The Trojan Horse

by Christopher Nuttall

  And McGreevy, who was almost certainly a traitor, was sitting at the other side of the room.

  “Well, we’re only just looking at communications intercepts and human intelligence sources, but the general conclusion is that the attack was carried out by Islamic terrorists,” the CIA Director said, finally. “Three of the crewmen assigned to Air Force One were Muslim; all three of them went down with the plane. There has been a considerable upswing in chatter between known terrorist cells over the past two weeks and it is quite possible that one of them has made the shift from plotting to action.”

  “A very clever strike,” the President observed, bitterly. “How did this happen?”

  There was an uncomfortable pause. “Well, Mr. President,” the CIA Director said, finally, “there are always problems with ensuring that the security barriers surrounding any target are impregnable. We are not allowed to discriminate against anyone just on suspicion, or because they practice a religion that includes terrorists who want to kill us all as brutally as they can. At times, people slip through the holes and managed to get into a position they can use to hurt us badly.”

  “So these terrorists managed to join the USAF and operate undetected for years before they struck,” the President said. He sounded angry; Toby didn't blame him. The cock-and-bull story they’d given him made the USAF’s security division look very bad. And no matter what happened, chances were that three innocent crewmen were going to be posthumously declared the worst terrorists since the men who’d struck at America on 9/11. The lives of their families would be blighted by the investigators, trying to prove a link between their dead relatives and international terrorism. And it was quite possible that the aliens had turned someone on the plane into an unwitting traitor. “Why now?”

  “The Middle East has been going through a series of political earthquakes,” the CIA Director said. “The price of oil has fallen dramatically ever since we started to turn to fusion power. We may not have made a complete shift just yet, but perceptions are important – and perceptions say that there won’t be more than two years before demand for oil falls sharply. And then the money runs out.”

  Toby nodded. The latest alien miracle introduced by the Welcome Foundation was a set of batteries that could store vast amounts of power almost endlessly, turning the long-held dream of electric cars into a reality. All one had to do was plug the battery into the mains socket – power supplied by fusion, of course – and the car would be ready to drive within hours. The designers had pulled an engine out of a popular car, replaced it with a battery, and let the results speak for themselves. There were already ecological pressure groups getting organised to demand that all newly-produced cars were powered by fusion power, rather than gas.

  “I think we will be looking at far more terrorism in the near future,” the CIA Director said. “Whatever they say openly, far too many Arab governments – Saudi and Iran in particular – back the terrorists. If they can force the Galactic Federation to abandon Earth, they could reclaim their former prominence as oil suppliers to the world.”

  “So they’ll keep attacking the Federation,” the President said. “We may need to increase security at their bases...”

  “I think there is another problem,” McGreevy said, sharply. “How do we know that this was an Islamic strike at all?”

  “We don’t,” the CIA Director admitted. “However, the Islamic terrorists have been threatening the Galactic Federation...”

  “And so they struck at the Vice President,” McGreevy said. “I’m not sure I follow their logic. They want to hurt the Galactic Federation so they kill the Vice President of America? Where’s the logic in that?”

  “Terrorists,” the CIA Director said, carefully, “tend to look for spectacular strikes. Destroying an aircraft in flight is irritating, but largely harmless in any long-term sense. Assassinating the Vice President, however, gives the impression that they can strike anywhere – and if the Vice President isn't safe, no one is safe.”

  “The fact remains that this serves no logical purpose,” McGreevy said. Her eyes fixed on the FBI Director’s face. “I think we should be looking closer to home. Is it not a fact that we have been seeing an increased number of threats against federal agents from home-grown right-wing militia groups?”

  Toby kept his face impassive, but he was starting to see her line of logic. They’d lost Blake Coleman...and the only reason the FBI hadn't descended on Coleman’s family to discover what he’d been doing had been that the body hadn't been recovered. And no one human could have removed the body before the police arrived. If the aliens had worked out who’d intercepted their team of assassins, they might be trying to put the blame for the Vice President’s assassination on Toby’s father, ensuring that two of their enemies wound up fighting each other.

  The FBI Director sighed. He knew little about the alien threat. “The FBI has been monitoring the militia movement ever since it became an issue,” he said. “We have placed agents and informants within most of the militia movements – and, quite frankly, most of them pose more threat to themselves than to others. Despite their often fiery speeches, the most serious criminal offense they do is hording illegal weapons – some of which are often illegal based on technicalities.”

  “The law is the law,” McGreevy said. “And why have you not arrested them?”

  “There is a general feeling that they’re largely harmless,” the FBI Director said. “You may recall Waco and other nasty incidents – I assure you that they do. If we were to crack down on them – over minor issues that take a weapon from legal to illegal – we would run the risk of transforming a marginalised bunch of nutcases into a serious movement that would pose a serious threat to the stability of the country. The vast majority of militias are peaceful – we have had some cases of people talking about striking back at the Feds – that’s us – and being pushed out of the movements.”

  McGreevy snorted. “And they are the ones with a real grudge against the Vice President,” she said. “Wasn’t it he who took their money and then pushed for heavier restrictions on assault rifles? Wasn’t it he who personally put forward the money for interfaith centres in all American states? His reputation among the far right was lower than Bill Clinton’s – maybe, with the Galactic Federation offering us a way to live in peace, one of your harmless movements has moved from talking to action.”

  “It’s a possibility,” the FBI Director conceded. “However, in order to carry out such an operation, they would have to plot it, put their people in place and conceal it until the time came to strike. None of the militias have that sort of patience – many of them would prefer to act at once rather than wait for the right moment. I think that the evidence will eventually lead to Islamic terrorists.”

  The President held up a hand. “Enough,” he said, with surprising force. “We will double our security precautions everywhere – perhaps attempt to halt demobilisation until we can get better security networks in place.”

  “The Galactics won’t like that,” McGreevy warned.

  “Their timetable is too short anyway,” the President countered. “They’ll live.”

  He looked up at her, grimly. “You’ll be nominated as Vice President tonight,” he added. “Congress will, I suspect, approve you as soon as possible. I trust that that meets with your approval?”

  McGreevy’s eyes glittered. “It does, Mr. President,” she said. “I’ll hold onto State until my Deputy is up to speed, and then transfer it to him.”

  The President nodded. “We will not allow this tragedy to destroy us, or everything we hold dear,” he said. “America will endure, whatever happens.”

  ***

  “Am I making a mistake?”

  Toby winced, inwardly. The President often asked him for advice on political matters; one of the many reasons he was so useful to the President was that he kept his finger firmly on the pulse of opinion, both public and political. Politically speaking, appointing McGreevy Vice President was a so
und move. Her constituency would be happy, the feminist lobby would be delighted to see a woman in the Vice President’s position and it would limit her ability to take independent action. On the other hand, it would put her right next to the President – and if something happened to him, she’d be President. And she was working for the aliens.

  But he didn't dare say it out loud. The aliens would know that he knew about them – and then they would act. If they drew a line between Toby and his father, they might be able to uncover most of the resistance and then destroy it. And they might be able to follow up by destroying the cells of resistance members in the government...Toby knew too much to be allowed to fall into enemy hands. He just hoped that he’d be able to commit suicide if the enemy ever did get their hands on him.

  “I think that she would be an asset,” he said, untruthfully. And politically – he was right. “But her ambition does make her dangerous.”

  The President nodded, slowly. Ambition was always dangerous in political subordinates; given a chance, they might see advantage in stabbing their superiors in the back. But if McGreevy took the Vice President’s position, she would take part of the blame for any failures by the President’s government. Whatever they might have said publically, Toby knew that certain members of the Democratic Party had breathed a sigh of relief when Gore had failed to beat Bush in 2000. Gore, a former VP himself, would have found himself taking much of the blame for 9/11.

  “But there’s no strong alternate candidate,” the President said. He smiled with black humour. “I think we’re stuck with her.”

  And hope that the aliens don’t use her to strangle us, Toby thought, sourly. By now, the entire world would know that the VP was dead. And America would want to see the President taking control, to remind them that life would go on.

  Silently, he drew his plan together in his mind. If they had enough time, perhaps they could give the aliens a shock. And maybe, just maybe, expose them for what they really were.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Al Udeid Air Base/Virginia

  Qatar/USA, Day 40

  The heat slapped at Sergeant Albert Cunningham’s face as he double-timed it towards the Special Operations Command Centre and the promise of air-conditioning inside the building. Four months in the Middle Eastern heat had hardened him to some degree, yet he still disliked the temperature, the insects and most of the people. Maybe that was a little unfair – hell, it was a little unfair – but most of the people he met in his line of work tended to be terrorists, smugglers or religious nuts. SOCOM still ran operations all over the region, with remote-controlled Predators and covert operation teams hunting down terrorists and disrupting their networks before they could form. Most of the governments in the Middle East turned a blind eye. After the big pullout from the region – after oil became little more expensive than water – the Princes and Emirs and Dictators of the Middle East were in for a nasty surprise from their own people. Their castles were literally built on sand.

  He scowled as the noise of a heavy transport aircraft echoed overhead. American soldiers were being evacuated from the Middle East, travelling back home as fast as an overworked transport network could deliver them. Albert had been expecting to be recalled himself, even though his Force Recon unit was blacker than black; there seemed to be little need to keep a major American presence in the Middle East. Or at least that was what the government was saying publicly. Privately, Albert has his doubts. The terrorists who hated America for being better than them were unlikely to just allow the US to leave in peace. There had already been a series of nasty demonstrations that had almost turned violent.

  The guard checked his identity carefully, scanning Albert’s eyes with a pocket retina scanner before allowing him to enter the command centre. Terrorists had proved themselves to be alarmingly capable of getting inside supposedly secure areas, even in relatively peaceful Qatar. The buddies Albert had lost in Afghanistan stood as mute testament to the skills of the Taliban fighters, who combined a single-minded devotion to their version of Islam with fighting skills that relied on wearing down the enemy and breaking his determination to carry on the fight. No one should be inside the fence without clearance and nobody, but nobody, was allowed into the centre without a careful security check. And no one who wasn’t American was ever allowed inside. The reliability of people in the Middle East couldn’t be predicted accurately.

  And nor could the reliability of some Americans, he added mentally. The Vice President could have testified to that. No one knew for sure who was to blame for his death, but hundreds of terrorist groups were already claiming the credit. The grapevine claimed that the Teams would be sent after the loudest claimants, extracting revenge for the assassination before the pullout was completed. It was as good a theory as any other.

  Inside, it was cooler. The handful of people within view worked at their terminals, muttering orders into their headsets as they struggled to coordinate the big pull-out. No one outside the military really appreciated how much material the United States had stockpiled in the region, including weapons and supplies that would change the balance of power in the wrong hands. Some of it would probably be turned over to America's allies, but the rest of it would have to be transported back to the US, left in secure storage or destroyed. It wouldn’t be an easy task.

  “Sergeant,” a voice said. Albert looked up to see Brigadier O’Neil, a former SF soldier who’d been injured while on operations and confined to working in the rear until he could pass his tests and go back into the field. The SF troops appreciated working with someone who knew what they could do – and also what they needed to get their jobs done. Even the more secretive units like Albert’s team needed to draw supplies from the rear. “If you’ll come with me…?”

  Albert felt an uncomfortable sensation in his gut as he was led into a small room. A man he vaguely recognised from a briefing rose to his feet as Albert entered, holding out a hand for him to shake. Albert shook it firmly, guessing that the man spent most of his time behind a desk back home. The thought jogged his memory into high gear and it produced a name. Albert Demeter, the Director of the CIA. They shared the same first name.

  O’Neil shut the door firmly behind him, cutting off all noise from the outside world. Even the omnipresent roar of aircraft was gone. Albert’s eyes widened as the CIA Director picked up what was evidently a counter-surveillance tool and turned it on, carefully sweeping the entire room. He even checked Albert’s hair and equipment belt. Nothing about it made sense, Albert decided, and it left him with a bad feeling. Why would the Director of the CIA carry out a sweep he’d normally have an underling do?

  “I’ve been told that you and your team are the best Special Forces operatives in the world,” the Director said, without preamble. “Is that actually true?”

  Albert’s eyes narrowed. No one joined the Special Forces without the underlying certainty that they were the best at what they did; the toughest and most capable soldiers in the world, the men who made terrorists scared of the dark. In his years in Force Recon, he’d crawled through bogs and climbed mountains to slip into terrorist training camps and kill them all, or call in air strikes from a bomber loitering so high overhead that the terrorist scum had no idea that they were there. He’d carried out missions in over a dozen countries, including several that it would have surprised the general public to know that American troops were operating there. And he’d come alarmingly close to losing his life on several occasions.

  “Yes, sir,” he said, flatly.

  “The Director will brief you on your mission,” O’Neil said. “The mission requires an operative with unique qualifications. Failure is not an option, Sergeant. These orders come from the very highest levels. Once you know the mission, you will either carry it out as you see fit or you will be placed into lockdown until the mission is completed.”

  Albert nodded. As insulting as it seemed, one lesson the United States had learned quickly was that it couldn’t really trust its allies in th
e Middle East. The only way to keep operations from being blown – or raiding empty buildings – was to have them kept highly confidential until the mission was over. There were so many American units, helicopters and aircraft moving through the Middle East and Afghanistan that it was easy to put together a mission without letting too many people in on the secret.

  “I must say that I have protested the orders,” O’Neil added. “You have the authority to determine if you want others to accompany you or if you want to operate alone.” His eyes darkened. “But if you get caught, we will deny all knowledge of you. Understand this; there will be no reinforcements or support from anywhere else. You’ll be effectively on your own.”

  “And expendable,” Albert said. The nasty feeling in his gut was mingling with growing excitement. It sounded like a mission that would test him – and his buddies, if he brought them along – to the limit. Or, alternatively, an invitation to suicide, like several other missions that had gone badly wrong over the years. “I will carry out the mission.”

  “Good,” the Brigadier said. “I will withdraw now. Once you’re done, you will receive your instructions, but remember – nothing is to be written down or stored in a database, no matter how secure.”