Morrow shrugged. “Resistance heroes have security clearance as far as I’m concerned. Glad to have you join the party, Pete.” He glanced at his watch. “Isn’t it a tad early for you to be up and around, though, just to drive the lady over here? Nice boy, Pete.”
“Well, actually we had a late date, Mr. President,” Pete said sotto voce.
Lauren flashed a chilly glare at Pete and jabbed him in the ribs while the President stifled a knowing grin.
“Let’s go,” Katowski said, holding the elevator.
Lindstrom looked up when he heard the conference room door open.
“Olav!” Lauren scolded.
He spread his hands helplessly. The white-haired Secretary General of the United Nations had his suit coat draped over the back of his chair. He wore a white apron and had been caught in the act of carefully arranging croissants, Danishes, and a variety of other morning pastries on four trays around the long oval table. Coffee was already brewing in the machine and Styrofoam cups and plates were set neatly at each place.
“1 promised food would be ready,” Lindstrom said simply. There was no one else to do this.”
“Well, it’s not very dignified,” Lauren said in a huff. Lindstrom’s eyes sparkled. “I thought 1 looked rather fetching in this apron, but I can take it off if you’d prefer, Lauren.”
She shook her head and smiled.
Leonard Katowski cleared his throat rather obviously.
“Ah, yes, I believe that is our signal,” Lindstrom said, removing the apron and slipping into his jacket. He took his seat and the others followed his lead, reaching for the breakfast cakes as they reached for their chairs.
Morrow leaned on the table. “I’d like to thank you all for coming here,” he said as two UN staff aides and the perfectly tailored Livingston hurried in and sat down. “We got a report early this morning that the convoy transporting North Sea oil from Britain to here was attacked at dawn in the North Atlantic.”
The UN people and Pete made audible gasps at the news. “Are the ships safe?” Lindstrom asked first.
“Well, Olav, that’s something we just don’t know yet. Our last report didn’t tell us a whole hell of a lot. Just that they were under attack by about fifteen skyfighters and they’d taken measures to preempt the attack before the Visitors could take the offensive.”
They were interrupted by a knock at the open door. A young blond woman stepped in and paused. Katowski shoved his chair back in a quick motion, almost tipping it over. He waved, her in, his eyes homing in on the folder in her hands. “Jessi, what have you got?”
She handed him the folder, then seemed to hold her breath while he opened it. He scanned the top sheet and the tension around his eyes visibly slackened. Then he, too, seemed to hold his breath as he passed the folder to Morrow.
The President snatched it impatiently, furrows creasing his brow. A moment later his serious face split into a smile and he ruffled one hand through his thick mane of white hair.
“Good news, ever’body. The task force repulsed the attack. The Visitors never even got a clear shot at the tankers. The F-Fourteens and -Fifteens went at ’em, and then the guided-missile gunboats took their best shots. We shot down or severely damaged nine of the fifteen alien ships before they turned tail.”
“Did we suffer any losses?” Stuart Hart asked, concern etching his expression.
Morrow took a deep breath. “Yeah, Stu, I’m afraid we did. We lost seven planes, and those bastards sank one of the frigates. ” He paused to place the folder gently on the table and rub his eyes. When he spoke again, Morrow’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Thirty-five known dead, seventy-eight wounded on several of the ships, and a hundred crewmen from the frigate are listed as missing. Dammit.”
There was silence in the room.
“I am sorry, Mr. President. I’ve had UN troops killed that I sent to trouble spots. It is a terrible responsibility sending troops into battle,” Lindstrom finally said.
Morrow nodded absently. “Yeah, and I keep feeling like I should somehow be out there with ’em.”
“You have been,” Lindstrom said. “You and I have both been soldiers sent by other leaders to face death. We don’t do this lightly, but it is something we have to do. If I were a soldier today, I would feel better knowing my Commander in Chief had already been where he was sending me.”
“I guess you’re right, Olav. My brain tells me you’re right, but my gut tells me there’s gotta be another way.”
“There isn’t, sir,” Pete Forsythe said, “and you know it.” “Is there anything I can do to help?” Lindstrom asked. Morrow thought for a moment, his bushy silver brows settling into a deep and angry frown. “Yeah, there is. You still have that communications link to Diana, don’t you?”
The UN official nodded. “Yes, but we haven’t had much reason to use it. Lauren is the one who handles it.”
Lauren leaned forward. “It still works, Mr. President.” “Good,” Morrow growled. “Not that it’s gonna do a hell of a lot of good, but I want to at least give her an earful.”
* * *
“What an . . . interesting surprise,” said Diana, offering a chilly smile. “You’re looking well, President Morrow.” Morrow didn’t bother to return the smile. His manner was brusque. “Thank you for agreeing to accept this communication. But it’s not a social call,”
“I wasn’t even aware you had this equipment.”
Lauren recalled that the large video screen and terminal had been installed in those first heady days after the Visitors descended on the planet, enabling Diana and John, the supreme commander who later died at Diana’s hands, to keep in constant touch with the UN. Lauren also remembered the first time she’d had occasion to use it—the day her father had disappeared and the Visitors claimed his arrest as a part of the scientists’ conspiracy had been a bureaucratic error. The advanced communication station had been left behind with all the other equipment the Visitors couldn’t retrieve when they’d tied before the killing clouds of red dust.
The President impatiently waved off Diana’s attempt at small talk as he glared at her image on the screen. “This is an official diplomatic protest. Lord knows we’ve fought our share of savage wars on this planet, but even the war with the Nazis had rules of engagement both sides generally abided by. One of the rules was, no interference with civilian shipping.”
Diana laughed derisively. “President Morrow, if you’re referring to that convoy escorting your oil tankers in the North Atlantic—”
“That’s exactly what I’m referring to, Diana.”
She cut him off, the smile gone from her face and replaced with a sneer of ruthless authority. “Oil tankers may be civilian ships, Mr. President, but oil is a weapon of war for you humans. And any ship, truck, or pipeline that carries that oil is a fair target. If you surrender, I’d be willing to guarantee you a supply to keep your people warm during your winter season. We Visitors prefer warmth ourselves, as you know. But as long as you insist on continuing this foolish attempt at throwing us off this planet, we’ll do whatever is necessary to cut your supply lines. We will defeat you sooner or later. You know that. Meanwhile, I’ll leave you with one thought, President Morrow—it’s going to be winter soon. Consider how comfortable your people will be above the frostline, protected by the red dust, but freezing to death in the profound darkness of homes without power.”
At her end Diana reached for a control panel and her image on the UN screen blanked out .
“Shit,” Morrow said under his breath. He glanced at his aides and the UN people gathered at one side of the room. “Not much of an earful, was it?”
“You did what you could, sir,” said Len Katowski. “Which wasn’t a goddamned thing.”
The emergency session reconvened in Olav Lindstrom’s conference room, only now the topic was how to insure future supplies of oil. “Top priority,” Morrow said as he poured himself a fresh cup of coffee and carefully burrowed through the pastry pile, extracti
ng a cheese Danish and taking a large bite. “Like it or not, oil’s still black gold to us. It’s the lifeblood of the industrial north, and we have to keep those industries going if we ever hope to get rid of the Visitors.” Morrow’s eyes circled the table, silently and rapidly measuring the assembled advisers. They ranged from the former inner circle of his White House staff to the officials of the United Nations, to the casual Peter Forsythe, representing the invaluable resistance.
The President’s gaze came to rest on Gerald Livingston. The dapper national security adviser was a collector by nature, of fine five-hundred-dollar suits in his closet and facts in his mind. But it wasn’t merely an accumulation of knowledge that made Livingston so valuable to him—it was the man’s ability to analyze and arrange, using facts to illuminate problems and spotlight possible solutions.
“Gerry, what’s the current status of world supplies?” Livingston leaned back in his chair, voice cool and precise. “Well, sir, let’s start with home. The Alaskan fields are, of course, in our hands. Output near maximum, distribution difficult but proceeding with no major disruptions. But most of the remainder of our oil comes from wells in the Southwest and off the Gulf Coast. Sixty percent of that capacity has been lost to us because of territory being controlled outright by the aliens. Another thirty-five percent is disputed territory, also out of production. Just five percent is still producing, but distribution is spotty at best for obvious reasons—Visitor interference with truck and rail traffic and damage to pipelines.”
“Has that damage been intentional?” Morrow asked.
“For the most part, no, sir. A lot of it’s happened in the course of fighting. From all the intelligence we’ve been able to gather, the Visitors haven’t devoted much effort to actively cutting those pipelines.”
The President nibbled thoughtfully at the Danish. “Hm, go on.”
“Yes, sir—foreign supplies. North Sea fields are in good shape. But again, they’ve got similar problems in transporting their oil. The Soviet fields are secure—not too many Visitors heading up to Siberia.”
“Have the Soviets been giving any of their oil to anybody else?” asked Pete.
Livingston snorted like a teacher condescending to a slow pupil. “Giving? More like selling-—and then at their whim. Not a reliable source for anyone but themselves, I’m afraid. The Middle East is a real trouble spot, Mr. President. The red dust is next to useless there, and the Visitors have overrun most of the region. The Israelis are holding on to their little spit of land, and they and the Egyptians and Saudis have set their differences aside for the time being and have put together a combined force to protect the Saudi oil fields. So far they’ve been successful, but they’re surrounded by alien forces and it’s impossible to ship so much as a barrel out of there. That’s pretty much it—not a very encouraging picture.”
Secretary of Defense Hart drew his lips into a tight line. “We don’t know the facts of this morning’s raid yet, but I fear that Diana means what she said. If they step up their raids on our convoys, we won’t be able to rely on any foreign oil. I suggest we focus our energies, no pun intended, on securing greater amounts of oil closer to home.”
Draper took a pipe out of his briefcase, packed it with rich, cherry-scented tobacco, and lit it. He puffed twice, sending a fragrant plume drifting across the conference table. “Seems to me you’re not offerin’ much of a choice, Stu. If we don’t have the defense to protect overseas shipping, where the Visitors are also strung out, then we won’t have the defense to secure local supply lines either. Not with our land transport at the mercy of strong concentrations of alien firepower.”
Stuart Hart shrugged. “I never said we wouldn’t be between Scylla and Charybdis.” He arched his eyebrows as he glanced around the table, encountering more than one quizzical expression. “That’s between a rock and a hard place, for the less literary among us.”
The President narrowed his eyes. “I’m inclined to agree with Stu, Nick. Nobody ever said it’d be easy, but the closer to home our forces are, the better I think our chances are. Plus, working within our own country, we’ve got a few tricks to fall back on. Out on the high seas, those convoys are easy pickin’s.”
Pete Forsythe tentatively raised a finger. “I’m no expert, but it wouldn’t seem like we’d be able to resume oil production at wells right under Diana’s nose.”
“Good point, Peter,” Morrow said. “But I’m not talking about pumping new oil. I’m talking oil that’s already pumped. ”
Livingston nodded in anticipatory agreement. “The Strategic Reserve. ...”
“Right,” said Morrow.
Olav Lindstrom looked from one to the other. “I’m not familiar with that.”
“Not many people are,” the President said. “After the Arab oil embargo in ’seventy-three and -four, President Ford started this program. The idea was to build up a rainy-day supply in case our oil was ever cut off again.”
“I remember reading something about that,” said Lauren. “Wasn’t the plan to store up a six-month supply?”
Morrow nodded. “We’ve got about four months’ worth now.”
“Where?” asked Pete.
“Ahh, that’s the problem,” the President answered. “It’s stored in underground salt domes along the coasts of Texas and Louisiana.”
“Visitor territory,” Pete concluded glumly.
“That may be true,” Livingston said, “but as far as we can tell, they don’t know it’s there. These salt caverns are in very marginal areas—swampland and bayous. Not exactly prime real estate as far as the Visitors are concerned. No heavy industry, no major population centers, just oil wells that we abandoned when they invaded.”
Morrow stood, towering over the table. “What we’ve gotta do, ladies and gentlemen, is think of ways to sneak that oil out from under those lizard rear ends and get it into tanks in the North where we’ll have a fighting chance to protect it. Olav, your people don’t really have to worry about this, unless you’ve got some experts who want to kick in their two cents. Ail ideas’re more than welcome. But my people—this is your homework assignment for the day. Consider it the most important work you’ve ever had to do. Get your staffs on it first thing, and I want to see some useful plans by tomorrow morning at eight-thirty. ”
Chapter 4
For Lydia the uneasy alliance shared with Diana had its rewarding moments. Whenever Diana was off the bridge or, better yet, entirely off the Mother Ship, Lydia was in command. At those times the blond officer could almost imagine that her dark rival did not even exist. My ship, my mission. I’m supreme fleet commander now! But those moments were all too ephemeral, too easily shattered by the clicking of Diana’s boot heels as she’d strut onto the command deck.
Lydia had served under superior officers she didn’t like, others she didn’t agree with, but none for whom she’d had so little respect as Diana. She’d done some research into her commander’s background and knew Diana came from a political family. Her father had been a government minister and had somehow managed to survive coups and purges under several regimes. Diana’s mother had been a highly placed scientist and had likely been a role model for her daughter. In more ways than choice of vocation, apparently. Though no one had been able to prove it, Diana’s mother was suspected of being a very successful assassin, removing her husband’s rivals with clever and untraceable methods of murder.
It had surprised Lydia only slightly to learn that Diana’s father had himself died under mysterious circumstances, ending a marital union that had been unusually long-lasting in Visitor society. Naturally, rumors had made the rounds in the Leader’s court. It could have been Diana’s mother who’d killed him, but Tiirac had certainly made enough enemies on his own to dilute suspicions aimed at his mate. In the end it didn’t really matter, and the case had never been solved.
But Diana’s family history had made it abundantly clear to Lydia that she was dealing with an unusual breed when it came to her commander. It was a
matter of pride to Lydia that her own background was a military one. Her parents’ coupling had been purely for reproductive purposes, and she’d enrolled in the fleet academy at the earliest possible age. She’d risen to her prominent rank not by scheming like Diana, but by hard work, intelligence, and devotion to the cause of the homeworld.
Serving under Diana and other officers like her had taught Lydia some unwanted lessons, the most important of which was that honor was of low priority in the upper echelons of the Great Leader’s new army. Simply in order to protect herself and live through the swirl of intrigue surrounding this ill-starred expedition to Earth, she’d had to adapt. She held one central conviction like a sturdy shield—one day one of Diana’s schemes would backfire and she would be destroyed. I’ll be ready, Lydia thought. . . .
“Are you ready?”
Diana’s sharp voice intruded on the daydream. Lydia turned to face the commander, squaring her shoulders, her stance challenging Diana’s authority. “Yes. All ships report ready for Project Icewind.”
A cold smile crossed Diana’s lips. “Good.” She sat in the command seat at the center of the bridge and surveyed the crew at their stations around her. “Tie in to Icewind commanders,” she ordered.
Lydia’s fingers tapped out a sequence on the communications panel and the main viewscreen split into six parts. In each portion a face appeared, six officers awaiting Diana’s word. Under each, Visitor characters indicated the commander’s name and the location of his or her ship—Sergei, Soviet Union, a heavy black mustache drooping around his mouth; Ingmar, Sweden, with blond hair and pale features; Rathma, the swarthy female over India; Shogira, over Japan, his unmasked reptilian face smiling faintly; Haji, also without a human mask, above Iran; and Margaret, over Canada, a frown creasing her oval face. Diana thought briefly of the effort Supreme Commander John had put into creating human appearances and names to match the ethnic characteristics of the countries where the Mother Ships were to be stationed when they’d first arrived at the planet. All that, despite her urging that the invasion be swift and overwhelming, without wasting time on grand strategies of deception.
path to conquest Page 4