Judy drew herself up slightly in her chair. “They’re called ‘escargots.’ ”
Holding his burger possessively with both hands, Ron shrugged. “What’s the difference?”
“They’re high-class snails; they come from good families.”
She continued, “C’mon, what is it with you, Mr. Grumpy?” She gestured at their surroundings. “We’re in Paris. Candles, violins, ratatouille—you can even get bearnaise sauce with your burger. Lighten up.”
Turning away, he looked off into the distance—and not at the nearby nineteenth-century iron architectural marvel that dominated the horizon, either. As opposed to him simply eating something, something was clearly eating at him.
“What is it, Ron?”
He hesitated, eyed his sandwich, and put the next bite on hold. “Y’know how sometimes you take dinner out of the oven too early? And it looks like it’s done, but then when you take a bite it’s kinda like— a breaded ice cube?”
Her expression hardened. “Are you criticizing my cooking just ’cause we’re in Paris? Ron, what the hell’re you talking about?”
His concern dismissed her attempt at humor. “I just hope we didn’t let Sam out of the oven too early. I hope he’s ready to—find his own way.”
Seeing that neither her kitchen nor her parenting skills were under attack, she relaxed. “Oh, Ronald— it’s the sign of a real man when he can admit that he misses his child. I miss Sam, too.” She turned wistful. “His voice, the way he always used to ask for a second glass of milk, the sound of his feet coming down the stairs to dinner, the way he would look at girls and then hurriedly look away if he thought you noticed—so many things! Maybe—maybe we could have another one. A girl, this time.”
“What? Nah, they’re way too much of a pain in the ass.” He indicated their surroundings, his response showing that in actuality he was not totally oblivious to them. “Can you imagine being here, like this, with a little kid in tow? Not me. I’m done. It’s Ronny’s playtime now.”
Beneath the table, her foot rose and came to rest on the seat of another chair. One that was already occupied by her husband. She settled it into the warmest, most comfortable nook available. This caused him to pause yet again with his burger halfway to his mouth.
“Judith . . . ?” He stared straight back at her, only a few sesame seeds threatening to interrupt his suddenly laserlike line of sight.
“Ronald ...,” she murmured, leaning forward and resting her chin on the back of one hand.
“What’re you doing?”
She smiled innocently. “Just—admiring the Eiffel Tower. It’s even bigger than I imagined.” Her smile segued into a wide grin.
He responded in kind, looking around and calling to their waiter.
“Gargon? Check, por favor,
The man smiled a response. “Immediately, monsieur;” Americans—linguistically inept, with table manners and appetites that would make Obelix look stylish, but they always tipped well.
Judy Witwicky’s cell phone rang. Someone returning her previous call, she wondered—or another friend interested in vicariously sharing her vacation? She answered merrily.
“Oui? Bonnnn-jourrrr ...”
An eerie and decidedly unsettling electronic howl caused her to pull the phone away from her ear. Some kind of serious intercontinental interference, she decided. Then the whine resolved itself into words that were more disturbing than the drone.
“WHERE—IS—YOUR—SON? ”
The pleasure of the previous moments dissolved under the weight of the unsettling query. “What? Who is this?”
“WHERE—IS—YOUR—SON?!” The reiteration was both a question and a demand.
She stared at the phone as if it had suddenly turned into a toad. Who could it be? What was behind it? Her catalog of experience dredged up the most likely explanation.
“Your heavy breathing is not impressing anyone, pervert—and I will report this call to the French foreign legion.” Disconnecting, she turned off the power to the phone. Across the table, her husband eyed her uncertainly.
“What was that all about, hon?”
She summoned back her earlier smile. “Wrong number. ”
The pair of huge metal orbs came screaming down from space, tearing through the atmosphere so fast that their arrival barely had time to register on a few scattered monitors and telescopes. Not that anything could have been done to stop them even if their presence had been recognized and their respective vectors plotted sooner. They were moving far too fast.
The first came down over the open Atlantic, but it did not plunge into the dark green waters. It slammed straight into the flight deck of the U.S.S. Lincoln, traveling so fast that no one even saw what had struck the ship. Torn apart by sheer kinetic force, steel, aluminum, alloys, and carbon fiber were shredded like tinfoil. A series of explosions ripped through the guts of the huge vessel, sending planes, equipment, and personnel flying.
Hulled completely through, the carrier began to inhale ocean at a rate no shutting of watertight doors could forestall. Total destruction had overcome it so fast that there had not even been time to sound the Abandon Ship. As the two halves sank beneath the waves, men and women fought to surface, struggling to attach themselves to hastily inflated life rafts, preservers, or anything that might float.
One figure needed no such puny artificial support. Standing on the screws of the rapidly sinking stern of the carrier, Megatron surveyed what he had wrought with cold satisfaction.
Ron Witwicky was holding his wife’s right hand and staring into her eyes when the glasses on their table began to shake. The vibration intensified, spilling her wine and his beer.
“Earthquake?” She eyed him uncertainly.
He was openly doubtful. “In Paris? Never heard of an earthquake in Paris.” The shaking grew worse, and he gripped the sides of the table to keep the remnants of their meal from sliding off. “Never heard of an earthquake in France ” A bright light made him look up and to his left.
The sky was screaming.
Coming in at a much less acute angle, the second metal orb streaked past the Eiffel Tower and without slowing, sheared off the top of a building before splashing into the Seine.
More identifiable screams filled the surrounding streets and shops and cafes as pedestrians and diners surrendered to panic. Cars crashed in the streets as gaping drivers forgot what they were doing to gawk at the destruction. Gendarmes stared, then fumbled for their phones to report that they were witnessing the impossible. The boulevard and side streets began to fill with fleeing, terrified residents and tourists.
Ron grabbed his wife’s hand as they ran from the restaurant. But to where? What might happen next? Was there a safer place to be?
Their hotel. It wasn’t far, just a few blocks around the corner. As good a place as any. In any event, the only place they knew. But the street was packed, and drivers were beginning to accelerate in defiance of every law. Trapped, some motorists started driving on the sidewalks, heedless of the danger this posed to those on foot. Better, Ron decided, to get away from the increasingly treacherous traffic.
He turned down an alley he was convinced ran straight to the back of their hotel. Surely there would be at least a service entrance there, and the narrower passageway was devoid of vehicles as even those on scooters and bikes sought to get away from the city center. Here there was nothing to impede their flight, he saw, except garbage bins, Dumpsters, and the occasional stray cat.
Funny how much noise a stray cat could make, he thought as he searched for a sign that would indicate the location of their hotel.
The noise grew louder. Footsteps, and not those of a cat, not a cat of any size. Judy Witwicky looked back and screamed. Her husband would have screamed, too, except that he was too busy cursing helplessly as enormous metal hands reached down to pluck them from the pavement.
Confusion enveloped the Pentagon, but there was no panic. One of the benefits of rep
etitious training is that it ceases to be boring only when it becomes necessary. Individual fears were set aside as everyone rushed to their assigned posts.
At Central Command, the head of the Joint Chiefs of Staff was on SatLink viewer with the general in charge at NORAD. They were discussing, succinctly and professionally, the unthinkable.
“Is it possible the Lincoln had a nuclear reactor failure? Sufficient for containment to prevent release into the atmosphere but inadequate to prevent her from going down?”
On the monitor, the general in Colorado replied while simultaneously sneaking brief glances at something offscreen. “Negative. We’re just getting initial reports in from our facility on Haleakela. They confirm the entry and final touchdown right where the Lincoln battle group was steaming of an extra-atmospheric projectile traveling at approximately thirty thousand knots.”
The chief considered this briefly. “Meteoric in origin, or possibly a small asteroid?”
On the monitor, the other general officer shook his head. “Last-minute—no, last-second—ranging indicates that it was a perfect sphere and externally at least of apparently uniform composition. No way it’s natural.” His voice dropped meaningfully. “Or man- made. Other readings suggest that...”
His voice vanished along with his image. The senior officer started to turn to the nearest technician but caught himself as the monitor cleared. Another visage had appeared on it and was now looming over the conflict room. Whether seated or standing or rushing between stations, everyone else, from the highest-ranking official to the lowliest message carrier, stopped what they were doing to stare at the image onscreen.
It was not human.
“Insects of the human hive,” Megatron intoned,
“now you know what your leaders have hidden from you. We are here. Among you.”
In a restaurant in a small town in Nebraska elderly retirees, stoic farmers, busy waitresses, and house wives whose children were now safely at school halted in their conversation and dining to stare in shock and fear at the alien face that had without
warning appeared on the screen of the small television above the single counter.
“We can destroy your cities at will.”
Cards, mah-jongg tiles, and electronic gaming machines all ceased motion as gamblers and bar girls and employees of the huge casino in Macau stopped what they had been doing to turn their full attention to the bizarre yet threatening face on the giant monitor suspended above the ranks of roulette tables.
“If you wish them to remain standing—if you wish to remain standing yourselves—you will search for, find, and deliver to us at a place of our choosing—this boy. ”
The contrast between the overawing, terrifying alien visage and that of the ordinary, slightly geeky Caucasian male that replaced it was stunning. For a moment, the face of Sam Witwicky dominated every active television and computer monitor on the planet. Then that of Megatron returned.
In a shop window not far from the Kremlin a mesmerized, frightened, and growing crowd fought for a clear view of the oversize new TV monitor on sale in a shop window.
“Your military leaders have just witnessed and can attest to the destruction of your largest and most powerful warship. This constitutes a demonstration of but a small part of our powers. There is no valor for those who try to resist, and no future for those who fail to comply. There is only annihilation. Our demand is a simple one. Find and deliver to us the one human in question. Delay, and more destruction will be visited upon you. You have one solar day.”
At which point every monitor on Earth went to black.
They brought Optimus Prime in to McGuire Air Force Base in New Jersey slung between a pair of turbocharged Chinook helicopters. Autobots and NEST team troops stood side by side, shoulder to leg, watching. The Chinook pilots tried their best to ease the setdown, but sudden gusts of wind and the awkwardness of their hastily strapped load made it downright dangerous. At a command, the slings were released and the Autobot leader crashed unceremoniously to the ground.
Lennox and Epps had not even begun to approach the motionless mountain of metal when a convoy of Air Force security vehicles came rumbling out onto the tarmac, heavy machine guns raised and at the ready. Instinctively, the Autobots activated their own weapons. Splitting up, the two men hurried to put a damper on any possible confrontation.
“Whoawhoawhoa!” Lennox danced in front of the lead vehicle. “Everybody stand down! We’re on the same side here!” Off to one side, Epps approached a soldier he knew.
“Yo, Mike—what’s goin’ on here? Put the guns down, man.”
The tech sergeant’s sincerity left the security officer unimpressed. He nodded toward where Ironhide stood glaring at the encircling soldiers.
“Them first.” The two men regarded each other calmly, but neither was prepared to back down.
Slipping out of a Jeep, a smug Galloway drew Lennox’s attention.
“Your NEST team is deactivated, Major. From this moment on you are to cease all anti-Decepticon operations forthwith and return to Diego Garcia pending further orders.”
Repressing the emotions rising inside him, Lennox regarded the advisor coolly. “Sir, we get our orders directly from Chairman Morshower.”
Reaching into a pocket, Galloway produced a carefully folded piece of stationery. “I’ll see your chairman of the Joint Chiefs and raise you a president of the United States.” Opening the paper, he brandished it in Lennox’s face. “His National Security Directive to me, on official stationery with his signature. I have operational command now.”
Having wandered over to listen, Epps commented with his usual tact and delicacy, “Are you outta your mind? You got no idea what we’re dealing with here, and . . .”
Galloway broke in on the sergeant, his tone that of a man used to having access to the highest levels of power and unafraid to employ it.
“I know exactly what we’re dealing with here, Sergeant. An enemy ultimatum and a public on the
verge of national panic. And that’s just here. You should see the communiques we’ve been receiving minute by minute from the French government. Not to mention every other administration on the planet.
An alien blood feud has been brought to our shores for which our soldiers—and now a number of European civilians—are paying the price. The secret’s out. It’s our war now. Not a private quarrel that can be dealt with by a couple of covert agencies operating on their own and undercover. We’ll win it as we always have: with a coordinated military strategy—not through actions carried out by a motley collection of bounty-hunting rogues and rejects from other services.”
Epps leaned forward. “Yeah, and while you’re ‘planning’ a strategy, they’re out executing one.” With a gesture, Lennox indicated the integrated mix of Autobots and humans standing behind him. “This is the best fighting force we’ve got. We need to make use of it.”
“What we need,” Galloway shot back unrepen- tantly, “is to draw up battle plans involving the entire world’s military forces while we buy time by exploring every possible diplomatic solution.”
Though he knew he should not have been surprised, Lennox was taken aback. “You mean by handing over the kid.”
Ironhide’s growl was low enough to rattle the fillings in the teeth of the men standing near him. “You think you can negotiate with Decepticons?”
To his credit, Galloway did not flinch from his commitment. “I will not say it again. You’ll all follow orders to the letter. Stand down, or we are going to have a problem. ”
Reaching over, Sideswipe put a hand on the bigger Autobot’s scarred and oft-repaired left arm. “Ironhide—this isn’t what Optimus would want.”
The huge weapons’ master contemplated the available options. Then, grudgingly, he lowered his cannon arms.
“Autobots,” he muttered, “we have our orders.” Lennox glared at the advisor. “Whatever the Decepticons are after, whatever thei
r ultimate goal is here, this is just the start” He nodded at the executive order. “You can bet every line in your paper-pusher’s arsenal on that.”
Having been insulted by far more articulate adversaries than the officer standing before him, Galloway merely sniffed derisively. “Get your ‘assets’ back to base, Major.” Looking past Lennox, he nodded in the direction of the unmoving mass that occupied the center of the runway. “And be sure to take all that scrap metal with you.” Turning on a heel, he climbed back into his waiting Jeep. At a nod to the driver, they turned and sped back the way they had come. Abandoned on the tarmac, a cluster of humans and Autobots stood side by side in shared fury.
Epps nodded solemnly at the rear of the receding vehicle. “One thing I can tell you for a certainty: that guy’s off my Christmas list.”
Lennox refused to be baited. “We’ll get him back.” Tilting his head, he contemplated the sky. “We’ll do as directed. We have no choice. But I have this feeling we’d better get in all the sun and sand we can, because we’re not going to be back at base for very long.”
People understandably tend to shun prisons, even abandoned ones. They’re unpleasant places at the best of times. They’re also as unlikely a hiding place as can be imagined for one wishing to avoid the attention of the law.
The abandoned prison was also the only place the three teens could suggest that was large enough to allow them and the Autobots to move about freely while at the same time concealing them from normal police patrols.
They had no television, but Leo’s phone supplied a steady stream of terror alerts. They crowded around him as yet another update appeared on CNN. It reflected the confusion that had surfaced in the wake of Megatron’s transmission.
“. . . conflicting reports about the recent ‘robot’ broadcast continue. No world government has yet confirmed that an ‘alien race’ is behind the attacks. We’re hearing everything from a communications satellite-hacking prank based in remote northern Sweden to terrorist fear tactics. There is no confirmation as yet that the sinking of the U.S.S. aircraft carrier Lincoln and the destruction in France might in any way be connected. In some circles the former is being attributed to a nuclear accident that the U.S. military is seeking to cover up, while the damage in Paris is being called by others the result of the inevitable weathering and rusting of century plus-old iron ...”