The Trojan Horse

Chapter Forty

Washington DC

USA, Day 73

Toby hadn’t slept all night. He’d known he should and he’d even considered ordering something to help him sleep, but in the end he’d just lain on his bed and stared at the ceiling. His father would have slept; his dead brother would have slept… but in the end, Toby knew himself to be a lesser man than either of them. He’d told himself that he was serving the country, by serving the President, and yet… he thought less of himself for not having served in the military. It was ironic, in a way; he could never have predicted the path that had led him to the centre of the resistance, yet he was the point failure source for everything. A single mistake and the aliens would have him, and use him as their tool to uncover the resistance and destroy it.

He’d known people in Washington who did not fear death, but feared losing their access to politics. They’d known that a single failure, a single mistake that could not be smoothed over or buried under a mountain of bullshit, would wreak their careers once and for all. And they had thought they were playing for high stakes. A seat in Congress, a place on the Supreme Court, even the Presidency itself… they’d thought that failure would mean the end of everything that made their lives worth living. Toby knew of scandals — of dead girls and live boys — that had never been seen by the public eye, with criminals and worse surviving to live another day in Washington. The city had once been built on a swamp, but in many ways it was still a swamp, a place where good intentions and bright sparks slid beneath the water, never to re-emerge. He’d told himself that he’d done well by supporting the President — and he’d been a better person than many of the other possible candidates — and yet he had proved unable to cope with the crisis. How would Lincoln or Washington have reacted to the Snakes?

His alarm clock rang and he pulled himself out of bed. Sleeping in the White House had once seemed a reward for good service, sharing a building that was the official residence of the President himself. Now it seemed like a punishment, a prison sentence to a building ruled by the Red Queen. The hundreds of armed guards, glaring at each other along with anyone who dared visit the White House, would do her bidding. Every time Toby slept, he half-expected to be awoken in the middle of the night by armed men intent on executing him, or dragging him out to face McGreevy. It was not a pleasant thought.

The maid came in while Toby was still dressing, wheeling in a trolley. Toby glanced down at the tray and saw bacon and eggs, toast and jam. The ordinary citizens of Washington were on the verge of starvation — and it would get worse as winter rolled in — but the White House could still get fresh food and drink. He almost sent it back — his nerves made it difficult to eat — yet he knew that he had to eat what he could. The food tasted excellent, but it felt like ashes in his mouth. Afterwards, he went to the toilet, shaved and prepared himself for the day. He’d left a copy of his will with his father, although somehow he suspected that his meagre possessions would be confiscated by McGreevy’s government if he was caught in the act. Gillian would be safe, at least. His father would see to that.

Bracing himself, he strode out of his bedroom and down the long corridor to the connecting stairs. The guards halted him and checked his ID; unless he was very much mistaken, there were even more guards in the building than there had been a day ago. McGreevy’s paranoia was clearly reaching new and even more dangerous heights. If she insisted on being surrounded by a private security team at all times, the mission would become far more dangerous. Or perhaps it would just give the aliens more to engage when the shit hit the fan. Who knew what side mercenaries would take?

He endured a series of checks as he approached the Oval Office, until he was finally allowed into the presence. The room was dark and smelled funny; the sun had yet to rise into the sky. McGreevy could be seen on the other side of the room, sitting on the sofa. It looked as if she hadn’t left the President’s office since Toby had left visited her. The light came on as she touched a switch and Toby almost started. She looked terrible, as if she too hadn’t slept all night. Toby would have felt sorry for her, if he hadn’t known her crimes. If she was sleepy, or drugged, it would be easy to get her to Andrews without something going badly wrong.

“Madam President,” he said. McGreevy looked up at him, her red-rimmed eyes fixed on his face. She mumbled something, but Toby didn’t hear. “The convoy is nearly ready to depart for Andrews.”

McGreevy started to stagger to her feet. Toby reached out a hand to help her, but she waved him away impatiently. She seemed to have grown twenty years older in the space of a day, staggering helplessly as she put her weight on her feet. As he waited, she stumbled into the little washroom and he heard the sound of running water. She’d know that she couldn’t look like that on the outside, where the public might see her. Whatever faith remained in the McGreevy Administration would be destroyed the moment anyone set eyes on her. She’d clearly lost her grip on events.

But was it really her fault? Toby was fairly sure that McGreevy wasn’t a pod person, but the aliens had done something to the President; why couldn’t they do anything to his replacement? Had they set out to use her to destroy faith in the American Government, so it could be replaced by the bogus dream of a Galactic Federation, or had they merely decided that she’d come to the end of her usefulness? There was no way to know. It provided yet another thing to worry about. If they’d decided she was no longer necessary, would they still allow her into Andrews?

He looked up as McGreevy came out of the washroom. She looked much better, having splashed water on her face and tided her clothes. Toby wondered if he should advise her to change her outfit before deciding that it wouldn’t matter. The aliens wouldn’t care and no one else would be interested. As long as he could get her to Andrews… his cell phone bleeped and he glanced down at it. The convoy was ready to go.

“Madam President,” he said. “It’s time to go.”

McGreevy seemed to be walking with more confidence as they headed down the stairs towards the main doors, opening out onto the White House lawn. Most of the guards had dispersed at her command, leaving only a handful to guard her and watch Toby with suspicious eyes. The White House staff were no longer in evidence, having scurried back to their quarters to escape McGreevy’s dark stare. Toby knew that their families were held as hostages, otherwise they would have deserted long ago. The cold air seemed to revive McGreevy as they stepped through the doors and started to walk towards the gates. In the distance, Toby could see the first light of dawn.

The convoy was waiting at the gates. Four trucks, carrying armed soldiers, and a single heavily-armoured vehicle. Toby had studied the specs of the Presidential Armoured Transport and knew that it compared favourably to an Abrams tank. The President’s tank — as some called it — was only intended for use if the White House had been attacked by chemical, biological or nuclear weapons, a situation where air transport would be difficult or impossible. No one had seriously considered the possibility of Washington being invaded by a hostile force, although terrorism had been a valid concern. Now, Toby would have sold his soul to return to the days when terrorism had been the only major threat.

McGreevy hesitated as she came up to the massive vehicle. Few civilians really appreciated how large tanks were until they saw one, while McGreevy’s transport was actually larger than a standard tank. One of the soldiers cracked the hatch, revealing a surprisingly luxurious interior. Unlike the cramped confines of a Abrams or a Stryker, the President’s transport had room to stretch his legs, comfortable seats and even a drinks cupboard. Toby took one look at it and poured McGreevy a whiskey and soda. It didn’t surprise him when she took the glass and proceeded to drink it quickly. She was on the verge of total collapse. Why should she not turn to drink?

The vehicle shook as it started to move. Toby knew that the tank was really surprisingly quiet, but he was still astonished by how he hadn’t even heard the engine until it powered up completely. McGreevy looked equally surprised and motioned for another drink. Toby shrugged and poured her a second glass, and then a third. By the time they reached Andrews, she might be drunk. It might even be an improvement.

There was a buzz from the intercom. “Madam President,” the driver said, “we are now en route to Andrews AFB. We will be there as soon as possible.”

“Thank you,” McGreevy said, in a surprisingly steady voice. “Inform me as soon as we are within the base.”

Toby understood. There were no windows in the vehicle, no way of looking out at the darkened city. McGreevy and Toby might as well be completely isolated from everyone and everything. For him, it was a nightmare; whatever happened now, they were completely dependent on the plan working out perfectly. McGreevy, on the other hand, might find it something of a relief.

“Try to sleep,” he suggested, finally. “We’ll be there soon enough.”

The Colonel was mildly surprised that they’d gotten so far without being detected, but with the aliens placing absolute faith in their pod people, perhaps it wasn’t so surprising after all. He sat beside the driver as the armoured truck rumbled through the darkened streets of Washington, keeping a careful eye out for any signs of insurgent activity. It would be the ultimate irony if they were to be stopped by an insurgent attack, but it wasn’t one that he dared entertain. If they were attacked, they would return fire and try to break contact as quickly as possible. There was no other choice.

It wasn’t a long drive from the White House to Andrews, but they had to take a somewhat roundabout route. Insurgents had damaged some roads and others had been blocked to prevent civilians from heading into the heart of Washington, towards the White House. The protesters who had been screaming and shouting outside the White House — first in favour of the aliens, and then against them — had been ruthlessly dispersed when McGreevy had taken up the power of the Presidency. He had no sympathy for anyone who preferred to live in a world of slogans and simple, if impractical answers — as opposed to the real world — but even he was angered by what had been done to the protesters. They’d been beaten, crushed and then sent to a detention camp. Who knew? By the time they were released, they might even have a new appreciation for America. There were countries where protesters were machine gunned on the streets.

He glanced down at his watch, checking and rechecking the time. If all went according to plan, they should be inside the base by the time the insurgents began their attack. The Colonel had been a soldier too long to expect that the plan would go perfectly. They’d covered their asses as best as they could, but when a plan depended on too many uncertain factors, the shit would probably hit the fan sooner rather than later. He took a deep breath, reminding himself of his oaths, both the oath he’d sworn the day he’d enlisted in the army and the oath he’d sworn once he realised that his country was under enemy occupation. Whatever it took, whatever level of personal sacrifice it demanded, he would see his country free.

The thought made him smile. They’d planned to hide from any crisis that threatened the entire country, hide until the collapse had come to an end and only a handful of survivors remained alive. And then they would have come out of hiding and started the long task of rebuilding the country, step by step. It would have been a stronger country, the Colonel was sure, one where politicians knew their place and citizens accepted both the rights and responsibilities of citizenship. Before the aliens, everyone had known the former, but far too few had known the latter. Now… the entire world had received a harsh lesson in what it meant to be free. Freedom was never free. It had to be bought, often in blood.

They turned the corner and headed down Pennsylvania Ave. The buildings were dark and deserted, hardly a light glimmered in what had once been the brightest city in the world. Perhaps there were people hiding there, the Colonel mused, or perhaps the aliens and their puppets had been successful in cleaning out the heart of Washington. They’d wanted a safe zone for their people, hadn’t they? And they’d succeeded, now they had alien troops on the street. The resistance knew better than to engage the aliens directly. They always launched brutal indiscriminate reprisals.

A shot glanced off the window and he started, reaching for his rifle. The soldiers in the truck returned fire with enthusiasm, hosing down the nearby building that had housed the sniper. No other shot came at them, suggesting that they’d either killed the bastard or he’d ducked for cover. The Colonel hoped it was the latter, knowing that the sniper had probably seen a convoy of collaborators and hoped to assassinate one or two. He wouldn’t have known that he was firing on his own people, not that it would have made any difference. The Colonel knew that death came to everyone, no matter who fired the shot or what they had had in mind. And death was always the end.

They rumbled over the bridge, which had been secured at both ends by pod people and a handful of alien troops. The Colonel shivered as he saw their inhuman form, their red eyes glinting in the darkness. There hadn’t been much time to examine the alien defector — and alien bodies always exploded, vaporising the remains — but the doctors had noted that the Snakes probably had better night vision than humans. On the other side, the defector wasn’t actually as strong as a well-trained human soldier, suggesting that if they came down to hand-to-hand fighting, humanity would have the advantage. The defector had noted that if they did fight, the aliens wouldn’t hesitate to use teeth as well as their limbs. He’d even admitted that the Snakes had a form of ritual combat that could be adapted to fight humans.

The Colonel wasn’t particularly surprised. He’d never believed that the Snakes were peaceful, or even that they had never been a violent race. Evolution was a harsh process; Mother Nature was red in tooth and claw. The Snakes would have had to come out fighting, just as humanity had tamed and beaten the lions and tigers and other creatures that had hunted man in the darkness, away from the campfires. They’d done so well that many threats had been rendered extinct. The Colonel sometimes wondered if humans drove so many creatures to the brink of the abyss because, deep inside, they feared them. And if humans felt that way, why should the Snakes be any different?

He straightened up as they approached the gates of Andrews AFB. The soldiers who had once guarded the gates had been replaced by pod people, according to the reports. If the reports were wrong… the Colonel winced as he realised that there were alien troops as well, watching the humans from a safe distance. He hoped that the destruct devices they planted in their own bodies were deactivated; surely, they wouldn’t want to lose one Snake and see the others killed in a chain reaction. Or maybe they wouldn’t care. They weren’t human, after all; maybe they considered themselves expendable. And he knew that humans had sometimes considered their own people less than human, expendable…

The pod people didn’t look particularly alert. Andrews was heavily guarded, after all; the insurgents had generally left the base alone. The Colonel held up the papers and passed them to the soldier, knowing that he might have to kill the man in order to save the rest of America. The pod people had sworn the same oath the Colonel had sworn, but their ability to think for themselves had been stolen by the Snakes. He would have preferred to fight out and out collaborators. Or even the Snakes themselves.

“You may proceed,” the soldier said, finally.

The gates rumbled open, revealing the lane into the base… towards Air Force One and the Snake shuttle, sitting on the runway. For a moment, the Colonel was awed, and then he remembered himself. They were right at the heart of enemy territory, awaiting their moment to strike. He reached for his cell phone, tapped a number into it from memory, and then sent a blank text message. The strike force would be prepared, now. And then they’d come up shooting.

He jumped out of the cab as the truck ground to a halt and waved to his men. They leapt out, forming a protective cordon around McGreevy’s vehicle. The bitch who thought she was President would be safe for a few moments longer. The Colonel glanced over at the aliens, who seemed disinterested in the humans. Perhaps they no longer cared about McGreevy.

A second later, the shit hit the fan.