Alien Storm

by Ken Bebelle

  “Think about it, the war would be over.”

  That had seemed impossible to Cam.

  “I want to marry you, Cammie.”

  Cam had been foolish. She’d told him yes. She had never been able to resist him. She hadn’t had the heart to tell him it would never happen.

  Peacetime and a wedding had been delusional.

  Her thoughts turned to the only exit plan she could imagine. I need them to kill me.

  The door slid open again. Turning her head as much as she could she could just see a sliver of the hallway. White mist again billowed into the hall. The door facing hers was open, and another prisoner encased in gel was being moved out of the opposite room.

  Her stomach tied into painful knots as the person was pulled past her door and she saw the face come into view, along with the familiar pattern of neuro circuitry next to the eyes.

  Jonesy!

  Her pulse went from zero to sixty in the blink of an eye. The surge of blood pounded in her ears and made her see stars. She pulled again and again but the restraints held her down mercilessly.

  She screamed, “Jonesy! Jonesy!”

  She was still screaming his name long after her door had closed. Seeing him had pulled her head out of that dark space preoccupied with self-destruction. Cam stared up at the blades above her again, but now her thoughts were of escape.

  Eleven

  A Full Unit

  SASHA

  Phillips paced before her like an angry dog, jabbing a finger into her face to emphasize his point. “Damnit Kennedy, tell me why I shouldn’t send you back home and tell your old CO to bust you down to private?”

  Sasha stood at full attention in Phillips’ ready room, still dusty from an exhilarating night ride back to base. She resisted the urge to look away in the face of his ire, picking a fleck on the far wall to stay focused on. Several empty chairs were arrayed around Phillips’ desk. With no ‘at ease’ she maintained her rigid posture. She took a deep mental breath, and plunged into the deep end.

  “Sir, I rescued a Dub whom you expressly ordered to remain on base, and brought you back not just alien tech, but an actual alien carcass.” From the corner of her eye, she saw Gunny give a small nod.

  She pushed on since Phillips continued listening instead of reaming her out. “Also, you did not issue any restrictions to anyone on base to avoid Segovia.”

  Phillips scowled at her. “Do you really think sassing me and reminding me of my fuck ups is the right strategy for you right now?”

  Sasha wisely kept her mouth shut. Gunny nodded again, his normally impassive face interrupted by a slight lift of his dark eyebrows. Sasha knew she was in the wrong, violating the spirit of the law, if not the letter.

  Phillips sat behind his imposing steel desk and leaned forward. “Kennedy, you are a pain in my ass. You’re welcome to resign your time with the Dubs if you can’t handle it here, or you can elect to accept administrative reprimand.”

  Sasha swallowed hard, heat rising to flush her normally pale skin. “Sir, I can’t leave.”

  Phillips grunted and then pointed at Gunny. “Fine. You are now officially his problem. He can decide about docking your pay and your duties until mission call. You will be required to attend Officer Ethics in the meantime.”

  Sasha exhaled in relief, but she still had one more thing to do. She dropped her gaze from the wall, and looked Phillips in the eye. “Sir, thank you, sir. If I may, I’d like to request the addition of McKenzie to my unit.”

  Phillips scowled at her. “You just don’t know when to quit, do you, Kennedy?”

  She waited him out, wishing for once that she possessed Ace’s knack of reading people.

  Phillips looked down at his desk for a moment. Sasha could see a pile of dog tags on top of his tablet. His shoulders drooped. When he looked back up at her, his face seemed sad. “Yeah, you can have Mack. Now get out.”

  Twelve

  Dogtags and Whiskey

  PHILLIPS

  When Eisenhower had been giving his D-Day speech, the enemies were the Nazis. Fast forward one hundred and seventy years and Phillips found those words were still appropriate when fighting space aliens.

  “Your task will not be an easy one. Your enemy is well trained, well equipped, and battle-hardened. He will fight savagely.”

  For the last two years, Phillips watched good soldiers be torn apart like confetti by these alien bastards. He was heartily sick of it. Every single moment of these last two years, he worked his ass off. To raise funds, gather scientists, and better equip his men and women. And now he’d lost seven of his finest in one night.

  Instead of hurling his tablet across the room with a satisfying smash, he carefully set it on his desk next to the mound of dogtags for O’Neill, Chavez, Cho, Campbell, and Burke. His eyes burned recalling this morning’s holo visits to five families. Now he brooded in the dark and nursed a finger of a very fine single malt Scotch.

  Phillips picked up Cho’s tags, reading them by the dim light of the tablet. He ran a calloused thumb over the embossed lettering. That kid shouldn’t have been on the recon at all. He hadn’t seen any combat before, but Phillips had made a recruitment exception for Cho.

  Cho had begged him. “Colonel, I’m a dead man walking. The army is going to discharge me. I need the nanites, and I need to work to help my family.”

  It pushed all of his buttons. The whole reason Phillips founded the Union Wolves was to provide dignity to the soldiers who defended this great nation, and to provide them with state of the art medical enhancements and care--something the VA would never do and the Humans First movement would never allow. So he gave Cho a spot, made sure he got the cutting edge nanites that would combat his late stage leukemia, and then assigned him a unit job after so that he could continue to be a soldier. Dignity. The thing Phillips fought for every day to give his soldiers. He clenched the tags, squeezing them in his fist.

  This morning had been a shit show. Cho’s mom had cried streams of tears. He’d watched her shoulders quaking as he spewed some bullshit. He couldn’t even tell these families the truth, that their loved ones were killed by the Ringheads. Instead, he’d toed the company line and forced himself to tell them there was an explosion in Segovia and the soldiers died in the rubble while trying to rescue survivors.

  Phillips drained the rest of his scotch with a quick tip, welcoming the burning heat as it coursed down his throat. But the liquor did nothing to soothe the injustice that seethed in his gut as he mentally replayed his last holo with Senator Jackson, a senior member of the Intelligence committee.

  Esther Lee Jackson had lifted that sharp chin of hers as she delivered the US position on the Segovia attack. “We are not going to release news of the incursion to IWC.”

  “With all due respect ma’am, that’s a mistake.” A colossal one as far as he was concerned.

  She’d frowned at him. “No, Colonel. We finally have the tech, and we are in the best position to analyze it. In fact, you are in the best position to utilize it. Are we clear?”

  “Perfectly, ma’am.” Phillips heard the implied threat. That’s what made Senator Jackson so formidable. With one sentence, she’d managed to pet him and kick him. They would get more funding and manpower from Uncle Sam, but no leaks. Phillips swallowed his resistance, but it left a bitter taste in his mouth.

  Phillips debated pouring another finger of scotch. With a decisive click of his glass against the table, he pushed back from his desk, opened his bottom drawer and put away the whiskey.

  His tablet vibrated, a priority message from Abbé flashing up at him. Phillips engaged the comms, “Yes, Doctor Abbé?”

  “Sir, it’s about Project Eagle Eye. You need to come down to see this.”

  “On my way,” Phillips signed off and hustled to the lab, his heart strangely hopeful with each step to the elevators.

  The elevator AI greeted him, “Sir, Gunnery Sergeant Mason is on his way up to see you.”

  Phillips grunted. “Tell E
d to meet me over at the lab.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The lower floors of the base held two of the things Phillips was proudest of--the lab and the clinic. Both staffed by top notch talent devoted to the soldiers on his base. He turned to the door marked Lab 1 and walked into an uncharacteristically empty room. Only Abbé stood inside, wringing his hands in excitement or nerves at something on the screen in front of him. Seeing the Colonel, Abbé stood and with a discreet motion his screen slid away. “Sir! I cleared everyone else out. Come with me.”

  Phillips followed the wiry scientist as he darted into the side room. The door slid shut behind them and Phillips noted the data feed in his left eye died as the door lock cycled. Abbé had just set the highest possible security protocol around the room.

  Intrigued, he watched as Abbé began pulling up images on the viewing wall. The doctor’s hands moved quickly as he scrolled and paused and then slid each image aside to make room for the new one. All the while, Abbé muttered under the breath as he tapped and swiped until he had a set of three video sequences queued up before them.

  Phillips squinted a bit, trying to make out the image on the central screen. He reached forward to play it but Abbé smacked his finger away. “No, no. This one first.”

  The scientist enlarged the first screen and it began to play. Phillips watched incomprehensible numbers scroll upwards on the screen. “What am I looking at?”

  Abbé paused it and circled a few numbers. “These are Jonesy’s coordinates. I think I know where he is.”

  News of Jonesy’s survival had Phillips sucking in a quick breath. He then blew it out slowly before responding to Abbé. “Where?”

  Abbé pointed to the second screen, took the image, and rotated it. “This is a rendering of Mt. Markham where the Needle attaches in Antarctica. His coordinates read as just above that.”

  Phillips, like the rest of the world’s military leaders, had been rendered blind when the Ringheads arrived and took out Earth’s satellite systems. Over the last two years, the US steadily launched a vast network of low orbit microsats, but their global resolution was nothing like previously. Phillips needed to take this intel with a grain of healthy skepticism. Still, he wanted to believe that Jonesy remained alive.

  “How long ago was this data transmitted?”

  Abbé pointed to the right hand corner of the screen, “Less an than hour ago.” His voice grew sheepish. “It took me a little bit to translate it and I wanted to be sure.”

  Phillips nodded. “What’s on this middle screen?”

  “Watch.” Abbé started the footage and Phillips stared intently as the grainy images played. There was no sound and Phillips realized he was seeing Jonesy’s neural implant uplink.

  The images should have been in color but it looked as if the feed had been overlaid with a filter, rendering it in monochromatic shades of blue. A Ringhead appeared in the feed and came in close, startling the hell out of Phillips. “Shit!”

  “Yes, exactly!” Abbé bobbed his head, his voice emphatic. “But there’s more.”

  Phillips paused the feed and turned to look at Abbé. “From this moment on, Project Eagle Eye is limited to you, me, Gunny, and Dr. Patel. Got that?”

  Abbé blinked a few times, and then nodded slowly. “Okay, so the other lab technicians will have to be removed from clearance then.”

  “That’s not necessary. Just hide the data for now. I’m going to have to update JSOC and they will no doubt re-classify Project Eagle Eye as top secret.” Phillips tapped the screen to resume playback.

  The alien backed away and the image moved, which told Phillips that Jonesy was being moved. He saw dark, curved surfaces festooned with a network of alien veins and protrusions. An alien ship? It looks like the damned Needle.

  Then, a strange bending of light and Phillips saw a cylinder of some sort, with a naked human body inside. Jonesy moved his head upwards and Phillips jerked as he realized he was looking at Alvarez in the tube.

  He closed his eyes quickly and then willed himself to open them again. The video had stopped, mercifully. “Any more, Stan?”

  The scientist shook his head. “No, sir. But it is enough, right?”

  Phillips didn’t know what to say. He settled on the one thing that counted. “They’re still alive.”

  Abbé’s lips flattened. “Yes, sir. This means the Ringheads are taking us now--not just killing us.”

  After the revelation, Phillips had rushed out of the lab, his mind thrumming with frantic energy in need of action. He decided a run was about the only thing that he could do to burn it off and force himself to think this through logically. Sweat dripped down his temple as he ran along the outer road of the base. Unlucky for him, Gunny had cornered him en route and now Phillips was stuck trying to keep up a pace that gave Gunny’s long legs a workout too.

  Gunny loped along on his left, his legs flashing in comfortable strides as he breathed in an easy rhythm. Bastard.

  Three miles later, Phillips felt warm and loose. Some of his earlier stress had burned away leaving behind a residue of worry and annoyance. Gunny hadn’t said a damn word, just paced him as he pounded out the laps around base and let his hind-brain work on the implications .

  Phillips slowed to a cool down pace and finally turned to look up at his right hand man. “Senator Jackson has ordered us to cover up the Segovia attack.”

  Gunny frowned, “Get the fuck out! How does that help us?” He wasn’t much of a talker but when he got going, it was with that characteristic rapid fire New Yorker sharpness.

  With a snort, Phillips shook his head. “Damned if I can figure it out. Joint Committee wants to hide the tech but we don’t have to hide the attack to keep the tech.”

  With each satisfying slap of his feet against the road Phillips imagined stomping on the table of the joint committee, smashing some sense into each of them. “They’re sending out their hatchet man to lead the Ringhead tech evaluation.”

  “A scientist?”

  Phillips shook his head. “Hell no! That would make too much sense. They’re sending out some CIA spook.”

  Gunny gave a bark of laughter. “Oh that’s good. Stan will just love that.”

  Just thinking about the look on Abbé’s face when told he would have to work with some government agent on the Ringhead tech made Phillips scowl. “That’s going to be a goddamned disaster.” he muttered.

  The simple deal which he’d lured Abbé away from Scion labs would be threatened. Abbé got free reign on the state of the art lab and the only goal was the safety of the soldiers--not marketability, not profit. Abbé was already an excitable guy--the last thing they needed was some spook spinning Abbé up.

  As they approached the obstacle course, Gunny veered off to one of the stations and began to knock out a series of pull ups. Phillips joined him and with a last exhale, he fell in a stable rhythm of pushups. The two men were silent as they hammered out this familiar routine. Finally as they stretched, Phillips let out the thing that was bothering him most. “Did you see those vids from Jonesy’s feed after I left?”

  Gunny nodded. “Yeah. Stan rolled them for me. That’s some fucked up shit on there.”

  Phillips dropped his head in despair. “They have our people, Ed.”

  “We go get them back.”

  Trust Ed to cut through the bullshit. Phillips lifted his head and looked at Gunny. “You’re goddamned right about that, Ed.” Now he could turn his attention back to planning something that he could get behind, an all out assault on The Needle and above.

  After the run and a quick shower, Phillips’ thoughts churned with memories of the failed strike on the Needle and the Greedle in the fall of 2108. Still, they’d learned a lot from that, bided their time, stockpiling their tech in the meantime.

  His tablet started vibrating and at the same time, the comm unit on his desk started chiming. Abbé was trying to get a hold of him.

  “Phillips, here.”

  “Colonel! There is an Agen
t Harding here in my lab. He is demanding access to The Vault.”

  Abbé’s accent grew thicker with each word, and Phillips winced at the agitation in the scientist’s voice.

  “Yeah, about that. We’re going to need to let him in.”

  Abbé squawked in outrage. “Colonel! I was not apprised of this. How do I even know he has clearance?”

  Uncomfortable, Phillips cleared his throat. “Yes, good point. I’ll be right down, Stan. Just have Agent Harding wait a moment.”

  On the way down to Abbé’s lab, Phillips recovered his earlier resentment at Senator Jackson’s heavy handed demands. I do not need her lapdog here sniffing around my base.

  He’d glanced at the dossier that the Senator’s office had sent over on Agent Elias Harding. No military service. Yale Law School graduate. Formerly a consultant for Dynavem, now assigned as liaison to the IWC science committee. Great, a fucking paper pushing lawyer.

  But the file had been too thin. Harding’s identity was as clean as a new pair of shoes. It didn’t feel right. “Consultant” to the country’s leading arms trader, my ass.

  Now standing in front of the bland-faced Agent Harding, Phillips grunted. “Corporal Akins, thank you for escorting Agent Harding down to the lab. Dismissed.” Akins gave a quick nod and pivoted before loping off.

  Phillips vented his ire on the agent with a scowl. “Why didn’t you come by my office first, Harding?”

  Harding lifted a blond brow as if surprised. When he spoke, Harding’s voice was strangely unaccented, as if he could have been from any town, USA. “I was tasked to investigate the Vault, not socialize.” The ease and calm with which the man responded irritated Phillips.

  Just looking at the unremarkable Agent Harding confirmed Phillips’ earlier suspicions. Harding stood a hair under six feet, his average build discreetly attired in a dark suit. Nothing about the man stood out. His wheat colored hair was trimmed and neat, his posture and stance unassuming. A sharp pair of blue eyes took in everything in the lab.