Enemy tst-1

by Paul Evan Hughes

  It was a Milicom vehicle.

  It rolled up to the booth. The driver wore the standard Milicom dress uniform. There were three passengers, two grunts and a brass.

  The driver’s side window rolled down.

  “Official Milicom business, soldier. Clearance code tri-delta. This is urgent.”

  The large man in the booth made no move to open the gate. He looked into the car coolly. He saw that the passenger in the back seat was a general, three star. Something big was going down.

  “Private, open up the gate, god damn—”

  He was cut off as the man in the booth swung up the dead guard’s assault rifle and a hail of armor-piercing bullets tore apart the two passengers in the back seat.

  The smell of gunpowder and blood hung languidly in the air.

  “Shit! Holy shit!” The driver threw the car into reverse and floored the accelerator. The car jolted backward, the tires screeching. The soldier in the front passenger seat drew his service revolver and was cut down by the man in black, wielding the rifle before him as he emerged from the booth, following the car.

  The stream of bullets silenced the screams of the driver forever. The car continued backward until the gas tank was punctured, and the car was torn apart, engulfed in flames.

  The fiery wreckage stood fifty feet from the main gate entrance. Inside, four bodies were sent to their gods.

  The man in black’s finger held the trigger of the automatic rifle down and swept it back and forth over the flaming wreckage until it emitted only a dry, ratcheting click. He returned to the booth and sat down again. He released the long magazine from the rifle’s barrel and slammed a fresh clip in. He emotionlessly leaned the loaded rifle against the wall.

  It would be a busy day.

  The main hangar doors rolled open.

  Reynald’s eyes lit up.

  And Bingo was his name-o..

  Before them stretched a veritable fleet of the most advanced warplane this civilization could yet offer, the B-4.

  The men in black went to work.

  The Red Room.

  David Jennings paced back and forth, his hands cradling his face. His eyes shifted warily, tracing his path.

  “Do you still think this is all a coincidence, Cervera? Is it still just a fluke?”

  Cervera frowned. “We have no evidence that it was an attack. It could have been radiation—”

  “Radiation? Do you think this is another Mir or Liberty crash? This wasn’t an abandoned space station.”

  “But no one has claimed responsibility.”

  “Did anyone claim responsibility for Washington?”

  Cervera fell silent.

  Jennings glared at her. “Look at these, General.” He pushed a button on the control panel before them. The hologram of the globe was replaced with a revolving image of the detritus of three Navy vessels. “It’s the latest Air Force recon image of the Guam site.” He pressed another control.

  Close-ups revealed an ocean dotted with the bodies of young American sailors.

  “Explain that, Antonia. Over eight hundred men and women, dead for an unknown reason. We lost contact with the vessels and AF recon was sent in to check out the site. That’s what they found—the wreckage of three of our best ships. Something is going on, something big, and I want to put an end to it right now.”

  He picked up a sheet of paper, a fax.

  “The Marines in Harkness, Michigan interviewed some of the locals. They reported the appearance of several men in black uniforms who they assumed were our guys until they demanded information about local airports and subsequently kidnapped a man. His body was found over two hundred miles away, south of Marquette… The body had gray eyes.”

  “So?”

  “Gray eyes with no pupils. And the body was cold. Very cold.”

  Cervera rose, hands on hips, head shaking in a manner that would have brought a certain non-crook American president to mind a century earlier.

  “That’s impossible. We put them all on—”

  “Santa Fosca? Yeah, well, SF doesn’t exist anymore, Tony. Milicom is shitting bricks over this.”

  “What are you saying, Jennings?”

  “These events have to be linked together somehow—”

  “Impossible. They’re half a world apart.”

  “Impossible? Here’s one last bit of information. The Pentagon team you yourself sent to Sawyer Air Force Base to set up a situation response net never reported in. All communication with Sawyer has been cut off—”

  “What? There’s a fleet of B-4’s at Sawyer!”

  “Exactly. We’re having troops diverted from Harkness and the Line to investigate, and to use whatever means necessary to nip this problem in the bud.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There’s a plan at work here, within our own borders, and in our own territory. It has begun, and now it’s our job to end it. It could be an attempt at a Milicom corporate takeover. Maybe the Japanese found out about the B-4s. This could be a full-scale invasion, for all we know. We have to take extreme measures.”

  “Extreme measures.” Cervera had an air of disbelief about her. Indeed, she did view the President’s motives with caution. Jennings couldn’t be trusted under this extreme stress, especially not after what had happened to his family.

  “In all likelihood, the Lake Superior site is the jump point of the major invasion, if that’s what this is. It makes the most sense. So they’ve started to send in advance groups, small insurgence parties—”

  “With all due respect, David, that’s crazy.”

  “You’ve never given me my due respect, Tony. They took out Santa Fosca to cover up the fact that—.”

  “This isn’t the Quebec War, Jennings.”

  He continued to ignore Cervera. “What we need to do is evacuate the area. The Marines are in Harkness already. We evacuate the civilians, and send in more forces. We reevaluate the situation from there. We surround Sawyer and move in, try to capture whoever cut off communications alive. And as for the Guam site, I don’t think we should fuck around any more. Something down there took out three of our ships and hundreds of our people.”

  “What are you talking about? Are you going to nuke it?”

  “Americans have been killed! More lives could be at stake!”

  “Are you trying to start World War Four?”

  Calm. Jennings remained calm.

  “General, someone else already is.”

  Cervera was silent.

  “I want two Spears on a scalping run by 1200 hours. The Guam site. And I want Harkness evacuated. We’re moving in. This has to end on our terms.”

  Thoughts ran through Cervera’s mind, but she kept silent.

  The game began.

  12:00 Noon. Harkness.

  “Come on, people. Move it.” The armed Marine directed several citizens of Harkness onto the military troop transport parked in the street. Other transports rolled up and down Main Street, some empty, most filled with civilians.

  The exodus had begun.

  Local television and comnet stations, and even loudspeaker trucks broadcast the same message: the Milicom subsidiary Chemtek chemical plant outside of town had experienced a serious gas leak overnight and the fumes were deadly enough to warrant the evacuation of everyone within twenty miles. It was a shallow excuse, but the Chemtek people had cooperated willingly enough when armed Marines stormed their offices.

  Sometimes living in a police state had its distinct advantages.

  The last troop transport rolled up to the secured checkpoint on U.S. 41 going out of town.

  “That’s the last of them, sir.”

  “What’s the final tally?”

  “One thousand two hundred sixty-one.”

  “Close enough. Inform D.C. that we’ve rounded up the locals, and the town’s clear.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The Marines boarded the last transport out of Harkness and left the town quietly, dead in the midday sun.
/>   “Sir, what do you think this is all about?”

  “Private, Uncle Sam doesn’t pay us to ask questions.”

  Sawyer AFB.

  They had the base surrounded.

  “Tell Wind River that the Sawyer perimeter is secure. We’re moving in.”

  The Marines tightened the noose.

  ((“Reynald, the natives are closing in on us. We’d better launch as soon as possible.”))

  Reynald sat in the cockpit of a B-4. Such simple technology, with its electrical circuitry and computer controls. No bioneural flux or Shadow here. He only hoped that this plane carried enough fuel to take them to Magdalene.

  ((“Understood. We’re launching. You know what you must do, Joseph.”))

  ((“Yes, Captain. Godspeed.”))

  ((“Thank you, Joseph.”))

  The man in the guardhouse turned back to the road before him. An armored transport was coming up the path.

  He heard a noise behind him, engines cycling up, and he felt the earth shudder as the B-4 taxied to the runway and picked up speed. The huge plane seemed to attain an impossible speed as it lifted off the ground. The landing gear retracted.

  He was alone now.

  He did not feel any anger or despair at being left behind. He had volunteered for this job in the first place, and he knew at some point he would have to give his life to preventing the Purpose. He felt a resigned satisfaction.

  This was his time.

  His job completed, Joseph closed his eyes and heard the voices of the countless dead within him. He took a calming breath and felt the shift within himself.

  He could not remain here. He could not let the Enemy rape the souls from within him. He would sooner die than let the Omega consume the lifetimes and civilizations that resided in his carrier mind.

  “Good luck, Reynald. May we meet again in a better time.”

  He shifted higher than he ever before had and felt his mind tear itself free from the boundaries of his body. In the instant before he died, Joseph could see the faces of everyone he had ever loved; he could see everything and nothing. Joseph died in the light of non-existence, and his lifeless body fell to the floor of the gatehouse, cold gray eyes looking still into the void.

  “Damn it! Get a squadron of Spears on that B-4, stat!”

  The Marine Commander standing at the gate to Sawyer watched the B-4 until it was a small speck on the northwest horizon.

  “It heading towards Harkness! Take it down.”

  Jennings sat alone in his private quarters, staring at a portrait of his family, his beautiful wife and daughter. He wept in the cold darkness of his isolation.

  This time would be different. He would nip the problem in the bud. This time, America would not be dragged into a war. They would end it before it began, and if that meant using extreme measures, if it was for the good of the people, it would be done.

  The phone rang. He was startled, recovered, picked up the receiver.

  “Good. Okay. It’s time then. You know what to do. This is authorization Jennings, David IDCOM 050 776 9191.

  He hung up the phone.

  Please forgive me, he thought, and wished that he still believed in a god.

  The troop transports formed a convoy on U.S. 41.

  The citizens of Harkness and several close villages had been evacuated because of the bad Chemtek nerve gas leak. They would be housed in Ishpeming until the gas dissipated.

  Robert Hodge found the troop transport intimately boring, so he stood and peered out the canvas cover of the back door. Those Chemtek nuts had finally messed up, and Rob was the one being punished, forced under armed guard into a dim, noisy troop carrier that was crowded with other townspeople.

  Sighing, Rob continued to stare out the door.

  In the northbound lane, a line of armored military assault vehicles was travelling towards Harkness…

  What the hell?

  So this was something bigger than a gas leak…

  He watched in silence.

  Spears pursued the B-4.

  “They’re closing, Captain.”

  “I know…” They needed to lose the two smaller airplanes following them if they wanted to live.

  “Incoming missile.”

  “Changing course to avoid impact.”

  “What weapons does this plane carry?”

  “Only heavy weapons, like atomics.”

  “Atomics? Are there any on board?”

  “Sensors read twenty-two.”

  A plan flickered to life in Reynald’s mind.

  “This is Spear One to Command. Target is locked. Eliminate?”

  “Command to Spear One. What is your present position?”

  “Command, we are closing on Harkness.”

  “Do not, I repeat, do not take down the B-4 over Harkness. It’s packing quite a few atomics. Take it down over the Lake.”

  “Affirmative, Command.”

  “Spear One to Spear Two! Evasive action! It’s launching something! I repeat launch in progress.”

  “Command to Spears: identify projectile!”

  4:45 P.M.

  The sky over Harkness was clear, blue, empty. The sun slid casually toward the western horizon. Birds sang, and the day was peaceful. The only sound was the approaching line of military vehicles on U.S. 41.

  The sound barrier was broken and the bombs had been released and had begun their fateful descent before the birds even had a chance to be startled from their perches. Three jets flashed across the sky, leaving ghostly white contrails in their wake.

  The sonic boom came, and the birds departed.

  Something flashed in the sky, a metallic flash.

  A sparrow gazed at the shimmer, mesmerized.

  As it took to wing, Harkness was enveloped in fierce, white, cleansing light, and was no more.

  Rob Hodge yawned as he stared out the canvas cover. If he strained his eyes, he could just make out the thin blue line on the horizon that was Lake Superior. He couldn’t see Harkness, but if he squinted he could make out the faint projection of the Calumet water tower. He saw three planes streak overhead—

  Silent white light filled the world, and Robert Hodge was blinded by its glory.

  The explosion of white hell threw the dark interior of the transport into harsh brightness, terrifying everyone within. As the shockwave swept over the line of trucks, a deafening, explosive sound tore through each passenger’s head.

  Robert Hodge groped around the interior of the transport, forever blinded by the initial explosion. His hands found the neck of the GI who had been sitting next to him by the back door.

  “What have you done!? What have you done!?” His grasp on the struggling soldier’s neck tightened.

  Hodge’s blood stippled the face of the soldier as the bullet tore through his head. The commander of the evacuation stood with gun smoking, and he wrestled Rob’s body through the open canvas cover. He watched as the body struck the asphalt of U.S. 41 and rolled.

  Standing in the open back door, thrown into contrast by the hellishly bright mushroom cloud unfolding on the horizon behind them, the commander addressed the shocked passengers of the transport.

  “The next person who speaks joins him.”

  The convoy continued down the highway.

  “Increase speed! We’ll be pulled back in!”

  The B-4 hurtled onward, pressed to the limit. Behind it, the two Spears were caught in the backdraft of the shockwave and ripped effortlessly apart. The debris vaporized instantly in the atomic firestorm.

  The mushroom cloud shrank until it was nothing but a pinpoint of hellfire on the horizon.

  “We’re clear.”

  “That should throw them off our trail for a while. Head west. We’ll try to contact Magdalene as we get closer.”

  They sped into the setting sun.

  Red Room.

  Cervera.

  She did not believe what she had just been told.

  Harkness, Michigan had been nuked.

&nb
sp; How had Jennings done this without Cervera’s knowledge? She knew Jennings was scared, but to order a nuclear strike on his own country? She thought Jennings had only meant to use extreme measures at the Guam site, not on Harkness.

  The lines of communication were shaky at best at the present moment. No one knew for sure what had happened, but one thing was painfully clear: Harkness was no more, and many American soldiers had been killed in the blast.

  War hero or not, Jennings was way out of line.

  Jennings was too paranoid for his own good. The Canadians were in no position to start another war. The Styx had made sure of that. Jennings was jumping at shadows. What had started out as probably a meteor shower had turned into a tragedy because of Jennings and his delusions of grandeur.

  Cervera loaded her handgun and placed it in her holster.

  Jennings had to be stopped.

  The sleek, black B-4 sped through the air on a path into destiny. They had won the race against the setting sun.

  “Captain, linkup successful. You can speak to her now.”

  “Good. Magdalene?”

  static.

  “Maggie?”

  (…yes, reynald?…) The signal was so very weak.

  “We’re on our way.”

  silence.

  “Magdalene, are you still there?”

  (…i feel them coming to me again. more ships, more planes. this time they’ll destroy me…)

  “They’ll try, but you can’t let them succeed.”

  (…jean, my weapons are at twelve percent…)

  “Twelve percent? Did you deplete reserve power?”

  (…i delegated weapons power to the communications array. i located an enemy on purpose transit. i sent a beacon into the stream to summon a strike force to intercept…)

  “Did our forces prevail?”

  hesitation.

  (…no.)

  “Harvest?”

  (…soon.)

  “And you only have twelve percent weapons?”

  (…i won’t survive another attack…)

  “If we travel at maximum speed, can we reach you in time?”

  (…the approaching vessels are closer to my present position than you are. you won’t arrive in time to save me.. it’s too late…)

  “Don’t say that. We’ll find a way to get there before the natives do. Too much is riding on this. We have to alert the fleet of Kilbourne’s plan. We’ll find a way to save your core, at least, and you can be refitted into—”