Overlord

by David L. Golemon

  Vickers looked around nervously. He saw about a hundred people standing around the entrance of the hotel. Any of them could be the assassins Peachtree spoke of.

  “Okay, you have eyes on the target. What do you want?”

  “It’s what you want we’re going to discuss, Hiram.”

  “And what’s that?” He avoided a small woman with a handbag the size of Detroit as she approached.

  “You wish to have this nightmare end and receive the forgiveness of the new president—and of course myself.”

  “What game are you trying to run on me? Ten hours ago you had half the agency tracking me down to kill me, now you want me to come back?”

  “That was then, this is now. You know how quickly things can change in Washington. Before you left Langley, you contacted several members of your now-defunct Black Teams for assisting you in a delicate matter in the Arizona desert. Well, those men reported directly to me, and explained how you were going to gain leverage on us by taking a very secret military asset and holding him hostage until we saw things your way.”

  Hiram Vickers had sorely underestimated the assistant director of Operations. The man had been five steps ahead of him at all times.

  “What is it you … I mean Camden wants?”

  “Why, nothing more than you and your Black Teams as originally intended. You see, there is a plan in effect that our former friend in the White House had devised with certain allies. This plan was thought up by the people who guide whoever you were tracking in Arizona. This asset, as you remember from your talks in Kansas with Mr. Hendrix—the man in prison with no official name—is code-named Magic. You see, Mr. Vickers, the new administration wants to speak directly to this Magic.”

  “Why, if you follow Operation Overlord, you would undoubtedly get access to him, whoever he is, eventually.”

  “Please stop thinking, Mr. Vickers, and listen. We want that asset in our pocket and not hidden away by any think tank the former president has hidden away. We want our military people to evaluate this war, and whoever this Magic is has the information they will need. Get him. If it takes three months or three years, get Magic for us. Your Black Team is standing by. May I suggest you stake out that house in Arizona; Magic will show up there eventually. And if this strange group is in charge of security there, I would be extremely careful.”

  “And then I will be allowed back? The Black Team won’t have orders to kill me after we take him?”

  “As I said, Vickers, we could have gotten you at any time, but now you are too valuable. Get that asset so we can get the information we need for this country, not everybody who has a gun and a few tanks. Now, accept the package the man behind you is holding and get to work. This is one mission you don’t want to screw up, because if you do a certain army major will discover right where you are waiting. And he will assuredly kill you in a most brutal manner.”

  Vickers’s eyes widened when a rather large hand came over his shoulder. A plastic bag was there and he turned to see the leader of the last Black Team on the CIA’s books. The man shoved the bag at him and he finally took it. Vickers felt the weight of the weapon and took a quick look inside. It was a Glock nine millimeter and a cell phone.

  “Be useful to us, Hiram, and all is forgiven. Use the secure cell phone and not the one you used to call me—we don’t want certain people tracking you down the way we did, and stop you before you secure this Magic. Good luck and don’t fail.”

  The phone went dead as he turned and faced the man in the black T-shirt and blue jeans.

  “What are your orders?” he asked as he tossed his old cell phone in a trash can.

  “To follow your orders. Other than that, we have orders that if we can’t secure the asset in Arizona, we kill him, or her, whoever the case may be.”

  “And then kill me.” Vickers frowned.

  “It won’t come to that. You know how good we are. I guess you can say we never fail to get our man.”

  Vickers frowned as the large man gestured for him to follow. He knew his men to be stone-cold killers if they had to be.

  Now he actually felt sorry for the asset known as Magic.

  SOUTHERN ATLANTIC OCEAN

  The Pyotr Veliky signaled the Russian flagship of the Red Banner Northern Fleet by signal light. The night was warm and moonless and the giant silhouette of the missile cruiser was hard to discern. Aboard the Pyotr Veliky Sarah, Ryan, and Anya had been allowed out on deck to observe the highly dangerous maneuver that was about to take place. Sarah watched the skies and wondered if their movements were being tracked by someone other than the American NSA or the Russian Security Service with their highly technical tracking satellites. In all honesty she wished it were the Event Group’s KH-11 Black Bird ASAT, code-named Boris and Natasha. It would make her feel more at home if she knew family eyes were on them. But she did know one thing that was certain: the Pyotr Veliky was on her own from this point forward.

  The sixteen warships of the Red Banner Northern Fleet made a sharp turn to the east and made for the coast of France while the giant missile cruiser heeled sharply to port, cutting dangerously close to a small Russian destroyer, so much so that the large cruiser sent the smaller vessel rolling high in her wake. The great missile cruiser was now traveling in the opposite direction as the flotilla.

  The three guests standing along the stern railing had to hang on tight as the ship rolled hard at full maneuvering speed. Seawater cascaded onto the deck as the powerful warship heeled hard over in what was known as a slink-and-dive turn. This meant that she hadn’t slowed by one single knot as she made the maneuver.

  “Whoa!” Ryan said as he made to grab both Sarah and Anya as they came near to sliding over the side of the railing.

  The enormous missile cruiser finally straightened and then settled back deeply into the sea as her speed increased even more than western intelligence agencies ever thought possible.

  They watched the darkened forms of the sixteen ships as they made for the French coast, hopefully taking any curious, watchful eyes from space with them. The ruse had started and they all hoped it worked because now they were truly on their own.

  Sarah was the first to see the after-watch take their battle stations and she was curious to know why.

  “We will run the rest of the way to our destination at action stations,” came the voice from the darkened area between the fantail and the aft missile mount. They looked up and saw the first officer as he stepped onto the fantail. Captain Vasily Lienanov nodded a greeting as he joined his guests. “I would have thought you would be down with the rest of the engineers and technicians.”

  “We can only listen to so many sad songs of home,” Ryan said as he shook his head. “I mean, talk about gloomy.”

  “This is a ship full of frightened men.” The first officer stepped to the railing and breathed deeply of the sea air. “They fear they will never see home again.”

  “Strange, I have the same feelings myself, but I’m sure as hell not going to sing about it. Bob Dylan, I ain’t.” Ryan hoped to squeeze some information from a fellow seaman. “Speaking of said event, if we do die, just how far from home will we be?”

  The captain smiled and then turned to face Ryan. He looked the small American naval aviator up and down and then turned away. “You should go below; they are fitting our passengers with gear from the ship’s stores.”

  “Gear?” Sarah asked as she and Anya joined the men.

  “Yes, you will have need of special equipment when you arrive at our destination.”

  Ryan exchanged looks with the two women and frowned as he suspected the captain wasn’t going to volunteer anything.

  “Can you feel them?” Lienanov asked, looking at the dark waters of the Atlantic.

  “Feel what?” Anya asked after no one else inquired.

  The captain turned around and faced them. “We have company out there. I don’t know what good they would do us if our Gray friends strike, but it’s comforting to know they’ll be
along for the ride.”

  “Who?” Ryan asked.

  “Out there we have assembled no less than four Akula attack submarines, joined by a screen of two Los Angeles–class attack boats. They are riding shotgun for this little suicide run.”

  “Submarines?” Anya asked.

  “Yes, so you see, we shan’t die alone.”

  The smile of Lienanov made them all nervous.

  “Perhaps you should get below and receive your allotted equipment, and get some rest. You will need your strength in about four days’ time.”

  Anya, Sarah, and Ryan started to turn. It was Ryan who stopped and confronted Lienanov.

  “I know secrecy orders, Captain; we are in the same trade. But as you can see, none of us are ugly, and definitely not Gray in color. Where in the hell is this ship taking us?”

  The captain lit a cigarette and then exhaled. “I gave these up when I graduated the academy,” he said, looking at the foul cigarette, and then he tossed it over the side. “Bad habit, smoking and…” He looked directly at Ryan. “Talking.”

  Sarah watched the man closely, as did Anya.

  “If you must know, Commander Ryan, you will be issued cold-weather gear and, when the time comes, also weaponry.” He turned away and made for the hatchway.

  Ryan was stunned as he faced the women.

  “You’re the navy man,” Sarah said. “What do you think?”

  Ryan shivered in the warm night air.

  “Antarctica.”

  INTERNATIONAL SPACE STATION

  HIGH EARTH ORBIT

  Greg Worth, a visiting atmospheric scientist from the University of Colorado, watched from the porthole on the hugely expensive international boondoggle known as the space station. He could never get enough of the view. He floated freely while his companions ate their dinnertime meal and laughed at the way the newcomer managed to look out of the window every two minutes.

  Dominique Vasturi, an Italian photojournalist, approached Dr. Worth from her position forward. She held a freeze-dried bag of casserole in her hand as she grabbed for the support ring close to the window. She gazed through the glass and saw Earth far below. The sun was just rising over the Asian continent as she joined the curious American.

  “I take it home is still there?” She offered Greg some of the terrible tasting casserole. He grimaced and shook his head.

  “God, you really don’t appreciate the planet until you can see it from this vantage point,” he said, turning away from the offered meal and the gorgeous Italian photojournalist.

  The woman agreed as she zipped the Mylar bag of dry casserole closed. “Well, let’s hope the news footage we saw tonight was not the beginning of something.” She looked out of the porthole. “Because it looks like a long way to fall.”

  Greg finally pulled back from the window and then glanced over at the Russian and American astronauts as they went about their business. They were soon joined by Nemi Takiyama, another guest who had arrived only three days before on the same flight as Greg.

  “Are you scared—I mean, being out here?”

  “I think if they attack, I would just as soon be here as there.” The Japanese scientist glanced out of the window as he floated up to the two observers.

  “Okay, everyone, it’s time to power down. We have a lot of work to do tomorrow.” Peter Blasinov, a Russian Air Force colonel, started throwing switches that would send the expensive space station into sleep mode.

  Greg frowned. The one thing he hated about being here was to be strapped into a sleeping bag–type device and hang from a wall just to get forty winks.

  As the three young people moved from the window they heard a sharp alarm sound in module C-11, the next compartment down. They heard the call from one of the U.S. Air Force communications men.

  “We have a hatch warning in the physical training module.”

  “That can’t be, there’s no one in there.” The Russian maneuvered past the three startled people. The warning buzzer kept up its shrill call. “Shut down that alarm!”

  The buzzer stopped and then they felt the entire station shudder.

  “What in the hell was that?” Greg asked as he felt the shudder again. “Is it an open hatch venting gas to the outside?”

  “No, we haven’t lost atmosphere.” Blasinov quickly took handholds and shot into the physical training module through the connecting tunnel. He saw immediately the hatch ring was turning. He hurriedly floated toward the hatch and tried to force the handle back into the locked position. It started to move back and then a tremendous force outside the door started moving the locking ring back to the open position. “Damn, help me, Lieutenant!” he shouted at the young American communications man. He was floating nearby and his eyes were as wide as spotlights.

  “Come on, that’s impossible!”

  “That seems to be a moot point at the moment. Something is forcing this seal open—now help me!”

  The three young people watched from the module’s opening. Greg sprang forward, quickly traversing the exercise equipment, and then was able to take hold of the door’s locking ring located in the middle of the hatchway.

  “Who’s out there?” Dominique asked.

  The Japanese weather specialist floated over to assist. As he did he hit the window covering, sending it up and into the composite hull. His eyes widened as he saw just who it was that was turning the handle. He used his feet to spring backward with a small yelp of fear.

  “What in the hell is that?” he yelled.

  Blasinov looked up. Staring right at him was the most horrible thing he had ever seen. The Gray was helmeted but they could clearly see the yellow-ringed black eyes as they looked inside the station. The thing opened its mouth and he could swear the creature had smiled at him.

  “Environmental suits and helmets, quickly!” Blasinov shouted. He fought to hold the handle closed. He was losing the battle. As he chanced another look he saw several more of the strangely dressed Grays as they floated up to the doorway. Too late, the handle turned and opened.

  The atmosphere of the station vented outward with an explosive crash of passing air. Men and women were tossed and blown toward the open door. Blasinov was forced out through the three-inch gap between the hatch and the rubber seal. He was crushed as his large body was forced out into space, where it was immediately grabbed by one of the assaulting Grays.

  Men and women quickly placed their helmets on in the midst of the flying paper and other debris forced into a whirlwind by the venting oxygen. The Grays opened the hatchway completely, and five of them entered the International Space Station.

  Outside the large station, two of the silver-colored saucers held station. They were soon joined by a much larger alien vehicle as the station was raided.

  The Gray assault on the blue planet below had begun in earnest.

  UNITED STATES SPACE COMMAND

  THE PENTAGON, WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Major General Walter Shotz watched the monitor and his face turned white as he and two hundred radar and imaging technicians witnessed the International Space Station explode. The devastation was silent as large pieces of composite material, aluminum, and plastic arched into the black void of space.

  “Get me General Caulfield on the horn and sound the incursion alarm. We have a serious attack starting on our front door,” he said as calmly as he could, as the horror of what just happened etched deeply into his brain.

  9

  JOHNSON SPACE CENTER

  HOUSTON, TEXAS

  The blue and white Bell helicopter set down easily on the pad. Admiral Carl Everett, attired in his summer whites, watched as a small crowd gathered around the NASA helipad. They looked as if they were wearing Event Group blue jumpers and for the briefest of moments he thought about home. The illusion was quickly dashed when he saw the horde of Air Police surrounding the group of men and women. He allowed the two-bladed rotors to whine down before the crew chief slid the large door open. As he reached for his seabag the crew chief to
ok it first.

  “All this will be brought to your quarters, Admiral; you are scheduled for meetings throughout the night.”

  Everett nodded, then reached through the compartment and tapped the pilot on his shoulder and nodded his thanks. He stepped from the helicopter and placed his saucer cap over his blond hair and then came forward. He was quickly approached by a young woman wearing the blue coveralls bearing the NASA emblem on her left breast.

  “Admiral, we expected you two days ago,” she said, saluting.

  Everett returned the salute and then saw the Air Force lieutenant insignia on her collar.

  “Had problems arise, as I’m sure you’ve heard, Lieutenant.” Carl moved forward as the lieutenant caught up.

  “Yes, sir, it’s just that one of the propulsion engineers has been screaming bloody murder since your original arrival date came and went. He’s been a real bear, sir.”

  Everett turned on the young officer. “Look, Lieutenant…?”

  “Branch, sir, Evelyn Branch.”

  “Branch, I couldn’t give a damn about any civilian engineer who is upset that a small alien incursion has happened and I was delayed in transit. So inform this asshole, whoever he is, he can—”

  “Toad, you son of a bitch, I knew I’d get you out here sooner or later!”

  Everett froze. The recent past came flooding back on him as the young lieutenant smiled and then stepped out of the way to join the rest of her team watching the anticipated reunion. Everett turned to find one of his worst nightmares staring him in the face.

  United States Navy Master Chief Archibald Jenks stood leaning on a cane. He removed the stub of a cigar and made a kissing motion by pursing his lips. He finally smiled.

  The last time Everett had seen the master chief he was being carried off on a stretcher to a local Los Angeles hospital after the Event Group incursion into Brazil and the search for the not-so-mystical El Dorado mine. Jenks was now attired in a lab coat that did his rotund appearance no good at all. His eyes went from Carl to the young lieutenant who stood in line. His eyes wandered over her tight-fitting jumpsuit and then he again made eye contact with Carl and raised his brows twice in succession.