooding her eyes; Sergeant Jackson, the shy black kid who prepared intelligence summaries, biting his lower lip, eyes darting around; Private Smith, a tall young man with a stony expression, stepping wide, the cloth at his fly and upper thighs still wet, and Command Sergeant Major Jabronsky yelling at them. “Let’s move! Move! Range walk!”
Somewhere behind her, a soldier moaned, “Help me, Jesus.”
Within an hour, all five helicopters had arrived at the grassy Mall, together with fourteen buses filled with soldiers from the other surviving aircraft, one of hers, and one of infantry, now attached to her brigade. It gave her enough soldiers to replace a scraggly line of police security, while still sending the soldiers with soiled uniforms to get themselves cleaned up and changed.
The soldiers surrounded the alien craft from a distance of several hundred meters, and behind them, ten tanks from a nearby National Guard unit were tucked into the tree line, also attached to her brigade, there to provide additional fire power if needed.
Lieutenant Colonel Davis ran the operations center in the absence of the operations officer, whose aircraft had been destroyed.
She visualized the dead man’s face, his pale, polka-dotted complexion, reddish blond hair so light he seemed brow-less. What must have gone through his mind as the enemy weapon hit the aircraft and ripped it to pieces? How much time did he have to experience terror before the shrapnel shredded his body and cut through his skull?
A lump expanded in her throat, so hard and sharp she thought it would pierce the skin, and tears raised the moisture level up to the edge of her eyelids.
Shut off the emotion. Now!
She looked around, forcing her attention back to the present, to the smell of air freshened by a recent rain, the warmth of the early afternoon sun slipping from behind the occasional cloud.
The alien shuttle sat atop a small rise just the other side of 14th street from her operations center. The ship’s size, the front-facing windows set back from the nose, and its smooth curves and straight landing legs gave it the look of a futuristic recreational vehicle set on blocks. And from where she stood, the tall brick pillar of the Washington Monument looked like a giant antenna, perfectly centered on the top of the shuttle.
Colonel Freeman sauntered around inside the security perimeter, taking photographs like he thought he was visiting the Lincoln memorial.
“Ma’am,” Lieutenant Colonel Davis said behind her, “We’ve got a general incoming.”
She turned around.
“Who?”
“His name is Major General Uboldi.” Davis looked like he had just run five miles, his gray hair dull against the glistening skin on his high forehead.
She had never heard of this general. “Army?”
“Air Force.”
Lieutenant Colonel Davis showed her where his car would be arriving, and she jogged to the street. Colonel Freeman arrived beside her, his camera strap around his neck. A parade of black sedans slowed as it approached, the first with a pair of red flags attached to the front fenders, flapping in the wind. Two stars.
A bead of sweat trickled down the center of her back. “You know this guy?”
“He’s a charmer,” Freeman said, brows lifted.
Great. An ass-hole, in other words.
The cars stopped, and a soldier jumped out of the lead car and opened the door. The general grabbed the sides of the door frame and pressed himself to a standing position, slapping his hat onto a bald head. Short and thick framed, he looked like a bull dog dressed in blue, ribbons climbing his left side almost to the shoulder. Behind his car, another car door opened, and a man in a dark gray suit jumped out and all but skipped toward the general, hands brushing the flaps of his jacket back into place.
Uboldi caught Mehta’s eye and then marched toward her. She saluted. “Sir, my unit is in place. No sign of activity from the space craft.” By this time, the civilian had reached them, his eyes sparkling like a child in front of his unopened birthday presents.
“This is Mr. Brown from the State Department,” Uboldi said. “He’ll deal with the aliens once we’ve cleared that it’s safe.”
Mehta put her hand out to shake, and Brown grabbed it. His hand was warm, the skin soft and pampered. He gave her a smile that seemed to bounce, continually changing from broad to pursed to soft and serene. The overall effect was quite charming. Finally, something was going right.
“All right,” Uboldi said, “our first priority is to make sure approaching the craft is safe.”
“I’ve been within 20 feet of it,” Freeman said.
Uboldi frowned. “Who authorized you to do that?”
Brown’s smile broadened. “Seems guys with cameras think they can go just about anywhere.”
“You’re goddamned lucky they didn’t blast you to kingdom come,” Uboldi said.
“So,” Brown said, “sounds like we should be able to do at least 30 feet. Then, we continue based on what happens next.”
Uboldi’s mouth puckered in displeasure. “One step at a time.”
He marched toward the ship at a fast pace, and Mehta had to stretch her stride to keep up with him. Freeman and Brown followed at a discrete distance.
As they reached the line of soldiers, Uboldi waved a hand at Brown. “You wait here.”
“I’m okay,” Brown said. “If they decide to shoot at us, even those tanks aren’t going to stop them.”
Uboldi looked back at the tanks, hunkered in the shadows, main gun barrels pointed toward the aliens, lifeless and menacing. He huffed, then pushed his lips out and sucked them in several times, as though he realized nothing he could say would work. His brows lowered, throwing his eyes into darkness. “Stay here,” he said again, then turned and marched through the security perimeter.
Mehta followed.
They emerged onto the sidewalk and Mehta drew in a quiet breath. Just across the road, the ship hunkered on an empty green knoll, looking a lot larger now, the sun’s rays glinting off the smooth metal shell strangely chilling. Brown followed behind her, and Freeman started clicking his camera.
The quiet that surrounded the craft radiated from the landing spot like some eerie invisible cloud, cold enough to make her shiver.
The craft made a groaning noise. Mehta fo
rced herself to stay put, while Uboldi stepped back half a pace. Two lines of cool blue light raced up the side of the ship, then curved in and connected to form a six-foot-tall, upside-down U. “It looks like they were just waiting for you,” she said to Uboldi.
He brushed a hand over his frown, then stepped back up beside her, his shoes making a firm click on the hard concrete.
Fully outlined, the door moved downward, hinged on the bottom. Once it landed on the ground, it formed a ramp, complete with handrails, the opening like a gaping mouth whose tongue stuck out in teasing invitation, ready for someone to climb down... or up.
Her stomach churned, and a soft breeze blew her collar up against her neck. This could be the worst thing to happen yet. And she and her soldiers would catch the brunt of any alien violence.
General Uboldi’s Adam’s apple rose and then dropped hard. His frown tugged at the skin on his cheeks so hard that Mehta could see the whites under his irises. “Wait here,” he said to her, then marched across the asphalt, heels tapping softly on the pavement, sun glinting off the stars on his shoulders. Once on the other side, he stopped again, looking up the gentle slope that led to the craft. His arms moved outward and his shoulders rose slightly as he took a deep breath.
Metallic clicks pricked her ears as soldiers pulled back rifle bolts, then shoved rounds into firing chambers with a distinct snap. It’s too soon for that, a part of her mind said, but those were her instructions. If something went wrong, her soldiers would only have to pull the trigger.
This was crazy. It reminded her of an old science fiction movie from her childhood, in which the humans greeted the aliens ready to fight, and the aliens wiped the floor with them. In this case, they would mow the grass with the puny human effort to repel them.
Birds chirped in the rows of trees lining the mall, but no other sound reached her. No traffic. No children playing, no people talking, no dogs barking. Eerie.
Uboldi swung his leg over the rope fence and took four steps up the grassy rise.
Mehta could see no movement from inside of the space craft. What would they look like? Since the Nabbers were humanoid, the odds were totally against these aliens resembling people.
Unless that was a naturally occurring form. And if so, Uboldi was about to face some young, tough stud with a threatening glare. Or maybe a boyish man with an angelic expression, and the answers to all our problems.
Hell, she’d been watching too much science fiction.
She ordered herself to stop speculating. She just needed to watch, mind clear, observing what happened with no preconceptions, so that she could assess what it all meant, before the aliens struck down the general and everyone else.
Her heart thudded in her ears, her arm muscles tensed until they ached, and her tongue was so dry it felt like moleskin. The sun baked her head and made her body want to wilt. Her uniform soaked up the moisture in the air, clinging to her skin, heavy and chafing.
Just don’t lock your knees.
The general took another five steps and stopped. Then he did it again. And again, until he stood less than twenty feet from the ramp. He took another set of deep breaths. Damn, he had to be frightened, standing there alone, unarmed, ready to be the first victim, ready to be blasted into oblivion by the aliens’ death rays.
A hand appeared in the doorway, thin, bony fingers reaching across the opening, knuckles gnarled, tendons showing in the back of the hands, nails short and colorless. A humanoid hand, she thought. What were the chances? Then a skeletal arm came into view, dull wrinkled skin sagging and rippling with each movement. The shoulders followed, then a body draped in a dark robe, a bulge where breasts hung unsupported under thin fabric. A head covered with thin hairs, all curled and creating a halo of soft color. A face, mouth drawn into a deep frown, wrinkles carving a road map over her dull skin, mottled with moles and brown patches. This was no young, healthy male specimen, no warrior ready to fight and destroy. This alien was a little old lady.
“Holy Christ,” Brown muttered behind Mehta.
This just didn’t make sense. They had already seen the Nabbers, seen how similar they were to humans. Now, here was a second species with only slight variations. This was not what she had been led to expect. Weren’t they supposed to be entirely different from humans? Wasn’t alien life supposed to be strange and incomprehensible?
But this alien could be her grandmother.
Maybe it was all an illusion, something to help them relate to humans, or something to get humans to trust them. She was going to have to ask them about this, if she ever got a chance.
The old woman’s short gray hair was thin enough for Mehta to see her scalp peeking out between the errant, feathery locks, and curled over her ears, normal, humanoid, but with a single row of sickled spikes slicked against her skin.
Torso slumped forward, the alien gripped the handrail and looked around, her glance skimming over the top of the general’s hat, off into the distance to where Mehta’s soldiers stood, pistols and rifles pointed at the ground, but ready.
Her face never moved. At last, she looked at Uboldi. Damn, he was probably not the best person to send to meet aliens, to represent humans, provide a good first impression. He was gruff, and he barked out commands like a drill sergeant. Who had selected him for this, anyway?
“Our weapons are defensive only,” he said. “If you mean us no harm, we won’t attack.”
The old woman gave him a closed-mouth smile, then said, “Mol brishden hasn.” No translator, then. But from the tone, Mehta guessed the words had been some form of “Thank you.”
Mehta clasped her hands together, fingers interlaced, squeezing each other tightly. Please, please be friendly.
The old woman loosened her grip on the handrail, and then she started down the ramp toward Uboldi. With each halting step, her mouth puckered more, the sagging of the skin on her jowls increased, and her brows drew closer together. By the time she reached the middle of the ramp, all the color had left her face, and her eyelids had retreated into the back of her head, leaving all white around her ice-blue irises. She shouted another alien phrase. Knees pushed her robe forward, and she started to wobble.
“Something’s wrong!” Mehta said, leaping off the curb and running across the street, boots pounding the pavement to the beat of her heart.
Uboldi apparently realized the same thing. He clamored up the slope, struggling to gain traction on the wet grass.
The old woman toppled sideways, twisting her torso, one arm flung across to grab the handrail on the opposite side. Her hip landed on the ramp, and she screeched more incomprehensible words.
God almighty, what was wrong?
Uboldi increased his speed, then his black oxfords slipped on the moist grass. He landed on his hands and quickly righted himself. Mehta had almost reached him. Should she help him, or rush to the aid of the alien?
By now, the old woman looked like she had gotten a double dose of adrenaline, giving her the strength to heave on the handrail and pull herself to her feet, then dash back up the ramp in three long bounds. Uboldi scrambled up the rest of the hill, but the ramp pulled upwards, handrails folding in on themselves. By the time he reached it, the door had sealed.
Uboldi snapped his head around and looked at Mehta, his face red and his eyebrows puckered up against his nose. “What the hell was that?”
Mehta let out a breath of despair. They had just failed first contact.
CHAPTER SIX
Aahliss groped for the nearest chair, waves of fear blocking her vision, gasps filling her lungs and straining her throat, anger heating her chest. Her hand found the arm rest and she leaned against it, trying to get control of her breath.
“Aahliss?” a voice came from the cockpit.
Concern flowed into her, pressing all the other emotions into tighter swirls, more dense and throbbing. She flopped into the leathery chair and raised her hand toward the pilot, Trel. “I’m alright. Stop worrying.”
“You don’t look lik
e it.”
At least he had stopped fretting. And she could open her eyes. “I just need to move a little.” She stood on wobbly legs and leaned toward the chair on the other side of the aisle.
Trel stood in the doorway to the cockpit, one arm up, leaning against the door frame. “What happened?”
“Nothing.”
Thick brows shot up, his face expressive enough that she didn’t need to be an empath to read his state of mind.
“Well, yes. Nothing happened,” she said.
His head leaned to the side and he gave her a half smile. Not satisfied.
“I didn’t realize this was going to be so difficult,” Aahliss continued. “None of us realized…” She wiped her hand over her brow, smoothing away the perspiration. “Maybe we should find another planet.”
“Maybe the Pelmians?”
“Oh, Spirits, no.” Those creatures, with their big eyes and their strange wants, were the most disgusting of all the space-faring beings. She would rather deal with the Dakh Hhargash. At least they didn’t make her facia shiver.
Of course, the Council had already reviewed all the possible planets, and this one had not only been the best option, it had been virtually the only option.
So, she had to pull herself together and deal with them. The thought made the shuttle spin in her vision, and she closed her eyes. How could she possibly go back out there?
“Perhaps,” she said, opening her eyes again to find Trel crouched in front of her, “you could deal with them?” He was not as sensitive as she. He could manage their rampant feelings better.
“I’m just a pilot. I’m not part of the government.”
“You’re part of the Fleet.”
He let out a loud breath, then looked at the closed door. “It can’t be that bad.”
“The turmoil outside is rising.”
“Of course it is. You came back in here and closed the door, and now they don’t know what’s going on. The longer you avoid talking to them, the worse it’s going to get.”
As much as she didn’t want to admit it, she knew he was right. Time to do what she had been sent here for. Time to throw up some walls or perform one of those other tricks most sensitives had to block out a barrage of emotions. Unfortunately, she had never mastered those techniques. She would face these humans defenseless, absorbing the worst of their emotions.
No Plan Survives (Tales from the Protectorate Book 1) Page 4