Livingston’s arthritis was flaring up. He clenched his hands into fists, gritting his teeth against the pain. It helped him focus. On the screen in front of him, a news helicopter was showing footage of a woman being dragged out of her car by two men in the midst of stalled traffic on Interstate 95. Watching it made his stomach ache with helplessness, so he turned away and focused on another broadcast. The logo at the bottom of the screen said it was somewhere in Florida, but that couldn’t be right. The Clickers hadn’t made it that far.
Had they?
“Sir?” A young corporal named Adams approached him. “They’re ready for you in the conference room, Colonel.”
Livingston looked away from the television. Without a word, he made his way to the conference room. The vacuum-sealed door hissed shut behind him. The air conditioning was turned up high. A long, oak table sat in the center of the room, stretching nearly from one wall to the other. Plush, comfortable chairs ringed the table, each one occupied by scientists and meteorologists, representatives from the Navy, Army, Marines, Air Force, Coast Guard, and National Guard, as well as the Department of Homeland Security, the Federal Emergency Management Agency, the Department of the Interior, even the FBI, CIA, NSA, and other alphabet soup agencies. Several pitchers of water and coffee had been placed for the meeting, and several videophones were hooked up and functioning as well. On the screens, Livingston saw other officials, including the Secretary of Defense, Donald Barker. The room buzzed with murmured conversation—which stopped when Livingston walked in. For a moment, he expected them all to stand at attention and salute, but they didn’t, and he realized just how long he’d been out in the world and away from the game. He knew some of the men and women. Others were strangers. Some looked barely old enough to shave. Others were grizzled veterans like him.
Livingston nodded and shook hands with some of the individuals he knew, then took the last empty seat and poured a cup of coffee.
Corporal Adams, who’d followed him into the room, nodded at the assembled officials and then spoke towards the video monitor. “We’re ready to begin, Mr. Secretary.”
“Good.” Barker’s face filled the screen, speaking from his office at the White House. “Thank you, Corporal Adams.”
“Yes, sir.” Adams turned sharply, pivoting on his heels, and left the room. His demeanor was one of immense relief.
“Gentlemen,” Barker said, “ladies. Thank you all for coming. The President would like to know—”
Livingston interrupted. “Where is President Tyler?”
Several people around the table gasped and frowned at Livingston’s insolence. He didn’t care. Inwardly, he smiled. Things were off to a good start.
Barker scowled. “The President is currently meeting with a delegation from Saudi Arabia as part of this administrations ongoing effort to—”
“Saudi god damned Arabia? Have you looked outside? You’ve got a hurricane bearing down and a horde of creatures invading your beaches and coastal cities. Creatures I warned you about twelve years ago! If you people had—”
“That will be enough, Colonel.” Now it was Barker’s turn to interrupt. “We’re all quite aware of your recommendations following the events in Phillipsport. That was a different time and a different administration.”
A man sitting to Livingston’s left cleared his throat. “If I may, I’d like to remind Colonel Livingston that he is no longer in charge.”
Livingston’s eyes narrowed. “And you are?”
“I am Jordan Hershey, Department of Homeland Security.” He smoothed his tie. His expression was smug. “It’s an honor to meet you, Colonel, and I hope you don’t take offense, but you should all be advised going into this that we are in charge, under direct orders of the President. We will oversee all operations related to both the Hurricane and these…things. FEMA will assist us, of course, as will the various military branches. We’ll try to let you know before we commandeer your forces, but have no illusions. We are in charge.”
The military commanders bristled at this surprise announcement and the room erupted with angry shouts and incriminations. Livingston leapt to his feet, intent on leaving the room.
“Enough,” Barker yelled through the speakerphone. “That will be enough. We need to focus here, people. We each have a responsibility to our country. Gentlemen, you will be quiet. Colonel Livingston, be seated.”
“The hell with you. I’m retired.”
“Colonel!”
Livingston spun around and stared at the monitor’s camera. “I presented my findings to you eleven years ago and you ignored me. Only thing people like you cared about was manufacturing imagined threats to shore up the bank accounts of your buddies in the military-industrial complex. Didn’t want to hear about a real threat like this because you weren’t equipped to deal with it. Back then, Secretary Barker, you were still just an underling at the Pentagon. You and your kind—this new breed of yuppie fucks—wanted it buried. You never went to ’Nam. Were never in country. Your daddy saw to that, didn’t he? And your staff—these boot camp officers who never grew up with strife or hardship or war. Grenada? Desert Storm? Don’t make me laugh. My generation knew hard times. Their generation’s biggest hardship was when that long-haired freak of a lead singer quit Van Halen. You wanted Phillipsport to disappear, so you buried my report, swept our warnings under the rug, and started eradicating the witnesses.”
The Defense Secretary’s voice thundered from the phone’s speakers, loud enough that they vibrated. “That’s preposterous! The United States government never sanctioned the murder of anyone involved with that incident.”
“Bullshit!”
“Really, Colonel.” Hershey, the Homeland Security official, sipped his water. “Don’t you think we should focus on the matter at hand and leave the conspiracy theories to the folks on the internet?”
“Don’t give me that shit. A conspiracy is just the truth without the proof. That’s what we always said in my day.”
Hershey smiled. “Times have changed, Colonel. Indeed, the world has changed. You’re archaic. You’re a dinosaur that doesn’t know it’s extinct. We do things differently these days. My department runs things now. Get used to the idea. Adapt or die, as you people say.”
“Changed?” Livingston clenched his fists. “Not a goddamn thing has changed. FEMA couldn’t wipe its ass with both hands, a flashlight, and an entire truck full of toilet paper, which they’d never be able to deliver to the correct place on time. And Homeland Security? You’re just another bureaucracy. You’re like a hydra, except you don’t know what your other heads are doing.”
“Look,” Barker said with a sigh, “I’ll admit, we mishandled the intel you gave us. That was a mistake. But Jesus Christ, Colonel, that was twelve years ago. It wasn’t my decision. I was following orders, same as you.”
“Whose orders?”
“It doesn’t matter now. Mr. Hershey is right. Let’s focus on the real issues.”
Livingston thought of May, sitting back at the horse farm, waiting to hear from her loved ones, waiting to learn of their fate, desperate to see their headlights reflecting in the window, to hear their car rolling up the gravel driveway. He thought of Rick and Melissa, forced into hiding as a result of their involvement with these things, their lives irreparably disrupted and ruined, simply because of what they knew, and the government’s insistence that others not know. He thought of today’s news coverage and all those poor people, slaughtered like fodder as they swam and played and celebrated their nation’s independence.
He thought of Phillipsport, and imagined he heard the sound.
Click-click…Click-click…
He sat back down. “Okay. You ignored me then. Why bring me in now?”
“Because you’re our expert. We need you.”
Livingston suppressed a smile. He’d known as much, but it was important to get them to admit it out loud. It gave him an edge.
He brushed a piece of lint from his uniform. “So here we are, ho
urs into this crisis. What’s the President done?”
Livingston glanced around the room, judging reactions. There was a low murmur of consent from some of the others. A woman from the CIA put her hand over her mouth to stifle a giggle. Hershey’s expression was unreadable.
“The President was blindsided by this,” Barker explained. “You can’t have expected him to know this would happen.”
“Can the bullshit and tell me what the hell you want,” Livingston said. “I’m not here to listen to a political speech. I don’t have time for you or Tyler’s bumbling idiocy.”
There was a pause on the other line. “What is this? Turning against the President now? At this time in—”
“I never liked that son of a bitch and I didn’t vote for him,” Livingston continued, once again overriding Barker. Fifteen years ago he wouldn’t have dreamed of speaking like this when talking to a Presidential cabinet member, but those days were gone. “I’m retired, and he’s not my Commander in Chief. And yes, I realize this is going to bite him square on his ass. I don’t care. The only thing I care about is the people of this country. You called me because you realize that I’ve been through this particular fight before. You believe I may be able to use my experience in fighting these things to help with what’s happening now. You want to can the bullshit and get down to the business of getting this shit taken care of; then you’d better listen up. Don’t discount me again, and don’t lie. Do you understand me?”
“You better understand me,” Barker shouted. “You will not speak to me like that again!”
“I’ll speak any way I damn well please. I have engaged in battle with these things and I’m telling you right now that if we want to survive, if we want to remain a sovereign country in the next twenty-four hours you have to listen to me and do everything I say. If you refuse, I will order any men under my command to disregard any and all orders that come from you and I will alert the media to your indifference to what’s at hand.”
Barker made a choking noise. Hershey’s face was grim. The others in the room stared in shocked silence.
“That’s treason, Colonel Livingston.” Barker’s voice was barely a whisper. “You know very well what the penalty is.”
Livingston grinned. “Try me, you fuck.”
Barker cleared his throat. “And if we do?”
“You’ll regret it. Personally and professionally. And the country will suffer for your stupidity. Do it your way, and this will make the cluster-fuck you made out of the Hurricane Katrina recovery ops look like spilled milk.”
Barker sputtered. “D-do you really think that you—”
“You know who I am,” Livingston interrupted. “Take a look at my service record. You know what I’m capable of. If you want to try it, then be my guest. But that will be your last mistake. Do I make myself clear?”
Livingston realized that he was so angry his knuckles were white. His face felt hot, flushed. The others in the room stayed silent. He paid them no heed. He had to get through to Barker. Donald Barker had proved to be only one of the dozens of people President Tyler had appointed; who’d done nothing more than fuck things up. When Livingston looked at people like Barker and President Tyler, he wondered how these people could call themselves Republicans. As a life-long Republican and conservative, they certainly didn’t represent his party.
He glanced over at the man from Homeland Security. Hershey had stood up again, as if to address the room.
“Sit down.” Livingston’s voice was like iced razors.
Hershey started to speak, then thought better of it and took his seat.
“Well?” Livingston turned back to the videophone. “What do you think, Mr. Secretary?”
There was an awkward silence on the other end.
“I’m waiting.”
The Defense Secretary sighed. “Okay. We’ll do it your way, Colonel. But know this. If you screw this up…”
“Gentlemen,” a woman from the CIA snapped, “if you’re all done waving your pricks around like sabers, there are people dying in this country. Perhaps we should focus on them?”
“Agreed.” Livingston relaxed a little, still tense, ready to get down to business. “Obviously, we need to coordinate our efforts. That’s why we’re all here. Make sure people continue to leave the coastal cities.”
Barker spoke up. “We dispatched the National Guard to open up highways in an effort to ensure that traffic stays moving out of major cities and away from the beach communities.”
An official from FEMA raised his hand.
“Yes?” Livingston pointed at him.
“I have instructed my people to help the local authorities of beachfront towns to coordinate evacuation efforts in those communities. I’ve also instructed them that anybody left behind, for whatever reason, is to remain indoors after night falls. Martial law should be declared, if possible.”
“I agree,” Livingston said. “Mr. Secretary, what are the President’s thoughts on that?”
“Martial law? That’s a bit drastic. Under the Emergency Powers act, we can pretty much act as if Martial Law were in effect without actually declaring it. If the President were to go on national television and declare Martial Law, it would compound the situation. We’d have civil unrest, looting, rioting—”
“With all due respect, sir,” said the Assistant Director of the FBI, “we already have those things. It’s just getting worse. Local authorities lack the manpower to deal with these creatures, the hurricane, and civil unrest.”
The rest of the group concurred. Livingston smiled. Biggest dog in the yard. Piss all over the trees and soon enough, the other dogs would fall in line. It worked every time.
“So, we’ve mobilized the National Guard and Army Reserve Units in the affected states,” Livingston said. “We should call up active duty personnel as well—all branches, including the Coast Guard. Position them in the smaller ports. Dispatch Naval LPDs and LPHs with Marines onboard—I would suggest the 24th MAU out of Morehead City. Send them into the heaviest hit areas. They can engage the enemy before they advance farther into the countryside. Norfolk and Little Creek already fell under attack. I’m sure those men will be anxious for some payback. Get the Airborne in from Ft. Bragg and every other division we can mobilize immediately. Position them further inland, so that they can provide a line of defense.”
The discussion proceeded civilly. They were only interrupted once, when Corporal Adams buzzed in to inform them that the Clickers had now been sighted along the southern parts of the East Coast. Livingston suggested using Washington’s MCI Center, Baltimore’s now derelict Camden Yards, Philadelphia’s Verizon Center Arena, and Madison Square Garden in New York as staging areas for the troops and emergency services. All were far enough away from the ocean to avoid storm swell from the hurricane, yet close enough to dispatch personnel and troops quickly to the affected areas. The assumption was that Hurricane Gary was going to be as deadly, if not more so, than Katrina.
“I’m not going to start another fight about this,” Livingston said, “but just clarify this for me. You really didn’t read my report on the Phillipsport incident. Correct?”
Barker paused, and then answered with a sigh. “No, I didn’t. And I’m sorry.”
“That’s fine. Have you heard about what it contained?”
“Just that…the destruction Phillipsport experienced and the loss of life was attributed to…unnatural forces.”
“Unnatural forces?”
“Okay, I might as well tell you.” Barker sounded normal now, like the kind of guy Livingston might shoot the shit with at a summer barbecue over beers. “General Hamilton told me about the report shortly after you submitted it and he thought you were off your rocker. Said that you must’ve been hallucinating or going through some kind of post traumatic stress situation from ‘Nam or something.”
“What did he tell you?”
Barker cleared his throat. “He said that you attributed the damage and casualties at Phillipsport to
monsters.”
“What kind of monsters?”
Barker paused and Livingston suppressed a grin. He knew he had the bastard now. “The very kind that are…well…the crab…or lobster-things or whatever they are…you know…the ones on the news…”
“Correct. Did Hamilton mention others?”
“Something about some kind of lizard things…crazy shit.”
“Do you believe what’s happening now?
“Yes.”
“Then believe what I tell you now that these things are just the tip of the iceberg,” Livingston said, his voice a low growl. “Those so-called lizard-things Hamilton scoffed at are next, and they’re ten times worse than these creatures.”
“You really saw them?” A slow dawning sense of awe in Barker’s voice.
“Yes, I saw them.” Livingston closed his eyes for a moment against the memories. “Them and the…the Dark Ones…”
“Dark Ones?” “That’s what Rick Sychek called them…he was one of the survivors I mentioned in my report.” “Isn’t he wanted?”
Livingston side-stepped that question easily. “Yes. He and another survivor were to be under close guard following the Phillipsport incident but they somehow slipped away. We haven’t heard from them or seen hide or hair of them since. The thing to remember is if Rick decided he wanted to capitalize on what happened, we would have found him by now. He hasn’t done that, so he’s most likely so far underground he’ll never be found, or he’s dead or left the country.”
“He called these lizard-things Dark Ones?”
“Yes.” He proceeded to tell the Secretary of Defense and the rest an abridged story of what happened at Phillipsport.
“It sounds too incredible to be believed,” Hershey mumbled. “If it weren’t for the news footage…”
“You’d better believe it, Mr. Hershey,” Livingston said. “That might be the only thing that keeps you alive.”
Clickers II: The Next Wave Page 8