Excalibur a5-6

by Robert Doherty

  Shoving the reports aside, the Secretary General stood and began pounding on the podium with a gavel. He continued for over a minute until the noise in the General Assembly gradually subsided.

  “Enough.” The single word echoed though the hall. He held up a single finger. “We will vote in one hour.”

  Pacific Ocean, Southeast Of Midway

  The USS Seawolf was Admiral Kenzie’s second trip wire and the only one remaining as he pulled in his air cover, hoping that he had diverted the Alien Fleet to the north. Located eighty-seven nautical miles southeast of Midway, the Seawolf was the most advanced submarine in the world, designed from the first concept with only one mission in mind: kill other submarines.

  There were several key elements designed into the submarine to allow it to do that task efficiently and with minimum risk. The first was the emphasis on quiet. From the specially shaped propellers, to the rubber coating covering the entire ship that minimized water disturbance when moving, to the shape of the craft itself, everything about Seawolf was focused on making as little noise as possible.

  It was also capable of diving deep. The exact depth was classified, and even the crew didn’t know how far down they could go. On trials the captain had taken the sub down below three thousand feet with no problems. Beyond that, safety constraints limited their testing but it was felt the modular hull might even be able to go down to five thousand feet, far beyond any other submarine’s range.

  For weaponry, the Seawolf boasted Tomahawk cruise missiles with which it could target 75 percent of the Earth’s land surface, and MK-48 torpedoes with both conventional and nuclear warheads with which to destroy other vessels. Surprisingly, the Seawolf was relatively small. Just 353 feet long, it wasn’t much longer than the first submarine of the same name that went to battle during World War II. Considering that the rear two-thirds of the sub were taken up by the nuclear power plant, engine room, and environmental control systems, the crew of 134 men was crowded into the front one-third. However, with a beam of over forty feet, it was twice as wide as those earlier subs.

  Speed was another factor. Its nuclear power plant could propel it at over thirty-five knots, faster than any other submarine it expected to encounter. However, as those who had faced the alien threat had already found out, expectations were useless.

  “We’ve got two bogeys,” the targeting officer called out, relaying a report from the sailors monitoring the submarine’s passive listening devices. “Range seventy miles.”

  “Direction?” the captain demanded. “Tracking — tracking — straight at us, sir.” “Speed?”

  The targeting officer relayed the question. When he got the answer from the sonarman he was disconcerted and repeated the question while the captain waited impatiently.

  “Eighty-seven knots, sir. They’re loud — some sort of water-pressure propulsion as near as we can determine.”

  “Bring us up to missile launch and surface scan depth,” the captain ordered. His primary weapon against other submarines, the MK-48 torpedo, was an impressive combat system. Over nineteen feet long and weighing almost four thousand pounds, the MK-48 had a range of five miles. However, the torpedo’s speed was thirty-five knots, more than sufficient to track down any other normal submarine but almost useless against those which were approaching. “Plot interception angles on both targets,” the captain ordered as he pondered the situation. If the bogeys picked up his shots, they could easily outrun the torpedoes. If he didn’t fire, they would be at Midway in an hour and most likely attack the fleet shortly thereafter.

  They certainly hadn’t ever presented this tactical problem at the Naval Academy or the various schools the captain had attended over the course of his career. He was reasonably confident his ship hadn’t been detected, as neither bogey had changed direction, and he was running silent and in place.

  “At launch depth,” the targeting officer informed him. “Underwater bogeys, fifty-two miles.”

  “Give me a surface scan,” the captain ordered.

  “Multiple surface targets bearing one hundred degrees at eighty-seven miles. Two carriers at least. Course same as bogeys.”

  The Alien Fleet. They hadn’t been fooled, the captain realized. Two problems. At least the advance subs were probably ahead of the shield.

  “Forty-three miles,” his targeting officer announced. “I’ve plotted intercept vectors for the MK-48s but once they detect our launch—” He left the rest unsaid.

  “We need to launch now,” the captain said. “Sir, they’re out of range.”

  “Here’s the plan,” the captain began. As he rapidly issued his orders, his crew sprang to life, implementing them.

  “Thirty-five miles,” the targeting officer announced, sliding his arming key into the slot at his position. “We’re green on torpedoes and missiles and at launch depth.”

  The captain reached under his shirt and pulled out his own key and inserted it. “Arm,” he ordered. Both men turned at the same time. The other two launch safeguards had already been initiated when they went to combat alert and a red light flashed as all four were now set.

  “Launch,” the captain ordered.

  The submarine vibrated as torpedoes roared out of their tubes and a half dozen Tomahawk cruise missiles fired upward, one after another.

  “Dive,” the captain ordered as the last missile left its launcher.

  “Twenty-two miles,” the targeting officer reported.

  “Let’s see how smart these alien machines are,” the captain muttered to himself as the floor of the control room sloped forward as the Seawolf headed into the depths. The sound of the Tomahawks should have covered up the noise the torpedoes made leaving the tube. The torpedoes were set for their slowest and quietest speed. As the Tomahawks arced upward into the sky, the torpedoes were headed out at right angles, not on a direct intercept course with the bogeys but in a direction to get to their projected paths before they arrived.

  “Underwater, seventeen miles. Time to target on Tomahawks, two minutes.”

  * * *

  Just less than eighty-seven miles to the southeast of Seawolf, the Alien Fleet was steaming at flank speed. The two super-carriers flanked the Jahre Viking, which was in the process of spitting out two more Springfield clones. In the front was the resurrected Arizona, with Captain Lockhart on the bridge. She’d received the report from the two submarines running point for the fleet of the cruise missile launch and her crew was tracking the incoming missiles.

  * * *

  “Launch decoy,” the Seawolf’s captain ordered.

  From the top deck, a small submersible was fired out of a tube. It went up to fifteen hundred feet and slowly began circling as it emitted the same signal a Los Angeles class submarine would.

  “Level out,” the captain ordered as they reached three thousand feet depth.

  “Eight-point-seven miles,” the targeting officer reported. “They’ve adjusted course, homing on decoy.”

  “Our torpedoes?”

  “In place, halted.” Despite all the sophisticated computers crammed into the operations center, the targeting officer was looking at an old-fashioned stopwatch, checking it against his computer display.

  “Tomahawks, five seconds.”

  * * *

  Lockhart saw the explosions, one right after another as the six cruise missiles hit the shield and detonated, a half mile in front of her. The shield absorbed the blasts and then all was still.

  Two modified Los Angeles class submarines slipped out of the Jahre Viking and the Alien Fleet continued toward Midway.

  * * *

  “Sonar reports torpedo doors opening,” the targeting officer reported. He checked his watch. “Five seconds.”

  The captain nodded. He had assumed that the alien submarines would attack “by the book.” Now he would find out if he was correct.

  “Three. Two. One.”

  “Detonate!” the captain ordered.

  * * *

  Unshielded, both ali
en submarines took the full brunt of torpedoes detonating less than two hundred meters from each. The Seawolf’s guess as to their paths once they detected the Tomahawk launch had been correct. Metal crumpled, seawater flooded in.

  “We’ve got two breaking up,” the targeting officer excitedly relayed from the sonarman. “Two bogeys down!”

  A cheer rose in the operations center, to be immediately squelched by the captain’s shout. “At ease!” When the yelling subsided, he spoke. “Remember there were probably sailors on those subs. Men who used to be like us.” Sure that had sunk in, he ordered the submarine to surface-scan depth.

  “Report.”

  The targeting officers face was grim. “Surface contacts, seventy-eight miles. No change.”

  The captain nodded. As expected. “Plot us a course back to Midway and the fleet. We’ve done what we can.”

  Airspace, Gulf of Mexico

  Sherev looked out the window of the Osprey and saw the apparently abandoned oil rig to their left. The engine nacelles on the end of the wings slowly began rotating from forward into the upright position. He’d flown in an Israeli Air Force Learjet across the Mediterranean, refueling in the Azores and then across the Atlantic, before landing at the airfield Garlin had indicated for him to go to. A half dozen men clad in black fatigues and swaddled in body armor were seated along both sides of the craft. They were members of Unit 269, the most secret and elite unit in the Israeli army.

  Five of the commandos carried Heckler & Koch MP-5 submachine guns. While the venerable Uzi was homegrown, these men were more concerned with functionality and accuracy. The sixth man also had an H & K gun — the PSG-1 sniper rifle.

  In the center of the cargo area, the Ark of the Covenant was packed inside a large plastic case. A second, smaller case held the priest’s garments that had been recovered from beneath the Great Sphinx in Egypt.

  Sherev had not bothered to inform his government of his decision to bring the Ark to America. There was so much going on around the world, he had a strong feeling he wouldn’t be missed for a while. He’d defended Israel for decades against enemies in all directions, but recent events had caused him to reevaluate his focus, and he had been forced to admit that the threat to the planet was greater than the threat to Israel.

  With a slight bounce, the Osprey landed. The door to the pilot’s compartment had been locked when it landed at the airfield and the cargo compartment empty when the back ramp came down. Sherev was irritated with this arrangement. If the Ark of the Covenant was so important, someone should have greeted them.

  The back ramp slowly lowered and Sherev stood. Four of the commandos raced off the plane, taking up defensive positions around the landing pad. The other two picked up the case holding the Ark, while Sherev got the smaller case. He nodded and they walked off the plane. As soon as they were clear the ramp closed and the aircraft roared off into the sky.

  A door slid open in an elevator housing directly in front of them. Sherev hesitated. He could smell the salt water of the Gulf. And as the Osprey dwindled into a small dot in the distance, silence reigned. There was no one about. Reluctantly Sherev nodded toward the open door. He pointed at the sniper and gave him a thumbs-up. The sniper went over to the abandoned tower and began climbing up to get an overwatch position. With the other five commandos and the two cases, Sherev entered the elevator. The door slid shut and the elevator began descending.

  Sherev stepped back as the five commandos aligned themselves in front of him, weapons at the ready, facing the door. The elevator came to a halt.

  Sherev cursed as he heard a noise behind him and what he had thought was a wall was obviously a door. He spun about, pistol at the ready. The silhouette of a man stood there, strangely bisected by what appeared to be a waist-high table the width of the elevator in front of him.

  Behind the man — Sherev’s finger was on the trigger, but what he saw behind the man froze him in shock and horror. And that was all it took as what he had thought was a table shot forward, the front edge composed of razor-sharp black metal.

  The front edge hit Sherev in the stomach, slicing through his body with little regard for flesh and bone, continuing through the elevator. The top half of Sherev’s body tumbled onto the case holding the Ark of the Covenant. The five commandos were also cut in half as they turned around, trying to get a shot off. It was over in less than a second.

  Through the physical shock Sherev knew he was dying, blood pumping out of his torso. Despite that, his mind kept replaying what he had seen behind the man. As his last breath left his lungs he experienced a fear far beyond anything his worst nightmares had ever produced. His last thought was that he was glad that he would be dead and never have to see or face that vision again.

  Mount Everest

  Turcotte halted at the base of the Second Step and looked up. One hundred feet. Impossible. He squinted, trying to see through his partially frozen goggles. There were pitons set in the ice wall, each about four feet apart. He reached up, not quite believing what he was seeing, his gloved hand touching the closest one. He automatically reached down, pulled up the rope, and attached it to a snap link and onto the piton. He kicked his right foot into the ice wall and, pulling on the rope, levered himself up two feet.

  He glanced over his shoulder. Mualama was waiting for him to get high enough before following. The African had been extremely quiet since they’d left the United States. Since getting on the mountain Turcotte had been so focused simply on surviving he had paid scant attention to the former Watcher. And there was no time to worry about him now. Turcotte took another snap link and piece of sling, reached above his head, and clipped in.

  Qian-Ling

  Artad placed his hands on the side of the guardian and was encompassed in its golden glow. His forces had landed in Turkey and were heading for the cavern holding the second mothership and, more importantly, the Master Guardian. South Korea was a morass. The surprise use of nuclear weapons by the Americans had shut the western corridor. Troops were making progress on the eastern side of the peninsula, but slowly. Artad cared little. The entire campaign was a distraction. The same with Taiwan, where his forces were advancing slowly against the shrewd defenders. He realized now that he should have sent Chi Yu with his Kortad to Ararat, not to aid in the invasion of Taiwan. He considered the mistake a result of not having fully recovered from his long hibernation and acting too quickly. He issued an order for the shield generator to be off-loaded onto a ground transit and for Chi Yu to return to Qian-Ling for his personal use. And for more of the “flying dragons” to be uncrated by his Kortad.

  The humans fought brutally among themselves, Artad noted. The history of the planet since he had gone to sleep indicated that mankind had spent its existence in constant warfare. A species warring against itself was a rare thing in the cosmos. Very rare, but Artad was not surprised.

  He continued to review the situation.

  Mars.

  There was a reply from the Airlia trapped at Cydonia.

  They would consider his proposal of an alliance if he promised amnesty, giving his word as an officer of the Kortad as his bond.

  Only consider if he gave his word? What choice did they have? Artad reined in his anger and sent a reply.

  Mount Ararat

  Yakov felt like an ant, an odd emotion considering that he had always towered over most men. But walking underneath the mothership he realized how truly puny man and his achievements were compared to the Airlia. The mothership could swallow a dozen supercarriers with no problem. And it flew, not just in the atmosphere, but through interstellar space. He could not imagine such a massive thing actually lifting out of the cradle of black metal it rested on. It was just too large. He noted that smaller Talon spacecraft were attached to the nose of the mothership, their large size dwarfed by the ship they clung to.

  “Where’s the Master Guardian?” Major Briggs asked.

  Yakov was startled out of his awe. He pulled out the papers he’d retrieved from the
Iranian general. “This way.”

  * * *

  The Chinese entered the cave firing, not caring if their bullets struck men, women, or children. The Kurds fought bravely, but were overwhelmed by superior firepower. Once the last Kurd was struck down, the Kortad entered, swords in hand. They decapitated all the bodies, even though they were obviously dead. Then they headed for the back of the cave and the tunnel that led to the mothership.

  * * *

  Yakov arrived at one of the massive braces that held the ship up. It consisted of a single arc of b’ja, the black metal used by the Airlia, and was over ten feet in width and depth. According to the paper, an entrance to the ship was in the metal at ground level, but Yakov saw nothing. He hadn’t expected to, given that the American scientists had spent decades searching for a way into the mothership hidden at Area 51.

  He checked the paper, then held it up while he looked at the brace. He pressed the Watcher ring against the spot indicated. The outline of a door appeared, over eight feet high by four wide. It slid up to reveal a room six feet in diameter.

  “Going up?” Yakov looked at Briggs and Kakel.

  CHAPTER 17: THE PRESENT

  South Korea

  Colonel Lin fell to his knees and vomited. He was at the objective, Seoul, but it was a Pyrrhic victory. He staggered to his feet and looked about the empty downtown street. There were few dead on the streets, which was strange given that the nerve gas assault must have killed millions. He assumed most had crawled inside to die. He continued to move forward, even though he led no men. Most had been killed fighting north of the city and then when the mushroom clouds had appeared in the south, even the rigid discipline of the PKA had fallen apart and the rest had slunk away into the darkness of the previous evening.