“What kind of warning are we giving people?” Nick asked.
“A calming one, hopefully,” Rickert said, meeting the eyes of everyone in the room. “The president is making an address”—he checked his watch—“uh, 10 minutes ago. Urging people in the big cities to follow evacuation procedures. If they want to remain with their homes, stockpile as much food and water as possible. Truth is, any city that gets hit probably gets wiped out. Can’t say that, though.”
“Why not?” Eddie said. “Tell people what they’re up against. Let ’em make up their own minds.”
“The global economy is already in shambles,” Rickert shot back, a hint of anger creeping into his voice. “We’re probably not too far from some kind of worldwide food crisis. People have enough to deal with.”
The government had essentially nationalized food and energy production and distribution in the US. No one had wanted to do that, but the commodities and shipping industries had been paralyzed after the attacks on Russian and China. Everyone was in a defensive crouch. The US Army Corps of Engineers was now driving or accompanying trucks and trains full of corn and wheat and oil all over the country to try and keep everyone from starving. The US, with its massive farmlands, oil reserves, and highways and railroads, could be self-sufficient for a while. Other countries that relied heavily on imports were in much worse shape. You put the entire world on a war footing against an alien invasion, and your GDP goes all to hell.
Nick began to protest, but Rickert cut him off.
“My team actually made these predictions back before this all started. We gamed this thing out a hundred times. Not that anyone bothered to act on anything we suggested—even stuff like hardening our electric grid, which would have helped against terrorist attacks. Everyone up the chain who even knew my team existed thought we were a joke. You think anyone wanted to requisition $6 billion to prepare evac plans in case of extraterrestrial assault?”
The anger drained from Rickert. He was too tired for a longer burn.
“And so now we’re exactly where we thought we would be. Now we have all the money in the world, but no time to spend it. So, a little more panic is the last thing we need right now. As it is, we’ve got revolutions and civil wars popping up in Eastern Europe, the Philippines, Pakistan, India, and South Africa. And that’s only the worst of it. There have been protests pretty much everywhere, from Los Angeles to Lagos.”
“Protesting what, exactly?” Eddie said.
“Anything. Everything,” Rickert said, waving his hands around like a helicopter. “It’s fear and paranoia mostly. But it’s hard to reason with a conspiracy nut when the ‘reasonable’ explanation is an alien invasion and human super soldiers augmented with nanotechnology and the deliberate nuclear destruction of a major city. We went through the looking glass and then blew it up.”
Ben glanced at Nick and Eddie. They all shared the same quick thought. Even if they won the coming battle, the upheaval and destruction on Earth would be devastating. And if they lost, it would be complete.
“Let’s go check the interceptors,” Ben said. “I want to be ready to lift off at a moment’s notice. We can’t be late for this dance.”
20
After thirteen separate assassination attempts, President Lockerman had finally evacuated the White House. Even with the eight hundred or so Marines and Sailors of the 2nd Battalion, 6th Marines deployed on the White House lawn in defensive formation and Air Force F-35s blanketing the air space above, the barrage of attacks continued almost daily. Truck bombs. Lone gunmen. One kook with a fire axe. It was a carnival of crazy. The attackers ignored the warning shouts and shots and advanced. While they were all cut down before doing any serious damage, the fear was growing that eventually one of the attackers would arrive with a weapon big enough to inflict real harm. His wife was beyond freaked out.
“Also, not great for national morale for Pennsylvania Avenue to be covered in bomb craters and blood,” President Lockerman had said to Dan Henning, his chief of staff, as they worked out of the secure bunker beneath the White House. “And I haven’t seen the sun in two weeks. We’re leaving. Have the Joint Chiefs draw up some alternatives.”
Henning glanced at Jeff Goldman, the president’s national security advisor, who looked equally nervous.
“Sir, I’m not sure that’s wise,” Henning said. “You’re going to be a target anywhere you go, and this is as safe a place as any.”
“Dan’s right, Mr. President,” Goldman said. “We can keep you secure from everything but a direct nuclear attack strike here.”
“Yeah?” Lockerman said. “And what if that’s exactly what the mrill have planned for this place? Look, I’m not worried about the crazies rushing the gate out there. I’m worried about the alien army that’s about to drop out of the sky. And I’d bet Washington is pretty high on their strike list.”
“Well, we don’t know that, sir,” Goldman said. “The truth is, they’ve so far had very limited contact with Earth, and their grasp of our political and military structures is likely minimal.”
“You’re assuming they haven’t been here before,” Lockerman said.
Both men looked taken aback.
“Oh, relax. I’m not talking Roswell or Area 51, but the universe is obviously a lot more crowded than we ever knew. Is it really so unlikely that the mrill or some other species has visited us previously and kept it quiet? You’re assuming they only know of us what they’ve seen in the two skirmishes we’ve had thus far, but I’m not sure I’d bet money on that.”
Lockerman looked around the cramped room, packed with monitors and communications gear and the stale smell of too many stressed people surrounded by too few air filters.
“While I am damned tired of this bunker, I also think there’s a good military reason to evacuate as well,” he said. “This place just doesn’t feel safe to me, so we’re leaving. We’ll make an announcement that we’re relocating to a secure, undisclosed location—we won’t be able to hide that from the press, anyway—and set up camp at a hardened fallout shelter in Nevada or Idaho or something. Maybe NORAD again, but God, that coal mine is even deeper than this one. Besides, if these nut jobs are going to continue to come at me, we might as well draw them away from DC. This place is getting trashed, and we might want to come back someday.”
“Someday, sir?” Henning said.
Lockerman was quiet for a moment, rolling a pencil on the desk in front of him.
“C’mon, Dan, I know what the odds are on this thing,” Lockerman said. “Shepherd and Rickert and their guys might think they can win this, but I think we’ll be lucky if anyone survives. We’re sending three guys out to fight an army. Even the Spartans sent 300, and they knew that was a suicide mission.”
Henning and Goldman didn’t say anything.
An aide accompanied by a Secret Service agent—they shadowed every staff member within 30 feet of the president now—stepped into the room.
“Mr. President, the Royal address is starting.”
Lockerman picked up a TV remote and flipped through news channels. Most of the protests in the US were still peaceful, but there were thousands camped out in open-air spaces in Seattle, Boston, and Los Angeles. He thought it was a mistake to allow those, but the mayors were reluctant to stir up more trouble than they had to, and most of the police and military were busy with evacuation efforts. New York and DC were mostly clear of those protest camps, as the soldiers and first responders had commandeered almost every public space for their own needs. True to his word, Lockerman had not declared martial law, but the National Guard was everywhere, and regular military had deployed outside almost every major city to set up defensive, surface-to-space batteries and guard them from sabotage. The situation was much more volatile and violent in other cities around the world.
Most world leaders had fled their capitals for military bunkers or naval ships. More than a few had been quietly flown to the US. The British royal family and prime minister had refused to budge
, which Lockerman admired, but now the king was making a public address from the balcony on the East Front of Buckingham Palace.
“This is a bad idea,” Lockerman muttered. He turned the remote over and over in his hands while leaning forward. He’d pleaded with the Brits to forgo the public proclamation. Appear live on television, write a letter to the paper, post a damn tweet. But going out in public made no sense. It was like dangling raw meat in front of a pack of wild dogs.
King Henry appeared on the balcony, surrounded by a dozen bodyguards. Even the notoriously fat monarch looked much thinner these days. No one was eating right or getting enough sleep. The king’s security detail had dropped all pretense of subtlety or camouflage, and they were cradling rifles in their arms as they scanned the massive crowd below. A handful of armored personnel carriers were stationed in the square, with soldiers manning the machine-gun turrets and swiveling to try and keep an eye on everyone. Lockerman knew there were also snipers on the roof and drones high above running facial recognition software to try and spot known troublemakers. No helicopters, though, as the sound would have drowned out his speech.
“My fellow countrymen . . .” the king began. The network covering the speech switched to a wide-angle camera, capturing the 20,000-plus who had filled the square. It was an unruly gathering, with various protest banners held high as different factions screamed at the king, the cops, and each other. The protesters were ragged, mostly young men and a few women. No families, but plenty of the sort of rough-and-tumble youths that always showed up to protest economic summits and political conventions. Those who weren’t there to protest stood in sullen silence, shoulders hunched against the cold and damp. A light drizzle was falling, but umbrellas had been banned, which gave the police and military at least one less headache to deal with.
Lockerman knew the British prime minister and her team were just as unhappy with the king’s appearance as the US government was, but the old man was convinced he was somehow the reincarnation of King George VI and could rally the nation much as that monarch had during World War II.
“This might actually do some good,” Henning said, waving at the screen.
Lockerman opened his mouth to reply when a flicker of movement in the crowd caught his eye.
One of the banners dropped. Lockerman squinted to try and see the person in the crowd who had been holding it but the cameraman, oblivious, had swiveled away.
“Did you catch that?” Lockerman said to no one in particular. Without warning, two of the armored vehicles exploded, flattening the people standing nearby. The camera jerked around to center on the blast, and now Lockerman could see the man who had dropped the banner. He lifted up a long, slender device with a bulbous tip and pointed it at the balcony.
“Oh, Christ,” Lockerman said as everyone in the room with him surged forward to see the screen.
The rocket-propelled grenade was unmistakable on the massive TV screen as it streaked over the heads of the frothing crowd. The camera operator, presumably acting on pure instinct, tracked it perfectly. The king’s bodyguards tried to drag the monarch back inside, but the warhead was faster. It hit slightly to the left of the balcony and punched a hole in the building, flames and smoke and shards of masonry and body parts flying in every direction. Snipers tore the attacker apart, the high-caliber shots echoing through the square, and now the crowd became a panicked mob, fleeing in all directions. The camera swiveled wildly, uncertain where to focus. Lockerman noticed through the stampede that a handful of figures seemed to be running in unison toward the palace. The half dozen or so men were pulling objects from their coats. Lockerman realized they were hand grenades and Molotov cocktails. Snipers cut most of them down, the explosives detonating where they fell, adding to the chaos. Two of the men made it to the front of the building and hurled their bombs, which detonated with concussive force. The attackers didn’t live long enough to even see the debris hit the ground, but the damage was done.
Pandemonium. The crowd was trampling itself, hurtling around and through the burning hulks of the sabotaged armored vehicles. Buckingham Palace was on fire. Several people were also on fire. Soldiers streamed through the crowd, shooting at anyone who grabbed them. Lockerman suspected most of the clawing bystanders were looking for aid, but at this point it was total chaos and he couldn’t blame the soldiers for assuming everything was a threat. The destroyed balcony was sagging toward the ground, covered in blood and soot, although the king—or what remained of him—had finally been pulled inside. The TV announcer was jabbering frantically, clearly on the verge of all-out hysterics. It was a war zone.
The camera was yanked around, and a Royal Marine was demanding, screaming that it be turned off. The sweaty marine’s eyes were bulging like they were about to pop out of his head. The cameraman argued and the marine’s rifle came up. The picture went dead.
Lockerman hit mute as the rattled studio hosts came back on, at a loss for words. They looked terrified. Lockerman turned off the TV before they could replay the video of what had just happened—he didn’t need to see that again—and looked around at his staff.
“It’s getting out of control,” he said.
The Brits had a critical role in the defensive installations in Europe, and the prime minister, the true head of government, was secure. Well, presumably secure.
“Dan, we need to get the State Department on the phone with the UK. I know it’s probably a total cluster over there right now, but we need to know that the PM is still safe and in charge. And I know they had considered relocating to their military base at, uh, Tidworth, right, Jeff?”
“Ye—yes, Mr. President,” Goldman said with a slight stammer, dragging his eyes from the TV screen. “The Brits have their 1st Mechanized Brigade headquartered there, along with several other units. It’s an ideal spot, about 80 miles from London.”
“Good, yeah. Dan, make it clear that we strongly suggest they evacuate to Tidworth. This is not the time to go down with the ship.”
“Yes, sir.” Henning rose and left the room with his aide.
Lockerman paced around the room. “Can we hold this thing together long enough, Jeff?”
Goldman gave a nervous shrug. Lockerman noticed for the first time that Goldman’s clothes were hanging off him like pillowcases. The man seemed to have lost 20 pounds in the last month. Lockerman thought of the king and wondered how the rest of his staff was dealing with the stress.
“One way or another, yes.”
“What does that mean?”
“Well, look, we, the US, yes, we can control the situation here at home, although who knows what sort of chain reaction this attack might set off. We’ve got enough troops in enough places and a population that trusts you just enough that we can finish the work on surface-to-space defenses. Once the battle is engaged, who knows how it will go. But the prep phase? Yeah, I . . . I think we can manage that. I don’t know about the rest of the world. We’ve still got small military detachments in most allied countries, but they’re reporting that a lot of the local officials are disappearing.”
“What, they’re being attacked?”
“Some, maybe, but most are just fleeing, going into hiding with their families, or just running away. They’re scared, and they’re not using the secure comms channels we’ve provided.”
“Idiots.”
“Maybe, but human psychology doesn’t change just because of an alien invasion, Mr. President. And what just happened there”—he waved at the screen—“isn’t going to make things easier. Desertion is becoming a major problem in the countries that we still have some communication with. Russia, India, most of the Middle East, who knows what’s going on there. Satellite surveillance shows some work being done at the proposed defensive sites. We can only hope they’ll be operational when the mrill arrive.”
Lockerman knew that sabotage and civil unrest might shut down even the stations that were functional. They’d already been over the scenarios. Russia was the biggest unknown. The rebel for
ces were still on the move. Gretchenko didn’t want to nuke them, to send up even more mushroom clouds over his own soil. Not everyone agreed with that stance, even on Lockerman’s staff. Lockerman agreed with Gretchenko on this one, but he was in no position to offer any kind of aid.
He’d recalled almost all US forces from overseas: Japan, South Korea, etc. Others had pleaded against that; it pained him to do it, and North Korean troops were already massing at the border of South Korea. The NorKs remained as volatile as ever, and they probably were on the verge of invasion. China, preoccupied and silent, wasn’t doing anything to calm the situation. A lot of people were about to die on the Korean peninsula. They were on their own. US troops were needed at home. North Korea at least didn’t have much food or gas to sustain a lengthy campaign. A conventional invasion would be fierce but short, and the North’s nuclear stockpile was tiny, no more than a couple of low-yield warheads. The defensive satellites orbiting over Asia could shoot down any incoming missiles, just as long as they weren’t busy shooting up at incoming mrill attack ships. Russia was definitely a much bigger problem.
If Russia went over the brink, it was impossible to predict who else might get dragged along. Not to mention the thousands of Russian nuclear warheads up for grabs. That country was being pulled apart, like a man chained to trains headed in opposite directions. The mrill might arrive to find they’d already won the battle without firing another shot.
Lockerman’s stomach churned, and he wondered how much weight he’d lost in the last several weeks.
“Damn, Jeff, sounds like we should be praying the mrill attack sooner rather than later.”
“Mr. President, that is my most fervent hope.”
21
As the British were trying to recover their fallen king, Yuri Leonov hopped down from a T-90 tank parked on the shoulder of the M6 highway leading into the Russian city of Volgograd. His boots sank into the mud. Most everything around here was mud, but that was the least of his concerns. Same for his men. The flurry of activity made him proud. These were his countrymen, his comrades, his brothers, both by blood and by allegiance, and they were fueled by purpose.
The First Protectors: A Novel Page 20