Resistance (10 page)

The snowfall slowed by then, making it a little easier as he took a look around. The barn stood off to his left, the tractor she had mentioned was straight ahead, and the garden was off to the right. A wonderful sight in the
spring and summer, but fallow now, and buried under the snow.

And something new had been added, a mound that could only be the mass grave Susan had referred to, adjacent to the garden.

Each footstep made a dry crunching sound as Hale made his way over to the mound and stood with his chin on his chest. Tears trickled down his stubble-covered cheeks as he thought about the battle that had been fought, and how hard the burial must have been for Susan. These were the people who had raised him—not because they had to, but because they
wanted
to.

Frank and Mary Farley had been good people, who, like so many others, had been killed by the stinking invaders.

As Hale's head came up he felt stronger, more determined than ever to eradicate the alien menace, no matter what the effort might cost him.

That was when Hale heard metal
clang
on metal, he brought the Rossmore up, and swiveled toward his left. Someone or something was moving around in the barn.

President Grace stood in the Oval Office and looked out into the Rose Garden. It was pouring rain, just as it had been on the morning when he was born.

His father had chosen to name him Noah after the man selected to rescue all living things from the Great Flood. It was one of many decisions that had been made without any input from his wife, who was treated as a member of her husband's staff, and given very little authority over anything other than her garden.

Perhaps that was why Grace actually
liked
the rain, because it was in a way symbolic of the role reserved for him, although the deluge he faced was far worse than the events described in the book of Genesis. A time when people had doubts about the first Noah, even though he was correct about the coming flood, and how to best prepare for it.

That thought made Grace feel better as he turned his back on the garden, stepped out into the hall, and followed it to the Cabinet Room. Most of the cabinet members were present, including Director of Special Projects Ridley, Secretary of Commerce Lasky, Secretary of State Moody, Secretary of War Walker, Secretary of Transportation Keyes, Vice President McCullen, and Attorney
General Clowers. And last, but not least, Grace's Chief of Staff, William Dentweiler.

Secretary of the Interior Farnsworth and Secretary of Agriculture Seymore were both in the country's heartland dealing with a multitude of issues related to the Protection Camps, the ever-growing shacklands, and persistent food shortages.

Some of the officials already were on their feet, chatting with one another, and those who weren't rose as the President entered. Grace knew how important appearances could be, so he was careful to shake each man's hand as he made the rounds. And with the exception of one man Grace felt good about his team.

Choosing Henry Walker as Secretary of War had been a mistake—one that Grace was planning to correct as soon as a suitable replacement could be found.

But there was no sign of what Grace planned to do as he slapped Walker on the back, then made his way to the chair located at the center of the table. The back of the chair was two inches taller than the rest, and fitted with a brass plaque that proclaimed, “The President.”

The meeting began with the usual prayer, followed by a series of reports, the most interesting of which came from Secretary of State Harold Moody. He had a receding hairline, a bulbous nose, and a well-trimmed mustache. His bright blue eyes darted around the table as he spoke.

“Many of you will remember Operation Overstrike, during which a force comprised of United European Defense troops, also known as the Maquis, and British forces went after a number of Chimeran targets in Paris. During the assault Major Stephen Cartwright, of the British Royal Marines, led a successful attack against the enemy's central hub tower. Its destruction resulted in
a disruption of the entire Chimera power grid in Western Europe.”

Many of those present nodded approvingly.

“What most of you weren't aware of was the fact that Overstrike was a diversionary attack,” Moody continued. “The actual purpose of Overstrike was to deploy a retrovirus designed to infect Carriers, the Chimeran creatures that collect humans for conversion. And I'm happy to announce that the plan was successful. Carrier corpses have been found on the ground everywhere from Ireland to Spain. And without Carriers to supply them with bodies, Chimeran Conversion Centers have shut down all over Western Europe.”

That announcement produced a couple of “Hear, hears” and a round of light applause.

“Unfortunately,” Moody went on gloomily, “the Chimera have already begun to adapt. New forms—unofficially called Spinners—have been reported. The new creatures bypass the Crawler/Carrier conversion process by cocooning victims in whatever nook or cranny may be available. A process that makes both the victims and the Chimera more difficult to find. Obviously these new reports are troubling,” Moody added, “and all available information has been channeled to the Secretary of War and the Pentagon.”

Moody's somewhat downbeat report was followed by updates from the Secretaries of Commerce, Transportation, and War. The latter being of most concern because Chimeran battleships had been sighted over the English Channel, off the Atlantic Seaboard,
and
in Canada as well.

The good news was that weapons of all sorts were coming off American assembly lines, and at a record pace. The draft had been expanded to include all males between the ages of eighteen and fifty, and the United
States would soon have another million men under arms.

Grace had to acknowledge that Walker had done a truly remarkable job of bringing the U.S. military onto a wartime footing, and Vice President McCullen led the rest of the cabinet in a round of applause.

But the show of confidence was quickly swept away as Grace cleared his throat.

He eyed the faces around him, then turned his attention to Chief of Staff Dentweiler. “And now it's time for an update regarding the Omega Project. Bill? If you would be so kind …”

Dentweiler was ready. He nodded and light reflected off of his glasses as he looked down at his notes.

“I'm sure you'll recall that during our last meeting I raised the possibility that a missing soldier named Jordan Shepherd, aka Daedalus, might represent our only realistic channel of communication with the Chimera.” He paused, and several men nodded.

“Since that time I've met with various experts, including SRPA's Dr. Malikov. All the people I met with were told that the purpose of the interview was to obtain information regarding the circumstances under which Daedalus was freed from custody, and to assess what kind of threat he might pose. At no time was any information given regarding the Omega Project.

“There were several different opinions, of course,” Dentweiler said, as his eyes flicked from face to face, “but there were areas of agreement as well. Especially where the subject's medical history was concerned.

“As part of a top secret program called Project Abraham, Private Shepherd received an experimental vaccine intended to counter the effects of the Chimeran virus. After Shepherd was inoculated, a genetic recombination took place. In retrospect Dr. Malikov—who was in
charge of the program—believed that Shepherd was immunocompromised at the time of the vaccination.

“In any case, the genetic recombination altered both Shepherd's physical and mental state far beyond projected parameters, and produced what most of us would regard as a monster.
But,”
Dentweiler added meaningfully, “according to those who had an opportunity to interact with Shepherd-Daedalus before his escape, it was determined that he
can
communicate with humans. Although the process is often difficult.

“That's partially due to the fact that Daedalus seems to be in what amounts to telepathic contact with hundreds, if not
thousands
, of Chimera at any given time. As a result he has been known to pause in mid-sentence for up to three or four minutes before resuming the conversation.

“Making the situation even more difficult,” Dentweiler continued, “is the fact that Daedalus can be totally incomprehensible at times. He seems to be especially inclined toward obscure rants which even the experts are hard-pressed to follow. Some of the people with whom I spoke claim that Daedalus can impinge on their thoughts, although the evidence of that is rather thin.

“With all of those considerations in mind,” Dentweiler concluded, “I came away with the impression that Daedalus could indeed serve as a go-between, if we can find a way to motivate him.”

He took his seat, and after a few moments of silence, McCullen was the first to speak up.

“All right,” he said evenly, “let's say Bill is correct. Let's say there
is
a way to communicate with the Chimera. That still leaves a very important question unanswered. What kind of offer would we make?”

But if McCullen hoped to lead the discussion into a
dead end, he was quickly disappointed, because the President had given the matter considerable thought.

“Good question, Harvey,” Grace responded approvingly. “And the answer is clear. If the Chimera agree to leave what remains of the United States alone, we will withdraw our forces from other countries, and allow them to rule the rest of the world unimpeded.”

“That's
outrageous!”
Walker interrupted, his face beet red. He stood to address the group. “Such an offer would run counter to what we promised the citizens of the United States—and it would violate mutual defense agreements with more than a dozen governments!

“Not to mention the fact that it wouldn't work. Would the Chimera honor such an agreement? Or would they use it to buy time? I say they'll use it to buy time, and turn on us like the monsters they are!”

Grace remained unperturbed.

“The Secretary of War may be surprised to learn that I agree with him,” he said calmly. “Only a fool would trust the Chimera. However, the notion of buying time cuts two ways—because we may need to do so as well. And remember, Henry, the Omega Project is an
option
, not a formal policy statement. So there's no need to get your boxers in a knot.”

The comment produced a round of chuckles, just as it was intended to, and Walker took his seat. But nothing in his appearance suggested he was going to let the matter go.

The meeting ended a few minutes later. McCullen approached Walker in an attempt to mollify him, but the Secretary of War was in no mood for compromises. When the Vice President reached out to touch Walker's arm, he jerked it away.

Walker took his hat and raincoat off the rack in the
hallway outside, and made the long walk from the Cabinet Room to the front lobby alone.

There was no one to see Walker off, but had the Secretary of War glanced back over his right shoulder as he stepped out into the rain he would have seen Dentweiler standing inside the press room looking out. He was smoking a cigarette—and the expression on his face was anything but friendly.

But Walker's attention was elsewhere as he entered the back seat of the black town car.

“The office, sir?” the uniformed driver wanted to know. “Or home?”

“Home,” Walker said. “And step on it.”

Having pulled the recorder out of his pocket, Walker pressed the stop button.

There was a definitive
click
as the recording ended.

Henry Walker and his wife, Myra, had rented the large house near Dupont Circle because neither one of them liked Washington, D.C., nor had any intention of remaining there once Grace left office or Walker was replaced.

But as the town car pulled into the circular drive in front of the three-story building, it was still home—if only for a few more hours.

A servant with an umbrella hurried to open the door, and rain rattled on the taut fabric as the man escorted Walker to the formal entry where a maid stood waiting to take his hat and coat.

“Mrs. Walker is in the library, sir,” the young woman said. “Would you like some coffee?”

“Yes, please,” Walker replied, and he made his way down the first-floor hallway to the library. It was the one thing that Myra liked most about the house. The pocket doors were halfway open, and she was sitting in her favorite
chair next to the bay window. She rose to collect a kiss.

Though well into her fifties Myra was still slender, fit, and pretty.
Too
pretty for a grizzled old warrior like Walker, some said, but Myra was in love with the inner man, and one look at her husband's homely face told her everything she needed to know.

“So nothing has changed? Grace still plans to negotiate with the Chimera?”

Walker scowled.

“He says that the Omega Project is an
option
, not a policy, but that's a crock. Things are going poorly, dearest …
Very
poorly. And it's only a matter of time before he tries to contact them. He says we could use the negotiations to buy time. I think Grace has something else in mind.”

The maid entered the room at that point, so Myra was forced to wait for her to serve the coffee and go out before she could ask the obvious question.

“You said Grace has something else in mind … What would that be?”

Walker took a sip of coffee and put the cup down.

“I don't know for sure, but if I had to guess, I'd say he hopes to cut a deal for himself.”

Myra shook her head sadly.

“The rotten bastard. So this is it? We're leaving?”

“Yes,” Walker said soberly, “assuming you agree. I have all of it on the recorder. We'll make our way to Chicago and link up with Freedom First. Then, once they broadcast the recordings for the American people to hear, Grace will be forced out of office.”

Although the Walkers' hometown of Chicago had been overrun by the Chimera, a few hundred brave men and women still lived there, hiding in basements, sewers, or any other spot they could find. Places from which
lightning-fast strikes could be launched against the Chimera, even as uncensored radio broadcasts went out over the airwaves.