The First Protectors: A Novel

by Godinez Victor

  Ben thought they kept themselves visible for the psychological edge as well. Seeing enemy troops march down the streets of your capital was intimidating. If that’s why they’re staying visible, then their psychology maybe isn’t so different from ours. If so, if they understood fear, then maybe they were susceptible to it, too. Ben sent a quick mental note to Nick and Eddie, a piece of intel that might prove helpful in this battle or a future one, if they lived to see it.

  Ben shouldered his rifle, mentally counting down to the arrival of the B-2s. Just a few more seconds. A new signal popped up on his internal sensors. An army force was approaching the circle from P Street to the west. They were about to stumble right into the bombers’ target zone.

  It appeared to be an entire infantry company, some 200 soldiers in total, going by the electromagnetic froth swirling around them like an invisible dust cloud. He glanced back to the Circle, spotting the vanguard of mrill forces moving into the clearing from Vermont and Rhode Island Avenues. The unit was marching into a slaughter from above and below.

  It looked like three rifle platoons up front and a heavy weapons platoon in the rear, armed with powerful recoilless rifles. The human fighters poured into the circle and the mrill opened fire. A sizable force, but in the wrong place at the wrong time. Streaks of energy screamed across the once-tranquil park, tearing apart man and machine. The soldiers returned fire, the big recoilless guns thundering over the heads of the infantry, who darted from cover to cover, firing their rifles. None of it was having much effect against the responsive, adaptable mrill armor. Ben itched to engage but knew the B-2s were only moments away from striking. He needed the mrill bunched up here. If he signaled to the company to retreat, it would give away his position. He raged as he watched men die, some in agony, others instantly. He felt the nanobots trying to take over his senses, to cool his fury and transform him into the cold machine he needed to be. He resisted.

  His anger rose in him like magma, a caldera filling up that would annihilate everything around it. His mind refused to relinquish his body to his alien companions. Ben hated them, too. All of these creatures that had come to this planet, invaders and would-be saviors alike, had brought only death.

  The bombers overhead began dropping their bombs, their payload plummeting to the ground. Ben finally surrendered to the pestering machines in his body. Hatred would have to wait. As he did, he squeezed the remote trigger for the claymore mine planted across the circle, behind the mrill who had marched right past the hidden and inert lump of metal. The mine roared and hurled a wall of energy and shrapnel at the aliens, knocking them off their feet. At the same time, Ben opened fire, as did the marines on the rooftops a moment later. The army infantry troops who could still stand and fight did the same, and the mrill were momentarily stunned.

  It wouldn’t last long. While his rifle was capable of hurting and killing the mrill, most of the human weapons were not. One of the marines on the roof was pumping explosive rounds from his grenade launcher, and that weapon at least had some effect on the alien force. But the standard-issue M4 carbines might as well have been BB guns and slingshots against the armored, reactive skin of the mrill and the thick shielding of their mobile cannons. The mrill were already regrouping.

  Then the bombs began to hit.

  29

  “This is one hell of a weird war, John.”

  “Mr. President?”

  “The whole world is at war, and we’ve basically got three guys fighting it for us. If we make it through this battle, we need to get more troops on the front line. Those guys are going to be overwhelmed sooner rather than later.”

  Hall tried to keep a blank face. He’d never been comfortable with the “super soldier” program, as everyone had taken to calling it, like it was some kind of damn comic book. It trivialized a life-and-death situation. Worse, he resented how Shepherd and his men were operating outside the normal chain of command. These guys weren’t really soldiers in the traditional sense, with superior officers and specific orders. Technically, they answered directly to the president. In truth, though, they were acting on their own out there. Special operations troops were always something of a wild card. You gave them a mission objective and left it up to them to improvise in the field and make it happen. Shepherd, Dworsky, and Parson were beyond even that loose chain of command, operating almost as an independent army. Invincible mercenaries, not too put too fine a point to it. How did you control that? How did you, if necessary, defend against that?

  “Cat got your tongue, John?” Lockerman asked.

  Hawthorne ignored the conversation as she cycled through various video feeds from Washington, DC, on her laptop.

  Hall sighed. He did trust the president, even if he didn’t always agree with him.

  “No, Mr. President. And you’re right, this is the damn strangest war I’ve ever been part of. I just hope I live to see the next one.”

  “I . . .”

  A display on the president’s touchscreen monitor on his desk flashed red and beeped.

  “Yes?”

  A dozen Secret Service agents barged into the room. They hadn’t drawn their weapons, but their faces were strained.

  “Mr. President, we must evacuate to the bunker. There’s an incoming threat.”

  Lockerman scooped up his tablet, motioned to Hawthorne, Hall, and the rest of his skeleton staff to follow, and moved out the door. A squad of marines stationed outside the room went with them. They’d been working in the main NORAD facilities in Cheyenne Mountain. Everyone was more comfortable there, even if none of them talked about it. The mountain squatted over you, but the road out was straight ahead. If they opened all the blast doors, you could even see a bit of sunlight at the end of the tunnel. Down below, the feeling of living in your own tomb was overwhelming. Hall hated it down there. Everyone did.

  But at this moment, the Secret Service agents didn’t care about anyone’s anxieties. They hustled everyone toward the already-opened granite elevator. Lockerman turned to speak to Hall, but at that moment, one of the agents pressed his finger against his ear, listened for a moment, and yelled “Move!”

  The agents all but lifted Lockerman from his feet and started running for the open elevator. Hall and the rest of the startled entourage of a dozen or so hustled to keep up. The marines moved like a ballet troop in perfect coordination, sweeping every corner with their weapons, knowing where each teammate was and would be without needing to look or speak. Only a few key cabinet members and advisers were there, so the mrill couldn’t eliminate the government with a single strike. This entourage was expendable in the eyes of the Secret Service. Slip out of this protective bubble and you were on your own.

  The last few flustered staff members tumbled into the elevator as it started to descend, before the granite door had even begun to close.

  A gargantuan explosion rocked the mountain and a storm of light and noise hurtled down the long entrance tunnel from the outside. Flames licked the elevator entrance just as the stone and steel barrier shut with a hiss. The mountain continued to shake from a series of smaller impacts. The lights flickered and a cloud of dust drifted down from the receding ceiling above, but the lights steadied themselves and the elevator kept moving. A series of steel firewalls closed overhead as the platform clanked deeper into the heart of the mountain. Clanging alarms and pulsing yellow lights throbbed in the enclosed space. The elevator passengers could do nothing but huddle as the machinery carried them down.

  Hall knew there were several defensive cannons hidden in camouflaged positions around the mountain that weren’t wired into the rest of the surface-to-space batteries. They were there only if the mountain itself came under attack. Keep this place as inconspicuous as possible. So much for that. He could feel these ion cannons opening up now, a deep hum and then a receding vibration, less cataclysmic than the mrill artillery raining down from the sky.

  The elevator reached the bottom of the shaft. At that moment, the most violent explosion yet hammer
ed the mountain. It was strong enough to tumble most of the people in the elevator off their feet like bowling pins. One of the agents was shouting into the mic in his sleeve, trying to contact anyone on the upper levels. There was no response. Hall knew it had all been destroyed, but the agent persisted. The elevator door slid open and the agents popped out with Lockerman in a protective bubble. The marines, in their bulky gear, exited with the same effortless grace as before while the rest of the group struggled to keep up. The elevator doors were rumbling shut as another explosion rocked the facility while car-sized boulders and twisted knots of steel tumbled down the elevator shaft as the door closed for the last time.

  The lights on the lower level ran off a separate power supply and were holding steady. The group moved into the conference room, with the marines setting up a defensive position outside. Hall walked into the adjoining communications room to get an update.

  Lockerman plopped down in a chair and tried to collect his thoughts.

  He hadn’t expected this attack. How had the mrill found them? His 30-second call to the B-2 pilots? Something else? Someone else? He shook his head. Worry about that later.

  “Miranda, take as many of the staff as you can to the evac shuttle and get to the airfield,” Lockerman said.

  “What? No. I . . .”

  “That’s an order. There’s not enough room for everyone to go in one trip. And you’re a civilian, not a soldier. You’re no use here right now. I’m sorry, but you need to get going . . . and send the shuttle back as soon as you’re there.”

  She snapped her mouth shut and left. Lockerman knew she was pissed, but also know that he was right, or she’d have kept arguing.

  Lockerman tapped open the video conferencing app on his tablet. The drawn, exhausted faces of the Joint Chiefs of Staff popped up on the screen, and they all let out a collective sigh upon seeing his face.

  “Mr. President, thank God,” said General David Winston, the chairman of the JCS. “What’s happening there?”

  “General, I was hoping you’d be able to tell me,” Lockerman replied. “Give me a status report on DC.”

  As they rattled off what they knew, another explosion rocked the mountain. The tremor was less violent down below, but unsettling nonetheless. Lockerman opened another app with a video feed of the exterior of the mountain complex. There were nine cameras positioned around the main entrance, as well as at concealed locations around the property. The defensive guns were placed on the east and west slopes. The western gun was intact and firing constantly, trying to track the attacking ships. Lockerman switched to a camera view from the main parking lot, including a view of the energy cannon. Maybe the cannon could take out the attackers, if there weren’t too many of them. The view switched just in time to show a dozen mrill ships swoop in and obliterate the overmatched weapon. The facility, even hundreds of feet below the surface, shook again. Lockerman glanced at a bottle of water on the table and watched it ripple and vibrate.

  “We’re not safe here either,” he said. “We have to leave.”

  At that moment, Hall hurried back in from the comms room, a pinched look on his face. “Time to go. Defenses are compromised. The mrill just sent reinforcements, including some type of interstellar aircraft carrier. We’re looking at close to 2,000 mrill ships in orbit and looks like they’ve pinpointed our location. We’re moving to the fallback location.”

  The Secret Service agents were on the move again. Four of them surrounded Lockerman as he stood and headed for the door, while the rest yanked open closets and scooped up laptops, files, and communications gear. They also donned body armor and grabbed assault rifles and hand grenades out of a separate locker. The mountain continued to tremble, and Lockerman wondered if the mrill plan was to simply turn it to dust. Just then, the explosions stopped. Lockerman opened the video app on his tablet again, but all he saw was static. The mrill assault must have destroyed the cameras, or at least their connections.

  “Thirty seconds,” one of the agents announced. Normally, the agents would have escorted the president out immediately, but they wanted to be as heavily armed as possible before leaving the room. One man would not be leaving the room. One of the nuclear-defense operators, the last surviving “angel of death,” would be locked in a small alcove concealed behind the armory, in front of the last hardwired switch to detonate the six nuclear bombs buried throughout the mountain. Should mrill foot soldiers enter the facility and overwhelm the defenses, it would be this man’s job to destroy the complex, kill the invaders, and protect the fleeing president.

  While the agents strapped on their vests, weapons, and extra ammo, Lockerman stepped over to the bomb operator, who was gathering a few papers in a folder. Detonation codes. He glanced at the name badge on the young Air Force major’s breast pocket. KHALAF.

  “What’s your first name, son?” Lockerman said.

  “Yacoub, sir,” the major said without missing a beat as he snapped the folder shut.

  Lockerman searched his brain for an appropriate comment. He opened and shut his mouth.

  Khalaf stood up.

  “No worries, sir. I knew the mission when I signed up. It’s an honor, sir.” Khalaf saluted, then paused for a moment and extended his hand. Lockerman shook it, still unsure what to say.

  “Time to go,” one of the agents said. It wasn’t a request. Lockerman nodded at Khalaf, who was already turning to leave for the trigger room.

  The agents formed a tight perimeter around the president and moved into the hall. The squad of marines formed a second ring around that group, and the few remaining staff members and advisers followed.

  One of the Secret Service agents, Jonah Sykes, ran ahead and tapped a panel on the wall, and a palm and iris scanner slid out.

  “Mr. President,” Sykes said, motioning toward the machine as the rest of the group caught up. Lockerman pressed his hand down against the plate and leaned forward into the iris scanner. The machine beeped and a door slid open, revealing a small electric tram that looked like a shuttle at an airport. Hawthorne and her group had come this way a few minutes earlier and sent the shuttle back. The door to the tram slid open. As the group started to move forward, the stone and steel doors to the elevator were blown open in a deafening explosion.

  “Go!” one of the marines yelled as the squad started firing blindly into the dust cloud billowing out of the elevator shaft. They knew they couldn’t afford to wait to see their targets. The barrage of fire was immense, including two marines who opened up with M249 machine guns on tripods on the floor. Two more were pumping grenades down the hallway. The mrill were already coming through, the explosives and bullets providing only minimal resistance. They fired their ion rifles as they came, the thin streams vaporizing anything and anyone they touched.

  The agents shoved Lockerman into the tram even as several of them were vaporized by the mrill weapon. Most of the civilian aides and advisers were killed, too, their screams cut short as the alien technology ripped their bodies apart, turning them into dust clouds.

  “C’mon!” Lockerman yelled to Hall.

  Hall turned to leap into the tram, but a mrill rifle found him just as Lockerman extended his hand. For an instant, Hall’s entire body glowed a deep red, and Lockerman could actually see the shadow of Hall’s skeleton inside his body and the look of utter confusion on his face. Then his entire body, bones and all, vaporized. Lockerman tripped and fell backward in shock and fear, banging his head on the corner of one of the plastic seats. Slick blood coursed down his face and he stumbled, trying to climb to his feet.

  The marines who remained targeted their grenades at a support beam and blew it apart, bringing a slab of the ceiling down with a crash. The blockade wouldn’t last more than a few seconds. The lead agent ordered Sykes into the tram, and he obeyed without a word of protest despite his urge to stay and fight with his comrades. The door to the tram slid shut and Sykes punched the accelerator just as the first mrill pushed a hole through the rubble and fired. The re
maining soldiers and agents opened fire again as the battle disappeared from Sykes’s view, the tram speeding away. Sykes hit another button on the control panel and explosive charges began sealing the tunnel behind them, collapsing it with debris, creating an effective blockade. This was a one-way trip.

  Lockerman looked over at Sykes, who was covered in sweat and dirt. Lockerman realized the dirt was actually the residue of the ash clouds from the dead. Lockerman realized he must be carrying the same caul, the cremated remains of the men and women who had protected him and saved him. If he was saved. He staggered to his feet and slumped into one of the six seats. Sykes tore off a strip from his tattered shirt, shook off the ash, and held the rag out to the president, nodding at the gash on his head. Lockerman took it and stared at the other empty seats, replaying in his mind the vision of Hall, his longtime aide and close friend, being annihilated just inches from escape.

  Sykes was checking his M4 carbine, popping out the magazine to check for dust or other debris that might clog the mechanism. Lockerman felt his head begin to clear a bit. It also hurt like a sonofabitch. Stitches. He’d need stitches. He kept the bit of Sykes’s shirt pressed against his wound, sagging in his seat. There was no navigation or guidance system to control in the tiny train. It was completely automated, and the trip would be brief, just over a mile on a gradual incline to a small cave with a concealed airfield extending out and a jet waiting to ferry the president to a safe house—assuming there was any such thing left in the world.