First Contact (Terran Chronicles)

by James Jackson

  Various media groups quickly put together news clips about humanity’s 'First Contact' but find they are unable to transmit their stories. Some cell phones seem to work, others not, internet connectivity is also very sporadic. Fortunately, most land lines do work, but not all, and not all the time either, further frustrating people around the planet. Thus, we find newscasters from around the world having to sit on the biggest story ever and wait.

  With a far more newsworthy event than a daring survival story, George and his family are quickly thanked for their time as they are almost shooed out of the newsroom. With nowhere to go, George leads his wife Lisa and their son Johnny toward a cafeteria, where they load up on bottles of water and sandwiches.

  On the flagship of the fleet, Regent Voknor looks around at his dozen or so bridge crew, then at the planet below. “They have what we need, and they will provide it. Monitor for transgressions and report.” Tapping the edge of his command chair with his three long claw-like fingers, the Regent continues his review on a host of information about Earth’s economics and political structure. “Inform the Primes to ready themselves for assignment.”

  Looking about the bridge again, he considers each crew member’s strengths and weaknesses. “Sharz, you shall be my advisor for landing site one. Glarth, your style is much more suited for landing site two. Inform the Primes on both craft that you shall be joining them immediately.”

  “Regent,” both Sharz and Glarth intone as they bow, then leave the bridge. Sharz keeps an even expression as he leaves the bridge. He ponders his fate. For being assigned as a direct advisor to the Regent is a great honor that also carries with it great responsibility. Success is well rewarded, failure however, is not an option.

  Location:

  KGB Headquarters

  Minsk, Russia

  The Russian President looks around the table at his comrades, his hand toying with an old Matryoshka doll. He takes a smaller doll out from the larger, and so on, until he is left with one tiny wooden doll in his hand. The room is silent, save for the ticking of a large old clock against one of the walls. Various screens around the room display the aliens’ banner.

  Without even looking up he says with quiet conviction, hardly with the voice of a defeated leader. “Order all Aircraft to land, all surface vessels to head to port at best possible speed. Get ground forces to Saint Petersburg and assess the damage.” Pausing now he looks up, smiling he adds. “Activate ‘Archangel’ and get those submarines under the arctic ice. Send a message to the Americans informing them of our intentions.”

  The men in the room start making calls, and as is the way with Russia, orders are followed quickly and without question. Some orders take longer than others, due to the unreliable communications network, but with unheard of determination they succeed. Even Igor is quiet as he issues orders to his subordinates. This is even more disconcerting than the alien banners on the screens. Igor looks over at Pavel and they exchange a nod. Now is the time to work together, and they both know it.

  Looking at the many dolls, the President wonders what plans-within-plans these attackers have. He has trouble believing that a shoot first policy is that of a peaceful race. But then he has to smile as he knows that both his government and the Americans have many first strike plans, all in the name of creating a long term peace. However, he has to concede that the aliens’ tactics do have some merit. Without a single invader being harmed we are forced to our knees. Russia has been there before and will bend like a reed in the wind. He smiles again as he puts the dolls back one at a time. Let them show their plans within plans, mother Russia will be ready to act when the time comes.

  Within hours Russia is seen to have fully complied with the alien demands. Ships of the Russian navy are sailing back toward Russian ports. There are no aircraft in the skies and though the army is fully prepared, they remain on standby. An exception to this is a massive convoy of army engineers with supportive troops that head toward a devastated St Petersburg. Vast amounts of food, water, tents, and medical supplies follow this convoy as Russia does its best to assist the beleaguered city. Other regions inside Russia's borders that suffered damage either from ground strikes, or as a back lash from the many nuclear detonations, are also sent assistance.

  Location:

  North American Aerospace Defense Command (NORAD)

  Cheyenne Mountain, Colorado Springs, Colorado

  “Mr. President, Mr. President.” The aide seems reluctant to do more and nervously looks at the nearby people, not knowing what to do. A Secret Service agent walks up to the President, who is asleep in his chair, and gives him one firm shake. As the President wakes the agent stands perfectly still beside him, as though nothing transpired. The aide’s jaw drops a little in disbelief. Finding his voice he reports.

  “Mr. President, the Russians are complying with the alien request, as it would seem are all the major powers around the world. This is unprecedented, what are your orders sir?”

  “We will comply, order all military aircraft to stand down, order all surface ships to port. Let's try to get some of our people home if we can. How many spacecraft are there? Does anyone know?”

  The aide shakes his head slowly from side to side as he involuntarily shrugs his shoulders.

  The President ponders. All countries are complying, now that is unusual, if not downright improbable. Without satellites he is blind as to what the world is really doing though.

  “Contact NATO and inform them of our decision. Also, get me a secure line to the Kremlin.”

  It takes a long time to make another connection, but they finally succeed. The chat between Presidents is fairly brief, as both concur with each other's assessment of the situation and agree quickly on a course of action. Peaceful compliance with additional border security. Both leaders also wonder what the aliens really plan to do with the damaged cities. A major concern for them is the loss of most of their respective nuclear arsenals. Adding this to the loss of every satellite makes both leaders very nervous. With little to no intelligence on old adversaries, and virtually no nuclear weapons as a deterrent, neither country is hardly in a position to defend themselves, let alone help allies. As the two Presidents put their respective phones down they do realize that these aliens have done one good thing. The two super powers are going to have to work together like never before, for this is just the beginning.

  Location:

  FS Charles De Gaulle (R91)

  Western Mediterranean Sea

  The nuclear powered carrier, and flagship of the French navy sails home with her escorts. The commander’s orders are to return to port at 'best possible speed'. Pushing her reactors to one hundred per cent raises the crew to a new level of anxiousness, as radiation alarms start to go off below decks. The bridge is a tense place as the crew replays in their minds the alien message.

  “Sir, sonar contact bearing 187, range, seventeen kilometers and constant.” Junior Officer Timmons voice is tinged with surprise as he confirms the readings.

  The captain’s response is automatic as it is impassive. “Fleet to action stations, launch alert fighters, investigate, and report. How the hell did that contact get inside our defense screen?”

  A few seconds later two fighters streak away from the carrier and head for the contact at maximum speed.

  “Alert fighters away, E.T.A. to contact under one minute sir.” Senior Officer Joseph keeps his voice on an even keel as he directs a glare in Timmons’ direction.

  The old foxtrot submarine is no match for a carrier group under normal circumstances, but these are far from normal circumstances. The old submarine captain has watched his country suffer under attacks, sanctions and harsh conditions and now he has an opportunity unheard of. He will make the westerners pay for all they have done. This whole day saw his crew hovering almost silently in a thermocline layer, effectively masking the submarine.

  “Sir, we have tracks reported, two, no six tracks inbound. Torpedoes in the water sir, twelve minutes out.” Tim
mons goes from overexcited to neutral as he catches a scowl from Joseph.

  “Set reactors to one hundred five percent, get some distance between us and those torpedoes. Twelve minutes, what is that submarine captain thinking? They won't hit us.” Philippe, another senior officer feels a bead of sweat building on his brow. Pushing the reactors causes him some concern over potential radiation leakage.

  High above the seas, others are watching events below with curiosity.

  “Sir new contact, radar,” Timmons blurts out loudly. “Distance, oh my, it's from high orbit sir and coming in fast. It’s a pair of objects, uh asteroids about five meters in diameter.” His voice switches from sudden excitement to dread in mid sentence. “One is on a collision course with us, just under two minutes out.”

  The captain’s voice is firm and professional. “Hard to port, engine room, I need one hundred ten percent on those reactors and I need it now. Broadcast, all channels. We are defending ourselves and are not initiating hostilities. We will comply with the orders as set.” He suddenly realizes with dismay that the launch of the aircraft is a violation of the alien’s demands.

  The old submarine turns and heads for home, submerging to her maximum depth of eight hundred feet. As the sub descends she never makes it to her maximum submerged speed of fifteen knots. One of the asteroids strikes the waters directly above the retreating submarine with astounding force. Seconds later, the shock wave alone fractures the hull of the tired old sub just before the asteroid itself almost slices it in two. Barely even slowing down, the asteroid continues on its trajectory to the bottom of the sea. The broken submarine sinks to Davy Jones' locker, the water's surface a mix of oil, fuel, and debris. There are no survivors from the old submarine to tell of the day's events.

  The second asteroid strikes the water mere feet from the carrier’s hull vaporizing tons of water instantly. Initially, the Charles De Gaulle is pulled into the impact vortex, listing a full six degrees before righting herself. The ship was never designed for such sudden lateral moves. Her hull groans and screams as supports within buckle and fail. Seconds later she is flung back, as the impact creates a massive wave. Inside the carrier, people are tossed against bulkheads, planes above and below decks break their holding chains and slide free. The carrier starts to list with the wave, seven degrees then eight, bulkheads buckle and groan again. At nine degrees, large impacts can be heard from all over the carrier, as objects fall against sloping walls, adding more weight, pushing the ship over even more. Six aircraft lashed to the top deck, break free, and one after the other, slide off the sloping deck to splash into the sea. Still she keels over, more and more, an impossible angle for any ship, let alone a carrier.

  “Sir the Engine room reports a propeller is clear of the water, she is rolling.” It is Philippe's turn to falter, his voice is tinged with fear.

  With the command crew holding on, all they can do is wait and pray. Deep inside the ship can be heard the sounds of bulkheads failing as objects that were never meant to move, slide into walls.

  “Reactor scram, reactor one scram, sir, reactor two scram. Sir, both reactors!” Philippe almost shouts the information, fear clearly evident his voice.

  The carrier De Gaulle amazingly holds her own, and in the turbulent waters, rights herself. Her escort ships do not fare so well however, with all either sunk instantly, or sinking fast. A few lucky sailors bob in the waters. For the rest, these once proud vessels are now their metal tombs, as they descend into the depths.

  High up in space the watching aliens are as surprised as the sailors below at the carrier’s survival. In annoyance a clawed hand presses a single control and unleashes a bright bolt of energy downward. Travelling at the speed of light, the bolt strikes the carrier’s deck almost instantly, electrifying the hull.

  The electric charge radiates outward in all directions blowing electrical circuits, killing most people instantly, and scoring the hull as the charge expands. Within seconds, much of the ship is engulfed. Timmons is electrocuted at his console as is Philippe a split second later. The captain, being the only one not touching a main console survives the initial charge. With all shipboard electronics overloading or destroyed, the few hapless survivors have little time to celebrate. Without cooling, both nuclear reactors overheat quickly. Superheated gasses ignite deep inside the carrier causing spectacular secondary explosions. Finally, one of the reactors goes critical. A super heated slag of radioactive material melts through its containment area. The area so hot now, the metal flooring literally starts to sag, then finally give way. The two aircraft launched moments ago can only watch helplessly as the flagship of the French navy breaks her back and sinks. Unbeknownst to them, both reactors are still spewing vast amounts of radiation as they sink to the bottom of the Mediterranean Sea.

  As the captain drowns, he realizes that he was played by the old submarine captain, goaded into action. In death, he manages to sigh at his failure to protect his crew and his ship. The submarine captain gambled and whether he won or lost is a hot topic for future debate tables.

  The two pilots, being powerless to assist those below, nervously head for home, southern France, hoping not to be shot down, or run out of fuel.

  The few survivors that get picked up a couple of hours later offer reports of torpedo tracks passing through the area minutes after the carrier had sunk. It having completely succumbed to the attack from space.

  The average person will take these facts at face value, nuclear scientists however, will argue for some time about what caused such a catastrophic and fast meltdown of the reactors.

  Regent Voknor glares at the weapons station as he intones with hostility. “I said REPORT, not respond.” He turns back to his studies of the various cultures below. The weapons operator, expecting a reprisal, receives none. He watches the two fragile air craft that survived with curiosity, clawed fingers poised over controls, awaiting orders.

  Location:

  Kyoto Station

  Kyoto, Japan

  Hayato looks down at his desk phone as he hears the one word message. “Archangel”! He never expected this day to come, especially now. Looking about the room his mind rolls back to a fateful day last year, at this very train station. He lets his lithe body relax as he closes his light brown eyes recalling that day.

  The man stood apart from the crowd. Few middle easterners are in Japan, even fewer stand before the Phoenix Clock on this rush hour morning. Some onlookers glance, then in the respectable way of the Japanese, move on. However a security guard approaches the stationary man.

  The guard with a slight tip of his head whilst watching carefully, says in Japanese, “May I be of assistance?”

  The Middle Easterner turns around, and in Arabic says. “Infidels all, Malak’s hand is approaching.”

  The guard does not understand the words, but does gather the tone of insolence. He speaks calmly into his radio. “Backup to the Phoenix Clock, We may have a….” The guard’s chest seems to collapse inward, as a millisecond later his back violently explodes, trailing viscera and bone some thirty feet away. The shotgun blast is deafening, two barrels trail smoke. The guard is flung to the floor where he lives for a few futile seconds. People scatter in all directions, getting away from this gun toting mad man. Those that run toward the trains will not return.

  Eighteen seconds later a train pulls in, bullet riddled and blood splattered from four more gun-toting extremists. They wreak havoc with their AK107’s as they blaze a bloody path through the daily commuters. Stepping out onto the platform, these men work in unison to deal maximum damage. Transit guards shoot back in futility, but their weapons and training are no match for these terrorists. They soon join the ranks of the dead, and dying.

  The fifth terrorist walks calmly toward his colleagues, using his own AK107 with lethal effectiveness. The walls smeared with the blood of victims, and pocked with shots that travel straight through suit wearing commuters. He occasionally adds a blast from his shotgun for good measure, gore
flinging in all directions. He laughs as injured people attempt to escape any way they can.

  Hayato's security force is at the train station, ready. The recent expansion in January to Kyoto Station saw many additions that were not advertised. Secretly based within the tunnels is an elite guard of Ninja Juhakkei. These modern Ninjutsu trained elite are arguably the best hand to hand specialists on the planet. The elite of the Tokushu Kyushu Butai fan out through special service tunnels, just for them. Though the Japanese in general are taught to avoid the use of firearms unless absolutely necessary, these well trained specialists are a rare breed indeed. Hand to hand training and firearm skills are of equal importance to this group of counter terrorists. The twenty man squad splits up, as all trains to and from Kyoto Station are shut down.

  Thirty-eight seconds after the first shot was fired, Kyoto Station is at a standstill. Water drips from a damaged drinking fountain. Some ceiling lights flicker off, then on. The moans from the wounded can be heard echoing off the walls of this underground station, as the gunfire ceases.

  One minute later, the five man team of Malak’s Hand is together on a platform. They crouch down in a circle covering each other and wait. They expect the basic station security, and plan much more bloodshed before this day is done.

  The Juhakkei attack from both sides of the platform. The attack is so fast, so brutal, few shots are fired back. A bullet riddled terrorist falls to the ground, a vial of swirling green material falling from his hands. Dark blood pours from his mouth, his lungs destroyed, as he tries in vain to reach the vial.

  A heavy combat boot clamps down on his arm. He looks up and with his last bloody breath, cures in Arabic, “I die now, you die later, infidel.” The other terrorists did not even survive this long. Hayato looks down without pity or remorse as the man dies.