The Black Ships

  ~*~

  Cal supposed that this new wrinkle might just be balance after his run of good luck in getting clearance to openly return to the site. They had just been finishing placement of the last charges in hangar four when they heard the unmistakable rumble of one of the big doors. Opening one of the small man doors and peering out, he had recognized the NASA administrator and the UN project manager as they walked towards the hangar but had missed the black clad guard.

  He knew there was a good chance that they would miss the devices and so he directed A.J. and Chris to finish with the charges while he moved swiftly through the dark towards the wide spill of light that came from the big door of number one. He couldn’t see them and so he considered risking a quick peek around the corner. No, he thought. Why act suspicious when they know I’m working here tonight?

  With that, he walked boldly around the corner and saw the man from NASA standing to the right, pulling the wires out of one of the concrete containers. “Is everything all right in here?” Cal asked with a look of innocent puzzlement.

  The man spun around. His look of surprise changed to relief tinted with a hint of suspicion. This is going completely sideways,  thought Cal as he assessed his situation. These guys would have remembered the planters from this afternoon and made the connection to me during the investigation. I should have realized that before now. “Can I give you a hand with whatever you’re doing?” If we can kill them both and stash them behind the helium tanks, we can stack a few devices around their bodies and make them forensically unidentifiable.

   “No, I’m fine,” the man replied trying to look nonchalant.

  Definitely knows I’m behind this, thought Cal. We can put them in the drainage sump behind the helium tanks. That should contain the reaction and pretty much vaporize their bones. He pulled out a silenced Ruger .22 and pointed it at the man. And then there’s Lance, he thought as he pulled the trigger twice. We’ll have to get to him before the investigators. After that, we’re in the clear; the planters in Lance’s yard are the ones that the drawing specified so we can claim that we just came in tonight, picked them up and took them to the yard. No one else knows about our square ‘planters’.

  His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of feet hitting the concrete at an increasing rate. Shit, UN Boy is rabbiting while I’m standing here thinking. Turning around to scan the large hangar, he was shocked to see the large man five feet away, hurtling at him in full tackle mode. His arm raised on its own as years of training kicked in. His finger pulled the trigger once and then Bender crashed into him with surprising force. The world went black.

   

  Benton-Coldwater Medical Center

  Antioch, California

  July 4th, 2026

  Callum woke up slowly. Ordinarily, he would wake instantly but he felt like he was underwater and had to struggle to reach the surface. His eyes opened and he found himself looking at the standard institutional ceiling of acoustical tiles. He turned his head, fighting off a wave of nausea and he saw a bank of monitoring equipment with wires leading from an outlet on the front. He reached out to trace them and found that he was cuffed to the side rails of the bed.

  It all came back to him in a flash. He must have been found by the bodyguard. The manager from NASA was dead and maybe the big guy from the UN as well, but Cal had allowed a moment of inattention to cheat him of his victory. He looked at the window between him and the hallway and could see, through the partially closed blinds, that a uniformed officer was standing out there leaning against the window.

  I need to get out of here, he thought. He looked down at the handcuffs and smiled as he realized that there was an intravenous needle in his right arm.  With the professional neatness common to health care workers, the IV line ran up the bed to where other wires ran from his body to the collection of monitors. Turning his head and dropping his shoulder, he managed to grasp the IV line with his teeth and pulled.

  After a moment of discomfort,  the strips of tape came loose from his skin and the needle slid out of his vein. Without the pressure that was usually provided on removal of the needle, blood began to seep out but it was nothing to worry about. Cal twitched his arm a few times until the needle came into reach and he grabbed it in his right hand.

  With a quick look at the window to ensure that the guard wasn’t looking in, he used the needle to pick the cuffs where they attached to the rail. After several seconds, he had his right arm free and made quick work of freeing his other hand before removing the cuffs that dangled from his right wrist.

  He traced the wires on his right, realizing that a network of sensors was sitting on his head like a hairnet. He left it in place for a moment, not sure if it would set off an alarm and flood the room with staff. He needed a moment to think this through. I can’t get past that guard without camouflage. He looked up at the clock. Almost lunchtime, he thought. Camouflage might just come to me.

  He began to work out his escape plan. Once out of the building, he would need to pick up his emergency stash of money, buried among the foliage in the wetlands preserve. He was pretty certain his accounts would have been frozen by now. He pulled the covers over his arms so it wouldn’t be obvious he was now free.

  Once he had the money, he would catch a cab to the university medical center in San Francisco. That way, his camouflage would make sense to the driver and make him less likely to call the police when the escape hit the news. I can buy some clothes at the university book store and catch public transit to the BART, which can take me to the Amtrak station on the Embarcadero.

  His thoughts were interrupted as the door opened and a young man walked in with a tray of food. Cal breathed a sigh of relief, he didn’t care for his chances escaping in a dress with a three-day growth on his face and he didn’t relish the idea of forcing a woman to give him her clothes. He might be willing to kill but there were still a few places where he preferred to draw the line.

  “Hungry, Mr. Hard Core Killer?” the young man sneered as he pulled a tray caddy over and dropped the food in front of Cal. “Since you’re cuffed, I’m supposed to feed you but I figure, why waste good food?” He started to help himself to the lunch, cutting off a large piece of pork loin before he set the knife back down. He stood there and chewed, making exaggerated sounds of appreciation.

  Unbelievable, thought Callum as he grabbed the knife with his right hand and reached over to grab the attendant’s shirt with his left. He held the knife to the young man’s throat, watching the fear come into his eyes. “Drop your pants.” The man’s eyes grew wider.

   

  The Oval Office

  Washington, D.C.

  July 6th , 2026

  Parnell leaned against one of the columns of the west colonnade, blowing smoke up in the faint hope that the smell wouldn’t stick to his clothes. “So where did it go wrong?”

  Sam reached out and took back his cigarette, taking a drag while he thought through the briefing package. “Agent Guilderson had the guy pegged about a month before.” He stared at the door to the oval office as he spoke. “She knew that McKinnon was planning something big for your visit and she had the entire place crawling with snipers and agents. They were just about to take them when Chuck came back with Bender.” He took another deep drag and handed the remainder back to Parnell.

  “So why didn’t a sniper stop the kid from shooting Chuck?”

  “Happened too fast,” Sam shrugged. “The pistol came out, the sniper called it in and before anyone could do anything, Chuck was down. Next thing you know, Bender is trying to snap the gunman in half with one hell of a tackle – used to play for the Gators so he knows how to crack a rib or two...”

  “So what happens with Guilderson?” Parnell dropped the butt into a planter. “It’s hardly her fault those two blundered into the middle of an FBI operation.”

  “She’ll do fine.” Sam followed the president back into the office. “There was already a summary investigation and she’s been clear
ed for her next assignment.” He closed the door behind them. “What about Chuck?”

  Parnell sighed as he dropped into his chair. He looked moodily at the desk blotter. “I’ve talked to Cara and she’s given consent for a state funeral. It’s not much consolation for her but at least it’s a show of respect for a man who died stopping a terrorist plot.” He looked up at Sam. “No need for the public to learn that half the FBI was already there, or what his blood alcohol level was,” his face was solemn. “Chuck died for the good of all mankind and we leave it there.”

  Sam picked up the folder that he had dropped on the desk when they went out for the smoke but, before he could turn for the side door, Parnell spoke again. “Let’s get Tom Kelly to put a heavy guard on the Moffett site.” He put his glasses on and opened up another folder on his desk. “You know, armed patrols, a couple of tanks, night vision-goggles.”

  He glanced up at Sam. “We damn near got knocked back a half year by some conspiracy nut who thinks the aliens are a scam, and he’s still on the loose. I want our production sites locked down, and I want this kid found and buried head first out in the Sonora Desert.

   

  Falling Towards Change

  Waikiki

  O’ahu, Hawaii

  July 7th, 2026

  Mike sat in the hotel lobby with a quiet young corporal from the service battalion. The young man hadn’t said two words during the short trip from Mauna Kea. Mike had finally broken through by buying him a beer from the hotel bar and pouring it into one of the cups from the complimentary lemon-water stand. As they sat in the lobby drinking their covert beer, the shared breaking of the rules finally convinced the young man that it was ok to chat.

  He had known Christina, one of his fellow soldiers from the battalion, for over two years and had just recently found the courage to talk to her. Unfortunately, she was an officer. The military took a stern view on fraternization and Christina had approached Keira with a scheme that would let the star-crossed couple have some time together. 

  The two men were waiting for Christina and Keira to arrive so they could switch up. Officially, Keira and Christina were travelling together on their three-day vacation, while Mike and Corporal John Alvarez were a second, separate pair. Both men had come on an earlier chopper and Mike had already been to the front desk to inquire about the possibility of changing their four single rooms to two small junior suites.

  He had been shocked to learn that the penthouse suite was slightly cheaper than the four rooms put together. He and John had gone up to check it out and they were amazed. The suite took up the entire top floor of the small hotel and it was the size of a large two-bedroom apartment. They headed straight back to the lobby and struck a deal with the attendant who agreed to bill the government for the original four rooms in return for a small honorarium.

  Now, the two men set their beer down and headed for the entryway as a sedan rolled to a stop under the portico. Two young women in uniform got out and walked in the door, their faces lighting up in reflection of the happy grins awaiting them. “What are the rooms like?” Keira asked as she and Mike came up for air.

  “Just you wait and see.” Mike took her small duffel bag. “Is the rest of your luggage out front?” he said as he looked out through the glass front of the lobby.

  “Everything I need is right here,” she responded, one eyebrow lifting playfully.

  The bag was pretty small, which Mike took as a very good sign.

  Two glorious hours later, they lay on the king-sized bed, watching the ocean between the larger hotels on Kalakaua Avenue. “Who do you think will go?” Keira asked the question that was on everyone’s mind lately. A bank of computers sat in the atrium of the telescope facility giving staff a chance to put their names forward for service with the response fleet. Keira had put her name in almost immediately and her chances were very good. As an engineer, her application was largely considered a mere formality.

  After a week of soul-searching, Mike had begun thinking of excuses to put his own name forward. He knew the layout of the mining facility as well as anyone on Earth, and his knowledge of the terrain far exceeded any other candidate. He had been surprised and flattered when he had discussed it with Colonel McCutcheon.

  “Of course you have to come,” the man had sounded as if he were speaking to a dimwit but his smile softened the effect. “I’m going to need a good maneuver analyst and it would be a damn sight easier training you on the equipment capabilities than training one of our operators on the Martian soil properties.” He slapped him on the back as he stood to go for lunch. “Don’t know what a regolith is and don’t much care to; that’s why we want you along. Just put your name in and leave the narrative box blank, for all I care; you’re a no-brainer.”

  As he watched the officer walk away he realized McCutcheon was right. All those years trying to hide away in various universities had left him with a unique skill set that fit the situation perfectly. They really did need him. If he didn’t go, they would have a hard time finding a suitable replacement.

  Still, Mike had waited until he was sure Keira would be going before putting his name in. Even though the rest of his life had fallen automatically into place, she was the one thing that he’d needed to work for. She had ignored him at first. Soldiers get redeployed every few years and romances tend to be short lived: especially with civilians whose jobs aren’t portable. His persistence, and his complete inability to hide his attraction to her, had finally won her over. He had no intention of leaving Earth unless she would be going as well.

  She’d sat with him as he filed his request. His phone buzzed with an automated selection notice before he had even logged off from the terminal. McCutcheon had obviously put a note in Mike’s file, advising automatic acceptance.

  Now, laying on the bed, he stretched luxuriously, thoroughly enjoying what may well be his last chance to enjoy the comforts of Earth. “Well, both of us are going, but you need to make sure you get assigned to the flagship, he said. “I’m going to be stuck in the analysis cell on the Ares, so I won’t be able to go visiting other ships…”

  “Do you think Dr. Colbert will be going?” Keira asked as if it meant nothing to her one way or the other. “She’s pretty, don’t you think? Smart too…”

  How the hell do I answer that without getting into trouble? Mike thought. Does she just want to paint me into a corner so she can get angry at me, or is there some kind of right answer? He decided the bare truth would work best. “She is pretty,” he began in a tone of mild surprise. “I’d kind of forgotten that a couple of months ago.” He grinned at her. “You think I stand a chance with her?”

  She laughed and shoved him out of the bed. “Let’s get dressed and see if Christina and John are up for getting some lunch.”

  Mike pulled the sheet from over his head. I may be the first guy in history to make it through the unwinnable scenario in one piece.

   

  Galileo Shipyard

  Low Earth Orbit

  July 15th, 2026

  Frank hit the release on his harness and drifted forward to the cockpit windows. Oh shit! Too fast!  He put out both arms to catch the pilot and co-pilot seats. Fortunately, they were not currently controlling the huge airship and, though startled by his impact, they were not unduly disturbed. “Sorry, guys; pushed off too hard.”

  He looked out the window where the first module, lifted into space eleven days ago, was securely fastened to one of the three dockyard habitation modules that had been lifted ten days ago.

   Each lift involved a little over a week in transit. The low altitude airship picked up cargo from one of the various transfer yards in Europe and lifted it to an altitude of 140,000 feet. Once there, it docked with the transfer station, a three mile wide octopus platform held aloft by massive helium bladders in each of it’s eight arms. From the transfer station, the modules would continue their journey to space aboard the much larger, orbital airships.

  The orbital airshi
ps, too large to survive the weather of the lower atmosphere, had been assembled at the floating transfer station and they operated between there and the orbital shipyards.

  Frank had ridden up from Portugal with the second frigate module. He had watched the huge mass of steel, aluminum and carbon fiber as it was carefully maneuvered across the central floor of the transfer station to one of the loading doors for an orbital ascender. He’d felt a moment of almost supernatural dread at knowing that he was standing in a massively heavy structure, floating within the atmosphere of Earth. He’d felt suddenly certain that it had no place being there and that it would succumb to gravity at any moment.

  The station had not fallen, of course, and he’d boarded the massive ascender, marveling at the incredible size. It was more than fifteen times the size of the ill-fated Hindenburg and Frank had cringed the moment the unsettling statistic had come into his mind. A leisurely five day ride propelled by a mix of chemical and ion rocketry had brought them to this final destination at the Galileo Shipyard.

  Frank was intent on watching the activity on the station. Tethered workers swarmed around the edges of the module, ready with gusset pins and welding gear, waiting to begin the first orbital modular ship assembly in Human history. He hadn’t even noticed the vibration as the airship’s huge loading door began to open until the co-pilot remarked on it.

  A team of four thruster crews approached as the door swung open beneath them. The four crews carefully entered the craft and Frank pushed away from the chairs, heading back to the central stair where he grasped the railing and rotated almost gracefully over it, pulling himself downward to reach the lower crew level where the bunks were.

  His smug satisfaction at his neat maneuvering was spoiled somewhat when his left ankle struck painfully against one of the carbon beams of the upper deck. He grabbed his foot instinctively and curled into a ball, thudding gently against the last couple of stairs in his distracted state.

  “You OK Frank?” Brad, the payload specialist was watching with an amused grin. His station was at the large window at the back of the crew compartment . It gave an unobstructed view into the hold and he had turned at the sound of the creaking railing to watch Frank bounce off the stairs and drift toward the bow of the ship.

  “OK, for a first-timer, I suppose,” Frank let go of his ankle and rubbed at his left shoulder where it had struck the stairs.

  “The head,” Brad shouted.

  Frank ran a hand over his head, pulling it away to check for blood as he drifted.

  “No, you numbskull, you’re going to smash into the head!” Brad pointed.

  Bender did a few twists, managing to spin like a falling cat and saw that he was about to knock the ship’s only toilet off its mounting. He managed to grab the edge of a bulkhead and his remaining kinetic energy swung him around the new pivot point, slamming him harmlessly into the light-weight aluminum foam panel.

  “Slowly,” the payload specialist advised. “Just a light push and then you can brachiate along the ceiling beams.”

  Frank followed the advice and made his way aft to the window. He was just in time to see the last thruster team maneuver into position at the starboard side of the ship module. “Those guys are quick; I almost made an ass of myself for nothing.”

  “Hey, if nothing else, I found it pretty entertaining.”

  The last team reached the yellow and black target symbols on the module and grasped the handholds welded to its bulkheads. They muscled the thruster unit gently towards the five orange-rimmed holes, inserting the thruster’s registration pins and closing it’s clamp. Both men grabbed onto the thruster’s handholds to stay out the way of the nozzles and the team lead threw the switch to place the unit under central control.

  The team leader used a combined set of controls, linking the four individual thrusters, allowing a simple, three-axis control scheme for the short flight from the cargo hold to the linkup of the two ship modules. Brad put a hand to his earpiece before reaching down and activating a series of controls on a long touch-screen that was strapped to his arm. “Confirm release of restraint clamps,” he said, before nodding at the crackle that even Frank could hear from the headset.

  With a series of small silent puffs, the module lifted away from the floor of the hold and began to move out into the void of space. Frank moved up to the ceiling and pulled himself along the beams until he reached the stairs. Positioning himself on the bottom step, he pushed off lightly and reached up to grab the railing that ran around the upper edge of the staircase.

  Moving his hands to the side rails, he brought his feet up and over the end rail and settled on the floor, an unnecessary step but he was still used to using the floor. The beams here were enclosed by removable panels and so he pushed off ever so lightly, drifting across to the same chairs that he had smashed into earlier.

  He gently arrested his forward motion by grasping the back of the co-pilots chair and he was delighted to see that his arrival had not been noticed this time. He looked out the window and saw that the module had already cleared the cargo hold.

  At this point, there was no reason to keep the gigantic orbital airship on station, but after so much time to get there, everyone on board wanted to see the first two modules come together. Brad drifted over from the stairs along with Rob, the flight engineer and the entire crew watched the dangerous ballet unfold.

  At the twenty meter-mark, the thrust team leader handed control over to the computer. This was the part of the assembly that scared Frank the most. On Earth, cruise ship modules were easier to control because gravity was a solid, predictable force and a good crane operator could quickly bring the massive segments into place.

  Here in orbit, it was hard to imagine controlling so much mass with four relatively small thruster units and he said as much out loud as they  watched the deadly operation unfold.

  “It’s no different from getting around inside this crew compartment,” Brad answered, still looking out the window. “Out here, even a small amount of force can move a huge object. With no friction or gravity to fight against, you can get the job done with very little effort.” He grinned, still watching the module as it crept towards its mate. “The other advantage of using as little force as possible is that it’s easier to correct if you get it wrong. That way you avoid destroying a ship or having to crap in bags for the next five days.”

  Frank chuckled. Brad’s inside joke made no sense to the rest of the crew and they were frowning slightly, trying to figure out where the sudden scatological reference had come from. The moment was too tense for a humorous re-telling of the near-accident and so they concentrated on the scene before them.

  The pilot activated a touch-screen on his console, opening a channel selector and tapped the line labeled Galileo Shipyard – Thruster Team. “I shut it off as soon as they were out of the hold,” he said to the men around him. “It’s in the procedure manual - meant to prevent accidental chatter from our end distracting the crew but I don’t see the harm in keeping it on, just this once.” He scanned the screen, tapping the output menu and nodding. “As long as our end is muted, that is.” He looked back out the window.

  “Tango Lima; ten meters, over.” The crew jumped as the voice blasted out of the speakers.

  “Sorry.” The pilot stabbed at the controls, dragging the volume slider down with a finger, then re-checked the mute controls for output as the station controller answered.

  “Golf Charlie; ten meters, over.”

  “Tango Lima; three meters, over.,”

  “Golf Charlie; three meters, over.”

  “Tango Lima; two meters, rotational adjustment, over.”

  “Golf Charlie; roger that, two meters, confirm rotational correction on visual, over.”

  Frank was trying to remain calm. He was of two minds about using automated controls to guide the modules together. He realized that computers were as fallible as the programmers who built the code but the software had extensive redundancies built i
n. Several feedback loops connected the sensor gear to the thruster control algorithms and, in theory, the system should be able to line up the holes of the gusset plates to within a thousandth of an inch.

  He knew that a human thrust controller could easily sneeze during a critical moment and trigger a disaster, but he also knew that a programmer on Earth could easily make an error that could be missed by all of the validations and reviews and remain dormant throughout months of use. Such an error might manifest itself suddenly, triggering a massive burst from the thrusters that could smash the module into a growing ship, killing assembly workers or even sending the embryonic ship straight down into the burning embrace of the planet’s atmosphere.

  Knowing that the team leader had the final option of physically disconnecting the computer controls and taking over the system gave everyone a measure of comfort, but Frank was still nervous as he watched the heavy ship components grow closer.

  “Tango Lima; roger, rotation effective, half meter, over.”

  Frank knew that men were waiting at each gusset plate with long tapered rods inserted through the bolt holes, aiming the pointed ends towards the corresponding holes in the approaching module.

  Small silent jets of gas were visible as the two sections of the frigate closed the final distance, slowing the progress. The team leader called out the final distance in centimeters.

  “Tango Lima; one hundred, seventy five, fifty, thirty, twenty – pins aligned – ten, five, four, three, two, one, contact, no re-bound, over.”

  “Golf Charlie; roger that, contact, no re-bound. Good flying. Proceed with attachment, out.”

  The men in the cockpit of the airship breathed a collective sigh of relief as they watched the silent flashes of the arc welders through the shielded cockpit windows. The UNS frigate Amazon was finally under construction. The last hurdle had been jumped. The entire plan was now proven possible and, given enough time, this first frigate would be assembled and operational, ready to defend its home world. Given enough time, entire fleets would be ready, not only to defend Earth, but also to travel to Mars and fight the enemy there.

  And recent news had made it clear that a fight on Mars would be necessary. There were survivors to rescue.

   

  Red Flag Mineral Co.

  Sixty Meter Observatory

  Mauna Kea, Hawaii

  July 15th, 2026

  Jan sat at the conference table in the atrium and stared up at the large screen, showing the latest imagery captured from Mars. The aliens had been busy, setting up a large complex on the surface and aggressively exploiting the planet’s resources. Mine shafts had been driven into several locations on Olympus Mons and processing facilities had sprung up at each. Ground transport had also been developed, with roads and an elevated maglev rail connecting the mining sites with the production facilities on the plain below.

  She reached out and grabbed her cup, enjoying the warmth that leached into her hands as she cradled the hot coffee. Army logistics had provided a stock of tea for their British staff but it was horrid. The coffee was far better and so – when in Rome… The momentary comfort relaxed her mind, shifting her train of thought. She realized that, though much growth was in evidence, something about the image seemed backwards. “Colonel McCutcheon, could you give us a before-and-after of the main site?”

  McCutcheon nodded over to a corporal who split the display screen, bringing up an older file image. The difference between the two was impressive. Recent building activity had enlarged the enemy complex by four hundred percent.

  “That stack of capsules has been shrinking,” she said out loud.

  “Fuel cells?” ventured Pete.

  “I don’t know,” Jan mused quietly. “The size - they look just right for holding an alien.”

  “Stasis pods?” McCutcheon offered.

  “That’s what I’m thinking,” Jan was still looking up at the two images. But not just stasis. “If they carried them all this way on board, why waste the resources needed to ship them down to the planet when they could revive them and ship down the individuals?” She looked around the table. “Why waste energy carrying the pods to the surface?”

  “Well it’s obvious that they did just that,” Dr. Tudor pointed out.

  “Did they really?” Jan thought for a moment. “The sudden burst in activity follows the sudden reduction in capsules, so I think it’s reasonable to consider the possibility that the capsules held a workforce.” What exactly am I trying to say? she looked down at her mug. I need another coffee but the pot is empty. Why does it always seem like I’m the only one who makes a new pot.

  Suddenly, she smiled.

  She got up and walked over to the percolator leaving the rest to argue.  It was one of the big cylindrical forty cup machines that every army headquarters unit was sure to have and reloading it would give her mind a few moments to think. She pulled out the filter unit – almost the size of a spare tire – and dumped it. She dropped it back in the top and put a new filter paper on the bottom. Making a pot means I get the first cup, the freshest possible coffee.

  She dumped a full bag of coffee into the filter unit, leaning over to sniff the rich earthy scent. She put the lid on top and flicked the switch to start the heater. “You only make coffee when you need it,” she said loudly as she turned and leaned against the table. Some of her colleagues looked a little shame-faced at that but most had caught her tone; she was making a point and not about coffee.

  “Unless you’re Mike,” she added, to General laughter. Mike’s tolerance for stale coffee was something of a legend on the mountain. “The rest of us only make a pot when we need it and I think that’s what our alien neighbors are up to with these pods.”

  “Dr. Colbert, I believe you’ve already made that point,” said Tudor. “They’re defrosting colonists, yes?”

  “You’re still thinking like Mike,” she responded with a grin. “They aren’t popping them in the microwave; they’re making them. It explains why they started to ship them all down months in advance of when they were activated. They didn’t carry them from their home world, they manufactured the pods on site and cloned laborers. Because they don’t have room on board the ship, they sent them down to the surface while the pods finished the cloning process; possibly implanting knowledge so the product would come out ‘ready to use’.”

  “Or ready to fight,” Young offered. "Might be why they haven't come here yet. Take a foothold on Mars, set up a logistics base and clone the invasion force onsite." He nodded to himself. "The shorter your logistics supply train, the better. If they don't have to rely on their home world for re-supply and reinforcements, they're more efficient - at least if their enemy can't reach their logistics base."

  “Then they've got a surprise coming." McCutcheon muttered darkly. "Regardless of their reasons, those pods would be well worth trying to grab when we hit the ground.” He turned to the corporal who was serving as projectionist. “Dan, how many time frames do we have for this site?”

  Dan opened up a file folder. “Looks like ten or eleven.”

  “Put them up in sequence starting from the earliest,” the colonel suggested.

  As they watched, the original showed no capsules but, as each subsequent image came up, they could see a steadily-growing number. The latest image showed that they had been almost entirely depleted. McCutcheon was pleased. “It’s not proof, but it certainly matches your theory Dr. Colbert. If they’d brought all those capsules with them from their homeworld, they probably would have revived them on the ship. Waste of space to ship them down in capsules.” He scribbled some notes on the pad in front of him. “It definitely seems to indicate the use of on-demand manufacturing at the very least.”

  “One bit of good news,” he continued. “Their aggressive patrolling seems to have reached its zenith.” He nodded at Dan who brought up a new graphic showing a larger area with a red hash-marked area surrounding the production site. “The patrols have stopped expanding their cov
erage. Dr. Wilsen believes that their vehicles are having trouble with the soil and blowing dust.

  “Our survivors, if they did in fact survive, are in a cave ten kilometers outside of the current patrol zone.” He pointed to the blue symbol to the left of the alien site. “There’s a habitat inside the cave and enough food and water to keep them alive for almost three years.”

  “When do we get there?” Mike asked.

  “Just under three years.” McCutcheon looked grim. “I wouldn’t want to spend three years cooped up in a cave, but they have electronic files of every book ever written and tons of other media. As long as they don’t get cabin fever and start killing each other, they should be more or less sane when we pick them up.” He stood. “Let’s call it a day; write up your findings and send them to the collator by sixteen hundred. Thanks, everyone.”

  As the team began to drift away, the colonel came over to Jan and began fixing a cup of coffee. “Nice work today, Doctor” he remarked casually, pouring three packets of sugar into the fresh brew.

  “Thanks, it came to me when I was thinking about making coffee.”

  He took a sip, nodding his approval at the strength of the beverage. “However it came to you, it came to you, not to any of the rest of us.” He looked at her keenly. “I notice that you haven’t put your name in for the response fleet. We could use you.”

  Jan shrugged. “I wasn’t really sure whether I would be able to earn my keep if I went along.”

  “That’s the thing about working in intelligence,” he replied, gazing absently at the percolator. “You never know what kind of contribution you might make until it happens. You could spend years sifting through garbage but that one flash of insight could save thousands of lives on both sides of a conflict.” He turned to face her directly. “You had an impressive flash of insight today and it may well be of great technical importance for us. Whether or not it turns out to be the case, you have the kind of analytical mind and fertile imagination that we need to have on this team. Once we capture that site,” he said, pointing up at the image on the screen, “I’m going to want you down there, going through he place with a fine tooth comb.”

  Jan was surprised. I know I’m a good professor and a solid scientist but it will be a much faster pace with the fleet. “Colonel, if I miss something I could get a lot of good people killed.”

  He shrugged. “If you don’t come with us, you make it a certainty that you will miss something, everything in fact.” He drained his coffee, rinsed out the mug and shoved it into a large pocket on his tunic. “Consider this: I would welcome any member of this current team but you are the only one that I’ve approached about going. We need you.” With that, he turned and headed for his office.

  He’s right, Jan thought, shocked. I might miss something and get someone killed, but staying behind guarantees that I’ll miss everything that I might otherwise have caught. She had been holding back because of Liam. She had been unable to shake the feeling that she would be going simply to stay near him. Now, Colonel McCutcheon had made her realize that she had every right to go; in fact, he had presented it as her responsibility.

  She crossed the atrium, sitting down at one of the dedicated application terminals and began to type.

   

  Chur

  Graubünden, Switzerland

  November 17th, 2026

  Märti Bohren sat in his cold bachelor apartment watching the news. Angry chanting wafted up from the street outside as protestors marched by. Unrest was growing around the world. Many countries were becoming openly belligerent about the debt loads that had been assessed to them in support of fleet construction. France, once known for its social programs, had been forced to institute severe cutbacks and citizens there were taking to the streets for more than just peaceful protest.

  People who had counted on free health care and retirement benefits suddenly found themselves forced to pay huge fees, not to mention supporting their retired relatives who had lost most, if not all, of their government pensions. The riots had been growing in number and violence and it had reached a point where it was beginning to bring the nation’s economy to a standstill.

  In a briefing that morning, Märti and his brother officers had been told they would be placed on 48 hours notice for a UN-led intervention. The last thing the world needed right now, or so they had been told, was for countries to stop paying their allotted share for the defense of Earth and France was only one of many countries teetering on the brink. Märti and his men, all natives of Graubünden, were chosen for their ability to speak not only English, but the three languages of Switzerland which included  a dialect of French.

  He shivered, unsure of whether it was because of the new restrictions on household heating, or the growing dread of the imminent deployment to France. He had no doubts that he would soon find himself patrolling the streets of Paris where, after two months of training in Hawaii, he would continue to feel the cold.

  The worst of it was that his sympathies were with the protestors. He knew that Switzerland’s own universal health care system was on the rocks. Only by pulling strings did he manage to get approval for his mother’s eye surgery. In another few months, he knew that many Swiss families would be forced to choose between treatment or food.

  How could he suppress angry French protestors when he would rather join them?

  His phone began to vibrate in his pocket. He had put it on mute during the briefing and hadn’t bothered to reset it. He pulled it out reluctantly, looking down to see the name of his colonel, Petrus Fohn. The fan-out must have started. “Sir,” he answered simply. The colonel appreciated brevity.

  “Major Bohren, we deploy to Paris in two days; have your companies ready for loading at Dübendorf on the twentieth at eleven hundred hours.” There was a slight pause as always, giving time for orders to be written down. “Is that fully understood, Major?”

  “Understood, sir. Both of my companies to report to Dübendorf for transport on the twentieth of this month. Loading to commence at eleven hundred hours, full roll call will be completed by zero nine hundred hours in front of 3rd Air Transport Wing headquarters.” He stopped for a heartbeat, considering. “Sir, how far are we taking this action?”

  The colonel’s tone was tired, resigned. “We’ll do what we must to keep them from collapsing,” he answered. His tone was the only indication of his disapproval, the closest he’d ever come to speaking against orders.

  Märti hung up and pulled up the number for one of his company commanders. Until a month ago, he had been a captain in charge of a single company, but an accident had killed a senior officer and the resulting shuffle had seen several promotions, leaving him in charge of a newly-formed, shrunken battalion of two companies. Though his parents were pleased, Märti would have gladly forgone the promotion if he could have avoided suppressing hungry protestors. He almost looked forward to training aboard the Hermann once she became operational.

   

  The Groundskeeper Coffee House

  Manhattan, New York

  November 28th, 2026.

  Callum looked up as Mark Frey set his mug on the table and dropped into a seat across from him. “Fired on the crowd,” Cal said, holding up the newspaper that he had been reading. “There were a few rocks thrown, maybe a Molotov cocktail or two, but no soldiers were hurt beyond a couple of minor cuts, and the bastards fired on a crowd of hungry civilians.” He slapped the paper on the table in anger.

  His tirade went largely unnoticed. The Groundskeeper, or GK, was known as a hotbed of political argument and one more angry young man would not attract any attention. It was the main reason that Mark had suggested it when Cal first approached him. Cal had contacted Kevin through a rented mailbox after reaching New York to ask for Mark’s information.

  Before everything had fallen apart at Moffett Field, the two men had discussed the possibility of setting up a new cell on the east coast. Kevin had mentioned a like-minded cousin who worked as a cab driver in M
idtown Manhattan, and Cal was eager to use the connection to get a head start on his new group. The first follower was always the hardest. After that, you had access to their friends and networks.

  Mark nodded, his expression grave. “They use the Swiss and Canadians against the French,” he growled. “Then, once France is under their thumb, they’ll use the French against someone else.”

  “And how long before they’re sent here?” Cal waved around the room with his left hand. “How long before they don’t even need to? They might just be able to do it with our own soldiers.”

  “That’s how the UN does it,” Mark agreed. “One country at a time, using our own resources against us.” He leaned over the table. “You know, I pick up a guy at Kennedy every week, and he told me this was going down.” He nodded at the paper on the table. “By the time I got him to the UN, he had pretty much told me the whole plan, except for the Canadians. They must have been a last-minute addition.”

  “Might work,” Cal mused. “From what I read on a blog about it this morning, the Canadian version of French has been diverging for centuries. France left them on their own a long time ago.” He chuckled. “The minute one of them speaks, the French won’t be able to resist the urge to tell them to ‘stop speaking English’. They’ll be too busy with witty comments to keep on rioting.”

  One of the GK staff came over with a small steel coffee pot. Mark held out his mug for a refill and then nodded to Cal. “Try this; they source grinds for regulars and keep them in those fancy little cubbies over there,” he said, waving his mug in the direction of the wall behind the counter. A bank of small, glass door compartments filled the upper half of the wall. Each door had a small chalkboard where a customer’s name and blends were written. A brass-framed ladder ran on a roller system, allowing quick access to the compartments.

  “This is from a single farm in Costa Rica,” he explained. “I pay for the bag plus markup and that covers my tab until it runs out. I had them make some extra this morning.” He smiled his thanks at the young woman as she finished pouring and returned the small pot to a bank of brewers along the counter. “So, what can we do?”

  Good question, thought Callum. The last time, I just built up a group by accident. I wasn’t thinking of taking action. By the time I decided to do something, I already had a large group to work with. He took a drink. It tasted OK, but not as fantastic as Mark seemed to think. Cal had a sneaking suspicion that the staff at GK had a huge vat of generic beans in the back and simply put them in small bags with fancy labels. The rest was just window dressing to help justify gouging the regulars.

  Window dressing. Appearances. A cab looks like a cab until the passenger finds a gun in his face. A UN flunky who didn’t rate a limo may well be a more useful target than an actual ambassador. He would have less to lose by trading cooperation for his freedom. Cal smiled. “Mark, when do you pick up your regular fare from Kennedy?”

   

  Notre-Dame Cathedral

  Paris

  November 29th, 2026

  Märti sat against a pillar in the second bay of the nave, his head in his hands. He hadn’t slept in two days. His men had been posted throughout the city to prevent marches. The general consensus was that the growing crowds of angry, marching citizens were not going to decrease. If anything the numbers were growing at an alarming rate. The soldiers had been ordered to prevent all marches. By blocking their routes, it was hoped that they would eventually disperse and return to work.

  It didn’t work.

  Märti’s men had originally been placed throughout the city, but it soon became clear that every march had one common target - the river. Every mob would eventually head for one of the graceful arches that spanned the river, knowing that the best press coverage would be had at such picturesque sites. The Swiss soldiers had been moved to hold the bridges. Märti was using a boat to move up and down the river to check on his men.

  He had just left the Pont Neuf at the downstream end of the Îsle de la Cité when his headset activated. The platoon guarding the smaller, left bank side of the bridge had reported seeing a large group heading their way along the Rue Dauphine.

  Märti was only a few meters away from the tip of the island and so he had the boat turn around and run up against the stone-faced embankment. He leapt out, running through the small park and up the stairs of the massive stone square where the statue of Henry IV sat on horseback. As he crossed the square and headed to the right, he could see some of his men closing the barriers while others donned their helmets and tested the grips of their riot shields.

  He felt a moment’s concern as he saw that a young woman had stopped in mid-crossing, holding hands with a little girl of no more than two years. She had obviously realized that she wouldn’t be able to reach the other end with an angry mob in the way and was trying to decide on the safest course of action. The lieutenant in charge of this platoon was trying to wave her back but she ignored him, taking shelter in one of the round bastions that jutted out over the river at each of the piers.

  The crowd surged onto the far end and flowed towards the soldiers, some wearing black ski masks, but most were showing their faces. They began to slow as they approached the barricade on the island side of the bridge, stopping at the seemingly standard distance of angry crowds everywhere.

  Just inside of throwing range.

  Sure enough the rocks began to rain down and the lieutenant bellowed an order. The second rank of men lifted their shields and pushed them forward, providing overhead cover for themselves and the men whose shields were used to guard the front. The maneuver would doubtless have been familiar to the Roman garrison of this same island, centuries ago.

  The pace of the bombardment began to wane as the protestors started to run low on ammunition. Märti was starting to hope the stand-off would end without violence when he noticed one of the masked men lighting a Molotov cocktail. Running out in front of the crowd, he hurled the bottle and scurried back into the crowd, working his way through the mob.

  The bottle struck the ground a couple of feet in front of the line of soldiers, sheeting flame across the cobbles and up the legs of several men. “Steady,” Märti roared at the top of his lungs. The men were clad in fire-retardant uniforms and it would take a long time for a fire to burn through their heavy boots. One man, a corporal, close to the right-hand parapet of the bridge landing seemed to have forgotten that and he was frantically shrugging his left arm free of his heavy shield so he could slap at the flaming liquid on his legs.

  The frightened man’s panic had opened a hole in the line and the crowd surged forward, pelting rocks into the hole. The soldier took a hit to the forehead and looked up with panic to see another man lighting a second Molotov cocktail. Before Märti or the lieutenant could reach him, the young man pulled his assault rifle from his shoulder, cocked it and opened fire in the general area of the masked man, who took a hit in the shoulder, dropping his missile.

  The bottle hit the ground, shattering and exposing its cargo of gasoline to the flaming wick of cloth that had been stuck in the neck. A carpet of flame spread under the feet of the protestors who were already struggling to get away from the gunfire. The Junior officer reached the man who was still firing wildly at the scattering crowd and, after a moment of indecision, pulled his pistol and shot him.

  Märti was shocked at first but he realized that, if the man was beyond reason, then it would have been impossible to stop him without further casualties. For every second that he was still controlling his Stgw 220-a, twelve rounds could be fired into the crowd of civilians. If killing him, rather than wrestling him to the ground, saved even one innocent civilian, then the choice made by the lieutenant was the right one.

  Though the junior officer obviously understood that in the heat of the moment, it was no comfort to him now. He was crouched by the body in a daze, his pistol still in his hand and tears streaming down his face. Märti dropped to one knee next to him, gently taking the pistol away. “You
did what had to be done Leuzinger,” Märti spoke gently but loud enough for the men standing around them to hear as well.

  They would have been shocked by what happened and some would be angry at their officer. It was important that they understand. “More would have died if you hadn’t stopped him.” How many did die?” He helped Leuzinger over to the edge of the road where he leaned him against the parapet. He looked out across the bridge. At least five dead, and more than twenty wounded, one of whom was being pulled, screaming, out of the gasoline fire by two soldiers under the direction of the platoon medics.

  Märti walked out into the carnage, stopping to apply a battle dressing to the arm of a wounded man who glared at him in impotent rage. Neither man spoke and Märti moved on as soon as he was finished. The wounded were being organized and assessed by the medics, one of whom was applying a small plastic sheet, taped on three sides to the chest wound of a middle-aged woman.

  Through the continual sounds of pain coming from the wounded, Märti heard the terrified screams of a little girl. In the heat of the moment, he had completely forgotten about the young woman and little girl who had been trying to cross the bridge. He raced over to the bastion where he found the small child kneeling by the body of the woman.

  Two wet holes in her black overcoat steamed in the cold air. One was over the heart. He knelt, checking for a pulse and finding none. The little girl looked up at Märti and, frightened by the stranger, she pushed at the woman with her tiny hands. “Mama,” she cried in French, still looking with fear at Märti. “You don’t sleep now!” Her words melted into incoherent sounds of fear and anguish as she sat alone in this place of horror.

  A private came over, crooning endearments softly in his accented French. The girl, her fear focused for the moment on the officer in front of her, allowed the young man to pick her up and carry her off towards the barricade. Märti knelt there, staring at the place where the little girl had been, and he tried to make sense of it.

  Why are we even here? What possible good is there in pitting soldiers against desperate civilians? He looked up as he heard his men exclaiming quietly behind him. At the far end of the bridge, several television news vans had already begun to set up. He looked back to the barricade. Finding the senior sergeant, he caught his eye and held up his hand with four fingers, then indicated the ground next to himself. The man nodded and selected four men, leading them over.

  “Oberlin, help the medics with the wounded, anyone who can be moved should go to the island where we can arrange for transport to a hospital - wait…” As his mind cleared, he began to remember the reasons why he had chosen to garrison this island. “Open the barricade and back up a truck, get on the radio to the other platoons on the island.” His voice had taken on a new sense of urgency as he realized how close help was for the wounded. “We’ll take them to Hôtel Dieu.”

  Oberlin nodded and ran back to the barricade, shouting as he went. Märti headed for the medics to let them know the plan. The historic hospital housed one of the city’s foremost trauma centers and it was next to the cathedral, only a few hundred meters away. He stopped by the lead medic, telling him quickly so as not to unduly distract him from his work. The man seemed relieved to know how close the hospital was.

  “Sir, you should find a way to let them know how many patients are coming,” the young medic advised as he worked to dress a sucking chest wound. “It could make the difference between life and death for some of these patients and perhaps the preservation of a leg or two.” He shouted at an idle soldier to finish the dressing while he moved on to another casualty.

  Märti activated his headset. “Four two, this is Four, over.” He used French, despite the earlier decision to use Swiss Italian for all radio communication while in Paris.

  The response was almost instantaneous, the other units would have heard the weapons fire and gone to high alert. “Four two, standing by, over.”

  “Four, I need a reliable man to get over to the hospital emergency ward at the Hôtel Dieu with a radio, over.”

  “Four two, roger that, reliable man to the hospital. Will go in person right now, over.”

  “Four, contact me when you find someone in charge, out.”

  With the urgencies in hand, Märti found himself free again to wonder why he and his men should be there in the first place. This is worse than useless. He could feel a cold rage building. A rage against the fools who had decided that combat troops should be used as crowd control. We aren’t policemen; we don’t have their training or experience. What did they think would happen when a soldier came under fire? His thoughts were interrupted as his headset warbled in his ear, announcing an incoming transmission burst.

  “Four, this is Four Two, over.”

  “Four, send, over.” Märti walked over to the senior medic.

  “Four Two, roger, am at trauma center with front desk staff, over.”

  “Four, wait one, over.” He handed the headset to the medic. “Take this, tell Four Two the particulars. Use French, we don’t want any delays in translation.”

  The medic donned the headset. “Four Two, this is Four One Mike, four times casualties with chest cavity wounds, two times casualties with abdominal wounds, less serious cases to follow, over.”

  A pause ensued while the officer in charge of Second Platoon relayed the information to the trauma staff, then the headset chirped and crackled again.

  “Four Two Mike, roger, two times casualties with grazing head wounds, eight times casualties with arm wounds, five times casualties with leg wounds, list ends, over.” He nodded at the reply, taking off the headset and handing it back to Märti. “He wants to talk to you again, sir.”

  “Four, send, over.”

  “Four Two, roger, staff are preparing. Sir, they aren’t very happy with us, over.”

  “Four, they aren’t the only ones, out.” He disconnected and watched as the worst cases were loaded into the back of the platoon’s five-ton. Now we have given them something new to focus on.  He glanced over at the far end of the bridge where a horde of television news vans had congregated, completely blocking traffic on the Quai de Conti.

  Now we have given the entire world something to focus on - the impression that we all live under a brutal regime and I am the face of that impression.

  Two days later, he found himself leaning against a pillar inside of the great cathedral. He had seen the news coverage from dozens of outlets. Each had denounced the actions of the Swiss troops as excessive and brutal. Each report had included a shot of Märti on the bridge, standing amidst the chaos. Every report had invariably gone on to present a summary of his career. The implication could not be missed by even the dullest viewer: this was the man responsible for the brutality on the Pont Neuf.

  The worst of it was that Märti could not claim that they were wrong. He was responsible for all of the men in his battalion and, if one of them cracked under stress, then he should have known that he was a risk. He knew that there was no chance of knowing all the men of his six platoons well enough to catch such a thing but both companies had captains, each platoon had lieutenants and each squad had a senior non-commissioned officer.

  Every soldier had friends.

  I wish I could say the same, Märti thought as the cold stone column drew the heat from his body. Even his company and platoon commanders had each other to talk to. It would be bad for the already-shaken morale of the battalion if Märti were to unload on one of his junior officers.

  “You carry a great weight in your heart, Major Bohren.” The bluff voice startled him and he looked up to see an elderly priest standing in the center of the nave. He had apparently recognized the Swiss officer from the news. “Your young lieutenant also carries a heavy burden.” The priest had crossed the nave as he spoke and now sat against the pillar opposite Märti, facing him across the floor of the second bay.

  Growing up, Märti had known some informal priests, but this man seemed out of place, sitting casually on the floor o
f one of the greatest cathedrals in Christendom as though he were about to pull out a picnic lunch. Even more unusual, he looked less like an aging priest and more like a retired army officer.

  “Why don’t you tell me about it,” the older man suggested.

  Leuzinger must have come here for confession, he thought. This priest knows what happened but can’t talk with me about it unless I tell him myself. He told the story, beginning from the moment he jumped out of the boat. The elderly man listened in silence and, when the major was done, shifted his position with a grimace.

  “My natural cushion isn’t what it once was,” the old man explained as he settled. “If you could go back two days, what would you have done differently?”

  Märti was surprised. He was not quite sure what to expect from this priest whom he had just met, but that question had gone neatly to the heart of his guilt. Despite appearing more concerned with his own buttocks, he was clearly listening very carefully. The question had sounded almost off-hand but that took away the tension, giving Märti time to think without feeling that an answer was immediately required.

  “I don’t know, Father.” He frowned at the floor, seeing the events again in his mind. “I suppose I should have been quicker to replace the handful of men who had been hit by the gasoline. That might have saved her.”

  If the priest noticed that the soldier hadn’t said them, he gave no sign of it. “A very dangerous choice,” he said with a barely perceptible shake of the head. “A gap in your defenses, even for just a moment, could have been all it took for a stand-off to become a melee.” He shifted again, with an apologetic smile. “What would happen, Major, if the crowd had broken through and come to blows with your men?”

  Märti didn’t need time to think about that and the priest seemed to know it because he was now obviously waiting for an answer. “Chaos. More would have died. My men would have been overwhelmed by the crowd, someone would have begun shooting and then more would have joined in.”

   “Some of the crowd would have seized weapons from your men,” added the priest. “The south end of the island would have become a charnel house.”

  This man seems to know a lot about the military, for a priest. “We shouldn’t have been here in the first place,” said Märti quietly. “My men are trained to fight soldiers, not hungry civilians angry at being forced to choose between food and medical care.”

  The priest looked absently into the middle distance between them for a moment. “When I first entered the priesthood,” he began, seeing the past as though it hung there, between the pillars. “I wanted to study canon law but I found myself placed in charge of an orphanage.” He shifted to lean a bit to the right. “Imagine my outrage,” he smiled. “Rather than the exciting future that I had planned out, I was stuck in an unimportant little building in a back alley of Marseilles. Ahh, that’s better,” he said as he shifted to his left, leaning on one hand.

  “Father, we should get up; the floor is too cold to sit on for any length of time.” He extended a hand and the man took it. As the priest came to his feet, Märti imagined the same scene, except the man was wearing fatigues and had webbing hanging about his torso as he came to his feet. It seemed far more natural than his current black clothing.

  The older man clapped him on the shoulder with a friendly grin. “Let’s go for a walk.” He led the way out the massive front door and down onto the Quai du Marché Neuf. “In time,” he resumed his earlier theme, his breath misting in the cool autumn air, “I came to realize that I had been of far greater service in that little orphanage. Some of my children have gone on to do great things and I like to flatter myself that I had some small part in their young lives.”

  They walked in silence for a while, not the slow perambulation one associates with a strolling priest, but a quick purposeful stride. They passed the men at the Petit Pont and the Pont St. Michel. When they reached the Pont Neuf, the priest threaded his way through the soldiers at the barricade as though such things were an everyday occurrence for him. The men gave way with deference and he led Märti out to the middle of the bridge. One camera crew was there on the far end, no doubt doing a follow-up piece.

  “We love to make plans,” he said, ignoring the camera. “But our plans do not take precedence and, quite often, our talents are needed where we least expect.” He turned to the down-river side and nodded towards the center bastion. “This is where you found her?” He hadn’t missed the reference earlier.

  Märti sighed as the memory filled his senses. He could hear the screams of the wounded, the quiet urgency of the medics and, most of all, the screams of the little girl. He nodded silently, not trusting his voice.

  “Major, it is my well-founded opinion that you could have done nothing to prevent this tragedy. In fact, you and your men did much in the aftermath to save the wounded.” He placed a comforting hand on Märti’s shoulder as he spoke. “Whether you believe it or not, I am one of the few who can make such a judgment based on personal experience. I have been in your shoes and I clearly remember how it felt all these years later.”

  I know who this is, thought Märti. He remembered, years ago, reading a piece on the ‘Warrior Bishop’, a former officer with the  Légion étrangère who had served in Operation Mantra in Chad. Something had happened while there that had caused him to forsake his life of adventure and enter the seminary. He had never revealed his reasons to anyone and Märti realized that he now knew, more than anyone, why this man had changed the trajectory of his life three decades ago.

  “You’re Bishop Cheverie, aren’t you?” He blurted the question in his surprise, even though he was already certain of the answer.

  The man turned and held out his hand.

  Märti dropped to his left knee and he kissed the ring.

  “I must admit to a small bit of subterfuge, my son,” he said as the officer climbed back to his feet. “I brought you here before revealing who I am.” He placed a guiding hand on his shoulder and they walked back to the barricade. “Though I believe you could have done nothing to prevent this tragedy, I also believe it important for the people of this city to believe it as well.”

  The men moved aside to let them back onto the island. “If you were seen as the figurehead of all that plagues our country, then more would die at these barricades. That is why I came here with you.” He stopped once they were past the barricades and turned to face Märti speaking loudly enough for the men of First Platoon to hear. “I would not have come if I believed you were to blame. No one can know what secret fears lurk in a man’s heart, and your young corporal would most likely have given his own life to save his comrades.”

  There was a murmur of agreement from the men at this. “He was a good man, Your Grace,” Leuzinger asserted sadly. “I wish I could have stopped him in some other way.”

  “We should all mourn the passing of a good man,” the bishop replied gently. “But he was in the grip of a fear that put him beyond reason. If you hadn’t acted, how many more would now be dead?” He looked at the men. “You have been on the grenade range, yes?” As they nodded, he continued. “The range NCO in your bunker carries a sidearm. You know why this is.”

  They nodded, some sneaking a glance at Leuzinger. The parallel was clear. A man who panicked while holding a live grenade could kill his comrades. It was the duty of the range NCO to ensure that the live grenade did not find its way over the back wall of the concrete cubicles. If that meant shooting the student, then that NCO would have a very difficult memory to live with.

  “You can’t dwell on it,” Cheverie continued. “What happened was unavoidable. What was done, had to be done. I believe you’ve been brought here for a reason. Perhaps to learn, perhaps to teach…” He turned his gaze on Märti. “You must discover what that reason is.” With that, he nodded to the men and walked back up the street towards the cathedral.

   

  Four Freedoms Park

  Roosevelt Island, New York

  December 5th, 2026
>
  Mark spotted Callum leaning on the low sea-wall, looking out over the the East River and he walked over, joining him in gazing across at Manhattan. “Had a problem with the cab this morning,” he said casually. Cal grunted non-commitally. “I pulled our video gear before it went into the garage,” he continued. “I can try to get him talking on the way to Kennedy this Friday.”

  “No need,” Cal grinned across the water where a protest march was starting to form up. “Change of plans. I had someone pick him up this morning and take him somewhere quiet.”

  Mark stared at Cal’s grinning profile in silence for a few moments. “You had him picked up,” he repeated Callum’s words flatly. “You mean you abducted him?” 

  “That’s right. We’ll interrogate him and then maybe have him record a video statement to help generate some buzz before we move into the next phase.” He looked over at Mark, awash with excitement. “We’re going to be very busy.”

  “Wait a minute.” Mark cocked his head. “You had him picked up. You have someone else in the city helping you?”

  Cal looked back at the city. “Compartmentalization, Marky my boy.” His face grew grim as he spoke. “Our group in Antioch is completely compromised because everyone knows about each other.” His hands were fists as they rested on the concrete sea-wall. “That won’t happen here. My capture team has no need to be seen with you or associated in any way with any of the other groups.”

  “Other groups?” Mark’s eyes grew wide in surprise. “Shit, Cal, you haven’t even been here a month and you got yourself a whole network?” He leaned on the wall and looked out at the Lower East Side. “You could at least let me know about changes in plans that do affect me. I was worried about missing our target this morning. I was all set to get him talking about what happened in Paris, and you went and changed the whole game.” He swiveled to look at Cal again, suspicion clouding his features. “Did you sabotage my cab last night?”

  Cal grimaced, looking down at the river. “Had to look natural, didn’t it? This way, your dispatcher can tell the police that you were clocked off when the kidnapping went down – no way you would have been anywhere near Kennedy when your regular customer went missing.” He looked around them quickly before continuing. “Listen, Mark, you and I are the planners. It was a mistake for me to risk you on an operation so I pulled you, and put in a different team.”

  There was no such team, of course, Cal was entirely on his own. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but there was something about Mark that set off alarms in his head. Kevin had gone to ground, so Cal couldn’t ask him about his cousin. Mark had a very… federal… feeling about him.

  Cal decided to let him believe there was a network. That would give him the time he needed. He could plan and execute his operation while they were hoping to gain access to his fictional network of operators.

   “So what are we planning?”

  A wolfish grin spread across Callum’s face. “We use the UN prisoner as our voice. Video messages on the web and every major news outlet. People will watch because we’re going to drive a big load of explosives right up to the Secretariat and set them off.”

  The best misdirection always had a grain of truth in it.

   

  UNS Hermann

  Cassini Proving Grounds,

  Geosynchronous Orbit

  January 5th, 2027

  Frank brachiated onto the observation deck like a pro. The two day delay in launching the medium cruiser had left him stranded on the Amazon and he had spent his time exploring the small frigate from stem to stern as she guarded the shipyard. A ship-to-ship shuttle had transferred him over to the new ship once the engine glitch had been sorted out and the crew-ban lifted. Until the ship was capable of leaving Earth’s gravity-well under her own power, all non-essential personnel were refused permission to board.

  He had been awestruck by the size of the Amazon. It contained more than three times the volume of the contemporary surface frigates that plied Earth’s oceans. The frigates, all named for rivers, were the smallest of the fleet and were designed for fast acceleration while still carrying a considerable armament.  The Amazon’s complement of twenty 105mm and fifteen 155mm guns were adapted straight out of the self propelled howitzers that had served in Earth’s many bloody conflicts.

  The turrets were drastically shrunken compared to their terrestrial cousins as they had no need to hold crewmen. Auto-loading shunts, nicknamed ‘powder monkeys’, fed ammunition from central magazines located in the middle of the vessel. A smaller complement of close-in weapon systems or CIWS was spread around the outer surface in an attempt to provide a last defense against incoming weapons such as missiles.

  Approaching the Hermann – all cruisers were named for famous warriors - Frank had been reminded of just how small the frigates really were. The Amazon may have been bigger than a surface frigate, but the Hermann’s dimensions were more than double that of the Amazon, giving her a volume that was roughly eight times as much.

  The Hermann bristled with weapons. She carried thirty 105mm and thirty 155mm guns as a base armament but also carried four 250mm bow chasers as well as two more mounted aft as stern chasers. The emphasis of this vessel was obviously on attack, though she could still sting in withdrawal. At the ship’s heart was the strategic magazine where twenty W87 thermonuclear warheads lay strapped into storage racks. The warheads had been harvested from American Peacekeeper missiles and their modified casings lay in racks on the far wall. Heavy steel cones were provided to increase the chance of a warhead reaching an enemy ship under fire as well as more exotic ceramic foam shields to allow the warheads to reach a planet’s surface.

  As with the Amazon, the Hermann bristled with an array of CIWS, mostly the updated version of the venerable Vulcan Gatling gun. She was a beautiful ship in an ugly sort of way. Both classes of escort vessel were simply designed, much like an elongated matchbox with a slight indent or hogging in the middle. The edges and corners were rounded off to provide a more effective firing solution but the look was definitely boxy.

  Today’s exercise would be maneuver and fire, and Frank was keenly aware of the numerous stanchions and grip handles that littered every interior surface of these vessels. The script called for an emergency thrust to bring the main battery to bear upon a target that currently sat at forty degrees off-axis. This would test the ship’s ability to quickly engage an unexpected target. The heavy 250mm guns could only traverse ten degrees due to the massive breech mechanisms and so the ship had to be swung about to bring her main armament into action.

  This represented a change from the old naval tactic of ‘crossing the T’. In the days of sail, a ship’s main armament was mounted on the port and starboard sides. The bow often contained smaller, long-range guns intended to interdict an enemy’s rigging or punch a hole in her hull. A captain who crossed the T was one who had his broadside facing the bow of an enemy. A 44-gun frigate like the old USS Constitution could wreak crippling damage on a 74-gun ship of the line if she was crossing her enemy’s bow.

  The Hermann turned that old rule on its head. Her sting lay in her nose, not in her broadside. By swinging to face the enemy, not only would the main battery be clear to fire, but also the entire flank armament of 105mm and 155mm guns could swivel on their turrets to face the enemy. The turrets could rotate by 360 degrees and the barrel itself rotated in a 180-degree arc within its mounting.

  “Emergency maneuver. All hands brace for impact.” The voice blared from speakers throughout the ship, followed by immediate activation of four of the eight maneuvering thrusters built into the bow and stern. The forward port thrusters and the aft starboard thrusters suddenly went to full power, and everyone on the observation deck scrambled to find handholds as a deep rumbling sound reverberated through the ship. For a moment, they looked at each other sheepishly as there was still no movement; it took a long time to get a ship this heavy moving.

  After about five seconds, Frank noticed a tendency for
his body to drift to starboard and he was slowly rotating around the handhold mounted to what he thought of as the ceiling. The tendency grew in strength as the spin accelerated. Screens mounted in the observation deck showed a plan version of the vessel, indicating the change in orientation. As they reached the twenty-degree mark, Frank could see the forward engines shut off on the port side and roar into life to starboard. The engines were fueled by a massive tank of liquid propellant. Though solid fuel engines were cheap and efficient, they couldn’t be shut off once started and would have been worse than useless for maneuvering.

  There was a moment of reprieve as the ship ceased its rotational acceleration and then everyone in the room began to rotate in the opposite direction. The engines continued all the way to the forty-degree mark and then shut down, leaving the ship facing her target. The evolution had taken just over two seconds per degree.

  Now came the tense moment. The turret guns had been proven during the Amazon’s testing but everyone was a little nervous about the main armament’s viability. The nervous chatter on the mess deck had centered around the recoil tearing an opening in the hull. “Why else,” the head cook had intoned with a knowing look. “would I be needing to wear this?” He’d brandished his EVA helmet at Frank.

  “All hands, all hands, main battery test beginning. All hands seal your EVA gear immediately. Test begins in twenty seconds.” An automated voice began a countdown as Frank forced himself to remain calm. He carefully pulled his helmet from the Velcro tab at his waist and slid it over his head. He felt a moment of relief as he pulled the locking ring, hearing the satisfying click as it engaged the seal around his neck. The automated voice took on a more artificial tone as the small speakers in his helmet activated.

  Now, with ten seconds to go, his mind ran through the worst case scenario. What if the mounts fail? His hand sought the ceiling handle for reassurance. That barrel weighs a hell of a lot. If it came crashing back through the ship it would pass right through the magazines. He shuddered despite the uncomfortable heat of his suit. There were hundreds of charge canisters stored behind the main batteries.

  Once the projectile was rammed into the breech, the designated number of sealed charge canisters would then ride onto the loading rails and the breech block would force them in behind the outgoing round. The propellant contained it’s own oxidizers, allowing the loading compartment to be unpressurized.

  The charges were the greatest danger, Frank now realized. If a gun came free of its hydraulic dampening mechanism, it would almost certainly demolish the forward compartments of the ship, including the powder store for the main battery. Cellulose canisters were no match for the tons of steel that would tear through the magazine and a deadly cloud of propellant would be the result. The ensuing explosion would destroy the entire front half of the warship and cripple her, though it wasn’t certain any crew would be left alive anyway.

  It was already too late to change most of the first fleet. The modules were already sitting in the transfer yard and there was no way to change the design. I need to get Kim involved in improving the designs for the next two fleets, Frank thought as the countdown reached zero.

  A deep bellow sounded through the ship, transmitting through the bulkheads. Monitors and other fixtures rattled for a few seconds while observers took note of the worst offenders for remedial action. Frank raised his hands involuntarily as a brilliant fireball blossomed from the end of the huge gun. The projectile was lost against the blackness of space and all eyes looked to the monitor where a fire control display was shown.

  The round ran true, passing through the center of the target twenty kilometers away. A chorus of oddly muffled cheers sounded in the room. Frank looked to the damage control option on the central monitor and breathed a sigh of relief. The weapon mounts, their housings and the bulkheads of the entire region around the main battery had optic fibers embedded in them. Any cracks would sever the optic conduits and register immediately on the damage control system.

  The procedure repeated three more times for each of the forward guns before the main show could begin. Every weapon on the ship would now partake in a live fire exercise. The fire control panel came to life as operators in the Combat Information Center selected all batteries and designated the target as live. Frank looked out the windows in time to see turrets swing from the safety position to bear on the primary target.

  The entire ship seemed wreathed in flames and combustion gases as the sound of close to thirty guns began to hammer through the ship. There was the sharper report of the 105’s mixed in with the deeper, sonorous booms of the 155’s. The 250’s were set to fire in sequence, partly to minimize the chance of damage to the ship, but also to ensure a steady stream of fire from the big guns.

  With a cycle time of roughly twenty seconds, it was decided that an enemy might feel he had a short breathing space between volleys in which to think and act. By firing in sequence, one every five seconds, it was hoped that fear of the big guns might disrupt the enemy’s decision cycle.  

  A section of the fire control display indicated that two starboard batteries and one dorsal battery had been tasked to a new target.  In unison, the selected weapons turned to the new target, their fire now converging on a single point ten kilometers from that side of the ship while the remaining guns continued to fire on the target to the front.

  Frank had seen enough and wanted to get below to the CIC before the next phase began. He made his way over to the hatch in the floor and passed through into the main dorsal-ventral trunk. He descended as quickly as he dared, remembering that several crewmen had broken their wrists by moving too fast and carelessly grabbing a handhold without considering the forces involved.

  He reached the CIC hatch and passed through one of the airlocks that allowed continued access in the event of a hull breach. Once inside, he nodded to the Swiss soldier who guarded the airlock and floated over to the fire control team. Their status board was far better than the display up on the observation deck. It showed each of the ship’s six main surfaces with color-coded zones indicating individual batteries.

  “Designate ventral five and six to target Zulu-Five-Five-Alpha.” The gunnery officer spoke as loudly as possible without shouting, his German accent oddly lost as he raised his voice.

  “Ventral batteries five and six to target Zulu-Five-Five-Alpha, aye sir,” the gunnery director replied as he touched the screen to highlight the affected batteries, then touched the target designator on a list at the bottom. Frank wasn’t sure of the man’s rank as he was unfamiliar with German insignia. The individual turrets went gray as they traversed, going back to red as they came to bear. “Ventral five and six now engaging target Zulu-Five-Five-Alpha,” the man reported. “Ventral Five-Alpha is masked.”

  The display showed the one turret still in gray. It would be unable to fire if another part of the ship were in the way. To ensure this, the weapons integrators had devised an ingenious system using adjustable physical barriers in the traverse mechanisms of each weapon. It was physically impossible for any gun to fire on a part of the ship.

  That plan was about to be put to the test.

  The captain tapped his headset. “All hands, emergency maneuvering, brace for impact.” Deactivating the headset, he kept his eyes on the monitors in front of him as he began to issue orders. “Helm, bring us around to face target Zulu-Five-Five-Alpha.” The ship began to come about on a flat plane as though she were sitting on the Pacific. “Fire Control, deactivate exercise target Zulu-Three-One-Alpha,  activate exercise target  Zulu-Five-Five-Bravo and engage.”

  The new target now sat apart from the flat plane that the ship was spinning on. The fire control was programmed to offer corrections to the helmsman so that the ship could optimize the use of her gunnery. While engaging two targets, the ship herself made the third point  that changed a line to a plane. If she were aligned with that plane, then all dorsal and ventral guns should be able to hit either of the targets.

 
“Releasing helm corrections,” the gunnery director called.

  The helmsman looked at the captain, who nodded. “Engaging helm corrections.” He stabbed a finger at the screen on his console.

  As the ship came around to bear on the new target, it began to roll slightly to starboard. “Coming into the plane. Ventral and port batteries unmasking. Interdict masking is active on five guns, four, three, interdict masking stable at two guns,” the gunnery director reported with pleased surprise as the ship ceased to move.

  There were smiles and nods around the CIC. The deep booming thud of a 250mm gun sounded through the room as the forward battery once again had a target in its firing solution.

  “Fire Control, all batteries cease fire.” The captain grinned like a kid with a new toy, a toy that wouldn’t break apart and leave hundreds of men to asphyxiate in their suits. He tapped his headset again. “All hands, secure from action and report.” He drifted over to Frank, extending his hand with a smile. “It will do very nicely, Mr. Bender,” he said as they shook hands. “Do they come in red?”

   

  Turtle Bay

  Manhattan, New York

  January 15th, 2027

  Frank was just picking up his jacket from the table in the corner of his office when Jess walked in. “You know,” she said with an apologetic smile. “I really should check the clock before I go visiting. Meeting Ellen for lunch?”

  “Yeah, she’s downstairs in the cafeteria having a coffee while I was finishing up some work here.” He stood at his desk in front of a large portrait of Captain Samuel Bender. “She won’t mind waiting a little longer if you need something.”

  Jess waved her hand “No, I was just looking for your first impression of the Hermann.” She headed for the door. “We can talk about it this afternoon.” She frowned as they both heard the sound of pounding feet. A security officer appeared in the open doorway.

  “Madame Secretary, we have a bomb threat against the building. The FBI lost track of the suspect we were briefed on last month.” The man stepped into the office and turned on the television on the wall, setting it to one of the 24-hour news channels. “And our missing employee has finally surfaced.

  “They tell me that the news outlets are currently their only source of information, but the government has deployed their standby units from the New York National Guard on the strength of what we’ve learned so far.” A man appeared on the screen, holding a newspaper in front of his chest.

  “My name is Jarl Brevik.” He sounded exhausted. “I work for the United Nations. My captors have given me a statement to read.” He looked slightly to the right, obviously reading cue cards. “The UN has fabricated the threat of alien invasion as a justification for taking over the countries of the world. Their brutality in suppressing the desperate citizens of France is only the beginning. By taking trillions of dollars from the economies of the world, they have artificially created the very conditions that justify armed intervention. The lost funds that have plunged us into anarchy are now being used to enslave us. There are no aliens, there is no fleet being built in orbit. These are lies to frighten us and keep us compliant while the takeover is carried out. I urge all reporters to investigate every scrap of information provided by the UN. Take no statement at face value and you will soon learn the truth.”

  After a short pause, he continued. “To ensure that our message is not forgotten, a massive explosion will occur at UN headquarters at twelve-forty-five today.”

  The screen went blank. Then a visibly shaken anchorman  appeared. “Again, this was released just moments ago. An SNN producer has contacted the UN with a warning and we hope this proves to be a hoax, but we will have a unit on scene in just a few moments.” He raised a hand halfway to his ear before catching the reflex and putting it back down. “For those of you who are just joining us, a terrorist threat has been made against UN Headquarters here in New York. The stated time for the detonation is in just over ten minutes from now and we have Sarah Vigil live on the scene. Sarah, what can you tell us?”

  There was a moment of confusion as the transmission was not quite ready from the SNN unit and the anchor’s gaze cast about the studio seeking instruction.

  “Ma’am, we need to get you out of the building right now; we’re holding the elevator for you.” The security officer reached for her elbow.

  Jess shrugged him off. “You haven’t sounded the alarm; I won’t sneak out in an empty elevator while my staff stay behind in ignorance. Start the evacuation, Major.”

  He shook his head firmly. “No, Ma’am. Our orders are very clear: no evac until we have you secured.” He began to reach for her again but Jess raised her hands.

  “All right, I see there is no sense in arguing. It will only delay the general evacuation if we stand here and argue.”  She headed for the door with the relieved security officer behind her. She went into the hall, looked quickly around the walls and walked ten feet towards the elevator where she spun to the right and pulled the fire alarm handle on the wall. “Release the elevator, Major. I’m not leaving.” She turned and brushed past him, walking calmly back into Frank’s office.

  If she were a man, would I be staying as well or would I be running to catch that elevator right now? Frank followed her back into the room, wondering if he was about to die because he didn’t want to seem more afraid than a woman. Ellen would tell me I’m nothing but a big dumbass.

  Ellen!  He raced over to his coat where he had dropped it on a chair by the window, rifling through the pockets until he found his cell phone.