The Trojan Horse (16 page)

Jayne nodded.  “Why not?  In fact...”

An alarm rang.  “That’s the breaking news alarm,” Robertson said, with some alarm.  “The President is going to be making a statement on Live TV.”

***

The White House Press Room was as full as ever, with hundreds of reporters, television cameras and bystanders watching as the President made his speech.  Toby noticed a number of familiar faces in the crowd, some of them political enemies of the President and his Party, others reporters who could be counted upon to put the best face on political disaster.  But maybe all the old certainties no longer applied.  The Mainstream Media had practically transformed itself into a cheerleading squad for the aliens.  And a number of bloggers who had opposed the aliens, no matter how ineffectually, were dead.

He scowled as quiet gradually fell over the room.  Outside, the shouting of the protesters could vaguely be heard, even though the soundproofing.  If anything, the crowds seemed to be getting bigger; the Washington PD had reported that the protest organisers seemed to be funnelling more and more people towards the White House.  There were even rumours that the Secret Service had ordered plans to evacuate the White House to be put into high gear, although Toby knew that the President would object strongly.  Running from a crowd of his own citizens would utterly destroy his presidency. 

“My Fellow Americans,” the President said.  “One month ago, the world changed forever when we finally discovered that there was an entire universe of intelligent beings living beyond the solar system.  They brought gifts and words of warning; we, the human race, were on the verge of destroying ourselves.  We had trapped ourselves within the gravity well at the time we needed to be heading outwards and ensuring that we would no longer have all our eggs in one basket.  The Galactic Federation has offered us help in climbing to the stars, but that help comes with a price.  You have all heard the terms they have demanded in exchange for their assistance.

“Congress and the Senate have debated the matter intensively over the past week,” the President continued.  That was, Toby knew, technically true.  On the other hand, one of the Congressmen who’d been briefed had probably been the one who had leaked the details of the alien demands to the Mainstream Media.  “We have had to make some hard choices.  If we refused to comply with the alien demands, we would be frozen out of the new era – and flying in the face of public opinion.  And yet, complying with the terms would be extremely difficult and costly.  We would have to rid ourselves of nuclear weapons.  Our proud Navy which has defended our freedom ever since our country was born would have to be scrapped; the military force we built will have to be discarded.

“And yet, the rewards promise to be literally astronomical in scope.

“My Fellow Americans, after urgent discussions on Capitol Hill, I can confirm that it is the intention of the United States Government to accept the alien terms.  We will reach out and boldly stride into an shining future where everyone has enough to eat, where everyone has enough to drink and where everyone has the promise of Galactic technology to lift them to the stars.  There are those who will say that we will pay a high price for those benefits, but we are looking at the realisation of mankind’s dreams!  Peace, prosperity and challenges that can be met peacefully.  There is a whole universe out there waiting for us!”

Toby watched the reaction of the Press Corps as the President finished his speech.  Some seemed shocked, even though they’d clearly anticipated it; others seemed delighted, convinced that the President had just personally inaugurated a whole new era for the human race – and for them personally.  Who knew what the Galactic Federation intended to do with the Earth?  The President had just ordered the disbanding of the one force that might be able to slow, or even stop, the invasion. 

He silently prayed that his father could get to General Thomas in time.  The growing resistance was going to need him.  They would need everyone they could reach before the shit really hit the fan.

Chapter Sixteen

Washington DC

USA, Day 26

“I hate Washington,” the Colonel commented to no one in particular.  The city seemed to stink of the stench of politics – and pollution.  There were thousands of cars on the roads, driving as if their drivers had to be at their destinations yesterday.  “I really hope Toby was right when he gave us directions.”

No one said anything.  Washington DC seemed to be undergoing one of its permanent traffic jams.  The van they’d driven all the way from Virginia might not stand out among all the other unmarked vans, but the Colonel was grimly aware that being stopped by the Highway Patrol or the Police might prove fatal.  Whatever the Second Amendment said, there were things in the van that would ensure that they received a hefty prison sentence, if they were caught and stopped.  The Colonel had used a number of tricks to hide their trail as best as he could, yet simple bad luck had foiled more operations than anyone could count.  And bad luck now would be disastrous.

“The General’s address is right up here,” Packman assured him.  They’d already had a long argument about why a former CIA field agent couldn’t read a map.  “I guess the wife must be a wealthy girl.  Look at some of these apartments.”

The Colonel shrugged.  They were in one of the wealthier areas of Washington, dominated by large houses and larger gardens.  It was a far cry from the farm – and he’d never been very happy in any kind of city – but he had to admit that if one had to live in the city, there were worse places to live.  Even so, he knew that it probably cost more money than he’d seen in his life to buy a house here – and he was fairly sure that Generals didn’t get paid that much, even the successful ones.  But in Washington, success was often measured by how many asses you could kiss at once, rather than actual combat prowess.

General Elliot Thomas had been a fighting soldier before being promoted to the Joint Chiefs of Staff.  The Colonel had hoped that one of his little organisation members would know the General personally, but so far no one had admitted to serving beside General Thomas, at least in any position where the General might reasonably be expected to recognise him.  At least there was nothing phoney about the man’s war record.  He’d served in Iraq and Afghanistan before being promoted to take command of CENTCOM and then the Joint Chiefs of Staff.  Unlike so many uniformed politicians, he did know what end of a gun was the dangerous end.

And he was just who the growing resistance needed.  General Thomas commanded respect, even from those who hated his guts.  The Colonel had a high opinion of himself, but he’d left the military over a decade ago; almost all of the younger soldiers wouldn’t recognise him if they passed him in the streets.  And General Thomas’s life was in danger.  If the aliens were prepared to murder relatively harmless bloggers to silence anyone who might speak out against them, what would they do to someone who commanded national respect?  There were people who even talked about General Thomas as a potential
President
.

“That’s his house,” Packman said.  He nodded towards a moderate mansion that looked – to the Colonel – as if someone with too much money and too little taste had allowed the architect to drink while building the house.  General Thomas – or, more likely, his wife – had little taste.  “How are we going to make the approach?”

The Colonel scowled.  Even if they’d had someone who knew the General, there was a second problem.  The General was almost certainly under alien surveillance – and utterly unaware that there was any need to worry.  And even if he
had
worried, could he get rid of the alien surveillance device?  Somehow, the Colonel doubted it.  Toby had gone through a full search to have his removed – and they’d only found it because the device had been broadcasting at the time.  They would have to talk to the General without saying anything out loud.

“I’ll take the lead,” he said.  “Bob; you’ll come with me.  Blake, Sam, Jack; stay where you are and keep an eye on the situation.  If we need help, we’ll whistle for it.”

“Gotcha, boss,” Sam Mason said.  He was a former National Guardsman, but he hadn’t allowed his skills to lapse since his effective retirement.  The sports bag slung under his seat contained his assault rifle and enough ammunition to fight a small war.  Even if the cops let that past, they’d have real problems ignoring the grenades and the small quantity of C4 the team had brought with them.  Blake had insisted that one could never have too little C4 and the Colonel was inclined to agree.  “Just watch your back.  You can never trust anyone who moves to Washington.”

The Colonel scowled at him – Toby had moved to Washington – before he opened the door and slipped out onto the pavement.  Bob Packman slipped down beside him, one hand in his pocket where he’d concealed his pistol.  They both had concealed carry licences, but they couldn’t afford to attract any attention.  Gun carry laws changed so often that someone could become a criminal merely by driving over the state line.  He scowled at Packman until the former CIA agent took his hand out of his pockets and stood to attention.  Wearing a civilian suit that didn’t quite fit him, he looked more like a gangster than a military man.  The Colonel rolled his eyes, checked that his Sig Sauer was in a convenient position, and started to lead the way up the driveway.

General Thomas’s home address had never been made public.  It was a security precaution that dated back to the days when terrorists had tried to harm the morale of American troops by hitting their families back home in America.  The media had probably been trying to bribe someone to disclose it, but for once the alien subversion of the media worked in their favour; they wouldn’t want someone of General Thomas’s statue publicly opposing the Galactic Federation.  After the government had effectively signed away American independence, who knew
what
kind of reaction they’d have from the people?  The Colonel had heard – from a drinking buddy who was still in the National Guard – that the Guard was being prepped for mass civil unrest.  Rumours were flying everywhere, none of them good. 

“I feel as if I’m in a bad movie,” Packman whispered, as they crunched their way up the driveway.  General Thomas – or his wife – drove an expensive car.  “Do you think he’ll have a butler and a maid?”

“Shut up,” the Colonel whispered back, not unkindly.  Packman dealt with stress by making jokes; the Colonel grew colder and quieter.  “Remember; we need to convince him to join us without any proof, or saying anything out loud.”

He pressed the bell and smiled as he heard a series of chimes from inside the house.  A long moment passed slowly, and then the door swung open, revealing a middle-aged mulatto woman with grey streaks in her dark hair.  Two sharp brown eyes examined the two visitors and found them wanting.  Judging from the faint look in her eye, her husband’s resignation had shocked her.  General Thomas had been a natural lifer, someone who would have been happy to spend their entire lives in the military.  And now he was a civilian again, even if all the paperwork hadn’t been processed.  The Colonel understood how he must have felt.

“He’s not in,” she snapped.  The Colonel guessed that some reporters had already been to visit, even though they would have had problems finding the General’s address.  But in Washington one could find out anything with a bribe to the right person.  “He’s permanently out to you.”

“We’re not reporters,” the Colonel said.  The wife’s face twitched, suggesting that he’d guessed correctly.  “We’re from the General’s former command, come to pay our respects.”

The General’s wife studied them carefully for a long moment.  Military wives spent quite a bit of time around their husband’s commands and some of them were often quite familiar with the soldiers under his command.  On the other hand, they had been living in Washington rather than a military base for the last few years.  The Colonel quietly prayed that he looked old enough to pass muster as one of the General’s first subordinates.  Thomas had been a junior officer when the Colonel had been mustered out of the army.

“Come on in,” she said, finally.  “He’s in his office.”

The interior of the Colonel’s house was far more tasteful than the outside, with a number of paintings hanging from the walls, illuminated by glowing lights set into wooden panelling.  There were no signs of children, which struck the Colonel as odd;
he’d
had a wife and a family while he’d been kicking Saddam’s ass in Desert Storm.  Maybe the General’s wife was barren, or maybe she simply didn’t want children.  The Colonel had met a few military wives who fretted about what would happen to their children if their husband died.

They stopped outside a wooden door.  “Elliot,” the General’s wife called, “you have visitors.”

The Colonel braced himself as the door swung open.  It was clear that the General had been allowed to decorate the room to his own personal satisfaction.  A single bookcase, crammed with books, dominated one side of the room; a second wall was covered in plaques and other legacies from his former stations around the world.  The Colonel noted that some of them came from Ranger and Delta Force units and nodded in approval.  Anyone who had served besides or commanded such units would have to win their respect to get a plaque.  Some other units could always be depended upon to produce something even if their former CO had been incompetent or cruel.  There were sycophants everywhere.

General Thomas looked up at them from a desk covered in writing papers.  The Colonel, who was old enough to recall the somewhat painful process of racial integration in the military, was pleasantly surprised.  General Thomas might be wearing civilian clothes, but he managed to make it look like a uniform; his shaved head seemed to glisten in the light.  There were plenty of officers who managed to look good everywhere, but the battlefield, yet Thomas had definitely seen the elephant.  He had the look of a man who had little fear left in his soul.

“Visitors,” he repeated.  He quirked one eyebrow.  “You do realise that I’m legally allowed to shoot reporters?”

“Very funny, sir,” the Colonel said.  He produced his notepad and held it out for the General to read.  “Here are my credentials.”

He saw the General’s dark eyes narrow.  The message read THE ALIENS ARE BUGGING YOU.  NOD ONCE IF YOU UNDERSTAND.

The General nodded once, quickly.  He picked up a pen and wrote a second message under the first in neat handwriting.  WHO ARE YOU?

THE RESISTANCE, the Colonel wrote.  YOUR LIFE IS IN DANGER.  YOU NEED TO COME WITH US.

I CAN’T LEAVE MY WIFE, the General wrote.  HOW DO YOU KNOW THAT WE WILL BE SAFE?

The Colonel almost smiled.  THE US IS IN DANGER, he wrote.  NO PROMISES OF SAFETY ALLOWED.

Thomas chuckled.  “Well, that is all very interesting,” he said, aloud.  He glanced down at the notepad and started to scribble another note.  “I’m afraid I have no interest in serving as a lobbyist for your form.”

He passed the notepad over to the Colonel.  WHEN DO WE LEAVE?

ASAP, the Colonel wrote.  GRAB YOUR OVERNIGHT BAG AND YOUR WIFE’S BAG.  WE NEED TO MOVE NOW.

It was at that moment that they heard the gunshot.

***

Julius Davenant disliked working with a partner, let alone three others, all of whom had dubious reputations for loyalty, but the orders from their employer had been strict.  He also tended to dislike working on American soil – the FBI was one of the better detective agencies on Earth – yet he’d swallowed his fears.  The money they were being paid was enough to allow him to retire to the Caymans or some other place where he could change his name and vanish into the multitude.  Besides, he had to admit that all of the assignments so far had been ridiculously easy.

The car pulled up beside the General’s house and they checked their weapons automatically.  Washington’s police department wasn't the best in the nation, but no one expected the cops to hesitate when it came to sending cars out to see who was firing shots in one of the wealthier areas.  The people who lived here were
important
; they paid taxes.  A failure to get the cops out on time, even if it was physically impossible, would result in mutual recriminations and job losses. 

“Target the thumper now,” he ordered, as he switched his cell phone off.  He’d paid good money for a model that was almost impossible to trace, at least not very quickly.  Given access to the full resources of the NSA, the Washington PD might be able to trace the phone – but by then it would be buried or somewhere under the Potomac.  “Hit it as soon as you’re ready.”

One of his comrades looked up from the small device.  “Thumper ready,” he said.  “Now?”