Stephen Berry - The Biofab War

"It'd be easier if I drew you a map." The man opened a drawer as Tuckman turned back to Sutherland.

"This reminds me of an operation we ran in Vienna after the war," he said. "We didn't know-"

Impaled on a brilliant shaft of purest indigo, Tuckman stood for a surprised instant, then fell to the floor, his chest a charred, smoking ruin. A high-pitched whine pierced the air. Whirling, the guard turned his strange weapon toward Sutherland, then slid from sight beneath the big teak desk. A faint pop heralded his disappearance.

Bakunin holstered his slim, silenced Italian automatic. "Training pays," he said calmly.

Dazed and pale, Sutherland closed Tuckman's dead, staring eyes, then walked to the security station, retrieving the strange, long-barreled pistol from the desk top. Doing so, he caught sight of the guard's body.

"Bakunin," he croaked, gesturing. The Russian followed him behind the desk. They stood together, looking down at the dead six-foot insectoid: deep-green, bulbous-eyed, it faintly resembled a huge praying mantis, except for the tentacles tapering from its two upper limbs-tentacles still twitching in death shock. A webbed belt, hung with unfamiliar equipment, girdled its thorax. A viscous green liquid oozed from a neat hole between the eyes.

Standing there over the dead alien, the stench of Tuckman's burnt flesh filling the room, the small, high moments of Bill Sutherland's life touched his mind. The clapboard Indiana farmhouse, acres of white unfurled behind it on wash day. Dad, Grandpa and the uncles playing around the cribbage board on Christmas Eve, sipping bourbon, the air heavy with blue cigar smoke. Lois's encircling warmth that first time in the back of his old Chevy, under a full August moon, the air rich with the scent of wild roses. Inge's startling blue eyes, that day in Berlin. Emmy-chan in the snow at Nikko, and much, much later, lying before their fireplace in McLean, the firelight dancing along her soft, golden skin.

It all felt very fragile now.

"Bakunin," he said softly, "I think we've found a little green gremlin." Unnoticed, his hands shook.

Bakunin finally found his voice. It quivered. "It is alien, intelligent, hostile and armed with superior weaponry, Sutherland. It seems capable of some form of mind control. I urge you to summon reinforcements. Cordon off the village."

His hand still shaking, Sutherland picked up the phone, punching out a long series of digits.

Major General James ("Big Jim") O'Brien's twenty-five years in the air force had added only slightly to his bedrock of Missouri skepticism. Thus he blinked twice at the situation board before startling the noncom next to him with a loud, "What the hell is that?"

"That," to the thirty pairs of eyes in the Joint Chiefs of Staff Operations center, four hundred feet under the Pentagon, was a green dot moving fast-much too fast-across the North Atlantic toward the New England coast. As they watched, the computer tagged it "Ul": unidentified target, number one. Not yet "H" for hostile, just "U." That "U" worried Big Jim far more than an "H." "H" he knew how to deal with.

"Sure it's not a Russian?" he asked hopefully.

"No way, sir," said the Target ID officer, staring at his CRT. "Too fast, too high. It originated in space, outside our radar range. If it were Russian, we'd have picked up launch."

"Meteor?"

"It's changed trajectory eight times in the past minute and is now decelerating. Not to any speed we could intercept, though." The Sergeant avoided the General's eyes. Before O'Brien could speak, the green dot entered U.S. territory and disappeared. "Wet landing?" he demanded.

"No, General. Probably land. Just. A stretch of coast along Cape Cod. There." He typed quickly into his terminal. A red "X" now flashed a third of the way up the peninsula, itself enlarged on the situation board.

Shit, thought O'Brien desperately. A goddamned UFO on my watch. And the mother's landed. He squeezed his eyes shut for an instant, then opened them. The red cross was still there, blinking now.

O'Brien picked up the green phone. In seconds he was listening to the Otis Operations Officer's cool, crisp report. Yes, their radar had spotted it, too. A squadron of F-15s had scrambled.

Glancing at the board, O'Brien saw a phalanx of red crosses, marked F1-F5, appear, cruising along the Cape's Atlantic shore. "Get some choppers up, too, Major Jenkins," he ordered. "If you've had no luck by dawn we'll reinforce you."

As he hung up the green phone, the blue one next to it rang: three brisk chimes, like a ship's clock. Everyone who could turned to watch as O'Brien reached for it. The blue phone never rang.

"General O'Brien," he answered. It was going to be a night.

"General," said a crisp voice, "this is William Sutherland, CIA. I'm declaring Situation Breakout. You'll find the applicable challenge and countersign in your standing orders. Please key to that program. This is not a drill."

O'Brien dutifully pecked "Breakout" on his terminal. "'Cortez,'" he read off the screen.

"Gotterddmmerung," responded Sutherland, hoping to God he'd given the right countersign. There were only ten he had to memorize, but they changed every month. He was relieved to hear the General ask, ' 'What are your instructions, Mr. Sutherland?"

"I need infantry at Oystertown, Massachusetts-the Leurre Oceanographic Institute. Get me some help as fast as you can from Otis-APs, air commandos, anyone who can carry a weapon. Things are a bit'dicey here.

"Then get a Rapid Deployment Strike Force to Otis and quarantine Cape Cod. Maximum air vigilance in this sector.

"I'm calling the White House now, requesting Red Alert/Defense Condition Four. I'm authorized to instruct you to go to Yellow/DEFCON Three. Please do so now. I'll wait."

Mad dogs and the CIA, O'Brien thought, turning to his second in command. "Bradshaw," he said, "go to Yellow."

The Colonel looked up, startled, at the big board. Except for Cape Cod, all was normal.

"General?" he asked.

"Yellow, please, Colonel," O'Brien repeated firmly. "Per contingency."

"Very good, sir," said Bradshaw. Turning back to his console, he began issuing the necessary orders.

"Okay, Sutherland," the General said, "you've got thirty minutes to get me White House confirmation of this alert, or we stand down. You know the drill."

"I know the drill."

"You realize this will put the world on a war footing?" added O'Brien. The command center was now bustling with activity as the alert went out and acknowledgments poured in.

Sutherland glanced down at the dead alien. "I certainly hope so, General."

"Be advised," said O'Brien, "that there is a stratospheric craft of advanced design and unknown origin operating in your vicinity. It's probably landed. Otis is up looking for it now."

"What do you mean, 'advanced'?" demanded the CIA officer.

"I mean, Sutherland," O'Brien tersely replied, voice lowered, "that we're von Richthofen's circus and it's an F-Fifteen.

"Give me your number. I'll call you with your reinforcements' ETA." He took it and hung up.

"What was all that Wagnerian gibberish?" asked Bakunin.

" 'Gotterdammerung'T' Sutherland smiled thinly. "A contingency established shortly after Foxfire began, I now note.

"The phrase 'extraterrestrial invasion' is never used, but the plan calls for area quarantine, full alert and even projects nuking our own cities to stop an 'enemy' landing. I never really believed it was meant just to stop some Ukrainian paratroopers."

They turned at the slight rumble of an elevator door opening. Flannigan stood alone in the elevator, dazed, unmoving, pistol held limply in one hand. The door started to close.

"Flannigan!" snapped Sutherland. At that, the FBI agent's hand shot out, banging back the door. He stepped out, blinking, seeming to see Bakunin and Sutherland for the first time.