by Bob Mayer
He’d been there. He wasn’t a zero.
But what if he was?
ON THE FIRST DAY: SCOUTS OUT
EARTH ORBIT
There was a seventh landmass at the southern pole of the planet, but it was covered with a thick layer of ice and on the edge of the Scale’s environmental tolerances. There was Scale there, scattered, in small numbers and this was factored into the Drop, but there was no threat.
With two orbits completed, the Core began a third, equatorial orbit at a slower speed. Thousands of scout ships were launched to cover the entire surface of the planet in one massive wave. The scouts spewed forth, spreading out on line. A second wave was also launched, this one to shadow the first at a higher altitude.
From the North Pole to the South Pole around the circumference is a distance of 12,430 on the surface. The scouts were deployed at an altitude of two thousand feet above ground level, with one scout every quarter mile. This required almost 50,000 scout craft in each wave.
Each scout was round, eighty feet in diameter, with various probes extending from the body. They were unarmed. It took a while for all those ships to get on line, but time didn’t matter to a species that would spend millennia moving from one system to another.
The Core and scouts were over Europe on a fifth orbit before the recon line was complete, stretching from pole to pole.
The remnants of NATO air forces were the first to get a chance to engage the Swarm.
Surprisingly, and to the great relief of the pilots given the initial onslaught from the Core, the scout ships were easy targets. They didn’t attempt evasive maneuvers as the F-16s, Typhoons, Tornadoes, Mirages, Harriers and other fighters had what pilots called a ‘turkey shoot’. Hundreds of scout ships were hit by air-to-air missiles. They plummeted earthward. The pilots, encouraged, then expended all their gun ammunition with strafing runs along the line of scout ships.
Hundreds more scout ships went down. But as each one fell out of line, another descended from the second wave, to take their place.
There were only so many NATO fighters left and each carried only so much ordnance before having to return to what airfields remained viable. And each aircraft was carefully tracked by the scouts and the Core higher overhead, and the location marked.
While hundreds of scouts were shot down as the wave passed over Europe, tens of thousands still remained and the line was intact as it passed from over Europe and Africa to traversing western Asia and the Middle East.
The resistance was less, except for a mass of fighters surrounding Moscow that had escaped the first Core pass in their hardened bunkers and by heeding the last orders from High Command to not make an immediate assault.
The Russian pilots made the Swarm pay, but it was spare change to the aliens. The line continued. Occasionally some scouts would dive down to take a closer look at something that caught the Swarm’s attention.
The scout line passed over the Urals and then Siberia. Near the equator the devastation of the Asian Subcontinent was catalogued and the data fed back to the Core. Some scouts stayed so low they were consumed by the infernos that used to be cities, while others gained altitude and passed through the towering clouds of ash. The recon indicated there were still hundreds of millions of survivors outside of the major cities to be reaped.
In military terms it was a reconnaissance in force (RIF). An RIF is designed to elicit an aggressive reaction by the enemy that reveals strength, deployment and other critical tactical data. Additionally the RIF was thoroughly mapping the terrain, hydrography, and, most importantly, the population levels.
It seemed that by the time the line came over western China, the Scale military recognized the tactic and no aircraft rose to challenge the scouts.
The Swarm didn’t puzzle over the continued lack of response from China because the Swarm didn’t puzzle. It noted the fact as something to be considered. Thirty-eight nuclear emissions were noted. They weren’t weapons, but rather power-producing, indicative of life at the beginning of the middle part of Scale.
There was no indication of a power source capable of FTLT; the only ruby sphere had departed with the Airlia mothership.
However, given that the scouts were much lower, they also picked up other faint nuclear emissions and these were comparable to those of the weapon launches during the first two orbits. These locations were specifically noted for future targeting.
The scout line, with Core above, passed over the Pacific. While most military ships had been destroyed during the first two passes, a cluster was noted in the South Pacific and that data was recorded and the Drop adjusted to factor in those ships.
The North American continent revealed more nuclear weapons hiding in silos, indicating military power yet to be engaged.
MARFA, TEXAS
“Go get ‘em, boys!” Bobby hollered as two F-16s roared by, afterburners glowing, flying directly toward the scout ships approaching from the west at ten thousand feet.
From their perch in west Texas, Darlene and Bobby could only see several scouts. They had no clue that the line extended from pole to pole.
A jet peeled off toward the south, leaving only one heading directly toward the alien craft. With a puff of smoke, a missile leapt forth from underneath the right wing.
“It aint even dodging,” Darlene said.
The missile hit with a burst of flame. For a moment, the scout continued on its path, but then smoke billowed and it arced downward. The jet banked and headed north, out of sight.
“Darlene!” Bobby shouted. “That’s the US-fucking-army. No one fucks with us.”
“Air Force,” Darlene said.
“Whatever.” Bobby was watching the damaged scout through the scope on his rifle.
“We need to move.” Darlene didn’t need a scope. “It’s coming right for us, Bobby!” She took off running, Rex at her side. She spared a glance over her shoulder. “Bobby!”
Bobby lowered the rifle and blinked. “Oh, shit.” He sprinted after Darlene.
He barely made it as the scout ship slammed into the ground behind him, smashed the half-picnic table, tore through the trailer as if it were butter and finally came to a halt a hundred yards past, mostly buried in dirt and sand.
Darlene was breathing hard from the run. She stared at the smoking hole where their trailer had been. “You gotta be shitting me.”
FORT HOOD, TEXAS
First Sergeant Donovan had the remaining leadership of the company gathered at his track and was briefing them when an alert was verbally relayed from the westernmost observation post (OP) about incoming craft.
Alien aircraft.
“Mount up,” Donovan ordered.
The leadership ran back to their armored vehicles. Engines were cranked. Rounds were chambered.
Donovan assumed his position in the commander’s hatch in the turret of the Bradley. The back ramp rose and shut. He turned the turret to the west and waited. A line of dots was approaching. Too high to be engaged with the cannon. He was standing in the open hatch, the top half of his body exposed. He had ordered the other track commanders (TC’s) to keep watch around the perimeter so he could issue orders via hand and arm signals since radio transmissions appeared to bring fatal results.
He waved his hands, palm down, indicating no one was to fire.
A familiar sound filled the air.
Helicopters.
A flight of Apaches came roaring in and engaged the alien craft. Hellfire missiles and 30mm cannon fire blasted scout ships, sending several earthward. One hit the ground two kilometers to the southeast.
The rest of the alien craft kept moving east, not fighting back.
Donovan traversed the turret as he followed the action. The Apaches chased, firing everything they had until they either ran out of ammunition or the scout ships were out of range.
The helicopters returned to their FARPs- forward arming and refueling points.
Donovan keyed the intercom. “Head for that closest crash site.”
As his Bradley moved out, Donovan used hand and arm signals to indicate that two other tracks should follow, flanking him, and for everyone else to remain in place.
The three tracked vehicles moved swiftly toward the crash site.
“Put some rounds in it,” Donovan ordered his gunner to his left in the turret as the damaged orb came into view.
The 25 mm cannon began to fire, a popping sound, echoing in Donovan’s headset. He saw the rounds impact on the alien craft. Something was moving off to the left. One of the creatures that had been on the news, round body, thin wavering tentacles, was edging away.
Donovan took command of the turret, over-riding the gunner and fired the co-ax 7.62 machinegun. He used the tracers as his aiming point and walked the rounds up and into the alien. A split second later his gunner had also zeroed in and the large 25 mm rounds, designed to destroy enemy armor and even damage tanks, hit home.
The Swarm was blown to bits.
“Halt,” Donovan ordered.
The driver hit the brakes and the Bradley rocked to a stop on its suspension.
The flanking APCs also stopped, their turrets automatically turning outward to each side, providing security.
Donovan nodded. They’d been trained well.
“These fuckers don’t look too tough,” his driver said. “The Apaches took ‘em out like they were nothing. And I don’t see where that creature we blew apart is dangerous.”
Donovan leaned against the back of the hatch. Scanned the sky. Empty of alien craft and the Core was passing out of site to the east. “Too easy.”
“What was that, Top?” the driver asked.
“Nothing. Let’s get back to camp.”
SURVIVAL SILO, KANSAS
Tremble peered through the slit in the sniper’s nest on top of the silo cap. The advantage of being in the middle of Kansas was that the land was flat and he had a clear line of sight in all directions.
The clients were settling in to their condos with a mixed degree of astonishment that the doomsday plan they’d paid millions for was actually being enacted, and relief that they’d paid those millions.
The silo housed a nuclear Atlas missile from 1960 to 1964, then been decommissioned and left empty for decades. Tremble’s father had always preached ‘find a need and fill it’ and he’d happened on an article in a magazine about all these empty silos dotting the Midwest and combined that with the growing panic among the wealthy after Nine-Eleven.
It wasn’t just terrorism that was good for business. He estimated climate change was the leading impetus, along with the possibility of nuclear war. He was one of the few people to be cheered up when North Korea claimed the capability to reach the west coast of the United States. Queries from silicon valleys entrepreneurs had quadrupled.
He’d dredged up backers, the major ones guaranteed slots, bought the silo for a bit more than a song, and then set about turning it into the Survival Silo. Then he’d marketed it.
Tremble moved to another side of the small, square concrete bunker. It was on top of the concrete dome he’d had poured over the old blast doors. He’d had the doors left partly open to allow an elevator and staircase, both of which had their own, smaller and lighter blast doors, but still sufficient to keep at bay any of the threats he envisioned as possible.
Alien invasion had not been high on the list. Actually, it had not been on the list at all.
There were fourteen condos in the silo, along with a bunkroom for him and his security staff. There was enough food stored to feed everyone for five years in the supply rooms. He’d designed the interior using plans from high end yachts, with an emphasis on comfort and luxury in a small space, because the least expensive condo in the silo cost six million and people who had that money to spend on a possibility were used to both and had certain expectations.
Tremble squinted. There was a cloud of dust over the horizon, on the dirt road that led to the nearest paved road. It should be his armored vehicle, the Beast, coming back with the last of the clients after picking them up at the airfield at Salina, forty miles away.
Or?
He grabbed the landline. “Jack? Get up here.”
Tremble’s background didn’t extend beyond the entrepreneurial. They were past the marketing and selling stage and it was time for a different type of expertise.
Jack came up the stairs, heavy boots thudding. Tremble had recruited Jack based on a sterling resume: former SEAL, six combat tours in Iraq and Afghanistan, highly decorated, yada, yada. He’d been a pain in the ass ever since the hire to the point where Tremble had considered letting him go, because he had argued against a number of necessary business decisions. Jack’s take had been that some of them negated the purpose of the place. Tremble’s reality was that the place had to make money or there was no purpose.
“Whatcha got?” Jack asked.
“Something’s coming.”
Jack put his custom-made assault rifle to his shoulder and squinted through the scope. “Anything on the radio? The Beast?” Jack nodded toward the handheld hanging on a hook. He was referring to the armored vehicle bought from a police department at auction, Tremble had always prominently parked outside the Silo when bringing in prospective clients.
Tremble grabbed the FM radio. “Beast, this is Home. Over.” He released the send. There was a crackle of static then nothing for several seconds.
“That’s a lot more than one vehicle,” Jack said with such conviction that Tremble didn’t dare question the deduction.
The radio crackled. “Home, this is Beast. We’ve got the last package. And we’ve got a shitload of civilians trailing us. All the way from Salina. Hundreds of ‘em.”
“Fuck,” Jack muttered as the Beast crested the horizon, racing all out toward them. It was a wheeled armored vehicle, designed more for police use than military. But Tremble had gotten a good price on it, applied a paint job, and shined it up.
Right behind it the first SUVs, pick-ups and cars appeared.
“Civilians,” Jack muttered. “Lots of them.”
Tremble grabbed the binoculars. A silver Land Rover was in the lead, closely pursued by an endless line of others.
“Told you to keep this place quiet,” Jack said.
“I had to get publicity to sell,” Tremble said. “We’ll button up once the Beast is in.”
“You saw those little alien ships go by?” Jack shook his head. “They were scoping things out. These people camp on top of us, you think those many-armed fuckers in that big ship are going to ignore this place?”
“We planned for this,” Tremble said. “We button up once we get the last clients in. The civilians will go away.”
“Eventually,” Jack agreed. “Maybe. But maybe not. The fucking Rubicon has been crossed, Tremble. You better get your brain wrapped around that. My advice, as your security expert, is don’t let the Beast in. We go down and seal now.”
“We let them in,” Tremble said. “We have to.”
“Then I have to do my job, despite your stupidity.” Jack cursed and leaned his assault rifle against the wall. He opened the cover on a panel, revealing numerous toggles.
Tremble opened his mouth to protest, but stopped. He didn’t agree, but he couldn’t disagree.
“Open the garage doors,” Jack ordered.
Tremble didn’t argue this temporary assumption of command by the former SEAL. He hit the button and the heavy doors beneath the cap swung open on hydraulic arms. There was just enough space inside for the Beast and the entrance to the elevator.
Jack reached out and took the radio from Tremble. “Beast, this is Jack. Are you buttoned up? Hatches closed? Over.”
“Roger that. Over.”
“Keep your heads down. Get ready for some bangs. Out.”
The Beast was a hundred yards away.
“See that red pole?” Jack asked. “You never asked me why it was there.”
Tremble remained quiet. The Beast passed the red pole, the first SUV hot on its
tail. Tremble had noticed the pole several times. He hadn’t wanted to know what it represented, same as the panel. He’d just signed off on the requisitions as Jack had put them in front of him over the past year.
The Land Rover reached the pole and Jack flipped the toggle as it went past. A claymore mine exploded, blasting the vehicle with over 700 steel ball bearings, some of the balls bouncing off the armored side of the Beast right in front of the Land Rover. It primarily hit the Land Rover
Blood splattered the windows of the SUV on the opposite side from the mine and it rolled to a stop. Jack flipped three more toggles and claymores on alternating sides of the road further out fired in relay taking out a dozen following vehicles.
Tremble’s ears were ringing from the explosions. He shook his head, trying to clear the noise. He looked through the binoculars. There was no sign of movement. There was a dust cloud, but it was moving away.
The Beast roared into the garage.
“Shut the doors!” Jack yelled.
Tremble hit the command. The heavy doors swung shut with a solid thud.
“We’re safe,” Jack said. “For now. They’ll be back. When things get worse.”
“Why do you think things will get worse?” Tremble asked, his stomach churning as he surveyed the carnage.
“They always do,” Jack said, closing the top of the panel. “Murphy’s Law. You better welcome on last clients. I’ll keep watch.”
Tremble climbed down through the hatch into the garage. The paint job was ruined. But the armor had held. The rear doors swung open revealing a man, woman and two children. He was the CEO of a major Silicon Valley conglomerate, worth over 10 billion and had flown his private jet to Salinas.
Tremble had never gotten around to getting a landing strip for jets finished nearby. That was scheduled to be done in six months.
“Mister Perry!” Tremble said.
Perry was dazed. “What was that? Felt like we got hit with a sledgehammer.”