Christopher Nuttall: The Trojan Horse

“I’m sorry, Mary,” the Colonel said, again. He’d come to terms with his wife’s death, but he’d never found anyone else to fill the gaping void in his heart. Or, perhaps, to serve as the mother-figure for his daughters, who’d been still children when their mother passed away. How could they help being tomboys, even if they had found good matches and were raising the next generation of the family? “I wish things were different.”

His cell phone shrilled.

The Colonel straightened up in annoyance. His private time with his wife and son was private time. The others on the farm — his children, his grandchildren and the summer hands who worked during summer holidays — knew not to disturb him unless it was truly urgent, yet there shouldn’t have been anything urgent. They had had nothing planned for the morning, except the endless work that went towards keeping the farm up and running. Countless generations of his family had lived on the farm and worked the land and the Colonel had no intention of being the last.

“Sanderson,” he said, shortly. The caller ID identified the caller as Robin Greenhill, one of his older friends… even if he had served in the United States Navy rather than on land. “What is it?”

“Colonel,” Greenhill said. He sounded excited — and terrified. “Have you seen the news?”

“I’ve been busy,” the Colonel said. What had happened in the few hours since he’d glanced at CNN while eating his way through breakfast? There hadn’t been anything particularly important in the news. The President was due to give another speech on the economic depression, something that might make good comic relief; there was yet another flare-up in Palestine between Israel and the Palestinians; the Chinese were making threatening noises over Taiwan and the presence of an American carrier battle group in the region; the Russians were sounding off about the dangers of European military preparation… nothing to interest the Colonel, not now. “What is it?”

“Go see CNN,” Greenhill said. It was almost an order. “It may be time to panic.”

The Colonel frowned as he started the walk back to the farmhouse, passing the small orchard of apple trees he’d harvested since he’d been able to walk. One of the farmhands was picking apples for cooking now, preparing for the winter months to come; another was chatting urgently about something while holding the ladder. The Colonel ignored them as he tramped into his house, removed his boots — one of the few arguments he’d had with his former wife had been over dirty boots in the house — and walked into the living room. He disliked CNN on principle — it was too inclined to take statements from enemy countries at face value for his tastes — but he had to admit that it was often the first to sound the alert if anything changed. The internet was quicker, yet the level of fact-checking online was often very poor. He picked up the remote and flicked the television on.

“…Command has verified the presence of seventeen alien spacecraft in orbit around the Earth,” the newsreader said. The Colonel stared in disbelief as the newsreader, a blonde bimbo with breasts that kept threatening to break out of her blouse, kept reading from her teleprompter. “The aliens have so far not attempted to communicate with the government, but official sources in Washington have confirmed that the President will be remaining in the White House. We go now live to SETI headquarters in Washington… Director Crenshaw, how does SETI feel about this momentous event?”

Crenshaw’s face appeared in front of the Colonel, a balding lobbyist with a characterless face. “Well, Gillian, we’re all very excited,” he said. Sweat was shining on his forehead as he spoke, suggesting that he was either unused to being interviewed or that there had been no time for makeup and other preparations. “This is a time of great change for the human race. We always wondered if we were alone in the universe. Now we know that we are not — that we have cousins from beyond the stars. The world will never be the same again.”

Gillian’s face reappeared on the screen. “Do you feel that this… ah, First Contact poses any danger to the planet?”

“The aliens have so far shown no signs of hostility,” Crenshaw said. For a moment, he looked hesitant. The Colonel, used to watching Intelligence Officers from the CIA hide information they felt couldn’t be shared with the lowly soldiers who actually had to put their lives on the line, realised that he was hiding something. “They haven’t opened fire or done anything to threaten us…”

The Colonel muted the sound and picked up his cell phone, calling Greenhill. “I saw,” he said. “I think it’s time to gather the clan.”

“I’ll start calling people,” Greenhill said. “Everyone who’s seen Independence Day will want to get out of the cities.”

The Colonel nodded in agreement. His family would be safe — except for Toby. Whatever else could be said about the lad, he was as brave as anyone else in the family; he’d stay in Washington beside his President. And besides, he would be as safe there as anywhere else in the nation. If the aliens didn’t come in peace… they wouldn’t have to fly giant flying saucers into the atmosphere to wreck havoc. A handful of asteroids pushed down towards the planet would do the job nicely…

But they’d know that in Washington, wouldn’t they?

The Colonel and his family had been survivalists long before the word had been coined. They’d always known that they could never count on the government coming to their aid in a crisis; the government might not be evil — although some of his friends and allies believed that the government was always out to increase its power at everyone else’s expense — but it took time to respond. There would be a time between any disaster and the government’s response, a time when those who were prepared for disaster would live and those who frittered away their time would die. The Colonel had no intention of being among the dead.

And if the aliens were hostile, the survivalists might be the only ones to survive long enough to fight back.

The underground bunker under the White House was as luxurious as money could buy, outfitted in a manner designed to conceal that it was, at heart, a bomb shelter. A terrorist or rogue state could detonate a nuclear warhead in Washington and the occupants of the bunker would be perfectly safe. The displays scattered along the walls showed the live feed from a handful of military intelligence satellites in orbit, showing the positions of the alien spacecraft. It hadn’t taken a brief message from NORAD to warn the President that the aliens were out of reach of any weapon from Earth. They were positioned quite nicely above the gravity well.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the Sergeant at the doors said, “the President of the United States.”

Toby Sanderson, Special Assistant to the President, rose to his feet along with the rest of the politicians and military officers in the bunker. The Vice President was already on his way to an undisclosed location, while contingency plans to disperse Congress and the Senate around the country were being put into operation. There was no plan, as far as Toby knew, for alien contact or invasion, but thankfully some of the contingency plans could be used to fit the unanticipated circumstance. It allowed the government to feel that it had some control over what was going on.

President Patrick Hollinger was in his early sixties, a man who had been in politics for much of his adult life. Oddly, he had had few scandals dogging his name as he wafted upwards in politics until he finally made a run for President. His detractors had pointed out that he had never taken a position on anything, but he couldn’t be blamed for that. In an era where unfortunate remarks made during childhood could come back to torpedo political careers, who could blame a politician for wanting to keep his thoughts and opinions private? The politicians had turned mediocrity into a virtue. The greats — Lincoln, Roosevelt, Reagan — would never be elected in the modern era.