The Armageddon Directive

by Dayton Ward

  To that end, Bel had dispatched Vin, disguised as a human male military officer, to retrieve the human female. Learning whatever secrets she possessed would be an even simpler task than manipulating General Crane. At least, that had been the plan, but now there appeared to be complications.

  “Someone must have interfered.” Bel began pacing back and forth across the room. Had Vin’s true identity been compromised? There was no way to be certain. Even with the safeguard protocol, which would ensure the incineration of Vin’s body so that there would be no remains to be studied by human doctors or scientists, it was still possible that suspicions could have been raised about the operative’s true mission. If that was the case, then the entire operation currently underway in Kansas City was at risk. The rest of Bel’s team there would likely be awaiting instructions from him, and with this new risk of detection, time now was of the essence.

  Contemplating this as he continued his pacing, Bel realized he had paused before the mirror on the far wall, and he took note once again of Veronica Lincoln’s unclothed body. The human female’s appearance was beginning to change. The perfect skin he had cultivated to facilitate this disguise now showed wear, dropping and wrinkling in far too many places. His facial features, at one time so captivating to such pathetic specimens as General Crane, were distorting. It would soon be time for another injection of the drugs he and the other operatives used to alter their appearance as well as to survive in this planet’s alien atmosphere.

  Could those medications be the source of his issues? Bel had been using them almost continually since his arrival on Earth, and for far longer than any other covert agent. The doctors who had trained him in the use of these compounds had mentioned no side effects so long as they were properly used. Despite such assurances, Bel was forced to admit that taking the drugs produced a feeling of invigoration unlike anything he had ever experienced. Was he becoming addicted? It would certainly explain a great many things.

  Pushing away the unwelcome thoughts and questions, Bel returned to the table and retrieved Crane’s briefcase, unlocking it with the key he found in the general’s trousers. Inside was a collection of file folders, along with writing instruments and other miscellaneous papers that were of little or no value. It was the folders and their contents Bel wanted.

  “They are planning upgrades to their radar network,” he said to himself, after spending several moments perusing the folders and their assortment of reports, charts, and photographs, all of which pertained to the facility in Kansas City over which General Crane presided as the base’s commanding officer. Bel had suspected something like this might be coming, though such information, like so much about the radar installation itself and its related activities, was a closely guarded secret. Modifications to the computers and other systems that supported the radar center’s operations was the focus of the meetings Crane had attended, and which had drawn Bel’s interest as part of his larger covert reconnaissance effort here on Earth. With this in mind, he had followed Crane to Washington and had waited for the general to obtain specific data regarding the upgrade before making the move to seduce and replace him.

  Though agents like Bel were scattered around the world, the Martian High Command had surmised from its initial surveys of this planet that only a handful of nations posed any real chance of offering resistance to invasion. Even those efforts would be futile, of course, but military commanders had underscored the need to understand the people of Earth in order to formulate the best plan for attack. Underestimating the humans had already proven costly during earlier scouting efforts. The High Command had dispatched a handful of individual survey missions at varying intervals since learning that the inhabitants of this planet were progressing to a state of technology that might one day make them a threat.

  This concern only deepened once it was learned the humans had developed atomic weapons and were now making their own first, tentative reaches into space. How long before their rate of advancement put them in a position to attack the home world? There was no way to be certain, but the Martian Empire’s foremost scientists hadn’t expected the humans to achieve spaceflight capability for decades, if not longer. Their rapid advancements came in the wake of a handful of Martian scouts having gone missing during previous excursions to Earth, including at least one, Javal Ris, who had disappeared just a year earlier. This had triggered speculation as to whether Ris or any of the others had been captured and interrogated. If this was the case, then what knowledge might military scientists be gleaning, and to what extent might such information be used against the empire?

  “They’ll probably just use it to destroy each other, or themselves.”

  It was an observation he had made more than once since his arrival here. The planet’s two largest factions, the United States and the Soviet Union, seemed locked in to a collision course toward annihilation now that both had discovered the secret of atomic weapons. In some ways, this was preferable, for if the humans obliterated themselves, then they would never pose a serious threat to the Martian Empire. However, a protracted nuclear engagement might prove harmful to the planet itself. While Earth’s usefulness as a wellspring of resources might be impacted, the empire’s own scientists had decreed that a limited atomic conflict would not pose any enduring harmful effects, at least not to the Martians. Humans, of course, were another matter.

  Smiling, Bel returned the files and documents to Francis Crane’s briefcase before turning his gaze on the general’s corpse.

  “This is why we’re going to make them do it to themselves.”

  It was time to put the plan into motion.

  Chapter 5

  As usual, the coffee tasted like crap, but Tanner drank it anyway. It would suffice until he found his way to that bottle of bourbon in his apartment. In fact, he was giving serious thought to picking up a second bottle on the way home. That might be enough to drown the events of the day.

  Sounds like a good start.

  “Agent Tanner? Are you all right?”

  It took him a moment to realize that he’d allowed his mind to drift while sitting across from Danielle Sutherland at the meeting room’s scuffed wooden table. Blinking several times, he cleared his throat and sat up in the uncomfortable metal straight-back chair. In doing so, he all but spilled the contents of the coffee mug in his left hand.

  “Sorry,” he said, setting the mug on the table and shifting his position in the chair so that he once more looked directly at Sutherland. “I guess I’m just tired.”

  “That’s understandable,” replied Sutherland, taking a puff of the cigarette she held in her right hand. Thanks to the assistance of Katherine Corey, one of the two female agents assigned to the field office, Sutherland now wore a clean blue dress that more or less fit her, and her blonde hair was held in a high ponytail at the back of her head. On the table before her was a ceramic mug Tanner had found in the office kitchen area, and that now contained more of the same putrid coffee he was drinking. As though signaling her displeasure, Sutherland flicked ash from her cigarette into the cup.

  Tanner forced a smile. “Not a fan of the coffee, I take it.”

  “Do they teach you FBI guys understatement at the academy?”

  “There may have been a chapter on it, somewhere.” Flipping through the notes and other papers he’d brought with him into the meeting room, Tanner blew out his breath. “Listen, I understand that you take your job seriously, but I have to tell you that this sort of thing’s not going to fly with my bosses.”

  He’d listened with varying degrees of patience as Sutherland had described mysterious lights in the sky above Richards-Gebaur Air Force Base, along with what she called the odd “comings and goings” of various individuals—including Major Stephen Walker—from the base’s large, imposing blockhouse-style building, which was surrounded by a security fence and monitored by guards. At first, Tanner had dismissed her claims as paranoia,
but he now found himself considering the possibility that she and her partner, Phil Morehouse, had witnessed something improper taking place on the base. He wasn’t ready to buy in to the notion of aliens and spaceships, but was it possible the tabloid journalists had stumbled onto actual espionage or even treason? As unpleasant a possibility as that was, Tanner knew it wouldn’t be without precedent. The FBI and other American law enforcement and intelligence-gathering agencies had apprehended their share of spies and turncoats in the years following the Second World War and in the midst of ever-increasing tensions between the United States and the Soviet Union.

  But what about Walker and his blood? And that bomb he was carrying? That was like no grenade or mine or explosive you ever saw. Not even the military has anything like that.

  Such thoughts were still nagging him when the meeting room’s door opened to admit Wayne Cushman. Ten years older than Tanner, the senior agent wore his age within the deep creases and frown lines mapping his dark-skinned face. His once-black hair was threaded with gray and receding at the temples and forehead, and his waistline had gone soft. He looked tired, and in utter defiance of bureau dress code regulations, he wore no suit jacket and the sleeves of his white dress shirt were rolled up to his elbows. His collar was open, his gray-blue tie was loosened, and he carried a .38 revolver in a weathered, black leather cross-draw holster resting on his left hip. All things considered, Cushman looked like hell.

  “Tanner,” said Cushman by way of greeting. “A word, please.”

  Excusing himself, Tanner left Sutherland alone in the meeting room, closing the door behind him as he stepped into the hallway. With a quick glance through the door glass to where Sutherland remained at the table, he eyed Cushman. “You got something?”

  “How are you holding up?” asked the senior agent, his New Orleans drawl lacing every word.

  Tanner released a sigh, shaking off the image of Charlie Bryant lying dead on the floor of Danny Sutherland’s office. “I’ll be all right. I know you’re going to suggest I take some time to make sure my head’s on straight, but I’d rather keep working if it’s all the same to you.”

  Cushman said nothing for a moment, as though considering the pros and cons of this request, and then finally nodded. “Okay, but if I think you’re losing the handle, I’m sending you home.”

  “Deal.” Tanner folded his arms. “So, did you find anything?”

  “A headache.” The senior agent rolled his eyes. “I hate the air force. Come to think of it, I hate the military.”

  “Probably shouldn’t have spent all those years with them, then,” said Tanner.

  Cushman scowled at him. “You’re one to talk.”

  “Hey, boss, I did my hitch, then got the hell out.”

  It wasn’t the first time the subject had come up between the two men. While Tanner had been one of five guys pulled from a line of army draftees and sent to a bus bound for Marine Corps boot camp before spending most of his two-year commitment in Korea, Wayne Cushman had spent more than fifteen years as a soldier, beginning his career as a cook two years before the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor and the United States’ subsequent entry into the Second World War. He later saw action in Europe, but managed to remain stateside as a military policeman during the conflict in Korea. After finishing college by attending night school while still on active duty, Cushman had brought his experience and his new degree in criminal justice to the FBI, a rarity among men and women of color. Whereas Tanner’s military past still tended to influence his perspective and even his interactions with certain people, Cushman had done his best to leave that part of his life behind, going so far as to keep his office free of anything even resembling a memento from his time in the service.

  “I’ve been on the phone with the public affairs officer down at R-G,” said Cushman. “According to them, Walker’s been AWOL for the past couple of days. We already know the guy’s involved with some pretty interesting stuff, particularly inside that SAGE combat center, so him being gone for any length of time raises eyebrows and makes testicles go burrowing.”

  Tanner knew from the senior agent’s preliminary briefing earlier in the day that the building that had so interested Danny Sutherland was home to elements of the North American Air Defense Command, including one of the combat centers for NORAD’s Semi-Automatic Ground Environment, a nationwide radar network. The SAGE centers were fortified and well guarded, and with good reason, as NORAD and its subordinate commands were the ultimate line of defense against any Soviet-launched nuclear strike. With tensions between the United States and the Soviet Union running high in Vietnam, as well as in other regions around the world, there was an ever-present danger of spies attempting to obtain classified information from any available source. Both the military and the FBI were conscious of these fears here at home, while the CIA battled such threats abroad.

  Nodding to where Danny Sutherland sat regarding them while lighting another cigarette, Tanner asked, “Can they explain why Walker would go see Sutherland, or why he was prepared to kill her and anyone else in his way? And why he walked in there with a bomb strapped to his chest?” He felt his teeth grinding as he struggled to hold his emotions in check. Charlie Bryant’s body was in a morgue because of this asshole, and Tanner wanted answers.

  Cushman shook his head. “At this point, all they’re willing to say is that he hasn’t reported for duty for two days, and they didn’t find him at his house or any of his usual haunts. Until we can ID the body, we can’t even know for sure it was the real Stephen Walker.”

  “Good luck with that,” replied Tanner. “From what I saw, there’s not much left of anything near where that bomb went off.” Closing his eyes, he reached up to rub his temples. “Sutherland said that there were others like Walker they caught moving to and from the base and that building. So, whatever he was up to, he likely wasn’t doing it alone.”

  “Well, you can forget about getting any more help from the air force.” Cushman scowled. “Now that Walker’s a suspect in what went down today, they’re closing ranks. Makes sense if they think they’ve got a real security breach, but that means they’ll be doing their own internal thing. We’re on our own.”

  Feeling his jaw tighten, Tanner forced himself to maintain his composure, but he was unable to keep an edge from his voice. “Walker or somebody in his uniform killed Charlie and one of Sutherland’s employees. He would’ve killed us, too, and you’re telling me the air force isn’t interested in helping us get to the bottom of that? We’re supposed to just accept that?”

  “Calm down, Nate.” Cushman held up a hand. “The last thing I need right now is you running off and sticking your nose where it ain’t wanted and doesn’t belong. Dean’s all over my ass on this, making sure I keep you out of trouble with this. It’s the United States Air Force, buddy, and they don’t screw around—not when it comes to something like what they’ve got going on down at R-G. You want to get your ass hauled off to Leavenworth or some other military hole?”

  This didn’t sound like the Wayne Cushman Tanner knew. Although his job was dominated by supervisory duties and the political infighting that often came with such responsibilities, Cushman usually wasn’t one to knuckle under when it came to jurisdictional turf wars. Was the military pushing back against the FBI, and was Cushman now feeling that heat from their mutual supervisor at the field office, Special Agent in Charge Thomas Dean? What else might Cushman be dealing with?

  A tapping sound caught their attention, and Tanner turned to see Danny Sutherland standing just inside the door, using one of her fingernails to rap on the window. Her expression was one of amusement.

  “I can hear you through the glass, you know,” she said, her voice muffled through the glass. “So, if you boys were trying to keep things secret, you totally screwed that up.”

  Cushman rolled his eyes. “Well, shit. That’s just wonderful.”

&nb
sp; For his part, Tanner forced himself not to smile or laugh as he opened the door so that Sutherland could exit the meeting room.

  “I know all about SAGE, Agent Cushman,” she said. “One of my contacts within the air force fed me those juicy details months ago.”

  Tanner said, “Whoever that is could end up in prison or in front of a firing squad for that sort of thing.”

  “He’s already dead. Killed in a car wreck last winter.” Sutherland glanced over her shoulder, as though to verify that no one was eavesdropping on their conversation. “When we got the first reports of the weird lights in the skies near the base, we wondered at first if it might be a spy plane trying to get pictures of the blockhouse.”

  “That at least would make sense,” said Cushman. “More than aliens and UFOs looking us over.”

  Sutherland didn’t even attempt to hide her disapproval. “No spy plane moves like the things I’ve seen, Agent Cushman. For that matter, neither does any kind of plane. If I and so many others are wrong, then why does the air force have teams of investigators looking into UFO sightings?”

  “Because they’ve got more money than sense?” Before Sutherland could respond, Cushman held up a hand. “Enough. I’m done. Tanner, get her out of here.”

  No longer trying to be polite, Sutherland said, “And just where the hell am I supposed to go? My office and my apartment are toast.”

  Cushman seemed ready to say something dismissive, but Tanner intervened. “Wayne, she may still be in danger. After all, if Walker or whoever was at her office wasn’t working alone, then others might decide to come after her.”