Greenflies Read online

  “Colonel, will this suffice?”she asked.

  Marshal barely glanced out the window and nodded, “I will take them as far as they can be taken but soldiers have their limitations. As I assume the men you selected are among the most highly valued for their training, I will not exceed their limitations in jump training. I will push, but do not expect miracles. The breakfall techniques we use are dependent upon reflexes. We train with weekly drops of fifty feet. I’ll train these men for thirty, and even then, there will be accidents. I won’t be able to train them to pull their chutes as they hit the ground effect. Nor will they ever be able to use our high speed chutes.”

  “In training, those are your limitations, as well,” Caufield stated flatly, “Is that understood? You are permitted to be the best of them, but do not exceed what you feel an unaltered human is capable of. For field work, anything goes.”

  They acknowledged, and she had no doubt they would do their best. They had a stronger drive than any of the men outside the helicopter. For while the rest of the soldiers out there were here to fight for the abstract cause of planetary defense, Gamma Team had the very tangible goal of what was in her brief case. They’d behave normally enough, because that was their job, and no one would realize the effort involved in that.

  As his driver navigated the packed streets, Agent Farcus glanced up at the D.C. skyline. It had changed a great deal since the Greenfly attacks had begun. Even though the creatures had kept their distance from cities since the battle of Sydney, nearly every city in America had prepared as if an attack was imminent. Every skyscraper was a haven for an unknown number of snipers.

  The alien transport craft had shown a dependence on open areas such as streets and parking lots for their arrival. As such, great scaffolding bridges had been erected between buildings to provide maximum angle of attack for snipers. If an alien craft appeared anywhere in this city, it would most likely be pelted with bullets and missiles before it could even open its doors. Washington was a relatively short city, so the new construction was limited. In New York, there were far more skyscrapers and tiers of scaffold bridges between them going up hundreds of feet.

  The government sedan descended from the highway and pulled into the line of cars waiting to pass the first in a series of checkpoints to approach the Pentagon. It was one of the few aspects of humans fearing humans that had remained unchanged since the attacks. These days, Israeli tanks surrounded Palestinian towns, their guns pointed outwards, not inwards. Conversely, bombs were being prepared at a blistering pace in those towns, but they were intended for far more foreign invaders. Pakistani and Indian artillery pieces on either side of the Himalayas were now operating under unified targeting control. Several Greenfly transports appearing in those mountains had found themselves in a multi-denominational rain of explosives. North Korea had received US satellite intelligence on a Greenfly incursion within its borders. The occupying Russian Army had engaged the aliens outside a small village in Chechnya, to the cheers of the locals. Former IRA members were lining up for militia duties in English police stations. There were truces between drug lords and dictatorships, ceasefires between the cats and dogs of humanity. By learning to fear and hate something other than itself, mankind had become unified, essentially overnight.

  In time, the series of security checkpoints was passed, and Farcus reached the Pentagon proper. He donned his Homeland Security badge and began making his way through the labyrinthine structure, his entrance all the faster as he didn’t carry a weapon. He maneuvered the familiar halls until he reached the office of his patron. Unlike most of the General’s visitors, Farcus was allowed in with barely thirty seconds' wait.

  General Lassiter’s wall screens had been extended in the past few days, and now they held the same detailed tactical display that was being shown in the war rooms of CIA and the Joint Chiefs. The globe was displayed, a few parts omitted to make the surface flat. Sparse blue flashes were occurring throughout central Asia and the Indian Ocean. A dozen sets of concentric circles of red, orange, and yellow occulted most of North and Central America. The region of flashes would probably reach the circles within fourteen hours. Farcus dimly wondered if he had the clearance to even see this map.

  General Lassiter remained at his desk, signing a series of documents. He normally didn’t wear his uniform jacket while working, but today he probably had a hard time removing it. A second star glinted on his shoulder.

  “Be right with you, Jim,” he said.

  “Yes sir,” Farcus said, taking the opportunity to further inspect the map. From what he knew of Asian geography, the aliens were apparently staying completely in the boonies. He could not see a single instance of them appearing within 50 miles of a major population center.

  “Hell of a thing, isn’t it?” said Lassiter, “When the teleportation window reaches us again, those monsters are in for the surprise of their lives.”

  “The interceptor missile program?” Farcus asked, indicating the patterns of circles.

  Lassiter rose and stepped over to the screen, “That’s right. It took some time to work out the logistics, but when the teleportation window comes into range, we’ll scramble the aircraft. For the duration of the window, if an alien transport appears, it will be detected by satellite, and an automated command will be sent to the pilots to engage with air to ground missiles. We’re using modified HARMs, more than enough to obliterate those things. Red is one minute or less to intercept. Orange is one minute to four minutes. Yellow is greater than four but less than ten. By the time the window reaches our shores, the entire continental US will be red or orange.”

  “Is that necessary, sir?” asked Farcus, “They appear to be respecting our population centers, if not our borders.”

  Lassiter grimaced, “Global casualty counts are still in the dozens per day, mostly from radiation. They need to be taught more respect.”

  “Can we maintain it?” asked Farcus.

  “Indefinitely. Spreading the coverage to other nations is a different story. The Russians are setting up a similar system with outdated missiles on outdated Migs. They have more terrain and less fuel reserves to work with. The Chinese system will be up and running in a couple weeks. Europe will be covered in a few days. NATO first, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “How is your work coming, Jim?”

  “Very well, sir. There is scarcely a hospital on the eastern seaboard that hasn’t received some degree of training in radiative trauma care. When the new shipments of drugs reach them, they’ll know how to use them.”

  “Good, because you’re done,” Lassiter said, returning to his desk and leafing through papers.

  “I beg your pardon, General,” replied Farcus, sitting opposite him.

  “Homeland Security will continue your work in your absence, rest assured. I’m transferring you to work more directly with the extra-terrestrial counter-offensive.”

  “You mean, the manned interception teams?” asked Farcus, his voice slightly tremulous.

  “Perhaps eventually, but nothing so grand to start. The President has placed me in command of the effort to combat and investigate the alien incursions…”

  “Congratulations, sir.”

  Lassiter scowled, “I think it was chosen on the basis of who in this building sleeps the least. There will shortly be announced a new administrative department dedicated to defense against the alien threat, scientific analysis of their technology, and eventual retaliation. The missile shield program will likely provide a sufficient form of defense in and of itself, unless the alien tactics change again.”

  “Then the manned interception teams?”

  “As far as I’m concerned, they will solely be for the sake of securing alien technology. We may allow the missile shield to fail intentionally, now and again, to allow the manned teams to directly engage the enemy and recover undamaged technology. I don’t trust the proposed interception protocol and I certainly don’t trust the woman who will implement it. I kne
w her predecessor in the CIA, and if ever there was a quintessentially evil spook fuck, it was Claude Garrette. But she has the most qualified interception team available, trained under Garrette most likely, and an impeccable record in covert ops management. She and her squad will train a score of teams to drop from aircraft moving close to the speed of sound. I’m told there will be at least two months of training before we can put up a similar umbrella for manned interception. It will never have the same response time as the missile shield.

  “You will be involved primarily with the recovery teams. After the interceptors have secured a site, you and your boys will arrive and cart the stuff out. I want you for your hazmat experience. You’ll also be expected to train interception and recovery alike in how to handle unknown alien substances. You’ll probably end up writing the textbook on the subject.”

  Farcus was taken somewhat aback, “Sir, I’m sure there are more qualified…”

  “Jim, I’m telling you to teach a class and order around people with forklifts to keep them from accidentally sterilizing themselves. Don’t worry. Those more qualified people are already out there and are going to be your bosses. I just want you there. I’ve been assigning people entire departments out there that I don’t know except from their files. A good percentage of those that I do know, I don’t trust, but they’re the best at what they do. I’m getting memos from scientists out there that leads me to believe they’re certifiable. One came in today claiming that meaningful communication with the alien prisoner had begun using Morse code and a flashlight. I need someone trustworthy and sane taking inventories of alien technology.”

  “Um, thank you, sir.”

  Chapter 9: New arrivals

  A knock at his door drew Butler’s attention up from the transcript of today’s session with Greenbeard. Standing in his doorway were a pair of attractive women, one in the age appropriate form of Sandra Weaver, and the other a very young woman looking incredibly uncomfortable in an ill-fitting skirt suit. The girl was a petite blonde with a nervous expression on her face. Butler doubted she was more than eighteen.

  “Ah, Sandy, what have you delivered to me, now?” asked Butler, getting to his feet.

  “Jerry, this is your new administrative assistant, Meg.”

  Butler rushed around the desk and shook her hand enthusiastically, “A pleasure to meet you, Meg. Jerry Butler. I’ll be your new boss. You’re obligated to be terrified by me. Cringing is fine.”

  The girl’s face broke into a bright smile. Butler felt glad he had not lost his touch with teenage girls, in the thirty-odd years since he’d been a teenager himself.

  “Sorry, Jerry. I don’t think that policy is going to fly,” said Weaver. “I’ll leave Meg to you and your staff.”

  “We’ll take good care of her…” Butler said, before noticing Meg was staring off over his shoulder. He followed her gaze to the photo of Greenbeard with pirate embellishments. She did not appear traumatized or fearful of the picture, but she looked like she could not take her eyes away.

  “Ah, Greenbeard,” Butler noted, “You’ll get quite used to seeing him. I interview him for two hours every day, and you’ll be responsible for typing up reports from the videotapes. It’s easier than you might think. His responses are translated by the computer automatically, so really you’re just typing up my questions for posterity.”

  “You talk to it?” Meg asked.

  “Yes, though he’s not much of a conversationalist yet. He’s learning English and is only about up to Dick and Jane level. His ability to learn language is similar to humans, so it will be a few more weeks before we can share any meaningful dialogue. There are major roadblocks ahead, but I don’t think it will stop us from gaining useful information.”

  “Roadblocks?”

  “Well, how to put this? He doesn’t appear to be able to associate an inanimate object or tool with a function,” Butler picked up a stapler and a tape recorder from his desk, “He would describe this stapler as metal and plastic. He would describe this tape recorder, once again, as metal and plastic. Greenbeard seems incapable of understanding that an inanimate object can be used for something other than as a blunt instrument. At the same time, he’s already memorized every breed of dog recognized by the American Kennel Club. Right now, he’s watching National Geographic in lock-up, with the audio translated to Morse code. The Greenflies seem to enjoy and understand animals, not tools.”

  Meg continued to just look at the alien pirate, certain that this was the very same one that had murdered her boyfriend, if not her family. Somehow, learning that it could talk and be interested in animals defanged it slightly in her mind.

  “Come on,” said Butler, “It’s never good to be late for a multidisciplinary meeting, and now I have someone else to take notes.”

  A humanoid shadow popped out of the mist and rushed at the soldier. It appeared crimson and ghost-like, its limbs trailing off ethereally at their tips. The soldier leaped to one side, out of the entity’s path, and landed flat on his back. He fired off a burst with his sub-machine gun, but most of the bullets went wide. Only a single round appeared to strike the shape on the arm, a little vortex appearing in the mist there and partially dispersing the red shape in the mist. The computer evidently didn’t consider it a fatal shot, however, as the ghost remained intact. It flitted off beyond visibility.

  Captain Arnold returned to his feet, peering into the thick fog for any trace of motion, and listening for any of the tell-tale noises the computer liked to throw in before attacking. The ground beneath him was concrete, and there were metal barricades throughout this large room, all hidden from him at this point. The fog was a chemical stew being pumped in from vents in the ceiling, to keep visibility within the exact parameters of the simulation. The red ghosts darting through the fog were the product of laser projectors in the ceiling. While technically intended to test and improve one’s reflexes, the fog and ethereal opponents mostly just freaked the trainees out.

  There was a sound of a snapping twig, an artificial noise generated to give the trainee a clue, and Captain Arnold whirled to see a pair of reddish shapes at the edge of his vision. The shapes were smaller than they should have been, probably a way for the computer to simulate perspective farther than the nearest wall of the simulator. Arnold dropped to his knee and sprayed the shape on the right with automatic fire, dispersing it wholly into the mist. The shape on the left disappeared, vanishing from bottom to top, indicating that it was hiding behind fictional cover. Arnold looked for cover of his own, only to see mist in every direction.

  The red figure in the distance popped up again, and lines of red lashed out through the mist. Arnold returned fire and raced to his right, only to run headlong into one of the metal barricades that were supposed to serve as cover. He slumped to the ground, thoroughly concussed.

  In the control booth, overlooking the room, Mariah Caufield shook her head in disappointment. Next to her was a balding technician who had been working in a facility just like this for several years. The booth was a room barely big enough for the two people, with a bank of monitors, a single computer terminal, and a pair of microphones protruding from the console. The monitors displayed IR images of the room, to keep track of the soldiers through the dense fog. It offered a much clearer view than that possessed by the soldiers, as demonstrated by Captain Arnold’s helmet-first meeting with his cover. Through the monitors, the 6-and 3-foot metal barricades were perfectly clear in their current configuration. They would move prior to the next soldier’s simulation.

  The technician spoke into the microphone. His voice echoed through the football field sized room.

  “Simulation terminated at 1314. Medical team report to grid 14A.”

  The technician began a series of inputs which sucked the fog from the room and began opening the bulletproof walls to the room referred to as the dugout. A pair of paramedics rushed out into the room, through the clearing smoke, with the barricades moving out of their way on tracks in the floor.
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  “Jesus, Frank,”said Caufield.

  The tech shrugged. “He’s usually not so bad; has good reflexes for a normal. He was on that top 30 list you wanted. Now, he could be unseated, but it all depends how long medical holds him for.”

  “He’s one of the best?”she asked incredulously. “You’re kidding.”

  “You’ve been working with Gamma too long. That kid down there is straight from Army Rangers, a combat veteran at that. He’s probably in the ninety-eighth or ninth percentile of the whole human race in terms of reflexes, like the rest of the troops, but we’re consistently getting injuries in these courses. These exercises were designed for Gamma; they are just at the edge of human capability. I’m still fine-tuning for normal soldiers.”

  Caufield sighed and patted the tech on the shoulder, “I know, Frank. I know. So, do you think these kids have what it takes?”

  “In terms of aim and reflexes? No. I’m sorry, but they’re well behind what I’ve seen of the Greenflies from the tapes. If they’re going to stand up to those bugs, they’re going to have to do it through gear and tactics. I’ll get ‘em as far as I can with these agility exercises, but… when do they want to start fielding them?”

  “Gamma and three other teams in the air by month’s end. Four more teams per week until the manned interception shield is up over North America,” Caufield said. “How is Gamma doing in these exercises?”

  “Holding back. I tell them what the most recent high score is, and they shoot for a little below. The results are individual and none of the other soldiers are privy to the information, but I figured it would be good practice for them to under-perform. After all, they’ll be doing squad tactics with other groups in another day or two.”

  “And the computers?”

  Frank swept his hand across the terminal, “Wiped, before we even packed the system up in Virginia. No one will ever know Gamma’s past scores.”