Independence Day: Resurgence: The Official Movie Novelization (4 page)

It must have something to do with their telepathy
, he thought. They had used it as a weapon in the war, and much of their technology was based on it. They maintained a sort of hive mind, but had fallen into disorganization when the mother ship was destroyed, and they lost their queen. Most of the surviving aliens had fought, but they hadn’t fought well—not without the direction from above. Now they were all doing the same thing, as if they were hearing the same voices or directives again.

Adams couldn’t think of another reason.

“After twenty years of being catatonic,” he muttered to himself, and he didn’t like the implications. Then he turned to Lieutenant Ritter. “Get me Director Levinson.”

“We tried,” Ritter said. “He’s unreachable.”

Unreachable?
That was unacceptable.
If I can be pulled out of a vacation weekend with my wife, Levinson can goddamn well answer the phone when he’s called
, Adams thought.
Scientists. You need them, but you can’t count on them.

“Where the hell is he now?”

No one seemed to know.

A convoy of jeeps clearly marked with the distinctive logo of Earth Space Defense rumbled northwest along a dirt track—calling it a road would be unwarranted flattery—with the savanna of the northern Congo spreading away into the falling night on either side.

Heavily armed United Nations Humvees escorted the convoy at front and rear. Seated in the lead jeep, Director David Levinson looked at the passing scenery in the convoy’s headlights. Flat scrub grasslands as far as the eye could see, which wasn’t very far because of the darkness and the clouds of dust kicked up by the vehicles ahead. Even so, it was a landscape he hadn’t seen much, and he tried to lose himself in it. Unfortunately, peace was hard to find when you were being grilled by a federal bureaucrat who wanted to pinch pennies while you were trying to save the world.

The bureaucrat in question—who sat in the back seat, leaning up to be heard in the front—repeated a point he had been making continuously since they had left the U.N. base earlier that afternoon. Now it was dark, and he hadn’t run out of steam.

“This administration has made it clear that expenditures need to be reined in, and yet you’ve spent nearly three times your allocated travel budget this year alone…”

“Who are you again?” Levinson asked him. It was hard for him to keep track of all the bean counters who seemed to make it their mission to chip away at his budget. Their navy suits, their earnest faces, their belief that their columns of numbers mattered more than ideas. David found it all confounding and repulsive, but he had learned he shouldn’t say that out loud. Instead he just tried to radiate a certain kind of lofty disdain, and hoped they would go away.

The bureaucrat stopped talking.

“Floyd Rosenberg the accountant, sir,” Levinson’s assistant, Collins, reminded him. Collins was driving. This was one of his primary uses as an assistant, because David didn’t like to drive. It took up his concentration when he would rather be thinking about more important things than traffic lights or turn signals.

“Oh,” Levinson said, without bothering to hide his scorn. “The accountant.”

“We should slow down,” one of the U.N. escorts radioed. “We don’t want to look like we’re posing a threat.”

“Collins, tell him to go faster,” Levinson said. “We also don’t want to show them weakness.”

Collins nodded. “Of course, sir.” He picked up the radio handset and spoke into it. “That’s a negative. The director insists we maintain current speed, and possibly even go a tad faster.”

“Must,” Levinson corrected him. “We
must
, and not just a tad.” He turned slightly, and spoke over his shoulder. “A tad and a scoche. Did I ever tell you that was the name of my first jazz band? I was Tad.”

“I have the feeling he’s not taking me seriously,” Rosenberg the accountant complained.

“He’s not,” Collins confirmed. “He doesn’t take anyone seriously… but himself, of course.”

Levinson shot him a look. Collins ignored it, as he always did. It was another of his prized abilities—knowing when to ignore the boss, and when to take him seriously.

“Well, he needs to,” Rosenberg said to Collins. Then he turned to Levinson and said, “You should take me seriously. I’ve been chasing you across the planet for the last three weeks, and now that I have you…” He opened his briefcase, as if they were in a conference room on J Street, instead of bumping across the savanna on the way to meet a volatile warlord.

“Oh God, he’s opening his briefcase,” Levinson said. “Collins. Do something.”

“All vehicles prepare to come to a stop,” the lead U.N. escort radioed. “We have visual on the border crossing.”

“We’re here, sir,” Collins said. Levinson didn’t bother to point out that he could, in fact, scan their surroundings and see for himself. Collins’ skills included repeating of the obvious.

“I know,” Rosenberg said, “a lot of people have a negative reaction to being audited, but it can be a very constructive experience.”

An audit
, Levinson thought.
Out here on the savanna. Someone, somewhere in Washington decided it was a good idea to fly this guy to the Congo, just so he could conduct an audit while I’m trying to do science.

“Listen, Lloyd…” he began.

“Floyd,” Rosenberg corrected him.

“Right,” Levinson said. “This is all very interesting.”

Rosenberg beamed. “Thank you. We take pride in our work.”

“But I have a friend I have to meet,” Levinson added. “Great guy. Come say hi.” He opened the door and stepped out of the jeep, glad to not be bouncing around anymore. The lead U.N. Humvee swung around to the side, clearing a path toward the border crossing between the Congo and the self-proclaimed Republique Nationale d’Umbutu.

Rosenberg looked up from his papers and his face went pale.

“Where are we? Director Levinson?”

Levinson had seen a lot of border crossings in his life, but for sheer style he had to rank Umbutu’s ahead of all the rest. No simple floodlights and customs house here. Huge totems built from the skulls and bones of aliens flanked the road, over which a sign proclaimed the breakaway republic. The U.N. soldiers picked out the totems in the beams of their flashlights, making them seem even spookier than they would have in daylight. The border guards weren’t your standard-issue military police, either. They were big and mean-looking, with tattoos and ritual scarring and looking not at all pleased to see a United Nations convoy parked on their doorstep.

Rosenberg got out of the jeep, too. Clutching his briefcase, he came up next to Levinson.

“Who are they?” he asked.

“Umbutu’s rebel forces,” David answered.

Rosenberg got even paler. “The warlord?”

Levinson shrugged. “Nothing to worry about. The old man died. I hear his son is much more of a moderate.” He walked up to the border garrison and said, “Excuse me, I’m looking for Dikembe Umbutu.”

Instead of answering, every member of the garrison pointed their guns at Levinson, which provided him with an interesting bit of information. Instead of AK-47s or the other standard armaments a Central African rebel group might be expected to possess, Umbutu’s border guards were all armed with alien blasters. The green glow from the energy reservoirs was sharp in the darkness and emphasized the hostile expressions on the guards’ faces.

“I see you found their armory,” he said. Rosenberg looked as if he might be about to faint. Collins wasn’t happy either, but he stayed close to Levinson, trusting the boss to know what he was doing. That was yet another of the things that made him a useful assistant.

Levinson had been expecting a welcome party, but apparently that wasn’t how Umbutu the Younger did things. Maybe it wasn’t that much of a surprise, given the facts. He had survived his own father’s insanity and attempted murder, his best friend’s betrayal, and a series of attempted coups after he took power following his father’s death. Now he was firmly in command of his breakaway republic, but the established governments on all sides had no love for Dikembe Umbutu. Under the circumstances, it didn’t pay to be too welcoming to anyone, for fear of appearing weak.

A voice came from behind the soldiers.

“The one and only David Levinson.”

It was a woman. French accent. Familiar.

Ah. Catherine Marceaux. What’s she doing here?

Marceaux approached through the garrison, which parted to let her pass. Even in the unflattering illumination of floodlights and flashlight beams, she was a beauty. David tried to conceal his confusion. He failed. He was congenitally bad at hiding his emotions.

“Catherine? Wow, that’s…” He didn’t know what he was trying to say. “Uh, what are you doing here?”

“You don’t think you’re the only expert he called, do you?” She had a little mocking smile on her face. Friendly, but also competitive.

“I’m just a little surprised to see you,” David said. Might as well come right out and admit it. She was, after all, a psychiatrist.

“I’m a little surprised you remember my name,” she replied, and now she wasn’t smiling.

“Come on now,” David said. “Let’s be professional.”

“We both remember what happened last time we tried to be professional.” With that, she seemed satisfied that she had made her point, whatever it was. She turned and walked away.

“I’m sensing a palpable tension,” Rosenberg commented.

Levinson tried to play it off.

“We’ve bumped into each other at a few conferences.”

“I bet you have.”

“Shut up, Floyd.” David walked off. He wasn’t in the mood for the innuendo of accountants. As he followed after Catherine, however, he heard Floyd call out.

“Wait! Where are you going?” He was cut off as one of the guards stopped him and demanded his papers.

Good
, David thought.
That’ll keep him off my back for a while. Maybe long enough to get the real scoop out of Catherine.

Once she was done being angry with him, at least.

They’d met at a conference in French Guiana, too soon after Connie was killed in a car accident. That was the problem, the timing. Catherine was an intoxicating, very intelligent, and quite beautiful woman. David liked to think he had a certain charm himself. They spoke, got interested in each other’s research, and later got interested in each other. Intimately.

After that, David had realized that his wife’s death was too fresh. He wasn’t ready for anyone else in his life. The alien invasion had brought him and Constance back together, and far too quickly she’d been taken away from him again.

David had been angry about it. At the universe, God maybe, everything. Out of the massive tragedy and destruction of the invasion, their marriage had been reborn, and then of all things—a car accident. Completely random. David raged at the randomness of it, the blind stupid chance.

Realizing he had a long way to go before he made any kind of peace with it, he never called Catherine as he had promised to. Looking back on it, he knew he should have handled the situation better, but the past was the past. Now that she had made her point maybe Catherine would be ready to forgive and forget.

David put this theory to the test when he caught up to her. She was climbing a hill just inside the border station, and he fell into step next to her.

“So why does Umbutu Junior need a psychiatrist?” he asked. “Unresolved daddy issues?”

She ignored his little joke—which wasn’t all a joke. Anyone with Dikembe Umbutu’s history would in fact have enough father issues to keep busy generations of therapists.

“His people fought a ground war with the aliens for an entire year,” she responded. “Their connection is the strongest I’ve ever seen. It’s like they’re tapped into the alien subconscious.”

“Oh, yeah,” David said, recalling some of the conversations they’d had at the conference. “Your obsession with the human–alien psychic residue.”

“You, calling
me
obsessive?” Catherine shot back. “That’s cute.”

Maybe, David reflected, he should have said something more professional.
Oh well.
He’d never been particularly good at couching his thoughts in the right phrases. It was part of the reason he’d refused the ESD directorship for so long, allowing himself to be sidelined as the research coordinator so the government could take advantage of his brains, but ignore his policy recommendations.

He had known they were moving too fast with the hybrid fighter program, and endangering the lives of pilots and researchers alike, but they’d been hell-bent to get a working model ready for a July 4 celebration back in 2007.

When it mattered, only one person associated with the hybrid program would listen to David, and that was Steve Hiller. After David had laid out his reservations, Hiller had done the kind of thing you’d expect him to do. Instead of endangering the life of another pilot, he had taken the prototype on its shakedown flight.

It had cost him his life.

While the smoke still hung in the sky from the explosion that killed his friend, David was already acting. Connie was a senator then. Between her influence and David’s obvious suitability, he’d been able to force his way into the ESD directorship. Originally he hadn’t wanted the job, but after Steve Hiller’s death he had bowed to the inevitable. It might be too late to save Steve, but at least he could make sure the hybrid program would proceed at an appropriate pace.

Three years later Connie died, and David was alone with his directorship. Life hadn’t gone the way he had wanted it to—not by any stretch of the imagination. Even so, he’d had to make the best of it. There was important work to be done.

“Do you know why he called
you
?” Catherine asked, shaking David out of his reverie. They were both a little out of breath from the climb. They got to the ridge, Catherine a bit ahead of him—most likely because she couldn’t stand to be second at anything, David mused. As she spoke she turned to face him. “We found something out here. Something only you might understand.”

When he crested the ridge he paused for a long moment. Not because he didn’t know the answer to her question, or because he didn’t feel like answering, but because he was seeing something that brought back a lot of memories—few of them good.