The Trojan Horse (40 page)

“Roadblock,” the driver commented, as brilliant spotlights lit up and glared down at the trucks.  The Colonel had to put up a hand to protect his eyes.  “Got your papers ready?”

The Colonel nodded, despite the thumping of his heart.  If the papers had been fucked up, if they’d been betrayed deliberately or through simple human error, they were all about to die.  The younger men might be able to cut their way out of the ambush and then flee, but there was no way the Colonel could leave.  They had to hide the evidence that they’d had a defector, even if it meant killing the alien and everyone who knew about him personally.  And he would have to kill himself, just to be sure...

“Open the window,” he ordered.

The window slid open, allowing the soldier on guard to stare up at him.  “Papers,” he demanded.  “Who are you and what are you doing here?”

“Routine reinforcement,” the Colonel said, passing him the folder of documents.  The aliens had done well to create documents that would be very difficult to forge, but they hadn’t anticipated a traitor in their ranks.  They’d created a new aristocracy of pull, yet it hadn't occurred to them that their servants included a few men who wanted to see them overthrown.  “Here are our papers.”

He tensed as the soldier studied them, and then passed them back up into the cab.  “Proceed, sir,” he said.  “Welcome to Washington.”

The Colonel kept his expression under tight control as they drove away from the roadblock and through deserted streets.  If there were any lights on in the buildings, he saw no sign of them, leaving him wondering if the population was all dead.  A lot of citizens had been killed in the fighting, or in reprisals launched by the aliens and their pod people.  The reports had suggested that much of the population was starving, while the collaborators lived high and ate well.  The Colonel ground his teeth together and swore revenge.  Even if the plan failed, a great many collaborators were going to be killed.

He jumped out of the truck as soon as it pulled up outside the barracks.  Sergeant Bracken met him outside, as agreed.  The Colonel had had his inoculation against nerve gas, but the thought still worried him.  It should have broken down into its components by now, he told himself sternly.  It wasn't something he needed to worry about, not compared to what they were doing and the potential consequences of failure.

“They’re all dead,” Bracken said.  He was already wearing one of the enemy uniforms.  The Colonel had wondered why the aliens had insisted on designing their own uniforms, before realising that the Snakes had as much trouble telling humans apart as humans had with telling Snakes apart.  “And we have enough uniforms for you and your men.”

The Colonel nodded.  “Good,” he said.  He waved to the drivers and they took the trucks through the gate and into the warehouse complex.  The soldiers would be dressed in enemy uniforms and ready to leave when the time came.  There was a risk that they’d be attacked by the resistance – friendly fire was nothing of the sort, the Colonel knew – but it would just have to be accepted.  Besides, they couldn't take the risk of ordering the attacks to halt, or some bright spark on the enemy side would start wondering why the resistance had called off its attacks. 

He pulled on the enemy commander’s uniform with only a little difficulty.  The Colonel was in good shape for his age, but he knew that he wasn't the man he had been any longer.  It was easy enough to play the collaborator, yet wearing the alien uniform irritated him.  Why had so many chosen to forsake their country and serve the aliens?  Had patriotism really become such a dirty word?  Some had had little choice, some had been brainwashed, but the remainder?  They’d chosen to serve the aliens of their own free will.  They would all die in the aftermath of the war.

“Only a few hours to go,” Bracken said.  “Have you got all the papers?”

“Yes,” the Colonel said, grimly.  The SEAL looked calm, but they both knew that they were risking everything on the plan.  They’d win – or lose the Earth.  Failure would mean the end of any hope of resistance, maybe even the end of the human race itself.  With stakes like that, who could blame the collaborators for collaborating?  He pushed the thought aside, angrily.  It was better to die a free man than live as a slave.  “All we have to do now is wait.”

Chapter Forty

Washington DC

USA, Day 73

Toby hadn't slept all night.  He’d known he should and he’d even considered ordering something to help him sleep, but in the end he’d just lain on his bed and stared at the ceiling.  His father would have slept; his dead brother would have slept...but in the end, Toby knew himself to be a lesser man than either of them.  He’d told himself that he was serving the country, by serving the President, and yet...he thought less of himself for not having served in the military.  It was ironic, in a way; he could never have predicted the path that had led him to the centre of the resistance, yet he was the point failure source for everything.  A single mistake and the aliens would have him, and use him as their tool to uncover the resistance and destroy it.

He’d known people in Washington who did not fear death, but feared losing their access to politics.  They’d known that a single failure, a single mistake that could not be smoothed over or buried under a mountain of bullshit, would wreak their careers once and for all.  And they had thought they were playing for high stakes.  A seat in Congress, a place on the Supreme Court, even the Presidency itself...they’d thought that failure would mean the end of everything that made their lives worth living.  Toby knew of scandals – of dead girls and live boys – that had never been seen by the public eye, with criminals and worse surviving to live another day in Washington.  The city had once been built on a swamp, but in many ways it was still a swamp, a place where good intentions and bright sparks slid beneath the water, never to re-emerge.  He’d told himself that he’d done well by supporting the President – and he’d been a better person than many of the other possible candidates – and yet he had proved unable to cope with the crisis.  How would Lincoln or Washington have reacted to the Snakes?

His alarm clock rang and he pulled himself out of bed.  Sleeping in the White House had once seemed a reward for good service, sharing a building that was the official residence of the President himself.  Now it seemed like a punishment, a prison sentence to a building ruled by the Red Queen.  The hundreds of armed guards, glaring at each other along with anyone who dared visit the White House, would do her bidding.  Every time Toby slept, he half-expected to be awoken in the middle of the night by armed men intent on executing him, or dragging him out to face McGreevy.  It was not a pleasant thought.

The maid came in while Toby was still dressing, wheeling in a trolley.  Toby glanced down at the tray and saw bacon and eggs, toast and jam.  The ordinary citizens of Washington were on the verge of starvation – and it would get worse as winter rolled in – but the White House could still get fresh food and drink.  He almost sent it back – his nerves made it difficult to eat – yet he knew that he had to eat what he could.  The food tasted excellent, but it felt like ashes in his mouth.  Afterwards, he went to the toilet, shaved and prepared himself for the day.  He’d left a copy of his will with his father, although somehow he suspected that his meagre possessions would be confiscated by McGreevy’s government if he was caught in the act.  Gillian would be safe, at least.  His father would see to that.

Bracing himself, he strode out of his bedroom and down the long corridor to the connecting stairs.  The guards halted him and checked his ID; unless he was very much mistaken, there were even more guards in the building than there had been a day ago.  McGreevy’s paranoia was clearly reaching new and even more dangerous heights.  If she insisted on being surrounded by a private security team at all times, the mission would become far more dangerous.  Or perhaps it would just give the aliens more to engage when the shit hit the fan.  Who knew what side mercenaries would take?

He endured a series of checks as he approached the Oval Office, until he was finally allowed into the presence.  The room was dark and smelled funny; the sun had yet to rise into the sky.  McGreevy could be seen on the other side of the room, sitting on the sofa.  It looked as if she hadn't left the President’s office since Toby had left visited her.  The light came on as she touched a switch and Toby almost started.  She looked terrible, as if she too hadn’t slept all night.  Toby would have felt sorry for her, if he hadn't known her crimes.  If she was sleepy, or drugged, it would be easy to get her to Andrews without something going badly wrong.

“Madam President,” he said.  McGreevy looked up at him, her red-rimmed eyes fixed on his face.  She mumbled something, but Toby didn't hear.  “The convoy is nearly ready to depart for Andrews.”

McGreevy started to stagger to her feet.  Toby reached out a hand to help her, but she waved him away impatiently.  She seemed to have grown twenty years older in the space of a day, staggering helplessly as she put her weight on her feet.  As he waited, she stumbled into the little washroom and he heard the sound of running water.  She’d know that she couldn't look like that on the outside, where the public might see her.  Whatever faith remained in the McGreevy Administration would be destroyed the moment anyone set eyes on her.  She’d clearly lost her grip on events.

But was it really her fault?  Toby was fairly sure that McGreevy wasn't a pod person, but the aliens had done something to the President; why couldn't they do anything to his replacement?  Had they set out to use her to destroy faith in the American Government, so it could be replaced by the bogus dream of a Galactic Federation, or had they merely decided that she'd come to the end of her usefulness?  There was no way to know.  It provided yet another thing to worry about.  If they’d decided she was no longer necessary, would they still allow her into Andrews?

He looked up as McGreevy came out of the washroom.  She looked much better, having splashed water on her face and tided her clothes.  Toby wondered if he should advise her to change her outfit before deciding that it wouldn't matter.  The aliens wouldn't care and no one else would be interested.  As long as he could get her to Andrews...his cell phone bleeped and he glanced down at it.  The convoy was ready to go.

“Madam President,” he said.  “It's time to go.”

McGreevy seemed to be walking with more confidence as they headed down the stairs towards the main doors, opening out onto the White House lawn.  Most of the guards had dispersed at her command, leaving only a handful to guard her and watch Toby with suspicious eyes.  The White House staff were no longer in evidence, having scurried back to their quarters to escape McGreevy’s dark stare.  Toby knew that their families were held as hostages, otherwise they would have deserted long ago.  The cold air seemed to revive McGreevy as they stepped through the doors and started to walk towards the gates.  In the distance, Toby could see the first light of dawn. 

The convoy was waiting at the gates.  Four trucks, carrying armed soldiers, and a single heavily-armoured vehicle.  Toby had studied the specs of the Presidential Armoured Transport and knew that it compared favourably to an Abrams tank.  The President’s tank – as some called it – was only intended for use if the White House had been attacked by chemical, biological or nuclear weapons, a situation where air transport would be difficult or impossible.  No one had seriously considered the possibility of Washington being invaded by a hostile force, although terrorism had been a valid concern.  Now, Toby would have sold his soul to return to the days when terrorism had been the only major threat. 

McGreevy hesitated as she came up to the massive vehicle.  Few civilians really appreciated how large tanks were until they saw one, while McGreevy’s transport was actually larger than a standard tank.  One of the soldiers cracked the hatch, revealing a surprisingly luxurious interior.  Unlike the cramped confines of a Abrams or a Stryker, the President’s transport had room to stretch his legs, comfortable seats and even a drinks cupboard.  Toby took one look at it and poured McGreevy a whiskey and soda.  It didn't surprise him when she took the glass and proceeded to drink it quickly.  She was on the verge of total collapse.  Why should she not turn to drink?

The vehicle shook as it started to move.  Toby knew that the tank was really surprisingly quiet, but he was still astonished by how he hadn't even heard the engine until it powered up completely.  McGreevy looked equally surprised and motioned for another drink.  Toby shrugged and poured her a second glass, and then a third.  By the time they reached Andrews, she might be drunk.  It might even be an improvement.

There was a buzz from the intercom.  “Madam President,” the driver said, “we are now en route to Andrews AFB.  We will be there as soon as possible.”

“Thank you,” McGreevy said, in a surprisingly steady voice.  “Inform me as soon as we are within the base.”

Toby understood.  There were no windows in the vehicle, no way of looking out at the darkened city.  McGreevy and Toby might as well be completely isolated from everyone and everything.  For him, it was a nightmare; whatever happened now, they were completely dependent on the plan working out perfectly.  McGreevy, on the other hand, might find it something of a relief. 

“Try to sleep,” he suggested, finally.  “We’ll be there soon enough.”

***

The Colonel was mildly surprised that they’d gotten so far without being detected, but with the aliens placing absolute faith in their pod people, perhaps it wasn't so surprising after all.  He sat beside the driver as the armoured truck rumbled through the darkened streets of Washington, keeping a careful eye out for any signs of insurgent activity.  It would be the ultimate irony if they were to be stopped by an insurgent attack, but it wasn't one that he dared entertain.  If they were attacked, they would return fire and try to break contact as quickly as possible.  There was no other choice.

It wasn't a long drive from the White House to Andrews, but they had to take a somewhat roundabout route.  Insurgents had damaged some roads and others had been blocked to prevent civilians from heading into the heart of Washington, towards the White House.  The protesters who had been screaming and shouting outside the White House – first in favour of the aliens, and then against them – had been ruthlessly dispersed when McGreevy had taken up the power of the Presidency.  He had no sympathy for anyone who preferred to live in a world of slogans and simple, if impractical answers – as opposed to the real world – but even he was angered by what had been done to the protesters.  They’d been beaten, crushed and then sent to a detention camp.  Who knew?  By the time they were released, they might even have a new appreciation for America.  There were countries where protesters were machine gunned on the streets. 

He glanced down at his watch, checking and rechecking the time.  If all went according to plan, they should be inside the base by the time the insurgents began their attack.  The Colonel had been a soldier too long to expect that the plan would go perfectly.  They’d covered their asses as best as they could, but when a plan depended on too many uncertain factors, the shit would probably hit the fan sooner rather than later.  He took a deep breath, reminding himself of his oaths, both the oath he’d sworn the day he’d enlisted in the army and the oath he’d sworn once he realised that his country was under enemy occupation.  Whatever it took, whatever level of personal sacrifice it demanded, he would see his country free.

The thought made him smile.  They’d planned to hide from any crisis that threatened the entire country, hide until the collapse had come to an end and only a handful of survivors remained alive.  And then they would have come out of hiding and started the long task of rebuilding the country, step by step.  It would have been a stronger country, the Colonel was sure, one where politicians knew their place and citizens accepted both the rights and responsibilities of citizenship.  Before the aliens, everyone had known the former, but far too few had known the latter.  Now...the entire world had received a harsh lesson in what it meant to be free.  Freedom was never free.  It had to be bought, often in blood.

They turned the corner and headed down Pennsylvania Ave.  The buildings were dark and deserted, hardly a light glimmered in what had once been the brightest city in the world.  Perhaps there were people hiding there, the Colonel mused, or perhaps the aliens and their puppets had been successful in cleaning out the heart of Washington.  They’d wanted a safe zone for their people, hadn't they?  And they’d succeeded, now they had alien troops on the street.  The resistance knew better than to engage the aliens directly.  They always launched brutal indiscriminate reprisals.

A shot glanced off the window and he started, reaching for his rifle.  The soldiers in the truck returned fire with enthusiasm, hosing down the nearby building that had housed the sniper.  No other shot came at them, suggesting that they’d either killed the bastard or he’d ducked for cover.  The Colonel hoped it was the latter, knowing that the sniper had probably seen a convoy of collaborators and hoped to assassinate one or two.  He wouldn't have known that he was firing on his own people, not that it would have made any difference.  The Colonel knew that death came to everyone, no matter who fired the shot or what they had had in mind.  And death was always the end.