We have. Drop what you’re doing and head to A-town.
Worse than he thought. Unless the general was lying, the military would be overrunning the base shortly. He was being pulled out of a dangerous situation, and it wasn’t the first time he had seen this kind of scenario play out. John would never forgive him; that was expected. Over the past months he had bonded with the rest of them. The college kids had no idea what was happening. The troops would be killed to protect the guilty. He would lose Dr. Savage, just as he was beginning to enjoy her company. On the other hand, it might be a bluff. Maybe they were luring him out, only to take him hostage and beat the actual location out of him.
At one time he was a rather rugged soldier, experienced in interrogation techniques, from both ends. He wasn’t sure how he would fair now. If they wanted information, they would get it one way or another, and with the aliens assisting the procedure, they might be able to pull the memories straight out of his head.
He cleared the messages off the window, his mind of paranoid thoughts, and picked up the radio.
“John. Come to my office.”
With a few keystrokes, he changed the settings on the program to another secret channel, one between himself and a contact that he normally referred to only by a single initial: G. He polished off the rest of the coffee before his old friend walked through the door. Tall, muscular, and topped with a dark, high-and-tight haircut.
“Got something you want dead?” asked John.
“There’s a black screen on my laptop. Come see.”
John grimaced as he stomped around the back side of the desk. “Okay, I see a black screen. So what?”
“By ten o’clock tonight, I’m going to send a message to this screen. I need you to check back here. It will likely be garbage, like the word test over and over. If I give an order to evac, or if you don’t see anything written on it by ten, then I need you to get everyone the hell out of here. I don’t know where you can go, but get off location, and fast. Maybe our backup location with the captured ships.”
“What’s going on?”
“I don’t know. I’m not sure what the general is planning. Just please get the hell out of here. I’m going to give you my Bitcoin wallet, and a phone number that you need to contact. Tell him that you need to open a jewelry store, and you heard that he might be able to help. I think you can figure out the rest.”
“Colonel?”
“Get everybody out. You’ll be in charge. Don’t make any attempt to contact the government or any regulating authority. You have to stop the aliens from deploying the virus, whatever the cost. You’re an ass, but I know you don’t believe the line they’re spinning on the news. The squiddies aren’t our friends. They need to be stopped.”
“What do you think is about to happen?”
“I don’t know, but I have a bad feeling. Make sure the campers and trucks are ready to roll by twenty-two hundred. Put everyone on packing duty, and tell the engineers to set up mobile labs. Load up whatever you need, and if you don’t hear from me, scramble the choppers and get the hell out.”
“You sound paranoid.”
“We should all be paranoid. We pissed them off, and they’ll be coming for us. I’m pretty sure that’s why the aliens are making all these speeches. They know we have the equipment now to stop them. Once Swan and Reyes break the code, we’ll be able to control them via remote. They’ve found us out, and we can’t trust anyone. The guy on the other end of this phone number will be able to help. He’s the only one who can help.” The colonel scribbled the memorized number on a scrap of paper.
“Your gun runner?”
“The same. He can get the whole team out of the country, and likely get you in contact with other secret forces that haven’t been discovered yet, funded by other countries.”
“Why would he help us?”
“He helps the highest bidder, and he doesn’t take sides.”
Colonel Crisp stood tall. “Promise me you won’t let those slimy fucks take our planet.”
“Sir. Yes, sir.” John saluted, which was not normal for him ever since the Africa incident.
The colonel saluted back, and headed upstairs to his waiting vehicle: a simple, blue Cavalier.
The music played throughout the grueling drive, constantly being interrupted by news updates. A steady stream of bullshit poured out of the White House press room and the local radio stars.
Spin doctoring was one thing, but the more time went by, the more convinced he became that the general public had washed itself into a level of subordination unknown since the birth of the newspaper. Even the ones screaming to correct everyone else rarely knew what they were talking about. If they did, they wouldn’t be talking at all. Of course the media didn’t help by grinding their own tripe and feeding it back to the public.
The propaganda machine was a tricky beast. The people feeding that demon maintained very little control over the results. The news put out an article seeded by the aggressor, in this case the noble aliens coming down to help the human race out of its slump. The politicians respond, fostering their bi-polar attitudes to appease voters. They waited for the public response, and with the speed of the internet, data flooded through the polling gates in a microsecond. The politicians evaluated, polarized, and made sure that everyone had something to complain about, turning popular discussions into demonizing opportunities against their political opponents.
With one recorded transmission from wherever the hell the squiddies chose to broadcast from, the populace had gone into a feeding frenzy. What started as chatter on the internet became coalitions for alien rights. The rednecks spun their own paranoia, saying that we needed to blast them out of the sky. The hippies wanted to hand over complete control, loving the idea of benevolent beings from space. The democrats wanted policy changes to bring out a welcome wagon and stage public squiddy appearances. The Republicans were wary to ensure they wouldn’t lose their right to own firearms. Every group that had a name, from religious organizations to the KKK, had an opinion. And all of them were shit.
The disc jockeys talked about making an official first-contact holiday. They rambled on about green alien Santas and squid-on-the-shelf. A public war had erupted on the ground. Protesters came out in droves, screaming at the government to open the lines of communication. As usual, the people with nothing better to do held signs with nonsense printed on them. What they wanted was obvious enough, but the message was lost through ignorant chants and dumb slogans.
Likewise, anti-alien sentiment had fallen over a few conspiracy nuts, who chose to interrupt the protests on Pennsylvania Avenue with Molotov cocktails. None of it made sense, and none of it had to. It was all a ruse, the classic routine for waging a media war. It didn’t matter what people thought, as long as they were thinking about the topic.
Out of the noise, it wasn’t the screaming, the shouting, the politics, the civil rights groups, or the rabble-rousers that upset Colonel Ryan Crisp. The part that upset him was more subtle, and much more terrifying. Out there, right at that moment, millions and millions of honest Americans were being brainwashed not only to love the invading species, but allowing further programming to set in. Humans believe most what they are told first. And these poor people were setting themselves up not only to feel sympathetic to the squiddies, but to invite them into their homes.
That’s the way all propaganda started. Choose an enemy, someone that many people already hate, say a particular party representative. Pull every piece of aggression from that person or group toward the target goal, exploit it, blare it, scream it. Dig into the heart of anger and frustration to develop first sympathy, and then loyalty.
People were worried about the poor squiddies, but in the end Ryan feared that those converted would fight to defend them, even after they revealed themselves for the monsters they were. It worked for Hitler, and he was convinced that when the invaders started their own concentration camps, with the added advantage of mind control, the people of the wor
ld would give their planet over without thinking twice. They would fight first for alien rights, then allow them to take the planet.
Propaganda was far and away the most effective tactic to overthrow a government, a country, or the world, more so than bullets. The squiddies had come to our solar system armed to the beak with their own version of banners, posters, and protest slogans.
The general had a fancy for coffee shops, but unlike most of the locations he chose, this place was populated. Cars in the parking lot were always a good sign. Colonel Ryan Crisp felt a little better knowing that it would take quite a feat to get him out of there via drugging. If nothing else, he wouldn’t be interrogated in the shop, unless this was a new trick to throw him off guard. The place looked legitimate enough.
The sun was setting, but there was no indication that they would close anytime soon. He considered waiting until closer to the mark to give John and the crew more time, but if the military did know the location of Operation Raindrop, then it was already too late.
He removed his phone and searched the company name to verify, online at least, that it was a real business and not a random front tossed up at the last minute. The entry was populated with normal reviews spread out over time. The social media profile and website were up to date. He swiped to a relay chat, and informed the general that he had arrived, and then waited.
The radio wailed on with more propaganda. The movement had already started. It even had a name: World Peace with Friends. The organization was formed with the specific purpose of holding the government accountable for transparency in alien communications, and to ensure that all communications were made public. As if that would ever happen.
The representative on the radio claimed that this was one area the human race couldn’t be allowed to screw up by injecting party politics and big government. His biggest fear was that the aliens would give up on the human race, and leave in search of other solar systems. God willing.
The colonel glared at the plastic buttons on the LCD screen. His own fear was that the idiot DJ, and all who followed him, would sacrifice everything to please the aliens, even taking up arms to defend them. Perhaps helping to spread the virus on their own, without remote control. They would convert anyone who opposed their uninformed logic. The aliens, along with the president and the FDA, would tell the public it was a super vaccine, start an outbreak of the next deadly flu virus, and convince nearly every American to get their shot at the local drugstore.
The government couldn’t announce the truth about the city bombings. If they tried, it would mean all out war against an enemy they weren’t prepared to fight. The world was falling apart.
A chime from the phone prompted a message that the general was inside and waiting. Crisp stepped out of the vehicle. He spotted the general’s white hair on his way through the door, sitting in an empty booth near the back.
A short line led to the counter, and Crisp took his place. The general’s back was turned, but it was the only warm body in the place with the indistinguishable thin gray covering over a shiny scalp. What sounded like ordinary conversation murmured all around him. Some bitched about the latest press from their favorite publicity campaign. Some laughed and joked about people that weren’t in the room. Most were discussing the extraterrestrial address from that morning.
“Hey man,” said the barista cheerfully. “What can I get for you?”
“Coffee, black.”
“Wonder how long it’ll be before the aliens show us their version of coffee. I’m betting they have a better method for roasting beans. Maybe we can come up with the perfect coffee bean. Maybe they have another caffeine plant that’s better than anything on earth.”
The colonel’s gaze fixed on a bit of packaging labeled “No GMO” and “Gluten Free!” He shook his head, wondering how alien GMO would be acceptable to the same people that hated Monsanto.
“I don’t think they came here to fix us coffee.”
“Probably not, but you can hope. They look just like the pictures from UFO stories. Well I mean, that one did, except for the pointy head and those flappy things.”
The television appearance of a squiddy clued people into what the monsters looked like. Four tentacles twisted into a pair of legs, with two upturned tentacles for arms. Coke can sized eyes placed almost opposite around their gray squid-shaped heads, with fins to match. He didn’t see anyone wondering how they ate, through that horrible black beak hiding under the wormy arms. The retard behind the counter thought it was cute.
“You think that’s their hair?”
“What?”
“The little flaps on their head. Me and the girls have been arguing over whether that counts as hair or eyebrows. What do you think?”
“I think I want black coffee.”
“Right on.” He capped the cup with a plastic lid. “Two bucks. Not excited about first contact? Finally, we get to meet someone else from the universe. You’re probably one of those guys that thinks they’re here to kill us, huh?”
The colonel handed him a five. “Keep the change.”
“Alright man. Don’t worry. I’m sure they didn’t fly a million light-years to start a war. Probably could blow up the whole planet if that’s what they wanted.”
The colonel tried his best to jerk a smile and a nod. The situation was worse than he thought. Every moron in ear-shot grew up under the ideology that if we ever met creatures from space, they would be friendly. They had some sci-fi notion of first contact, that space aliens would come down, cure cancer, and bring humans up to speed on breaking the light barrier. It was a possibility he’d considered himself, right until the point where they started blowing shit up and infecting people with their viruses.
He placed the cup opposite the general, and sat facing the exit. “Checkmate.”
The general smiled as his body bobbed from a silent chuckle. “Looks that way.”
“You know what they’re doing?”
“Winning,” he said. “I’ve been over this with the president a thousand times. There’s nothing we can do.”
“Who leaked the project?”
“I don’t have any idea. I was hoping you could tell me.” The wrinkles on the old man’s face tightened as his brows contorted. “Nobody escaped from your compound and let the cat out of the bag?”
“Don’t play games with me, general. I know you guys dropped the ball on this. I just want to know why, and how much time I have.”
“You never were the best at controlling your own contacts. The aliens told the president about the project. As expected, they accused him of being in on it, and since he doesn’t have a clue what’s going on, he’s directed all forces to hunt down the terrorists and take them out. There will be consequences if he doesn’t cooperate.”
“How did they get the project name?”
“It shook me when their transmission came through. They tied the name not only to your outfit, but at least six others around the globe. They know everything.”
“If they know so much, why the hell am I still alive?”
“They want obedience from government officials,” he said. “We suspect that they’re trying to make the transition of power on earth as smooth as possible. They even promised the president and most of the cabinet members would be kept up on their plans and research. They’re actually talking about work on many human diseases.”
“Oh yeah? Did they tell Mr. Potus about the virus?”
“They said the abductions were an attempt to cure cancer. That ill subjects were selected, and they had a working solution to a similar problem on a previous world. We’re no good to them sick.”
“And that dip-shit believed them?”
“Give me a reason for him to call them out. Give me a way to fight them, and we will. Till then, his options are play along or let them burn down every American city. The aliens will blame the whole thing on Operation Raindrop if they lead an assault. By the way, why do you suppose they haven’t already?”
“Burn
ed the cities?”
He nodded.
“They need us.”
A jerk of the general’s torso was followed with a smirk.
“Sounds odd, but my scientists suspect the squiddies aren’t even the real aliens. They’re just the face they choose to present. One subordinate species.”
“Well, they’re still aliens either way.”
“But not the puppet masters. They’re all infected with the virus. Or at least a past version of it. The bug allows direct control over whatever it’s infecting, and it can receive instructions from a remote broadcasting station. My engineers are trying to figure out how that part works.” Crisp glanced around the shop to ensure none of the locals were paying attention to their conversation. Most people were glued to their electrical devices or joking about the new visitors. It was the talk of the world, apparently.
“Even if you could, that won’t stop an invasion from space.”
“I don’t think their fleet is half as large as you suspect. If they could simply bomb the crap out of us, and it served their purpose, they would have already done it.”
“You think the city bombings were a bluff?”
“Ask yourself why they were spread over the course of a week. I don’t think their actual invasion force is that large, and their craft are vulnerable to missile strikes. If nothing else, we’ve demonstrated that. I’ve brought down half a dozen of them. If we call their bluff, there won’t be too much they can destroy, we just need forces in place to guard our population centers, ready to go at a moment’s notice. We can detect them as soon as they enter the atmosphere, and that’s more than enough lead time.”
“They could still be hiding another attack force that we haven’t seen yet.”
“Either way. The virus is their goal.”
“What’s the point?” The general’s eyes drifted a bit.
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