12

HALLEY VI RESEARCH STATION

ANTARCTICA

LAT. 75°35'S, LONG. 26°39'W

Will Mendenhall nudged Jack awake as the LC-130 Hercules made a wide turn to lose altitude. Collins awoke suddenly, feeling as if his entire body was still back at Christchurch, New Zealand, where they had hurriedly exchanged aircraft from the relative comfort of the C-5A Galaxy to the cramped confines of the ski-equipped Hercules. Jack looked at Will as if he didn’t know who he was, then slowly he came awake. He looked from the captain to a slumbering Henri Farbeaux, who was stretched out across two of the foldable airliner seats just aft of the cockpit.

“I hate to tell you this, but the base they’ve sent us to isn’t much of a going concern.” Will stepped back so Collins could sit up and look out of the small window.

To Jack it seemed as if the Air Force pilot was rubbing it in a little as the Hercules concluded its hard bank to the right so they could get a good look at the small hellhole they had been sent to. The research base was that in name only, as it appeared to be nothing more than eight plastic construction-style buildings that were raised on thin stilts. A large British flag flew and was rapidly waving in the brisk winds of the area.

“Oh, shit,” Jack mumbled as he took in the atmospheric research complex.

“My exact description, General,” Will said as he shook Farbeaux awake.

The Hercules was now at a thousand feet of altitude as the pilot came on over the intercom. “Gentlemen, please fasten your seat belts for landing. They haven’t had time to scrape the runway since the last storm so it may be rather rough. Temperature outside is a balmy minus-forty-seven degrees Celsius—that’s below zero. Welcome to Halley Station.” The colonel flying the aircraft hesitated just a second before clicking off his mic. The three officers in the belly of the Hercules heard laughter just before it became silent.

“I think that pilot is what you Americans would call an asshole,” Farbeaux said as he strapped in and then looked out of the window.

The Hercules came down hard with her front skis banging against the ice and snow. The Herky-Bird on skis reversed the pitch of her four powerful propellers and then her flaps flew high in the air as the pilot gave it everything the old bird had to slow her down without having to hit the brakes. The nose skidded right and then left and the pilot adjusted through the rear stabilizer to stop the swaying motion of the Hercules.

Jack, Will, and Henri felt their stomachs as they ejected somewhere near the front of the landing strip. The Hercules bumped, rose into the air momentarily, and then came down again as she caught the nose-on winds. Then she finally settled to the ice and slid to a stop.

“Crazy bastards,” Jack mumbled. The whine of the LC-130’s turbofans slowed in pitch as the aircraft taxied toward the nearest buildings. Collins saw several men in white snow gear awaiting their arrival. He also saw three Black Hawks with their rotors already turning. They were flanked by two British Gazelle Attack choppers that also were warmed and ready to fly.

“I guess we’re not done flying yet,” Henri said as he stood and stretched his arms.

They started gathering their gear, and heard more laughter from the cockpit as the snow-crazed pilots had their fun at their passengers’ expense.

*   *   *

A man wearing white arctic gear with his face covered in a ski mask approached the men as they exited the Hercules into the breath-freezing environment of Antarctica. The man’s goggles covered his eyes and Jack, through his sunglasses, saw the British Union Jack on the stark white parka.

“General Collins?” the man asked as the three freezing visitors hit the bottom of the loading ramp. Farbeaux cursed as the wind struck him and nearly froze his feet to the cold aluminum.

“I’m Collins,” Jack said. The man before him held out a white-gloved hand.

“I am Colonel Francis Jackson Keating, of Her Majesty’s Special Air Service. Welcome to Halley Research Station, sir.”

“Wonderful spot you’ve chosen in which to vacation, Colonel.” Jack quickly looked away from the offered salute of the well-trained soldier from the SAS. “If you don’t mind, Colonel, it’s too damn cold out here to stand on ceremony; shall we get to where we’re going before my ass freezes off?” He ignored the military gesture of respect from the Englishman, as Jack was in no mood.

The colonel lowered his hand, then gestured to the first Black Hawk.

“Yes, sir.” The colonel reached into his parka and pulled out several flimsies and handed them to Jack. “These flash messages were sent over about an hour ago from the Alamo, sir.” Collins took the message traffic and saw that they were from Lord Durnsford and countersigned by General Caulfield. “Now, if you would, General.” Keating gestured to the waiting Black Hawk. “Right this way.” He sprinted toward the warming helicopter along with his four men.

Jack and the others were relieved of their gear as they climbed into the relative warmth of the rear compartment of the first Black Hawk.

*   *   *

Once airborne, Collins placed a headset on underneath his cold-weather parka as the Black Hawk, piloted by men from the British Expeditionary Force, started a trek on a southerly heading, with the other Black Hawk and Gazelle attack helicopters flanking it. Jack gestured for Will and Henri to also don their headphones, then quickly studied the messages from the strange little man from MI6.

“News from the real world?” Will asked as he settled into the cold, hard seat.

Jack was silent as he read the communiqués from Durnsford. He looked at both men with worry etched on his hard features.

“They hit the Johnson Space Center hard. Downtown Houston was spared for the most part, with most of the damage coming from our own downed aircraft and friendly fire from the Center. Thirty-two fighters, both Navy and Air Force, were lost, plus the bulk of the third Cavalry Regiment. It’s basically ceased to exist.”

Mendenhall looked out of the side window at the featureless expanse of Antarctica as it sped by below. He turned and faced the general.

“Any word on … any word on Mr. Everett?” he finally asked.

Jack didn’t answer as he moved to the next message. “The Chinese are preparing to attack the enemy that occupies Beijing with everything they have short of nuclear weapons. The Paks are mounting an offensive force along the Indian border in preparation of attacking the landings there. They claim the Indian government is wasting time by not using every weapon at their disposal for eliminating the threat to the entire region.”

Jack shook his head and then saw Henri with his “I told you so” look as he turned away. Like Mendenhall, he watched the passing white of the land beneath them.

Collins read the last signal from Durnsford, then closed his eyes as he passed the message to Will. Jack leaned back as he realized that things were not going according to the plans of Lee, Matchstick, Compton, or their newest spook, Lord Durnsford. He didn’t say anything when Mendenhall read the operational order aloud.

“‘From General Caulfield, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff to all foreign commands. Cease offensive operations directed at the enemy. Return to your home bases of operations immediately. Defensive strikes against the enemy are only to be conducted for the defense of your commands. 7th Fleet operations are to cease and return to Hawaiian home waters. This order has been deemed necessary at this time. NATO command is hereby ordered to exit European theater of operation and return the 4th Infantry Division to Fort Carson, Colorado, immediately. All Persian Gulf commands will hold station and current defensive posture until further evaluation on enemy strategy has been investigated.—signed, Caulfield.’”

Henri finally sat up, slowly removed the message from Will’s hand, and read it himself. He handed it back, shaking his head.

“I think you are beginning to see why I have made the choices that I have in regard to government service, Captain.”

Will finally nodded his head, agreeing that Henri more than likely was right.

“What about this operation we are on, General? I mean, do you think an official recall will be ordered?”

“It doesn’t matter, Will, you heard what Durnsford said back at Schofield: stay the course. And until Doc Compton or General Caulfield tells us differently, that’s just exactly what we’ll do.”

Farbeaux smiled and shook his head in wonder.

“Tell me something, General Collins. What will happen when you discover this Overlord plan is nothing but what you Americans call a pipe dream, as much as these new orders for separation of defensive moves against the aliens? And with the destruction of your space facilities, that scenario seems to be the way this is headed.”

“I don’t have an answer for you, Colonel, as I’m sure the men that planned this don’t either. We just have to trust Matchstick and his judgment.”

“Well, either way one thing is for sure,” Henri said as he leaned back in his seat. “Just as soon as the Pakistanis and the Indians start launching nuclear weapons at everything in sight, we won’t have to worry too long about the shortcomings of your Operation Overlord.”

Jack didn’t respond as he knew the Frenchman was dead on in his judgment.

“General,” came the English-accented voice of the pilot, “we’re approaching Camp Alamo, sir. You can view it out of the left-side window.”

Will moved over to Collins’s side of the Black Hawk; so did Henri. Below was the site where the salvation of the entire world was being planned.

“Correct me if my American history is lacking, gentlemen, but was not the Alamo a defeat, a rather nasty one?” Farbeaux began to laugh, then turned and flopped back into his seat. The despair was showing the only way the Frenchman knew how to vent it—in black humor.

“Oh, I feel sick,” Will said as he too sat back down with a long sigh.

Jack just closed his eyes against the sight that greeted them. The hopes he had felt, the trust in the powers that be, and the dreams of life someday returning to normal were fast evaporating as he closed his eyes against the sight from below. He heard the mocking laughter of Farbeaux over the sound of the twin turbines of the Black Hawk as the doubts about the abilities of his director, Niles Compton, and of a small green man, and a once brilliant one in Garrison Lee, entered his thoughts for the first time.

Camp Alamo was the last hope of the human race. It was five small huts and a helicopter landing pad. One guard stood outside one of the plastic-coated environmental enclosures and waited for the commanding general of all defensive forces in Antarctica to arrive and take charge.

Collins opened his eyes and examined the spot for Earth’s last defense, if it came to that. First the destruction of the Johnson Space Center and the possible loss of his friend, Carl Everett, and now this.

Camp Alamo existed to house the staff and military personnel of Operation Overlord, but looked deserted with the exception of the lone man waiting outside who shooed away two penguins that were playing at his feet.

Hope was fast fading from the mind of the ever-trusting Jack Collins.

CHATO’S CRAWL, ARIZONA

The Cactus Bar and Grill had slowly slid downhill since the establishment had been sold by its former owner, Julie Dawes, after she and her son Bill had moved to California, where Billy was attending college at San Diego State. Gus Tilly and Matchstick had made sure the young single mother and her son would never want for anything again. She had left the small town of Chato’s Crawl after the incident with the saucers and the firefight in the desert in 2006. When Gus died Billy would inherit not only Gus’s entire fortune reaped from the Lost Dutchman Mine, discovered accidentally during the same incident, but also the mine itself and the guardianship of one Mahjtic Tilly.

Hiram Vickers entered the now dingy bar, removed his sunglasses, and squinted into the dust-infused lighting. He saw the man behind the bar as he was cleaning glasses. The only other patron was a slim man standing at the old-fashioned jukebox in the corner. Actually, the music machine seemed to be keeping the old-timer from falling over, more than providing music. He walked up to the bar.

“So this is the famous Cactus Grill,” he said as he looked around. The front glass was cracked and the bar had seen far better days. He smelled at least fifty years of burnt hamburgers and stale beer clinging to every inch of the rotted wood and stained linoleum. “Not much of a going concern, is it?”

The heavyset man looked up, then just as fast ignored the remark and returned to rinsing his glasses.

“I mean, this place being so famous and all. The stories I’ve heard said this was a joint that saw a lot of action in the dust-up of 2006.”

“I wouldn’t know about that, mister, I bought the place from an ad in the paper. What happened before me ain’t my concern and none of my business. Now, you want a beer, or is this just a question and answer session?” He placed his last glass on a towel to drain and then looked at the thin man with the red hair. The bartender was figuring the fella for a pansy type out of Phoenix.

“Well, partly a question and answer session, I guess, but I will have a whiskey sour in the prelude to our conversation.”

The bartender looked at him, reached for a glass, poured him a flat beer from the tap, and pushed it toward him.

“There you go, one whiskey sour. Anything else?”

Vickers looked at the glass of beer that resembled urine, then smiled but didn’t reach for the offering. But he did reach into his pocket and pulled out a hundred-dollar bill and place it by the dirty glass.

“An old man, Tilly. Gus Tilly lives hereabouts?”

The man eyed the bill before him from the man he suspected was mocking his country accent, but didn’t reach for it. Instead he grabbed a bottle hidden under the bar and then opened a refrigerator and brought out a plastic container. His hands disappeared below the counter and Vickers heard the tingling of ice being placed in a glass. Then his hand reappeared with a fresh glass of whiskey sour that he pushed toward the stranger. He took the hundred-dollar offering as he dragged his hand away. Vickers reached for the drink and took a sip. He set it down, then pointed at it and winked, and nodded his head one time.

“Haven’t seen Gus in a while—he usually stops in around the end of the month to pick up the things he orders and then leaves. But he’s been a no-show so far this month, and that makes him about ten days late.” The bartender placed the bill in his filthy shirt.

Vickers drank again and then stared at the man while he crunched ice in his mouth. The sound made the heavy man wince.

“Things. What kind of things would he order from you?” He continued to chew the ice without looking away or duplicating his earlier kind smile.

“About the only things you can get from a distributer out of Phoenix for a small bar. Couple’a jars of beef jerky, some pickled eggs—a lot of pickled eggs—and a case of frozen pizza rolls. The rest of his goods, I guess, are brought in from the Piggly Wiggly over in Apache Junction by the folks that watch over his place.”

“Folks?”

The man didn’t answer as he removed the stale beer and then drank it himself.

Vickers nodded his head in understanding at the bartender’s hesitation. He took another drink of the whiskey sour and then bit down on more ice. The burly man smiled as the redheaded visitor reached inside his pocket again. He brought up the silenced Glock and aimed it at the bartender’s chest. He crunched the ice again and then raised his thin red brows. The big man in the dirty shirt took a step back.

“He’s got several men staying with him out at his place. I think they just look after the old goat. That’s all I know. Since Gus has been gone, they come in a little more regular and knock a few back. Not the same guys, though, these fellas look like … well … they look older, not quite as tough as the regulars.”

With his left hand Hiram Vickers reached for the drink and then drained it, leaving the ice for last. He was satisfied that whatever body guards this asset had were no longer there, but had been replaced by other less formidable men.

“So, let’s sum it up. Gus Tilly is gone, the fellas that watch over his place aren’t the regular ones who have been there previously, and you supply them with—well, let’s face it, crap to eat. Is this all correct?”

“Yeah, but I don’t think the pickled eggs and pizza rolls are for him, because Gus once said the stuff makes him want to puke. So I’m guessin’ they’re for those men out there, or someone I never see.”

“Now, that adds up. Thank you for the drink and the answerin’,” he said, mocking the drawl of the bartender. He didn’t turn when the small bell sounded over the door and two men in black shirts and Windbreakers walked inside. The first through the door nodded his head once to the reflection of Hiram in the dirty glass behind the bar. Vickers placed the gun back into the waistband of his Dockers and then finished crunching the ice he had in his mouth, never looking away from the frightened man.

The second man through the door walked over to the phone line that ran in from outside, and ripped it out of the wall. He lifted the phone that was next to the damaged line, listened, and then hung up, satisfied that the old system wouldn’t work.

“There’s no cell phone service here, and now no phone either,” he said to Vickers, who was intent on watching the bartender’s eyes.

“Okay, I think we’re done here. By the way,” he said as he smiled, “these two men will be staying here with you.” He looked around the bar and grill. “To help out. It looks like you could use some assistance. We need to know when these new men from Tilly’s place show up, and we need you to point them out.” He smiled wider and then placed another hundred-dollar bill on the counter. “Sound good?”

The man just nodded once but didn’t reach for the bill.

Vickers winked at the man and then left the bar. The two men in black sat down and then without the same smile as Vickers displayed reached for a dirty and creased menu.

*   *   *

Hiram Vickers wasn’t pleased at the result of his interview. The two members of his Black Team had passed on the information that the rest of the town was deserted. The Texaco station was boarded up, and the hardware store had burned and, from the looks of it, had also fallen into the ground somehow. The ice cream parlor was likewise boarded and so were the rest of the small hovels that passed for houses in this godforsaken part of Arizona. Chato’s Crawl was a ghost town in the strictest sense of the word. He shook his head and walked toward the large Chevy Suburban, then climbed into the front seat.

“What’s the plan, Hiram?” the leader of the Black Team asked from the backseat, making Vickers’s first name sound like it was shit, only pronounced differently.

“The plan is we wait.” He turned his head and looked back at the brown-haired man behind him. “That’s what you’re good at, isn’t it, waiting?”

The man didn’t react to the question until he returned Vickers’s arrogant smile.

“Yes, that’s what we do, we’re patient, Hiram. Very patient.” The smile widened. “Until it’s time to stop being patient.”

Vickers turned back around and told the driver to park inside the garage at the Texaco station. He never realized it was the same location where Colonel Henri Farbeaux once waited with his men a long time before as they planned to enter the underground hell of the animal known as the Talkan—or as Matchstick had called it, the Destroyer.

“Well,” he said, “they’ll eventually show and Chato’s Crawl will be the place it all ends for this Matchstick Man.”

The dark blue Chevy drove straight to the station and vanished around the back, where the men in black would start their vigil and patiently wait for Hiram Vickers’s bargaining chip to come home.

BEIJING, CHINA

General Xiao Jung was a man who was most responsible for bringing their former leader to power. Since the incident at Camp David he had his plans for China’s commitment to Operation Overlord overruled by the new president, Dao Xatzin—a man who had been waiting to take power in the wake of the military’s bold move four years before when they ousted, rather forcibly, the man that stood in the way of China’s cooperation with the rest of the world. The power had not passed to Xatzin, but to the Western-leaning man who had died at Camp David. Now General Jung was at the mercy of the man who ordered China’s withdrawal from the agreements with the West.

As he watched from National People’s Park two miles from the city of Beijing, he knew that this improvised plan had a chance of failing spectacularly. Even with the secret communiqués from the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Maxwell Caulfield, advising the general on the intelligence that the new representative of President Xatzin had failed to pass on to the military. It was risky, but Jung thought if the attack could be coordinated correctly, they had maybe a 10 percent chance of saving Beijing.

In just the sixteen hours Jung had been observing, he had been fed intelligence from his forward units that over two and half million of China’s citizenry had been taken into the processing ship. As far as the air force could tell him the power-replenishing saucers had risen only once from Bohai Bay to regenerate the large saucer’s power shield. The plan would succeed or fail in that area alone. He must stop the processing craft from getting the needed power that prevented his military from regaining the capital. Thus far the new leader had been silent on the plan of attack, offering no guidance—as if he would not take the blame if the plan failed, but would gain the favor of the people if the general succeeded. Frankly thinking, Jung would rather have the politicos screaming at him for action rather than the silence coming from their hidden bunkers along the Yangtze River.

The roundup of Beijing’s citizens had deeply affected his army as they awaited the ground attack to commence. They had watched as screaming and pleading women and children were taken from their homes, streets, and other hiding places and dragged into the processing ship. The general’s mind screamed at him for action against this barbaric enemy that had shown no mercy for his people. The fate that awaited them once inside was one that any human being could not think about for very long before their spirits flagged in this desperate hour.

Jung placed his hands behind his back and looked out toward the sea. His navy was out there, waiting to spring their surprise on the ships hiding in the bay. The navy’s twenty attack submarines would be joined by the Liaoning, the first aircraft carrier in the People’s Liberation Army Navy. Its keel was originally laid down as the Admiral Kuznetsov–class multirole carrier Riga, for the Soviet navy. She had been purchased and refurbished and made China’s own by the People’s Republic shipyards.

The Liaoning waited twenty miles out to sea for any sign of the power-generation saucers that could escape the speedy and dangerous Type 093 Shang-class attack subs. Ten of these fast-attack boats, which looked amazingly like the older Los Angeles–class submarines of the U.S. Navy, would be assisted by five of the old Russian Akula-class boats and five of the Han-class subs as they would attempt to track down the three saucers before they could assist the larger processing craft in the heart of the city. The plan, code-named Operation Wrath, depended upon the navy to do their job and do it well. They were all expendable toward that goal, even General Jung himself.

As he turned and looked at the dark city before him, only the soft glow of the enemy shield cast any light on the dying capital. The surreal illumination was also a fear-inducing factor among the largest attacking force the People’s Republic had ever mounted. Over twenty thousand artillery pieces would be joined by an attack force of over five thousand Type 99A2 main battle tanks. These units would use their full complement of shells and special sabot rounds to weaken the shield and draw the energy-producing saucers from their hiding places. They would be assisted by a thousand long-range missiles fired from the five Shagshu-class missile cruisers a mile offshore. Add five thousand surface-to-surface missiles launched from hidden batteries in the outskirts of the city itself.

Jung looked at the forces poised inside the park and the surrounding suburbs of the capital. Over three million men would rush the shield if and when it went down. They would have orders not only to rescue as many of the citizenry as possible, but to avenge the millions that had already been butchered like cattle inside the cursed processing vehicle.

The general looked at his watch in the soft glow of the distant enemy shield. Two minutes until the air force started their attack runs. Bombers of the 10th People’s Air Wing would strike first with small battlefield nuclear bombs. One-megaton warheads code-named “The People’s Vengeance” would pummel the top of the shield in the hopes of draining the power of the enemy protection and craft and, with luck, maybe even destroy it. This plan was not the general’s but the commanders of the military advisory committee that sat safely beside the new leadership in their deep bunkers along the Yangtze.

“General, it is now 0230 hours. Shall I give the order to the orbiting bombers?” His aide also watched the quiet city two miles distant. He noticed the general had refused to wear the protective clothing provided to higher command officials. Jung would suffer the same fallout fate as his men. The aide silently and almost motionlessly laid his mask and plastic-lined protective gear aside, and waited on the man he and all the soldiers of his command respected beyond measure.

Jung just nodded his head as he faced away from Beijing.

The men could hear the engines of China’s latest miracle of aviation, the H-8 stealth bomber. The bat-winged craft was identical to the American B-2 and was just as deadly. The silence of the night was broken by two million men of the People’s Army taking cover as the loud warning sirens sounded from around the perimeter of the enemy shield.

A second warning sounded in a series of alternating blasts from the mobile communications vans that ringed the city. The general had to be pulled by his staff into the makeshift bunker near his command-and-control hut.

The dark skinned bombers streaked overhead from twenty thousand feet in altitude. Suddenly thick laser beams were projected onto the saucer from hidden places inside the smoldering debris outside Beijing. These laser-targeting guides were being cast by ten volunteers who had family inside the capital. Jung closed his eyes as he thought of the brave men who were sacrificing their lives.

The night became like day as the first one-megaton warhead detonated against the force field. Then three more struck the upper section of shielding. The scene became like an X-ray to those that braved the sight before them. The punishing winds tore through the city and the surrounding forces of the People’s Republic. The men inside the general’s sandbag-reinforced bunker felt the earth shake as three further detonations rocked the capital. Men all around Beijing fell when the impacts happened in rapid succession. The general heard screams of frightened men around him as he prayed to the unjust gods above that the enemy couldn’t withstand such an evil power as man’s nuclear arsenal.

The last of the nuclear smart bombs struck the direct center of the dome even before the heat had begun in earnest from the first three weapons. The cable of the shield cooked and melted but immediately started to regenerate before the heat started to dissipate. The two guarding saucers were immediately knocked down by the pressure wave that forced itself through the powerful shielding around the capital. The first hit the larger processing craft and then slammed into the surrounding buildings, while the second saucer was simultaneously smashed two miles distant from where it had been hovering. Then it impacted the shield, sliding down it like a bird caught in a net. It lay there smoking and melting. From the outside the men who braved a look saw the massive cables of the shield shake and vibrate and they momentarily thought that they would give fully. Instead, the blue glow increased, adding its own light to that of the nuclear detonations.

The night sky around Beijing looked as if the sun had exploded directly overhead. The noise was deafening as the explosive wave struck the surrounding troops. Armored vehicles rocked on their hardened springs and tanks bounced as if they were toys. Several thousand men were incinerated as they tried in vain to see the devastation and they vanished in a blinding wave of heat. The Grays were no better off. Spotters estimated that at least five or six thousand of the creatures had been caught in the open, along with several hundred of their walking automatons. At the same time it was reported that many hundreds of thousands of citizens were also killed from the 10,000° heat caused by the attack.

The general could not wait any longer. He rose from the plywood flooring of the bunker and raced outside, followed quickly by his entire staff. Jung threw up his arm as the heat wave continued to burst into the outskirts of Beijing. He turned his head and felt the hair on his head and arms crisp and fly away into the storm of wind and dirt.

Before the order was given, the three hundred JH-7 Flying Leopard fighter-bombers tore through the maelstrom of fire coming from the electronic shielding of the saucer. Without even the slightest estimation of the damage caused by the nuclear attack, the fighters released their loads of unguided bombs against the burning shield and city beneath. Strike after strike erupted on the smoldering upper dome. Ten thousand bombs fell from the night sky that was no longer dark. The attacking fighter-bombers were outlined by the glowing sky around them as the largest air assault in history continued.

The general raised his field glasses when he thought it was safe enough not to burn his pupils out from the amazing site before him. The city of Beijing was awash in a tremendous light that could never have been imagined and still the bombs fell from the sky.

“Get me intelligence from our forward spotters immediately. Is the shield holding?” he shouted as he tried in vain to penetrate the thick billowing smoke caused by the bomb impacts.

As a hard wind came in from the north, the answer was clear. The blue glow of the enemy protection was still alight with energy. The general saw the saucer that had slammed into the larger vehicle slowly rise from the rubble at its base and then start toward his waiting forces outside the capital. The large saucer was burning in several sections but was still there and still viable as it rocked and then settled once again. The streets had been sweeped clean of Grays, but also sadly many thousands of men, women, and children.

General Jung stilled himself against the failure of the attack and then lowered the glasses. The plan had to move forward through the disappointing failure.

“All commands, open fire!” he said angrily as he looked toward the target of Beijing.

In the next three seconds, twenty thousand artillery shells and five thousand sabot and high explosive tank rounds arched and streaked into the shield wall. It was as if a million fireflies struck the electronic dome at once and then kept alighting to the surface in an unyielding cacophony of sound and never-ending explosions. It was now a battle between the ancient gods of old as they struggled for supremacy.

The Chinese army was unleashing Earth’s version of hell against the invaders of their world.

BOHAI BAY, BEIJING

The three smaller saucers began the rescue of their processing ship by burrowing out of the sand and mud where they had lain undetected for three full days. They spun the bottom of the bay into a spiraling vortex of ocean life and water as they rose toward the surface. The Chinese navy finally had found the saucers’ hiding place and went on the attack.

Captain Zen Lee of the People’s Republic Submarine S-78, the Great Leader, was the first to confront the lead saucer as her sonar detected the movement through the deep-water port.

“Lock on and engage,” he calmly ordered. “Tubes one through six, full spread.”

The large submarine was based on the stolen design of the old Los Angeles–class boats built by the American General Dynamics Corporation. She shuddered as six YU-6 torpedoes, based on the design of the U.S.-built Mark-48s, sped from their tubes just aft of the sonar dome. The heavy-kill weapons sped to their maximum speed of fifty-two knots, catching the first saucer as it shed the mud of the bottom of the bay from its metallic skin. All six struck the craft at the midsection and then they detonated simultaneously, sending debris from the bottom through the thick environment to the surface where the impact explosion rocked the waves high above. The column of seawater shot to a height of three hundred feet and that was a marker for the fighter aircraft from the aircraft carrier Liaoning, as sixty of them had been orbiting the bay high overhead. The fighter-bombers of the 3rd offensive wing struck with the very deadly Mongol missiles. The tremendous rush of air caused by the streaking jets shattered the column of water and struck the saucer as it tried to reach the sky.

The Great Leader and four of her large sisters let loose a spread of YU-6 torpedoes that were targeted just beneath the falling vessel. The wire-guided weapons were electronically detonated sixty feet below the dying saucer.

Suddenly the second and third saucers charged through the dense waters of the bay, loosing cannon fire against the fast-attack boats of the Chinese navy. As the first saucer sank deeper into the water the warheads of no less than thirty-one YU-6s exploded just beneath her. The resulting cataclysm warped the saucer until it broke into three separate sections and then the remains swirled to the bottom, too damaged to heal itself.

The Great Leader heard the breaking up of the first saucer and her crew cheered. The captain ordered silence as he heard through her sound-dampening hull the terrible whine of the streaking saucers as they came on at the grouping of attack boats at over 200 knots. The captain never had the chance to order maneuvering to take evasive action as the first long line of laser fire cleanly sliced the Great Leader and her four sister boats into an exploding mass of steel and composite material. The crews of five of the largest submarines in the world perished as the remaining two saucers rose through the sea to confront the air attackers with a vengeance.

THE PENTAGON

WASHINGTON, D.C.

The situation room far beneath the E ring of the colossal building was silent as the real-time satellite images streamed in from three KH-11s and -12s as the battle for Beijing took a turn for the worse. Not only was the largest military bombardment and shelling against a single target the world had ever been witness to a complete failure, the entire attacking force of the Chinese navy’s surface flotilla and her underwater assets, twenty of the finest submarines in the world, had been destroyed.

Many angry eyes turned toward the upper balcony, where the military technicians knew the acting president sat with his young advisory staff. The men knew they had failed the Chinese, but the president wasn’t seeing it that way.

Camden watched the giant processing saucer as it slowly rose into the sky. Fighter jets of the People’s Republic continued to pummel the shield that had withstood no less than ten small nuclear weapons and millions of artillery, tank, missile, and air strikes and had still survived.

The gray image from high above showed the watching Americans the powerful might of the enemy as the large, thick cables of the shield wall burst like a balloon; then the cables cascaded to the ground as the saucer began to climb into the sky. The shield was shed like the skin of a rejuvenated snake. They watched as the remains of buildings were also shed like a dog shaking off water. Still the great saucer rose into the dawning light of day. The two smaller saucers climbed with it as the two remaining craft that had refueled the power source shot off to the south. Tanks and artillery pieces adjusted aim and continued to pummel the unyielding saucer as it rose. Fighter aircraft dove in and several even made suicide runs and crashed into the upper sections, all to no avail. The craft simply rose at a leisurely pace as it burst through the thick columns of smoke that covered the remains of Beijing.

“General, the CIA sent this analysis over from Langley.” Caulfield’s aide handed the shocked Marine the bad news.

The general read the report and then passed it over to the remaining members of the Joint Chiefs. They too read the damage estimates to the People’s army, navy, and air force. All the chiefs were stunned with the exception of Admiral James Fuqua, who had resigned just after the destruction of the aircraft carrier Liaoning. She had gone down with all hands battling to the end. With her aircraft all shot from the sky the giant ship had died a violent death as she was ripped apart like a tin can by the remaining two saucers that had arisen from the bay and exacted a terrible revenge for the death of the third craft. Admiral Fuqua had begged for permission to send the three Virginia-class subs in the area to the rescue of the surviving crewmen of the carrier who were fighting for their lives in the sea off of China’s coast. He turned and pleaded with the new commander-in-chief to allow him to turn the 7th Fleet around and assist the Chinese in their effort as agreed upon by his predecessor, but it was all to no avail. The president merely shook his head in complete deference to the horrible disaster happening halfway around the world.

Caulfield lowered his eyes as he studied the angry military personnel far below in the situation center. He had watched an infuriated Admiral Fuqua as he stormed from the conference room; the president had accepted his immediate resignation. Caulfield watched as his friend’s replacement had been waiting in the hallway leading to the situation room.

Virginia Pollock, still there as an observer, patted the general on the arm and then she too left. She wanted to go to the ladies’ room and be sick, as she had never imagined that such carnage could be absorbed by one nation. She left with her head hung low.

General Maxwell Caulfield slowly turned away from the horrid aerial views of the burning capital city of China. He placed a hand over his eyes and then sat at the main conference table, never so ashamed in his life.

On another set of monitors flames rose high over the completely destroyed city of Mumbai. The Indian air force had attempted the same attack method as the Chinese, only they had used almost their full arsenal of nuclear missiles. The large saucer had survived the strikes of no less than the combined megatonnage of fifty warheads. With the aid of the two replenishment craft that had completely destroyed that nation’s surface fleet near the Strait of Mumbai, she had shed her defensive shield and now the giant processing vehicle was rising from the ashes of the once proud city as she too started to head for space and the raging wormhole the American imaging section said was forming. The craft entered the swirling mass of light and then departed for her home fleet with no less than three million souls in her cargo holds. Despair covered the entire world.

“This is why I will not sacrifice the military forces of this nation in a plan that would result in this.” Camden stood and gestured at the two completely destroyed cities on the screens below. “The American people will back me on this.”

Caulfield raised his head and took in the man standing at the thick glass. “You don’t know them, do you?”

Camden turned at the sound of the general’s voice. “Excuse me?”

Caulfield stood, shaking off the restraining hands of his Air Force counterpart as he foresaw the confrontation developing.

“I said you don’t know them very well, do you?” Caulfield stepped around the large table and strode to face the president.

“Know who?” Camden was joined by several members of his young staff, who feared they were about to witness something unprecedented.

“The American people!” Caulfield turned and gestured at the screen below that showed the two lost cities. “Do you for one minute think that they will be proud of what happened last night? We had a chance at a united defense with weapons developed just for this scenario, but we failed them, Mr. President. If word ever leaked out, and it will, that we basically stabbed our allies in the back, they will crucify you and I’ll be there to help. Americans don’t run, never have. Despite what most think, we do like the rest of the world, and would never, ever wish to see this tragedy befall anyone. And we refused to even assist in the rescue of drowning seamen?” He shook his head and started for the door, joined by two of the chiefs and, to Camden’s surprise, many of the politically neutral civilian staff.

“My resignation is in your security advisor’s hands,” Caulfield said.

Camden wanted to smile as he nodded his head at the security advisor, who held up the resignation letter that had been delivered to him by the general’s aide not long after Admiral Fuqua had left the room. He then opened the door to allow General Sydney Lefferts, the new head of the Joint Chiefs, into the room. The plan for getting rid of all the former president’s remaining cabinet had been initiated.

“General, are you prepared to defend the nation?” Camden asked as he placed his hands behind his back.

The U.S. Army four-star general nodded his head as the remainder of the chiefs shook theirs.

“Sir, we have recalled the 82nd and 101st from their former stations that were a part of this Operation Overlord. Thus far there has been no response, but we should be able to track them down now that the head has been removed from the traitorous—”

The rumble of men in the room voiced what most were feeling at the moment by the use of the word traitorous. Many, while not backing General Caulfield’s and Admiral Fuqua’s actions in this highly secretive plan, would not stand by and allow this man to say such a thing about an American officer who had dedicated his life to the nation.

Camden felt the first rift among his people and didn’t like it.

“Being traitorous is for history to decide. We don’t wish to stir harsh emotions in this room.”

“Yes, Mr. President,” Lefferts, said bowing to the man’s wishes. “We have thus far initiated military law in all cities above a million-person population, and the smaller cities will be under military control over civil law enforcement.”

Camden was shocked when the CIA and FBI directors also got up and left without a word.

“Thank you, General. I want your new staff to get me a battle plan immediately that I can fully explain to the general population. No need to keep them in the dark. We must let them know their leaders are going to protect them far better than those in other nations.”

“Yes, sir, our National Guard units are rolling into New York, Chicago, Houston, Dallas, Los Angeles, San Francisco, and other cities as we speak. I believe the populace will be willing to listen to anything you have to say very soon.”

Camden nodded his gratitude and then left with his staff following close behind—all except the two men who shared the president’s public relations duties. They exchanged looks of horror as they stood, stunned, as the calligraphers gathered their materials.

“This is beginning to smell bad. Control the civil population?”

“Those cracks yesterday about the Berlin thing, that’s not sounding that ridiculous any longer.” The taller of the two was betting his Harvard law degree that once Camden seized control there would be no wresting the power from his tight grip that he now seemed to be consolidating.

The two men didn’t know what they would do, but knew they hadn’t gotten into the political side of things to be a part of a coup, no matter how ingeniously it was disguised.

“Feel like taking a side trip to Walter Reed?”

“Yeah, why not? I would rather get shot trying to warn someone than be ordered to fall on my sword when we don’t agree with something this man says.”

The two men left the situation room more scared of their commander-in-chief than by the enemy that had just destroyed two of the world’s most populated cities.