The Trojan Horse

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Washington DC

USA, Day 73

Washington was dark.

Mathew Bracken shivered as the SEALs made their way towards the collaborator base. Not out of the cold, but out of the sense that his country’s capital city — the shining city on a hill — had become a nightmarish parody of itself. Soldiers — not real soldiers, but collaborators — stood on every corner, watching for any signs of trouble. Most of the population had fled during the attacks on the city, or had found themselves herded into detention camps. The SEALs had already stumbled over evidence that the foreign soldiers had been enjoying the chance to rape a handful of American women, leaving them more determined than ever to win the war and extract revenge.

The enemy soldiers, no matter how brutal and unpleasant they were, hadn’t been trained very well. Mathew and his men slipped past them easily enough, using US-designed night vision goggles to navigate without lights. Some of the enemy soldiers had even set up giant spotlights, ruining their own night vision for no real benefit. All they’d done was ensure that the SEALs knew where to avoid. Getting into the city had been easy enough, but then that had definitely been the easy part. The next task would be much harder.

He held up a hand and stopped, watching for signs of enemy guards. Their base was directly ahead of him, a warehouse complex that had been emptied of food and turned into makeshift barracks for the pod people. Mathew was surprised they hadn’t taken over the Marine Barracks that normally provided additional security for the White House, but the Marines had probably taken the opportunity to thoroughly wreck the place before deserting, perhaps leaving a handful of IEDs in the building to make life interesting for the enemy. Mathew hoped that none of them had been turned into pod people, or reluctant collaborators. They were going to kill enough good men in the next few hours, even without counting the collaborators. Pod people didn’t have any choice. Part of him felt guilty, but he knew what was at stake.

The SEALs spent thirty minutes examining the complex before preparing their assault. It was ringed by a fence that wouldn’t deter anyone with SF training, but the presence of armed guards willing to shoot meant that they couldn’t simply cut their way through the fence. Instead, Mathew removed his mask and led the SEALs directly towards the gate, where two armed guards swung around to point their weapons in his direction. He kept walking forward anyway, hoping that the reports had been right and pod people really didn’t deal well with surprise. If they opened fire, he might well be cut down before he knew what had hit him.

“My men and I have orders to bed down here for the night,” he said. “Here are our papers.”

It was a believable story, at least. A number of SF soldiers had been captured by the Snakes and turned into pod people, but they hadn’t been a great success. The qualities that made a great SF soldier were ruined by the brainwashing process, leaving the former soldiers stumbling around like puppets whose strings had been cut. Some of them regained some of their former skills in time, but they were never quite up to fieldwork. They’d been killed fairly easily, if with some regret, by the resistance.

He glanced around at the gatehouse while the guard fumbled with his papers. There were two guards out front and a third in the gatehouse. That one would pose a problem, Mathew knew, making silent gestures with his hand that ordered one of his men to get into position. They didn’t dare risk allowing anyone to raise the alarm. The aliens had taken over patrol duties in part of Washington and a firefight with the Snakes would scupper the whole plan. At least there weren’t enough of the scaly bastards to guard everywhere…

“Your papers appear to be in order,” the guard said. His voice sounded emotional, so he probably wasn’t a pod person. Mathew smiled inwardly. He would enjoy killing the collaborator. “However, we don’t have room…”

Mathew sprang forward, drawing the knife from his sleeve in one smooth motion. The guard had no time to react before Mathew had clamped one hand over his mouth and slashed his throat neatly with the combat knife. His victim stumbled to the ground, falling onto his knees as the life ebbed from his body. It was almost eerily soundless, but Mathew knew that they were committed now. The other two guards had been taken with the same mixture of stealth and speed. Now all they had to do was take out the remainder of the pod people.

The intelligence report they’d received had stated that two companies of enemy fighters — collaborators and pod people — were based in the warehouse complex. That gave the enemy roughly two hundred men, not counting supporting staff. Mathew allowed himself a breath and then led his SEALs around to the warehouses. They hadn’t been designed to serve as barracks; a quick glance inside confirmed that the pod people had done nothing more than spread out blankets on the cold floor and lie down to sleep. Mathew had slept in worse places, but he was mildly surprised that the pod people didn’t rate better accommodation. Their masters considered them expendable, after all. They wouldn’t complain — and they could be easily replaced.

He reached into his belt and produced the four grenades. They’d been designed by the CIA and developed under a black project fund that had never been made public. Each grenade carried a compressed mix of nerve gas that would rapidly kill anyone who hadn’t been injected with the antidote before being gassed. They’d been used against terrorist complexes in the past, slaughtering the enemy with brutal efficiency, but the public would have objected if they’d known American forces were using nerve gas. Gas still had the power to scare people, just like nukes and enhanced radiation devices. He pulled the pin on the grenades and threw them into the warehouse, knowing that the gas would spread rapidly. A moment later, he saw the sleeping bodies start to convulse as the invisible gas struck their bare skin and killed them. None of the pod people managed to do more than stumble to their feet before the gas overwhelmed them. It would be gone a long time before anyone wondered what had happened to the barracks.

Refusing to take it for granted, Mathew led his SEALs in a quick circuit of the complex. They found a pair of soldiers who had clearly been trying to sneak out for something, both caught by the gas before they could get out or back to their blankets. Mathew winced at the expressions on their faces and dragged them both back into the warehouse. Two SEALs had already started stripping down the bodies, removing weapons, armour and clothing. Everything was in order, thankfully. The first phase of the plan had been completed. The second phase was about to begin.

Jason shivered, and not just from the cold. He’d helped arrange for the defector to escape from the Snakes, but that was different. This time, he was putting his own neck on the line — and if the aliens suspected him, he was dead. Only his position as a senior collaborator entitled him to a ration of gas and a car, yet that hadn’t stopped two roadblocks from stopping him and demanding explanations. Luckily, they’d both been composed of pod people, who accepted alien-cleared authorisations without question. He’d parked the car outside what remained of the ring of steel that had once surrounded Washington, before the resistance had started to smash it. It hadn’t occurred to him until it had been too late that someone who didn’t know that he was working for the resistance might see the car, assume he was a collaborator, and open fire. The car wouldn’t stand up to bullets…

“Evening, son.”

Jason almost wet himself. Someone was standing right beside the car, yet he hadn’t seen or heard him coming. Panic bubbled up in his mind, before he remembered that Sanderson had promised that someone would be there to meet him. The older man reminded him of Sanderson, somehow; they had the same chin and eyes. His father, perhaps, or an elder brother. There was no way to know for sure.

“Evening,” Jason said. His voice stuttered. “I… who are you?”

The newcomer smiled. “The black eagle is sitting on the red flowerpot,” he said, cheerfully. Jason relaxed. That was the code phase he’d been told his contact would use. “Do you have the documents?”

Jason nodded. “Most of them,” he said. “I got everything Sanderson asked for…”

“No names,” the newcomer snapped. “Not now and not ever.”

Jason flushed. “I got everything he wanted,” he said, “but I couldn’t get weapons permits for others without blowing my cover. I looked around to see what else I could find…”

“Don’t worry about it,” the newcomer assured him. Jason passed him a folder of documents, which he scanned quickly. “Everything looks to be in order, wouldn’t you say?”

“The documents were issued yesterday,” Jason said. “They should be good for another few days at least. I inserted them into the computer databases as your friend ordered, so they should pass muster…”

“Let’s hope so,” the newcomer said. “Question; do you wish to accompany us or go to a safe house until everything is over?”

Jason hesitated. “I can’t go back, can I?”

“Probably not,” the newcomer confirmed. “If it all goes to hell, they’ll use the documents to track you down and then turn you into a brainwashed slave.”

“I’ll go to a safe house,” Jason said. It wasn’t particularly heroic, but he’d never set out to be a hero. Besides, what use would he be to the resistance fighters? “Good luck.”

“Thank you,” the newcomer said. “And well done.”

The Colonel watched as one of the resistance fighters led the young man off on a long hike. It was three miles to the safe house — not really a problem for a trained soldier, but one that might be harrowing for someone who hadn’t had anything like enough exercise. But it would do the young man good and besides, they didn’t dare risk driving without permits. He turned and looked towards the four trucks that had been stashed away since the aliens had come into the open, waiting for the day of reckoning.

“All right,” he ordered. “Mount up.”

He climbed into the cab of the first truck and muttered a command. The truck burst into life and started heading down the road, back into Washington. Ahead of them, assuming that the aliens hadn’t changed their deployments again, was a roadblock manned by pod people. The aliens themselves seemed content to use their troops as a mobile reserve, rather than pin them down to guard roadblocks and mount random patrols. The Colonel could understand their feelings. Their manpower was far from unlimited, while they had vast numbers of pod people to throw at the resistance. The pod people were expendable. On the other hand, NATO had learned in Afghanistan that too few troops meant that counter-insurgency was impossible. The aliens might well lose control altogether, even if his plan failed. And then what would they do?

The Colonel shivered, thinking about the two crates that had been loaded into the back of the second vehicle. One contained the alien defector, who had volunteered to assist the human race in breaking its new shackles. The Colonel hated the thought of being dependent upon one of the Snakes, but there was no other choice. A shuttlecraft built for the Snakes would be very difficult for a human to pilot, even if it was a simple as driving a car. And besides, no human had any experience flying Snake shuttles. They’d been careful to limit the number of humans who had even been allowed to fly in their craft. The vast numbers of African troops who were being brought to America were flying in jumbo jets and smaller human-built aircraft.

They don’t have much of a logistics chain, the Colonel thought, coldly. We should have seen it from the start.

But hindsight was remarkably clear. Any fool could stand up and say that they would have done a better job than the poor sap on the ground at the time. Hindsight always illustrated mistakes that would have been far from obvious to the people on the ground, at the time. The Colonel, who was something of a student of history, knew that many decisions that seemed utterly absurd — the decision to drive on Stalingrad, the decision to attack Midway, the decision not to march on Richmond — had made perfect sense to the people on the ground, at the time. It was only hindsight that illustrated the decisions for the mistakes they were.

The Colonel nodded to himself, remembering the second crate. If it all went completely to hell, there was one last resort. But it could only be used once. The Colonel had no illusions. Whatever the outcome, it was almost certainly a suicide mission. It was why he had insisted on commanding it personally. Win or lose, they would go down fighting.

“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.”