The Trojan Horse (28 page)

He shook his head, bitterly.  There was no way to get her back.  He would just have to have faith that she was in the arms of Jesus, waiting for him in Heaven.  One way or the other, the Colonel knew that he didn't have much time left.  His body was aching after his crawl, where once he would have crawled for miles with enemy bullets whipping through the branches over his head.  The thought of growing old, of becoming senile, was terrifying.  He couldn't face it.

Susan bellowed for dinner and the Colonel stood up.  Old or not, he could still fight, and he intended to fight.  And if his time finally ran out, he would die in a manner that would make Mary proud.  It was all he’d ever asked for from his country.

***

The Colonel had once heard a joke about American dinnertimes.  There were three subjects that should never be discussed over dinner; politics, religion and sex.  And there were three subjects that were
always
discussed over dinner; politics, religion and sex.  The joke had gone on to claim that most fractured households came from disputes over dinner, but the Colonel hadn’t seen the joke.  Most people had more important things to worry about than politics, religion and sex. 

Dinner was a subdued affair.  He briefly explained what he’d seen at the Rawson Farm and Packman explained what he’d seen on the internet.  The official story from the Feds was that the Rawson Family had been linked to a terrorist plot against the President and vast quantities of explosives and illegal weapons had been removed from their farm.  Given that he hadn't seen the Feds bother to search the house, the Colonel suspected that some scriptwriter had simply pulled it out of his ass.  Or maybe they’d conveniently assembled the evidence beforehand in some federal warehouse where they’d shown it to tame journalists. 

Afterwards, he got together with a handful of the others and started outlining possible courses of action.  They couldn't allow the feds – and the pod people, and the aliens – to have it all their own way.  And yet, the Colonel hesitated from the prospect of causing more human deaths.  Many of the Feds would be honest men, unaware that they were actually working for the aliens.  But then, if they’d gone to work destroying the Constitution – did they really deserve to survive?  Making a moral choice was hard enough at the best of times, but when the economic climate was so low and jobs were scarce...who would want to lose one by standing up to his superiors? 

“We have to find a way to put a spoke in their gears,” he said, finally.  Bitter frustration coloured his voice.  He hated feeling helpless, at the mercy of others.  “There has to be some way of making them sit up and take notice that we won’t allow them to wreak havoc on innocent people.”

And slowly, very slowly, a plan started to come together in his mind.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Norfolk, Virginia

USA, Day 51

“Remember to slouch, dudes.”

Sergeant Mathew Bracken snorted as the SEALs instantly transformed themselves into the very picture of slobs and layabouts.  Red Squadron of the Joint Special Operations Command's United States Naval Special Warfare Development Group was used to insane missions – they’d spearheaded the killing of Osama Bin Laden – but this had to be one of the weirdest.  Officially, one of the Snakes wanted to experience life on a boat.  Unofficially, the real objective of the mission was a great deal harder.  And after the raids carried out by the federal police forces, there was a very distant possibility that an outraged patriot would take a pot-shot at the Snake.

The yacht
looked
civilian.  They’d used it before for trawling missions along the coast of Somalia, looking for pirates who were preying on Western shipping.  When the pirates boarded, they found themselves staring down the guns of Navy SEALs who knew how to handle them and were quite prepared to hand out rough justice if they didn’t surrender instantly.  Mathew had little truck with the suggestion that the pirates were only trying to feed their families and communities.  They could have done that without capturing innocent shipping, let alone mistreating their crews or holding them for ransom.  One day, he hoped, the SEALs would be able to go in and clean the nest of pirates out from beginning to end.  Until then, they would have to make do with patrols – and strange missions like the one they were about to start.

There was a popular perception that SF soldiers were stupid.  It was untrue; SF soldiers had to be trained to a very high standard, pushed right to the limits of their capabilities, before they could be sent on missions that would often never come to public attention.  They’d been taught to use their initiative and think about what they were doing – and never to forget that their ultimate purpose was to defend the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic.  And many of the SEALs had family within the so-called right-wing community.  The raids on their farms and imprisonment of many people who had no connection with any terrorists had angered them.  They’d agreed, if they were ever ordered to into action against innocent American civilians, they would refuse.  The orders would be thoroughly illegal. 

And now they were going to vanish.  Mathew still remembered the grim briefing from senior authority.  It was irregular, so much so that he’d almost contemplated refusing the mission.  But then he’d encountered one of the pod people and realised that the situation was far worse than it seemed.  The Galactics were slowly taking over and all hell was about to break loose.  It seemed that every military base in the United States – and presumably over the entire world – now had its own force of Galactics.  No one expected them to remain peaceful for long and with so much of the military disbanded, no one knew who would win when they came out into the open.  And there were still seventeen starships orbiting the Earth.  They could simply bombard the human race into submission and everyone knew it.

His radio buzzed.  “Alpha is entering the base now,” it said.

He keyed the switch.  “Understood,” he said.  He nodded to a couple of his guys, who started lowering the gangplank.  The ship had been isolated from the remainder of the Naval Base, for reasons that he hadn't been made privy to, but he suspected had something to do with the two aircraft carriers that were on their way back home.  “We’re ready when they are.”

The convoy rolled into view and came to a halt on the dock.  A team of security officers jumped out and looked around nervously, although Mathew couldn't imagine what sort of threat they expected to find here.  None of them knew what was really going on, he reminded himself, and they probably feared that one of the Navy’s crewmen would take a shot at the alien.  They looked clownish compared to the SEALs, but that was something of the point.  A show of security was often enough to deter most attackers.  Those it didn't deter were the ones who didn't care if they lived or died, as long as they took out their target.  They were the worst.

He’d seen aliens before, but this one seemed different, somehow.  The alien looked almost nervous, glancing upwards time and time again as he inched towards the boat.  Mathew remembered that the aliens might well be watching – after all, their high command had authorised the excursion – from high overhead, looking down from their starships.  It gave him an uncomfortable feeling to know that America no longer ruled the skies, an odd sense of empathy with those he'd fought in Iraq and Afghanistan.  The thought made him smile.  There had been limits to even the best satellite and drone coverage and chances were that the aliens had the same limitations.  If not, the war – when it finally came into the open – was likely to be short, bloody and a total human defeat.  What little Mathew did know about their surveillance technology suggested all kinds of possibilities for population control.  The USSR would have sold its soul – if they’d been willing to admit that souls existed – for the technology the aliens deployed regularly.  And Mathew and his team had to fool it.

“Come on,” he called, cheerfully.  The security officers blinked at him, clearly wondering if they’d gotten the right boat.  Mathew wasn’t wearing a uniform, merely a civilian outfit that seemed to provide little space for guns or ammunition – or any of the other equipment that SEALs carried on a routine basis.  “The water’s fine.”

For a being that had crossed uncounted light years, the alien seemed remarkably nervous as he inched up the gangplank and onto the boat.  Mathew found himself whispering reassurance, as if the alien was a worried child taking his first trip out onto the ocean, although he couldn't tell if the alien understood.  Maybe it was the very faint rocking that was making the boat shiver, or maybe it was the thought of what he was about to do.  The alien high command, however it was organised, wouldn't take too kindly to defectors.  If they ever realised what was about to happen, they’d demand the defector be returned – or else Earth’s cities might pay the price.  And if that happened, Mathew knew, the President would have no choice, but to surrender.  The weak, he knew, must often feel ashamed.

He helped the alien down into the small lounge and invited him to sit in a chair that had been specifically designed for an alien rear.  They seemed to dislike human chairs and looking at the alien, Mathew understood why.  A flat-bottomed chair would be uncomfortable for their posterior.  Shaking his head, he passed the alien a drink and headed back up to the deck.  It was time to cast off and head out to sea.  They could worry about if aliens suffered from seasickness later, if there was a later.

“Time to go,” he said.  “Get us out of here.”

The boat cast off from the pier and started to head out to sea.  Norfolk was one of the busiest shipping areas in the United States, with the Norfolk Naval Shipyard providing repair and modernisation services for every type of ship the USN possessed.   As the boat headed out, Mathew saw amphibious vessels, submarines, guided missile cruisers, and a pair of giant aircraft carriers.  Most of them were due to be decommissioned, in accordance with the terms set by the Galactic Federation, although he had a suspicion that some people in high places were deliberately dragging their feet.  The new carrier under construction in Northrop Grumman Newport News, located on the other side of Hampton Roads in Newport News, would probably never be finished.  One by one, they passed the signs of American naval might and shaped a course out to sea.  The plan they’d filed with the authorities was to head down to Charleston, allowing the alien a chance to experience life on the water, and then perhaps head further down to Florida.  It was a sign of alien arrogance, he suspected, that they hadn't even questioned the use of a top-flight SEAL team to guard one alien. 
He
would have been suspicious if the SEALs were involved. 

He glanced back down into the lounge and saw the alien climbing up the steps to the deck.  It didn't look as if the alien had proper sea legs, which made him wonder how they’d designed boats on their homeworld.  They would probably be happier with ramps than ladders, although he had a feeling that the alien could probably have scrambled up a ladder far quicker than a flight of steps.  It looked as if the aliens had stronger arms than humans – and the SEALs could have pulled themselves up just using their arms.  He grimaced at the faint smell as the alien approached him, and then stopped, both scaly hands clutching the railing.  It was impossible to be sure, but the alien looked somewhat uneasy at the vast spread of water.  Or maybe it was because he had placed his fate into the hands of the human race.  God knew humans weren’t always very kind to their own people.  What sort of alien, on the run from his own people, would expect good treatment from humanity?

The alien didn't seem interested in small talk, for which Mathew was profoundly grateful.  Leaving one of the other SEALs to watch their passenger – the alien might not be able to swim if he fell overboard – he walked along the deck to the pilot cabin, which someone had laughably labelled THE BRIDGE.  The SEAL at the wheel looked up at him enquiringly, but Mathew had other priorities.  A quick glance at the GPS showed that they were well on their way to the rendezvous point; a longer glance at the security sensors proved that the alien had at least two transmitters on his person.  One was the voder, Mathew knew; the other was embedded within the alien’s skin.  They would have to be very careful when they got the alien out of the boat.  A single transmission and the Galactics would come down on them like the wrath of God.

“This mission could go horrendously wrong,” his superior had warned him.  “If it does, we never heard of you.”

It wasn't a pleasant thought, but Mathew had been doing deniable missions for the last four years.  If his name went down as a rogue SEAL – a distant possibility - at least God and his family would know the truth.  And maybe sometime in the future, after humanity had beaten the Galactics, the truth would be told openly.  He might even get a good mention in the official histories of United States Navy's Sea, Air and Land Teams.

The hours ticked away until they reached the right position.  This was the chancy bit, Mathew knew; far too much could go wrong.  He escorted the alien back down into the lounge and warned him to remain seated; seconds later, a dull thud echoed through the craft.  The alien started, clearly shocked, but Mathew motioned for him to remain still.  A moment later, a hatch opened in the bottom of the boat, revealing the head of another SEAL.  The minisub had arrived.  Quickly, working with frantic speed, Mathew motioned for the alien to remove the voder and the small container the alien had brought with him, leaving them both in the boat.  They’d discovered that the aliens had small charges implanted within their bodies to destroy them in case of death without any hope of recovery, something that – Mathew hoped – would quell any suspicions the Galactics might have about what had happened.  The container, they'd been promised, contained enough of the explosion compound the Galactics used to leave traces behind afterwards.

“Come on,” he hissed.  The alien seemed even more nervous, almost claustrophobic, as he approached the hatch.  Mathew hesitated, and then picked up the alien and pushed him down the hatch, into the submarine.  He’d known civilians be just as nervous when it came to climbing into a submarine, even though there was nothing to fear.  It stood to reason that someone who had never seen a submarine, let alone travelled in one, would be nervous.

Once the alien was down, Mathew straightened up and called out to his men.  The pilot cabin was connected to the lounge through a hidden hatch, allowing the pilot and his assistant to get down quickly, without alerting anyone watching from high overhead.  Moments later, the two SEALs who had been walking the deck joined them.  Mathew motioned for them to get into the submarine and then followed them down through the hatch.  A dull red light surrounded him as he landed inside the small craft, with a pair of nervous-looking crewmen working frantically to seal the hatch.  Time was running out.

He felt his ears spin lightly as the submarine disengaged from the yacht and started to dive deeper under the waves.  The SEALs had plenty of experience with the small craft; they’d used them before to successfully evade detection from satellites high overhead.  But no one, Mathew reminded himself, knew the full limits of alien capabilities.  They might well have some kind of magic technology that would allow them to track the submarine...and if that happened, six SEALs, five crewmen and one alien were going to die.  There was no way they could risk falling into enemy hands.  If the aliens could reanimate a corpse and send it out to kill, God alone knew what they could do with live captives.  He could imagine no worse fate than becoming a pod person, his mind overwritten with loyalty to the aliens.

One of the crewmen glanced at a display on the bulkhead.  “Twenty seconds,” he said.  The sound of the submarine’s engines grew louder as it struggled to put distance between itself and the yacht.  “Ten seconds...”