The Armageddon Directive

by Dayton Ward

  “Yes.” Gesturing to one of the computer consoles, Dar said, “I have been analyzing the information you retrieved from the human general’s office, along with the technical specifications we were able to acquire from the network center. Disrupting or reconfiguring the network itself is a simple affair, but doing so in a matter that cannot be traced back to us is somewhat more difficult.”

  Frowning at the apparent doubt he heard in his subordinate’s voice, Bel asked, “But it can be done?”

  “Indeed it can.” Dar moved to another console, this one dominated by a component of Martian technology. “I pulled this interface from our ship and augmented it with other parts from non-essential systems that are not needed for flight in the event we’re forced to abandon our mission.”

  “Which systems?”

  “Weapons and the proximity scanner.” When Bel cast him a worried look, Dar added, “Neither of those systems is critical to flight operations, and I needed the scanner’s interface in order to complete the connections between the different equipment components.” He pointed toward the console. “I’ve programmed it to monitor the network and identify its vulnerable points. There are a number of deficiencies in the human computer systems that lend themselves to this sort of infiltration. However, there are several safeguards intended to overcome such flaws, and most of those require human interaction and decision.”

  Bel forced himself not to release an audible sigh. Listening to the stream of technical jargon was beginning to wear on his patience. “What does all of this mean?”

  “It means that while we cannot force a missile launch, we can still communicate with their computer systems and make them indicate an enemy has executed such a launch. This will compel them to retaliate.”

  Turning his attention to the large map affixed to the room’s opposite wall, Bel realized it was a depiction of what the humans called the North American continent. At various points across the section labeled “United States,” he noted several spots on the map, including one corresponding in general fashion to where Bel and the others now stood.

  “The map illustrates the location of the network control centers,” said Dar. “Though all are connected, each also has independent functions that allow it to take on additional work in the event one or more centers are removed from the network for any reason.”

  Bel said, “Such as being the target of a missile strike.”

  “Exactly. Once we begin to communicate with the network here, that information will be transmitted to the other sites. In short order, they all will see the illusion we are crafting about being subjected to enemy attack.”

  Nodding in approval, Bel smiled. “Excellent.”

  Militarily speaking, it was a simple strategy, but one that could provide enormous benefit to the High Command. If Earth’s two major military powers could be made to turn their atomic weapons on each other, the resulting conflict would be responsible for widespread destruction and hundreds of millions of deaths. The humans’ rapid technological advancement would be hindered if not halted, and the task of conquering the planet would become far easier—if not altogether unnecessary—with no real risk except to the advance scouting parties already here on Earth. Once this strategy was implemented, there would be precious little the humans could do to stop it. However, until the plan was put into action, there remained some risk.

  Bel asked, “Has Xen reported? Has she found the human journalist?” Even prior to his arrival at the barn, he had ordered Dar to dispatch Lijak Xen, the team’s remaining member and, like Ajahl Vin, a trained covert reconnaissance scout. Disguised as an air force lieutenant from the base, Xen’s task had been straightforward: find the human Danielle Sutherland and bring her here.

  Dar cast his gaze to the floor. “She is overdue. Her last report indicated she was still attempting to learn the female’s whereabouts. We believe Sutherland’s been taken into custody by the humans. It’s possible they believe her to be in danger, in the wake of last night’s events.”

  “That doesn’t concern me,” Bel snapped. “We need the female found so that we can question her.” He pointed toward the map. “Until then, we are in danger of discovery.”

  “Understood.”

  Studying the map, Bel tried to envision all of the things that could go wrong if their presence here were discovered. The first problem would be the failure to carry out their immediate mission, but that might only signal the beginning of a larger threat. According to their surveys of this world, humans tended to be savage, warlike, and eager to fight and conquer just among themselves. Learning of an active Martian presence on Earth could unite them against a common foe. Instead of slowing their progress, the discovery of an interstellar enemy might accelerate the humans’ rate of advancement, inviting a war for which the Martians were not yet fully prepared.

  That could not be allowed to happen. Bel would not allow that to happen.

  “Find her.”

  Dar said, “Xen was following the FBI agent I told you about—the one who saved the Sutherland female last night. He took her to their offices, where I assume she was questioned before they took her to an apartment. That building was being guarded by police, so Xen did not attempt to intercept her there. At her last report, the FBI agent had arrived at the building and retrieved the female, and Xen was preparing to follow them.”

  “And she has not reported since then?”

  Dar’s expression turned grim. “No. I was about to ask you if we should attempt to contact her.”

  Bel pondered the idea. As a rule, scouts working away from a team’s base of operations did so on their own, working autonomously in order to reduce the risk of communications being overheard or of advanced Martian technology being exposed. Only in extreme circumstances did personnel at a base attempt to contact a scout in the field. Indeed, Xen was only reporting in with such frequency because of the instructions given to her by Bel for this specific assignment.

  These new developments were giving him cause to reconsider that rule. Where was the human agent taking the journalist? Was he conducting some sort of investigation, allying himself with the female, or was he simply attempting to engage her for his own gratification? While he supposed that was possible, Bel considered it unlikely at this juncture.

  “Attempt to contact Xen,” said Bel, after a moment. “Utilize the emergency recall signal.” The short, encrypted burst communication would broadcast at a frequency beyond any human technology capable of scanning for transmissions.

  Dar replied, “Understood.” He turned as though to move toward carrying out his new task, then stopped. “Do you think we should make preparations to evacuate?”

  Already considering that possibility, Bel cast a look toward the center of the barn and the equipment operating there. If they were forced to leave in order to avoid capture, most if not all of the assembled components would be lost. Dar would have to construct a new base of operations for them, and it might be some time before any attempt to infiltrate the human radar network could be attempted. The timetable for their mission would be impacted, though at this point there was no way to predict the scope of the delay’s effects.

  “No,” he said. “You’ve made too much progress and we’re too close to being able to put our plan into action. Continue your preparations for reconfiguring the network, but signal Xen. We’ll have to give her a little more time.”

  Chapter 10

  Shadows were stretching ever farther between the trees. Nightfall was fast approaching. Tanner checked his watch, calculating how much time they had before the sun dropped below the horizon.

  “We’ve got about an hour,” said Danielle Sutherland as though able to read his thoughts, keeping her voice low while walking next to him.

  Tanner nodded in agreement. “Yeah.” He didn’t like the idea of being out here after dark, but this is where the trail of evidence—paltry a
nd cold though it may be—had brought them. Working from what Sutherland had shared about hers and Phil Morehouse’s surveys of the base and their tracking of the comings and goings of Major Stephen Walker, Lieutenant Martin Latham, and the other air force officers they had been watching, Tanner had opted to see what might have drawn the men away from the base in this direction. Was there a bar or a gentleman’s club hiding out here in the mostly undeveloped land that was mere minutes from the Missouri-Kansas border? Not according to anything Tanner had been able to learn, though a couple of calls to local police precincts had given him enough information to start pulling together a theory.

  “We should be getting pretty close,” he said, using the dwindling sunlight to study the map he carried. He’d drawn a line on it and had circled a location based on information provided by the local cops, and had folded the map so that the marked-up section was visible. After following the narrow, winding road away from Richards-Gebaur base, Tanner had pulled his car into a small clearing several hundred yards from their target. “It should be easy enough to find. You’d think we’d just walk right into the damned thing.” According to the police officers familiar with this area, the Jameson farm was the first such plot of land along this stretch of road. There were two more farms between it and the state line, so it would be a matter of checking each one.

  “If you had something to hide,” said Sutherland, keeping her attention on the ground ahead of her and choosing her steps with care, “or a reason to want a private meeting place near a military base, would you want to be closer or farther away?”

  Tanner shrugged. “Good question. These guys would want to get to and from their hideout without attracting too much attention, in a short amount of time to avoid raising too much suspicion. On the other hand, when you live here out by yourself, you tend to notice strangers. So, I’m thinking they’re closer, if for no other reason than to keep any other people out here out of their business.”

  “You should be a detective, thinking like that.”

  “Tell my boss, would you? Maybe he won’t fire me after today.” Tanner had already sidestepped questions put to him by Wayne Cushman regarding the day’s earlier events, including how gunplay appeared to be involved. Cushman had been livid when Tanner had called him at home to report the incident at the warehouse, and his mood had not improved upon learning that there was a body to be recovered that carried with it more than a few questions. Prompted by Sutherland, Tanner had instructed Cushman regarding the handling of the remains, and how an autopsy was most definitely recommended. Tanner had hung up the phone before Cushman could ask other questions about his whereabouts or where he might be going, and Tanner suspected Cushman would be very unhappy to hear about his junior agent’s current activities.

  We can talk about it tomorrow. Assuming I live that long.

  He felt a tap on his shoulder, and turned to see Sutherland pointing toward the trees slightly to the right of the direction in which they were walking.

  “Over there.”

  The forest ahead of them was thinning and Tanner now could see a structure perhaps a hundred or more yards in the distance. Looking at his map, he nodded. “This has to be it.”

  Wishing he’d thought to change into dark clothes, Tanner buttoned up his suit jacket and raised his collar in an attempt to minimize the visibility of his white dress shirt. Sutherland zipped the front of her own lightweight dark jacket to cover up her blouse, and they used the remaining trees to mask their movements as they approached the tree line. A chest-high wire fence marked the edge of the Jameson property, and it took them a few minutes to find a gate through which they could pass. With every step, Tanner watched for signs of life or movement, or any indication that their presence had been detected. Beyond the small house was a barn, and in the fading daylight he was able to see light coming from inside the larger structure. Then he stopped, placing his free hand on Sutherland’s arm. His pulse quickened at the sight of the dark blue, government sedan parked near the barn.

  “Bingo.”

  They waited until dark, then Tanner pocketed his map and drew his .45 before they made their way across the field to the Jameson house. Light shone through a few of the windows, but several minutes spent in silent observation revealed no signs of habitation, despite the presence of a Ford pickup parked between the house and the barn. There was no livestock, but according to local police the Jamesons, a retired couple, used to lease the farmland for the growing of hay and wheat. The fields themselves looked untended, however, and appeared not to have supported any sort of crop for some time.

  Saying nothing, Tanner pointed toward the barn, and Sutherland, wielding her own pistol, nodded in understanding. The barn itself looked like every other barn Tanner had ever seen, in person or on television or in magazines. A blocky, two-story structure, it was covered in plain white paint, which had long since begun to crack and peel. Bare wood was visible in some spots, including several slats along its walls that were probably replacements for pieces that had rotted or broken. Light shone through narrow gaps between several of the slats, and Tanner thought he detected a low, constant hum.

  “Hear that?” he whispered.

  Sutherland replied. “Yeah. Generator.”

  The sound grew louder as they drew closer to the barn. Tanner was doing his best to look in every direction at once, searching for threats or signs that they’d been detected. He didn’t even know what he should be expecting. Armed guards? Soldiers ready to haul him away?

  Or aliens? What about those?

  Reaching the barn’s near side, Tanner and Sutherland pressed their backs against the wall, and Tanner allowed himself a small sigh of relief. Aside from the light sources inside the barn and the neighboring house, and the external bulb above each building’s front door, most of the immediate area was cloaked in darkness. Anyone stepping outside would be momentarily disoriented, perhaps giving him and Sutherland a precious extra second or two to act.

  “Listen,” whispered Sutherland, putting a hand on his arm. “Voices, and . . . something else, inside the barn.”

  A few moments of careful exploration led them to a door at the barn’s rear—a smaller entrance set into the larger double doors that swung outward, presumably to allow access for a tractor or other large vehicle. He opened the smaller door with care, hoping to avoid squeaking hinges or some other noise that would give away their presence. Inside, the noise from the generator was louder though still subdued, as if it were operating in an enclosed space. Tanner thought he could hear snippets of conversations that sounded as though they were being filtered through speakers. They were interspersed with another, stranger series of erratic noises that, despite their halting, irregular nature, possessed an almost lyrical quality. He exchanged confused glances with Sutherland, who shrugged.

  Working their way to a stockpile of seed arranged in rows of large canvas bags, Tanner and Sutherland knelt in their place of concealment and peered toward the barn’s center. Cloaked in near darkness, they had a largely unobstructed view of what looked to be a collection of television consoles with monitors, buttons, and status lights. A quartet of computer tape banks sat against the wall beyond the consoles, their reels spinning and stopping at irregular intervals. There also were also a few pieces of equipment he didn’t recognize. Curved and smooth where the more familiar components were big and blocky, their controls seemed far more streamlined and even elegant than the larger, more cumbersome computer consoles he had seen before.

  A large map of North America hung on the far wall, with various spots marked, including the Kansas City area. Tanner noted several thick cables running along the ground to a section of the barn adjacent to their hiding place, and from where he could hear the muffled sounds of the generator.

  “What is this? NASA?” He’d seen images of similar equipment whenever the local news broadcast reports from the space center down in Texas, with ro
ws of men sitting at consoles not all that different from these and monitoring the efforts of astronauts working in capsules orbiting the Earth. Why such men and machines would be crammed into a barn in Missouri, Tanner had no clue. Then there was the other equipment, which looked out of place . . .

  Anywhere on the planet?

  “Those are all locations for SAGE blockhouses,” said Sutherland, earning her a look of skepticism from Tanner.

  “How the hell do you know that?” Only at the last possible instant did Tanner remember to keep his voice down.

  Sutherland cast him a knowing glance. “Do you think all the crackpots who read my magazine are civilians? Don’t forget, I’ve got a few military informants, too.”

  “That’s comforting.” Tanner tried not to dwell too much on just how easily Sutherland seemed able to acquire protected information, choosing instead to give thanks that she wasn’t a Russian spy, at least so far as he knew.

  “All stations,” said a male voice, and Tanner realized it was coming from speakers mounted on the wall to either side of the map. “Immediate status report.”

  “We were offline for almost seven minutes, but we’re back up and running now. We’re still trying to figure out what happened. I’ve ordered full system checks, but so far everything’s looking green.”

  “Is it a glitch? I have to report this up the chain,” replied the first voice. “Continue your full checks and report back ASAP.” There was a pause before the voice came back. “NORAD, this is Delta Charlie Zero Eight. Be advised that we’ve experienced technical difficulties, but now appear to be back online. Stand by for additional report.”

  “Delta Charlie Zero Eight,” said Sutherland. “That’s the SAGE designation for Richards-Gebaur. They’re the ones having issues.”

  Tanner pointed the muzzle of his .45 toward the eclectic collection of equipment. “Something tells me it’s not a random problem.”