Overrun: Project Hideaway (12 page)

The girl looked briefly back and
then moved further away. The whispers, some becoming quiet frantic yells,
chased her through the flames. She was halfway across the street before showing
some signs of giving in to their pleas.

She hesitated briefly looking
towards the escape offered by the darkness.

Without moving, Haase followed
her with his eyes.

The arms reaching from the
manhole had vanished, and the whispered yells chasing her had stopped.

The girl looked back towards the
manhole. Another explosion sounded loudly from somewhere in the distance
causing her to jump. With her arms pumping hard at her side, she sprinted back
towards the opening.

Going in headfirst, she quickly
disappeared.

Through the flames, Haase stood
slowly and walked towards the opening. Its cover had not yet been pulled back
into place and was still lying in the street.

He held the assault rifle he had
pulled from the arms of a dead soldier at his side. The soreness and damage the
blast had caused his body made it difficult to keep his grip.

More frantic whispers and now
some timid cries could be heard again from the exposed manhole shaft.

When he was almost upon it, the
voices suddenly stopped.

Haase raised the weapon to his
shoulder. He then leaned over the edge of the hole and pointed it inside.

He let out a quiet breath when
by the faint light of the coming sun he was able to make out what was hidden
below in the gloom.

Five pairs of eyes stared up at
him. Four girls and one young boy. It was almost as if they were already dead
in the shaft. None of them uttered a breath or even dared to move.

The crack of gunfire from
somewhere outside the flames made Haase turn his weapon and attention away from
the hole.

When he looked back again, the
children had started to slowly lower themselves away from him back into the
dark passage below.

“No,” Haase whispered after
them. The sound of additional weapons fire echoed in the distance. “Please. You
don’t have to go.”

He slung his weapon across his
shoulder and dropped to one knee. He leaned into the opening until his fingers
nearly touched the closest child.

“Please,” he spoke softly again.
“Please don’t go.”

The young girl near his hand did
not pull away. She locked her eyes steadily against his own.

Haase reached further into the
manhole and wrapped his hand gently around her arm. When she didn’t resist, he
pulled lightly at her wrist. Not looking up at him or at the other children
close around, the girl released her grip from the side of the manhole shaft and
allowed him to pull her slowly out.

When her legs cleared the
opening, Haase raised her up and slid her around across his back. She quickly
clasped her arms tightly around his neck.

Haase reached in for the second
child.

When he had finished pulling the
remaining children from the manhole, two hung from his neck across his back
while two others clutched to him at the front of his chest. The fifth, the
young girl he had watched trying to make the initial escape from the manhole,
stood at his side.

Maneuvering cumbersomely around
in the coming light, Haase reached down to pick his rifle up from the ground.
With the children hanging across him like oversized pieces of equipment and
gear, he turned and did his best to run towards the side of the street.

The children clung to him
tightly and did not make a sound. Haase could feel the rhythm of their scared
breathing as they held snugly against him.

The shock from another large
blast hammered the air a few blocks in the distance. None of the children
flinched or relaxed their grip. The breath from the two hanging behind him fell
hotly across the back of his neck.

Not looking back and hoping more
of his men than he had seen escaped the city alive, Haase moved away from the
center of the roadway. Holding the children close with one hand and his weapon
in the air with the other, Haase jogged as best he could towards the darkness
at the outside of the dying town. The young girl, no taller than the equipment
belt at his waist, followed behind.

The four daughters and one son
of the people whose town he had been sent here to destroy, he now hugged
tightly across his chest. He ignored the scream of his lungs as he struggled
beneath their weight.

He didn’t know where he ran to
take them. Only that it would be somewhere away from the madness waged upon
this outside town. A madness he had helped to create.

The weight of the children
pulled at his neck while the heat from the air and the coming sun began to burn
at his face.

Haase ran for what darkness
remained beyond the buildings still standing at the outside of town.

He struggled to keep his legs
moving. His breathing came in gasps, and his heart threatened to pound straight
from his throat. He resisted the urge of his agonized muscles to just give up
and fall down.

With the motorized sounds of the
J.G.U. onslaught fading in the distance, Haase struck out for the safety of the
night.

The young girl trailed closely
behind him. Her short legs moved hurriedly to keep up with his pace.

United States Administration Dome
October 2306, 48 years after Hideaway launch

"It's been confirmed
sir," Minister of State Daniel J. Baldwin said quickly upon entering. His
voice echoed eerily through the President's chambers. “We’ve had another one.”

President Franklin F. Ford
didn’t turn or even acknowledge the entrance of his most senior advisor. He
just continued to gaze past his office window towards the ruins of old
Washington D.C. about five miles outside of the Administration Dome.

He could still recognize some of
the structural remains that marked the nation’s capitol back in the day. Before
the ozone layer finally went. Before death befell the entire world around them.

“Another goddamn what?” the
President asked softly without turning around. He still looked outside the
thick windows of his office towards the ruins and what his entire country could
ultimately become.

"Another one, sir,"
Baldwin answered in the same deflated tone. “It’s another overrun.”

The President nodded. His body
was rigid, and his head hung down.

"How many is that?"
War Minister Peter Faulken's voice bellowed from across the room. His pale
gaunt form sat stiffly behind an electronic briefing table where he scrolled
through the hour's military updates. "How many overruns?"

Like the President, Faulken
didn’t look up at Baldwin when he first spoke.

"We have five complete
losses,” Baldwin said walking further into the large mostly empty room. “The
most recent is Science Dome 15 on the West Coast."

"And the Hideaway Project?"
Faulken asked.

The President shifted his body
around towards Faulken but still did not speak.

"We don't know about the
Hideaway Project," Baldwin answered watching the President. The skin under
his eyes sagged, and his shoulders drooped.

"Its security is completely
unknown. The entire facility housing the project has been destroyed. That’s all
we know. There have been no signs of orbiting life coming from the moon. We
think the ship is still down."

"You think the ship is
still down?" the President's aged southern voice came from the back of the
large room. "You don't know?"

"Not yet, sir,” Baldwin
answered. “We don't know.”

"Do you know if it’s even
still up there?” the President asked this time in a stronger yet still soft and
angry tone. “Not destroyed already like its parent facility?"

"It's still there, sir. At
least that has been verified,” Baldwin returned. “We can’t yet risk launching a
full detection pulse sweep. There’s too much danger the J.G.U. might
notice."

The President turned back to the
window.

Faulken looked up from the
briefing table. He cast a thin stare first up at Baldwin and then over at the
President.

The President’s apparent
frailties and misgivings that manifested themselves at the onset of the war
were becoming much more evident. As time moved quickly on, they were becoming
more pronounced and severe.

"It’s not working, Mr.
President,” Baldwin said softly. “We thought it would, but it’s not. The plan
is not accomplishing what we thought. ”

“And this surprises you?” the
President answered curtly back.

"Minister Baldwin, you are
wrong on making that assumption,” Faulken said dismissively and returned his
gaze to the viewscreen in front of him. “For all intensive purposes, it’s
working just as well as can be expected. Heavy losses were considered when
calculating its efficiency. We are not far enough along to make any sort of
assessments.”

"Mr. President,"
Baldwin continued ignoring the war minister. "Every report we've received,
every scenario researched from this point on, suggests events have begun
gravitating way beyond our capacity to control. Very little is going the way we
expected."

"How would you expect a war
at home to go, Minister?" the President asked his tone seething with quiet
rage.

"We have Vulture commandos
entering every major city near every dome structure,” Faulken interrupted
ignoring the President’s question. Not yet giving the conversation his full
attention, Faulken continued to stare at his holovid screen. “J.G.U. forces are
suffering insurmountable losses. It will be impossible for them to maintain
such a zealous offensive campaign for much longer. They will begin to fall
back."

“When?” the President asked
hotly turning partially around.

“Mr. President,” Faulken
answered calmly again. “It will happen.”

"So, what, are we just
trying to outlast them then?" the President asked his voice more petulant
and brooding.

"The troops are not getting
out in time," Baldwin said moving quietly to the center of the room. He
stood directly behind the President who still kept his back to them.

Silently, Faulken powered down
his console and looked up towards Baldwin and the President at this remark.

"The J.G.U. are moving too
fast,” Baldwin continued. “The Vulture troops are being hurried in setting the
explosives. These rush jobs are making them detonate too early. At the
detrimental loss to both equipment and men.”

"Haphazard occurrences of
human error," Faulken grunted. "All military operations carry their
own risks. These men have trained all their careers for the task that is now at
hand. Considering their mission objectives and the high caliber blast power
they are hurrying to plant, these occurrences can and do happen.

“Mistakes happen. Death does
occur. These are not things these crews are not equipped to handle. By signing
up for these duties, these men accepted their fates long ago. They are fully
capable of making the necessary adjustments and being able to handle these
accelerated attacks.”

"If the explosive sets
weren’t detonating as early as has been happening, much more would be
lost," Baldwin continued ignoring the interruption. " J.G.U. ground
forces are rolling through these towns. Sometimes even around them. They know
where the domes are, and they know what we’re up to.

“They’re purposefully not in
these towns long. It makes it harder for our crews to detonate the blasts when
they’re even there. Whole Vulture units are being lost at a time. They’re
almost being chased into the towns they’re rigging for ambush. This accelerated
timeframe was never expected. I fear the detonations are not having as much of
an effect on their forces as we had hoped."

“Who ever expected an ideal
timeframe?” Faulken snorted without compassion. “We are at war for god’s sakes.
Mr. President, I assure you this is all completely necessary. The plan is on
schedule and proceeding according to design.”

The President turned around at
this and moved toward his desk.

“Proceeding according to
design,” President Ford mimicked the war minister softly.

With a shaking hand, he pulled a
vial of medication from his drawer and settled back in his chair. He threw a
handful of the capsules to the back of his throat and swallowed them dry. He
dropped the vial back into his top drawer and pulled himself close to the desk.

Without speaking he stared at the
men on either side of the room. The flag of the United States Administration
Dome hung behind his back.

President Ford took several
breaths to calm his racing mind and heart.

"We're killing ourselves as
fast as we're killing them," Baldwin said. "We might even be killing
our own troops faster. We're starting to run out of men. The Vulture team is
almost dead."

"Jesus Christ," the
President said leaning forward and resting his forehead in his hands.

"That's preposterous,"
Faulken answered him hotly.

"At this rate, this war can
only be fought for another year,” Baldwin continued without acknowledging
Faulken’s outburst. “Another year at the most. I’ve sent updated troop levels
and defense placement scenarios to your information files, War Minister. Check them.
Check them soon."

"I don’t need to check
them,” Faulken answered with a pointed tone. “Each dome has its own guardian
army, and its own outer defenses. Even beyond that, a Death Wall ignition is
enough to wipe out platoons of advancing forces.”

"But what then?"
Baldwin asked. "It’s not enough. The J.G.U. still keep coming
through."

"Vulture troop existence
may be threatened, Mr. Minister of State," Faulken said standing.
"But we've been keeping a close eye on the J.G.U. on their own soil during
this entire short time we've been at war. Troop deliveries are starting to slow
way down from overseas. They can't last much longer. They won't. They have
nothing left, and the defense department completely agrees with that
assessment. This war will not last longer than another four months. Six at the
most. They are close to dead. Much closer than we are."

"There is another
problem," Baldwin said watching the President.

Ford sat back behind his desk
looking haggard and sick as he listened to the conversation. His hands were
balled into tight white fists. "We have reports of many survivors.
American survivors. Survivors that are waiting out the plan in bunkers
underground. People are making it through."

"I know about the
bunkers," Faulken dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand. "The
situation is being handled."

"I know you're handling it,
Faulken," Baldwin's voice began to rise. "Tales of your massacres are
making their way across the country both through the ranks of our troops and
the outside citizenry."

A dark reddish hue crawled
across the President's face, and a beading trail of sweat appeared across his
forehead. He clenched his teeth tightly.

"The problem is that people
are getting out!” Baldwin’s voice was nearly a scream. “Your massacres are not
contained. There are whispers of government plots and conspiracies across the
entire outside countryside. These people know they're survivors of something
more than just this war."

"What do you want me to do,
Baldwin?” Faulken asked coolly. “Pull men from the Vulture teams to set up
secret camps and hold American refugees? You said it yourself. Manpower is
limited. So what if a few people get out?"

"You would never set up
camps, Faulken,” Baldwin returned. “And why would you? Their removal is at the
heart of this war. Why would you start acts of compassion at this juncture in
your quest to conquer the world?!”

Faulken didn't answer him. His
face also became bright red.

"Many believe this is how
the J.G.U. are getting their information," Baldwin continued. “The people
on the outside now know what their own country is about, and they’re starting
to turn against us. They see the J.G.U. as their salvation. And why wouldn’t
they? They actually are. The plan is failing. We have to address another means
of attack…and call this off."

"Baldwin, you and your
‘many’ are wrong,” Faulken said again. “The J.G.U. are probably creating these
rumors themselves in an attempt to derail our efforts. Propaganda tactics won’t
work. Not now. We have complete control over what is happening out there. We
will win this war. The plan will succeed."

"Faulken, you goddamn
listen to me!" the President roared and stood abruptly. His chair flew
from beneath him and smashed against the wall. Its impact echoed through the
chamber.

"I want a complete and
accurate wartime assessment drawn up and given to me,” President Ford continued
to yell. “I want to know precisely what is happening out there, War Minister
Faulken! I want everything. Troop levels, readiness states. Weapon and
equipment supplies. Civilian casualties on the fucking outside. I want to know
every aspect of this fucking war you have created. Every fucking thing. Do you
got that?”

Faulken glanced over and gave
Baldwin a quick icy stare. He didn’t yet look at the President.

“If I had known the full details
of this war plan, I would have stopped it,” the President’s voice lowered
slightly. “It wouldn’t have gone this far. I’ve been kept in the dark and
manipulated to act.”

The President stared directly at
Faulken.

“I want to know everything.
Right goddamn now. Expected contingencies. Response scenarios. How far people
acting orchestrating this war are ordered and prepared to go. I want to know
all expected outcomes, and I want to know anything, anything, that might
possibly be done to change our current course of events.”

Faulken glanced from Baldwin and
then back to the President.

“What do you expect to change?”
Faulken questioned evenly.

“Right goddamn now!” the
President ignored Faulken and continued his tirade. “This country is falling to
the enemy. An enemy we purposefully provoked into coming here for God's
sake."

"Mr. President,” Faulken's
voice was stone quiet. “It’s too late for change. We can’t look back. We can
only move forward and finish what’s been planned for years. What has already
happened can’t be undone.”

"Faulken, if you don't
cooperate with me, I'll pull the whole goddamn thing,” President Ford answered
just as coldly. “I’ll end the plan. I’ll end it now. As commander-in-chief,
I'll regroup our forces and make one last overt attack. I'll draft men on the
outside if I have to. I’ll send army teams to hunt the Vulture squads if they
can’t be brought back in. This country will not fall from the planet like
this."

"It can’t be stopped, Mr.
President," Faulken stood and walked towards the President's desk his
voice ominous and threatening. "That’s the way it’s been designed all
along. Way before you were in office, and even before any of us were born. Too
many men have died for you to call it off. Safeguards have been worked in so that
not even the President can bring it to a premature end. The Vulture Team is
loose. And can't be stopped. Plan Zero has to run its complete course. Only
then can we judge its success."