The Cresperian Alliance Page 5

  "Wilco, Wayne. Thank God."

  The monitor flickered and died.

  "Sumbitch,” Wersky said blankly. “Real bad ass bastards out there."

  "Thank God the Crispies are nicer,” Nunez noted.

  "Sometimes,” a familiar voice said, and the White Horse Second Squad turned to see Sira sitting beside them. “If the conversion to human is not properly monitored and mentored, it can lead to homicidal paranoia and madness in Crispies."

  "So...” Bangler began slowly, “depending on what we find in Scotland..."

  "Yes,” Sira said simply. “However, from what I have been able to determine, I think we will be safe, in that respect."

  "Oh, I really must dispute the military interpretation,” Secretary of State Sandra Fellowes protested, popping to her feet as the communication ended. “The conclusion that those poor aliens actually understood what the diplomatic party was saying is patently false. They would never have attacked otherwise. They must have concluded that the ship from Earth was an invasion force. It's the only explanation. Especially with those two... soldiers... along."

  Secretary of Defense Mark Singletary turned toward her with a scowl. “You have got to be kidding me, Sandra. There was NO BLOODY PROVOCATION! We could see that with our own eyes!"

  "Yes, but we couldn't HEAR what was being said,” Fellowes pointed out. “A truly advanced, space faring race MUST be peace loving."

  "We couldn't hear because nothing was spoken, Sandra,” Waterman said, disgusted, fingers on the bridge of his nose. “They don't speak English. Or any other Earth language."

  "Tone of voice,” Sandra declared stubbornly. “They felt threatened. Technology as advanced as that must be from a peace loving race."

  "Ma'am, I don't know where you get your ideas,” Terhune added, “but those ‘peace loving’ aliens killed several hundred of our people, CIVILIAN as well as military. And if a trained diplomatic corps can't get through to them our peaceful intent, how do you propose we do so?"

  "For starters, do it as it should have been done to begin with,” Fellowes snapped. “Let the State Department handle it."

  "Those were personnel recruited FROM the State Department, ma'am."

  Fellowes shook her head. “They must have been junior diplomats, then. Any further contact with that poor misunderstood race will be personally managed by me."

  "IF I say so,” Waterman interjected, red faced. “And as of right now, I am issuing a Presidential Order confirming the no-fly zone around the Swavely system."

  "But Tom—"

  "I don't give a damn about your ideals, Sandra,” Waterman barked. “I DO care about not attracting the attention of a more advanced, inimical race. End of discussion."

  "The hell it is,” Sandra muttered under her breath.

  "You've all received your briefing,” Waterman continued, having had enough. “Consider it intelligence information, and handle it appropriately. Dismissed."

  The Cabinet members solemnly filed out of the room.

  "I don't like it,” the Secretary for Employment to the Ministry of the Interior, one Lord Ernest Bloch, told Erich Nordyke, the Prime Minister. “I think they're planning something. After all, they have that ship."

  "Trust me,” the Prime Minister replied. “We have all the possibilities covered. We have radar from the nearby airfield; we have sensors disguised as cell phone towers. We have motion detectors, infrared detectors, and booby traps. And our spy satellites are all focused on that starship. It's landed in one of their bloody prairie states—Kansas, I think. Something like that."

  "But what if they come up the loch?” the cabinet minister protested. “The United States has the best subs in the world, after all, since the U. S. S. R. broke up."

  Nordyke smirked. “You know the legend of the loch, Ernest,” he pointed out.

  "What, that Nessie style legend?” Bloch snorted. “I don't see that... scaring...” His voice tapered off as he stared at the Prime Minister. “You're joking."

  "Whether I am or not, the partially eaten bodies of several of the villagers down the loch should give the Americans pause about sending rubber dinghies onto the loch,” Nordyke noted. “As well as getting rid of the last eyewitnesses."

  "But there haven't been any..."

  "Make certain you read tomorrow's newspaper headlines."

  "Oh, dear God,” Bloch whispered, as Nordyke headed toward the underground compartments.

  As soon as the Zeng Wu landed, a plane was ready to whisk acting Captain Haley off to Washington. Within hours he was in a briefing with President Waterman, Admiral Terhune, General Salter, and General Washington. Also present were Secretary of Defense Martin Singletary, and Jess Ravenshoe, the CIA Director. The Secretary of State, Sandra Fellowes, was conspicuously absent.

  "You ok, Sam?” Terhune asked his old friend.

  "Yeah,” Haley sighed, tired. “You know how it is after a campaign gone bad."

  "Yeah, I do,” Terhune murmured in understanding. “I think most of us here do. So the Galactic encountered the Zeng Wu. Do you know what happened to the Galactic?"

  "No,” Haley said. “They headed off, more or less in the opposite direction."

  "Are you certain you weren't followed home?” Ravenshoe wanted to know in no uncertain terms.

  "As sure as the sensors would let us be,” Haley replied. “If the Snappers have better sensors than ours, then maybe."

  "In which case...?” Waterman wondered.

  "In which case, we'd damn well better have every possible offensive and defensive variant on our AND Crispy technology that we can come up with,” Haley declared vehemently.

  President Waterman sighed.

  "Did you guys see this?” Anderson threw down a British paper as the White Horse Second Unit met again the next day to go over the plan.

  "What the hell is this, Hand?” Tomlinson asked, picking up the paper and reading the headline. “'Nessie's Relatives Carnivorous?’”

  "Yeah, seems some villagers turned up dead on the shore of the local loch,” Anderson noted. “With great big bites taken out of ‘em."

  "Eeuich,” Nunez grimaced.

  "Look at the location, guys and gals,” Anderson instructed.

  They all clustered around the newspaper. “Aw, shit, Hand,” Bangler cursed. “Right where we're headed?"

  "The very fjord where you rendezvous with the Sea Wolf,” Anderson agreed.

  "It can't be real,” Wersky protested, seeming a bit anxious. “Can it?"

  "I doubt it,” Tomlinson reassured the big man. “After all, most of the supposed pictures of Nessie were proven hoaxes, and every single exploration team in Loch Ness has found nothing. This is most likely some really nasty propaganda intended to scare people away from the area where they're holding the Crispies."

  "But... did they actually kill people?” Nunez wondered, horrified.

  "Intel indicates three dead, one missing, in the village,” Anderson nodded. “And the three bodies are in sufficiently bad shape that it's believable a large carnivore chewed on ‘em. I'm betting somebody has a pet great white, rather than a Nessie, though. Interestingly, according to the CIA, the four casualties appear to be the ones who discovered the lifepod to begin with. From what I've read, they must have broken their original agreement to keep their mouths shut. So the top echelon is apparently willing to kill their citizens, in order to ensure their own little private fountain of youth is preserved."

  "We gotta stop this,” Bangler declared.

  "I know,” Anderson agreed. “Okay, here's how it's gonna go down. First Unit will be Master Sergeant Ian McAllister's unconventional warfare unit. Master Sergeant John Tomlinson will head Second Unit. It includes you guys plus the Crispy, Sira Whitman. Master Sergeant Michael Warren will head Third Unit, which has psychological warfare specialists in it. He has heavy mobile gunnery, jamming devices, and small munitions, both lethal and diversionary.

  "Each unit will be flown over the Pond in its own aircraft, for the sake
of redundancy. You will parachute in here,” Hand pointed at an oat field near the head of the fjord. “Feel free to run around in circles for a moment after landing, if you wish. Crop circles get lots of attention and speculation in the area, and will make for a good cover story afterward, if we can manage it. You will have one minute to execute this diversionary tactic, while the aircraft block any electronics, effectively orbiting this peak at the top of the fjord, where the house is. Third Unit will set up further jamming equipment, then move three klicks inland to begin a diversion at the base of the... what the heck the Scots call ‘em? The mountain thing."

  "Tors, I think,” Bangler suggested.

  "That's the word. Allow twenty-five minutes. Meanwhile, First Unit takes the point and moves up the side of the tor nearest the landing site. Second Unit covers them."

  "And Sira,” Tomlinson added firmly.

  "And Sira,” Anderson smiled. He switched from the map to the diagram of the house and its lands. “Now, we've concluded that the Crispies are being held in an underground chamber beneath the house, either here,” he put his finger on one corner of the structure, “or here.” He moved his finger to the partial second story. “You will have the same twenty-five minutes to reach the top of the tor, which isn't real high, but high enough. The distance at this point is actually just shy of one klick, but you'll be climbing the tor. Keep that in mind. We did, however, pick what our intel indicates is the easiest slope to ascend; be thankful for that. You will then have another twenty minutes to invade and extract the Crispies."

  "What the hell?!” Tomlinson exclaimed. “That's not nearly enough time for an extraction!"

  "The house isn't big enough for a large guard contingent,” Anderson explained, “especially given the number of British officials living inside; and none have been detected in any quantity outside, or in outbuildings. There are some, however, and they are heavily armed. Also expect the politicians inside to be armed. We therefore expect the grounds to be heavily surveilled and booby-trapped. That's one reason for having Sira along, to help avoid the obstacles.

  "First Unit is the bulldozer, and Second Unit, the extraction team. Third Unit is providing diversion and evacuation cover."

  They all nodded.

  "Once the Crispies are extracted, Second Unit will take the point, headed down the seaward side of the tor, along this gully.” Anderson pulled out the map again. “This side is pretty steep, though not sheer rock, and you may do as much sliding as running. But that's good, in a way; it'll speed up your descent. First Unit will follow, providing cover fire if necessary. Third Unit will rendezvous with you here,” he placed a finger on the map where another tributary gully intersected the main one. “They will fill in behind. They're the cannon fodder, should that be necessary."

  Everyone winced.

  "Now, it is just over one klick straight down the tor to the shoreline. Like I said, it's steep, but it's doable, and the most direct path. Sea Wolf will be waiting in the center of the fjord, about two klicks from your shore. There will be seven large rubber dinghies waiting on shore. With any luck, they'll have the new ultra-stealth engines. If not, you'll all have to row like hell. From the time you extract the Crispies until you reach Sea Wolf, you have forty-three minutes. And this includes a pad for resistance at the house, and the possibility of rowing. At the end of that time, Sea Wolf dives whether you're on board or not. Thirty seconds later, the fireworks commence."

  "Why so short?” Nunez asked.

  "You're coming out, presumably with three prizes,” Anderson said. “If the British get a call out requesting backup, you have to be out of there before that backup arrives. Besides, like I said, it's downhill."

  They all nodded. “What about the sea monster?” Wersky asked.

  Hand smiled. “With any luck, it'll work FOR us,” he said. “Anybody living along the loch who might spot Sea Wolf will think they've seen Nessie's cousin."

  "Oh..."

  "Point men on First Unit, and Second Unit Crispy liaisons, will be provided invisibility devices. All personnel will also have the new camouflage suits. Use them. They'll help more than you know,” Anderson said simply.

  "So...” Bangler began, tallying in his head. “From the time we jump, until the time we dive, we have..."

  "Ninety-one minutes,” Anderson finished for him. “Plus an additional half a minute to get under cover if you don't make it to Sea Wolf. Just about an hour and a half.” He paused. “And that's pushing it. If the terrain were easier, or the weather better, we'd cut that in half. Remember, you've got aircraft overhead jamming for you through the whole operation, and part of the time issue is due to their fuel levels. You have to get the hell out in time for them to leave and rendezvous with the refuelers well away from British shores. So we expect you to—and you'll have to—haul serious ass. We're not talking record marathon speed here, but it's definitely a decent marathon pace. So I hope you haven't let up on your training, just because you're here."

  Second Unit drew a deep breath. In unison.

  "Unit designations will be as follows, with leaders named appropriately on any NECESSARY communications: First Unit—Faith. Second Unit—Hope. Third Unit—Celebration. Does everyone copy?"

  A chorus of, “Roger,” went around the room.

  "Good. Go get your gear and suit up. You leave at 1100 hours GMT tomorrow. Your jump occurs at precisely 1900 hours GMT."

  Nordyke smiled as he emerged from the cellar. “One of our pets has begun to change,” he announced. “Coming along quite nicely, too. Piki is already a furry little hotcake, and when she finishes her transformation, she'll be astounding."

  "I take it you're laying claim to her?” Secretary of State for Industry Charles Blessingham smirked.

  "Of course,” Nordyke smiled broadly. “After all, if an American commoner can take one to wife, surely the British Prime Minister can have one as a... consort."

  "When?"

  "Oh, I'll give her a few more hours. According to what I could tell, she isn't fully... developed... there... just yet."

  "Ah. Right in time for bed."

  "Exactly."

  The two men chuckled, glancing at their watches.

  Having already put in a good physical workout, Bangler spent the rest of the day in his quarters, practicing with his camo suit and his invisibility device, which had been designed as a small torc-like neck collar. All he had to do was think the word “invisible,” and due to the autonomic nervous system's response of forming the word in his mouth without annunciating it, the device read the muscle motions and activated. Sub-vocalization, they called it, he thought. He stared into the shaving mirror in the tiny head, and thought, Invisible. Instantly his mirror image vanished. Appear. His image was back. He grinned. I could play with this all day. Guess I better not wear the gizmo down though, before I really need it.

  He moved into the main room of his quarters and sat down in the chair to study the plans once more.

  Shortly after dusk, Nordyke descended the stairs to the basement. The half dozen other high ranking officials, including the Chief of Staff, noticed the swelling bulge in his trousers.

  Some time later the sound of high pitched, alien shrieks floated up the stairwell. This continued for some minutes, then a loud male roar—human—echoed upward. The others smirked, until they heard it change into a scream of rage and agony. Nordyke's voice erupted into cursing, and more high frequency screams of pain floated upward, as a pounding and crashing clatter broke out below. Only when the alien screams ceased could Nordyke's footsteps be heard ascending.

  The others stared at him in dismay as he appeared at the top of the stairwell, face flushed and contorted in pain, clothing in disarray.

  "Bloody alien bitch,” he cursed, and turned toward his bedroom without another word.

  At precisely 1100 hours the next day, three nondescript C-130 cargo planes took off from the same unadorned airfield Bangler had flown into, days before. One White Horse team was aboard each plane, full
y geared up. Refueling aircraft were scheduled to rendezvous with them mid-flight; meanwhile in Teams Faith and Hope, practice was going on with the invisibility devices.

  "Okay, Bang, it's your turn to be ‘it,'” Sira declared.

  Bang subvocalized Visible, and appeared, whipping the blindfold off his eyes.

  The interior of the cabin appeared completely empty. He stopped, paying close attention to all his senses: eyes, ears, and nose most of all. Holding up his hands, he tried to notice any stray air currents on his fingertips.

  A slight scuffing noise made him spin to his left, just in time to see two small depressions in the artificial turf mat which lined part of the deck. A quick leap, and he groped what appeared to be empty air, coming up with something soft and fleshy in his hand.

  "Eep!” Nunez’ voice said, directly in front of him, and Bang let go hastily.

  "Um, uh, oh shit, sorry, sergeant,” Bangler stuttered, flushing. “I uh, I meant to grab your arm, not, um, your..."

  Nunez appeared and took off her blindfold, giggling. “It's okay, Bang,” she told him. “I knew it was a possibility from the time the training was explained. Gotta admit, though, I never expected to get my breast groped by a fellow Marine without calling him up on charges.” She giggled again, and the flush subsided from Bangler's face as he grinned sheepishly.

  Sira's laugh tinkled out. “I think they're ready for formation work, John,” she told her mate.

  "I agree,” Tomlinson's voice replied. “Blindfolds off, everyone."

  A dozen bandanas fell to the deck from unseen hands.

  "All right, find me and fall in. Stealth mode."

  "Above the sound of the engines?” someone asked; Bangler didn't recognize the voice.

  "You betcha, cowboy,” Tomlinson replied. “Let's go. Right now."

  Five minutes later a line of barely discernible footprints slunk across the artificial turf in single file, making virtually no noise. “You've got it,” Sira's voice noted in immense satisfaction. “This is a very good team you have, John."