The Biofab War (9 page)

Bakunin finally found his voice. “It is alien, intelligent, hostile and armed with superior weaponry. It can control minds. I urge you to summon reinforcements—cordon off the village.”

His hand still shaking, Sutherland picked up the phone

Major General James (“Big Jim”) O’Brien’s twenty-five years in the Air Force had added only slightly to his bedrock of Missouri skepticism. Thus he blinked twice at the situation board before startling the noncom next to him with a loud, “What the hell is
that
?”

“That,” to the thirty pairs of eyes in the Joint Chiefs of Staff Operations center, four hundred feet under the Pentagon, was a green dot moving fast—much too fast—across the North Atlantic toward the New England coast. As they watched, the computer tagged it “U1”: unidentified target, number one. Not yet “H” for hostile, just “U.” That “U” worried Big Jim far more than an “H.” “H” he knew how to deal with. “Sure it’s not Russian or Chinese?” he asked hopefully.

“No way, sir,” said the Target ID officer, staring at his computer. “Too fast, too high. It originated in space, outside our radar range.”

“Meteor?”

“It’s changed trajectory eight times in the past minute and is now decelerating. Not to any speed we could intercept, though.” Before O’Brien could speak, the green dot entered U.S. territory and disappeared. “Wet landing?”

“No, sir. Land. Just—the Cape Cod coast. There.” A red circle flashed a third of the way up the peninsula, itself enlarged on the situation board.

Shit
, thought O’Brien. A goddamned UFO on my watch. And it’s landed. He squeezed his eyes shut for an instant, then opened them. The red circle was still there, blinking. O’Brien picked up the green phone. In seconds he was listening to the Otis Operations Officer’s report. Yes, their radar had spotted it, too. F-15s had scrambled.

Glancing at the board O’Brien saw a phalanx of red crosses, marked F1to F5, appear, cruising along the Cape’s Atlantic shore. “Get some choppers up, too, Major Jenkins,” he ordered. “If you’ve had no luck by dawn, we’ll reinforce you.” As he hung up the green phone, the blue one next to it rang: three brisk chimes, like a ship’s clock. Everyone who could turned to watch as O’Brien reached for it. The blue phone never rang. “General O’Brien,” he answered. It was going to be a long night.

“General,” said a crisp voice, “this is William Sutherland, CIA. I’m declaring Situation Breakout. You’ll find the applicable challenge and countersign in your standing orders. This is not a drill.”

O’Brien dutifully pecked “Breakout” on his laptop. “‘Cortez,’” he read off the screen. “‘Rome Falls,’” responded Sutherland, hoping to God he’d given the right countersign. There were seven he had to memorize and they changed every month. He was relieved to hear the general ask, “What are your instructions, Mr. Sutherland?”

“I need infantry at Oystertown, Massachusetts—the Leurre Oceanographic Institute. Get help here as fast as you can from Otis—APs, air commandos, anyone who can carry a weapon. Things are a bit dicey. Then get a Rapid Deployment Force to Otis and quarantine Cape Cod. Maximum air vigilance in this sector. I’m calling the White House now. I’m authorized to instruct you to go to DEFCON 2. Please do so now. I’ll wait.”

Mad dogs and the CIA, O’Brien thought, turning to his second in command. “Bradshaw,” he said, “go to DEFCON 2.”

The colonel looked up startled at the big board. Except for Cape Cod, all was normal.

“General?” he asked.

“DEFCON 2 please, Colonel,” O’Brien repeated. “Per contingency.”

“Very good, sir,” said Bradshaw. Turning back to his console, he began issuing the necessary orders.

“Okay, Sutherland,” the general said, “you’ve got thirty minutes to get me White House confirmation or we stand down. You know the drill.”

“I know the drill.”

“You realize this will put the world on a war footing?” added O’Brien. The command center was now bustling with activity as the alert went out and acknowledgments poured in.

Sutherland glanced down at the dead alien. “I certainly hope so, General.”

“Be advised,” said O’Brien, “there’s an airborne craft with advanced capabilities operating in your vicinity. It appears to be extraterrestrial in origin and it’s landed. Otis F-15s are looking for it now.”

“What do you mean, ‘advanced’?” demanded the CIA officer.

“I mean, Sutherland,” said O’Brien tersely, “that we’re von Richthofen’s Circus and it’s an F-15. Give me your number—I’ll call you with your reinforcements’ ETA.”

“What was all that?” asked Bakunin.

“‘Rome Falls’? A contingency established shortly after Foxfire began. The phrase ‘extraterrestrial invasion’ is never used, but the plan calls for area quarantine, full alert and even projects nuking our own cities to stop an ‘enemy’ landing. I never believed it was meant for Chinese paratroopers.” They turned at the slight rumble of an elevator door opening. Flannigan stood alone in the elevator, dazed, unmoving, pistol held limply in one hand. The door started to close.

“Flannigan?” snapped Sutherland. At that, the FBI agent’s hand shot out, banging back the door. He stepped out, blinking, seeming to see Bakunin and Sutherland for the first time.

“A lab worker in marine biology tried to shoot me,” he said slowly, walking to the desk. “I shot first, then she, it . . .” He stopped short, spotting Tuckman’s head protruding from behind the security station. “What happened?” he asked hoarsely.

“First, holster your weapon,” ordered Sutherland. Flannigan complied. “Now look behind the desk. Was that what you killed?”

The agent peered down over the desktop. Biting his lower lip, he nodded. “It killed the DCI,” he said, looking up.

Bill nodded. “Never knew what hit him. And neither do we,” he added, hefting the dead alien’s weapon. “I’ll recall the others, Tim.” He placed a gentle hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “Get yourself some coffee. There are some vending machines down that hall, on the left.” He pointed to where a corridor curved out of sight across the lobby, opposite the elevators. “I’ll call you.” The agent had gone perhaps ten yards when Bill called, “Oh, Tim. When did you become right-handed?”

Flannigan’s hand flashed to his pistol even as Bakunin reached for his own gun and Sutherland fired. A bright-blue bolt took the agent full in the face. His form shimmering, he fell like a stone.

Two dead insectoids now lay in the Institute’s lobby, their deep-hued green a stark contrast to the floor’s blue-veined Florentine marble.

“You know, Sutherland,” said Bakunin, putting his pistol away, “we—you and me—are the only ones here we know aren’t . . . those.” He nodded at Flannigan’s killer, its short, thin neck ending in a charred stump. “The safest thing, I regret to say, would be to shoot your men as they get off the elevator.” He stopped at the American’s hard stare.

“You are a ruthless son of a bitch,
tovarich
Colonel. If Marsh, Johnson and Yazanaga aren’t Marsh, Johnson and Yazanaga, I’ll know. But until I know, all are innocent.”

The Russian officer shrugged. “You’re a sentimental fool, Sutherland,” he said. “And as for ruthless, which of us just spoke of nuking his own country?”

“Did it occur to you, Bakunin, that Flannigan might have been a gremlin all along?” Before the Russian could answer, Bill picked up his radio and recalled his men. Receiving the last acknowledgment, he took out his cellphone, then paused. “Why did they jump us? They could easily have carried off their masquerade. They’re very good.”

The Russian shrugged. “Perhaps they thought we knew more than we did. Or maybe something is happening elsewhere that we’re unaware of. I mean, where are they all?” He looked around the deserted lobby. “They should have swarmed over us.”

Picking up the phone again, the CIA officer dialed out. “They knew, Bakunin. They knew they were blown! It all must tie into the site and my missing people. As soon as I make this call . . . Yes, José Montanoya, please. Sutherland, CIA. Find him—it’s a national emergency.”

M
cShane was enjoying the hospitality of
Implacable’s
bridge. He’d polished off a plateful of a pasty that tasted like a raspberry tart but wasn’t when Lawrona called, “We’ll be within range in four hours, Captain.” The first officer sat at the Tactics station vacated by Kiroda. “No change in enemy status.”

“Engagement point?” Detrelna eyed the three Scotar ships’ position, shown relative to
Implacable’s
on the big board.

“Midpoint between the asteroid belt and the fourth planet.” Lawrona turned to McShane. “Did you know that asteroid belt was once a planet, intentionally destroyed?”

Bob started. “How can you tell?”

“Radiation traces common to the whole belt. Someone dropped a planetbuster on it a few million years ago. Planetbusters leave a distinct signature.”

“Stand by for hyperspace,” the captain ordered. Turning away from the screen, he met his men’s startled looks.

“I thought we were going to fight,” said Lawrona after an instant’s hesitation.

“We are. But not stupidly. We’re no match for three heavy cruisers.” He smiled at their confusion. “But our drive’s Imperial and allows for short, very precise jumps—pity it doesn’t allow for the long ones as it’s supposed to. So, we’re going to drop right into that task force.”

“Sir, the drive has never been tested to those tolerances,” protested Natrol. He took a step away from his station. “Anything could go wrong.”

“Archives assures us that the Imperials ran their drives to such close tolerances.”

“Five thousand years ago.”

“Bah! You just overhauled that equipment yourself, Commander. You’re the best engineer in the Confederation, Natrol. That drive will perform as specified, I have no doubt.” Detrelna waved down any further protests. “I’m touched by your respect for my command ability,” he said gravely. “Now shall we stand by for hyperspace?”

They’d jumped to it, Lawrona running figures and laying in coordinates, the rest busying themselves at their stations. An alert klaxon hooted.

“Cycling to jump, Captain” The first officer’s tone was one of quiet efficiency.

“Quite a little democracy you have here, Captain,” Bob observed amid the bustle.

“We’ve been an independent rabble for a long time, Professor.” Detrelna smiled crookedly, half-turning toward the Terran. “A trait happily not undone by the present emergency. There are some”—his face clouded—“who’d like to see a return to the grand ways of the Imperium. The glory of battle, the joy of obedience, the stifling of initiative—and perhaps if this war continues much longer, they’ll have their way. But not on my ship.”

“The captain’s not in favor of restoring the Emperor.” Natrol grinned.

“So I gathered,” said Bob. “Is there a candidate?”

“There’s an Heir Apparent—a kindly old man who potters about in his gardens,” said Lawrona. “Jaquel’s generally tolerant of the old aristocracy, despite a family history of blowing us up now and then.”

“We Shatarians are republicans, but accepting ones, My Lord Margrave,” said Detrelna, checking the tacscan.

“How long is the jump?” asked McShane, vowing to later raise the fascinating subject of Kronarin history and politics. He thanked whatever gods had blessed him with a galactic empire to study.

“Ten nanoseconds,” said Lawrona.

“Please tell our guest what an error of a picosecond would do,” Detrelna said. “I want him to appreciate my daring.”

Lawrona looked up from his station, swiveling to meet McShane’s gaze. “One picosecond short will cause us to blow up, far from our target. One picosecond over and we land inside the sixth planet.”

“An event that wouldn’t do us or the planet much good,” Detrelna noted.

Lawrona glanced back at his console. “One minute to jump.”

“Set all weapons systems to automatic, Mr. Nidreyna,” the captain ordered the Weapons Officer, “and tie them into Tactics.”

“All systems tied in, sir,” the young ensign reported.

“Should I strap in, or what?” Bob asked, hands searching his chair for belt or harness. There wasn’t any.

“Don’t worry.” The first officer leaned back in his chair, eyes on the screen. “It will be over before our minds can comprehend—one way or the other.”

“Thirty seconds.”

“If we’re very lucky,” the captain said to no one in particular, “their shields will be down, so far from Terra. We’ll emerge from nowhere and blow them away.”

“Fifteen seconds.”

“Of course,” he mused, “if not . . .”

“Ten seconds.”

“Their shields will be up . . .”

“Five seconds.”

“And we die.”

“Jump!”

McShane thought his stomach flopped, but later wrote it off to imagination. There seemed to be no transition. One instant they were alone in space, the next the screen blazed with light as alarms sounded.

“All targets destroyed!” The usually reserved Lawrona leaped up, pounding his smirking captain on the back.
Implacable
reverberated to jubilant whoops and the screech of alarms touched off in celebration.

Good-naturedly enduring the tumult for a moment, Detrelna finally held up his hands. “All right, everyone! Stations, please. We were lucky,” he said as the din subsided. “But our mission’s far from accomplished. We have to return to Terra and our people.”