Overlord

by David L. Golemon

  To Jack it seemed as if the Air Force pilot was rubbing it in a little as the Hercules concluded its hard bank to the right so they could get a good look at the small hellhole they had been sent to. The research base was that in name only, as it appeared to be nothing more than eight plastic construction-style buildings that were raised on thin stilts. A large British flag flew and was rapidly waving in the brisk winds of the area.

  “Oh, shit,” Jack mumbled as he took in the atmospheric research complex.

  “My exact description, General,” Will said as he shook Farbeaux awake.

  The Hercules was now at a thousand feet of altitude as the pilot came on over the intercom. “Gentlemen, please fasten your seat belts for landing. They haven’t had time to scrape the runway since the last storm so it may be rather rough. Temperature outside is a balmy minus-forty-seven degrees Celsius—that’s below zero. Welcome to Halley Station.” The colonel flying the aircraft hesitated just a second before clicking off his mic. The three officers in the belly of the Hercules heard laughter just before it became silent.

  “I think that pilot is what you Americans would call an asshole,” Farbeaux said as he strapped in and then looked out of the window.

  The Hercules came down hard with her front skis banging against the ice and snow. The Herky-Bird on skis reversed the pitch of her four powerful propellers and then her flaps flew high in the air as the pilot gave it everything the old bird had to slow her down without having to hit the brakes. The nose skidded right and then left and the pilot adjusted through the rear stabilizer to stop the swaying motion of the Hercules.

  Jack, Will, and Henri felt their stomachs as they ejected somewhere near the front of the landing strip. The Hercules bumped, rose into the air momentarily, and then came down again as she caught the nose-on winds. Then she finally settled to the ice and slid to a stop.

  “Crazy bastards,” Jack mumbled. The whine of the LC-130’s turbofans slowed in pitch as the aircraft taxied toward the nearest buildings. Collins saw several men in white snow gear awaiting their arrival. He also saw three Black Hawks with their rotors already turning. They were flanked by two British Gazelle Attack choppers that also were warmed and ready to fly.

  “I guess we’re not done flying yet,” Henri said as he stood and stretched his arms.

  They started gathering their gear, and heard more laughter from the cockpit as the snow-crazed pilots had their fun at their passengers’ expense.

  * * *

  A man wearing white arctic gear with his face covered in a ski mask approached the men as they exited the Hercules into the breath-freezing environment of Antarctica. The man’s goggles covered his eyes and Jack, through his sunglasses, saw the British Union Jack on the stark white parka.

  “General Collins?” the man asked as the three freezing visitors hit the bottom of the loading ramp. Farbeaux cursed as the wind struck him and nearly froze his feet to the cold aluminum.

  “I’m Collins,” Jack said. The man before him held out a white-gloved hand.

  “I am Colonel Francis Jackson Keating, of Her Majesty’s Special Air Service. Welcome to Halley Research Station, sir.”

  “Wonderful spot you’ve chosen in which to vacation, Colonel.” Jack quickly looked away from the offered salute of the well-trained soldier from the SAS. “If you don’t mind, Colonel, it’s too damn cold out here to stand on ceremony; shall we get to where we’re going before my ass freezes off?” He ignored the military gesture of respect from the Englishman, as Jack was in no mood.

  The colonel lowered his hand, then gestured to the first Black Hawk.

  “Yes, sir.” The colonel reached into his parka and pulled out several flimsies and handed them to Jack. “These flash messages were sent over about an hour ago from the Alamo, sir.” Collins took the message traffic and saw that they were from Lord Durnsford and countersigned by General Caulfield. “Now, if you would, General.” Keating gestured to the waiting Black Hawk. “Right this way.” He sprinted toward the warming helicopter along with his four men.

  Jack and the others were relieved of their gear as they climbed into the relative warmth of the rear compartment of the first Black Hawk.

  * * *

  Once airborne, Collins placed a headset on underneath his cold-weather parka as the Black Hawk, piloted by men from the British Expeditionary Force, started a trek on a southerly heading, with the other Black Hawk and Gazelle attack helicopters flanking it. Jack gestured for Will and Henri to also don their headphones, then quickly studied the messages from the strange little man from MI6.

  “News from the real world?” Will asked as he settled into the cold, hard seat.

  Jack was silent as he read the communiqués from Durnsford. He looked at both men with worry etched on his hard features.

  “They hit the Johnson Space Center hard. Downtown Houston was spared for the most part, with most of the damage coming from our own downed aircraft and friendly fire from the Center. Thirty-two fighters, both Navy and Air Force, were lost, plus the bulk of the third Cavalry Regiment. It’s basically ceased to exist.”

  Mendenhall looked out of the side window at the featureless expanse of Antarctica as it sped by below. He turned and faced the general.

  “Any word on … any word on Mr. Everett?” he finally asked.

  Jack didn’t answer as he moved to the next message. “The Chinese are preparing to attack the enemy that occupies Beijing with everything they have short of nuclear weapons. The Paks are mounting an offensive force along the Indian border in preparation of attacking the landings there. They claim the Indian government is wasting time by not using every weapon at their disposal for eliminating the threat to the entire region.”

  Jack shook his head and then saw Henri with his “I told you so” look as he turned away. Like Mendenhall, he watched the passing white of the land beneath them.

  Collins read the last signal from Durnsford, then closed his eyes as he passed the message to Will. Jack leaned back as he realized that things were not going according to the plans of Lee, Matchstick, Compton, or their newest spook, Lord Durnsford. He didn’t say anything when Mendenhall read the operational order aloud.

  “‘From General Caulfield, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff to all foreign commands. Cease offensive operations directed at the enemy. Return to your home bases of operations immediately. Defensive strikes against the enemy are only to be conducted for the defense of your commands. 7th Fleet operations are to cease and return to Hawaiian home waters. This order has been deemed necessary at this time. NATO command is hereby ordered to exit European theater of operation and return the 4th Infantry Division to Fort Carson, Colorado, immediately. All Persian Gulf commands will hold station and current defensive posture until further evaluation on enemy strategy has been investigated.—signed, Caulfield.’”

  Henri finally sat up, slowly removed the message from Will’s hand, and read it himself. He handed it back, shaking his head.

  “I think you are beginning to see why I have made the choices that I have in regard to government service, Captain.”

  Will finally nodded his head, agreeing that Henri more than likely was right.

  “What about this operation we are on, General? I mean, do you think an official recall will be ordered?”

  “It doesn’t matter, Will, you heard what Durnsford said back at Schofield: stay the course. And until Doc Compton or General Caulfield tells us differently, that’s just exactly what we’ll do.”

  Farbeaux smiled and shook his head in wonder.

  “Tell me something, General Collins. What will happen when you discover this Overlord plan is nothing but what you Americans call a pipe dream, as much as these new orders for separation of defensive moves against the aliens? And with the destruction of your space facilities, that scenario seems to be the way this is headed.”

  “I don’t have an answer for you, Colonel, as I’m sure the men that planned this don’t either. We just have to trust Matchstick and hi
s judgment.”

  “Well, either way one thing is for sure,” Henri said as he leaned back in his seat. “Just as soon as the Pakistanis and the Indians start launching nuclear weapons at everything in sight, we won’t have to worry too long about the shortcomings of your Operation Overlord.”

  Jack didn’t respond as he knew the Frenchman was dead on in his judgment.

  “General,” came the English-accented voice of the pilot, “we’re approaching Camp Alamo, sir. You can view it out of the left-side window.”

  Will moved over to Collins’s side of the Black Hawk; so did Henri. Below was the site where the salvation of the entire world was being planned.

  “Correct me if my American history is lacking, gentlemen, but was not the Alamo a defeat, a rather nasty one?” Farbeaux began to laugh, then turned and flopped back into his seat. The despair was showing the only way the Frenchman knew how to vent it—in black humor.

  “Oh, I feel sick,” Will said as he too sat back down with a long sigh.

  Jack just closed his eyes against the sight that greeted them. The hopes he had felt, the trust in the powers that be, and the dreams of life someday returning to normal were fast evaporating as he closed his eyes against the sight from below. He heard the mocking laughter of Farbeaux over the sound of the twin turbines of the Black Hawk as the doubts about the abilities of his director, Niles Compton, and of a small green man, and a once brilliant one in Garrison Lee, entered his thoughts for the first time.

  Camp Alamo was the last hope of the human race. It was five small huts and a helicopter landing pad. One guard stood outside one of the plastic-coated environmental enclosures and waited for the commanding general of all defensive forces in Antarctica to arrive and take charge.

  Collins opened his eyes and examined the spot for Earth’s last defense, if it came to that. First the destruction of the Johnson Space Center and the possible loss of his friend, Carl Everett, and now this.

  Camp Alamo existed to house the staff and military personnel of Operation Overlord, but looked deserted with the exception of the lone man waiting outside who shooed away two penguins that were playing at his feet.

  Hope was fast fading from the mind of the ever-trusting Jack Collins.

  CHATO’S CRAWL, ARIZONA

  The Cactus Bar and Grill had slowly slid downhill since the establishment had been sold by its former owner, Julie Dawes, after she and her son Bill had moved to California, where Billy was attending college at San Diego State. Gus Tilly and Matchstick had made sure the young single mother and her son would never want for anything again. She had left the small town of Chato’s Crawl after the incident with the saucers and the firefight in the desert in 2006. When Gus died Billy would inherit not only Gus’s entire fortune reaped from the Lost Dutchman Mine, discovered accidentally during the same incident, but also the mine itself and the guardianship of one Mahjtic Tilly.

  Hiram Vickers entered the now dingy bar, removed his sunglasses, and squinted into the dust-infused lighting. He saw the man behind the bar as he was cleaning glasses. The only other patron was a slim man standing at the old-fashioned jukebox in the corner. Actually, the music machine seemed to be keeping the old-timer from falling over, more than providing music. He walked up to the bar.

  “So this is the famous Cactus Grill,” he said as he looked around. The front glass was cracked and the bar had seen far better days. He smelled at least fifty years of burnt hamburgers and stale beer clinging to every inch of the rotted wood and stained linoleum. “Not much of a going concern, is it?”

  The heavyset man looked up, then just as fast ignored the remark and returned to rinsing his glasses.

  “I mean, this place being so famous and all. The stories I’ve heard said this was a joint that saw a lot of action in the dust-up of 2006.”

  “I wouldn’t know about that, mister, I bought the place from an ad in the paper. What happened before me ain’t my concern and none of my business. Now, you want a beer, or is this just a question and answer session?” He placed his last glass on a towel to drain and then looked at the thin man with the red hair. The bartender was figuring the fella for a pansy type out of Phoenix.

  “Well, partly a question and answer session, I guess, but I will have a whiskey sour in the prelude to our conversation.”

  The bartender looked at him, reached for a glass, poured him a flat beer from the tap, and pushed it toward him.

  “There you go, one whiskey sour. Anything else?”

  Vickers looked at the glass of beer that resembled urine, then smiled but didn’t reach for the offering. But he did reach into his pocket and pulled out a hundred-dollar bill and place it by the dirty glass.

  “An old man, Tilly. Gus Tilly lives hereabouts?”

  The man eyed the bill before him from the man he suspected was mocking his country accent, but didn’t reach for it. Instead he grabbed a bottle hidden under the bar and then opened a refrigerator and brought out a plastic container. His hands disappeared below the counter and Vickers heard the tingling of ice being placed in a glass. Then his hand reappeared with a fresh glass of whiskey sour that he pushed toward the stranger. He took the hundred-dollar offering as he dragged his hand away. Vickers reached for the drink and took a sip. He set it down, then pointed at it and winked, and nodded his head one time.

  “Haven’t seen Gus in a while—he usually stops in around the end of the month to pick up the things he orders and then leaves. But he’s been a no-show so far this month, and that makes him about ten days late.” The bartender placed the bill in his filthy shirt.

  Vickers drank again and then stared at the man while he crunched ice in his mouth. The sound made the heavy man wince.

  “Things. What kind of things would he order from you?” He continued to chew the ice without looking away or duplicating his earlier kind smile.

  “About the only things you can get from a distributer out of Phoenix for a small bar. Couple’a jars of beef jerky, some pickled eggs—a lot of pickled eggs—and a case of frozen pizza rolls. The rest of his goods, I guess, are brought in from the Piggly Wiggly over in Apache Junction by the folks that watch over his place.”

  “Folks?”

  The man didn’t answer as he removed the stale beer and then drank it himself.

  Vickers nodded his head in understanding at the bartender’s hesitation. He took another drink of the whiskey sour and then bit down on more ice. The burly man smiled as the redheaded visitor reached inside his pocket again. He brought up the silenced Glock and aimed it at the bartender’s chest. He crunched the ice again and then raised his thin red brows. The big man in the dirty shirt took a step back.

  “He’s got several men staying with him out at his place. I think they just look after the old goat. That’s all I know. Since Gus has been gone, they come in a little more regular and knock a few back. Not the same guys, though, these fellas look like … well … they look older, not quite as tough as the regulars.”

  With his left hand Hiram Vickers reached for the drink and then drained it, leaving the ice for last. He was satisfied that whatever body guards this asset had were no longer there, but had been replaced by other less formidable men.

  “So, let’s sum it up. Gus Tilly is gone, the fellas that watch over his place aren’t the regular ones who have been there previously, and you supply them with—well, let’s face it, crap to eat. Is this all correct?”

  “Yeah, but I don’t think the pickled eggs and pizza rolls are for him, because Gus once said the stuff makes him want to puke. So I’m guessin’ they’re for those men out there, or someone I never see.”

  “Now, that adds up. Thank you for the drink and the answerin’,” he said, mocking the drawl of the bartender. He didn’t turn when the small bell sounded over the door and two men in black shirts and Windbreakers walked inside. The first through the door nodded his head once to the reflection of Hiram in the dirty glass behind the bar. Vickers placed the gun back into the waistband of his Dockers an
d then finished crunching the ice he had in his mouth, never looking away from the frightened man.

  The second man through the door walked over to the phone line that ran in from outside, and ripped it out of the wall. He lifted the phone that was next to the damaged line, listened, and then hung up, satisfied that the old system wouldn’t work.

  “There’s no cell phone service here, and now no phone either,” he said to Vickers, who was intent on watching the bartender’s eyes.

  “Okay, I think we’re done here. By the way,” he said as he smiled, “these two men will be staying here with you.” He looked around the bar and grill. “To help out. It looks like you could use some assistance. We need to know when these new men from Tilly’s place show up, and we need you to point them out.” He smiled wider and then placed another hundred-dollar bill on the counter. “Sound good?”

  The man just nodded once but didn’t reach for the bill.

  Vickers winked at the man and then left the bar. The two men in black sat down and then without the same smile as Vickers displayed reached for a dirty and creased menu.

  * * *

  Hiram Vickers wasn’t pleased at the result of his interview. The two members of his Black Team had passed on the information that the rest of the town was deserted. The Texaco station was boarded up, and the hardware store had burned and, from the looks of it, had also fallen into the ground somehow. The ice cream parlor was likewise boarded and so were the rest of the small hovels that passed for houses in this godforsaken part of Arizona. Chato’s Crawl was a ghost town in the strictest sense of the word. He shook his head and walked toward the large Chevy Suburban, then climbed into the front seat.

  “What’s the plan, Hiram?” the leader of the Black Team asked from the backseat, making Vickers’s first name sound like it was shit, only pronounced differently.

  “The plan is we wait.” He turned his head and looked back at the brown-haired man behind him. “That’s what you’re good at, isn’t it, waiting?”

  The man didn’t react to the question until he returned Vickers’s arrogant smile.