The Trojan Horse

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Norfolk, Virginia

USA, Day 51

“Remember to slouch, dudes.”

Sergeant Mathew Bracken snorted as the SEALs instantly transformed themselves into the very picture of slobs and layabouts. Red Squadron of the Joint Special Operations Command’s United States Naval Special Warfare Development Group was used to insane missions — they’d spearheaded the killing of Osama Bin Laden — but this had to be one of the weirdest. Officially, one of the Snakes wanted to experience life on a boat. Unofficially, the real objective of the mission was a great deal harder. And after the raids carried out by the federal police forces, there was a very distant possibility that an outraged patriot would take a pot-shot at the Snake.

The yacht looked civilian. They’d used it before for trawling missions along the coast of Somalia, looking for pirates who were preying on Western shipping. When the pirates boarded, they found themselves staring down the guns of Navy SEALs who knew how to handle them and were quite prepared to hand out rough justice if they didn’t surrender instantly. Mathew had little truck with the suggestion that the pirates were only trying to feed their families and communities. They could have done that without capturing innocent shipping, let alone mistreating their crews or holding them for ransom. One day, he hoped, the SEALs would be able to go in and clean the nest of pirates out from beginning to end. Until then, they would have to make do with patrols — and strange missions like the one they were about to start.

There was a popular perception that SF soldiers were stupid. It was untrue; SF soldiers had to be trained to a very high standard, pushed right to the limits of their capabilities, before they could be sent on missions that would often never come to public attention. They’d been taught to use their initiative and think about what they were doing — and never to forget that their ultimate purpose was to defend the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic. And many of the SEALs had family within the so-called right-wing community. The raids on their farms and imprisonment of many people who had no connection with any terrorists had angered them. They’d agreed, if they were ever ordered to into action against innocent American civilians, they would refuse. The orders would be thoroughly illegal.

And now they were going to vanish. Mathew still remembered the grim briefing from senior authority. It was irregular, so much so that he’d almost contemplated refusing the mission. But then he’d encountered one of the pod people and realised that the situation was far worse than it seemed. The Galactics were slowly taking over and all hell was about to break loose. It seemed that every military base in the United States — and presumably over the entire world — now had its own force of Galactics. No one expected them to remain peaceful for long and with so much of the military disbanded, no one knew who would win when they came out into the open. And there were still seventeen starships orbiting the Earth. They could simply bombard the human race into submission and everyone knew it.

His radio buzzed. “Alpha is entering the base now,” it said.

He keyed the switch. “Understood,” he said. He nodded to a couple of his guys, who started lowering the gangplank. The ship had been isolated from the remainder of the Naval Base, for reasons that he hadn’t been made privy to, but he suspected had something to do with the two aircraft carriers that were on their way back home. “We’re ready when they are.”

The convoy rolled into view and came to a halt on the dock. A team of security officers jumped out and looked around nervously, although Mathew couldn’t imagine what sort of threat they expected to find here. None of them knew what was really going on, he reminded himself, and they probably feared that one of the Navy’s crewmen would take a shot at the alien. They looked clownish compared to the SEALs, but that was something of the point. A show of security was often enough to deter most attackers. Those it didn’t deter were the ones who didn’t care if they lived or died, as long as they took out their target. They were the worst.

He’d seen aliens before, but this one seemed different, somehow. The alien looked almost nervous, glancing upwards time and time again as he inched towards the boat. Mathew remembered that the aliens might well be watching — after all, their high command had authorised the excursion — from high overhead, looking down from their starships. It gave him an uncomfortable feeling to know that America no longer ruled the skies, an odd sense of empathy with those he’d fought in Iraq and Afghanistan. The thought made him smile. There had been limits to even the best satellite and drone coverage and chances were that the aliens had the same limitations. If not, the war — when it finally came into the open — was likely to be short, bloody and a total human defeat. What little Mathew did know about their surveillance technology suggested all kinds of possibilities for population control. The USSR would have sold its soul — if they’d been willing to admit that souls existed — for the technology the aliens deployed regularly. And Mathew and his team had to fool it.

“Come on,” he called, cheerfully. The security officers blinked at him, clearly wondering if they’d gotten the right boat. Mathew wasn’t wearing a uniform, merely a civilian outfit that seemed to provide little space for guns or ammunition — or any of the other equipment that SEALs carried on a routine basis. “The water’s fine.”

For a being that had crossed uncounted light years, the alien seemed remarkably nervous as he inched up the gangplank and onto the boat. Mathew found himself whispering reassurance, as if the alien was a worried child taking his first trip out onto the ocean, although he couldn’t tell if the alien understood. Maybe it was the very faint rocking that was making the boat shiver, or maybe it was the thought of what he was about to do. The alien high command, however it was organised, wouldn’t take too kindly to defectors. If they ever realised what was about to happen, they’d demand the defector be returned — or else Earth’s cities might pay the price. And if that happened, Mathew knew, the President would have no choice, but to surrender. The weak, he knew, must often feel ashamed.

He helped the alien down into the small lounge and invited him to sit in a chair that had been specifically designed for an alien rear. They seemed to dislike human chairs and looking at the alien, Mathew understood why. A flat-bottomed chair would be uncomfortable for their posterior. Shaking his head, he passed the alien a drink and headed back up to the deck. It was time to cast off and head out to sea. They could worry about if aliens suffered from seasickness later, if there was a later.

“Time to go,” he said. “Get us out of here.”

The boat cast off from the pier and started to head out to sea. Norfolk was one of the busiest shipping areas in the United States, with the Norfolk Naval Shipyard providing repair and modernisation services for every type of ship the USN possessed. As the boat headed out, Mathew saw amphibious vessels, submarines, guided missile cruisers, and a pair of giant aircraft carriers. Most of them were due to be decommissioned, in accordance with the terms set by the Galactic Federation, although he had a suspicion that some people in high places were deliberately dragging their feet. The new carrier under construction in Northrop Grumman Newport News, located on the other side of Hampton Roads in Newport News, would probably never be finished. One by one, they passed the signs of American naval might and shaped a course out to sea. The plan they’d filed with the authorities was to head down to Charleston, allowing the alien a chance to experience life on the water, and then perhaps head further down to Florida. It was a sign of alien arrogance, he suspected, that they hadn’t even questioned the use of a top-flight SEAL team to guard one alien. He would have been suspicious if the SEALs were involved.

He glanced back down into the lounge and saw the alien climbing up the steps to the deck. It didn’t look as if the alien had proper sea legs, which made him wonder how they’d designed boats on their homeworld. They would probably be happier with ramps than ladders, although he had a feeling that the alien could probably have scrambled up a ladder far quicker than a flight of steps. It looked as if the aliens had stronger arms than humans — and the SEALs could have pulled themselves up just using their arms. He grimaced at the faint smell as the alien approached him, and then stopped, both scaly hands clutching the railing. It was impossible to be sure, but the alien looked somewhat uneasy at the vast spread of water. Or maybe it was because he had placed his fate into the hands of the human race. God knew humans weren’t always very kind to their own people. What sort of alien, on the run from his own people, would expect good treatment from humanity?

The alien didn’t seem interested in small talk, for which Mathew was profoundly grateful. Leaving one of the other SEALs to watch their passenger — the alien might not be able to swim if he fell overboard — he walked along the deck to the pilot cabin, which someone had laughably labelled THE BRIDGE. The SEAL at the wheel looked up at him enquiringly, but Mathew had other priorities. A quick glance at the GPS showed that they were well on their way to the rendezvous point; a longer glance at the security sensors proved that the alien had at least two transmitters on his person. One was the voder, Mathew knew; the other was embedded within the alien’s skin. They would have to be very careful when they got the alien out of the boat. A single transmission and the Galactics would come down on them like the wrath of God.

“This mission could go horrendously wrong,” his superior had warned him. “If it does, we never heard of you.”

It wasn’t a pleasant thought, but Mathew had been doing deniable missions for the last four years. If his name went down as a rogue SEAL — a distant possibility — at least God and his family would know the truth. And maybe sometime in the future, after humanity had beaten the Galactics, the truth would be told openly. He might even get a good mention in the official histories of United States Navy’s Sea, Air and Land Teams.

The hours ticked away until they reached the right position. This was the chancy bit, Mathew knew; far too much could go wrong. He escorted the alien back down into the lounge and warned him to remain seated; seconds later, a dull thud echoed through the craft. The alien started, clearly shocked, but Mathew motioned for him to remain still. A moment later, a hatch opened in the bottom of the boat, revealing the head of another SEAL. The minisub had arrived. Quickly, working with frantic speed, Mathew motioned for the alien to remove the voder and the small container the alien had brought with him, leaving them both in the boat. They’d discovered that the aliens had small charges implanted within their bodies to destroy them in case of death without any hope of recovery, something that — Mathew hoped — would quell any suspicions the Galactics might have about what had happened. The container, they’d been promised, contained enough of the explosion compound the Galactics used to leave traces behind afterwards.

“Come on,” he hissed. The alien seemed even more nervous, almost claustrophobic, as he approached the hatch. Mathew hesitated, and then picked up the alien and pushed him down the hatch, into the submarine. He’d known civilians be just as nervous when it came to climbing into a submarine, even though there was nothing to fear. It stood to reason that someone who had never seen a submarine, let alone travelled in one, would be nervous.

Once the alien was down, Mathew straightened up and called out to his men. The pilot cabin was connected to the lounge through a hidden hatch, allowing the pilot and his assistant to get down quickly, without alerting anyone watching from high overhead. Moments later, the two SEALs who had been walking the deck joined them. Mathew motioned for them to get into the submarine and then followed them down through the hatch. A dull red light surrounded him as he landed inside the small craft, with a pair of nervous-looking crewmen working frantically to seal the hatch. Time was running out.

He felt his ears spin lightly as the submarine disengaged from the yacht and started to dive deeper under the waves. The SEALs had plenty of experience with the small craft; they’d used them before to successfully evade detection from satellites high overhead. But no one, Mathew reminded himself, knew the full limits of alien capabilities. They might well have some kind of magic technology that would allow them to track the submarine… and if that happened, six SEALs, five crewmen and one alien were going to die. There was no way they could risk falling into enemy hands. If the aliens could reanimate a corpse and send it out to kill, God alone knew what they could do with live captives. He could imagine no worse fate than becoming a pod person, his mind overwritten with loyalty to the aliens.

One of the crewmen glanced at a display on the bulkhead. “Twenty seconds,” he said. The sound of the submarine’s engines grew louder as it struggled to put distance between itself and the yacht. “Ten seconds…”

A thunderous blast struck the submarine. The alien hissed in alarm as the boat heaved around them, just before the pilot got control and kept steering them away from the explosion. Behind them, the yacht would have been blown to smithereens, without a trace left of the alien — or the SEALs who had failed to guard him. By the time the Coast Guard arrived, the submarine would have left the area and there would be nothing to dispute the story. The alien had been killed by terrorists, just like the one who had been killed in Washington. And the aliens, who had cleared the trip themselves, would find it hard to blame the government. Not that that would surely stop them, of course.

Mathew walked forward, over to the alien. He was trembling, his long scaly legs shivering in the cold. Or was it fear? There was no way to know. Mathew had helped defectors get out of their homelands before and they all reacted badly, even the ones who knew that to return home meant certain death. Some of them cried, some raged… and some wondered if they’d made a terrible mistake. Very few of them could ever go home again.

“We’ll be docking with the Wanderer in forty minutes,” one of the crewmen said. Mathew nodded; the Wanderer was officially a light freighter, servicing East Asia and the Middle East. Unofficially, she was a prison ship, where the CIA held a number of extremely high-value prisoners, prisoners who could never be placed in front of a court. And part of her vast bulk had been outfitted to serve as a debriefing room for defectors. The alien would be safe there, at least until they managed to get him to better quarters somewhere on land. Mathew suspected that that wouldn’t be for some time. The Wanderer might not be the nicest of places to hold someone, but at least it had no overt connection to the United States. “Once we’re there, they’ll ensure that you get back to Uncle Sam.”

Mathew nodded, dryly. The SEALs were all officially dead. There would be a funeral and everything, with crying families and upset friends. None of them were married; they’d remain underground until they were needed. Oddly, he felt freer than he’d been since the aliens had arrived. There was no longer any need to kowtow to them, or to pretend that he liked their plans for the United States military. He could fight back as part of the resistance, a hole card the aliens might not expect until it was far too late. And he knew where considerable supplies of weapons and equipment had been stashed.

“Glad to hear it,” he said, finally. The crewmen would remain on the Wanderer, held until they could be discharged. Or maybe they’d end up serving with the resistance too. “I’ll be glad to be back home.”

Forty minutes later, they docked with the underside of the Wanderer and scrambled up into the massive ship. Mathew was pleased to see that a pair of CIA-trained anthropologists were on hand to greet the alien, as were a team of experienced interrogators. They had had plenty of experience in debriefing defectors and would be hopefully able to get a great deal out of the alien. Starting with what the hell was actually going on…

Mathew and his team were finally dismissed and allowed to go into the lounge on the massive ship and relax. The television was already broadcasting the official version of the story, confirming that Middle Eastern terrorists had managed to kill one of the aliens. There was no mention of the Navy SEALs, for which he was grateful. The terrorists would probably take heart from knowing that they’d killed a group of SEALs, or even thinking that they’d succeeded. Not that it mattered, in the end. The Mainstream Media would probably blame it all on the right-wing gun nuts or the militias or anyone else who didn’t agree with them completely.

Shaking his head, he allowed himself to relax. They’d succeeded. Whatever else happened, they might just get some real intelligence out of the alien. And then they might know what was actually going on.