The Trojan Horse

Chapter Eighteen

Washington DC/Virginia

USA, Day 27

“So you’re saying that you recovered no bodies?”

“I’m saying that the ongoing investigation prevents us from sharing any information with the press,” the officer said. He was a young Chinese man who bore an uncomfortable resemblance to a young Bruce Lee. Jayne might have been tempted to flirt with him if she hadn’t been convinced that he was trying to lead her up the garden path. “There is a very real danger that the terrorists who launched this cowardly attack will be able to escape using information released into the public domain.”

So if no one gets caught it’s our fault, Jayne thought, coldly. The once-peaceful Washington suburb had been shattered by a scene out of a gangster movie — and the Washington PD had, somehow, failed to respond within anything like an acceptable time. Apparently, Jayne had heard through a blogger who currently served in the police force, there had been a series of errors with the computerized system for directing patrol cars and SWAT teams to the scene of the incident. The locals weren’t happy at all about how the police force — paid for with their taxes — had failed to protect them. She could see several overweight men — lawyers or lobbyists — making that point to the nearest police officers. Behind them, lines of police tape kept them from returning to their homes.

Jayne shivered as she took in the scene. Someone had been tossing explosives around, according to her source, and a number of cars and gardens had been wrecked by the detonations. There were bullet holes everywhere, suggesting that someone had been indiscriminate with their fire. It was sheer luck that no one had been hurt, apart from General Thomas and his wife. There had been no official announcement of his death, but Jayne couldn’t see how anyone could draw any other conclusion. He’d definitely been the target of the terrorist attack.

“Of course,” she said. “I’d hate to help terrorists escape a police force that failed to react in time to the reports.”

The officer’s face darkened, but he refused to rise to the bait. Jayne smiled to herself, although she had to admit that something was badly wrong. Shaking her head, she turned and left the officer to brief the next curious reporter, while she walked up to one of the men who were trying to pick a fight with the policemen. He was balding, almost certainly in his fifties, bristling with righteous indignation. His children, after all, had been in the house when the shit hit the fan and all hell broke loose. It was a point he was making to the policeman with more force than was actually necessary.

“And when,” he demanded, “can we return to our homes? We cannot stay out here until you boys have finished your investigations — I have to get back to work and the wife has to cook. I tell you…”

“Excuse me, sir,” Jayne said. She held up her BAN card. “I’d like to ask you a few questions about what happened here…”

“World War Three breaks out on our street and the police don’t send anyone to do anything about it,” the man said. “I’m telling you that I will not stand for it! My neighbours and I will launch a joint suit against the Washington PD for failing to protect us from drug-dealing terrorists who turn our street into their private battleground!”

“I’m sure you will receive very favourable mentions in the press, sir,” Jayne said. The lawyer didn’t recognise the sarcasm, or he chose to ignore it. “What actually happened, from wherever you were?”

The lawyer took a more careful look at her, allowed his eyes to drift over the tops of her breasts, and then decided to be more cooperative. “I was in the study, working on the brief for the case I have to present at court next week,” he said, in a slightly calmer voice. “The next thing I know; the computer’s failed and my notes are lost. The lights have gone out, so I thought it was a power cut, but the batteries refused to work too. I get to my feet and shout for Sofia — that’s my wife, you know — to see if she’s lost power too. The boys are screaming because their latest video game projector has failed, so I yell at them to shut up… and at that moment we hear gunshots.”

He looked down for a moment. “I yell at everyone to get away from the windows and get my cell phone out,” he continued. “The phone’s dead. I check the landline and its dead too; they’re all dead. I go climbing for the gun I keep stashed away, fearing that one of my enemies has come to extract revenge for putting him in jail, and yell at the family to get under cover. And then the shooting grows louder and there are explosions…

“I stumble outside, gun in hand, and see the terrorists beating a hasty retreat in a van. And then the police finally arrive, too late to catch anyone. What were they doing? Giving the latest politically-correct course to deprived teenagers while we, the taxpayers, were under siege in our own homes?”

Jayne shrugged. “I’m sure that the courts will look favourably upon your demand for compensation,” she said, dryly. “Thank you for your time.”

She wanted to take a look at the crime scene itself, but the police weren’t letting anyone through the barrier. General Thomas had been the target and that alone made it a federal crime. The FBI’s forensic teams were already crawling over the wreckage, pulling the spent bullets out of the building and trying to match them up with recorded weapons. It didn’t sound as if the assassins had been very professional, but what did that matter? She had a nasty suspicion about who had carried out the hit.

Who benefited? General Thomas had been the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff — right up until the point when he’d resigned, over the belief that the Galactic Federation’s terms were unacceptable. Who benefited from his death? The aliens, of course; who else? And that meant, added to the deaths of various anti-alien bloggers, that they were eliminating their opponents one by one. But surely someone would notice a pattern…

Maybe they had. Maybe someone in the government was doing what they could to defeat the aliens. Or maybe they just didn’t care.

Shaking her head, she started to walk away from the scene. There was work to be done.

One of the more curious aspects of the Presidency was that a single question, asked absently, could spur Washington’s colossal bureaucracy into action. If the President happened to ask about a minor matter, a full report would rapidly be generated and produced for his eye, often surprising the President who might have forgotten the whole issue by the time the report was produced and ready. Toby, as the President’s Special Assistant, was cleared for all kinds of information — and, very rarely, he could slip a query into the system under the President’s name. He hadn’t needed to run the risk this time, however; the President was also very concerned about General Thomas.

The report made curious reading. Trained interrogators had spoken to all the witnesses and tried to put together a picture of what they’d seen, while expert forensic teams analysed the physical evidence. Only years in politics had kept Toby’s face under control as he read the report, knowing that a single piece of physical evidence that led back to his father would also lead back to him. And yet… there was nothing. No sign of any blood traces that could point the way to Blake Coleman and his friends. Someone had sanitized the crime scene and done it at terrifying speed. What the hell had they done?

He skimmed through the final sections of the report, very carefully. The Washington PD had suffered a series of minor computer malfunctions that had managed to steer their cars away from the crime scene for a few minutes, long enough for the terrorists to make their escape. Toby — who didn’t believe in coincidence — had a suspicion that he knew what had happened; the aliens, hacking into police databases, had somehow manipulated the police control system to gain as much time as possible for their assassins to escape. There were no clues that would lead the police to either the resistance or the assassins. The FBI was investigating, of course, but all they’d found so far was little more than a motive. General Thomas had long been targeted for death by several terrorist groups and someone had taken advantage of his resignation to attack him before the General could organise additional security.

It was believable, Toby knew, but he also knew that it was inaccurate. The only body found on the scene belonged to the General’s wife, yet no one was asking what had become of the General. All of the media reports so far had merely reported that the General’s home had been attacked by terrorists. By the time any questions were raised, the lie would be planted so firmly that it would be almost impossible to dislodge. And if anyone happened to turn up claiming to be the General, they might not be believed. Or they’d be believed and someone would call the aliens. Toby felt the noose tightening, almost imperceptibly. Didn’t anyone else want to question the aliens?

The second report in front of him made grim reading, even for Toby. The American forces based in Afghanistan and the Middle East were preparing to pull out, honouring the agreement the President had signed with the Galactic Federation. Behind them, they left a seriously uneasy Middle East; the anticipated switch to fusion power had sent oil prices plummeting across the world. The United States, China and several other nations were taking the opportunity to increase their stockpiles of oil, but there were dire rumours that Saudi Arabia, Iran and Iraq were already considering an oil blockade against the Western powers. Without oil money flowing in, the regimes that ruled Saudi Arabia and Iran would be unable to stand against their own people. And then chaos would consume the Middle East.

He shook his head, bitterly. Soon, it wouldn’t be America’s problem any longer. No one would care about the Middle East without oil. Let them kill each other, the average American would say, and they might even be right. Except… the United States had escaped — was escaping — one dependency in exchange for accepting another. And the aliens were too big and strong to threaten with military force.

The reports made that clear. Already, soldiers were being told that their enlistments were on the verge of being terminated. The Pentagon was struggling with the need to cut the military down to only ten percent of its former self, while the economic shockwaves from cancelling military contracts and laying off support personnel were already starting to bite. Only a few days had passed since the President had signed the treaty and the counter-protests were getting more organised. They’d be much more organised if they realised just how badly some of their politicians had sold out the entire country.

He glanced at his email. Gillian had emailed him a light flowery email, the kind that would cause little more than raised eyebrows if anyone happened to intercept it. Toby picked out the underlying meaning without difficulty; Gillian wanted a meeting within the next twenty days. Who knew, he wondered; she might have found something that would give them hope.

If not, Toby had no idea what they were going to do next.

The Colonel disliked funerals as a general rule, but he had always made a point of attending the funerals of his friends, comrades and former subordinates. Blake Coleman had definitely been a friend and it gnawed at the Colonel that they hadn’t been able to recover his body from the streets. They’d had to take Coleman’s wife into effectively protective custody, removing the guns, ammo and other supplies from Coleman’s house in Mannington, expecting the FBI and BATF to turn up at any moment. So far, no one had appeared to follow up the lead, something that puzzled the Colonel. Coleman’s fingerprints and DNA would be on file with the military authorities. A quick cross-check and the FBI would know exactly who had died in front of the General’s house.

“Blake was a good man, a loyal servant of his country,” the Colonel said. Coleman had always said that he wanted a small funeral, although he’d also joked that he wanted dancing girls and plenty of booze to cheer up the mourners. It hadn’t been a very edifying conversation. “He risked his life countless times to protect the innocents and kill the fuck-heads who believed that they had the right to wage war on civilian women and children. I do not believe that he deserved to die.”

Coleman’s wife was weeping soundly, held by her eldest son. Jack Coleman had been talking about signing up with the Marines and following in his father’s footsteps, but the Colonel suspected that that plan had already crashed and burned. The politicians would probably eliminate the Marine Corps entirely when they started slashing the defence forces to meet the alien demands. God knew that Congress had always been trying to eliminate the Marines.

“He was the first to die in a war that threatens everyone on this planet,” the Colonel continued. “He will not be the last. But we will not forget him and we will remember him as he was in life; a brave man, a loyal husband and a good father to his children. We will not forget him.”

The group broke up slowly, the mourners heading back to the farmhouse for the wake. Coleman’s will had given specific instructions; he’d put money aside for beer and ordered the Colonel — who had been named as his executor — to invite as many of his friends and former comrades from the Marines. The Colonel knew that he couldn’t invite anyone outside the circle, but he’d silently promised himself that he’d hold a proper wake once the war was over — assuming he survived the coming struggle. If the aliens were prepared to launch a hit on a famous General, they were clearly preparing to come into the open.

“I’m sorry, Blake,” he said, quietly. It was a long tradition that American forces never left their comrades behind, dead or alive. He’d had no choice, but it still left him feeling as if he’d failed Coleman — and Toby. God alone knew what kind of shit would fall from high above — quite literally — if anyone drew the line between Blake Coleman and Toby Sanderson. They’d been careful not to leave any written notes lying around that could have attracted attention, but what if they’d made a mistake. The Colonel had no illusions. If the FBI had enough clues, they’d put the rest together in very short order. “Go with God, my friend. Perhaps you can remind Him whose side he’s supposed to be on.”

Leaving the unmarked — and empty — grave behind, the Colonel started to walk back to the farmhouse. There would be a wake. And then they would have alien butt to kick.

The first impression was blinding white light, so bright that it seemed to burn into his skull. He closed his eyes as tightly as he could, but the light poured through, sending daggers of pain plunging through his eyeballs and into his head. It moved almost like a thing alive, shivering into his mind and burning through his thoughts. Blake Coleman screamed in pain as his eyes snapped open. The light seemed to be coming from everywhere, all around his body. He couldn’t even tell if he was lying on something, or floating in the air. His body seemed to have lost all sensation. Once, long ago, he’d volunteered for a session in a sensory-deprivation tank. It had been eerie and thoroughly unpleasant, but this was worse. The light seemed almost alive, flowing into his mind. And could he hear something…?

Hell, he thought, as the noise finally registered on his troubled mind. A high-pitched whining note, so loud that he honestly couldn’t understand why he hadn’t heard it at once, was tearing through his ear drums. Slowly, so slowly, a shadow appeared against the light, inching its way towards him. Discovering that he could move his eyeballs, even if nothing else, Blake turned his eyes and saw a form silhouetted against the light. It was so bright that he couldn’t make out any features, but it was clearly not human. The movements were all wrong.

Understanding dawned. He’d been hit — he’d known at once that the shot was fatal — and he’d been taken prisoner. Somehow, they’d saved his life. Had the Colonel’s son been wrong about the aliens, or did they merely want someone to interrogate? Blake had undergone extensive Conduct after Capture courses, but he knew that everyone broke eventually. The aliens could probably reach into his mind and extract the memories directly…

A new sound appeared from high above him. Blake’s eyes whipped away from the alien form and stared upwards, squinting into the light. A long thin needle was slowly emerging from high above, reaching down towards his skull. Absolute panic overcame him and he struggled desperately against the unseen restraints, but it was no use. His body simply refused to obey his orders. Inch by inch, the needle lanced down until it was right above his forehead. Blake braced himself as best as he could, watching helplessly as the alien form peered down at him. A hand touched his forehead — it felt almost like touching a lizard — and pushed his hair away from his face. And then the needle came down.

There was a long moment of absolute pain… and then nothing, nothing at all.