The Trojan Horse (39 page)

“I have ordered the military to advance into Kansas and place the state under martial law,” McGreevy added.  “They will punish anyone who dares resist...”

Toby wondered if she believed that it would actually happen.  He doubted that what remained of the military would be willing or capable of invading Kansas, or any other state for that matter.  McGreevy simply didn't control enough to even
threaten
the state, at least not without the aliens backing her up.  He studied her carefully, wondering if she’d finally tipped over into madness.  How long would it be before she ordered him killed, merely for having served the previous President?

“They tried to kill me,” McGreevy said.  “They tried to assassinate their President.  Can you imagine that?  How fallen must a man be before he tries to assassinate the President?”

Toby shrugged.  McGreevy’s White House was surrounded by armed guards and the surrounding areas of Washington had been evacuated, the population moved to detention camps just to ensure that McGreevy was safe.  He allowed himself a slight smirk at the thought of all those lobbyists serving time in a camp, before shivering at her tone.  She was definitely heading into madness, and then...the President could do less to make things better than most people believed, but it was easy to make things worse.

“Your safety must be our first priority,” Toby said.  He spoke in a smooth voice, one he privately considered his ass-kissing voice.  The
real
President wouldn't have been fooled, but McGreevy accepted it as her due.  Besides, without her, Toby had no position in Washington.  She would believe that he would be loyal, if only because he had nowhere else to go.  “The White House is no longer safe.”

McGreevy looked up, but she didn't bother to dispute his claim.  “The attacks launched over the past week by the terrorists have all had one thing in common,” Toby continued.  “They have all been mounted against
humans
, not the aliens.  The troops deployed by the Galactic Federation” – he had no idea if McGreevy still believed in the Federation – “have not been attacked.  Anywhere guarded by their men has been left utterly untouched.  You would be safest on one of the bases they guard, at least until the situation is back under control.”

“True,” McGreevy agreed.  “But I don’t want to give the impression that I am running away from the terrorists.”

Toby was mildly surprised.  He’d expected her to leap at the offer.  “We don’t want them to think that they have you buttoned into the White House,” he pointed out.  “How about a state visit to Andrews Air Force Base?  Once there, you could board Air Force One and remain aloft until the country was secure...”

Air Force One – or at least one of the several aircraft decked out as Air Force One – had been brought down by the aliens, but McGreevy knew that she was worth more to them alive.  Or so she hoped, Toby suspected.  How far had she gone into madness?  There was no way to know. 

“An excellent idea,” McGreevy agreed, finally.  “I shall depart once I have seen the Cabinet.”

“It will take several hours to set up the security needed for your safety,” Toby pointed out.  “I suggest that you go tomorrow, once everything is in place.”

“See to it,” McGreevy ordered.

Toby left the Oval Office, endured the search and headed down to his own office.  If everything went according to plan, the resistance would have their shot at the aliens – and McGreevy as well.  And if the aliens had managed to crack the codes the resistance was using, or if they’d managed to get a bug into one of the resistance bases, they were doomed.

He shivered.  They were staking everything on one throw of the dice.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Washington DC

USA, Day 73

Washington was dark.

Mathew Bracken shivered as the SEALs made their way towards the collaborator base.  Not out of the cold, but out of the sense that his country’s capital city – the shining city on a hill – had become a nightmarish parody of itself.  Soldiers – not real soldiers, but collaborators – stood on every corner, watching for any signs of trouble.  Most of the population had fled during the attacks on the city, or had found themselves herded into detention camps.  The SEALs had already stumbled over evidence that the foreign soldiers had been enjoying the chance to rape a handful of American women, leaving them more determined than ever to win the war and extract revenge. 

The enemy soldiers, no matter how brutal and unpleasant they were, hadn’t been trained very well.  Mathew and his men slipped past them easily enough, using US-designed night vision goggles to navigate without lights.  Some of the enemy soldiers had even set up giant spotlights, ruining their own night vision for no real benefit.  All they’d done was ensure that the SEALs knew where to avoid.  Getting into the city had been easy enough, but then that had definitely been the easy part.  The next task would be much harder.

He held up a hand and stopped, watching for signs of enemy guards.  Their base was directly ahead of him, a warehouse complex that had been emptied of food and turned into makeshift barracks for the pod people.  Mathew was surprised they hadn't taken over the Marine Barracks that normally provided additional security for the White House, but the Marines had probably taken the opportunity to thoroughly wreck the place before deserting, perhaps leaving a handful of IEDs in the building to make life interesting for the enemy.  Mathew hoped that none of them had been turned into pod people, or reluctant collaborators.  They were going to kill enough good men in the next few hours, even without counting the collaborators.  Pod people didn't have any choice.  Part of him felt guilty, but he knew what was at stake. 

The SEALs spent thirty minutes examining the complex before preparing their assault.  It was ringed by a fence that wouldn't deter anyone with SF training, but the presence of armed guards willing to shoot meant that they couldn't simply cut their way through the fence.  Instead, Mathew removed his mask and led the SEALs directly towards the gate, where two armed guards swung around to point their weapons in his direction.  He kept walking forward anyway, hoping that the reports had been right and pod people really didn’t deal well with surprise.  If they opened fire, he might well be cut down before he knew what had hit him.

“My men and I have orders to bed down here for the night,” he said.  “Here are our papers.”

It was a believable story, at least.  A number of SF soldiers
had
been captured by the Snakes and turned into pod people, but they hadn't been a great success.  The qualities that made a great SF soldier were ruined by the brainwashing process, leaving the former soldiers stumbling around like puppets whose strings had been cut.  Some of them regained some of their former skills in time, but they were never quite up to fieldwork.  They’d been killed fairly easily, if with some regret, by the resistance.

He glanced around at the gatehouse while the guard fumbled with his papers.  There were two guards out front and a third in the gatehouse.  That one would pose a problem, Mathew knew, making silent gestures with his hand that ordered one of his men to get into position.  They didn't dare risk allowing anyone to raise the alarm.  The aliens had taken over patrol duties in part of Washington and a firefight with the Snakes would scupper the whole plan.  At least there weren’t enough of the scaly bastards to guard everywhere...

“Your papers appear to be in order,” the guard said.  His voice sounded emotional, so he probably wasn't a pod person.  Mathew smiled inwardly.  He would enjoy killing the collaborator.  “However, we don’t have room...”

Mathew sprang forward, drawing the knife from his sleeve in one smooth motion.  The guard had no time to react before Mathew had clamped one hand over his mouth and slashed his throat neatly with the combat knife.  His victim stumbled to the ground, falling onto his knees as the life ebbed from his body.  It was almost eerily soundless, but Mathew knew that they were committed now.  The other two guards had been taken with the same mixture of stealth and speed.  Now all they had to do was take out the remainder of the pod people.

The intelligence report they’d received had stated that two companies of enemy fighters – collaborators and pod people – were based in the warehouse complex.  That gave the enemy roughly two hundred men, not counting supporting staff.  Mathew allowed himself a breath and then led his SEALs around to the warehouses.  They hadn't been designed to serve as barracks; a quick glance inside confirmed that the pod people had done nothing more than spread out blankets on the cold floor and lie down to sleep.  Mathew had slept in worse places, but he was mildly surprised that the pod people didn't rate better accommodation.  Their masters considered them expendable, after all.  They wouldn't complain – and they could be easily replaced.

He reached into his belt and produced the four grenades.  They’d been designed by the CIA and developed under a black project fund that had never been made public.  Each grenade carried a compressed mix of nerve gas that would rapidly kill anyone who hadn't been injected with the antidote before being gassed.  They’d been used against terrorist complexes in the past, slaughtering the enemy with brutal efficiency, but the public would have objected if they’d known American forces were using nerve gas.  Gas still had the power to scare people, just like nukes and enhanced radiation devices.  He pulled the pin on the grenades and threw them into the warehouse, knowing that the gas would spread rapidly.  A moment later, he saw the sleeping bodies start to convulse as the invisible gas struck their bare skin and killed them.  None of the pod people managed to do more than stumble to their feet before the gas overwhelmed them.  It would be gone a long time before anyone wondered what had happened to the barracks.

Refusing to take it for granted, Mathew led his SEALs in a quick circuit of the complex.  They found a pair of soldiers who had clearly been trying to sneak out for something, both caught by the gas before they could get out or back to their blankets.  Mathew winced at the expressions on their faces and dragged them both back into the warehouse.  Two SEALs had already started stripping down the bodies, removing weapons, armour and clothing.  Everything was in order, thankfully.  The first phase of the plan had been completed.  The second phase was about to begin. 

***

Jason shivered, and not just from the cold.  He’d helped arrange for the defector to escape from the Snakes, but that was different.  This time, he was putting his own neck on the line – and if the aliens suspected him, he was dead.  Only his position as a senior collaborator entitled him to a ration of gas and a car, yet that hadn’t stopped two roadblocks from stopping him and demanding explanations.  Luckily, they’d both been composed of pod people, who accepted alien-cleared authorisations without question.  He’d parked the car outside what remained of the ring of steel that had once surrounded Washington, before the resistance had started to smash it.  It hadn't occurred to him until it had been too late that someone who didn't know that he was working for the resistance might see the car, assume he was a collaborator, and open fire.  The car wouldn't stand up to bullets...

“Evening, son.”

Jason almost wet himself.  Someone was standing right beside the car, yet he hadn't seen or heard him coming.  Panic bubbled up in his mind, before he remembered that Sanderson had promised that someone would be there to meet him.  The older man reminded him of Sanderson, somehow; they had the same chin and eyes.  His father, perhaps, or an elder brother.  There was no way to know for sure.

“Evening,” Jason said.  His voice stuttered.  “I...who are you?”

The newcomer smiled.  “The black eagle is sitting on the red flowerpot,” he said, cheerfully.  Jason relaxed.  That was the code phase he’d been told his contact would use.  “Do you have the documents?”

Jason nodded.  “Most of them,” he said.  “I got everything Sanderson asked for...”

“No names,” the newcomer snapped.  “Not now and not ever.”

Jason flushed.  “I got everything he wanted,” he said, “but I couldn't get weapons permits for others without blowing my cover.  I looked around to see what else I could find...”

“Don’t worry about it,” the newcomer assured him.  Jason passed him a folder of documents, which he scanned quickly.  “Everything looks to be in order, wouldn't you say?”

“The documents were issued yesterday,” Jason said.  “They should be good for another few days at least.  I inserted them into the computer databases as your friend ordered, so they should pass muster...”

“Let’s hope so,” the newcomer said.  “Question; do you wish to accompany us or go to a safe house until everything is over?”

Jason hesitated.  “I can't go back, can I?”

“Probably not,” the newcomer confirmed.  “If it all goes to hell, they’ll use the documents to track you down and then turn you into a brainwashed slave.”

“I’ll go to a safe house,” Jason said.  It wasn't particularly heroic, but he’d never set out to be a hero.  Besides, what use would he be to the resistance fighters?  “Good luck.”

“Thank you,” the newcomer said.  “And well done.”

***

The Colonel watched as one of the resistance fighters led the young man off on a long hike.  It was three miles to the safe house – not really a problem for a trained soldier, but one that might be harrowing for someone who hadn't had anything like enough exercise.  But it would do the young man good and besides, they didn't dare risk driving without permits.  He turned and looked towards the four trucks that had been stashed away since the aliens had come into the open, waiting for the day of reckoning.

“All right,” he ordered.  “Mount up.”

He climbed into the cab of the first truck and muttered a command.  The truck burst into life and started heading down the road, back into Washington.  Ahead of them, assuming that the aliens hadn't changed their deployments again, was a roadblock manned by pod people.  The aliens themselves seemed content to use their troops as a mobile reserve, rather than pin them down to guard roadblocks and mount random patrols.  The Colonel could understand their feelings.  Their manpower was far from unlimited, while they had vast numbers of pod people to throw at the resistance.  The pod people were expendable.  On the other hand, NATO had learned in Afghanistan that too few troops meant that counter-insurgency was impossible.  The aliens might well lose control altogether, even if his plan failed.  And then what would they do?

The Colonel shivered, thinking about the two crates that had been loaded into the back of the second vehicle.  One contained the alien defector, who had volunteered to assist the human race in breaking its new shackles.  The Colonel hated the thought of being dependent upon one of the Snakes, but there was no other choice.  A shuttlecraft built for the Snakes would be very difficult for a human to pilot, even if it was a simple as driving a car.  And besides, no human had any experience flying Snake shuttles.  They’d been careful to limit the number of humans who had even been allowed to
fly
in their craft.  The vast numbers of African troops who were being brought to America were flying in jumbo jets and smaller human-built aircraft.

They don’t have much of a logistics chain
, the Colonel thought, coldly. 
We should have seen it from the start
.

But hindsight was remarkably clear.  Any fool could stand up and say that they would have done a better job than the poor sap on the ground at the time.  Hindsight always illustrated mistakes that would have been far from obvious to the people on the ground, at the time.  The Colonel, who was something of a student of history, knew that many decisions that seemed utterly absurd – the decision to drive on Stalingrad, the decision to attack Midway, the decision not to march on Richmond – had made perfect sense to the people on the ground, at the time.  It was only hindsight that illustrated the decisions for the mistakes they were.

The Colonel nodded to himself, remembering the second crate.  If it all went completely to hell, there was one last resort.  But it could only be used once.  The Colonel had no illusions.  Whatever the outcome, it was almost certainly a suicide mission.  It was why he had insisted on commanding it personally.  Win or lose, they would go down fighting.