Season of the Harvest

by Michael R. Hicks

  “General,” Curtis said quietly, cutting off what the older man was going to say, “we’ve known each other long enough that there’s no need for bullshit.” The old Marine’s expression hardened. “I don’t want to hear the word ‘should.’ All I want to know is, will it work or won’t it?”

  “We don’t know, sir,” Coleridge said flatly. “One weapon won’t be enough: the facility is huge, and even if the weapon was able to penetrate, we’d need at least two dozen to make sure we destroyed all the major structures.” He paused. “But there’s a good chance we’ll have to drop a lot more. My people have been studying that Titan base from what they could turn up in the short time we’ve had since I gave the original warning order. It’s amazingly tough and would take a lot of punishment. But if we drop enough of these bombs, we’ll eventually kill everyone down there. That I can guarantee.”

  Clement, who had been sitting quietly behind Ridley, suddenly snatched the secure smart phone attached to his belt as it began to vibrate. Looking at it for a moment, he gasped, then leaned forward and whispered something in Ridley’s ear. She snapped her head around to look at him, her eyes wide with shock. Then she turned to Curtis and said, “Mr. President, may I have a word. In private.”

  Curtis frowned, but from the look on her face and the tone of her request, he suspected that whatever she had to say – and what the senior agent with her had said – had something to do with The Others.

  “Very well,” Curtis said quietly. “I’ll be back shortly. Keep an eye on this debacle.” He nodded toward the screen at the head of the room.

  Ridley and Clement, trailed by two Secret Service agents, followed Curtis to one of the complex’s smaller conference rooms. “I’m fine, guys,” he told the Secret Service men after ushering Ridley and Clement into the room. “Just wait outside, if you would, please.”

  Nodding, but clearly unhappy, the two agents took up positions on either side of the door as Curtis closed it behind him.

  “What is it?” Curtis asked Ridley.

  “He has a message for us,” she said, her eyes fixed on the big man who’d accompanied her to the meeting. She had mentioned his name earlier, but Curtis couldn’t remember it. “He told me that he’s one of them. One of The Others.”

  “Jesus,” Curtis breathed. Kempf was the only one of their kind that he had ever been in contact with.

  “Yes, Mr. President,” the creature who mimicked Ray Clement said, inclining its head. “Do you require additional proof?” It extended its right hand, which quickly lengthened into the slender finger-like digits, porcelain smooth and white, as the Kempf creature had been when she had revealed herself to him years ago.

  “I believe you,” he said, unable to keep the awe from his voice. “But...why are you here? Why now?”

  “Mr. President,” the Clement-thing said urgently, its hand returning to its state of human mimicry, “we are very...concerned about the situation. You do not know this, but the situation is far worse than you or your people suspect.” It nodded toward the video display where the FBI men were still working on getting through the surface vent. “Just a moment ago, there in the other conference room, I learned that the Earth Defense Society has been conducting genetic experiments at this base.” It paused. “They have perfected a genetic weapon that could damage or destroy this planet’s biosphere. If the containment of this weapon is breached by these bombs you plan to use, if it is released into the atmosphere, it would spell disaster for your species.” It offered him a pitying look. “Our kind is highly adaptable and would survive, but humans and all creatures like you would not.”

  “What the devil is it?” Curtis asked, his stomach suddenly churning with acid.

  “We do not know,” the Clement-thing said. “We suspect it is either an aerosol or microscopic particulate. Either could be weaponized easily, but even accidental release would spell the doom of most forms of life now on Earth, and there is nothing we could do to prevent it.”

  “How do we destroy it?” the President of the United States asked.

  “With nuclear fire,” the creature told him.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  “This is suicide, Dawson,” Richards said quietly as they rode the portal elevator toward the surface. “You realize that, don’t you?”

  Jack looked at him and forced a grin. “You didn’t want to live forever, did you?”

  Richards shook his head. “Idiot,” he muttered.

  Around them were a dozen men and women, all wearing combat gear that was nearly identical to what the FBI agents wore. Most had G36C assault rifles. Some, like Jack, had shotguns. They also had a load of grenades. Jack had insisted, not so much to use against his fellow agents, but on the off chance that the whatever-it-was that was trapped in the tunnels somehow got past the blast valves.

  “Jack!” Naomi’s voice suddenly sounded through the radio receiver in his ear as, above him, the massive doors to the portal entrance began to cycle open. She and the others in the command center had their eyes glued to what the FBI agents were doing. “They’ve gotten through the surface vent. They’ve sent one...now two men down.”

  “That’ll be our friends with the satchel charges,” Richards pointed out unnecessarily.

  “Aren’t there any defenses built into the vent structures?” Jack asked.

  “No,” Naomi told him. “Tan had talked about it, but it never happened.”

  “Right,” Jack said, shoving the It would have been nice thought aside as the elevator reached the surface. “Here we go.”

  As the elevator cage reached the top of its travel, the frame rising above the level of the massive concrete casing, they immediately came under a hail of rifle fire from the FBI agents circled around the vent only one hundred fifty feet away.

  “Smoke!” Jack shouted, and instantly three smoke grenades sailed through the air to a spot between them and the FBI agents. In fifteen seconds there was enough smoke that the agents were totally obscured. Which also meant they couldn’t see Jack and his people. “Go!”

  Richards led the way, leaping from the portal casing to the right as Jack led the way to the left. The agents were still pouring a hail of fire in the direction of Jack’s people, but they could only hope to get lucky.

  And they did. Two men to Jack’s left grunted and dropped to the ground as they were hit.

  “Leave them!” he yelled as others knelt to help the wounded. “We’ll get them on the way back.” If we make it back, he thought as he ran forward as fast as he could into the smoke, his weapon at his shoulder, ready to fire.

  Behind him, the portal elevator sank out of sight, and the massive blast doors closed behind it, protecting the entrance to the base. Naomi had fought against it, but Jack had been insistent: if they lost the fight out here, he didn’t want the agents to have a free ride down the portal.

  As soon as the smoke thinned enough for him to make out the vague outline of the agents, who had now spread out in a defensive skirmish line, Jack dropped to the ground and yelled, “Grenades!”

  His team hurled half a dozen grenades at the agents. Before any of them went off, he heard and felt the explosions of more grenades thrown by the team led by Richards. Cocky bastard, Jack thought, but good in a fight. The grenades had found their mark, and the fire from the FBI team slacked off.

  “Go, go, go!” Jack screamed as he leaped up and charged forward, firing in controlled bursts at the agents. There wasn’t any finesse in what he and the men and women with him were doing now: they needed to kill their opponents, and do it quickly. There was an unknown danger lurking below that might be released by the agents with the satchel charges, but Jack was also worried about death from above. He knew there must be Predator drones orbiting the base, and he knew that Predators weren’t just equipped for surveillance. They could kill, too.

  Three more of his people went down under heavy fire, but then he and his team were in among the few surviving agents.

  “Surrender!” Richards boomed.
An agent who was down on the ground, shot in the thigh, raised his rifle to point at Richards, and Richards kicked the rifle away and butt-stroked the agent into submission. “Dammit, we won’t hurt you if you surrender, you idiots!”

  The remaining four agents finally gave in. Dropping their weapons, they slowly raised their hands.

  “You men down there,” Jack shouted into the shaft at the two agents who’d gone down. “We promise you safe passage if you come back up right now...with the charges intact. Otherwise you’ll be staying down there with them.” He leaned a little further to try and see them, and was rewarded with a half dozen rifle rounds spanging off the metal of the vent cover. “Grenade,” Jack said grimly, holding out his hand.

  “The charges might go off if you drop this,” Richards said, handing him a grenade.

  Nodding in understanding, Jack told him, “Get everyone back to the portal.” Then, to the men below, he pulled the pin on the grenade and shouted, “Last chance, guys! Come up right now or you’ll get a grenade down the throat. We’ll haul you–”

  His last words were swallowed by a fusillade of shots from below, two of them hitting him in his chest armor, knocking him backwards and spilling the grenade from his hand. The striker lever flew off, igniting the fuse, and the egg-shaped weapon rolled right next to his face. Eyes wide and gasping from the pain of the ribs bruised by the bullets that struck him, he managed to bat the grenade away, and watched with relief as it fell through the hole into the gaping air intake vent.

  “Stupid assholes,” he gasped, trying to roll to his feet. He caught sight of Richards dashing toward him just before they were both tossed through the air like wads of paper by the explosion of the two satchel charges, which detonated when Jack’s grenade went off.

  ***

  In the darkness at the bottom of the air intake chamber, the creature had finally become. Uncoiling for the first time in its adult form, it flexed its limbs. Gathering its strength, the creature stood erect before taking its first step, then another. It paced the length of its lair, a long dark recess, the bottom of a great cylinder laid on its side. None of its kind was here with it in this place, but it could sense that one of them was somewhere close, and another far, far away. It did not know how or why it knew this; its mind had not yet matured enough to form such questions.

  At one end of its lair were five large, round openings. It was just probing them with its claws when the shock from an explosion on the far side knocked it to the floor.

  ***

  “The radiation and the extreme heat of a nuclear detonation will ensure that the genetic weapon is fully neutralized,” the Clement-thing explained calmly to a shocked President Curtis. Monica Ridley watched the exchange, her face a mask of silent horror. “There is no other way to ensure its destruction. They must not be allowed to vent it into the atmosphere, or all will be lost.”

  “There’s no time,” Curtis said, shaking his head as he glanced back at the video feed from the Predator over the EDS base. “It would take hours to get a weapon ready...”

  “And to evacuate the local population,” Ridley interjected, finally regaining her composure. “We can’t just drop a bomb in the middle of California without giving people warning!”

  The Clement-thing looked at her dispassionately. “You must,” it said flatly. “There is no other way.” It turned back to Curtis. “And it will not require hours. An aircraft is armed and in the air not far from Beale Air Force Base. All you need do is issue the necessary orders to deliver the weapon.”

  “A plane is flying around with a live nuke aboard without my authorization?” Curtis shouted in dismay. “How the hell did that happen?”

  “Sir, are you all right?” A Secret Service agent stuck his head in the door, his right hand under his left arm, holding his weapon.

  “Yes, Eric,” Curtis said, calming himself with great difficulty. “Please, wait outside.”

  With a pointed glance at Ridley and Clement, the agent nodded and closed the door.

  “It happened because we wished it to be so,” the Clement-thing said in answer to Curtis’s question. “Remember that in 2007, six cruise missiles armed with live nuclear warheads were loaded onto a B-52 bomber at Minot Air Force Base in North Dakota and flown across your country to Barksdale Air Force Base in Louisiana, all without proper authorization.” It paused. “This is not the first time this has happened, nor was it the last. It was merely an event we…made possible that, unfortunately, was discovered.” It shrugged, an all too human gesture that sent a chill down Curtis’s spine. “We have had people such as you in certain positions in the military to...enable such contingencies in case an emergency like this arose. We knew we were close to finding our enemy, your enemy, and thus we made preparations. We now have the opportunity to stop them. We must take that opportunity.” Its eyes, suddenly not quite so human, fixed on Curtis. “You must take it, President Curtis. In the name of humanity.”

  Curtis simply stared at it.

  “If it is any consolation,” The Other went on, “there will be a minimum of civilian casualties. The B83 nuclear bomb with which the aircraft is armed should be powerful enough to destroy the base and the EDS weapon, but the radius of heavy damage will only affect lightly populated agricultural areas to the north. The Sutter Buttes will shield the more densely populated areas to the east and south.”

  “I...” Curtis began, then snapped his mouth shut. He exchanged a look with Ridley, who silently shook her head.

  “This is all wrong,” she said quietly, moving away from Clement. “There’s no way EDS could have created such a weapon. You’re the only ones who understand genetics enough to create such a thing.” She glanced at Curtis, then back at the creature. “And I don’t think any terrorist group that had no prior record could possibly have managed everything that you claim EDS has done. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “We saved you, Monica,” the creature said softly, sadly. Turning to Curtis, it said, “And your daughter. These gifts we gave freely. They could also be taken away,” it added darkly.

  “Then they weren’t gifts,” Ridley told it harshly. Turning to Curtis, she said, “We’ve been taken for a ride, Mr. Pres–”

  In the blink of an eye, faster than Curtis could follow as he stood rooted to the floor with fear, the thing that wore Ray Clement’s clothes leaped at Ridley, drawing her into a tight embrace with one arm while its free hand clamped over her mouth to muffle her scream. Her eyes bulged in shock and pain, then quickly relaxed to stare sightlessly past Curtis. The Clement-thing carefully placed her in one of the chairs along the wall, looking for all the world as if she’d fallen asleep.

  “Soon, when she awakens,” it told Curtis, “she will be as she would have been had we never given her our gift.” It paused. “We will do the same for your daughter if you do not do what you must. And you realize what that will mean.”

  “I’ll call in the agents who are outside and have them arrest you,” he said with more bravado than he felt as his mind’s eye showed him his daughter dying, clutching her head in agony as the tumor rapidly swelled in her brain. He looked at Ridley: even now he could see her muscles twitching, twisting her limbs as her body withered under the assault of the Lou Gehrig’s disease that The Others had removed from her years before. It was as if the Clement-thing had somehow accelerated the process, and the disease was making up for years of lost time in only minutes.

  “It will be very painful for your daughter, and for you,” the harvester told him quietly, following his gaze. “She will lose her thoughts, her memories. Her mind will perish as the tumor overwhelms her brain, bringing unimaginable pain. Then she will die.”

  Curtis’s insides melted into the same clutching, deathly fear for his daughter that he had felt when she had first been diagnosed. At that moment, the most powerful human being on the planet was reduced to a father, terrified for his only daughter’s life.

  “You promise that there won’t be many civilian casualties?” he hea
rd himself say, as if his voice was being controlled by some other intelligence.

  “Most likely a few hundred will be killed outright, with a few thousand more suffering serious injury,” the Clement-thing reassured him. “But you will be saving the entire world, Mr. President. That is what you must focus on. Far greater sacrifices have been made by far lesser men.”

  Curtis nodded, his mind and body numb. “What about her?” he asked, nodding toward Ridley. “What…what should I tell the others?”

  “You can tell the truth: her injuries are taking a toll on her, and she needed some rest before rejoining us.”

  “But when they find her...”

  “Her condition will be a mystery that no human will be able to explain,” it told him smoothly.

  Gathering himself, Curtis nodded, then turned toward the door. “Clement” followed him.

  “Director Ridley needed some rest,” Curtis told the agents outside as he pulled the door closed behind Clement. “The injuries she suffered are taking a toll on her, so make sure she’s not disturbed.”

  “Yes, Mr. President,” one of the agents said. He stayed by the door while Eric, the senior agent on the President’s protective detail, escorted Curtis back to the main sitroom, with Clement right behind.

  “I need the Secretary of Defense, General Coleridge, and Colonel Mathay,” Curtis ordered brusquely. “Everyone else clear the room.” The gathered members of the National Security Council froze at the mention of Mathay’s name. “Now,” Curtis snapped.

  That started an organized stampede toward the door.

  After the others had left the room, a tall, lantern-jawed man in the uniform of an Air Force colonel stepped in, followed by two grim-faced Secret Service agents. They wouldn’t be ordered outside for this one. The colonel’s nametag said Mathay, and he carried a large leather briefcase that was secured to his right wrist by a length of chrome chain that ended in a locked handcuff. It was popularly known as the “football,” a device that allowed the President to send launch orders to America’s strategic forces.