Overlord

by David L. Golemon

  “Suffren’s bulkheads are collapsing. She’s breaking up.” The operator slowly shook his head as the sound of the French navy’s pride and joy died only a mile and a half away.

  “My God, Number One,” Von Muller said as he hurriedly reached out and shut off the echoes from the audio separation mode. “What is the complement of their new boats?” he asked, fearful of the answer. Every man inside the control room could see it in his eyes.

  “Forty-seven enlisted personnel and twelve officers.”

  Von Muller felt his stomach lurch. He shook his head.

  “Do we have a course bearing on the target?” He lowered his head and then nodded at his first officer to get to the radio room.

  “Last aspect change had target heading north toward the ice pack.”

  “Maneuvering, all ahead flank, take us shallow to fifty feet. Make ready to raise radio mast.”

  The HMS Ambush was about to pass along a message the military forces of the world had been waiting to hear—the first shots in a new kind of war had been offered up. A war some had been planning for since 1947—people who knew exactly who the fight was against.

  The Grays had arrived.

  TOKYO AIR TRAFFIC CONTROL CENTER

  EIGHT MILES NORTH OF TOKYO, JAPAN

  The semi-darkened room seemed far quieter on the midnight-to-eight shift than third-year controller Oshi Yamamura was used to. The number of flights into Japan was virtually cut by a third in the early morning hours. He noticed some of the more experienced controllers actually had time enough on their hands to share conversations about their experiences, unlike the overtaxed men and women on the day and evening shifts. The atmosphere was light and easygoing and that was just what the young controller wanted.

  Oshi’s shift supervisor stopped by his station and momentarily looked over the young man’s shoulder to examine the flights on his scope and their numbers.

  “Ito is going to go on his break. Think you can handle a Continental heavy out of Honolulu?”

  Yamamura smiled and nodded his head. The supervisor slid the flight and its info card into the slot just above his board. He patted the young man on the back and then made his way to the next controller to further divide the breaking man’s flight responsibilities.

  “Korean Air 2786 to Tokyo Center, over,” the voice in his headphones said.

  “Korean Air 2786, this is Tokyo Center, good evening.” The young dark-haired man answered confidently, making sure to speak loud enough that his supervisor could hear.

  “Tokyo Center, we have traffic off our starboard wing, about two miles out and below our six. What do you have in that area? Over.”

  Yamamura examined his scope and saw Korean Air at twenty-nine thousand feet on an easterly heading. The only other flights in the immediate area were a Nippon Air thirty-five miles south of the Korean flight and the Continental 747 he was just handed at twenty-six miles north of Korean Air.

  “Korean Air, I have no traffic in your vicinity at this time, over.” He again examined his scope for something he might have missed. The sweep was clear except for his three immediate aircraft responsibilities. “We have the storm cell to your rear and clear skies with a twelve-knot tailwind; other than that we are clear on the scope. All other traffic is local and feet dry, nothing over water, over.”

  “Tokyo Center, we are being paced by an aircraft with very bright anticollision lights and it’s less than two miles distant. The lights are brilliant. We have been observing aircraft since breaking into clear weather, over.”

  Yamamura watched his scope but the sweep remained clear. He was almost at a loss for what to say. His supervisor came over and also examined his radar sweep and was satisfied the kid had missed nothing. He placed his clipboard down and then connected his headset with Yamamura’s console.

  “Korean Air 2786 heavy,” the supervisor said as his eyes remained on the screen, studying the lone IFF designation of the Airbus A350 as it made its way toward Tokyo. “Come right to heading 314 and climb to 31,000, see if traffic remains on current course.”

  “Roger Tokyo Center, come right to—”

  The silence was sudden. Yamamura looked at the supervisor, who just clicked his mic twice. There was no problem on their end.

  “Tokyo Center, this is Continental 006 heavy, we have a bright flash of light approximately twenty to thirty miles to our north, very high altitude, over.”

  “Continental 006, wait one, please. Korean Air 2786, repeat last message. Korean Air, please report, we have—”

  “Oh, God,” Yamamura said as he nudged his supervisor on the side and pointed at the scope just as the blinking symbol for Korean Air 2786 heavy went dark.

  “Korean Air, do you copy? Over.”

  “Tokyo Center, this is Continental 006, we have traffic to our immediate front and just above our position. Tell whoever that is to mind the rules of the road, we are—”

  The Continental icon blinked three times and then it too went dark. The Boeing 747 just vanished.

  “Continental 006, come in, over. Continental 006, say again.” The supervisor slapped Yamamura on the shoulder to get him out of the trance he was in. “Get Kadena Air Force Base in Okinawa on the line and ask them if they have any traffic in the air that can report on what’s out there. They’re closer than we are.”

  As they moved to get to the business of reporting downed aircraft, another of the controllers started talking loudly, trying to raise a commercial heavy, a Qantas 777 out of Anchorage, Alaska, as it too vanished thirty miles from the scene of the first two. All of this at 2:30 A.M. on a cloudless and moonlit night.

  KADENA AIR FORCE BASE

  OKINAWA, JAPAN

  The two Japanese Air Self-Defense Force F-16 fighters lifted off on full afterburner just minutes after the call came in from Tokyo Center requesting assistance. The Fighting Falcons jumped into the air and instead of heading for their normal hot spot in the Sea of Japan and the hostile Korean Peninsula, they headed east toward the Pacific.

  Lieutenant Colonel Naishi Tomai brought the venerable fighter’s nose up and climbed. As he did he had to think back to the very brief weather report from the base. Cloudless, it had said, but just as the thought came to him the F-16 along with his wingman rose into a heavier, darker mass of weather that seemed to be stationed over the sea at sixty miles. He knew he would never be able to see anything from that altitude so he nosed the fighter down, trying to ease the light aircraft into the sudden storm. He hoped his wingman was hugging him pretty close as they slowly came through the low clouds. It seemed the dark clouds held nothing but potholes as his small fighter was tossed up and down and side to side as he eased the Falcon through the rain and swirling winds of the storm.

  The two F-16s broke free of the squall at eight thousand feet and that was when the lieutenant colonel could not believe the sight he was seeing far below on the surface of the sea. He unsnapped his oxygen mask and shook his head at the impossible view. Spread out on the ocean for hundreds of miles around was the wreckage of the three commercial aircraft. Three distinct spots on the sea eight thousand feet below. For the colonel it looked as if the waves had caught fire.

  The attack that killed over seven hundred and twenty civilians had lasted less than thirty-two seconds from beginning to end.

  CAMP DAVID

  FREDERICK, MARYLAND

  Jack, Carl, and Henri sat in a closed and windowless van that either had the air conditioner on the fritz or the four FBI agents watching over them wanted them to suffer for some reason or the other. The mess they left back in Georgetown was more than likely the reason. Farbeaux had listened to the two Americans speaking and tried his best to follow the complicated conversation they were having. Henri adjusted the handcuffs on his wrists.

  “And the British, who were out in the middle of the Antarctic for who knows what reason,” Everett said, “found my watch buried in two-hundred-thousand-year-old ice? And this was the reasoning behind you leaving me out of the hunt for
your sister’s killer? Just to keep us separated? Your blood on my watch, found at a level in the Antarctic ice that is over a hundred and eighty thousand years old.”

  “That’s about it.” Jack glanced at the Frenchman, who acted as if he weren’t listening. “Now, as for the British, I know some parts of the Overlord plan, but not the main cog in the wheel. I’m beginning to think they found that watch during the excavation of something else under the ice.”

  “That’s a little thin, Jack.” Everett also looked at Farbeaux, who only winked at the captain. “Niles has got to have more on this.”

  Jack adjusted his hands so he could get some relief from the handcuffs on his wrists.

  “I believe he does, but he, Matchstick, and Garrison Lee have been so tight-lipped about Overlord that they won’t let anyone in. I handled some troop reports and dispositions of war material for the plan, but after that, it’s like the Manhattan Project was reactivated.”

  Carl just raised his brows when Matchstick and Lee were mentioned.

  “As far as I can tell without butting my nose into secret stuff is that only a few people, mostly heads of state and their immediate military commanders, even know the word Overlord.”

  “And?” Carl persisted.

  “Well, I guess Matchstick says that no matter what we do to prevent you from being lost two hundred thousand years ago, it will more than likely cause you to be lost. He said you were too vital to Overlord.”

  “So the little guy will just chuck my ass right under the proverbial bus to prevent us from changing the outcome?”

  “I guess that’s the way it is. He says you may be the reason we win or lose the war.”

  “It’s called a paradox, gentlemen. One cannot change the past, nor dare I say the future. Time and physics will make the changes so it comes out the way it was meant to be.”

  Both Everett and Collins stared at the Frenchman as if he had just fallen from the Darwinian tree.

  “So now we know the truth—you used to write for Star Trek or something, right?” Carl joked as the van’s sliding door flew open.

  “The powers that be, Captain Everett, have deemed you expendable and no attempt is to be made to change the fact that your watch ends up two hundred thousand years in the past. I guess for whatever war that is approaching they need you doing what it was you were meant to do.”

  “Henri, why don’t you take your theories and shove them right up your—”

  “Gentlemen,” said one of the agents in a navy blue FBI Windbreaker, “please follow me. You will now be separated.”

  Henri only smiled at the uncomfortable frame of mind he had put the navy man in. He winked at Everett as he was led to a black sedan only feet away.

  “I hate that guy, Jack,” Carl said as he was led to a second car.

  “Really? I couldn’t tell.”

  * * *

  Three separate vehicles moved slowly down the winding roadway. Jack Collins was in the backseat of the lead vehicle, driven by a healthy looking young Marine corporal. The guard next to him kept his eyes straight ahead and did not once look back at the career army officer. As they neared the front gate Jack saw the security team of five Marines awaiting their arrival. They all wore gray combat fatigues and all watched the three sedans intently as they approached.

  As the rear door was opened for Collins he looked back and saw Carl and Henri step from their cars and look around. Carl knew exactly where they were. As for the French Army colonel, he looked at the secure surroundings and figured this was one of the nicer prison properties he had ever seen. He started to step toward the two other men but a burly Marine stepped in front of him. Another three Marines escorted Henri toward the back of the large wooden residence.

  A Marine captain soon stepped from the house and walked down the pathway toward Jack and Carl. He was examining two photographs and then held up a small black box the two Event security men knew immediately. Collins and then Everett both held out their cuffed hands and their right thumbprints were taken and compared to Department of Defense records. The captain nodded his head and then gestured for his security team to disperse. He eyed first Collins and then the much larger Everett. His eyes settled on the blond man as he removed first Everett’s and then Jack’s handcuffs.

  “You may not remember, Captain, but we served together once at Camp Pendleton.” He gestured for the captain and colonel to follow him toward the front of the less than ostentatious home.

  “I’m sorry, Captain, it’s been a long day,” Everett said as he looked back at Jack.

  The Marine captain paused at the double front doors. “It’s about to get a lot longer for you,” he said without a smile just as a two-and-a-half-ton truck pulled up to the front yard. Twenty Marines hopped down from its tarp-covered back. Jack looked at Carl as they both noticed the heavy ordance the squad of Marines carried. Collins raised his eyebrows when he saw the three men carrying the very heavy hellfire missile tubes.

  “I take it you’re having trouble with the animal life around Frederick?” Carl asked, not really feeling comfortable with the small joke.

  The captain looked back at the dispersing Marines as they vanished into the thickly lined tree-covered property. He ran an electronic keycard through the security lock and the door opened.

  “I cannot comment on that aspect of security at the camp, gentlemen, not even as a professional courtesy.” He pushed the door opened and gestured for the two officers to enter. Jack held his place and looked at the young captain.

  “What about our fri—” He paused in his description. “Our colleague. Where is he being taken?”

  “That will be explained to you later, Colonel.” Jack and Carl looked up in time to see a very weary Niles Compton step into the foyer. “Until then, let’s just say the Marine security unit at Camp David becomes a little nervous when a known criminal enters the compound.” He nodded at the Marine captain until the man turned and with a dip of his head left the house. “And frankly our friend the colonel is not well liked by the president, especially after his miraculous escape from custody six months ago.” He looked sideways at Jack and Carl as he spoke. “So, after we talk maybe you can see Henri again, but not until a few things get out in the open.” Niles turned and walked down the hallway he had just exited. “Until then we have a meeting with a very angry and put-out president.”

  Everett looked at Jack and raised his brows. “I probably chose a bad time to come home.”

  Collins looked from Carl’s eyes to the watch he wore on his right wrist. He looked back and then just nodded his head. It probably was not the most opportune time to help Jack out with his personal problems.

  They followed the director of Department 5656 into the bowels of the Camp David White House, eyed by even more menacing men, only these were the standard Secret Service team that always stayed close to the president. The men were serious looking. Jack and Carl immediately noticed that the agents all wore a sidearm fully exposed on their hips and every other agent carried a small briefcase that obviously held something far more lethal than a standard nine millimeter. They watched the two visitors very closely and that got the two Event Group men thinking that something in the equation had changed. They passed through a small living room where an agent stood beside the doorway and as they did they could hear the laughter of two small girls; when they walked by the two officers, both observant men, spied the first lady sitting on the carpeted floor playing with her two daughters. She looked up and met Jack’s eyes, and what he saw there made him worry even more. The first lady looked frightened.

  Niles Compton opened a large door and stepped inside. When Carl and Jack followed they saw a sight that was reminiscent of the old photos from the war that depicted President Roosevelt sitting at a conference with Churchill and Stalin. Three men sat around a large table, looking at the newcomers very closely, as did two men standing off from the round table. Both Jack and Carl knew the five men from photos and briefing reports and they immediately came to th
e position of attention even though they weren’t in uniform. The president of the United States angrily nodded his head toward the desk that sat in the corner of the room. He stood and said something to the other four men. Niles escorted Carl and Jack toward the desk, where the angry man from the Oval Office met them.

  “Have a good time in Georgetown, did you?” The president placed his hands on his hips. He wore no tie and his shirt was slowly turning a darker shade of white from sweat. Jack and Carl remained quiet.

  A knock sounded at the door and a Secret Service agent escorted another two men into the room; the president gestured for them to join him. With a nervous glance at the four men sitting around the table the two men advanced.

  “Gentlemen, this is my director of the CIA, Harlan Easterbrook, and the assistant director of Operations, Daniel Peachtree.”

  Easterbrook nodded his head and quickly looked down at his shoes. Only Peachtree offered his hand for shaking. Collins looked from the outstretched hand and then up to the man’s dark eyes. Jack turned away and looked at the president as if he had been set up.

  “Colonel Collins, I believe Mr. Peachtree has something to say to you.” The president’s hands remained planted on his hips, a stance every American knew meant he was angry and wanted something concluded. The four men at the table quietly spoke amongst themselves as the American problem played out on the other side of the room.

  “Colonel, believe me when I say how much this ugly episode has upset the agency.”

  Collins stared at the man as if his words went right past his ears without entering. His blue eyes bore into the man’s darker ones and before the assistant director of Operations knew it he had taken a step back.

  “Upset the agency?” Director Easterbrook said as he heard the words come from Peachtree’s mouth. “Colonel, we are even now tracking down the murdering bastard who killed your sister and her colleague. We will not rest until he is hanging from the highest tree the agency can find, and the man to tie the knot in the rope is Mr. Peachtree here, especially since it was in his operational area that Vickers committed his crimes.”