Department of Science Building
Lab 23 – C
Washington D.C.
Like in every lab, hospital, and clinic he had ever been in the air conditioner was running on full blast, sending a chill down the DCI’s back. Even with power rationing and black outs rolling through the suburbs, the Department of Science had enough juice to keep the building cold enough to hang meat in the halls. Just a little colder and I can see my breath, he thought.
Of course, they had been given priority and could use all the power they wanted. The scientists here had been given a very important assignment, one that couldn’t wait until the siege broke. Lovett stopped before a shining stainless steel door and swiped his PAN card across the reader. The florescent lights above quietly buzzed and reflected off the white walls, floors, and ceiling tiles. Pure white to make it easier to see any dirt or other contaminates.
The keypad in the wall beeped twice and flashed green and Lovett pulled the door open before stepping through into the laboratory. Young men and women, most recruited right out of college and some out of high school, wearing white lab coats or white scrubs worked at various tables or consoles that filled the expansive room. Lovett noticed the smell of ozone, the tell-tale sign that a plasma rifle had been discharged recently and sure enough, he saw a plastic mannequin propped up against the wall, half melted, and surrounded by jugs of water. Scorch marks where missed shots had hit the wall and burned into the fireproof ceramic.
He passed a disassembled set of Druidth armor, taken apart all the way to the gel layer that rested against the skin of the wearer. A tech was taking samples and ignored him as he stopped to look at the various layers: first there was a gel layer, then a layer of mesh, covering that was a layer of soft material that looked and felt like wood putty but was solid like a piece of cardboard. Finally the black outer layer, which was the thickest at nearly a half inch. Lovett tapped his fingernail against the armor, running his fingers around the trio of holes in a tight group just above the right breast.
“What’s this stuff?” He asked the tech, pointing at the putty cloth.
The tech turned from his microscope and shrugged. “No clue, Sir. It doesn’t compress, it’s not antiseptic… it’s just there.”
Confused but unwilling to show it, he pointed at the gel. “What about that?”
Scratching his head and grinning widely, clearly excited, the tech held up a sample for Lovett to hold. “That is the real prize here. It absorbs almost all concussive shock. That’s why our grenades barely work, our heavy shells too — the main way they kill, other than shrapnel, is Sudden Nerve Trauma which, in essence, causes the spinal column to turn to jelly. Well this stuff absorbs it so the Drids remain unaffected by it. When this is all over, Sir, this stuff will change sports equipment, car safety, and so much more…”
“Let’s focus on winning first son.”
The tech smiled again, sheepishly this time. “Yes Sir.”
Lovett replaced the gel sample on the table as he saw who he was here for step into view from the makeshift firing range. “Doctor Holdern, a moment?”
Laurie Holdern, who came over from DARPA just before the siege began, looked up and saw Lovett standing there. She excused herself from the group of researchers and approached him, wearing a professional smile. “Yes, Mr. Director. How can I help you today?”
“Just came down to see what headway you were making in the reflective armor.”
“Refractive not reflective. The difference being that refractive skews off. As for the headway, we’ve made none,” She said matter of factly. “We’re still trying to figure out how their plasma rifles work.”
“You still don’t know?” Lovett asked, his voice stern.
“Sir, we’re trying to figure out their power source. We think it might me a type of fusion, not radioactive, maybe ion.” She tucked a stray strand of hair back behind her ear. “So far all we know is that it burns at twenty- five hundred degrees Fahrenheit. Oh and that water disperses it, cooling it and turning it into glass.”
“Well where does the glass come from?”
Laurie perked up and stepped over to a table, coming back with a handful of pills. “These,” She said as she tossed one to him. Lovett caught the object and held it up to the light to examine it. “It’s a viscous gel, and no we don’t know what it’s made of, encased in a capsule similar to fast release medicine. Think Tylenol Liquid Gels. Now, the rifle energy pack superheats the round then fires it via Mag-Lev — all in the span of a few milliseconds. The now fragile round then travels downrange at subsonic speeds and breaks apart on impact and spreads across the target.”
“Is there any way you can counter it?”
Laurie shook her head. “Unfortunately everything we’ve tried has met with failure.” To punctuate her sentence the backwards echo of the plasma rifle sounded from the firing range and the mannequin doubled over at the waist amidst a chorus of cheers and laughter. Lovett stated the doctor down and Laurie turned her head to avoid his gaze.
“What else can you tell me?” He asked, changing the subject.
Thankful, Laurie seemed to hop and led him over to another table with more weapons on it. He recognized most — pistols, rifles, grenades, knives — but one of them stood out. Longer than the typical rifle by half this one had a large drum hanging off the back and a longer barrel. Resembling the German MG-42 very closely, the only difference being the material and a narrow trench running down the length of the weapon starting from the receiver and ending just over the muzzle. Tiny crystals filled the trench.
“This is something we rarely encounter,” She began with a flourish. “It’s a Druidth machine gun. Mostly the ground troops use the standard rifle, which we’ve taken to call the DA-5, but every now and then one of these is brought to the front.”
“I imagine quite a few are being brought forward around D.C.,” Lovett said.
“That’s correct, Sir. The DA-4, the machine gun, is being heavily deployed out there. It uses the same, albeit slightly smaller, round as the rifle but it loads from the drum in the stock which holds ninety-two instead of twenty-one.”
“What’s the trench line for?”
Laurie reached down and flicked a switch near the hand guard and the crystals lit up, projecting a holographic targeting reticle down the length of the weapon. “It even adjusts for barrel rise and windage so the operator may adjust.”
“Firing rate?”
“About five hundred per minute, pretty standard. Now keep in mind that this is different to the vehicle mounted guns. Those are bigger and electronically fired.”
Lovett nodded. “Thank you, Doctor. I think I have enough information to brief the President.”
Turning to leave, he was surprised when Laurie walked with him. “I’m sorry it’s not more, Sir. We’re doing what we can with what we have. Normally, at DARPA, we’d have Mass-Spectrometers, Electron Microscopes, Atomic Scanners, and computers that could handle the load of data we’re feeding them.”
He stopped at the door and held up a hand to stop the defense coming from the Doctor. “I know, you’re doing the best you can with what you have and I’ll make sure the President knows this. For now, get back to work on some kind of refractive armor. If not for our troops then at least for our vehicles.”
Laurie nodded and pulled the door open from him, letting it slide close on the piston as he left. Lovett stuck his hands deeper into his suit pockets and reminded himself to bring a pair of gloves the next time he came.
5,000 Feet Above Washington D.C.
Erupting in a blaze of fire, the ‘Puddle Jumper’ — what they had begun calling the dropships that dropped troops behind the lines — tumbled end over end before disintegrating in a massive fireball plummeting downward, leaving a trail of burning debris.
Ann banked her plane hard and peeled away to avoid sucking anything into her engines. She was treated to a view of a cloudless blue sky, crisscrossed with contrails from other planes flying at higher altitudes. If it wasn’t for the war it would have been a beautiful Summer day.
But there was a war, a fact she was reminded of by a steady growling tone coming from her Master Computer. Casually she triggered her flares and banked in the opposite direction, weaving her aircraft back and forth until the warning signal stopped. In retaliation, Ann rolled the A-10 over and ran it parallel to the enemy lines, then fired her main cannon.
The heavy Gatling gun emitted its signature grunting sound, puffs of white smoke coming from the nose, as the shells fountained up dirt and destroyed men and machines alike.
“Asp One, Asp Two. Pit bull.”
Since Mitchell was tied up elsewhere, Ann responded. “Asp Two, go ahead Pit bull.”
“Asp One, do you see anything we need to be concerned about?”
Taking a second to look around, Ann didn’t see anything. Other than a few ground troops dug in on the Druidth side of the highway to keep the Americans from getting out, she didn’t see much at all. Sure there was the occasional rusting hulk from the numerous assaults but for now there was almost nothing.
When she said so, Spinnaker grunted then went silent for a few moments. Ann flew in peaceful silence until he came back. “That’s what I was afraid of, Asp Two. It’s been this way for the past thirty-six hours.”
“Aww… What’s wrong?” She asked. “You getting lonely out there, Marine?”
Spinnaker scoffed. “No, our friends are keeping me plenty of company. Do you see anything worth mentioning?”
“Well there’s a two car pile-up just past exit twenty. Might take a little while getting into the office today. Other than that, it’s like I said: peaceful.” Ann checked her fuel and saw she was low on fuel and peeled away, heading back to the airfield.
Gulf of Mexico
“Water, water everywhere but not a drop to drink.”
Castle brought his hand out of the cool water, wishing he could bring a mouthful to his lips, just enough to wet his throat. Truthfully he could drink a few pints as long as he had twice the amount of freshwater before he got sick. Instead he dipped his hand back into the water and leaned back in the raft turning his dry face to the sky.
The rope on the far end pull taught as currents changed and the flotilla bobbed along. Days had passed since he lost the Florida, days since he and the survivors climbed aboard these life rafts and floated at mercy to the ocean. Once, it had rained — just a drizzle — enough that they could all get some fresh water. But since they were all too worried about the storm getting worse and taking them to the bottom, no one thought to catch any water for later.
“The sun, sun, son, rises, raised, rose, flower, flour, power.” Ensign Schumer, red and dry from the sun and excessive amounts of salt water, stammered and repeated himself in his delirium. “Tower. Sea, see, C, I see you. I foresee you.”
“Chum,” The Helmsman, whose name escaped Castle, shook Schumer and repeated his nickname over and over. “Snap out of it, bro. C’mon, hang in there.”
Schumer finally quit his soliloquy and chose to rock back and forth, clutching his knees to his chest and occasionally slapping himself.
Knowing he couldn’t do anything about it, Castle turned away toward Beagle who was occupying himself by fishing with a hook and line that came with the rafts survival kit. Since they left the Florida Beagle had yet to catch anything, and Castle didn’t think he would but wouldn’t stop him if it helped keep his mind occupied.
“Anything?”
Beagle, whose beard was longer than anyone else’s, swore and spat into the sea. “Cap, there wasn’t anything the first day, nothing yesterday, and I’m gonna’ guess there’s not going to be anything today.”
“Well, keep trying. Maybe you’ll catch us a boat.”
He turned back and propped himself back up on his section of the raft, pulling the blue ball cap over his eyes and drifting off to sleep. Maybe they were going to all die out here; maybe he would just pass away in his sleep. Painless. No more thirst.
Splat!
Cool wetness hit the exposed skin on the back of his neck. Then another and another. Water continued to splash against him until it was an unceasing deluge. Castle turned his face skyward and saw thick, dark clouds filling the sky and opened his mouth, letting it fill with rainwater. He swallowed two mouthfuls of the lifesaving liquid which would prolong the lives of his sailors for a few more days before he turned his head down and watched as the rest of the men held whatever containers they had upward to collect the rain.
The Helmsman crawled to his friend and made Schumer drink from a can while wiping his face down to get rid of the salt that cut into his skin.
Relieved from the continuous rain, Castle thanked God for the gift, letting the rain pelt, and soak, his uniform and fill the containers the men had. He was relieved until shouts from one of the outlying rafts reached his ears.
Men were in the water, their raft overturned and a large swell coming down the line. It was evident that the storm was making the waves rise and it had already capsized one raft.
“Brace!” He shouted shortly before the wave hit.
When it did it lifted the right side of the raft up high enough to shift the center of gravity and flip the rubber vessel, spilling the sailors and supplies out into the churning water. Castle landed hard on his left side, water spilling into his open mouth and filling his nose. He kicked hard to the surface, trying not to inhale any more water.
Breaching the surface Castle saw that two more rafts had capsized with the sailors bobbing in the rough waves. Across from him, the Helmsman was trying to support Schumer who was too delirious to know to tread water and kept gulping it down. The Helmsman looked to be getting exhausted from keeping the both of them afloat and Castle paddled over to help him. Wrapping one arm around Schumer’s back, he took half the load while using the other arm to tread.
“Wave!”
He looked through the torrent and saw another wave coming, rising high above them by double his height and cresting to drop down right on top of them. The waves white capped and began to fall.
When it did it came down with the force of a semi-truck, knocking the sailors that were unlucky enough to get caught in its wake deep underwater. Spinning in the current, disoriented, Castle tried to find which way was up. You would think it would be easy with all the turmoil happening on the surface but it was too dark to distinguish anything. That and his lack of breath provided no buoyancy.
Panic began to grip him.
Knowing he only had one choice he opened his mouth wide and pushed what little air he had in his lungs out, feeling the bubbles rise up and kicked in the direction they went. His lungs felt completely flat, coughing on the inside and begging for air — vision blurring at the edges. A gag rose from his stomach but he clenched his jaw and pressed his lips together to stop himself from taking in water. Finally he broke the surface, feeling the rain splatter against his face, and took in a deep breath. Schumer and his friend were nowhere to be seen.
Beagle came up next to him, his fishhook stuck in his cheek — blood dripping into the water.
“You lost your hat,” Beagle pointed out.
“Nice jewelry.”
Beagle reached up and snatched the hook out of his skin with a grimace.
Castle looked around, assessing his new situation, The rafts were now very far away, bobbing in the heavy waves, and most of the men were in the water; their comrades trying to paddle the rafts back to pull them out of the water. Another wave crested and fell on the rafts again and Castle knew they weren’t going to live much longer if they didn’t get out of this storm.
The sun was setting high above the clouds, and with the rain storm it was already almost too dark to see. Then, as if the clouds had parted and the sun re-risen, he could see again.
Spotlights played across him and the rest of the sailors, one stopping to hover over the flotilla. Several more moved around the tempest waters finding large clusters of sailors joining themselves together to stay afloat.
Castle drifted closer to Beagle. “Do you still have your flare gun?”
Beagle reached between his uniform blouse and his white undershirt and nodded.
“Good,” Castle shouted over the roar of the storm. “Fire it.”
“Not yet, Sir. We don’t know if they’re friendly or Druidth.” And he was right; with the noise around them no one could hear rotors. But Castle already knew that theses weren’t Human for two reasons: Navy helicopters wouldn’t be able to land back on their ships in a storm like this and Coast Guard was busy fighting the Druidth.
“Either you fire that flare and maybe we get taken prisoner, or we all drown. Now fire it!” John knew which he preferred, and which his men would prefer. Dying today would only be the end of their story, but if they lived they could always come back and help the fight.
Beagle spit out a mouthful of saltwater and swore again, his cheek still bleeding from the ragged gash left by the fishhook. Reaching under his blouse he pulled out the bright orange flare gun. He cocked back the large black hammer and fired it off high above his head. The flare streaked upwards before the parachute caught wind and gently drifted down, letting the searching aircraft know people were down there and needed help.
Immediately, one of the spotlights turned and enveloped Castle and Beagle together then, to finally reveal its owner, a black Delta shape craft — with navigation lights blinking on the corners — descended from the clouds. Castle’s heart sank and Beagle swore again.
When it was close enough to the two of them a hatch on the side opened on the sleek hull inwardly, bluish green light spilled out, and a uniformed Druidth officer stood in the opening. The craft drifted closer, hovering in place on its powerful thrusters, until it was only a few feet off the surface of the water. Surprising Castle, the officer reached down and offered his hand to him which he accepted and was pulled into the craft.
Warm air filled the cabin which was empty except the pair of soldiers who lifted him up and brought him to one of the bucket seats that lined both sides of the hull. Beagle was brought in next and the craft drifted away until it stopped and more men were pulled in. Among them was Schumer and the Helmsman who looked too exhausted to stand. The craft circled around until all the seats were full then rose high into the sky while the two soldiers moved to each of them and waved a clear tube over their faces. It would flash twice and they would look at a screen held in the other hand.
“Who is your commander?” The officer asked in thickly accented English.
Castle bravely stood up, leaving a puddle of water on the floor, and gave his name, rank, and serial number.
The officer input the information into his own hand held device and nodded. “You are now prisoner of war. Yes?”
He sighed and nodded solemnly. “Yes.”
One of the soldiers passed his wand over Schumer and it flashed red. He approached the officer and said something in the lyrical language, almost like they were singing, of the Druidth. The officer nodded and replied in the same language and the two men grabbed Schumer under the arms and brought him forward.
At first Castle thought they were going to give him medical attention but was shocked when they tossed him out the open hatch. He rushed to the opening and watched as the delirious man fell through the clouds until he lost sight of him.
Fury rose and he punched the officer square in the jaw, who stumbled backward while one of the soldiers knocked Castle in the head and the other kicked him in the ribs. Air left him and he lay on the floor gasping for air once again.
“He was sick. We have no need for sick men.” The officer explained. “Do that again, and I will kill them all. Yes?”
I’m going to kill you, he wanted to say. But if he did then he knew his life and the lives of his men, lives that were just brought back from the brink, would be forfeit. Swallowing his pride he nodded. “Yes.”