CICADA: A Stone Age World Novel

The RPG’s explosion tore through the C130's wing, hitting it in the exact spot needed to disable the ailerons and send it helplessly to the ground. It was pure dumb luck that the bastards hit his plane, since most Iraqi soldiers couldn’t hit the broadside of one of Sadam’s palaces. This was his tenth time riding in the back of one of these big-bellied planes and lately, because the Iraqi troops were taking potshots at their aircraft with their AKs and RPGs, US pilots had adopted the custom of landing in a corkscrew pattern, making their moving target much more difficult to hit. This asshole scored a bullseye.

The side trip to Camp Doha in Kuwait was starting to look like a stupid idea. He was headed home in a few days and certainly didn’t need to see any more action, now that the war—if you could call the trouncing delivered by Operation Desert Storm a war—had ended almost as quickly as it started. But this was his own mission now, not the Army’s. And this mission would be far more important than any the Army could have sent him on: if this mission was successful, one day he would save the world.

Maxwell Thompson clutched the web-netting, bracing for the impact from their heavy landing—the insurgent who shot them down would tell his brothers it was a crash. Max wasn’t too worried, though, as these things rarely exploded and most injuries or deaths were from unsecured equipment crushing its passengers; theirs was empty but for him. Just in case, he mouthed the words to a well-rehearsed prayer to God. It was entirely up to Him and the pilot, what happened next.

A few hours later, Max found the man he was looking for sitting alone at a small table in the corner of the makeshift bar, nursing a brandy. The pub was serious, like most drinking establishments in Kuwait City; it had sprung up quietly, without signage or fanfare so as to not piss off the local Muslim clerics who took offense to such public activities.

It was a small place and one he had never visited before; he had tried many of the pubs in this industrial city back when he found his solace at the bottom of the bottle. This one was new, having just opened a few days ago. Yet it was packed with mostly off-duty officers and contractors, foreign and American. It was murky and boiling inside, with two shafts of light shooting through the only translucent areas of a single, dirty windowpane. Dust from the dirt floor filled the air, kicked up by the boots of the pub’s patrons.

Max quickly grabbed his order and the only unused chair and parked it and himself on the other side of the man’s table, not asking for permission. He took a sip of his Iraqi coffee. The bitterness of its grounds, many still floating on the black liquid’s surface, filled his senses instantly. His head started to pulse from the combo of the caffeine jolt and the bump he had sustained earlier in this morning’s hard landing. But he didn’t care; he found his man.

The man finally looked up from his brandy, still lost in thought and only slightly acknowledging his new guest. “Didn’t think anyone but the locals drank that shit. You got something against alcohol?” the man said and took a small sip from his glass.

“Both are bad habits; this is the one I didn’t give up. Are you Preston Tanner?”

Preston looked up again, this time scrutinizing the stranger, but he didn’t say anything. He just stared.

Max continued, “I’m Maxwell Thompson, and I’d like to offer you a job.”

“Cicada will be a new hope for humanity, combining the most robust scientific minds with the best technology and top-of-the-line security. Those living and working at Cicada will feel safe and enjoy an environment that will enable them to find solutions to the world’s problems when the apocalypse comes.”
- Maxwell Thompson 1989

An inscription marked on the capstone of Cicada’s north gate’s wall

“Welcome to Cicada!” Preston bellowed to the Kings, his voice a weak volley against the rapid gunfire's campaign being waged on the other side of the wall. He continued to grin, which seemed grossly disconnected from what was going on around them.

The guards retreated. Those on the wall refocused their attention outward perhaps on the next wave of oncoming squatters.

Bill King wrapped his mitts around Preston’s offered hand, clamping down like a vise grip and pumping vigorously. “We’re so glad to be here.”

Max thought Bill might puke right then. The strain of their gunfight outside the walls must have been catching up with him.

Bill continued, “Max told us about this place and said it was safe…” His voice vibrated with tension.

Lisa, with tears streaming down her checks, pushed past him and threw her arms around Preston. “Thank you for letting us in.” Realizing she was making a scene, she receded, wiped her face with her sleeve and tried to regain composure while looking back to Sally, perhaps hoping she was filled with similar relief.

“…and this is my daughter, Sally,” Bill said, his voice raspy, no doubt dried by another day of scorching heat.

A dying scream, although muffled by the wall, made them all stutter and gulp a mouthful of dusty air.

Sally remained stationary, silent and nearly motionless, staring past Preston.

Max’s heart weighed heavy, watching this. They had been through so much already, and then he had convinced them to leave their other daughter, son-in-law and new grandson at a place they could have made a home, a safe place. The whole time in Mexico, then in New Mexico, and throughout their journey, he told them Cicada would be safe. Now even he was starting to doubt this after yet another gunfight, this time outside Cicada’s walls.

A series of pops—distinctive of a 9mm handgun—erupted behind the heavy gate they had just come through, making Sally and Lisa jerk.

“We’re going inside,” Max announced and pushed Lisa and Sally toward the entrance in the large fence line surrounding the entire compound, separating it from the rest of Cicada’s grounds. Bill followed close behind.

“Of course; let’s go into Comms, at least until this episode is over.” Preston’s voice was steady, as if he were proposing nothing more than a momentary break from the hot sun.

Max glanced back and caught Bill gawking, first at the structure towering above them then at the whole complex; only now would he get a sense of the sheer size of Cicada.

Confirming his thoughts, Bill sputtered, “Wow, this place is enormous!”

Max had told them several times that it looked like the Roman Coliseum, although the Coliseum would have looked very small by comparison. “It’s one hundred seventy-six acres and it’s two and one-half miles around the oval wall,” Max stated reflexively, like some bored tourist guide wanting to finish his tour and get home. It wasn’t boredom, but hypersensitivity about their security that caused Max to scrutinize every square inch of their surroundings as he pushed his friends closer to the fencing. He sensed someone watching them from above and waved at the top of the tower.

An arm thrust out over a railing at the highest point in Cicada and waved back.

“Was that Shingles on watch?” Max yelled back.

Preston caught up and passed them, chirping, “Yep.” He held open the single door in the thick metal barrier that bisected the guard tower, and they all walked through.

“How often are the attacks?”

“Two to three times a week.”

Additional volleys popped from the other side of the wall, more muted than those from moments ago. Perhaps this episode was almost over.

“The Squatts were first congregating at the east gate. We thought you were part of a group headed to the north gate.”

Max knew this was Preston offering his excuse of why they were almost shot because they were left waiting so long. His anger was boiling up, getting ready to explode.
Safety first
.

He steered the Kings into a T-intersection, past the tower and another large building called “Residences.” They turned toward the tower and through a door that read “Comms” and below that “Managers’ Offices.” It was a rather plain-looking, white, two-story structure separated from the tower and Operations underneath by a pea-gravel road. Max had always thought that for a building containing the brains of the whole complex, it should have looked more… complex.