Illegal Aliens (3 page)
“And this is what I’ve been waiting whole life for!” General Nicholi raged, pounding the table with his fist. “Sit down! Will only take minute to finish game.” His friends obviously could not believe what they were hearing, so Nicholi changed to a more persuasive tone. “Please? As favor to me?”
Releasing the handrail, General Bronson sighed. “Well, if it's that damn important to you.” He returned to the poker table and flipped over his cards. “I fold. The pot is yours.”
A true gentleman, Sir John did the same.
“NO!” Nicholi howled in anguish. “Wait! Here, look at this!” Frantically, he spread out the poker cards on the table for his friends to see. They stepped closer.
“The alien ship has began shooting people,” Dr. Malavade calmly announced in his dictionary-perfect English. “Five, no, six dead. Maybe more.”
Poker cards formed a blizzard in the air and fell unnoticed to the floor as Nicholi shoved the gaming table aside and sprinted for his post, with Courtney and Bronson leading the way.
Reaching his console first, the American soldier dropped into his chair, slipped on a set of earphones and deftly activated his equipment.
Each of the FCT's consoles was designed for different functions, and they were alike only in general build. Basically in the shape of a horseshoe, each curved metal desk had two sets of three drawers on either side of the chairwell, and the desktop was covered with a plethora of electronics equipment. Broken into three sections, the controls respectively ran: a series of hush phones and a laser printer for hard copy on the left, a video/computer monitor and keyboard in the middle, the specialty controls, meters, switches, and dials filling the right side. If not when they joined, every member of the FCT was by now virtually ambidextrous.
Winking telltales on the right side of the desktop informed Bronson as to the status of the United Nations building above them and of their own command bunker. He tapped a complex code onto the keyboard before him, got a warning beep, and checked the video screen to see the empty hallway outside the bunker. All clear, fine. He then inserted a key into a slot on the desktop and turned it, setting the double pair of armored doors to their quarters cycling shut. Soon, the FCT would be physically isolated from the outside world by a meter of laminated steel, making entry into the bunker impossible, and exiting forbidden without the general's specific knowledge and consent. Voices in his ear told him that the UN was in an absolute state of panic, with the delegates alternately demanding information, not believing what they were told, and then discounting the whole incident. Bronson grunted. Damn civilians. They were about as useful as lips on a brick.
“Communications on line,” Dr. Malavade said, formally following the long-lost and semi-legendary procedure manual that had mysteriously disappeared the day after the FCT received their copies of the 18,000 page document.
Blazing with rainbows, Dr. Malavade's console was a vidiot's dream come true: he could broadcast and receive messages on every level of the electromagnetic spectrum, from radio waves down to hard radiation. Plus his access to the worldwide Internet was absolute and non-detectable, even to the vaunted cyber sleuths of the NSA.
An expert in cryptography and codes, what languages Mohad wasn't fluent in, his computers were: from Mayan hieroglyphics, through the squeals of porpoises, to Pig Latin. He was also a lip reader, had perfect pitch and did crossword puzzles in ink.
“Information on line,” Sir John stated, sliding on his hated reading glasses, a sad result of reading too many stock portfolios and books on UFOs. His father, who thought glasses effeminate, immediately ordered the lad to go out and start dating women. This the young Jonathan had gladly done. But only with rich women who belonged to the local UFO club.
Already the laser printer on the sociologist's right was feeding him duplicate reports from ABC, CNN, NPR, the BBC, ComStat, the New York Times, London Times, Moscow Times, AOL, the National Inquirer and Grit. His teammates might laugh, but as an expert in his field, he knew that you never could tell where the truth might be found.
“Science on line,” Dr. Wu contributed, enabling her computer and linking it to the NASA, NSA, NATO and NBC sensors en route to the park.
Yuki's equipment was so sensitive that it could track an astronaut on the moon, or analyze a ballpark hotdog. Which she had done once as a test, and had immediately telexed her findings to the city's Health Department.
“Security on line,” General Bronson said needlessly, as everyone in the bunker had felt the muffled vibrations in the floor as their only door locked shut. In grim humor, the soldier opened the drawer on the lower left side in his console and lifted out a Heckler Koch 10mm pistol. Automatically, he checked the gun's clip, holstered it, and proceeded to strap the weapon about his waist. Gimme a damn gold helmet, he thought sourly, and I could pass for General George S. Patton. But regulations were regulations.
“Command on line and running,” Prof. Rajavur announced brusquely, as he slipped on a throat mike and finished activating both of his mainframe computers.
As the person in charge of the First Contact Team, his console was twice the size of his associates and infinitely more versatile. He could talk privately to any, or all of them, simultaneously. He could countermand their decisions and, if necessary, run their consoles for them, should anyone become incapacitated or unreasonable.
For psychological as well as technical reasons, Rajavur was situated prominently in front of the wall monitor. The video cameras were focused on him, with the rest of his team clustered about him like so many small moons. That is, except for Nicholi.
General Nicholi, and not General Bronson, was the soldier in charge of the Earth Defense Forces. The American protected the FCT, but the Russian protected the world.
From the very beginning of the team, it had been decided that, purely as a safety precaution, no alien would ever get to know of Nicholi's existence, much less see him, until their peaceful intentions had been proved beyond a reasonable doubt. Therefore, the Russian's defense console was hidden in a corner of the Command Bunker parallel to the wall monitor and well outside the range of its video cameras. Nicholi had a monitor of his own, a personal life support system, autonomous lines of communication, monogrammed bath towels and a quadraphonic CD player. In fact, he was as independent of the FCT as they were from the rest of the world.
Hissing like an antique steam radiator, a thick sheet of Armorlite bulletproof glass rose from the terrazzo floor of the bunker and locked into the acoustical tile ceiling, hermetically sealing the general in place. Now only a single phone line connected him with the rest of the team.
Nicholi was the unhappy stick to the First Contact Team's carrot. If a situation fell apart so badly that there was nothing diplomatic left to try, if push came to shove, then—and only then—would Nicholi act, using whatever measure of violence he deemed proper to correct the problem. From having a sniper shoot a wine glass out of someone's hand, to the total nuclear annihilation of New York, London, Paris, or even Moscow itself. Nicholi hated his job with a passion, which was why he still had the position.
Finished with his initial preparations, the Russian gave Rajavur a ready sign and, without hesitation, the professor keyed in the activation code on his console.
In electronic majesty, the huge bank of Cray mainframes under their bunker awoke, yawned, stretched, did a few warm-up trigonometric calculations and in the next microsecond reached out to seize control of the United Nations computer system.
With a magnetic lurch, every keyboard in the mammoth building above them froze motionless, all non-essential programs were simply erased and the machines subatomically bowed to their new master. Everything in the 36 separate and shielded computer systems became instantly available to the FCT's mainframe to do with as it pleased. Leisurely looking over the vast array of material, the Cray took almost a full second to locate the correct files, access and process the desired data.
The Transatlantic phone lines were cleared of all calls, orbiting satellites relayed encoded signals, and NATO headquarters in Geneva, Switzerland received an ultra top priority message. The lightning exchange of passwords and countersign took another ten seconds before the military mainframe verified the information and saluted its new commanding officer. Two milliseconds later, NATO's emergency global telecommunications network exploded with signals that were the purest gibberish to anyone but the designated computer system.
Within the cavernous basement of the Kremlin, the incoming signal was shunted to a review station specifically built to prevent such a computer takeover. Already the installation had proved its worth by stopping four such acts of piracy: two from China, one from Germany and one from The Junior Hackers Club of Duluth, Minnesota.
But this signal passed through without hindrance as the construction of the review station had been supervised by a Colonel Nicholi and a young computer genius named Malavade. Therefore it was a total surprise when Russia declared its allegiance to an unknown group of nobodies in the basement of the UN building.
In America, the computers of NORAD instantly complied with the proper and legal request to usurp the Pentagon and seconds later the Army, Navy and Air Force received duly authorized commands to go to Defense Condition One. The unprecedented move caused moans, shrieks, groans, two heart attacks and a promotion.
Across the globe, country after country became locked into the growing computer grid. China was the last to join, due solely to a faulty sub-junction in Beijing, but join it did.
Incredibly and ironically, the problem child turned out to be Greece, as the computer operator assigned to monitor any maximum security messages that involved the safety of his nation, and perhaps the world, was locked in the supply closet sleeping off his lunchtime rendezvous with the entire secretarial pool and a bottle of
ouzo
.
With the activation of the FCT, many politicians became seriously displeased and threw what could only politely be called tantrums. But despite their every effort, all of the vaunted power each of them had lied, cheated, stolen and (depending upon the country) murdered to get, simply flowed through their fingers like a bride's tears. But after a shot of brandy and a hurried reading of the FCT's original charter, most politicos accepted the inevitable and did what they could to assist. Most, but not all.
Five minutes after pressing the button, a green light winked on his keyboard, and with the flick of a switch, Rajavur irrevocably transferred the military might of the world to General Nicholi.
His VOX headphones on, controls live, voices began whispering to the Russian general about the launch status of NATO missiles, combat troop readiness and the present location of Navy and Air Force strike teams. Nicholi sub-vocalized into his throat mike, allocating 5 more NATO submarines to the New York harbor and scrambling an additional flight of F18 Raptor fighter/bombers. He already had enough atomic weapons pointed at Manhattan Island to blow it out of the history books, but he told the dreaded American CBW units to stay on the alert, and ordered his homeland to begin the careful assembly of their prototype Hellfire Bomb. In the solitude of his truncated room, Nicholi bitterly cursed the day he learned to play poker.
“Let's hear the alien's message please, Mohad,” Prof. Rajavur said, laying aside his hotline to the White House. This was no time to chat with the President. He appreciated the offer of assistance, but Rajavur had infinitely greater resources at his command than any local politician.
With a nod, the Hindu linguist pressed the Playback switch on his built-in video tape recorder.
“. . . PEOPLE OF DIRT, ATTENTION. PEOPLE OF DIRT, ATTENTION.”
“Dirt?” Bronson asked, putting a wealth of questions into the single word.
“Semantically correct,” Dr. Malavade explained didactically. “Though hardly flattering I agree.”
“WE ARE SCOUTS FROM THE GALACTIC LEAGUE,” the strange echoing voice continued. “HERE TO DETERMINE IF YOUR PLANET, DIRT, IS SUFFICIENTLY ADVANCED TO JOIN THE COALITION OF YOUR NEIGHBORING STARS.”
The rippling TV screen melted into a whirl of colors that became the picture of a blue skin humanoid wearing a dusky white uniform of classic military style. He (she? it?) had a formidable brow, pie plate eyes and two mouths, although only one was in use at present. Dr. Wu touched her throat mike, commenting briefly on the oddity and the possibility of copper sulfate life forms. Sir John made a notation on the military cut to its clothing, and requested detailed information on anything blue in nature; topaz stones, birds of paradise and the music of Blind Lemon Jefferson.
“FROM THE CROWD THAT HEMS OUR SHIP,” The facial movements of the being in no way matched the words coming from the speakers. Dr. Malavade sub-vocalized into his throat mike about translation devices. “WE HAVE TELEPORTED ABOARD OUR SHIP SEVERAL REPRESENTATIVES OF YOUR RACE. THEY ARE UNHARMED, I REPEAT, THEY ARE UNHARMED, AND ARE WITH US SIMPLY TO HELP US ASCERTAIN YOUR ELIGIBILITY FOR MEMBERSHIP IN THE GALACTIC LEAGUE.”
“They’re alive!” Sir John cried, his nightmares of alien invaders who eat our flesh, enslave our children and make the stock market collapse dispersing like a Highland mist. “Alive!”
Rajavur reached for his direct line to Nicholi, but then relaxed, when he saw the reflected lights of the Russian's console blink from red to orange and the general heave a mighty sigh. The situation might still be precarious, but at least they were no longer sitting in the barrel of a nuclear gun.
“THE POPULATION OF YOUR PLANET SHALL BE ALLOWED TO WATCH THEM BEING TESTED, AND IF THE SUBJECTS PASS, THEN DIRT WILL BE WELCOMED INTO THE GALACTIC LEAGUE AS A NEW, BUT EQUAL, MEMBER.”
Across the globe, humanity broke into wild cheering and began to dance about their TV and radio sets. Spaceships! Aliens! The stars! Whee! It was like a Saturday afternoon movie!
Meanwhile, Rajavur and company sat patiently in the air conditioned comfort of their underground bunker patiently waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“BUT,” the blue being continued.
Clunk,
thought the FCT in unison.
“. . . SHOULD YOUR REPRESENTATIVES FAIL THE TESTS, THEN WE WILL BE FORCED TO REDUCE YOUR PLANET TO A RADIOACTIVE CINDER. NOTHING PERSONAL, MIND YOU, BUT I HAVE MY ORDERS. THIS IS IDOW FOR THE GALACTIC LEAGUE. OUT.”
Once again, the picture on the monitor melted and swirled, changing back to an aerial view of the enormous white ship dramatically sitting on top of Central Park, the glass and steel buildings of the New York skyline forming a postcard background. Framing the picture was a twinkling amber bar that visibly shrank with each passing second.
“Chronometrics, Yuki?” Rajavur asked, taking an educated guess as to the nature of the border.
