The Forever Enemy (The Forever Series Book 2)

by Craig Robertson

“No chance you'll have those calculations done anytime soon, is there?”

  “Not this soon. Never!” He was trembling. I knew he wasn't scared of death. He often told me he lamented outliving his “natural days.” But he was a man of science and reason. He loved all that swam, walked, or flew above the earth. The guy actually told me once he loved flatworms. That it all was about to be ended by one human hand was beyond his comprehension.

  “In that case, I'll do what I do best?”

  “Survive? You'll retreat into space and try to shepherd those now in orbit to safety?”

  “Sheesh, Doc! No. Where do you get that stuff from? We're talking about me here.”

  “What'll you do?”

  “Improvise.”

  “Jon, of all moments, please tell me you're joking.”

  “Deadly serious. I'm a fighter pilot and a rocket man. I'm trained to do the insane and get paid for my efforts. Where's Marshall now?”

  “Still in the White House.”

  “So, he'll make it to Cheyenne around dawn?”

  He thought a moment. “More or less. Why?”

  “I'm improvising. The more I know, the better that process works.”

  He was wringing his hands. “Let me know if you need anything else. And Jon, God be with you.”

  “One thing. How can you know all this so fast? You told me about your backdoor access, but this is different.”

  “If you succeed, I'll tell you.”

  “Why not tell me now, so I can take that knowledge with me to the grave, if need requires that of me?”

  “When you return. I promise.” The screen went blank.

  “Al, lay in a course for Cheyenne Mountain. Keep us above two hundred kilometers for now.”

  “Aye, aye.”

  Sapale stepped to my side. “We're staying up here for the nuclear war, right?” She waved her hands up high. “Up here, safe.” She bent her knees and lowered her hands. “Down there, very hot.”

  “For now, up here.”

  “Now's probably not the best time to tell you I'm pregnant with twins then?” She angled her cute oval head.

  FOURTEEN

  The morning was otherwise spectacular. As Marshall stepped down the helicopter ramp, he gave the new day but a cursory glance. Nothing was beautiful on the day he was about to blow up the world, even for a maniac like him. The soldiers at the bottom saluted. One opened the limo door for him. “Duncan, you're with me. The rest need to catch another ride.”

  Marshall grunted as he hit the seat and was silent for a good fifteen minutes. He was brooding. Mostly he tried to reinforce and strengthen the lines of reasoning that led him to this fateful decision. So desperate was he to rationalize his actions that in the “plusses column” of his mental gyrations he listed “nothing left for the Listhelons to destroy” as partial justification for his war. The fact that he ruminated so much failed to alert him to the fact that he was, in fact, filled with dread, foreboding, and remorse. Perhaps he was unable to recognize those feelings because they were so completely foreign to him. To any respectable sociopath, they were incomprehensible. Still, if anything could, genocide might have been enough to bring the most repressed emotions to the surface.

  His prolonged taciturn state prompted Duncan to cautiously break the silence. “Are you all right, Mr. President?”

  “Huh?” He groaned as he returned to the here-and-now. “Of course I am. I'm just making certain there's nothing I've overlooked.”

  “Very well, sir. Let me know if I can be of any assistance.”

  In an uncharacteristically hushed tone, Stuart posed an odd question. “Did your family make it to one of the secondary defense centers?”

  “Sorry. I didn't catch that.”

  “Did your family make it to safety?” he said loudly.

  “Ah, yes, sir. They did. Thanks for asking. They're in the White House bunker.”

  “Good,” he mumbled. Then it hit him like a steam locomotive. Why had he asked? He knew in his heart of hearts that he didn't give a damn one way or the other. Hell, even if they somehow survived the nuclear holocaust, they'd die from all the fallout sooner or later. What did he care if people who were already dead were temporarily safe? It served as an excellent slap in the face. He sat up and took a deep breath. “How long until we get there?”

  “About half an hour,” the driver called back.

  “Duncan, once the shooting is over, I'll need frequent updates.”

  “Of course.”

  “I especially want to know how much damage we did to them in space.” He rubbed his chin. “I still don't think we can take out all their assets up there, but I'd like to think we can hurt them very badly.”

  “Of course, sir.” Yeah, you wouldn't want to stop at only killing 99.99 percent of your fucking species, sir. Lord in heaven, I should do the universe a favor and strangle you now with my bare hands. But I can't throttle an android who doesn't breathe. Plus, you saw to it that you were three time stronger than any of us toy robots. Son of a fucking bitch!

  “Have my immediate family made it here yet?”

  “No, sir, but they're only a little behind us.” I'm going to survive your evil war surrounded by your evil family click-clacking around on their cloven hooves. You spherical asshole! I hate you more than the next ten horrible things I hate rolled up in a ball and covered in festering pus.

  “Get me General Thomas on the phone.”

  “Yes, sir.” What were Beelzebub's assistants’ names? Oh yes, Leviathan and Thomas. I pray you blow a fuse right here and now, you piece of shit!

  “Chuck, is everything on schedule?”

  “Yes, Stuart. All of our ICBM missiles are armed and ready. Final checks are complete, and all systems are GO. Submarine missiles are targeted. Both elements will launch on your command or at 12:00 EST, whichever comes first. Most of our planes are airborne. They're being held in reserve to strike at targets that require further degradation.” Chuck sniffed profoundly. “This is a great day, Mr. President! It will be remembered for centuries to come as your day of glory.”

  Stuart shut his eyes. “We'll see, won't we, Charles?”

  “Yes, indeed we shall, from the comfort of our private worldships.”

  “Let's not get ahead of ourselves, shall we? First, we must eliminate our local enemies. Then, at some point, we have to deal with those fanatical aliens. Only then can we enjoy the fruits of our labors.”

  “They will be all that much sweeter when we do, Stuart. The future will be spectacular!”

  “Fine. Keep me posted.” He ended the call.

  “Driver,” Marshall called out, “how long until we're there?”

  The driver pointed out the windshield. “It's right there, Mr. President. Shouldn't take us more than five minutes.”

  Marshall checked his watch. 11:35 p.m. He'd left it EST. To Duncan, he muttered, “We're cutting it pretty close.”

  “No worries, sir. We'll be perfectly safe. If there are any unexpected delays, you can always pause the attack until you're safe.”

  “Up to a point, yes. But…well, let's just hope it doesn't come to that.” To the driver, he said, “Tell the lead cars to step on it. We need to make better time.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  **********

  Twenty-five kilometers overhead

  “Al, can you confirm Marshall is in one of those cars about to reach the main entrance?”

  “Yes. He's in the fourth vehicle in the line. He just finished a call with General Thomas.”

  “ETA?”

  “The first vehicle will pass the gate in eight minutes.” There was a pause. “What are your orders, Captain?”

  “How far is it from the gate to the blast doors?”

  “Three hundred twenty-six meters.”

  “Here's the plan. On my command, I want you to project a bell jar-shaped membrane covering the mountain. The base will be fifty meters from the blast doors. Set the rim two meters deep in the ground. Can you do that?”


  “Aye, aye, Captain.”

  “How low will we have to be to make the field stable?”

  “One kilometer.”

  “Crap! I was hoping to be out of range. Okay, generate a second membrane between us and the base. Make it large enough that they can't get a straight shot at us. Be ready to shift the membrane if they try to maneuver a ground-to-air missile around it.”

  “And if they attack from above?”

  “Let's hope they don't. Still, be ready with a dome membrane to hold off any aircraft.”

  “You're aware that with those three membranes…”

  “I know. We'll be fully enclosed. Our exhaust will burn us to a crisp if we stay there very long.”

  “We could survive perhaps five minutes. No longer, Captain.”

  “If it comes to that. Alert me if things are about to go critical.”

  “Understood.”

  Sapale came up behind and put her arms around me. “Anything I can do?”

  I pinched her chin. “Just keep that beautiful face where I can see it.”

  She rolled her eyes. “You're well beyond intolerable.”

  “You're welcome.”

  **********

  The president's entourage shot past the open gate. A line of Jeeps flanked both sides of the road, machine gunners poised and ready. Several jet fighters thundered overhead, circling the Cheyenne Mountain Complex at low altitude. When the first car was fifty meters from the mountain's maw, it slammed to a halt. The front end crumpled, and the car slid sideways, coming to an abrupt stop. Steam spewed from the radiator, and the car alarm beeped frantically. The second car in line swerved to the right to avoid its wrecked companion, but the left side of the front loudly impacted some invisible barrier. All the other vehicles screeched to a stop just shy of the two battered cars. Everyone, including Marshall, poured out quickly in madding confusion. Guns were drawn. Curses echoed off the face of the mountain.

  “What the hell,” Marshall demanded of Duncan, “just happened?”

  “No idea, sir.” Matt pointed to a secret service agent and commanded, “You there. See what stopped the first car. Maybe it was a landmine.”

  The man sprinted forward. He bent to inspect the undercarriage of the first car while continuing at a dead run. He struck the membrane headfirst and collapsed limply. His neck was broken.

  Marshal took control. “You two, with me.” He led his squad slowly forward. As he neared the location the agent struck the barrier, he held his hands out in front of himself, swinging them from side to side. The others did the same. Marshall was the first to feel the membrane. He jumped back with a start after a light touch, as if shocked with electricity. “There's something stopping me,” he said to one soldier. “See if you can get a hand through it.”

  The soldier eyed his commander circumspectly for a heartbeat, then stepped cautiously forward, arms fully extended. When he contacted the membrane, he recoiled initially. Then he slammed the heel of his fist against it several times. He soon abandoned that tactic. Cradling his bloody hand in his other, he trotted back to Marshall. “Sir. There's an impenetrable, invisible barrier present.” He proffered his injured hand for Marshall to inspect. “I couldn't get through it.”

  “You there,” Marshall indicated to one of his personal guards, “see if you can put a bullet past that barrier.”

  From pointblank range, he fired one round from his pistol at the ground on the far side of the barrier. Instead of zinging off the asphalt where he anticipated it would, the bullet ricocheted and struck the dirt at his feet.

  “Someone tell me,” screamed Marshall, “what the fuck is going on.” He checked his watch. 11:47. “Shit,” he muttered to himself.

  Duncan instructed several men to run along the perimeter of the barrier to gauge its size. Men ran as far as they could in either direction, but no breach could be found. Marshall took a sidearm from a guard and fired several rounds above his head. They all bounced off the invisible surface. “Shit! Someone tell me what this damn thing is.”

  He consulted his watch again. 11:51. That's when his cellphone rang. His first instinct was to ignore it, but then it hit him. Only a handful of people had that number. All of them were either in the complex already or standing beside him in the confusion. He pulled the phone from his coat pocket. “What!”

  “Stuie! How's it hanging, dude?” Ryan's voice taunted him. “I'm guessing you're in quite a state, right about now. Am I right, am I right, am I right?”

  Marshall was, for once in his life, speechless. He was completely dumb struck. Of all the possible scenarios his mind could accept, that was the farthest from belief. He shook his head violently. “Ryan, you traitorous scum, what are you calling me for? Why, I have…”

  Jon cut him off. “Stuie, I don't think you have the luxury of time to cast dispersions my way. My chronometer reads 11:54 a.m. EST. In six minutes, you'll start World War III: The Final Conflict. That means the ground you currently stand upon will be fused glass, by way of retaliation, in less than half an hour. Your call, but I'd spend your diminishing moments more constructively. Hmm?”

  Reflexively, Marshall looked at his watch. “What do you want?”

  “I want to be taller. I want to be a star on the silver screen. I want, most of all, for you to drop dead immediately. What I'm calling you about, however, is this war thing you have planned. I have to say, I have an opposing viewpoint as to its wisdom.”

  “Ryan, cut the crap and get to your point.”

  “Probably a good idea. Here's how I see things. You're standing fifty meters from safety, completely exposed to the ICBM assault you know'll be there shortly. The only way to prevent you from becoming unlamented ash is to abort your attack. You now have less than four minutes to do so, if it's still possible, that is. Please do so now if you wish to continue personally making the world a less pleasant place to live.”

  “What's this damn barrier. Is this your doing, Ryan?”

  “Time's a-ticking, Stuie. Your time's a-tickin’.”

  Marshall nearly crushed his phone with primal rage. Then he hung up on Ryan and hit a preset icon. “General Thomas here.”

  “Abort the attack. Say again, abort the attack immediately. Do you copy?”

  “Stuart! Are you sure? This is our hour of ultimate triumph.”

  “I said abort, you half-witted idiot! Abort now!”

  “Yes, sir. Abort initiated.” The line went dead.

  Instantly, Marshall's phone went off. “What now?”

  “Did ya miss me?”

  “Ryan, I don't know what this's about or how the hell you pulled it off, but I promise you this. You will die slowly and painfully and at my hand for this insult. Do you hear me, Ryan? I'll see you suffer like a two-legged dog in the midday sun.”

  “I…I'm sorry, Stu. I was changing the holo channel. Stupid infomercial came on after the game. What did you say?”

  “Mock me, Ryan. Go ahead. Enjoy it while you can. But remember my promise to you.”

  “I'm just impressed I'm so important to a world-figure like yourself. I mean, that you would think about me, a simple citizen, so specifically and so passionately. My mother would be so proud of her little boy.”

  “Okay. You had your fun. What do you want?”

  “We just went over that. Are your circuits corrupted? All this excitement, maybe you developed a short?”

  Marshall took many slow, deep breaths. “What…do…you…want?”

  “What you just did. I want to stop you from killing us all. You're a megalomaniac. Worse yet, you're an insane, narcissistic megalomaniac. Buddy, that's the worst type there is.”

  “So? You stopped me for now. What's next? You going to tell me how you pulled this stunt off?”

  “And potentially spoil my next surprise? You're no fun at all! Oh, by the way, I do see the fighters have been directed my way. Don't suppose they're my honor guard, are they?”

  “How I hate you, Ryan. I hate you so completely.”


  “Ditto. Look, call them off, or they'll be just another futile sacrifice. You owe it to the pilots.”

  “No way, son. I could give a shit about those pilots. If there's one chance in a billion they can take you out, I get all warm and fuzzy.”

  “So be it. I'll call you back when I'm done.”

  “Maybe…” Marshall's phone went dead.

  “Al, you have that secondary membrane in place?”

  “Yes, Captain. It will, however, trap enough exhaust that we can only maintain it a few minutes.”

  “Slap the planes from the sky as quickly as possible. Then drop the air-membrane.”

  “Aye, aye.” A minute later, Al spoke. “Captain, six of seven fighters destroyed. The final one has moved out of range. It is flying in a broad arc around our position.”

  “Can we drop the rear membrane?”

  “Unwise, sir. A heat-seeking missile could loop behind and hit us.”

  “Crap. Wait! Can you form a membrane around a rock or around one of those vehicles and throw it at him?”

  “Hmm. Yes, possible. My accuracy will be…”

  “Do it! Keep hurling junk until you hit him.”

  “Aye.” Twenty seconds later. “Well I'll be damned. It worked, Captain. I hit the plane with a Jeep, and it went kaboom.”

  “Strong work, my boy! Drop the air-membrane and get me Marshall back on the line.”

  “Go ahead, Captain,” was Al's prompt response.

  “Stu, you there?”

  “Yes, I'm here. How did you do that?”

  “Spoiler alert! I'll tell you this because we're such good friends. When you're back in the Oval Office, I'll have the head of the UN call you. She'll begin a dialogue with your government to end this insanity. How's that sound?”

  “I will not be blackmailed, Ryan. The American people are not that easily purchased.”

  Jon waited ten seconds to speak. “You done sounding regal? Now that you're over that, listen up. Your only hope to remain relevant, not to mention alive, is to start cooperating. I'm thinking you're beginning to see we can pretty much act at will. You can play nice or you won’t be allowed to play at all. Got it?”

  “For now you win, son. I'll talk to the UN bitch. I'll even pretend to like it. But never forget my promise to you. You and I are immortal. We're forever enemies. Know this, son. I'll see you dead.”