19

Rickert felt like shit.

“You look like shit,” Ben said as he walked into the room.

He waved Ben and his team to their seats in the briefing room with a grunt. Rickert’s stomach was on fire, a grumpy volcano of corrosive acid sputtering and belching up his throat. Empty bottles of Tums and Pepto filled a trashcan near his feet. He wasn’t sure if the ulcers were due to the stress, the fact that he was basically getting all of his calories now from vending machines, or an alien parasite the mrill had dropped during their last attack. If we win the war but they infect us with some kind of intergalactic diarrhea, man, that would be a bummer, he thought. He shook his head. Focus.

“The long-range sensors picked it up,” he said, trying to ignore the knot in his gut. “So far, nothing from the close-range scanners, so we think we have 24 hours, maybe less, before they pop into our solar system. At that point, we’re looking at about an hour or so until contact, assuming they cut in the same place they did last time. No guarantees, though.”

“The interceptors are ready,” Nick said. “We just checked ’em out, and they’re ready to fly. So are we.”

“I’m not worried about that,” Rickert said. “The real issue is the defensive satellites. We’ve gotten most of the replacements into orbit. We’re still short a few satellites, and not all of the ground-based antiaircraft systems are operational. If any of the mrill get past you guys and the orbital defenses, a lot of our cities are as exposed as Lady Godiva.”

“What, sir?” Eddie asked.

“The lost art of the classical education,” Rickert said. “I need some more Tums.”

“They won’t get past us,” Nick said. “We’ve got this. Is the injection chamber ready to crank out some new recruits?”

A pained look drifted over Rickert’s face and refused to move along.

“No,” he said at last. “Another 36 hours and maybe the answer would be yes. I think we’re close to getting everyone to sign off. Going as fast as they can. The equipment is so complex, and we’re designing this one from scratch to avoid . . . a repeat of last time. And this is our design. Not the brin’s. No blueprint for this.”

Rickert could tell they were all concerned and relieved; concerned that they wouldn’t have backup and relieved they wouldn’t have to worry about seeing another volunteer get torn apart in the injection process. Not just yet, anyway.

Ben shifted in his seat.

“Something on your mind, sailor?” Rickert asked.

“How many ships did the sensors pick up? Any indication of what’s coming our way?”

Rickert shuffled through some papers on the table. He rubbed his stomach.

“Nothing definitive. Analysts at the National Reconnaissance Office say the cluster looks to be much bigger than the first attack. Whether that means a couple hundred small ships or a dozen huge ones, they aren’t sure. Probably a mix of both. And there could be more coming behind, but they apparently detected our scanners and took them out, so we don’t know for sure. And given that they know we have long-range scanners, they know we’ll be ready.”

“And we know that they know that we know, which means they know we know they know we know, which means . . .”

“Jesus, Eddie, can you shut the fuck up for three seconds?” Nick said. They both laughed.

Ben glanced at Rickert, obviously curious if the general would blow up at the seemingly pointless and time-wasting banter. Despite his stress and lack of battlefield experience, Rickert knew to let this moment play out a bit. It was Combat Psych 101; that even the fiercest warriors had to find a way to release tension before battle. Those who tried to bite down and swallow it generally had a much more difficult time operating under the stressors of combat. Tighten a string and it could play a hell of a tune, but pull too hard and it would inevitably snap.

“We’re moving your interceptors to the launch pad here in Florida. Worked well enough last time. We’ve built redundant mission control centers in Houston, Alaska, and Australia. It’s possible the mrill will aim for our command and control capabilities, so we’ve dispersed as much of it as possible.”

“What about evacuating the cities?” Ben asked.

“It’s under way, but we just don’t have anywhere to send everyone,” Rickert replied, shaking his head. “With a hurricane or earthquake, you can relocate a small region temporarily. This . . . I don’t know. We’ve got temporary camps set up around a dozen major cities. Can’t hold everyone, and not everyone wants to go. Those that do evac, though, will be out of range of a defensive nuclear strike . . . should that prove necessary.”

Everyone in the room felt those words fall like a hammer. If the nanomachines were unleashed again, America would be forced to burn its own cities, just like the Russians had.

“What kind of warning are we giving people?” Nick asked.

“A calming one, hopefully,” Rickert said, meeting the eyes of everyone in the room. “The president is making an address”—he checked his watch—“uh, 10 minutes ago. Urging people in the big cities to follow evacuation procedures. If they want to remain with their homes, stockpile as much food and water as possible. Truth is, any city that gets hit probably gets wiped out. Can’t say that, though.”

“Why not?” Eddie said. “Tell people what they’re up against. Let ’em make up their own minds.”

“The global economy is already in shambles,” Rickert shot back, a hint of anger creeping into his voice. “We’re probably not too far from some kind of worldwide food crisis. People have enough to deal with.”

The government had essentially nationalized food and energy production and distribution in the US. No one had wanted to do that, but the commodities and shipping industries had been paralyzed after the attacks on Russian and China. Everyone was in a defensive crouch. The US Army Corps of Engineers was now driving or accompanying trucks and trains full of corn and wheat and oil all over the country to try and keep everyone from starving. The US, with its massive farmlands, oil reserves, and highways and railroads, could be self-sufficient for a while. Other countries that relied heavily on imports were in much worse shape. You put the entire world on a war footing against an alien invasion, and your GDP goes all to hell.

Nick began to protest, but Rickert cut him off.

“My team actually made these predictions back before this all started. We gamed this thing out a hundred times. Not that anyone bothered to act on anything we suggested—even stuff like hardening our electric grid, which would have helped against terrorist attacks. Everyone up the chain who even knew my team existed thought we were a joke. You think anyone wanted to requisition $6 billion to prepare evac plans in case of extraterrestrial assault?”

The anger drained from Rickert. He was too tired for a longer burn.

“And so now we’re exactly where we thought we would be. Now we have all the money in the world, but no time to spend it. So, a little more panic is the last thing we need right now. As it is, we’ve got revolutions and civil wars popping up in Eastern Europe, the Philippines, Pakistan, India, and South Africa. And that’s only the worst of it. There have been protests pretty much everywhere, from Los Angeles to Lagos.”

“Protesting what, exactly?” Eddie said.

“Anything. Everything,” Rickert said, waving his hands around like a helicopter. “It’s fear and paranoia mostly. But it’s hard to reason with a conspiracy nut when the ‘reasonable’ explanation is an alien invasion and human super soldiers augmented with nanotechnology and the deliberate nuclear destruction of a major city. We went through the looking glass and then blew it up.”

Ben glanced at Nick and Eddie. They all shared the same quick thought. Even if they won the coming battle, the upheaval and destruction on Earth would be devastating. And if they lost, it would be complete.

“Let’s go check the interceptors,” Ben said. “I want to be ready to lift off at a moment’s notice. We can’t be late for this dance.”