Tomahawk

  Chapter 2

  Frank Garraghan, the President of the United States, or POTUS, slammed the phone into the receiver. The phone broke in two, which was unfortunate because it was the same phone Woodrow Wilson used to order the American spy in Sarajevo to have the Black Hand organization murder Sophie, Archduchess of Hohenberg, wife of Archduke Franz Ferdinand. It was unfortunate that the Black Hand organization targeted the Archduke as well and therefore sparked World War I, because all Woodrow Wilson really wanted was the assassination of Sophie Archdeacon, who ran Sarajevo's brothel and shorted Wilson fifty bucks.

  And now the phone was broken, and Frank was pissed. Not because this ancient and historic phone was broken, but because he now had to shout for assistance from a Secret Service agent standing outside.

  "Those goddamn aliens!" he shouted.

  An agent entered the Oval Office. "Sir?"

  "I broke my phone."

  The agent shrugged. "What's that have to do with the aliens, sir?"

  "They've forced my hand, and forced me to contact that jackass Hawk Abrams, and he upset me, and I broke my phone."

  "We can get you a new phone, sir."

  "I liked that one," Frank said. "Don't treat me like a child."

  "Yes sir, sorry sir. Anything else?"

  "Yes."

  Frank stood up and walked around his desk.

  "Any news on the aliens?"

  The agent shook his head again. "They still hope to resume a diplomatic dialogue to help our two species have a long and fertile relationship."

  "You agree that it's a load of bull, though."

  "I'm not sure, sir. But I do agree that a technology as powerful as what they demonstrated is too powerful to be allowed to exist."

  "Is Hawk on his way?"

  "We lost track of him, but we expect he'll be here shortly."

  It was just the two of them there, but a third voice entered the conversation.

  "More shortly than you think."

  Frank and the agent looked up just as Hawk Abrams flipped down from the ceiling.

  He leaned against Frank's desk, his arms crossed. "You want me to infiltrate the alien mother ship and destroy some powerful technology, don't you, Mr. President?"

  "Goddamn Hawk, how did you get in here?"

  Hawk ignored the president's question and walked over to the alcohol cabinet. He lifted a full glass decanter to his nose and sniffed.

  "Ah, you always get the good stuff, don't you?" he said. "Evan Williams. Nice."

  He emptied the bourbon into his new beer glass with breasts on it, filling it to the brim.

  "Classy," Frank said.

  Hawk took three large gulps, downing a third of the glass.

  The president pressed him. "Seriously Hawk, how did you get in here so quickly? This is national security we're talking about."

  Hawk wiped bourbon off his mustache. "Elementary, Frank. After you said, 'You're damn right you are, you son of a bitch,' I asked you a question about Notre Dame's new quarterback, which I knew would keep you preoccupied for at least three minutes before you realized I wasn't on the phone and slammed it into the receiver, likely to break it. Which was plenty of time. I ran out of my factory, hopped on my motorcycle, and launched out of the parking lot at a hundred miles an hour. After dodging traffic for two and a half minutes, I was about fifty yards from the White House. At one hundred eighty miles an hour, I hit a ramp and flew through the air, launched off my motorcycle, and landed on the roof of the West Wing. I rolled backwards to hang off the edge so your snipers couldn't see me. Then, I shimmied across the wall to the Oval Office. I swung my legs up so I wasn't dangling and crawled upside-down over to the secret service agent you have guarding the left door. When I was close enough, I swung my body and landed on his shoulders, strangling him with a triangle choke and knocking him out. Then I watched you through the glass door as you spoke on the phone, and slowly opened it. As you realized you had just spoken for three minutes and I hadn't even been listening, you slammed the phone in anger—just as I expected. That was my moment. I snuck inside and masked the sound of the door closing with your phone breaking. And as you stared at your broken phone I quickly jumped on top of your drawers, scurried up the window blinds, and latched onto the ceiling. I used my grappling claws to remain out of L.o.S as we call it in the biz, or Line of Sight. Then, when I was ready, I dropped down—surprising you both. Just another Friday for Hawk Abrams, Master Infiltrator."

  Frank furrowed his brow. "Well, when you say it like that you make it sound damn easy."

  "How is Notre Dame's new quarterback anyway?" Hawk asked.

  "Garbage. Now let's get down to business."

  Frank snapped his fingers, and the inner door of the Oval Office opened. In walked Chief of Staff Dorsey Burwell, Vice President Stanley Childe, and Secretary of Defense Horace Florence. The three of them nodded politely to Hawk as they entered, and he nodded back.

  But then a fourth man entered the room. Tall, dark skinned, and built, with a short Mohawk, a long beard, and round blue-shaded sunglasses. He reminded Hawk of a pirate. This man was Graven 'Codename: Raven' Attaway, the Director of the NRO and Hawk's former boss. Raven and Hawk eyed one another with contempt.

  "Look here, our former COMM," Raven said. "Guess you were only ever good at one thing after all."

  Hawk narrowed his eyes. "Raven."

  Before he retired, Hawk's formal title was COMM, or the Communications Systems Acquisition Directorate. The COMM was a department of the NRO, or National Reconnaissance Office. The main aspect of the NRO was to stick a lot of satellites into the sky to spy on enemies below. But there were some areas of the planet that satellites couldn't penetrate, which was where Hawk came in. He would infiltrate highly secure enemy bases and plant cameras and microphones, all without being detected. His formal position was COMM, but he was often referred to as The Infiltrator.

  Raven narrowed his eyes back at Hawk. "In our time of need, we relied on you Hawk. And you left us." He turned to the president and continued. "How can we trust he won't leave us again?"

  "I'm glad you asked," Frank said. He turned to the left side of the room, opposite the side Hawk used to sneak in. From his pocket he withdrew a small button, which he pressed. Immediately the lights dimmed and the television turned on.

  "This footage is privileged to only those in this room and a few others with the highest security clearance," Horace said.

  On the television Hawk watched as a small squad of aliens disembarked from their ship. The sky was blue, the ground sand—they were in a desert, a military base somewhere. The president was surrounded by a platoon of soldiers. This was Hawk's first time seeing the aliens. As far as the general public was aware, there was an object in the atmosphere, large and bright, that the US government claimed to be the first microwave-thrust capable mobile observatory. But Hawk worked in government long enough to smell bullshit from the stool of his boring machine. He wanted nothing to do with aliens, yet here he was.

  The aliens were surprising to look at, but Hawk supposed that any intelligent bipedal creature that didn't look like a human would look surprising.

  "As opposed to all life on Earth, which is composed of carbon, we've learned that the aliens are an iron-based life form," Horace Florence said. "They are significantly denser than humans. So they are stronger, but considerably slower, despite the comparable dimensions of our two species."

  They had large feet and two legs, thick and short, covered by the equivalent of human spandex pants. Hawk suspected that tipping one over would be next to impossible, and felt a pang of weakness on behalf of humanity. The aliens' torsos were long and thick, and they all appeared fat. At the base of where Hawk supposed their equivalent of the human cervical spine was, they had tails that reached down to the ground, similar to an elephant's trunk. Their clothing was comparable to spandex, and their tails were covered all the way to the base. They had two arms like humans, but their arms were longer. If they leaned over at a forty
-five degree angle, their arms would touch the ground. Their joints were where Hawk would have suspected them to be.

  Their faces, however, were the strangest part, because they were surprisingly human. They had hair, noses, eyes and mouths. Some of them even had facial hair. Two of them had Mohawks. All in all, they looked like NFL offensive linemen with trunks on the back of their necks.

  The aliens approached the president and the alien in front, dressed in gold spandex and adorning a Mohawk, began speaking.

  "The name of this individual is Jimmie," it said. "This individual hopes the English of the tongue of this individual is understandable to the tongue of humanity."

  On the screen, Frank Garraghan nodded. "Yes, it is very good. You picked this all up from human radio transmissions?"

  "The language of the tongue of humanity and the language of the tongue of the species of this individual are structured of a nature similar, and the group of this individual are the smartest of the species of this individual, as certainly the astronauts of humanity must be humans of intelligence that place above the intelligence average of humanity likewise."

  If Frank had a difficult time understanding the aliens, he didn't let it show. "Yes, well I must thank you for how democratically you handled your arrival," he said. "A common conception concerning the arrival of aliens was that you would just land wherever and shock us all with your arrival. I appreciate you reaching out in secret and allowing us to device a strategy to best deliver the news to our public."

  "The gratification you deliver this group of individuals is of a nature kind but unnecessary. When the introduction of the species of this individual first met life extraterrestrial, the species of this individual learned etiquette proper for introductions likewise."

  "I understand. Before we begin actual important discussion, I just have to ask—your name isn't actually Jimmie, is it?"

  "Jimmie is the name for humanity of this individual. This individual chose it from the program of the radio entitled The Air Adventures of Jimmie Allen."

  "What is your actual name? And what is the name of your species?"

  "The name of the species of this individual is Rhaokin–" (He said this like Row-keen) "This individual is a Rhaokin. In the way of the Rhaokin, the length of the name is determined by the strength of the individual. The name of this individual is seconds long thirteen. In culture of the Rhaokin, the first sound of the babies of the Rhaokin determines the name of the individual. At the coming of every 'year', the individual partakes in the ceremony of renaming. The length of a name is political. The longer the name, the more 'alpha' the claim of the individual. Too alpha the name, the individual is targeted. Too weak the name, the individual is considered likewise."

  "How does thirteen seconds compare to the rest of your species?"

  "It is above the average."

  Frank nodded. "Interesting. We can learn much from each other's cultures."

  "That would be a situation amenable to us. As a sign of faith well intentioned, we have identified the species mosquito that your kind finds irritable, that is also unnecessary to the ecosystem of Earth. We have used the tools of the Rhaokin to eliminate the mosquito."

  The screen went black.

  Hawk turned to Frank, who still pointed the remote at the screen after turning it off.

  "Those bastards are long winded," Frank said. "But you get the picture. Yes, what they said was true. They used some sort of alien bio-weapon to kill off every mosquito on the planet."

  Horace Florence picked up where the president left off. "We understand that it was a gesture of good faith, but the fact that they have such deadly weaponry isn't something we can stand by and allow to exist. The Rhaokin suspect nothing. We continued diplomatic relations pleasantly."

  "Let me stop you there," Hawk said. "That video looks fake as hell. Those alien costumes are shit."

  "It's not fake, Hawk," Horace said.

  "Those are actual aliens?"

  "Yes."

  "The way they talk is ridiculous," Hawk said. "It's like a bad movie."

  Raven grimaced. "You think we invited you here for an analysis? For your insight?" He smirked. "You know the only reason you're here, Hawk."

  Hawk frowned at Raven. "Well, let me make this easy for you all. I'm out."

  Frank and Raven shared a look.

  "What makes you think you have a choice in the matter?" Frank said with a sneer.

  "What should make me think I don't?"

  "Only this—"

  Frank turned back on the television. Instead of the alien confrontation, however, Hawk saw something else. Security camera footage inside what looked like an interrogation room. In the middle of the room, sitting on a chair, was a woman with her head down. Her hair obscured her face.

  "What the hell are you showing me?" Hawk said.

  The woman looked up. Although the footage was slightly blurry and only in black and white, Hawk recognized their captive immediately.

  "Sharline Taul! My girlfriend, a once struggling actress who only recently landed the lead role in the Latin television kids show sensation, Ángele, about an angel in disguise that just began college!" Hawk shouted. "You bastards! Let her go!"

  Frank shut off the television. "You know what you have to do."

  "Or what, you'll kill her?"

  "Maybe we'll just cancel her television show and break her heart, along with the hearts of thousands of young Latin children."

  Hawk paced around the room angrily.

  "Breaking into the alien mother ship is insane."

  Now Raven spoke. "Hawk, you know I think you're unreliable. You don't play by the rules and I just flat-out despise you. But damn it, you're the best we've got—maybe the best I've ever seen. We need you out there, and we're fresh out of options. Will you rescue humanity, one last time, for old-times' sake?"

  Hawk turned away, chugged some whiskey and slammed the glass down on the president's desk. He hunched over, leaning on his hands, and looked out the window.

  "Hawk?" Frank said. "We've explored all our options. This is it. You're all we've got. You have my word that nothing will happen to Sharline. And if something should happen to you, we'll ensure that she lives the rest of her life like royalty."

  Dorsey Burwell approached and spoke for the first time. "It was my idea Hawk. I met with all our experts. There was a huge conference at Cambridge a few weeks back. They said the risk is very real but it is impossible to control. But then they said, 'well almost impossible.' We all knew what they meant. Impossible, but for one man. They meant you Hawk. You're our only hope."

  Frank handed Hawk his phone. "It's the prime minister," Frank said.

  Hawk took the phone and listened. The voice on the other end sounded old and British. "Hawk? This is Sir Basil Herbert Silberfanny Cummerbund the Third, the prime minister of the United Kingdom." He paused for a couple seconds, then continued. "Now listen here, you miserable cunt. You're pissing in the wind if you think we're just twiddling our Jacobs and waiting for those jolly space twinklers to fiddle our cunts and pin the tail on the slags. Those cunts was muddling their panties and prancing with their pricks in the honey, but I'll bet two Rogers to one that you can spouse their tim-toms, and you was the only cheeky cunt who could. Bloody hell, if I knew we was kicking around a bleeding mug I would've shit the bed and cocked up a kidney. But we wasn't, and we're still dodgy, and we expect the same from you."

  He hung up the phone before Hawk could reply. Hawk handed the phone back to Frank, somewhat stupefied.

  "Hawk," Horace Florence said. "We have everything you'll need. You depart in a week. We have a single captain stealth orbiter that you'll man. Your EVA suit has dual thrusters and a grappling ray to home you into their landing dock undetected. From there, you just have to do what you do best—break in, disable the machine, and break out without being detected."

  "Do we have any other intel? Do we know where they keep the machine, or what it even looks like?"

  "I'm not g
oing to bullshit you Hawk. We don't even know if it is a machine. But this is our only chance, and it's a chance we're willing to take."

  "We've started making arrangements, Hawk," Frank said. "You're rich and off the grid after this. Somewhere where even I won't be able to find you. You do this and you're out of the game for good, with nothing to worry about ever again."

  Raven shook his head and smirked. "I know you Hawk—probably better than anyone on this whole damn planet. You're not going to do this for the riches or the girl or the world. But you are going to do this and here's why: This will be the greatest challenge of your life, a challenge that you can't just walk away from. You walk from this and you'll always wonder if there truly was a mark that you couldn't infiltrate. You want to prove you're the best? You want to be the Master Infiltrator? Well, here's your chance."

  Hawk finished off the rest of his whiskey, still looking out the window. "Shut up," he said. "Just shut up. You had me at hello, you motherfuckers."