Falkirk shot up in his seat as he heard an alarm wail. Forgetting where he was for about a half-second, he turned the alarm off with a flick of his wrist. He looked out the cockpit of his plane.
The night sky greeted him, and as he looked up, a blanket of stars shone through the darkness. On the horizon, growing closer, pinpoints of light reached his eyes, signs of the eastern seaboard of the United States. Washington D.C. was reaching out to him, home of the Pentagon, the most secretive organization in the history of man.
Falkirk flipped on the night vision to his aircraft, the interior glass of the cockpit changing to a glowing green. Falkirk could make out the ocean from his thermal view, but the land was still too distant.
“Wake up, Valmont!” Falkirk barked. A displeased grumble was his response. “I know, I know. Let’s do this thing.” Valmont replied.
The three planes shot on through the night sky, the coast growing ever closer. The stars grew ever brighter in the night sky, and Falkirk, looking up, realized that an age old question that had plagued mankind from the beginning of time had been answered.
“Mustang Flight, this is Air Force One. Drop to Mach 0.3 and proceed towards the Pentagon. We will meet you there.” The pilot said into the radio.
“That’s affirm, Air Force One.” Falkirk replied.
The sleek, black, dart-shaped Concorde II shot ahead of the two fighters, veering away towards Dulles Airport. Falkirk and Valmont continued towards the Pentagon, as ordered. Confusion swept through Falkirk, however. He did not remember there being a runway at the Pentagon.
“Snipe, this is King, initiate red carpet.” Falkirk heard the Air Force One pilot state over the radio. No response came back.
To Falkirk’s surprise, a section on the roof of the Pentagon lit up in the traditional runway pattern. It appeared that some renovations had been made for just this special occasion.
“Mustang Flight, this is Air Force One. Aim for the bulls-eye, boys and girls, and go fishing.” The Air Force One pilot stated.
Falkirk understood. Lining up with the runway, he slowed to a scant two hundred miles per hour. Landing gear deployed and tail-hook at the ready, Falkirk prepared for what would’ve been a typical air craft carrier landing. However, those large ships were over a thousand feet long. This runway might have been half that length. Falkirk realized that the shortness would only give him one chance to do this landing right.
The Pentagon runway was within half a mile now. Falkirk waited to the count of five, and then cut his throttle, the plane dropping like a stone. The fall was a gut- wrenching sensation, a feeling of total lack of control. Falkirk slammed back on the power at the last possible moment.
The plane’s engines roared, pushing Falkirk’s plane forwards. The plane just barely touched down on the runway, Falkirk quickly cut the throttle again. The plane, however, was not stopping. It continued on its unerring path straight towards the end of the runway.
“Oh, shit!” Falkirk yelled, panicking.
The plane suddenly screeched to a halt, the tail hook catching on the tough steel- mesh rope. The force caused Falkirk to fly forwards in his seat, and only his harness was able to keep him from flying through the cockpit.
The fighter was still rolling backwards as Falkirk popped the canopy open. Falkirk quickly jumped out, and landed hard on the ground. Falkirk looked to his side to see Valmont’s plane slowly rolling backwards as well. Falkirk’s eyes met Valmont’s after they were both on the ground. Neither of them could speak, but their eyes told all.
A door stood next to the runway, and the two proceeded towards it. Falkirk pushed the call button, the only button on the panel. He looked up, seeing the lights go from red to green on the top of the door. After the lights turned a brilliant green, the door split open, allowing the two inside. They stepped into the steel interior of the elevator.
“Identification,” a hollow, metallic voice said. Looking around, Falkirk saw a small scanner for his military identification card. While Valmont swiped his, Falkirk fished for his in his flight suit. Finding it, he swiped his as well, hearing a chime after completing this task.
“Retinal scan,” the voice said again. Falkirk watched the panel housing the card scanner flip inside out, revealing a retinal scanner. The retinal scan was the ultimate form of security in the twenty-first century, affording unparalleled restriction of access. There was only a one in two hundred billion chance that anybody could have the same retinal pattern.
Falkirk looked into the device. A beam of invisible infrared light scanned across his eyeball, matching the one on record, which was taken after Falkirk had become a test pilot. Valmont performed likewise. Another chime sounded, and the elevator began to rapidly descend.
A panel opened, revealing a flat monitor. The monitor crackled to life, showing a man that Falkirk had never seen before.
“Captain Falkirk, Captain Valmont,” the man said, “my name is Gary Davis. I am the director of operations here at the Pentagon. I’ve already been briefed by the President on the alien situation, and he has allowed both of you the use of our facilities to outfit your unit. Many of the recruits for the unit that you have contacted have already arrived, and others are en route. Captains, we expect the best from each of these people, any unprofessional behavior will not be tolerated, and we assume that you will have no problems with this. Currently, the unit consists of five, including yourselves, and we have recruits on the way from other nations, expected to arrive within the next day. Welcome to the Pentagon, gentlemen.” The recording fizzled, then died.
The elevator finished descending, the rapid breaking causing the blood to rush to Falkirk’s feet. The lights above the door turned from red to bright green, and a chime signaled the end of the descent. The doors opened with a swishing sound, and, in the hallway that met them, stood the man from the recording, Gary Davis.
“Welcome to the Pentagon, Captains. Time is short, please, follow me.” Davis said.
The two walked down the long hallway. Davis continued talking as they walked.
“Commander, this facility is designed to withstand multiple thermonuclear attacks. We’re not entirely sure, however, how well it would stand up to an attack by these aliens.” Davis remarked.
“Just how deep are we, anyway?” Falkirk asked.
“Captain, we’re over a mile under Washington D.C. I would suggest that you don’t fire off any heavy weaponry in the eastern wing, because it’s actually out in the ocean.” Davis said, exacting silence from Falkirk. After a few seconds, Falkirk continued questioning the man.
“The President mentioned Roswell and Roswell 2. What can you tell us about those events?” Falkirk asked.
“I’m not surprised that the President kept your information on that subject brief. The fact of the matter is that we don’t believe that the first Roswell has anything to do with the current aliens that we’ve encountered. The ship construction appears to be highly different, but we believe that it is possible that this first ship from Roswell was a scout ship, designed to plot coordinates for future alien incursions into our dimension. Roswell
2, however, is a different matter.” Dionne answered. “Why different?” Falkirk questioned.
“Well, on December 31st, 1999, at exactly 11:47 PM, Pacific Standard Time, we made first contact with an alien vessel almost entirely similar to the ones that are currently plaguing us, according to your reports. Roswell Air Force Base dispatched four Longbow helicopters to investigate. We don’t know what exactly happened, but it appears that three of the helicopters were immediately annihilated. The fourth was able to fire a Mantaray EMP missile at the craft. Those missiles are used to disable electronic systems, and the missile apparently conducted on the metal and caused the craft to fry from the inside out.”
“So, EMP missiles are effective against these craft?” Falkirk queried hopefully. “Unfortunately, no. We don’t have any electricity-generating missiles. The craft was fried by a freak accident. Just as the missile was hitting the ship, lightning struck the missile. The helicopter was destroyed in the resulting electronic field. We were able to reconstruct most of what happened from damaged black-box recorders, splicing tape here and there. More time for questions later.” Davis finished, as they arrived at the end of the hallway.
Davis tapped a panel, and the door opened upwards. Falkirk stood in awe of what he saw next.
An enormous room, apparently the hub of all activity for the Pentagon. Falkirk absorbed the details. The room was bathed in a red light, signs flashing “Alert” dotted the room. There were stairs leading up to the center of the room, where there was an enormous three-dimensional display of the earth, as well as the moon. The display cycled outwards to a view of Mars as well, showing the two tiny human colonies there. Red dots were interspersed on all of the maps, the ones on the earth and moon being updated every few seconds. The ones from Mars didn’t appear to be moving, likely due to lag in radio communications.
Falkirk continued to observe, seeing people in all manner of uniforms from jumpsuits to lab coats hurrying around the room. He could hear printers whirring, and the muffled sounds of “Alert” being repeated in the inhuman voice of the computer. People yelled over the chaos. Falkirk could just barely hear Davis yell to follow him, and the three ran to the right, into another hallway, with several doors on the sides. Davis went through the third one on the left, and Falkirk and Valmont followed.
There were many people sitting at a large table. In the center was an image panel for displaying three-dimensional projections. It was eerily silent compared to the chaos outside. Falkirk took a seat at the end of the table, and Valmont sat at his right.
“I’m sorry, we don’t have much time for introductions. I think that you all know why we’re here. Let’s go around the table quickly, and you can introduce yourselves.” Davis said.
“Fred Velez,” said the large Hispanic man across the table. “I’m with the Death Heads in the Marines, specializing in demolitions. Done work in Chechnya, Israel, and most recently China.”
“Hey everybody,” Falkirk recognized his old friend Nate Dunn’s voice. “I’m Nate
Dunn, and I’ve done design and testing for NASA in their space-plane division.”
“I’m Tom Simon,” Simon said. “I’m a Captain in the Green Berets. My work is primarily as infantry commander, although I have a knack for decoding transmissions as well. Hoping that might be useful for you, Captain.” Simon finished.
“Melody Martinez, Navy SEALS. Primarily involved as an undercover operative, and have done some infiltration work as well.”
“Peter Ericson, also from the SEALS. I’m in the same unit as Melody, and have been her partner on many operations.” Ericson said, throwing Martinez a quick glance, one that she did not happen to return.
“Captain Scott Valmont, U.S. Military Test Piloting. Also did Air Force before that for a while. I’m the second in command here.” Valmont said, looking towards Falkirk.
All of a sudden, the buck had been passed to him. Falkirk wasn’t sure that he was ready for the burden of command, but he knew that if this unit was to be effective, he would have to show confidence in his own leadership abilities if he wanted anyone else to trust him. He cleared his throat, and then spoke.
“Captain Alan Falkirk. I’m also from Test Piloting. I’ve been appointed your commander, and I’m pleased to be in charge of you fine men and women. Thank you all so much for coming here. Many important people have put their faith in us, let’s not let them down. Mr. Davis, please begin your presentation.” Falkirk said, looking towards Davis.
“All right, people, please pay attention.” Davis said, as he tapped a few buttons on a panel.
An image of the earth popped up, suspended in space between the image projector and the ceiling. It was shrouded by dozens of red dots, one very large mass concentrated in Antarctica.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is the current situation. The alien ships appear to be massing in Antarctica. From our projections, a fleet of more than twenty would be unstoppable by any conventional weapons system. Nuclear weapons would be the only possible way, and, at this rallying point, that’s simply not an option.” Davis said.
“Why can’t we nuke them in the Antarctic?” Velez interrupted.
“Because the effects upon the ecosystem of the world would be catastrophic. At least a forty-megaton warhead would be required to guarantee total destruction. This would vaporize a huge amount of ice, causing tidal waves all over Asia, Australia, Africa, and South America. The explosion, because of the jet stream, would also irradiate over sixty percent of the Southern Hemisphere, killing hundreds of millions, if not billions of people. If there are even more alien ships, an even larger warhead, of 80 to 100 megatons may be required, which would entirely vaporize the Antarctic continent, causing mass hurricanes, mammoth tidal waves, and the possible destruction of part of South America and Africa from damage to the tectonic structure of the earth.”
“Holy shit,” Valmont whispered.
“So, as you can see, the nuclear option really isn’t one. However, we do have some good news. It appears that these aliens are not spatial, but dimensional travelers. The red lights that shape themselves are obviously some sort of portal, and many quantum mechanists here suspect that they are likely a form of wormhole, a gate that can be triggered by the use of some sort of material, like the yellow metal that Captain
Valmont and Captain Falkirk reported. If we can destroy the method through which these wormholes are created, we can stop the alien threat, or, failing that, we can do enough damage to their own planet and people to make them seriously think twice about attacking us again.”
“We assume that the aliens know that we will mount a resistance. They will obviously want overwhelming force, which means that they will likely move in a singular mass. Unfortunately, we don’t know just how many ships would constitute an overwhelming force. It could be hundreds, or thousands, for all that we know. Captain Falkirk, would you like to outline any plans that you have?” Davis asked.
“Thank you, Mr. Davis. The first thing that I believe we need to do is examine the crashed alien ship in Egypt. From there, hopefully, we’ll be able to establish more information on exactly what it is that we’re up against. That should allow us to determine which of our conventional weapons are most effective. Meanwhile, here at the Pentagon, hopefully a way will be found to use the alien’s portals to bring the fight back to them.” Falkirk finished.
“Folks, if you would follow me, you can see what your tax dollars are going towards.” Davis smiled.
The group walked out into the hall. Proceeding down the twists and turns of the hall, Falkirk wondered if there was anything that he could’ve added to his statement to the group. He was the leader now, and knew that he had to make the best decisions possible.
The group finally walked out the end of the hallway and into a large laboratory. The lab was about twenty feet across, but stretched for at least a few hundred feet in length. Falkirk quickly realized why.
While the actually working tools in the lab took up very little space, the weapons, mounted on wall racks, filled the rest. There was enough weaponry in this room for a man to destroy an entire city.
“Well, I can see that you are all very impressed. The weapons here are at your complete disposal.” Davis gestured towards a pair of especially nasty looking flame- throwers. A female scientist with long brown hair and glasses stood up from her workspace and walked over.
“Lieutenant Carlisle, this is the unit that will be fighting the aliens. If you would please give them a demonstration, I must get back to the floor.” Davis said, excusing himself. Carlisle greeted the group, and they then followed her towards the other end of the laboratory.
“Is everyone here military, or what?” Falkirk asked.
“If you’re a head scientist, then yes. It’s practically a requirement to be military if you’re working on the hardware at all.” Carlisle said.
“So what do you do?” Falkirk asked.
“Exobiology. The armor that I’ll show to you later is one of my more recent designs. I also function as a PR representative, to convince everyone that we’re not doing anything too dangerous down here.” Carlisle laughed.
The group walked about a quarter of the way down the lab, into an indentation on the wall on the left. Carlisle tapped a few keys on a keypad built into the wall. A door, nearly indistinguishable from the wall, slid open, revealing a room with a rack of weapons and a plate of indeterminable metal at the far end of the room, at least two hundred feet away. Carlisle stepped over to the weapons rack and hefted a mean looking gun with eight barrels on the end.
“This is our version of overkill, the TG-10. The first ever gun made entirely of titanium alloy. It only weighs about fifteen pounds, as much as a typical assault rifle, but it increases the firepower of the average foot soldier by over twelve-hundred percent.”
Carlisle aimed the gun towards the metal plate at the far end of the room, and fired of a quick burst at the plate, the gun making a surprisingly light and tinny note for such a large weapon. Falkirk looked towards the plate just in time to catch a ripple of explosions engulf the plate.
“Wow.” Simon said in admiration. The rest of the crowd simply stared in shock. The metal plate, which had been at least half an inch thick, had vanished, as if it had never existed.
“Those are the explosive rounds. We also have armor piercing, jacketed hollow- point, incendiary, tungsten-tipped, acid-filled, and serrated. You can fire it at up to one- thousand rounds per second. Just input rate of fire on the little console on the back of the gun. Next, we have this little gem.” Carlisle said, moving over to the rack to pick up a small pistol.
Pressing a button, the device which previously held the metal plate cycled, another plate coming out from the left of the wall and centering where the last plate had been.
“What type of metal is this anyway?” Falkirk asked.
“Vanadium Steel.” Carlisle responded, aiming the pistol as she spoke.
A beam of piercing orange light stabbed out to strike the metal plate. As the beam hit, metal began slagging off in large droplets. Carlisle released the trigger when the metal had melted halfway through.
“You can amplify it like this.” Carlisle said, as she pressed buttons on the top of the pistol. Aiming back towards the plate, the gun’s light stabbed out again, a brilliant yellow this time.
The plate of metal exploded as soon as the beam touched it. The droplets of metal splattered across the walls and ceiling of the chamber, but did not reach the firing group. Carlisle put the pistol down, and picked up another gun, this one with a long, wide barrel, more than five feet in length.
“This is probably the best artillery-type weapon that we have here. If you come across a heavily armored object, this is the gun for you.” Carlisle said, pressing and holding the red button on the console. Metal plates began to line up in front on one another, until there were a dozen stacked back to back. Carlisle pulled the trigger.
A shot streaked from the gun. The large bullet streaked through ten of the metal plates, suddenly stopping. Before he had a chance to think, Falkirk watched the shell explode, violently ripping all of the metal plates apart.
“I’d like to show you more, but time is short. We have to get to the armor.” Carlisle said, hastily returning the long barreled gun to the rack of weapons. The group turned towards the door, exiting back out into the lab.
Carlisle led the way, moving across the hallway, to a door on the far side, widthwise, of the laboratory. Opening this door, Carlisle stepped in, followed by Falkirk.
Looking out of the windows facing them, Falkirk saw a large quarter-mile circular running track below them. Running on the track was a figure, but it was moving so quickly that it was only a brilliant blue blur. The runner streaked across the track again, in under ten seconds. Then, the runner stopped, on a dime, on the finishing line.
Carlisle, saying nothing, walked over to a glass case and opened it. Falkirk and the others looked over, seeing a very unique looking suit of armor.
The helmet was a rectangle shape, slanted downwards in the front. The viewing shield for the wearer would clearly provide perfect vision, as it covered a viewing span of slightly more than one-hundred-eighty degrees.
The torso armor was obviously seriously reinforced. Falkirk found the entire suit of armor to be a paragon of modern protective design. The torso armor was connected to the pauldrons of the armor, and looked very maneuverable, as there were multiple joints to the arm armor, as well as the torso. All in all, the armor appeared to be very flexible, able to adapt to the form of the wearer very easily.
The leg armor, like the upper body armor, had many joints. At all places necessary, such as the knee, the upper thigh, the heel, and many places along the edge of the boot, there were joints to assist the user in movement. It appeared that the armor, although slightly bulky, would allow the wearer to stretch and flex as a normal person, not wearing the armor, could.
“This is the XA-2 complete infantry armor. The occupant can withstand temperatures of up to six hundred degrees Fahrenheit thanks to an internal cooling system, as well as providing insulation from extreme cold. It has an internal air supply which automatically activates when the onboard tactical computer detects a contaminated environment. Further, the leg and arm actuators provide more force than a human being could ever hope to exert. Would you like to try it on, Captain?” Carlisle said, looking at Falkirk.
Slightly nervous, Falkirk signaled his willingness with a nod. First, he climbed into the leg armor, the interior slipping over his flight suit. The torso armor went on next, and Falkirk was able to fit his arms into the generous space provided for them. The leg and torso armor interlocked with a click. Finally, Falkirk put on his helmet. With a snap, it seemed to seal to the other pieces of the armor.
Falkirk looked out of his faceplate, seeing only black. He worried for a moment that the suit might not be working. A split second later, green numbers began to scroll across the interior of the faceplate, things like internal and external temperature, gaseous composition outside, weapons and ammunition hooked into the suit, the current speed, relative altitude to the ground, and a motion sensor.
“My pride and joy. The suit will read the actions of your body. Tap your right palm with your left forefinger. That will put your armor into combat readiness.” Carlisle said.
Falkirk did as she commanded. A second later, sharp, knifelike blades shot out of the arm and leg sections of the armor. The curved blades looked as if they could slice a man in half with a single swipe.
Falkirk also noticed the encroaching darkness of the faceplate. The view changed from his normal vision to a pitch-black overlay. The people standing next to him were lit up as blue, the walls were yellow, and the other suit of armor in the storage compartment was marked as bright green.
“How would you like to try it out on the track, Captain?” Carlisle asked, smiling. “Sure, I’d love to see what this thing can do.” Falkirk responded, the external speakers on the outside of the suit broadcasting his voice.
Pressing his forefinger to his palm, Falkirk took the suit out of combat readiness mode. The group stepped into an elevator on the far side of the room. Falkirk, in the large bulky armor, could barely fit in the elevator with the rest of the group.
The descent to the track was rapid. The group stepped out of the elevator and on to the cement floor of the testing track. The actual track, a red painted oval of concrete, was larger than Falkirk had originally speculated.
“Well, Captain, run around the track in under fifteen seconds, and we’ll see if you can handle that armor.” Carlisle laughed.
“Handle it?” Falkirk asked suspiciously.
“Each person reacts differently to the armor. Some people are just naturally better at wearing the armor, it becomes like a second skin to them. Others have more difficulty controlling it. See, theoretical top running speeds for the armor were eighty miles per hour; we didn’t think that the actuator could hold up beyond that. However, our more skilled users have been able to get the speed up to ninety-four. After you start running, simply concentrate on the motions of your legs, and the armor will take over, you will essentially be along for the ride.” Carlisle smiled.
Falkirk stepped onto the track. He looked into the distance, and positioned himself for a running start, kneeling in a starting position. He looked down, then forward one more time. Then, Falkirk ran.
The leg actuators kicked in after the first step. Falkirk was roaring down the track, concentrating hard on every step. He quickly came up to the first turn, and leaned hard into it. Falkirk was surprised by the control that the armor afforded him at this speed. Now, Falkirk was on the other side of the track. Pulse pounding, pushing harder, the next turn raced up to meet him. Turning hard again, Falkirk flew back across the starting line.
He willed himself to stop, letting his legs go limp. The suit, while standing, simply stopped. Stopped on a dime. He walked back to the group. Everyone was applauding, except for Carlisle, who seemed puzzled.
“What is it, Lieutenant?” Falkirk asked, taking off his helmet and catching his breath.
“It’s your speed. It shouldn’t be possible for the armor to go that fast. The leg actuators gave out at over one hundred miles per hour in every single other test.” Carlisle said to Falkirk, smiling.
A chorus of whoops and shouts arose from everyone in the group, Falkirk most of all. Everyone surrounded him, the group filled with excitement as the returned to the elevator. Valmont pulled Falkirk aside after the ride up, and, while Carlisle took the rest of the group away, Valmont smiled.
“Looks like you got the job, Captain.”