by M. R. Forbes
"No markings," he said. "Could be anyone. More important: how the hell did they get here before us?"
"I bet it was the Soviets, sir," Sergeant Cohn said, drawing a laugh from the rest of the team.
Ivers laughed too, using it to hide his true concern. They had been dispatched within ten minutes of the UFOs appearance, the landing spot quickly calculated by people much smarter than he was. Their Interceptor was based on the latest scramjet tech, capable of hitting Mach 10. It had delivered them from the base in Australia to the site in no time.
Or so he had thought.
Whoever had beat them to the location, they couldn't have been far off to beat them there in a VTOL. Military installations in Antarctica were supposed to be illegal.
He snapped out of his head and reached down, unbuckling his belt and standing. "Get ready for the drop," he said.
"Yes, sir," his team replied.
He made his way toward the back, passing through one of the plane's inserted modular units and grabbing a heavy rifle and a drop-jet from the exposed rack. The rest of Alpha did the same as they filed in behind him.
"Coming up in two, Captain," the pilot of their transport, Lieutenant Davis, said.
"Roger. We're moving into position now." He slipped the drop-jet onto the back of his armor, clicking the locks into place with practiced ease. He grabbed the control stick and pulled it forward, quickly running the pack through standard operational checks. That done, he continued to the rear of the craft, dropping the cap over the rear access panel and keying in the code to open the tail while the rest of his squad finished gearing up.
"It's going to be a bit nippy out there, ladies and gents," he said.
"I can feel my nipples freezing already," Cohn said.
"And my balls," Sergeant Olson said.
"Keep your balls to yourself, Ollie," Esposito joked.
"Yes, sir."
"Twenty seconds," Davis said.
"Roger." Ivers shivered slightly as some of the freezing air began filtering into the rear of the plane. It was damn cold. He hit a button on his left wrist, activating the armor's internal heating system. There was no way to jet-drop onto the coldest continent without it. That done, he moved to the edge of the ramp and looked down, again trying to stay focused. The crash site had passed below them, and he could see the top of the wreckage in every detail. It was a starship, that much was for sure, and since humans hadn't made it, it had to be extra-terrestrial. Aliens.
"Woo-boy," Esposito said, joining him at the edge of the ramp. "Never thought I'd see the day."
"Orders are to secure the location while the rest of the divisions are mobilized. Every country in the world is going to want in on that thing, and our job is to make sure we're in control of that rush."
"Yes, sir," his squad said.
"Mark," Davis said.
Ivers signaled his team. Then he jumped.
He let himself freefall two thousand feet before engaging the jet, using it to direct himself in a controlled descent back toward the wreckage. The idea was to come in at a better horizontal vector, making it quick and easy to land on foot and at a run, and hard for any opposition to get a bead. His team was the most experienced stationed at Eglin, and they had made hundreds of jumps, if not thousands.
He spread his arms and legs, letting the webbing of his armor spread out and give him more control. He leveled off for a moment before closing himself back up and pointing his head at a downward angle. He always felt so badass during a jet-drop.
He was reading a thousand meters when he caught motion out of the corner of his eye, coming from the grounded VTOL. A moment later he was rolling, taking evasive actions as the unknown forces on the ground opened fire on him and his team.
"Bastards are shooting at us," Esposito said.
"We don't even know who to declare war on," Olson replied.
"Olson, Cohn, you're on the VTOL," Ivers said.
"Yes, sir," they replied.
He didn't need to be able to see them to know they had veered off course, switching direction to engage the enemy. He continued forward, changing his approach vector to add more speed. The shooting stopped a few seconds later.
"They're back in the hole," Cohn said. "Groundfall in ten."
"Take them out, but try not to damage the VTOL. Command is going to want it."
"Yes, sir."
The side of the crater zipped past as Ivers swooped over the edge, flipping his body upright and cutting the jets. He free-fell again, his angle taking him in closer to the side of the ship, the close-up view threatening to steal his focus from his landing. He could see scorch marks and scuffs all along the surface, which looked like an alloy he had never seen before. Had the ship been in a battle, or had the crash caused that?
He pushed the thought away. He needed his concentration to bring himself in right at the base of the ship.
"You see that, Captain?" Esposito said a moment later. "Three o'clock."
Ivers shifted his eyes to the right. There were dead bodies were on the ground, lines of spilled blood soaked into the ice beside them. Scientists. Dead scientists.
"Whoever they are, they're killing civilians," he said, getting angry.
He fired the drop-jets, slowing his descent enough that he wouldn't break his legs, but coming in hard enough to earn some time. His body shook as he hit the floor, reaching back and unclasping the jump pack and unhooking his rifle in one smooth motion. Esposito landed behind him, along with the other two members of the squad, Ocho, and Briggs.
"I have a feeling this is going to turn out to be a pretty shitty day," Briggs said, her eyes on the bodies.
"Cut the chatter, let's move," Ivers said. There was an obvious path into the wreckage right in front of them, where boots had compressed the snow into clear tracks. "I've got point. Ocho, cover the rear."
"Yes, sir," Ocho said. Esposito moved in front of them as they dispersed into a tight wedge formation.
They moved quickly and cautiously into the ship. Ivers was surprised to find that there was still light being emitted from it, in small patches along the wall from what appeared to be some kind of bundled tubing. Most of it was black and charred, damaged in the crash, though it seemed a current or charge still existed. He couldn't imagine what the engines of something this big looked like. He could imagine scientists the world over hungering for a chance to take it apart and figure out how it worked. He doubted this thing ran on batteries.
The echoing report of distant gunfire dragged him out of his thoughts.
"There must be more people already inside," Esposito said.
"Or the E.Ts aren't friendly," Ocho replied.
He tried to track the noise. "This way," he said, picking up the pace.
The team ran down the corridor and turned left, to another long hallway. It looked the same as the first. Some hanging wires and more of the tubing spread out along a passage that was roughly human-sized.
Were the aliens the same general size and shape as they were? What did they look like?
They crossed another passage, turning right and winding up face to face with a crumpled mess of metal and wires. A dead end.
"Wrong way, sir," Briggs said.
They doubled back, heading to the left. The gunfire had stopped, leaving them with nothing to follow.
"This thing is so big, we could spend hours in here and never find them," Esposito said.
"We have to try. They may be killing innocent people."
They kept going, wandering deeper into the ship. All of it was the same. Corridors and wires and tubes. Where were the aliens? Where were the living quarters? Where was the bridge? There had to be more to the place than endless hallways.
Something in the ship cracked and groaned, sending a vibration along the floor that reminded them of where they were standing. Inside a crashed starship that could lose its structural integrity at any time.
"Five more minutes, and then we bail," Ivers told his squad. "If Cohn and Olson did
their job, and I know they did, these guys aren't going anywhere."
They moved deeper, staying in formation, their years of experience guiding them. They reached their first hatch a moment later. It was half-open.
Ivers knelt down, peering into the room. The lights were flickering inside, and he could see a body on the floor. He turned on the light attached to the rifle and poked it through, shining it onto the scientist.
"They went this way," he said, dropping down and rolling under the hatch. He quickly swept the area, finding a connecting opening at the rear of the large room. It was composed of blocky machinery and what appeared to be screens of some kind. The same tubing ran along the walls and floor - most of it dark and dead.
He crept toward the opening as quietly as he could, using hand signals to guide the team. They approached carefully, staying at the fringe. Ivers leaned over and peered through, ducking back when he saw four people positioned around something, facing away from him.
He signaled his team and then counted down with his fingers. When his hand closed into a fist, they moved into the short corridor, facing forward with clear lanes of fire for each of the heavy rifles. By the time the enemy heard them coming and began to react, they were boxed in.
"Don't," Ivers said, pointing his rifle at them as they reached for their weapons.
They were soldiers. He could tell that from the way they were standing, and how they reacted to the ambush. The shortest of them turned to face him, motioning to his tactical helmet. Ivers kept his rifle on him while he raised his hands and lifted it off.
Not a he. A woman. Dark hair, exotic face. She surveyed him and his team, unconcerned.
"Captain," she said. "Stand down. This is out of your pay grade."
"Sure, lady," Ivers said. "Just tell me who the hell you are and convince me that the United States of America gave you orders to kill innocent people."
"The orders were passed orally," she said. "No paper trail. I think you can understand the sensitive nature of our work."
"Which is what, exactly?"
The woman stepped aside to let him see what they had been standing around.
A body. A human body. It was at least a hundred pounds overweight, wearing a gray shirt and pants made from a material he didn't recognize. The face was hidden, tucked down on the chest. A tool of some kind was jutting out of the back of the skull.
"Who is that?" Ivers asked.
"The owner of this ship."
Ivers crinkled his eyebrows. "What? How do you know that?"
"I already told you, Captain, that's above your pay grade. He has something we want embedded in his brain, right about here," she pointed to the same spot on her head. "Do me a favor and mind the perimeter, while we finish up."
"Wait one second. What about the scientists? What about my people? The two you left with the VTOL were shooting at us."
"I'm sorry for that, Captain, but they had strict orders. This occasion is so far beyond any of our lives; I can't even begin to describe it to you."
Ivers kept the rifle on her. He wasn't comfortable with any of this. The U.S. killing civilians, and trying to kill some of their own, to steal something from some guy's head that they knew about ahead of time how? None of the pieces fit.
"How about we all go outside and wait for the cavalry?" Ivers said.
"Time is the most valuable asset we have," she replied. "Don't waste mine."
"I'm sorry, Miss?"
She didn't answer.
"Whoever you are. We're in control of this situation, and my call is that we're all going outside to wait for backup."
She started to laugh. It was a laugh that sent a chill through him. It was unnatural, uncomfortable. As if she wasn't quite sure how to do it.
"You aren't in control of anything, Captain," she said at the tail end of it.
"Esposito, bind them up," Ivers said. "No funny shit, or we kill you all."
"Don't worry, Captain," the woman said. "There's nothing funny about any of this."
At that moment, Ivers heard the boots on the floor behind them. He tried to shout a warning to his team, but it was already too late. Deafening gunfire echoed in the space as his team was gunned down from behind. He shifted his rifle, trying to pull the trigger. Trying to defend them.
The woman was on him in a flash, grabbing the gun and forcing it up, her strength more than he expected. He shoved back against her in an effort to push her away, and she fell back a step and let go of the gun. Then she bounced back at him, grabbing his arm and throwing him to the side where he hit the wall. He managed to regain his balance and get a shot off, but it was harmlessly wide. The woman punched him in the gut before grabbing his arm and snapping it in half, forcing the rifle to the ground.
Ivers gritted his teeth against the pain, reaching down with his good hand to grab his knife. She beat him to it, pulling it from his ankle and slicing his hand.
He lost his will to fight then, his hands dropping to his sides as he fell to his knees. He could see the rest of his team face down on the floor, dead. The two shooters from outside had joined the rest of their team, which meant Cohn and Olson were most likely dead, too.
"Whatever you're doing, someone will stop you," he said.
She smiled. Again, it seemed awkward. "No one will even know we, or you, were ever here."
She dropped the knife and returned to her work on the body.
A bullet to the head dropped Ivers a moment later.
4
Major Katherine Asher breathed deeply, feeling the pull of her dress at her abs as she filled her lungs. For the hundredth time already, she questioned her sanity in picking something that was so fitted. Just because she worked her ass off to keep her mind and body conditioned didn't mean she had to wear clothes she couldn't breathe in, did it?
"Too tight?" Michael asked. He was standing perpendicular to her in the small elevator, trying to deal with his own discomfort. Unlike Katherine, it was nothing he could alleviate by tugging.
"I'll survive," she replied. "It's okay, Michael. There's nothing to be nervous about."
"That's easy for you to say. I feel like a sausage in this thing, and you know I hate crowds."
Katherine reached out and put her hand on Michael's arm. They had been friends for as long as either of them could remember, and she knew that was the only reason he had agreed to escort her to the Admiral's Ball.
"I appreciate that you're here," she said.
"I could have been at home playing Xeno Troopers, or finishing that launch module that I'm already a week behind on. I could have been wearing jeans instead of this monkey suit." He paused, using his handkerchief to wipe some of the sweat from his face. "You're welcome. Don't get me wrong, as much as I love Xeno Troopers, I wouldn't miss the chance to see you get announced as a crewmember of the Dove for anything. How many people failed the training again?"
"Over a thousand," she replied. One-thousand one-hundred forty-three, to be exact. She had beat out a crowded field of some very impressive soldiers to be here.
Then again, she had always believed she would.
From the day on the playground when she and Michael had watched XENO-1 come down, from her time in service during the Xeno Wars, from her years of training as part of the secret program to put a starship based on the crashed alien craft back in space, she had always known it would happen.
"I still can't believe you couldn't find a handsome Corporal or something to bring you," Michael said. "I'm not exactly gigolo material."
"And I'm not exactly into gigolos," she replied, laughing.
It was true that Michael had only added to his already large frame as they had moved from childhood to adulthood. He was at least three hundred pounds, with a round body and a wide face, and they both knew he was going to stand out amidst the cut physiques of the other military that would be in attendance. It was the main reason for his discomfort. At the same time, she couldn't help but blame him for his lack of self-restraint when it came to high-
calorie, caffeine based drinks. Not with the control she had needed to master to make it this far.
The elevator slowed to a stop, and the doors slid open. The Ball was being held in the Rainbow Room, a classic icon perched at the top of Rockefeller Center. Once upon a time, it had been one of the best views around. While these days it looked into the sides of all the super-scrapers around it, it was still a symbol of American glory, and of better days everyone on the planet believed would come again. The pacts that had led to the construction of the Dove had all but eliminated most of the conflict on Earth and had brought human civilization together in a way nothing else could have.
"Here we go," Michael said, breathing out. He tucked his handkerchief in his pocket and held out his arm to her. She smiled as she took it, allowing him to walk her out into the space.
She had been expecting a crowd, a dance floor filled with Admirals and Generals, Presidents and Prime Ministers. Even so, walking in and spotting so many of the dignitaries she had read about or seen on the streams was more than a little intimidating - even for her. The naming of the Dove's crew was that important, and the stream cameras arranged around the area confirmed it.
"Keep breathing," Michael said.
To himself, or to her? She wasn't sure. Either way, it was good advice.
They made their way deeper into the room. Some of the assembled took notice of them, smiling at her as they passed. She shifted her arm to take Michael's hand. He was cold and clammy.
"How are you staying so cool under this pressure?" he asked.
"I've been shot at," she replied. "Multiple times."
Michael let out a nervous laugh. "True."
"I think our table is over there," she said, pointing toward the front. She could see Yousefi already sitting there, his pregnant wife at his side. He looked her way, raising his hand in greeting when they made eye contact. "There's the Mission Commander."