Dragon Over Washington (The Third War Of The Bir Nibaru Gods) (2 page)

“Kelly, it, it -” The reporter stopped to clear his voice. He took a deep breath. “Kelly, our camera is now filming what appears to be a sailing ship that is actually flying over Harrow. I’m not sure how this is possible. The ship looks real. It has dark blue sails, and I think I see some kind of flag on its tallest mast, some kind of yellow symbol, but it’s too far away to make out. I think
-
I see some kind of flower on the flag. Whatever it is, the sailing ship is real and it’s huge. It’s hard to estimate, but I think it’s more than three hundred feet long. There also seem to be weapons on board, some sort of heavy cannons or something similar.”

There was another pause. Thorpe could clearly hear his own ragged breaths.

“Dave,” said Kelly. “I can see a blue glow or light around the ship. Can you see it?”

“Yes, yes, we can. Ah—” The reporter stopped talking. There was a muffled sound, as if he had put his hand over the microphone. The reporter was addressing someone near him, but Thorpe couldn’t hear what he said. There was another scraping sound as the reporter took his hand away from his microphone.

“Ahh, the ship is surrounded by a blue light. All around it. The ship is floating slowly over some tall apartment buildings in Harrow. It’s—it’s almost like it’s looking or waiting for something. I have no idea how this can be. All I can say is that I’m seeing it. I can see ropes and sails on one - two - no, three masts. And I can see portholes in the hull with some kind of glowing metal weapons.”

“We have Gordon on line now. Gordon, can you shed some light on this?”

“Thank you, Kelly. In my experience, the first thing you try to do is to cordon off the affected area. I think it’s safe to assume that every entrance into London is now being blocked. Later on the British will try to get in using special SWAT teams or army commandos like the SAS, their version of our SEAL teams. They will try to ascertain the situation, reconnoiter and gather intelligence. Rescue and medical teams will go in only after they have an idea of what has happened or whom they are fighting against. That is, if there really is anyone to fight against.” He stopped and laughed briefly.

“Gordon, Gordon? Are you hearing me? Gordon?”

“Yes, Kelly. I can hear you.”

“Did you see the flying ship? The ship over London?”

“Ship? What ship?”

“Let’s play those images again.” The screen split, the analyst appearing on one half and the images from London on the other. Thorpe grinned for the first time since entering the TV room. The security analyst turned green.

“Gordon, can you make something out of this?”

“Hmm, ahh. Hmm, uh, I’m not sure. Is this legitimate? It is? I can only try to guess that – uh - it could be -” There was a moment of silence and the image of the anchorwoman in Atlanta appeared again. Gordon disappeared.

“Thank you, Gordon. Gordon will be with us throughout this entire conflict from his post in Washington D.C. Dave, do you have anything new for us?”

“Yes, Kelly. More of these things, these ships, have appeared. I’ve counted four or five, all of them hovering or moving slowly over Harrow. I wish I could describe for our viewers how incredible all of this is. The images on your TV can’t begin to show you what this really looks like. London is actually glowing with the blue light emanating from these ships. It is a sight out of this world.”

Thorpe got up, walked around the room and then sat down. An instant later he got up and walked around the room again. He sat down, his hands on his knees. His fingers moved unconsciously as if itching to touch a keyboard. He tried to look away, but his eyes kept returning to the LCD screen, to the monster ships claiming the skies.

“Your calmness in stressful times is an inspiration to us all.”

Thorpe jumped up and almost swallowed his tongue in surprise, even though the voice that addressed him was soft and feminine. Usually he would blush any time he looked at field-team leader Ellis Christensen, but this time he just sank back down, sighing heavily.

“Did you hear them, Graham and Mathew? Training? Plans? Worst-case scenarios? We tried to think ahead, but we never thought anything like this might happen. Never! We thought a small, lightning fast attack against an isolated small town was possible. But this! They are taking out frigging London. London!” Thorpe shouted. He got up and marched around the room a few times. Ellis looked up at him calmly, her long black hair cascading over her left shoulder.

“Ha! Go, go, go!” Thorpe mimicked Agent Mathew, his voice rising in pitch. “What plans? They think they are going to send the military against this? This is crazy! I never thought - I had no idea - I never imagined -” Thorpe was looking at the TV while he talked and turned to Ellis. “Do you understand the meaning of this? Do you know what this means?” He demanded. Something in her dark eyes gradually eased some of his tension. “Well, of course not. You’re a field agent. If you were really bright you would have gotten a job working with computers.” He smirked.

“You want to feel some pain today, boy?” She asked, smacking her fists together.

“Sure, your place or mine?” He leered.

“Ouch!” He yelped and rubbed his shoulder. She had hit him, and not too softly.

“That’s sexual harassment,” he whined.

“Keep on dreaming, Casanova.”

The smirk vanished from his face as he turned back to the news broadcast and the images of the endless procession of vehicles leaving London. Ellis looked at the bandage on Thorpe’s left hand, a wound caused by a traitor NSA agent. More than a month has passed, but the wound hadn’t begun healing. There was some talk about it behind Thorpe’s back, about how the bandaged area was slowly growing over the weeks, as if the wound was spreading. Ellis hurriedly looked away from the heavy bandages.

“This fits the pattern, except it’s on a much larger scale. There’s no doubt about it, this is a big one.” He suddenly stopped talking and sat up straight before slumping back down.

“What now?” Ellis asked.

“I just realized. I probably won’t get to see my apartment for at least several weeks. I’ll be sleeping in the office again. Just great,” he sighed, shaking his head. He glanced at her once. “And there’s worse to come. I will have to explain to The Man why I didn’t see this coming. This won’t be pleasant.” He shivered.

“Well, you seem to have everything under control, as usual. And without your toys this time,” she said. Ellis got up and walked towards the exit.

“Hey! They are not toys. They are, well -” he stammered.

There was a determined look in Ellis’s eyes.

“I have to get my team together. I imagine we will be sent off soon. Go get them, nerd.”

“You be careful out there, gorilla,” Thorpe said and winked. She stuck out her tongue at him and walked away. His eyes followed her lithe form.

“She likes me. I’m sure she likes me,” he sighed.

“We are going to check in now with Chris Collins who is coming to us from the Pentagon. We - no - we are not going to do that. We’re going to talk to Dave Lawrence. Dave?”

“Kelly, we can now see these fantastic ships hovering over the northern part of London, above the Harrow, Barnet and Hillington boroughs. It seems as if they are looking for something, searching the streets bellow them. I was told by one of the police officers that a mechanized infantry company is about to enter London shortly. The army is starting to mobilize, with police elements entering the surrounding areas. There are already several ambulances here on the inbound road, but they are all hesitant about getting closer to London. One minute. We are getting reports about - yes, a car coming on the M1 motorway from London, has just stopped near the police cars! We are trying to get closer now.”

The camera panned over. An elderly woman left a green Renault and ran over to the police officers. A man followed her, and was holding her by the shoulders as she collapsed in front of the police officers. Thorpe winced. The woman was hysterical, shouting and crying at the same time; Thorpe could barely make out what she said.

“Dear God! Dear God! They blasted everything! Everything! Everything!” She put her face in her hands and sobbed. A police officer tried to comfort her, but she jerked away from him.

“Those bastards! Bloody bastards!” She shook her fist at the direction of the city and at the ships cruising above it.

“The riders! The beastly riders! They rode down everything in sight! Bastards!” The woman collapsed in a pile, sobbing uncontrollably. Thorpe leaned forward to get a better view of the LCD screen. There was a large diagonal incision in the green car’s roof, as if something had ripped into it, tearing one of the rear doors as well. Plastic, metal and glass had been shredded like paper.

A loud explosion rolled by them. Thorpe saw the police officers pick up the woman and take cover behind their cars. The reporter followed them and cringed as another explosion echoed around them.

“It - the ships are attacking the city! I can see some kind of blue, glowing streaks being launched from the ships! There are - I think - there are catapults firing from the ships’ portholes. They are tearing into the buildings, cutting them into pieces! One building has been cleanly sliced in two.” The reporter ducked down as the booming sounds engulfed them. His breath was rapid and he held the microphone too tightly, producing a faint squeaking sound. He rose up a moment later.

“Atlanta, are you getting this? The ships are attacking the city! The northern part of the city is in flames! Are you getting this?” The camera panned over the city, the image jittery as the cameraman tried placing the camera on the police car’s roof.

Thorpe sat all alone in the empty TV room, his mouth gaping open in astonishment. He watched as the ships launched lances of blue light, volley after volley, shaking with the shots’ recoil, turning buildings to smoking ruins. Showers of glowing embers and debris were rising sky high from the force of the impacts. Thick black smoke rose, rolling as the wind swept it eastward, joining the boiling black clouds above the city. It took a moment for the blasts of the explosions to reach the camera but when they did, it was deafening, drowning out the shouts of the reporter and the people near him. The images became erratic as the cameraman tripped and for a moment an upside-down image of London engulfed in flames appeared before the camera was aligned correctly.

“I had no idea, I had no idea! The scale -“ Thorpe kept muttering, his head in his hands. The sounds of the explosions rolled over him, echoing inside the empty room, an avalanche of noise pressing down on him. He could feel a throb in his bandaged hand. Thorpe raised his wounded hand, watching as his fingers twitched as if possessing a will of their own. He closed his eyes, recoiling from what he suspected lay underneath the bandage. Thorpe shook his head and hurriedly looked up, returning his attention to the broadcast, struggling to accept what his eyes perceived.

The clouds above London created a dark opaque dome, casting a black shadow over the city’s burning skyline. The clouds kept moving, much faster than anything Thorpe had ever seen, roiling and expanding like huge black balloons. They kept rising, creating an ever-growing cloud formation with a narrow base, its wide top ascending and getting wider as if trying to cover all the sky.

“There’s - there’s something - something is happening on the motorway. Can we see - uh - what’s going on?” The reporter’s voice was low, hesitant, shaken. Thorpe dreaded what was coming next. The lights of the vehicles escaping London started going out, the headlights closest to London dying first.

“Dave? We are starting to lose the signal. Are you all right?” The anchorwoman asked.

“Yes, Kelly. We - that the - all over -”

The reporter’s transmission was starting to break up. Thorpe saw cars stalling, first those nearest London and then those closer to the camera’s position. A motorcycle hurtled past out of control, its engine dead. Thorpe winced, but he didn’t hear the crash, if there was one. The motorway slowly became a huge, jumbled traffic jam as every car on it died. Thorpe saw the lights on the motorway’s many lamp posts flicker and go out, followed by a nearby electronic billboard. The constant background noise of thousands of vehicles gave way to eerie silence.

Dark lines of many colors emerged from the base of the cloud formation and started running across the skies, splitting the clouds. The lines expanded and widened, as if great fissures were opening in the skies. Flickering blue lightning bolts stabbed down into London. The television broadcast started wavering, the image blinking on and off, the color draining away. A snow of white static filled the screen and then the transmission was cut off.

Thorpe found himself sitting on the floor in front of the display wall. He couldn’t remember falling off the sofa, but he could remember the last things that camera outside of London had sent. He had seen a tear in the base of the gigantic cloud formation; he had seen another ship came out of that hole in the cloud, glowing and angling its giant sails, its sharp, high bow turning, radiating a cold blue light as it circled London’s skies. Just as heavy snow started falling, Thorpe could make out another ship churning the heavy clouds, followed by another. He could just make out additional high masts cutting through the cloud formation.

“They promised seven weeks. The war is starting now,” Thorpe whispered.

Day 5 after Earth Barrier Breach.

Fort Meade, Maryland, United States. Friday, 11:04.

An old, battered Volkswagen Beetle approached the entrance to the giant Fort Meade military base. The Beetle stopped near the closed gate and waited for a marine, armed with an M16 rifle slung over his shoulder, to walk over. Extremely loud music blasted from a big black smartphone, the only brand new thing in the car. Thorpe had had the smartphone modified, grafting on an extra strong speaker.

Thorpe rolled down the window and gave his ID card to the marine. Thorpe then waited impatiently, inching the car closer to the gate, almost touching it with the Beetle’s dented bumper. He glanced at the symbol of the base and grimaced. The marine finally emerged from his booth and handed Thorpe his ID card.

“Go right ahead, sir. Welcome to Fort Meade,” the marine said. The car shot inside the huge military base the moment the gate opened wide enough, leaving behind a cloud of foul smoke, the echoes of loud music fading away.

The small Beetle zoomed across carefully tended patches of grass and flowers while The Doors’ “Riders on the Storm” blasted from the smartphone’s quality speaker. The giant base housed facilities belonging to the five branches of the US military as well as to several government agencies. The base was city-sized, with thousands of people, military and civilians alike, working inside. The green Beetle slowed down only when Thorpe saw a military police car passing by.

The car finally stopped in front of another gate set in a tall fence that encircled several buildings and was tipped with razor-sharp wire. Swiveling security cameras were located everywhere, scanning the grounds in front of the fence. There was an emblem on this gate too, a proud bald eagle holding its head high and spreading its black wings. Thorpe sighed and lowered the music’s volume a little bit.

Plainclothes guards tightly guarded the headquarters of the National Security Agency. One guard, the strap of a small but lethal submachine gun slung around his neck, approached the Beetle. Another guard moved outside the guard booth, aiming his P90 submachine gun almost directly at the Volkswagen. The unsmiling guard reached down to the window to take Thorpe’s ID card.

“Hi, Mike. Can’t we do this a little faster today, dude? You’ve only seen me, like, several hundred times so far. Give or take a few,” Thorpe said, smiling hopefully.

“Sorry, Mister Thorpe. Regulations,” the guard said, and walked towards his booth. Thorpe sighed and made a face at the impassive guard still looking at him. Thorpe then tapped his smartphone’s screen, entering his social networking account and writing “on the way to work.” He looked through several of his friend’s status lines but found nothing of interest.

The first guard returned with Thorpe’s ID a short while later and Thorpe looked up from his smartphone.

“Your ID card, Agent Thorpe.”

Thorpe took his card and the guard used a mirror attached to a long metal pole to search under the old battered car. The gate began to swing open and the Beetle lurched forward, leaving tracks of burnt rubber on the road as Thorpe gunned the gas pedal, passing within inches of the opening gate’s metal bars.

Thorpe parked his Beetle in the huge NSA parking lot and got out of his car. He was as battered and ill kempt as the Volkswagen itself. He appeared to be twenty-five years old, but he was actually five years older. His red hair hadn’t seen a comb for a month and round, rimless spectacles rested on his freckled nose. A tattered T-shirt hung over torn jeans that had seen better days, years ago. He wore sneakers and mismatched socks. He pulled a student backpack out of the car, slung it over his shoulder, and headed towards the main entrance of the buildings in front of him.

Thorpe smiled, seeing the stares directed at him by immaculately dressed men and women who looked at the old car and the shabbily clothed, red-haired man in distaste. Thorpe’s car occupied the parking space of a section chief from another division. The shouting would be something to look forward to.

The two huge NSA buildings were covered with opaque black glass and housed thousands of people who operated the complex computer systems of the agency as well as the huge agency bureaucracy. Thorpe headed towards a small, nondescript building at the foot of the huge buildings. It had the NSA emblem and a small sign, ‘M62 Special Operations Division.’

There was another checkpoint at the entrance where a guard took his bag and another took his badge. Thorpe watched the first guard look over the contents of his backpack.

“Now, if only I could remember where I put my ultra powerful mouse trap,” Thorpe mused out loud. The guard ignored him.

“Did you bring any recording instrument, camera, cell phone with a camera, or any other similar appliance?” Another guard sitting behind her desk asked. Thorpe shook his head.

“Do you have upon your person a diskette, memory card, or any other electronic or optical means of storing information?” she asked, and he shook his head again.

“Do you have any kind of weapon on your person?” the guard asked and Thorpe shook his head for the third time. It seemed almost as though Thorpe was afraid to make eye contact with her.

“Step forward, please.” Thorpe walked through a magnetic metal detector, picked up his backpack on the other side and walked on.

Thorpe walked through several brightly lit corridors, opening doors by passing his ID card through electronic readers and placing his finger on a biometric reader. Soon, the only ID cards hanging from people’s suits were high-classification green cards like his. Thorpe passed sparkling clean rooms outfitted with huge computers, people in three-piece black suits sitting in front of the terminals, some using earphones.

Thorpe finally reached his small cubicle, at the end of a long row of cubicles. In contrast to the stark sterile feeling of the other cubicles, his had small plastic dinosaurs covering every horizontal surface. A large calendar hung on the cubicle’s low wall, all the holidays and agency vacations circled with a bold red marker. A small pyramid of empty Diet Coke cans stood on the floor near his seat. There was a small plastic plaque on the wall, ‘Robert Thorpe.’ Underneath was another plaque, ‘Photo Analyst.’ Underneath it was yet another plaque, ‘Echelon Analyst.’ A fourth plaque was hanging askew, ‘Signal Analyst.’ Somewhere on the floor was a fifth plaque, ‘Computer Special Services.’

Thorpe carefully placed his smartphone on his desk and threw down his backpack. He frowned at the sound it made, sighed and rummaged inside, pulling out two cans of Diet Coke. He walked back the entire row of cubicles to reach the department’s small kitchen and put the cans inside the refrigerator, taking care to hide them in the back. He walked back to his seat and sat down.

First of all he picked up his smartphone and updated his status to “at work”,” then he adjusted the blue silicon pads he used to support his wrists when typing and when moving the mouse. He logged in to his desktop computer and a small message box appeared:

“You have entered NSA M62 domain. The information on this computer is classified ‘Top Secret.’ Please comply with the following security guidelines -”. “Blah, blah, blah. Dmitry was bored again,” Thorpe muttered and closed the message box. The Outlook icon showed he had new mail. He opened it and scanned his mail folder.

“Department meeting, blah, blah; summer vacation camp for employees’ children, blah, blah; junk, junk. What’s this?” Thorpe opened a message from Andy titled “You lazy SOB.“

“So, you finally came in? It’s about time. I should have a word with The Man. You bring the morale down in the department. Anyway, there’s something you’ve got to see.” An automatic signature at the end of the mail identified the sender as Andrew Pearsons, Echelon analyst.

Thorpe sighed, got up and walked out of his cubicle. He moved into a much fancier office space, entered a cubicle and sat on the desk while Andy finished a phone conversation. Andy’s cubicle was as well-ordered as the agent himself. Andy pointed at a chair, but Thorpe ignored him. Thorpe waited several seconds and then picked up a stapler and several random reports from the table. He stapled them together and then looked around for fresh targets. Andy’s eyes bulged and he hurriedly hung up the phone, snatched the papers from Thorpe’s hands, and put the stapler away.

“Sooooo, why did you dredge me up from the dark places?” Thorpe asked.

“I called you because the presence of real human beings will do you good,” Andy answered. He swiveled his thin LCD screen towards Thorpe.

“Look at this,” Andy said.

“‘Russian transcript first draft’?” Thorpe read out loud.

“What?” Andy turned the screen back towards him. “No, that’s not it. It - wait. I think you’ll like this. I’ve been working on transcribing a communication we picked up. The Russians are having some kind of military exercise in the Urals—combined arms, heavy stuff. Most of them are using frequency-hopping radios, making interception tough. But we managed to get this off a reserve unit, using old BMP-1 vehicles. Grab a headset.” Andy waited for Thorpe and then pressed “Play” on his computer.

Russian voices filled Thorpe’s headset. The volume of the voices dropped, and Andy’s recorded translation could now be heard.

“Vanya, take the ridge. Pavel, follow him. Sergey, you’re after me. Keep the cannons pointed north. I said north, Pavel.” Andy paused the recording.

“That’s a four BMP-1 APC scouting section. They are armed with a 73 millimeter smoothbore cannon, Sagger wire-guided anti tank missiles and 7.62 millimeter coaxial turret machine guns. As you’ll see, these weapons were not enough.” Andy continued playing the recording.

“I just heard the 2nd have engaged the enemy; keep a sharp lookout, those devils can be anywhere.” The voice stopped talking, but the transmission continued. Large diesel motors could be heard running in the background, growling steadily as they drove the fifteen-ton armored vehicles over rough terrain. There was also the unmistakable sound of squealing treads.

“Sir, I am on the ridge. I don’t see anything.”

“Good, good. Sergey, don’t stay behind.”

“Sir! Explosions to the west.”

“Distance?”

“Two kilometers. Maybe two and a half.”

“That’s the 2nd. We go on. Vanya, stay on that ridge till I pass the ravine. You’re the lookout.”

There was another moment filled with the sound of running motors.

“Sir! Movement ahead, six hundred meters. Dozens! The small ones.”

“Direction, Vanya.”

“Northwest, sir. On the hill, coming right towards us. Let’s get out of here!”

“No, they’ll take us from the rear. Vanya, engage with cannons and machine guns. Sergey, we’re climbing out. Take position on the ridge and help Vanya. Command, Command! We are under attack. Location is Hill 923, heading northwest. Request air support. Please respond.” Now the engines sounded louder, almost as loud as the repeated “
Blya
!” curses of the commander. There was an occasional explosion as cannons fired, but the stuttering of the coaxial 7.62-millimeter machine guns was almost constant.

“Sir. Some of them are hit. They are retreating, taking cover.”

“Keep firing. Kill anything you see.” The sounds of the engines became deafening, drowning the machine-gun fire.

“Sergey, this is too steep. Vanya, we are continuing down the ravine, circling from the east. We will join you in five minutes. Keep firing at the devils. They will swarm you if you don’t.”

Gradually the sounds of firing stopped.

“Sir, they retreated behind the hill. We have clear lines of fire to either side of the hill. They won’t come nearer.”

“Stay alert. Command, we really need that air support now. Anything you’ve got, even one Hind attack bird. Anything!” There was a moment of relative quiet before the speaker continued. “Come on, Dimma! I can use anything you can send me.”

For a moment only the sounds of the roaring engines were heard. Then a stuttering machine gun spoke again.

“Vanya, what was that?”

“The ones we hit are getting up. We’re making sure they stay dead,” the Russian soldier said.

There was another moment of relative silence. Thorpe cringed as a loud metal crunch suddenly erupted from the headset. It was the sound of metal grinding, screaming as it was brought to the breaking point. Suddenly the sound was cut off and a different Russian voice spoke, rapidly and breathlessly.

“Sir! One came through the ridge! One of the giants! Right out of the ground! It’s on Vanya, pulling the BMP apart!” The Russian could be heard shouting frantically in the recording, although Andy's voice rode above it calmly.

“Pavel. Use your missiles. We’re almost there.”

“Sir! It’s on the BMP! It’s pulling the turret off! I might hit Vanya! I can’t control the missile this precisely!”

“Do it, fool. Or Vanya is dead for sure.”

Andy paused the recording again.

“The Sagger missiles that the older BMP-1 has are wire-guided. The commander controls them through a small joystick. The steering commands are transmitted to the missile through a wire that the missile trails behind as it flies out. The Sagger’s warhead can penetrate about four hundred millimeters of rolled, homogenous steel,” Andy said and continued playing the recording.