Overrun: Project Hideaway

by Michael Rusch

  The children clung to him tightly and did not make a sound. Haase could feel the rhythm of their scared breathing as they held snugly against him.

  The shock from another large blast hammered the air a few blocks in the distance. None of the children flinched or relaxed their grip. The breath from the two hanging behind him fell hotly across the back of his neck.

  Not looking back and hoping more of his men than he had seen escaped the city alive, Haase moved away from the center of the roadway. Holding the children close with one hand and his weapon in the air with the other, Haase jogged as best he could towards the darkness at the outside of the dying town. The young girl, no taller than the equipment belt at his waist, followed behind.

  The four daughters and one son of the people whose town he had been sent here to destroy, he now hugged tightly across his chest. He ignored the scream of his lungs as he struggled beneath their weight.

  He didn’t know where he ran to take them. Only that it would be somewhere away from the madness waged upon this outside town. A madness he had helped to create.

  The weight of the children pulled at his neck while the heat from the air and the coming sun began to burn at his face.

  Haase ran for what darkness remained beyond the buildings still standing at the outside of town.

  He struggled to keep his legs moving. His breathing came in gasps, and his heart threatened to pound straight from his throat. He resisted the urge of his agonized muscles to just give up and fall down.

  With the motorized sounds of the J.G.U. onslaught fading in the distance, Haase struck out for the safety of the night.

  The young girl trailed closely behind him. Her short legs moved hurriedly to keep up with his pace.

  Chapter 7

  United States Administration Dome

  October 2306, 48 years after Hideaway launch

  "It's been confirmed sir," Minister of State Daniel J. Baldwin said quickly upon entering. His voice echoed eerily through the President's chambers. “We’ve had another one.”

  President Franklin F. Ford didn’t turn or even acknowledge the entrance of his most senior advisor. He just continued to gaze past his office window towards the ruins of old Washington D.C. about five miles outside of the Administration Dome.

  He could still recognize some of the structural remains that marked the nation’s capitol back in the day. Before the ozone layer finally went. Before death befell the entire world around them.

  “Another goddamn what?” the President asked softly without turning around. He still looked outside the thick windows of his office towards the ruins and what his entire country could ultimately become.

  "Another one, sir," Baldwin answered in the same deflated tone. “It’s another overrun.”

  The President nodded. His body was rigid, and his head hung down.

  "How many is that?" War Minister Peter Faulken's voice bellowed from across the room. His pale gaunt form sat stiffly behind an electronic briefing table where he scrolled through the hour's military updates. "How many overruns?"

  Like the President, Faulken didn’t look up at Baldwin when he first spoke.

  "We have five complete losses,” Baldwin said walking further into the large mostly empty room. “The most recent is Science Dome 15 on the West Coast."

  "And the Hideaway Project?" Faulken asked.

  The President shifted his body around towards Faulken but still did not speak.

  "We don't know about the Hideaway Project," Baldwin answered watching the President. The skin under his eyes sagged, and his shoulders drooped.

  "Its security is completely unknown. The entire facility housing the project has been destroyed. That’s all we know. There have been no signs of orbiting life coming from the moon. We think the ship is still down."

  "You think the ship is still down?" the President's aged southern voice came from the back of the large room. "You don't know?"

  "Not yet, sir,” Baldwin answered. “We don't know.”

  "Do you know if it’s even still up there?” the President asked this time in a stronger yet still soft and angry tone. “Not destroyed already like its parent facility?"

  "It's still there, sir. At least that has been verified,” Baldwin returned. “We can’t yet risk launching a full detection pulse sweep. There’s too much danger the J.G.U. might notice."

  The President turned back to the window.

  Faulken looked up from the briefing table. He cast a thin stare first up at Baldwin and then over at the President.

  The President’s apparent frailties and misgivings that manifested themselves at the onset of the war were becoming much more evident. As time moved quickly on, they were becoming more pronounced and severe.

  "It’s not working, Mr. President,” Baldwin said softly. “We thought it would, but it’s not. The plan is not accomplishing what we thought. ”

  “And this surprises you?” the President answered curtly back.

  "Minister Baldwin, you are wrong on making that assumption,” Faulken said dismissively and returned his gaze to the viewscreen in front of him. “For all intensive purposes, it’s working just as well as can be expected. Heavy losses were considered when calculating its efficiency. We are not far enough along to make any sort of assessments.”

  "Mr. President," Baldwin continued ignoring the war minister. "Every report we've received, every scenario researched from this point on, suggests events have begun gravitating way beyond our capacity to control. Very little is going the way we expected."

  "How would you expect a war at home to go, Minister?" the President asked his tone seething with quiet rage.

  "We have Vulture commandos entering every major city near every dome structure,” Faulken interrupted ignoring the President’s question. Not yet giving the conversation his full attention, Faulken continued to stare at his holovid screen. “J.G.U. forces are suffering insurmountable losses. It will be impossible for them to maintain such a zealous offensive campaign for much longer. They will begin to fall back."

  “When?” the President asked hotly turning partially around.

  “Mr. President,” Faulken answered calmly again. “It will happen.”

  "So, what, are we just trying to outlast them then?" the President asked his voice more petulant and brooding.

  "The troops are not getting out in time," Baldwin said moving quietly to the center of the room. He stood directly behind the President who still kept his back to them.

  Silently, Faulken powered down his console and looked up towards Baldwin and the President at this remark.

  "The J.G.U. are moving too fast,” Baldwin continued. “The Vulture troops are being hurried in setting the explosives. These rush jobs are making them detonate too early. At the detrimental loss to both equipment and men.”

  "Haphazard occurrences of human error," Faulken grunted. "All military operations carry their own risks. These men have trained all their careers for the task that is now at hand. Considering their mission objectives and the high caliber blast power they are hurrying to plant, these occurrences can and do happen.

  “Mistakes happen. Death does occur. These are not things these crews are not equipped to handle. By signing up for these duties, these men accepted their fates long ago. They are fully capable of making the necessary adjustments and being able to handle these accelerated attacks.”

  "If the explosive sets weren’t detonating as early as has been happening, much more would be lost," Baldwin continued ignoring the interruption. " J.G.U. ground forces are rolling through these towns. Sometimes even around them. They know where the domes are, and they know what we’re up to.

  “They’re purposefully not in these towns long. It makes it harder for our crews to detonate the blasts when they’re even there. Whole Vulture units are being lost at a time. They’re almost being chased into the towns they’re rigging for ambush. This accelerated timeframe was never expected. I fear the detonations are not having as much of an effect on their fo
rces as we had hoped."

  “Who ever expected an ideal timeframe?” Faulken snorted without compassion. “We are at war for god’s sakes. Mr. President, I assure you this is all completely necessary. The plan is on schedule and proceeding according to design.”

  The President turned around at this and moved toward his desk.

  “Proceeding according to design,” President Ford mimicked the war minister softly.

  With a shaking hand, he pulled a vial of medication from his drawer and settled back in his chair. He threw a handful of the capsules to the back of his throat and swallowed them dry. He dropped the vial back into his top drawer and pulled himself close to the desk.

  Without speaking he stared at the men on either side of the room. The flag of the United States Administration Dome hung behind his back.

  President Ford took several breaths to calm his racing mind and heart.

  "We're killing ourselves as fast as we're killing them," Baldwin said. "We might even be killing our own troops faster. We're starting to run out of men. The Vulture team is almost dead."

  "Jesus Christ," the President said leaning forward and resting his forehead in his hands.

  "That's preposterous," Faulken answered him hotly.

  "At this rate, this war can only be fought for another year,” Baldwin continued without acknowledging Faulken’s outburst. “Another year at the most. I’ve sent updated troop levels and defense placement scenarios to your information files, War Minister. Check them. Check them soon."

  "I don’t need to check them,” Faulken answered with a pointed tone. “Each dome has its own guardian army, and its own outer defenses. Even beyond that, a Death Wall ignition is enough to wipe out platoons of advancing forces.”

  "But what then?" Baldwin asked. "It’s not enough. The J.G.U. still keep coming through."

  "Vulture troop existence may be threatened, Mr. Minister of State," Faulken said standing. "But we've been keeping a close eye on the J.G.U. on their own soil during this entire short time we've been at war. Troop deliveries are starting to slow way down from overseas. They can't last much longer. They won't. They have nothing left, and the defense department completely agrees with that assessment. This war will not last longer than another four months. Six at the most. They are close to dead. Much closer than we are."

  "There is another problem," Baldwin said watching the President.

  Ford sat back behind his desk looking haggard and sick as he listened to the conversation. His hands were balled into tight white fists. "We have reports of many survivors. American survivors. Survivors that are waiting out the plan in bunkers underground. People are making it through."

  "I know about the bunkers," Faulken dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand. "The situation is being handled."

  "I know you're handling it, Faulken," Baldwin's voice began to rise. "Tales of your massacres are making their way across the country both through the ranks of our troops and the outside citizenry."

  A dark reddish hue crawled across the President's face, and a beading trail of sweat appeared across his forehead. He clenched his teeth tightly.

  "The problem is that people are getting out!” Baldwin’s voice was nearly a scream. “Your massacres are not contained. There are whispers of government plots and conspiracies across the entire outside countryside. These people know they're survivors of something more than just this war."

  "What do you want me to do, Baldwin?” Faulken asked coolly. “Pull men from the Vulture teams to set up secret camps and hold American refugees? You said it yourself. Manpower is limited. So what if a few people get out?"

  "You would never set up camps, Faulken,” Baldwin returned. “And why would you? Their removal is at the heart of this war. Why would you start acts of compassion at this juncture in your quest to conquer the world?!”

  Faulken didn't answer him. His face also became bright red.

  "Many believe this is how the J.G.U. are getting their information," Baldwin continued. “The people on the outside now know what their own country is about, and they’re starting to turn against us. They see the J.G.U. as their salvation. And why wouldn’t they? They actually are. The plan is failing. We have to address another means of attack…and call this off."

  "Baldwin, you and your ‘many’ are wrong,” Faulken said again. “The J.G.U. are probably creating these rumors themselves in an attempt to derail our efforts. Propaganda tactics won’t work. Not now. We have complete control over what is happening out there. We will win this war. The plan will succeed."

  "Faulken, you goddamn listen to me!" the President roared and stood abruptly. His chair flew from beneath him and smashed against the wall. Its impact echoed through the chamber.

  "I want a complete and accurate wartime assessment drawn up and given to me,” President Ford continued to yell. “I want to know precisely what is happening out there, War Minister Faulken! I want everything. Troop levels, readiness states. Weapon and equipment supplies. Civilian casualties on the fucking outside. I want to know every aspect of this fucking war you have created. Every fucking thing. Do you got that?”

  Faulken glanced over and gave Baldwin a quick icy stare. He didn’t yet look at the President.

  “If I had known the full details of this war plan, I would have stopped it,” the President’s voice lowered slightly. “It wouldn’t have gone this far. I’ve been kept in the dark and manipulated to act.”

  The President stared directly at Faulken.

  “I want to know everything. Right goddamn now. Expected contingencies. Response scenarios. How far people acting orchestrating this war are ordered and prepared to go. I want to know all expected outcomes, and I want to know anything, anything, that might possibly be done to change our current course of events.”

  Faulken glanced from Baldwin and then back to the President.

  “What do you expect to change?” Faulken questioned evenly.

  “Right goddamn now!” the President ignored Faulken and continued his tirade. “This country is falling to the enemy. An enemy we purposefully provoked into coming here for God's sake."

  "Mr. President,” Faulken's voice was stone quiet. “It’s too late for change. We can’t look back. We can only move forward and finish what’s been planned for years. What has already happened can’t be undone.”

  "Faulken, if you don't cooperate with me, I'll pull the whole goddamn thing,” President Ford answered just as coldly. “I’ll end the plan. I’ll end it now. As commander-in-chief, I'll regroup our forces and make one last overt attack. I'll draft men on the outside if I have to. I’ll send army teams to hunt the Vulture squads if they can’t be brought back in. This country will not fall from the planet like this."

  "It can’t be stopped, Mr. President," Faulken stood and walked towards the President's desk his voice ominous and threatening. "That’s the way it’s been designed all along. Way before you were in office, and even before any of us were born. Too many men have died for you to call it off. Safeguards have been worked in so that not even the President can bring it to a premature end. The Vulture Team is loose. And can't be stopped. Plan Zero has to run its complete course. Only then can we judge its success."

  The President’s hardened expression did not react. His eyes moved to Baldwin and then back to Faulken.

  "You are not in a position to change anything, Mr. President," Faulken continued. "Your power is very limited if not nonexistent in terms of how this war operates. Everything is in the hands of the war department. It has been for some time and you know that. Your role is simply that of a figurehead for people to rally behind. Acting beyond that is not your place. The war department is out there fighting the war. Your job is to occupy the attention of the people so that they can do it. There isn't a thing more you can do. Or are expected to."

  The President felt his heart sink to his shoe.

  “There isn’t a thing more you will be allowed to do,” Faulken finished evenly. “As this country’s figurehead, you w
ill also be the person held accountable. You will take the blame.”

  Baldwin didn’t move from where he stood in the center of the room and silently observed the confrontation between the two men. When the President looked over at him again, he lowered his head and focused his eyes on the floor. He could feel the man's anger searing across the room.

  "Get out of here, Faulken,” the President hissed. “Get out of here now. Before I grab your fucking tongue and hang you with it."

  Faulken didn’t answer. He nodded at the President and returned to the briefing table. He quickly gathered a small pile of dark folders and sloppily creased papers. Shuffling them together, Faulken stood up, straightened his tie, and walked past Baldwin to the door behind him.

  "I expect full access to all war material within six hours,” the President called commandingly after him. “All information is to be sent to this room, War Minister. Is that clear?"

  "Yes, sir, Mr. President," Faulken replied as he brushed past Baldwin and walked from the chamber.

  When the door had finally sealed shut behind him, the President spoke again.

  “Mr. Baldwin, tell me as much as you can about the Hideaway Project. “

  Baldwin walked towards the President’s desk at the far side of the large room.

  Chapter 8

  Tuttle took two more steps, staggered once and collapsed under the weight of the bleeding load he carried. Brandon's body pitched forward out of his grasp. Tuttle vaguely felt his own numb body fall after it. Very little of his own pain registered across his senses, not even the gunshot wound that had nicked off an inch of skin above his shoulder. He tumbled alongside Brandon down the embankment away from the main road.

  At the bottom of the hill where the land evened out, their bodies stopped. Tuttle laid facedown in the burning sand which covered most of the outside terrain. Brandon groaned softly next to him. The heat from the sun, still burning and rising up from what was absorbed daily into the ground, singed Tuttle’s lungs and throat.