X-Com Chronicles: Siege of New York

[Skonar]

35. --- Somewhere over the Northern Atlantic Ocean, XF23C-032 in holding corridor, December 23rd 2000, 14:17 EST.

 

 

 

West coast was visible now, a green smear on the horizon. Buck sighed. It was lonely up here. He leaned his head back. The sun had moved on, and the aliens had been steadily lowering their altitude.

 

And so he'd kept cruising along underneath them. For almost two hours now. And he couldn't even eat his goddamn powerbar because of his damn mask which he had to keep on because of the damn altitude. Well. At least he was nearly halfway through this. Another half hour or so and he'd be at the halfway point on his fuel, and a couple of hours after that he'd hit the bingo point, and have to return to base.

 

Buck nudged the multi-function-display control, flipping from a display of his fuel and back onto the GEOSCAPE Navigation map. The ship that had broken away from the formation had gone off and tried to intercept a skyranger on the way to New York. It had failed, thankfully, but the interceptor launched after it had been a little too far behind.

 

The situation made Buck shiver, he didn't like the idea that sitting in place over the Atlantic might've cost a deploying squad their lives.

 

Movement on the GEOSCAPE Navmap caught his eye. Another Skyranger, probably out of the Houston base, jetting towards the north west coast. As it turned in for its final approach towards New York, curving over the skies of Virginia and dropping in altitude, movement on the other side of the display panel drew Buck's eye.

 

One of the midsized alien craft, pulling out of the formation overhead, neatly freefalling into the atmosphere into one of the weird, sharp bends those things made while speeding up.

 

The nearest base, Nova Scotia, was seven kilometers out. By the time they'd scrambled a Black Widow or Eurofighter into the air, the aliens would be all over the damn Ranger.

 

"Track one-eight-eleven is breaking the alien formation on intercept track to SR-Seventy-Seven-Aitch-Forty-Four out of Houston. Dropping tanks and moving to engage. Over."

 

"That's a negative, Black Widow. Resume Course. Intercept is being scrambled. Over."

 

Buck gritted his teeth, finger hovering over the external fuel tank release. "The bugs are going to hit that ranger like a ton of goddamn bricks! Over."

 

"That is not your responsibility, Black Widow Thirty-Two. Over."

 

Buck glanced down at the Radar Display, as the alien craft ripped its way into the upper atmosphere, keeping itself moving just too slowly to burn into the atmosphere.

 

He flicked the release switch, the aircraft immediately bouying up as the drop tanks of fuel fell away.

 

"I'm an interceptor pilot. Actually it is. Over and Out."

 

With that, he turned the radio all the way down to mute and kicked in the afterburners.

[Skonar]

36. --- New York City, Manhattan, Middle of Central Park, December 23rd 2000, 14:18 EST.

 

 

 

Like something out of a Victorian television programme, the rattling of cartwheels on cobblestones came through the trees. A fog was starting to set in on the park too, rising up off the reservoir.

 

"Movement."

 

"No shit, Jenkins?"

 

"Quiet. Use that scope of yours, Jon." Darren waved his recently recollected squad off to the side of the cobblestoned path, lifting up his G3.

 

Obediently, Jon cut off the chatter, lifting up his rifle and flicking on the scope. The electronics hummed only vaguely, allowing him to see through the fog.

 

"Horse," he quietly pronounced a few moments later, peering off down the road as the clattering became louder. "Can't see into the bed of the carriage."

 

Darren hand-signalled for the squad to lower their weapons. There'd already been a tense moment with a civillian who'd spotted Chryssalid Victims trying to get into the recreation center buildings further north. Between nearly becoming a meal for aliens and almost getting his head blown off by the response team, whoever it was wasn't having a very good day. Nothing Darren could do beyond directing the civillians out of the park.

 

"We'll need to check the carriage. Alex, Jenkins." Darren signalled forward. "I and Jon will cover."

 

Alex Guerrera took one quick glance around before moving forward with Jenkins, rifles held up, reflexively checking trees before they moved underneath them.

 

Just how many Chryssalids were there in the park? So far Jon had taken out four at range. Two victims had been encountered along with one likely set of remains. And now fire-team two wasn't answering, and Darren had to keep bloody stopping or they'd no doubt walk into an ambush of Chryssalids. It'd probably take another quarter of an hour to get to Fireteam two, at which stage it'd be too late.

 

Damnation.

 

"Whoah, buddy. Whoah..." Jenkins lapsed into clicking his tongue, as the grey shape of a horse emerged from a foggy curve in the path ahead.

 

"Watch him," Alex warned, rifle up.

 

The horse turned its head from side to side, getting a careful look at the man in the road ahead of it, and charged, screaming.

 

Jenkins was batted down like a rag doll, dissapearing underneath the horse and carriage with nothing more than a wet crunch.

 

"Fuck! Zombie" Alex yelled, diving behind a tree.

 

Dareen didn't hesitate, jamming the stock of his G3 against his shoulder and firing off a burst. The rounds churned the grey coat and black bridling crimson almost instantly, the horse rearing, screaming again. It turned rapidly, causing the cart behind it to overturn.

 

The horse seemed to stumble, before getting up and dragging the cart after it. Another burst didn't even stagger the damn horse, it just kept lumbering on, slowed to a crawl by the weight of the cart.

 

"Fucking hell! Jon"

 

Jon halted, standing stock still in the middle of the road, lifting up his rifle and glueing his eye to the scope. With a sharp crack of gunfire, the horse collapsed.

 

It was over. Darren drew breath for a sigh of relief, but it caught in his throat, and he pulled his aim back over the horse's fresh corpse.

 

"On the-"

 

Darren jammed down his G3's trigger untill the magazine ran dry. He reflexively ripped it out, shoving it into an empty pouch before pulling out a fresh one and ramming it home.

 

"It's gonna hatch! Alex! Back off and cover Jenkins"

 

Alex had barely gotten himself up off the ground, but he turned around just as the Horse's flesh tore open, a misshapen creature pulling itself out of the mangled remains. It didn't have a leg, merely an oozing appendage, causing the little thing to collapse as it tried to pull itself free of the corpse, stiff antennae wobbling as it pulled free.

 

The juvenile Chryssalid's skin was tightening into a carapace. Another bark of gunfire blasted its small head off before it had even hit the ground.

 

Jon cleared his throat in the sudden stillness. "On the money."

 

Darren's chest was pounding. Alex still had his rifle pointed at the small, dead alien.

 

"Alright, lets check on Jenkins and-"

 

The corpse twitched. Another section of the skin tore itself open. God-Damn.

 

"WILLY-PETE"

 

Alex complied, hauling the slim canister of a white phosphorous grenade off his webbing and tossing it with a gentle underarm lob before turning and sprinting away.

 

Darren made out a rising section of carapace, even as another set of claws broke through the horse's flank. He sprinted several steps and skidded in behind a low rise of earth Jon had already taken cover behind.

 

The Chryssalids squealed in their birth, a sound like no other ever heard on the planet.

 

And then the blastwave shook everything, the cold winter air immediately turning into a dry, baking hot pressure wave washing overhead, smoke clouding the air and a terrible chemical scent pervading everything.

 

A half moment later, as the blast's thunder began to die down, the crackling of burning was added to the fading echoes coming in off the Manhattan skyscrapers. Darren wriggled to his knees, pulling up his rifle and searching for targets. "Check"

 

"Money, Okay," Jon murmured beside him, dragging himself to his feet languidly.

 

Further out, beyond the clearing smoke, a voice yelled back, "Guerrera, Okay."

 

No response from Jenkins. Goddamn.

 

"Stay where you are, Alex" Darren stood, reaching out to pat Jon on the shoulder before setting off along the path, rifle up, twisting to check the trees to either side in the limited visibility.

 

Trees were still burning, flecks of white phosphorous sending slim flames burning over the tree bark, sizzling pieces still scattered over the ground.

 

The Horse was burned black, body charred inward. Burned black smears that must have been juvenile Chryssalids once were huddled halfway in and out of the corpse, still sizzling. The cart, still tethered to the horse, was gently afire.

 

"Area clear. For now. Alex, move up."

 

Darren tried not to breath in the smell of scorched meat, the sickening tang of Chryssalid.

 

Alex stepped out of the smoke, holding his helmet in one hand while running a hand through his hair. "Madre Mia."

 

Rifle lowered only marginally, Darren took point as they moved up the cobblestoned road. Jenkins wasn't far up it. He was laying unconscious, heavy smears of blood across his right-hand limbs, a gouge along his helmet that looked suspiciously like a hoofscrape. Kneeling, Darren checked for a pulse. Thin, but there.

 

Jon and Alex remained silent. Goddamn. "We can't stay here. All that noise is liable to attract attention we don't want. The closest building is probably at the park's tennis centre. Alex, feel up to being left there with Jenkins to wait for Medevac?"

 

"No problem."

 

Darren allowed himself his sigh of relief. "Alright. Let's pick him up."

 

 

 

"Still clear, Jon?" Darren grunted, shifting his grip on Jenkin's good wrist, the soldier's body over his shoulders, and Darren's right hand on the edge of spreading bloodstains on the soldier's thigh.

 

Jon was on point now, using his scope to get a clearer picture of things in the rapidly thickening fog, Alex walking just behind the squad with Jenkin's gear. A noncommital grunt.

 

The noonday sunlight had heated the reservoir, but now, just a few hours later, the air temperature was dropping again, pulling moisture from the reservoir's water and into the air. The rest of the park was at a lower elevation, meaning the fog streamed down off the reservoir and directly into Darren's area of operation.

 

If this foggy garbage didn't freeze into frost and settle in the next hour, there was no way in hell Darren could reliably clear the park before nightfall.

 

Shit.

 

"Here we are," Jon announced, indicating a whitewalled building up ahead which emerged bit by bit from the fog with every step. "It's the fucking locker rooms."

 

Darren had been hoping for something more securable than that, a sports equipment lockup maybe. The GEOSCAPE map hadn't indicated anything about the nature of the building. Well, they'd make do.

 

"Let's find a door and get inside."

 

Darren didn't have to carry Jenkins too much longer, being ushered inside the ladies locker-rooms.

 

"Clear," Jon pronounced after having kicked in the doors of every bathroom stall. The place was deserted.

 

Alex helped Darren get Jenkins lain out on a bench, and even as Darren checked his rifle Alex was already breaking out the medical gear.

 

"Alright. Me and Jon will check the rest of the building and immediate area and get out of here. The Houston team should be landing shortly, and I'll get their ranger to land in the tennis courts outside. Get Jenkins on there, and we'll swing back for you. Understood?"

 

"Clear as a bell," Alex said while getting a pressure bandage around Jenkin's leg.

 

Darren replied with a thumbs up and moved back to the door where Jon was waiting. A quick hand signal, and they were back outside.

 

The fog wasn't doing a bloody thing.

 

Bugger.

 

Trailing around the building after Jon, Darren keyed on his radio. "This is NS-One. One-Three, we've been held up with Red Rum's bastard child. What's the situation?"

 

"Cleaver and Martins can't make a damn thing out, and I'm not letting them get out of our line of sight. Who's Red Rum?"

 

"Uhh... Famous horse. From the UK. Chryssalids got a carriage horse, multiple implants."

 

"Ouch."

 

"Situation was balls-up for awhile, but White-Phos sorted it out. Jenkins is down. I'm going to use the Houston Skyranger for medevac but I need to know what the hell is going on with One-Two. Send whoever has the most experience as a scout out there and tell him to be bloody careful."

 

Jon glanced back from the building's corner, signalled for Darren to move up.

 

"Alright. That'd be Cleaver. I'll let you know what we pick up."

 

"How's containment on the hospital?" Darren asked, casting a cautious glance back before moving up to rejoin Jon.

 

"This fog's making it... problematic on the side of the hospital facing the park, sir. Some cops came back about ten minutes ago. They're helping but they are not happy at the idea of shooting down 'civillians'. I somehow don't think they'll take the explanation well."

 

Darren had to pause a moment. Trying to reveal the existence of aliens wasn't high on his list of things to do. Jon led him further, pointed at the doorway to the men's locker rooms. It was slightly ajar.

 

"Fuck it. Tell them the patients are carrying ebola. That'll convince them to keep containment, and if they can't figure out that they should shoot Chryssalids on sight, they're bloody idiots."

 

"I'll give it a try."

 

Darren leaned in closer. Just beyond the door was an overturned locker, blocking it from opening more than a few centimeters. Damn. "Situation here. Check in later. Out."

 

Jon lifted his rifle, swept the surrounding area with his scope.

 

Darren leaned on the door. It gave, a little. Grimacing, Darren slung his G3 over a shoulder. The rifle was too long to muck about with when struggling through a door. He flicked open his belt holster and pulled out his Heckler and Koch Mk. 23.

 

Jon shifted back a few steps, rifle raised to point through the thin crack of the door.

 

Darren took a breath. "We're here to help" He called, before shoving at the doorway with his shoulder. The locker squealed over the tiled flooring, a nerve-wracking sound.

 

Jon didn't seem to notice it, rifle perfectly level at the widening gap between door and doorframe.

 

A couple of tense moments, and the door gave way. Darren swept his pistol side to side, checking every corner, while Jon followed with the grace of a cat, smoothly stepping over the fallen locker. Jon paused at the sight of the bloody man slumped against a wall in one dark corner of the locker room, but Darren kept moving, checking every nook and cranny of the place.

 

"Wh-Who are you?" enquired one pale face with fright, and a dozen others like it, as Darren swept through the shower block. People not quite barricaded into the place. Darren didn't answer, mechanically going through each of the open stalls. "Clear! Thirteen Civvies."

 

"Excuse me, what's going on?" deamnded one tubby man.

 

"Public safety problem. Who's the guy back there?"

 

"Who? I-I..."

 

"The guy with the fucking ray gun," Darren replied, shoving his pistol back into his holster.

 

"He didn't tell us his name, just to get inside, and then the creatures came by, and..."

 

Darren held up his hands for quiet. "We'll get you out of here safely. Please stay here and remain calm."

 

When Darren returned to the locker area, Jon was already going through the guy's pockets.

 

"What's the situation?"

 

Jon indicated the metal blue frame of one of the Lasers laying beside the unconscious man, production still undergoing, so far deployed only in Europe and Japan on a probationary test. Still hot, but the bank of red LEDs indicated that it needed a new gas canister.

 

"He's either one of ours or one of theirs. Has a driver's license and out of date FBI ID, both for one Peter Conners," Jon replied, holding up the man's wallet.

 

The guy's suit was a mess of blood, the back of his suit almost entirely ripped out along with a quantity of flesh. He was pale, apparently still alive.

 

"He's on the evac list," Darren replied mirthlessly. "One of ours." Thinking fast, he made his way back to the door. "Alright. Grab Alex and get these people sorted for an evacuation, along with Jenkins and this Conners guy. I'll go handle the situation with two."

 

Jon looked up with a measure of confusion. "You're going to need backup."

 

"I've got backup." Darren paused at the door, and held up a thin detonator, tuned in to the detonators in the four kilos of C4 in his backpack. A dead man's switch, voluntary issue for UFO clearance point men. If the bugs took you out, you took them out. The last resort of the desperate.

 

"Fucking hell."

 

"That's our location. You're... On the money."

 

"Not funny." Jon groaned.

[Skonar]

37. --- Somewhere over the Northern Atlantic Ocean, XF23C-032 in pursuit of UFO track 1811, December 23rd 2000, 14:23 EST.

 

 

 

Buck missed the radio. Five minutes without human voices, a blip on the screen ahead, and only the vague rustle through the airframe of the jet engines for company. All the noise and rumble was getting left behind, Buck pushing his plane towards Mach two-point-five.

 

All that speed and he was barely closing in on the damn UFO.

 

He glanced at his fire control computer. If he dropped his stingrays now, given the relative speeds, they'd burn out of juice before they had even gotten halfway between him and the UFO ahead.

 

It was dropping altitude, though, and air density would force the damn thing to slow down. Aliens had no damn clue when it came to aerodynamics. They built those damn saucers big and broad and flat, like giant dish pans stacked ontop of each other, with flat sides that tried to beat the air into submission. Even their engines couldn't push faster than mach one-point-seven or so at low altitude.

 

Sometimes the bugs didn't seem to care you were pursuing them, they just kept moving on and on, trying to outpace you. Well, maybe that worked against regular fighters, but Buck's Black Widow had been built specifically to chase down these abducting bastards.

 

The tactics were well defined, keep at best altitude, drop missiles right on the bug's damn heads. It worked, and would work as soon as that bugship slowed down enough for the missiles to catch up.

 

Buck lenaed forward slightly in his seat. It was visible now, a silver-blue smear in the sky ahead, visible against the greenish landmass and clouds ahead.

 

That's right. Lose a little more altitude. The missiles have a longer effective range if they're going downhill...

 

The double-stacked octagon of the UFO seemed to creep closer. Buck dipped his eyes to glance at the radar.

 

It'd be alright. He'd take this thing down and get back to base, refuel, and get his back slapped as a hero.

 

Movement tore his gaze off the radar display and back onto the UFO, hovering in the sky kilometers ahead of him.

 

Soemthing detached from the hull- no, the UFO dropped in altitude, and something far ahead of it, that it had been travelling with in alignment, became visible. A second, smaller, UFO.

 

The thin slash of silvery metal abruptly flattened, the second UFO rotating on its vertical axis, turning its entire surface into one huge air brake.

 

The radar picked it up almost immediately, the broad side reflecting brightly. Thirty kilometers, dropping so fast the thing had to have just hit reverse, travelling right at him.

 

Buck twisted his Black Widow aside, rolling it so one wingtip brushed the sky, the other pointed at the sea. Aerodynamics took care of the rest, pulling his plane in a long curve off the UFO's line of motion.

 

The tone of radar lock dinged in his ears and he almost reflexively tweaked the missile switches and hit launch, dropping a pair of stingrays like a pair of beautiful, deadly twins.

 

The missiles left curling contrails. Buck flipped his plane back onto vertical, neck straining with the effort of keeping his head up. The alien craft shot by his left shoulder, like a gigantic flying pancake, one of the missiles tearing open a cloud of black smoke on its side.

 

Buck pulled his plane into a sharp turn, twisting around in his seat to look around for the damn UFO.

 

He saw it, hanging almost perfectly still, somewhere behind him, shrinking as his craft struggled to turn back onto it. A glance in the other direction showed that the medium sized double-stacked UFO was still heading for the coast.

 

Stay and kill the crippled UFO, or go after the dangerous one?

 

Buck didn't get to make his decision.

 

"Shi-"

 

Before the flash blinded him, Buck made out his left wing glowing cherry red and twisting as it melt. He heard the remaining internal structure snap just as his plane started madly twirling around him. He felt a vague touch of heat, like sunlight, a moment before the cockpit glass shattered from the plasma's burning fire, and his body was burned before the broken fragments of his plane could tear it into shreds.

[Skonar]

38. --- Nova Scotia, X-Com Base 'Nova Scotia': XF-37, Base Command and Control Center, December 23rd 2000, 14:25 EST.

 

 

 

A yellow diamond dropped off the GEOSCAPE display.

 

Across the room, seated behind one of a number of consoles, a flight coordinator bowed his head, hands held up in the manner of prayer and clamped over his nose.

 

One by one, UFO traces on the GEOSCAPE turned from red to a fading orange, each one marked with simultaneous timers counting down as the last locations of particular traces.

 

Javier looked around, searching for an explanation. "What the hell just happened?"

 

"One of our pilots with a new radar rig went maverick, sir. The aliens picked him up and we've lost telemetry."

 

Lost telemetry. A euphamism for dead, in this context.

 

The last trace on that medium UFO coming in off the north atlantic had it nastily close to the Skyranger out of Houston, heading in to land.

 

In a few minutes the Skyranger that had landed Throop and his team would be returning. Hopefully it could dust off with a fresh load of soldiers, and fast.

 

The situation on the ground wasn't much more hopeful. Throop had wandered off on his own in the park, and the com traffic being relayed in from the battlefield did not explain what was going on.

 

The temptation to call down and start leading Throop and his team around by the nose was overwhelming. But there was more important work to be done.

 

"Flight, new orders untill we regain airspace awareness on the aliens. All skyranger flights are to be escorted by at least one interceptor until further notice. Get some cover for the Houston flight."

 

"Understood, Sir."

 

Javier stared at the GEOSCAPE for a few moments more. Intercepting skyrangers? Maybe it was just a coincidence, but the bugs had never done that before. Then again, they'd never attacked a population center like New York before, either.

 

He reached to engage the hotline to the War Room. It was time to warn the American Government and get thier cooperation. Far past time, in fact.

[Skonar]

39. --- New York City, Manhattan, 102nd Street East, Police Department 23rd precinct, December 23rd 2000, 14:30 EST.

 

 

 

"You have got to be fucking kidding me."

 

"No shit, Brewer."

 

Brewer stared at the fax in his hands. The City of New York were putting into place an emergency management scheme under the advice of the UN. Police officers and all civil service were required to keep the streets safe. Every patrolman out on the beat, looking for something that was as yet undefined. Supposedly FEMA was deploying, too.

 

And now there were monsters in Central Park, the cordon around Mount Sinai broke down with the situation there now way beyond fubar, and there were some kind of paramilitary guys running around too?

 

"He thinks he's so fucking clever." Brewer spat. "'Aliens are invading'. Jackass."

 

"Huh?"

 

"Remember that Russian guy from this morning?"

 

"Yeah."

 

"I gotta put my boot up his ass."

[Skonar]

40. --- New York City, Manhattan, Middle of Central Park, December 23rd 2000, 14:36 EST.

 

 

 

There wasn't anything left.

 

"Mamma gotta feed her babies..."

 

Just a couple of bone chips at the stumps and that was it.

 

"Why you crying? Why you crying now?"

 

Why the fuck was he still conscious? How in the hell could anybody still be conscious? The other's weren't conscious, why was he?

 

"Baby? Daddy can't feed you anymore."

 

Throop looked pissed off, but cold as ice. He flipped over one of the Chryssalids' bodies with the toe of his boot. It was no more than sixty centimeters tall, carapace shell still soft, riddled full of holes.

 

"Where's mamma gone?"

 

Frank couldn't stand it anymore. He reached out and tore another of the dead Chryssalids out of Corporal Jim Shortfield's fingerless grasp, throwing the bullet riddled corpse aside.

 

"Baby? Where you gone?"

 

Jim scrabbled up to the nearest Chryssalid corpse, blasted full of holes less than a minute before by Frank and Captain Throop. He dragged the limp thing onto his lap and jabbed the blood-covered stubs of bone that were the remnants of his fingers at the Chryss's mouth, trying to shift aside the mandible plates.

 

He babbled, a pained mask of terrible sympathy etched over his face. "Why you ain't eating, baby? What's wrong?"

 

Frank promptly threw up.

 

 

 

Darren hefted up his rifle vaguely as the rookie got rid of his lunch. Six chryssalids. All of them too small to have been 'natural' hatches. Maybe the man with the Laser, that Peter Conners, had something to do with this.

 

If so, Darren needed to have words with him if he survived. Strong words.

 

Either way, he waited for the rookie, Frank Cleaver, to finish.

 

"You alright now?" Darren enquired in a barely level tone of voice.

 

Frank nodded, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Yes sir."

 

The rookie didn't even try to look back at Shortfield, instead checking the foliage nearby. Wise.

 

Darren adjusted his radio. "NS-One to NS-Origin. I need to speak with one of our experts on the Chryssalids."

 

"NS-Origin here. Confirm. Urgent?"

 

"Within the next thirty seconds would be best."

 

Darren didn't have long to wait, checking the surrounding area, the skyscrapers looming over the park's trees, until he got his response. A harassed, bookish sounding man.

 

"Dr. Weissman, Falklands. Who is this please?"

 

"Combat team NS-One. You're our expert on Chryssalids?"

 

"Yes. Uhm, what's going on?"

 

"I've got four men here. Three unconscious, one barely cogent. Juvenile Chryssalids have been eating them alive. I need to know if they can be medevaced safely."

 

There was a pause at the other end of the line.

 

"How long have they been unconscious?"

 

Darren glanced across at Cleaver, who was still keeping an eye on the shrubbery, and checked his wristwatch. "It's been twenty minutes to a half hour since I can confirm they were conscious and unharmed."

 

A dry swallow. "Normally a victim that's fallen unconscious is liable to hatch at any time, but that doesn't happen untill an hour and a half or so has passed. The full cycle usually takes two hours or so. The one who's awake, he's not violent?"

 

Darren glanced at Shortfield. He was still trying to feed the dead chryssalid the rest of his hands. "No. He's trying to feed himself to the dead bugs."

 

A slightly longer pause. "I'm afraid I don't have a good answer for you, NS-One. My guess is this is some kind of method for Juveniles to try and feed themselves, rather than implant more victims. That's only a guess, however."

 

"Doctor, I'm afraid I have a situation here and not much time. What's your reccomendation?"

 

"You can probe likely implantation sites on them. So long as you use blunt objects, you should be able to feel out any fluid pockets indicative of an embryo, they develop near the surface and fill the body cavity from there. You'll need to get them to a hospital, though, as soon as possible."

 

Darren glanced aside, up at the skyline where the helicopter had gone down earlier. Hospitals. Between trying to clear the park and get across to fireteam two, he'd taken his eye off the ball.

 

"God-Damnit"

 

"I'm sorry?"

 

"Nevermind. Thankyou for your assistance, Doctor Weissman. Please remain avaliable for consultation. NS-One out."

 

Darren released the transmit key on his radio. "Cleaver. Go get me a car."

 

The Australian nodded. "Uh, what do I do if they don't volunteer, sir?"

 

"Hotwire it, hijack it, I don't fucking care. Get it done."

 

Cleaver nodded and turned for the road. Road traffic had died off, but there were still some cars parked. Hopefully Cleaver could get one running... but there was other business.

 

Darren flipped his radio onto the squadwide channel immediately. "This is NS-One. Ninsei, where the hell did those patients taken out of Sinai get evacuated to?"

[Skonar]

41. --- Nova Scotia, X-Com Base 'Nova Scotia': XF-37, Base Command and Control Center, December 23rd 2000, 14:40 EST.

 

 

 

"Uh, sir?"

 

Javier didn't know the voice over the intercom, but he spotted one of the communications officers glancing back at him past command room personnel moving back and forth with files and data and the coffee that would, God willing, be an essentially endless supply.

 

"What now?"

 

"NS-One is requesting airstrikes on twelve locations in the city, Sir. All hospitals."

 

"Out of the question."

 

The comms officer grimaced slightly. "The situation on the ground isn't prett-"

 

"I know what the situation on the ground is. I've been monitoring it between trying to deal with organizing reinforcements. He's got people landing soon, he can keep the damn Skyranger. Just get the locals to put whoever they can get with guns around those locations, and get Throop working the evacuation lists. We don't have any other options at this stage."

 

"Yes sir."

 

The doubt in the comm officer's tone was piercing as an ice pick.

 

All it did was remind him how he had no idea what in the hell to do.

[Skonar]

42. --- Scotland, X-Com Base 'Edinburgh': XF-E12, Aircraft Hangars, December 23rd 2000, 14:42 EST. (09:42 local)

 

 

 

"Move it back! Move it back! Move it back"

 

Lieutenant Henry Gyres, 1964-p0r-XCM struggled through the blasting noise of the engines of three Skyrangers going off all at once, two of them in pre-launch prep-work.

 

"What the fuck's going on?" one of the sergeants yelled at him, from less than a foot away.

 

"We're on full mobilization! Bug attack in New York! Where's McGivern's lot?"

 

"Armoury"

 

"If they're not on a ranger in five minutes it's my fucking balls"

 

Conversation became impossible, hot exhaust blasting through the hangar as one of the bulky Skyrangers began taxiing out of the hangars and onto a short slice of airstrip from which the camouflaged netting had been temporarily removed.

 

The noise level subsided a little as the craft took off, blowing thrust through vents in its belly.

 

"Which ride's ours?"

 

"That one's taking McGivern's, the other's for Hollander! Command's trying to borrow some aeroplanes off the RAF for the rest of you"

 

"So what are we doing up here?"

 

"Fuck if I know! Shove off"

 

The sergeant and his squad retreated back out of the hangar, and Gyres continued to endure the goddamn engine wash in the feeble hope the assault teams would show up on time for once.

[Skonar]

43. --- Over Springfield New Jersey and approaching Manhattan, SR77H-44 out of Houston, December 23rd 2000, 14:44 EST.

 

 

 

The skyranger bucked like a wounded animal. There was nothing to gauge the movement of the aircraft against, just the almost still interior. The only movement was the flipping hair of soldiers who were holding their helmets down against their laps or stomachs, the vague shifts against the seat strapping running down both walls of the ranger when everyone got lifted out of their seats.

 

Captain Jake Woods, 8528-p06-XCM, grimaced and twitched a finger up underneath the rim of his helmet to hit the transmit button, leaning forward and staring at the cockpit doors. "What the hell is the situation with making this landing?"

 

"We've got bog-"

 

The doorway to the cockpit swiped past Jake's nose, accompanied by a flash of light that made everything look too white, too blue, too shiny. The bloodspray gashed out of one of the squaddie's legs flicked up to cover the ceiling while fire rolled through the air with the liquidity of free fall. The white foam of the flame suppressant sprayers only just managed to start before one of the fuel tanks ruptured.

[Skonar]

44. --- New York City, Manhattan, Park Avenue, December 23rd 2000, 14:44 EST.

 

 

 

"Where the hell are our reinforcements, man?"

 

"Landing any second now, Private. Keep your trousers on."

 

Darren suppressed the urge to reach over and yank the car onto the right side of the road, the left side, as Private Martins kept on driving. Martins was an American, though, and like all Americans, he drove on the right hand side of the road. Which, given that this was in America, would be safer.

 

Darren leaned around in his seat. Two soldiers were laying comatose in the back seat, Corporal Alpine and Private Wedel. Cleaver, following behind the 'appropriated' SUV in a smaller sedan, had the joy of having the still gibbering Shortfield in the car with him, Corporal Bueller trying to restrain him, along with the still out of comission Lieutenant Masters.

 

Ninsei was back at the hospital with the whip, staying with the police. Damn it, his people were spread out way too wide, and-

 

Sharp cracks of thunder.

 

In a cloudless sky.

 

The buildings were in the way, Darren couldn't see a damn thing.

 

"Shit. You're kidding me."

 

"Sir?"

 

"Keep driving," Darren ordered, tugging his laptop out of the pocket holding it over his chest and opened it out on his lap. There was a dim yellow diamond sitting over the Hudson River with a 'connection lost' timer blinking beside it. "And forget about those reinforcements."

[Skonar]

45. --- New Jersey, Newark, Newark International Airport, December 23rd 2000, 14:50 EST.

 

 

 

"My flight is taking off in five minutes."

 

"I'm sorry sir, there's nothing I can do for you. All air traffic has been grounded. There was some kind of biological terrorism over in Manhattan."

 

"I haven't been in Manhattan, I need to get to Chicago or I'm going to miss my meeting!"

 

"That doesn't help, sir. No flights are allowed to leave."

 

The man was agitated, Becky realized, but as usual there was nothing she could do about it except wait untill he'd just leave or she could call security. Working the information desks at the airport had to be the worst job when multiple flights were canceled.

 

"It's still before three," he protested again.

 

"All flights are grounded. All of them, sir. You could try Grayhound," she offered, briefly searching through the reams of pamphlets before producing one and sliding it across the marbletopped information counter.

 

Becky offered a smile, hiding behind it an unyielding desire for the man to just piss off.

 

"There's nothing you can do?" he insisted, smoothly slipping a fifty dollar bill onto the counter as he reached up for the pamphlet.

 

Becky narrowed her eyes. "Do I have to call security, sir?"

 

He grimaced, shaking his head. He withdrew the pamphlet, and his fifty dollars, trduging off towards the doors with his luggage.

 

The nect man in line stepped up, rapping his fingers on the information desk brightly. "I heard something about Grayhound, Da?"

 

Becky shook her head and produced another pamphlet for the fellow, who looked it over for a few moments.

 

"Mm. Thankyou. I strongly reccomend you get out of city, Da? It is not a bioweapon, it is an alien invasion."

 

Oh, great, another crazy?

 

He laughed abruptly, slapping his thigh. "Is all big joke! Never mind. Thankyou for pamphlet."

 

She watched him leave, blinking a little blankly.

 

The next man in line edged up to the counter. "Uh, my flight to Dallas?"

 

She smiled brightly, mechanically. "It's all canceled. And I have no idea when flights will return to normal operation. How else can I help you?"

[Skonar]

--- Phase Three: UFO Landing Site 1811

 

 

 

 

 

46. --- Transmission Censorship Programme Cache 122300, Project <UFOPEDIA ERROR 667: FILE MISSING OR TAMPERED WITH>: News footage filmed at New York City, Manhattan, West 54nd Street and 11th Avenue, December 23rd 2000, 14:54 EST.

 

 

 

"Rodney? Are you getting this?" a pretty brunette asks, straightening her jacket as she climbs out of a van. The viewpoint follows and twists once outside of the van. It sweeps across industrial dockyard areas and across into a small park incorporating baseball diamonds.

 

Seventeen children are standing in a group some distance from a burning wreck of tangled machinery buried halfway into the buildings across the road from the park, multiple broken trees are strewn in the vehicle's wake and fuel is burning.

 

"We need a live feed here, Sid!" a man's voice says from off camera.

 

"Hey, get the hell out of here!" the brunette calls, stepping forward into the picture, camerea viewpoint following.

 

One of the children looks up, shading his/her face. The child's attention returns to the burning wreckage.

 

"Seriously, kids, go home, there's been a chemical weapon release across central park," the woman continues.

 

"Come on Howie," one child, probably male, says, pulling a younger child by the arm.

 

"But I wanna be on Tee-Vee!" the younger child says. "What about the people in the plane!?"

 

"Okay, okay, Ellen? We're getting a green light here. Do your thing," the male voice says.

 

The brunette turns, walking backwards, clearing her throat. "This is Ellen Brightwater, live and on location. Mere minutes ago an aircraft of some kind just crashed into the West Side, between Fifty-Second Street and Fifty-Fourth street. It seems to have been coming in low over the hudson."

 

Camera pans off woman and onto wreckage. Partial tailfin number can be read, '-7H-4-'.

 

"In the wake of this morning's hostage crisis at the Mount Sinai hospital centre which resulted in the release of a Chemical Weapons agent according to police sources, it seems clear that New York is suffering a Terror Atta- Terrorist Attack by unknown-" brunette is cut off as an ATV sized vehicle rolls out of flames.

 

"Whip is out, Whip is out!" calls voice from off camera, Sergeant Tim Wavecrest, 4823-uu8-XCM.

 

First man wearing singed military clothing, carrying an M249 Squad Automatic Weapon in sling across shoulder and two fire extinguishers exits the building which the vehicle has crashed into.

 

ATV-sized vehicle, identifiable as Heavy Weapons Platform type 3, rolls onward, with clinging fuel still burning. "More civillians!"calls voice from off camera, Private James G. Walsh, 8437-p9t-XCM.

 

Camera swivels to point at pair of burned looking men walking from the direction of a second building, sergeant Tim Wavecrest holding a HWP control interface, private James G. Walsh an M-16 rifle and two more fire extinguishers. "Get out of here!" private James G. Walsh says.

 

Sergeant Tim Wavecrest looks up from control interface. "Trev! The Whip's Overhea-"

 

Sound dampened by force of explosion. Camera swivels to point at expanding cloud of smoke. HWP continues forward, left side ammo bin blackened and torn open.

 

First man staggers to his feet, reclaims the fire extinguishers, and continues towards wreckage.

 

"Christ," Sergeant Tim Wavecrest says.

 

Camera viewpoint shakes and turns. Private James G. Walsh retracts hand and shoves at camera again. "Get out of here God damnit! They were coming in right behind us, you have to take those kids and get the hell out of-"

 

Sonic boom. All visible persons look up, camera swivels to follow. Faint contrail visible. Silvery streak crosses sky, South-West to North-East. Multiple smaller silver objects detach. A second sonic boom occurs.

 

Brunette begins to speak, "The situation is developing live, with unexplained aircraft now being spotted in the air over New York-"

 

First man forces fire extinguishers on and disappears into the blaze.

 

Sergeant Tim Wavecrest says, "Landing. It's a fucking landing. Come on, get the hell out of here," Wavecrest says, putting control unit into belt and pulling out a sidearm. "Right the hell now."

 

"This is live, man," brunette replies. "We're reporting live here!"

 

"Uhh, Ellen?" Male voice enquires. "They cut the feed."

 

Brunnete asks, "What?! Why in the hell would they cut the fee-"

 

Nearby detonation, camera drops. "Disks!" Private James G. Walsh states.

 

"Jim, give me those extinguishers," Sergeant Tim Wavecrest says. "Take these people inside and get more fire extinguishers out of the stairwells." Children scream.

 

Camera is hurridly picked up, pans around to face corner of building. Blasted and molten brickwork is visible. Children visible to side in parkland. Nearby detonation. A white flash burns out the camera's colour balancing. Children scream.

 

"Move, move, move!" Camera pans away and begins to move, twists around to focus on running children, moving backwards. A white flash burns out the camera's colour balancing.

 

"Oh my God," Brunette says. "God fucking help us."

 

Image restores, visible, burned parkland with ash and smoke hazing air.

 

"Yeah yeah, now fucking take cover you crazy bitch!" private James G. Walsh says.

[Skonar]

47. --- New York City, Manhattan, East 16th Street and 1st Avenue, Beth Israel Medical Center, December 23rd 2000, 14:54 EST.

 

 

 

"I need soldiers, not patients, Doctor," Darren growled. "Get my men on their feet."

 

The doctor hesitated.

 

Darren pointed at the interior of his emergency room's main operating theatre, and the five foot tall insectoid monster bleeding out onto the floor. Rattles of gunfire and screams from further down the ward paled the poor man even further.

 

"Fine. Who's this specialist of yours?"

 

Darren dragged a com off Shortfield, who pawed bloodily at it with a babyish gurgling noise. He held it out to the doctor, while leaning on his own. "This is NS-One. NS-One-Two-Two's channel is nowin the hands of a civillian doctor. NS-Origin, please confirm and wire One-Two-Two through to Falklands, emergency attention Doctor Weissman."

 

"Confirm."

 

Darren tossed Shortfield's tac-com to the doctor. He caught it in shaking hands, albiet barely. The dangling transmit switch left bloody smears on the doctor's uniform.

 

"NS-One, this is Doctor Weissman, could you confirm this situation? How am I meant to brief a civillian about Chryssalids?"

 

Darren grunted, and straightened his rifle. "There's dead one in the next fucking room over if you want a visual aid, Doctor Weissman. Security is not a priority, now get on channel with the doctor."

 

The doctor stared uncomprehendingly. "Chryssalid? That thing?"

 

"Put on the earpiece and press the button on the wire to transmit. Doctor Weissman will explain. Now if you'll excuse me," Darren nodded harshly, before pulling back into the corridor. Up ahead he could make out huddled civillians. Martins was emptying a magazine into a prone, twitching body, Cleaver leaning on a ward door.

 

Cleaver yelled, "everybody down with your hands over the back of your heads or I will shoot you! Get do-"

 

There was a groan, two shots, a dull thud of plaster and flesh. A fleshy tear and squealing, a longer burst of gunfire.

 

Darren jogged up the hall. Bueller was loading his rifle mounted grenade launcher while leaning into a stairwell. "Sir, you should... you should see this."

 

Darren edged closer while Cleaver started into the ward, Martins trailing along after putting another few rounds into the corpse. Edging his head inside, he glanced up as Bueller directed. He heard the repetative crunching before he saw the source, an angry looking man shoving at a door just partway up the stairwell with his shoulder and head, intent on breaking it open. A sign spelled out the problem in bright red letters. 'Pull'.

 

Darren pulled a grenade from its pouch and pulled the pin free. The man heard the clank of the grenade when it landed behind him, but Darren'd pulled the door shut. The window flashed white while the door shuddered, black smoke filled it.

 

"Check the other stairwells," Darren ordered trudging down the corridor. Civillians were screaming, pushing to get away. The heavy rifle in his hands convinced them to keep back by at least a few feet.

 

Bueller blanched. "Yes sir," he hesitantly responded.

 

Hospital? Try hell. "Cleaver! That room clear? Get those people out of here! You, Ma'am, get up, out of here. Run, get the hell off Manhattan island! Yes, now!"

[Skonar]

48. --- New York City, Manhattan, West 54nd Street and 11th Avenue, December 23rd 2000, 15:02 EST.

 

 

 

"Cap? Jake?"

 

Everything hurt. Jake's clothes were soaked with some kind of foam.

 

"He's conscious, I think." Was that Wavecrest? Someone lifted his eyelid. Jake grimaced, trying to lift his hands feebly. That hurt a whole hell of a lot worse. "Easy, Cap. You're lucky your face didn't get burned off."

 

"I'm fine," Jake grumbled, pushing himself up onto his elbows. "I'm fucking fine!" he yelled.

 

"No you're not, and quiet down, Cap." Wavecrest pointed towards light.

 

Jake couldn't make it out, too damn blurred. Something shaded some of the light. A window? The shade resolved into a circular shadow over the road outside, slowly edging over the ground.

 

Jake's mind gradually absorbed the fact that he was in a building, and outside, somewhere, there was a Cyberdisc. "Well dang," he whispered. "What happened?"

 

"Our 'Ranger went down, and our comms gear seems to be out. Survivors are myself, you, Carr, Walsh, Slough and Harrison." Wavecrest glanced back over a shoulder. "The privates are clearing the building. Carr's pretty fucked up. We've got civilians, too."

 

Jake blinked in the direction Wavecrest nodded, eyes watering. His throat felt like someone'd been over it with sandpaper. "You're that news lady," he ventured. "Seen you on CNN."

 

"Uh, yeah. Ellen Brightwater. This is Rodney."

 

Jake rolled over. Leaning over Lieutenant Carr was a heavily built stranger with a camera, his hands pressed down over Carr's thigh. Blood trickled out from between his hands. Goddamn. "Whip?" he asked, wiping at his hands across his eyes. His face felt raw, burnt.

 

"Stalled in the middle of the road. Might still work if we can get it running."

 

Ellen spoke up. "Uhm. Sid, our recording technician's still in the van." She wiped at her tear streaked face with the back of her hand.

 

"We can't rescue your friend untill those things clear off, Ellen," Jake tried to explain. Finally he managed to sit up, glancing back at the light. A broken open doorway, he now saw. Checking himself over, he still had his equipment webbing on. He felt over his head hesitantly. "Where's my helmet?"

 

Wavecrest kicked over something with a hollow clunk. One side was almost entirely gouged in by something sharp. "Want mine?"

 

"No," Jake replied. He pulled the earpiece and transmit switch out, and slipped them on over his own head. Sticking the jack into his radio, still in its pouch, he keyed down transmit. A click in his ear, but none of the faint hum of an encryption rig recieving and transmitting. He hauled it out, checked the digital display.

 

"Our repeater was on the Whip, Cap. I think it must've been damaged in the crash."

 

"Repeater?" Ellen asked.

 

"Radio repeater, boosts a local radio signal," Rodney interjected.

 

"Indeed it does." Jake squinted at the display, difficult to make out in the dark. He twisted around untill he caught the light from the door. "Now our repeater was on the whip. What about the crew out of Nova Scotia's?"

[Skonar]

49. --- New York City, Manhattan, East 16th Street and 1st Avenue, Beth Israel Medical Center, December 23rd 2000, 15:08 EST.

 

 

 

Darren hadn't eaten since his breakfast at six AM. What was left of his ammunition felt lighter than he liked, and the hospital corridors thudded rhythmically. Another implantation victim?

 

Thankfully the watch nurses could confirm noone else in the lower floors had been bitten by the creatures that'd popped out of two of their coma cases, in from Mount Sinai. Unfortunately there were another two that had been taken to the upper floors for surgery.

 

"NS-Origin to NS-One."

 

Damnit. Darren ducked against a wall, leaning on it. He glanced back. Cleaver and Bueller were still with him, Martins had been left downstairs to guard the doctor and their men under the doctor's care. "This is NS-One this is not a good time, Out."

 

"Need emergency response across Manhattan, personnel are down. Haych-Two requests assistance immediately."

 

Darren's ears burned. "Please repeat that, Origin."

 

"Haych-Two requires assistance immediately, he is patched through your communications. Reports possible landing and Cyberdisks above his position."

 

"NS-One currently engaged. Will-"

 

Cleaver's G3 blasted back down the corridor. Darren glanced back, a black shape thudded against the wall, leaving a green trail. Impossibly it lifted itself up again. Darren lifted his rifle, firing twice in quick succession.

 

"NS-One, this is NS-Origin. What is your status?"

 

Fleshy hunks of the Chrysslaid splattered back down the hall in long plumes as the bullets hit it. Finally it collapsed again. It looked rubbery. Nearly six feet tall, almost fully grown, but still soft-skinned.

 

"Clearing the Beth Israel Medical Center. Chryssalids and victims."

 

"You are ordered to disengage and move to assist Haych-Two with a medevac under hostile cover immediately."

 

"I have five men down, two of whom are medevac cases. I have twelve known locations to clear of Chryssies. I have an unknown number of victims here, and the situation at the other locations is likely to be no better - I saw no sign of the local police forces you promised on the way in, Origin!"

 

A drawn out silence passed, Cleaver and Bueller checking doorways. Darren stepped backwards after them, covering their rear, the hopefully dead Chryssalid.

 

"NS-One, I'm passing you to NS-Actual."

 

Darren shuffled along the corridor, after Bueller and Cleaver. Every so often he glanced back over his shoulder. Where the hell was that thudding coming from?

 

"NS-One, this is NS-Actual. Throop, I need results on the ground. You have NS-Three incoming ETA Fifteen-Forty hours and that's all you're going to get right now. Are you telling me you can't do your job?"

 

"I'm telling you that five of my men are down, and that three more are involved in their defence and care. Furthermore-"

 

"I know the situation on the Ground, Throop, I've been monitoring it from here!"

 

Darren gestured for Bueller and Cleaver to hold in the corridor with him. They blinked at the harsh tone of his voice, watching him rattle on into his mic.

 

"You know, do you? I'm currently in a hospital which is only partially evacuated hunting down Chrysslaids, sir, which were incubated in patients evacuated from Mount Sinai. Many of those are maturing and hatching as we speak in twelve hospitals I know about. We narrowly managed to intervene and destroy two chryssalids and almost a dozen implantation victims in this facility, so far. Sorry, three. I have no idea how many more are in here. If we had been five minutes later it would've been worse, we arrived just after they hatched.

 

"This is happening right now sir, and is repeating itself all across New York. If I'm forced to wait for NS-Three to arrive the situation is only going to get worse, and I am not going to be able to clear even another four hospitals before nightfall. Once that happens, the Chryssalids that are hiding are going to start getting active."

 

A long silence greeted his tirade.

 

"What do you reccomend?"

 

"We need airstrikes now, and we need to make sure the damn implant victims don't get removed from the sites. I can't be sure victims didn't get taken out with the flood of paniced civillians from here, we saw what happened at Mount Sinai. No warning, no evacuations."

 

"Jesus, Throop. You know how many civillian casualties that's going to cause?"

 

"I know that if it doesn't happen we've got no chance whatsoever of maintaining the situation."

 

The pause in NS-Actual's reply dragged on. "Fine, you'll get your airstrikes."

 

"Thank you sir, proceeding to assist Haych-Two at fastest speed."

 

"God damn you, Throop."

 

"NS-One out. Cleaver, Bueller, we're getting the hell out of here."

 

Bueller nodded down the corridor. Darren followed his gaze. A civillian, lurching drunkenly. Body already bloated, as though he'd been implanted hours before, not minutes. Darren felt a chill crawl up his spine. How many strangely comatose victims must have been taken to hospitals since this morning? Put into wards without staff, since half of them were off for the holidays?

 

With a quick flick of his hand, Darren indicated the nearest stairwell. Best leave them for the airstrikes.

 

 

 

"What do you mean we have to leave?" the Doctor asked, pulling a pair of gurneys. Cleaver was struggling with the other two. Wedel had woken up, was strapped down and banging the back of his head down again and again.

 

"Momma, Moony, Muton, Mallard, Mama, Ma-"

 

"Air strikes," Darren replied, clinching down the flashlight's frame against the side of his G3. "The Chryssalids seem to be using the hospitals as incubation points, left unchecked they're going to overrun everything."

 

"What? What do you mean air strikes? You're blowing up hospitals?"

 

"Exactly right, Doctor Yue."

 

"You can't do that, that's inuhman, insane-"

 

Darren flicked on the flashlight, pausing infront of the doors to the underground parking lot. "NS-One to NS-Origin, patch my squad circuit through to Doctor Weissman." Touching a hand over his mic, Darren told Yue, "put on Shortfield's earpiece again, would you?"

 

"This is insane..." Doctor Yue took the earpiece from Shortfield, who'd calmed down a little, though couldn't stand.

 

"Doctor Weissman."

 

Darren smiled grimly, "Doctor, would you please explain for Doctor Yue's education just how fast Chryssalids reproduce?"

 

"Ah, well, each individual carries twenty eggs at any one time, and tends to generate fresh ones at the rate of perhaps five in an hour, faster while still growing..."

 

Yue blinked unhappily as Weissman went on.

 

"... perhaps resulting in a maximum rate of twenty fresh implantations every two hours, though that would only be if the creatures are regularly disturbed, or at night - four hours is a good outside number so-"

 

"Doctor Weissman, presuming infection started with one individual at six AM, how many could we reasonably expect to see at four o clock, in about forty-five minutes?"

 

"Well, Captain, presuming they've been very dormant in daylight, in a host-rich enverionment like Manhattan, say, four thousand at a conservative guess. If they're being regularly disturbed and reproducing under ideal circumstances, as many as three million. But I wouldn't expect that sort of rate of reproduction untill after dark."

 

Darren leaned close to Yue and grinned, his face bloodless. "So you see, Doctor Yue, airstrikes it is. Bueller, Martins, cover."

 

"Sir."

 

"But, but, why haven't we seen them? People would, would-" Yue stammered.

 

"Ah, well, that's the thing. Chryssalids are naturally stealthy creatures, doctor," Weissman explained conversationally. "We have a small tagged, ah, 'colony' here in the Falklands. When left to their own devices during the daylight hours they act as ambush predators, you see, using ground cover or digging burrows, wheras at night their carapaces help them simply blend into the darkness, so they begin actively hunting..."

 

Darren flicked on his flashlight and advanced into the parking lot, sweeping the area with the flashlight on the end of his rifle. An ambulance was wrapped halfway around a support pole. The petrol in the air smelt thick, hot. Recent accident, then.

 

"...tactics are quite simplistic, but effective, given their really remarkable speed..."

 

Bueller had edged around to peer into the windshield. "Three dead, empty," he reported, shining his flashlight across the scene.

 

Heads slung backward, the corspses in the ambulance's front seats looked as though they'd been gutted. Their limbs had been neatly taken off at the shoulder. Darren hoped they'd died in the crash, not after.

 

"Thankyou Doctor Weissman," Darren offered, "if you will excuse us, you're demoralizing my men."

 

"Ah. Sorry."

 

"Check that ambulance and lets get these lads loaded. Coming, Doctor Yue?"

 

Glancing at the shadows fearfully, he nodded. "Not much of a choice, really."

[Skonar]

50. --- New York City, Manhattan, West 54th Street and 11th Avenue, December 23rd 2000, 15:19 EST.

 

 

 

"NS-One to Haych-Two. You there, Jake?"

 

Jake chuckled. "Barely," he whispered, glancing back outside. He'd taken up position beside the door. He could see Sid, leaning forward and staring up from the van's windows. Shadows still criss-crossed the street and park outside.

 

"Streets are choked, even for an ambulance. Traffic's backed up all the way towards the bridges. Getting across is going to take longer than expected. Can you hang on?"

 

Jake chuckled. "So long as the bugs don't spot us." He glanced back. "We need that Medevac pretty fast, though."

 

"Any vehicles nearby?"

 

"The van outside. There's a parking lot out back, trucks, that sort of thing."

 

There was a pause. "You still have your laptop?"

 

Jake shook his head, glancing back around the interior of the building. Rodney was still shoving down on Carr's leg wound. Ellen was trying her cellphone, unable to get a signal. Wavecrest was staring out a window at the still burning wreckage. The privates moving from window to window nervously.

 

"Jake?"

 

"Damn, not all here at the moment, Buddy. Uh, no. Laptop's gone. Got four men besides myself up and running, three M-16s and an M-249 between us, and vest gear. Three civilians, one stuck in the open."

 

"Stuck?"

 

"He's in a van outside. Too afraid to get outside or drive the thing off. I don't blame him, apparently the discs wasted some kids before we got into cover."

 

"They know where you are?"

 

"Maybe. They're sticking to the air, though."

 

"What kind of UFO did they come down out of?"

 

"That I don't know. Sergeant! You listening to this?"

 

"Yes sir," Wavecrest replied. "Couldn't get a look at the alien craft."

 

Rodney looked up. "It's on the camera."

 

"Camera?" Jake coughed. "Could you show me?"

 

Ellen took Rodney's place nervously, not complaining about getting blood on her hands. Within a couple of minutes, his eyelid still hurting from pressing on the camera's eyepiece while Throop and the Nova Scotia boys waited, Jake'd seen the whole thing.

 

"Difficult to make out, Darren. Bigger than a scout, too small to be a battleship."

 

"The discs shooting at anything else?"

 

"Not so far." Jake leaned back from the camera, nodding to Rodney. "No civilian casualties other than the kids, for now."

 

"Right," Darren replied, thoughtful over the comlink. "Whip?"

 

"Partially burned out, but outside the wreckage. One of the ammo canisters exploded, it's stalled out. We can't get a signal."

 

"Batteries dead?"

 

Jake squinted outside again, at the blackened shape. "Blown out in the fire, maybe. Wavecrest says the electrical system might run off the engine, if we can get the dang thing running."

 

"What's in the undamaged bins?"

 

"Uh, hell. I don't know. We had a half dozen LAWs, ammo, grenades, trackers, usual urban warfare kit."

 

Darren chuckled miserably. "Damn, us too. We need MANPADS. Nothing you can toss at the discs? Stingers?"

 

"Might have been a few on the Skyranger, but..."

 

"I can see the smoke from here. Do you have enough manpower to move your wounded?"

 

"That's affirmative, unless there's something you need us to do."

 

"Okay. How many does the van seat?"

 

Jake looked up at the two civilians. "How many knuckleheads can we fit in that van of yours?"

 

"Uh, five? The back's full of equipment."

 

"Five," Jake repeated.

 

"Alright. That'll take your civilians and wounded. What do you prefer, running for the van or trying to hotwire one of the vehicles out back?"

 

"It's open ground either way. Hotwiring takes time, but there's some visual cover. We'll take the back, thanks," Jake laughed.

 

"Alright. You have someone who can handle getting a vehicle running?"

 

"Wavecrest?"

 

The sergeant, still listening in, nodded. "Can do, sir."

 

"You heard the man, Darren."

 

"Alright. My men will handle exfiltration of the fellow in the van outside, and we'll hang back and distract the discs. I'm going to try and detach an interceptor for some air cover on this.

 

"Try and pick out a vehicle ahead of time. Jake, when I give the order to evacuate I want your lot to get smoke cover everywhere you can, brief your civilians on what to expect, and grab some transportation, get the wounded in there. Anyone you can't fit in will join with my group. We'll be approaching from the south on foot, if this bloody map's accurate. Questions?"

 

Jake breathed a little easier. "We get the wounded into the vehicle, then what?"

 

"Damn, uh. You have anyone who knows the area?"

 

"Hey, uh, Rodney, Ellen. You guys know your way around without a map?"

 

The pair nodded.

 

"Our civvies should be able to manage it."

 

"Alright. Central park, north-east of the reservoir, there are some tennis courts off the east side of the road. That's our medevac point, we have a ranger incoming in- less than ten minutes. Watch for Chryssalids, they're in the trees over there. Clear?"

 

"Chryssalids? God damn! I read you."

 

"What... what are Chryssalids?" Ellen asked Wavecrest.

 

Wavecrest shrugged. "Lady, you don't want to know."

 

"Okay, give us five minutes to arrive," Darren explained, to the sound of a car door slamming. "We're at west Forty-Ninth- uh call it four hundred meters. One second Jake." the radio cut out, Darren releasing the transmit switch, Jake guessed.

 

Jake glanced up. "Alright. We need to do this fast, Wavecrest, get the rookies up to speed. Ellen, Rodney, listen up too, here's the deal, my buddy Darren's going to help us out of this mess. We're going to put smoke grenades out the doors and windows, we're going to have to move Carr. Rodney, Ellen, can you help us out on this?"

 

"Sure thing," Rodney affirmed with a nod.

 

Ellen frowned. "What about Sid?" she asked, while Wavecrest moved to the other room, calling the privates together.

 

"Darren's going to get him out of trouble. Now those flying things, the discs, might try and take pot shots at us, we need to give them very little opportunity to do so. The smoke will help some, and hopefully Darren's cover will help, but we need to do this fast and-"

 

"NS-One here, merging NS-One and Haych-Two's radio channels. Call signs are as follows. Group assisting Haych-Two is November One, Group at the Tennis courts is November Two - Ninsei?"

 

"Sir."

 

"Join November two if you're able, if not, just get the hell away from Mount Sinai."

 

"Yes Sir."

 

"Bueller, you and the doctor are Mike - Medevac - One. Jake, you and yours remain Haych-Two. November One is moving to assist Haych-Two, Mike one is moving to rendezvous with November Two. And be fucking careful, Bueller! Questions?"

 

An unfamiliar voice popped onto the radio, Jake having to hold up a hand to the civs while he listened, tuning out Wavecrest talking to the rookies.

 

"November Two here. The civilians we've got up here aren't all going to fit in a damn ranger, what are we doing with them?"

 

"Give them the cars and tell them to get the hell out of Manhattan, we need to secure the UN headquarters. Any other questions?" Darren paused slightly longer than a heartbeat. "Alright, one of the Black Widows have been separated off to give us some air cover. Get into position to move, November One and Haych-Two initiate their orders as soon as we get some fireworks. Clear?"

 

A succession of 'clears', including Jake adding his voice, melded into the general radio traffic. Another heartbeat, and Darren didn't have any more to say. Jake struggled to his feet, picking up Carr's M-16. He didn't need it.

 

"Sorry about that," he offered.

 

"It's alright," Ellen replied.

 

"As I was saying, we need to do this fast. Wavecrest, I need some help taking the legs off this table."

 

"Sir?" Wavecrest asked, nodding to the three Rookies. Walsh and Harrison moved, flipping over the table. Slough was still breathing heavily, guy was understandably stressed the hell out.

 

"Need something to carry Carr on." Jake moved to try and help, but the two rookies did an admirable job of kicking the legs off. Rodney helped them get Carr onto the damn thing as an improvised stretcher.

 

"Alright. We're waiting on explosions, that'll hopefully be one of the discs getting taken out. At that stage we lay down smoke and concentrate on getting out of here, Rodney, I'll help carry Carr. Wavecrest moves ahead to hotwire our transportation, we load Carr and the civilians," he continued, limping towards a window. He pointed out at a station wagon as Wavecrest joined him. "That'll seat everybody. we need someone to stay behind and help out Darren and his boys-"

 

"I'll do it," Slough said, holding up a hand. "I mean, I'll volunteer, sir."

 

Jake turned around, eying the man. He nodded, moving back to the three while Wavecrest looked out at the station wagon thoughtfully. "Alright, now keep in mi-" A white flash burned in through the window, hurling Jake's shadow across the ground.

 

The windows exploded inward with a rollicking boom, a blastwave thundering down from above with the hot howl of a plasma core going critical. Jake could feel blood pouring down his legs, glass shards gouged into his flesh. Grimacing, he turned around.

 

"Fuck! Wavecrest is down! This is Haych-Two, Wavecrest is down!"

 

 

 

51. --- New York City, Manhattan, West 51st Street and 10th Avenue, December 23rd 2000, 15:26 EST.

 

 

 

"Continue operation, Jake, I'm sending a man out." The Captain reached back and pulled Frank forward. Smoke and boiling green fire was still fogging the sky, the Black Widow's contrail far off. Frank couldn't make out the other cyberdiscs against the sky.

 

"Cleaver! Due fucking north," the captain yelled, pointing at the fence around a parking lot. On the other side of the lot, another road. Beyond that, just walls. A cutting for the subway yawned open beside it, but Frank didn't see a way back up after you dropped into it.

 

"According to the sattelite there's an alleyway there that hooks up with Fifty-Third street, across that's a big damn parking lot. It backs up onto Jake's location, meet up with Haych-Two and hotwire the fucking car. Go!"

 

Frank didn't hesitate, slinging his G3 over his back. He glanced back at the Captain and Marty, sprinting down the block. Frank hauled in a breath and leapt, catching the top of the fence. The fenceposts terminated in sharp ends. He hauled himself and his gear up, over. His chest hurt already, scratched and poked to hell, but his uniform hadn't torn. Dropping down, he ran, chest heaving, staring at the other end of the fence as he closed in on it.

 

It was sharp too. Frank resisted hesitating, trying to find an easier way, and he launched himself at it. The metal clanged as he clambered over, nearly fell over as he got over it. He started across the street, a blowing horn brought him up short. He blinked as a sedan rolled past, heading east, away from the commotion. Smart people.

 

He crossed the road, looking both ways, and started running again. He paused as he came across an open gate, leading into another small parking lot. Was this what the captain had meant? The fence looked short, Frank charged forward. He leapt up, catching the top of the fence under his arms. He saw that there were yet more cars parked on the other side. Kicking his legs over, he landed with a thump on the bonnet of a car. The alarm squealed.

 

Sliding off, he caught sight of the road ahead. Smoke grenades were throwing a grey smear into the sky, beside the black one from the wreck. Curls of it hadn't gotten this far. Frank froze, staring out at the road. A silvery disc was edging across it, at a height of maybe fifteen feet.

 

He pulled his G3 from his back, crouching down low amongst the cars.

 

Bugger.

 

Had it seen him? Who could tell how those things saw? Edging the fire selector on his rifle onto fully automatic, Frank tried to keep his breathing quiet.

 

Then, all at once, there was another detonation, far off to the left. Frank winced, glancing up while a wave of heat breezed in across him. Black smoke. The jets? He heard the engine then, as the thing screamed overhead. The disc in the road abruptly picked itself up with an alien humming, and it shot off into the air in pursuit.

 

Good God, the thing almost disappeared. What kind of acceleration was that? It had been his imagination, he was sure, but the cyberdisc had almost seemed to flex it had moved so fast. Glancing around once more, he sprinted forward, ducking past the empty cars and rounding the corner, running into the dense cloud of smoke in the parking lot.

 

"Haych-Two, you out there?" he yelled.

 

"Over here!" came the response.

 

Frank found them a moment later, a couple of civilians and a trio of soldiers around a parked station wagon. Someone covered in blood was in the back seat, another slumped down in the open trunk. They'd already broken open the windows and gotten the doors open. Pulling his tool kit from his belt, Frank unfurled it and crouched down beside the open driver's side door. The ground shook, a moment later the thunderclap of plasma fire rollicked over him. Frank got to the wires, the fusebox was down there...

 

"Nice fuckin' day, eh?"

 

Frank grinned. "You bet. Who's the bird?"

 

The soldier laughed. He bore a private's chevron. A rookie, like Frank. "Ellen Brightwater, local news."

 

"G'day, Ma'am. Don't you write no stories about us, now, or we'll be fucked."

 

"What do you mean?" she ventured.

 

"What I mean is, we ain't here," Frank grinned. He touched a pair of wires he'd cut open together. Spark, spark, the engine roared, and he twisted them together with his fingertips, grimacing at the pain of the electric shock. "All done here, what's the situation?" he asked, pulling back.

 

"Situation is we are getting the fuck out of here, building's that way," the private replied, pointing back through the smoke while getting into the van beside the bleeding men. "Slough'll join up with you."

 

"Right," Frank replied, stepping back and staring through the smoke.

 

"Oh, get the remote off Wavecrest and give it to him. And give your captain my regards, huh?" a man with a burnt and puffy red face laughed. From the way he ducked into the van, it looked like his leg might be broken. Poor bastard.

 

"Ah, will do," Frank offered with a hesitant thumbs up. He caught the whip's control panel from one of the privates and tucked it into his pants pocket.

 

"Thanks!" the Rookie who'd spoken first offered before cramming himself into the station wagon behind the newswoman and her escort.

 

Frank threw a quick salute and headed towards the building. He knew he didn't want to be in a car with cyberdiscs flying around, easy packed target. But if they could get out of here, all the better.

 

Com traffic whined in his ear. "This is Haytch-Two, we're on our way. Your rookie knows his shit, Darren."

 

"Indeed he does. I'll catch up with you next time, Jake."

 

Laughter. "Absolutely, man."

 

"Cleaver, move up. We're ready to move but I want cover before we hit the van."

 

"Yes sir."

 

Frank found a door, leering open into the smoke, and he moved inside, pulling his rifle up to his shoulder. "Slough?" he called.

 

A wracking cough answered him. "Through here."

 

Frank slipped through an interior door to enter a corridor. The door at the far end was open to more smoke, a little daylight. Crouched up against one wall was a pale looking private. Bottom of the food chain, that was why he was still here, Frank guessed.

 

"Frank Cleaver," he offered. "Nova Scotia."

 

"Andy Slough, Houston." The rookie offered a shaky smile, coughed. "Smoke's thick. What now?"

 

"Cover the move on the van," Frank explained, moving past the spluttering man and to the door. Frank knelt beside it, ducking his head out. Smoke obscured the scene. He could barely make out the van across the street, the empty park beyond that, the billowing black smoke of the still burning Skyranger wreck.

 

He keyed down his radio. "This is Cleaver with Slough. Have line of sight on a van, blue. Don't see any others."

 

"Understood. That's the one. Moving up with Martins."

 

Dark shapes detached themselves from shrubbery and moved at a sprint. Something high up in the smoke glowed blue. "Fucking hell. Hostiles, high right, your eleven!" Frank sighted his rifle at the centre the glow and loosed off a shot.

 

There was only a brief pause in the movement of the figures as they moved for the Van, they turned, charged infront of the vehicle. Frank heard yelled voices.

 

"We're here to get you out! Unlock the doors!"

 

Frank grimaced, shifted his sights side to side as the glow brightened, sharpened. He took another shot, the glow began to sink. Frank hadn't damaged it, he knew. He ducked behind the side of the door, glanced back. "Slough? Why aren't you-"

 

Frank spotted the prone shape, slumped against the wall where he'd been leaning before. "Goddamn, Sir! Slough is down!"

 

"Hit?"

 

"No, he was having trouble breathing."

 

"Remain where you are," Frank heard the Captain whisper through the radio.

 

He could make out the blue glow again in the smoke behind the van. The smoke was thinning a little. "It's behind the van, Sir."

 

No response. But Frank saw them drag a man out of the side of the Van. The glow shifted, and so did they, edging around, using the glow that betrayed the disc's position to stay away from it. Frank saw it come around the edge, while the Captain, Marty, and their civilian went the other way.

 

They broke away from the van suddenly, dashing towards the shrubbery they'd exited a few moments ago. The disc continued to circle the van slowly, almost... curious. Just a silvery disc, etched with lines where plates joined together and a thin glowing recess around its circumference.

 

Frank glanced back at Slough. The disc outside. The disc lifted up again, began towards the building, and Frank ducked back against the side of the door. Crap. It was searching for him, now. Maybe it hadn't been able to work out where the shots had come from exactly, but it was searching for him.

 

Frank ran from the door, grabbing Slough by the collar of his battledress jacket with his left hand, and dragging him down the hall. Leaning his rifle against the wall, he tried the first door he came to. Locked. The second, and it opened into an office Frank hurled Slough through, and went back for his rifle. He caught it with his fingertips, and froze. The thinning smoke outside was glowing an incandescent blue. Frank backed away, slowly. When he ducked back into the office, he breathed easily, glancing through the door at an angle, watching the shallow shadows of late afternoon light through the street door. It was crossed by a long, oval shadow. Frank took a relieved breath. The damn thing was maybe six feet wide, too wide to get in through the door.

 

The shadow began to twist. Rotate. The disc was slowly turning to float on its edge, judging by the shadow, passing indoors.

 

Fuck. Frank pulled his rifle over a shoulder and grabbed Slough, dragging the unconscious man away into the office. They slumped behind an office divider. All was silent, except for the humming. Like capacitors, praying to unleash their alien energies. And a beep. An electronic beep, from his pants pocket. What?

 

A wall of air blasted across the room, fragments of brickwork smacking off the walls in a hellish clatter that hurled keyboards and mice off desks. He squinted in the direction of the blast, head ringing. Too much smoke to see, too much-

 

Another shockwave, this one followed by heat a moment later in a burning cloud. The dry panels in the office ceiling flash ignited and set off sprinklers, a fire alarm somewhere went off, the walls lurched and cracked.

 

There were a few heartbeats of silence, and the pouring drizzle died. Water splashed somewhere nearby.

 

Frank could barely hear his radio, his head was ringing so hard. "This is November one. You still alive, Cleaver?"

 

"Y-Yes sir."

 

"Cyberdisc is down. Now get out here, we need to get this van moving before something else shows up." There was a pause, a brief gap in the smoke that let Frank see two men beside the burn-blackened shape of a whip. "Oh, and, thanks for leaving your whip laying around, Jake."

 

 

 

 

 

52. --- New York City, Manhattan, Middle of Central Park, December 23rd 2000, 15:38 EST.

 

 

 

Ellen huddled with Rodney and Sid on a park bench, arms folded tightly. Men had pulled up the nets at the tennis courts, then some kind of aircraft had just dropped out of the sky like a helicopter, and about a dozen men and a little miniature tank of some kind had gotten off. Every so often she heard gunshots from further out in the park, but it didn't matter. It all, somehow, didn't matter.

 

"We need some fucking cameras," Rodney complained.

 

The military men had taken their gear away, chucking it all into a set of lockers while the Asian one quoted some UN garbage at them. It broke the first amendment, the right to free speech, every journalistic instinct she had. But that didn't matter either.

 

Everyone had been warned not to go too far away, because there was some kind of dangerous thing loose in the park. Maybe that mattered, a little. Ellen sniffled, feeling through her jacket till she found her voice recorder. She had to record something.

 

"Where you going, Ellen?"

 

"Just stretching my legs," she sighed, moving closer to the tennis courts. A few men were arrayed on stretchers while boxes and loose equipment were pulled off the airplane.

 

"Muton Mamma Maybe? Maim Murder Muton Ma-Nngh..."

 

"Christ, Jake. I never knew you'd be this ugly."

 

Jake, the burnt man the other soldiers had called Captain, laughed up at the tall man standing beside him. "Well Goddamn, man! I'm having a bad skin day. I always expected you'd be, I don't know. Shorter!"

 

"Well, sorry to disappoint, but if it helps I do try to keep my head down," the British one trailed off, glancing sharply at her.

 

"Aw, hey there Ellen. Ellen, this here's my buddy Darren. We go a long way back, and I ain't never met the man till five minutes ago!"

 

Darren, if that was his name, smiled tightly and cleared his throat. His face looked hard all of a sudden.

 

"Uh. How's that?" she asked, keeping her hands in her jacket. Keeping her voice recorder on.

 

"We just keep runnin' into each other out in the field and missin' each other by goddamn inches. Remember that time in Ohio, Darren?"

 

Darren's smile tightened. "Yes. Quite the time that was."

 

"Aww, loosen up! After this whole mess is over, we gotta get some beers."

 

"Quite," Darren replied. "Ma'am, you should really return to waiting for transportation out of the park."

 

Ellen backed away with a careful nod, trying not to stare back. Trying not to burn up in that man's damning gaze.She edged towards the courts, coming to a halt at the chain link fence. She laced her fingers through the wire, simply stared at the aircraft and the men unloading it.

 

It was all happening fast, they were well organised, armed, seemed to be doing a hundred things at once.

 

Gunfire cracked off to her left. She glanced up to see a dirty looking soldier grinning out from under his helmet, lowering his scoped rifle. "On the money."

 

She glanced in the direction of fire, something dropped out of the trees in the fog with a heavy thud.

 

"What the hell is going on?"

 

The soldier just kept grinning, sleazily. "Hey, leave me your name and number, and next time I've got some leave comin' I'll tell ya all about it, lady," he offered, sidling up close to her and bumping her hip suggestively.

 

Inwardly, Ellen shivered, but she tried to offer a smile anyway.

 

The British guy that'd been talking to Jake yelled as they picked Jake's stretcher up and took him towards the waiting aircraft."Corporal! Quit teasing the woman, I need you to ride shotgun and get these people to the damn bridge!"

 

The corporal nodded, glancing off. "You comin'?" he enquired, nodding towards the forming procession, a station wagon and the news van - stripped of its gear to make space for more passengers. An ambulance was still being stripped bare.

 

"Uh, they look kind of full already."

 

"Suit yourself," the soldier offered with a wink and a shrug before loping off.

 

Ellen took a shaky breath. Soldiers who wouldn't identify themselves or their country of origin, with accents from all across the world. Jake, one of the men they'd dragged out of the wreckage, had recognised her. Then there had been those... flying saucers. And then their feed had been cut.

 

And then this morning, some crazy bastard in the crowd outside the hospital had told her that aliens were invading. Fucking hell.

 

The aircraft took off after another few stretchers had been loaded aboard, roaring away on a column of blasting hot air.

 

Ellen dropped her hands back into her pockets, reaching for her recorder. She needed to, to- Her pockets were empty. Her voice recorder! "Damn it, hey," she yelled, spinning around and running after the soldier that'd bumped her. The cars were loaded now, ready to move. "Hey!"

 

The corporal, sitting inside the van, offered a wave. He blew a kiss with one hand, whilst wagging the recorder out of the window in the other. "See you later, honey!" he yelled as the cars pulled off.

 

God damn!

 

 

 

 

 

53. --- New York City, Manhattan, Middle of Central Park, December 23rd 2000, 15:55 EST.

 

 

 

"I have good and bad news, Captain." Cyr said, leaning the barrel of her G3 against a shoulder.

 

Darren glanced up from his laptop and grimaced. "I'll take the bad first, Lieutenant." She was the Lieutenant in charge of NS-Three. Rumour had it that she slept with her squad members, but that was rumour. A product of lonely guys angling to make each other jealous.

 

"It's the same piece of news, I'm afraid," she explained, setting her laptop down beside his. She thumbed the screen's menus grimly. "My contact at the intel hub back at Nova Scotia just forwarded it to me."

 

A video started playing, low resolution. The CNN studio. "Reports are that in New York city an unexplained attack is taking place, we have as yet been unable to get further details from our government, but mayor Giuliani is urging restraint. A state of emergency is expected to be declared shortly. We have footage of-"

 

Darren slapped the park table angrily. "Fucking hell."

 

The footage was shaky, but unmistakably a chryssalid crossing a road. He pointed at the screen. "Where the hell is that?"

 

"I don't know," Cyr replied, pointing at the screen. "It's facing east if it's recent, though, away from the sun. That sparkle there might be a river or a lake. Maybe on the east bank?"

 

"What's the news from your other lieutenant, Terrence?"

 

"Wilkes. Terrence died on that landing response yesterday." She paused a moment.

 

Darren knew that moment's pause. He sighed, glanced up at her, forcing her to break it.

 

"The cops he's visited aren't too enthusiastic about their road checkpoints, but they're checking the bridges for anything weird. There's a hell of a lot of traffic, though, people trying to get out of here by their own volition. The checkpoints are slowing things down a lot. Also, some people are trying to get into Manhattan if you can believe it."

 

Darren grimaced. "What?"

 

"Crazies." Cyr shrugged. "The I want to get abducted types."

 

Darren rubbed at his forehead. "Damn."

 

"Yeah."

 

He was thirsty. He still hadn't eaten anything. He blinked it away. "Right. The airstrikes I've been promised will hit before nightfall," he added, glancing at his wristwatch. Had it only been around two and a half hours since he landed? He took a breath to steady himself, pointed at the Geoscape display on his laptop. "Sometime in the next thirty minutes. A chopper went down somewhere along the banks of the east river two and a half hours ago, possibly with Chryssalid victims on board.

 

"Take you and yours along the east side of Manhattan, check the area. Keep your eyes open, engage where possible, but I need you to have some people sweep up here, a hundred and fifty-fifth street, within a half hour - before sunset. It's only a kilometre and a half to cover, and that should give us total coverage from the Macombs Dam Bridge up, which will secure half the routes onto the mainland."

 

Cyr nodded, getting her own laptop to display the same general area. "It's a lot of ground to keep covered, and a lot of distance to move. What're we doing for transport?"

 

"Running, stealing cars. Take your pick - Skyrangers are a rare commodity right now, I'm saving them for medevacs. Listen, a UFO dropped cyberdiscs about an hour ago. Three are confirmed down, there's at least one more out there. I haven't heard a damn thing about the UFO since. Keep your eyes open and issue heavy weapons where needed. Clear?"

 

Cyr nodded, folding her laptop with a snap. "Clear, sir. I'll be in touch," she added with a nod.

 

Darren nodded, and picked up his own, shoving it into the pocket over his chest. He started towards the locker rooms. He'd seen a vending machine there... Edging in through the doors, a couple of soldiers looked up. Cleaver and Bueller. "Sir."

 

Darren nodded hurriedly. "Not too long and we can get out of here. Where's Ninsei?"

 

Bueller shrugged. "He was offloading gear. Hey, Sir, uh, Doctor Yue's been wanting to talk to you," he said, pointing across the locker room. Yue was hunched up over a prone form. A familiar prone form.

 

"Fucking hell, is that Conners? He was on the evac list, and bloody well should've been a medevac too! Why didn't you load him into the Skyranger?"

 

Cleaver shrank away from the verbal assault, Bueller tried to offer a friendly smile. "Uh, I, uh... forgot, sir." He glanced back, smile wavering. "We'll put him on the next one, Yue said he was stable..."

 

Darren pushed the heel of his hand into his face. "No excuses, no promises, just keep him safe and get him onto the next one. Clear?"

 

"Clear, sir."

 

Darren turned and moved for Yue, glancing around. He spotted the vending machine, just full of candy, but it'd do. He moved towards it, but Yue looked up. "Captain, uh..."

 

Darren continued to the vending machine, going through his pockets numbly. "Yes, Doctor Yue?"

 

"I, I, don't know your name."

 

"You don't have to." Darren glanced down. Grenades, networking gear, knives, ammunition, explosives, a fucking dead man's switch. Why the hell hadn't he packed any money? Why? He dry swallowed. "Ah, I don't suppose you have any spare change, Doctor Yue?"

 

Yue pulled a wallet out of his pants, beneath his coat. He emptied part of it out into his palm and held it out.

 

Darren warmed immediately to the man. Trying not to look at him, he said, "My surname's Throop. You were saying?" he added, pumping the coins into the vending machine.

 

"I know you want civilians to evacuate, Captain Throop, but I want to help. If those Chrysalis monsters-"

 

"Chryssalid."

 

"If, if they're invading New York, I don't want to sit back, just be a spectator. I want to help."

 

Throop bent over to retrieve the candy. Not chocolate. In America, it was always candy. He pulled open the wrapper, his gloves smudging soot or God knew what onto the chocolate. He forced himself to offer the end towards Yue.

 

Yue broke off a piece, but only a small one, adding, "with what was taken off the ambulance, I wouldn't have to use your equipment, I could..."

 

Darren bit down, chewed. Sticky, too sugary. Wholesome in only the way hunger would make food taste. "Hey Bueller. Get one of the spare first aid packs and give it to Yue here, put him on the next ranger."

 

Bueller nodded, setting down a red pack beside the Doctor's patient, before retreating. "Will do."

 

"Don't forget this time," Darren said, voice almost acidic. He added, to Doctor Yue, "I'll be moving you to the local staging area, whatever that turns out to be. Flight's due in," he checked his wrist watch, "ah, a bit more than a half hour. Until then keep mister Conners safe and stable."

 

Yue nodded hesitantly, glancing back down at the still unconscious man.

 

"And, Doctor Yue?"

 

"Yes, Captain?"

 

"Thank you for taking care of my men. If you'll excuse me," Darren offered with a nod, returning to stand beside Bueller and Cleaver.

 

"-put two through the head, without even blinking."

 

"Da-yumm," Bueller drawled. "Ah, Sir?" he asked, standing a little straighter.

 

Darren grimaced, sticking his candy bar into his mouth and pulling off his small pack, setting it down beside the bench which they'd offloaded equipment from the Skyranger onto. "Need to freshen my load," Darren explained, chewing on his candy again while eyeing what they'd gotten off the Ranger.

 

"What do you need, sir?" Cleaver asked.

 

"Any spare goggles?"

 

Bueller grinned and patted a metal storage box marked with a serial number, the sort of thing usually stashed underneath the floor panels of a Sky Ranger. "Lieutenant Cyr covered that. She's looking out for us," he added, flipping open the lid. He frowned, pulled one up from the floor and checked through that.

 

Darren leaned forward to get a glimpse. Ammunition. Almost reflexively, he grabbed a plain white box and lifted the lid. 7.62 NATO. He pulled out a second box and patted his mag pouches. "Damn, I lost a mag."

 

"No Worries, Sir," Cleaver offered, freeing up a spare magazine from underneath the boxes of ammo. He handed it over, and Darren began shoving rounds into the magazine, refilling the ones in his vest pouches. Not a one had been left full.

 

Bueller hauled up another box with a grunt, setting it onto the bench. "Here we go. NVGs," he said, pulling one set out and setting it down.

 

Darren offered a nod, lifting an eyebrow. "You two planning to be quartermasters?"

 

"Wouldn't be a bad way to get a paycheque," laughed Bueller, leaning on the open lid. "You need anything else, Sir? We've got stingers, cutting and rapelling gear, spare electronics, the lot."

 

"Chryssalid vaccine?"

 

Cleaver patted the ammo. "Right here," he grinned.

 

"How about towelettes?"

 

Cleaver smirked, while Bueller simply blinked. "Uh, why would you need those?"

 

"Another few hours out here, and you'll find out. Since you two are so efficient, load these up for me," Darren said, putting down his half empty mags. "I'm off to the gents."

 

 

 

"NS-Eleven-Two here, We've got the civillians offloaded at the Queensboro bridge, but, uh..."

 

"Jon, this is really an inappropriate time..."

 

"Sorry, Boss, but the cops here say according to radio chatter someone at the Brooklyn Bridge roadblock's claimed to have spotted flying saucers."

 

Darren made sure he wasn't keying the transmit and muttered, "Man can't even take a damned crap."

 

He sighed. "Still got the cars, Jon?"

 

"Car, singular. Neither me or Alex is going to drive without somebody ready with a gun on hand. We're hanging onto the van, its gas is fuller."

 

"Alright, swing back and pick me up."

 

"Will do, Boss."

 

"One-Three, stick around here and guard the civillians that are left, see if you can round up the boys from Houston who weren't medevaced."

 

Ninsei's calm voice responded. "Sir."

 

"And, ahh, Bueller, Cleaver?"

 

A brief pause. "Sir?"

 

"The damn roll's empty."

 

Raucous laughter echoed in from the other side of the locker rooms. "Be there in a second, sir."

 

 

 

 

 

54. --- New York City, Broadway, December 23rd 2000, 16:10 EST.

 

 

 

Walsh twisted around to look back at the landmark that they'd just shot by, through the back door windows of the van. "Was that Times Square?"

 

Journalistic equipment had been ripped out of and off the van. There were no seats, the walls were full of shards of plastic and bolted in fixtures. Darren braced himself against the van's ceiling, shoving at it with the backs of his shoulders while leaning over Alex Guerrera's shoulder to watch the corporal pick out a route on Darren's laptop.

 

Private Harrison, another of the Houston boys, was seated on the floor, legs out stiff across the van. Seatbelts? Hah. If Jon lost control of the van, there was no way in hell any of them would survive.

 

Serving around a queue of cars trying to turn off, van thudding as it rode up onto the pavement, Jon yelled, "Fork up ahead! Where do I turn?"

 

"Straight until you see a park, then left, then a fast right, and-"

 

Darren left them to it, carefully slumping down across from Harrison and following suit, pushing his heels into the wall of the van to wedge himself in against the swerving of Jon's driving.

 

"NS-One to NS-Origin. Give me a sitrep on the global picture."

 

"Sierra Fifty-Six is returning to NS, Sierra Twelve is en route with NS-Two, Air Strikes are incoming, ETA ten minutes. United States senate is engaging in a closed door debate on whether or not to mobilise governmental forces. Early indications are good. So far Edinburgh, Manitoba and Houston have declared states of full or partial mobilisation, Guang Zhou is expected to send a contingent via Houston. There is a group of UFOs holding station off the west coast, over the Atlantic. We have three downed UFOs globally, none in US territory. There have been three UFO tags, although we belive that two may be of the same craft at different times. Our radar coverage is spotty. One is believed to have landed somewhere in the vicinity. News network coverage of this event is spotty,-" the signal cut out.

 

Darren looked down at his radio pack, checking the display. A fat red 'no connection' icon blazed, and a heartbeat later it returned. "-inclusive of the U-" Silence. "-Other evacuations-" On old style radios Darren had worked with, when there was an electrical disturbance you got static, but with the encrypted models X-Com used, there was a tendency for the signal to die out completely.

 

"Jon, what the hell is going on?"

 

"Boss? Oh shit!"

 

Darren pulled himself up in time to stare across the shoulders of those in the front seat at the shadows being cast by painfully white light. A moment later he felt rather than heard the low pitched rumble in the light's dying wake. His radio popped back. "-ging areas?"

 

Jon jammed on the brakes as he pulled off the road, past a truck filled with a family desperately trying to get out, just one of many in the jam leading up to the Brooklyn bridge. The van rumbled onwards along the sidewalk. They rounded the corner, able now to see the bridge as a whole.

 

"Ns-One? What is your requirement for staging areas?"

 

Darren's jaw dropped.

 

The screaming from those closer was audible. Four white hot marks on the bridge platform, made tiny by the kilometre's worth of distance. Hundreds of thousands of people must have been in the way, halfway across the bridge, driving the wrong way along it. And black smudges of burning, still glowing material. Just four bright dots, four holes in the traffic.

 

A support cable chose that moment to snap, its cherry red length falling, breaking off as it hit the road deck, blowing up a gout of white steam as it hit the river.

 

"Fuck," Jon whispered.

 

Guerrera leaned forward, pointing up at the sky. "What the heck is that thing, man?"

 

Darren leaned forward. He caught a glimpse of something blueish, glowing hot as it streaked across the bridge in a high arc, suddenly twisting its path down at the traffic leading up to the bridge and-

 

"Fuck, my eyes!"

 

The ground shook again. When Darren could look again, through the haze of the flash he could make up boiling clouds of flame, twisted and shattered car frames not four hundred meters away.

 

Darren dropped down behind the seat, clawing at his eyes. "Jesus Christ, they just blasted them!"

 

"NS-One?" his radio chirped.

 

"Aliens are using some kind of new-"

 

"It's the fucking bomb! The aliens are using the fucking bomb!" Walsh yelled, suddenly.

 

It happened again. Darren saw the blue blur, shut his eyes just before the damn thing hit. The light burned red through his eyelids. When he looked up, a truck was still airborne, flipping over. As it hit the ground it squelched like wet cardboard, red hot steel pouring onto the street. It was closer this time.

 

"Fuck! Fuck!"

 

Darren grabbed Jon's shoulder and shook, hard. "Jon, get this fucking vehicle in reverse! Now!"

 

 

 

 

 

55. --- Unknown Airport, personal video recorder confiscated from Corporal Denise Reilly, 8834-ii6-XBP, batch 3, presumed dated at December 23rd 2000, 16:12 EST. (Unknown time, local.)

 

 

 

Female voice. "Can you just put Tim on the phone?" Pause. "I know I said I'd be there for

 

Christmas but... Well leave's been cancelled. I know it's breakin' his heart, George."

 

Camera pans up from dark view. Interior, airport. Signage is in German and English where visible. Crowds are moving past windows of duty free stores. Corporal Denise Reilly is leaning against a pay phone.

 

"I don't have all that long to talk, George. Please?" Corporal Reilly bites her lip.

 

Camera pans and shakes as operator walks over towards Sergeant Charles Benson, standing beside a pile of stacked dufflebags across from a departures board.

 

"Don't tell me we're using public transit, now," Male voice one enquires.

 

Sergeant Benson shrugs, patting an X-Com encrypted radio handset model three clipped to his belt buckle. "Charter flight aught to land soon. And we were using it before."

 

"Are we going to be able to get a refund on our tickets to Ireland? Those things weren't cheap."

 

Sergeant Benson smiles and shakes his head. "I kind of doubt it, Mac." He chuckles. "At our pay grade and the guy wants to get a refund on his air tickets."

 

Camera pauses, turns back. Corporal Reilly continues to speak on phone, cradling headset to her ear. Corporal Reilly's voice is inaudible, partial lip-reading synch. "Mommy's hoildays were cut short. No, no, it's not your fault, I love you Timmy, don't- -course I'll be there for your birthday. I promise, I'll keep it, I swear."

 

Crowds begin to thin out. A large clump appears around electronics store's television display.

 

Sergeant Charles Benson runs into crowd and pushes several unknown civillians aside.

 

"Chucky?" Camera operator runs to follow, pushes through crowd. Images from CNN emergency broadcast in new york. Bright white flashes visible on road deck of Brooklyn Bridge. Camera trails down to point at ground.

 

Unknown voice. "What the hell's going on?" "Is it a terrorist attack?"

 

Camera viewpoint shakes. Sergeant Charles Benson. "Pick your damn jaw up off the floor and find Ted. Mac? Mac!"

 

Male Voice one. "My little sister's in New York. Fuck. Fuck! My little sister married that bastard Ken and moved down there!"

 

"Calm down, Mac. Why are you still playing with that damn camera? Go find Ted! We need to find out where and when our plane's landing so we can get on it immediately, alright?"

 

Camera viewpoint shifts, twirls in hands of operator. Viewpoint pushes out of crowd, towards Corporal Denise Reilly. Viewpoint shifts as camera is held out. "No George, I swear, just- What the hell do you want, Chuck?"

 

"Bugs in Manhattan. Switch this damn thing off."

 

"Shite. George, I'm sorry, I have to go, tell Tim I love him and read him... you've finished Chamber of secrets with him? What else... oh. No, I haven't heard of that one. I'm sorry, I have to go." Corporal Reilly hangs up and takes camera. "Fucking bugs."

 

Recording ends.

[Skonar]

--- Phase Four: Nightfall

[Skonar]

56. --- Nova Scotia, X-Com Base 'Nova Scotia': XF-37, Base Command and Control Center, December 23rd 2000, 16:17 EST.

 

 

 

The last five minutes had been the longest of his life. Every second seemed to crawl by like an hour, from the second November One dropped off the communications network with babbling about Blasting Bombs it felt like a year and six months had vanished in the snap of a finger.

 

"Colonel Deerman?"

 

Javier bit his lip, watching the simulated line of shadow between night and day passing over New York on his GEOSCAPE interface. This had been Throop's idea. Throop's insane plan, and now the bastard was dead and the responsibility was off the lucky... Too many people had died. He'd feel the pain later, right now he was angry, angry that his leader on the spot had gotten himself killed.

 

"Sir, we need confirmation from November Sierra Actual."

 

A flight of yellow specks were arrayed over Westchester New York, sweeping down on the city like a set of scythes.

 

"Sir, we need that confirmation now."

 

Their targets were picked out in orange crosses. Orange crosses fixed obscenely over every major hospital in New York, none of which were responding to the city's emergency despatch services. He'd had the liaisons with the US government confirm that, twice.

 

He'd had it confirmed. He didn't have any choice.

 

Javier swallowed down the bile in his throat. "November Sierra Actual confirms ground strikes on civilian targets. Execute."

 

The ops room staff member turned away, shielding his face while he relayed the order on.

 

Javier hadn't been a religious man, particularly not in the last few years. The existence of aliens had seemed to make petty human things like who did what a thousand years ago a little insignificant.

 

But he didn't feel guilty about never going to the tiny base's chapel. After all, there was no way he was getting out of going to hell now.

[Skonar]

57. --- New York City, Manhattan, Madison Avenue and East 102nd Street, December 23rd 2000, 16:19 EST.

 

 

 

Brewer felt like shit.

 

"A chemical agent has been released inside the hospital. Please move away in an orderly fashion. A chemical agent has been released-"

 

It wasn't the message, or the supposed chemical agents floating around. It was the pair of dead ops officers in the back of the NYPD's Emergency Services Unit van.

 

"Christ."

 

"No kidding." Detective Jackson fidgeted with the safety catch on his shotgun for the twelvth time.

 

The street lamps came on with sharp pings overhead, while the sky started going from a blazing orange to night black on the horizon. Their eyes were drawn up to Mount Sinai hospital. Everything was still, even as flashing lights from their patrol car swept the building's facade. Not many lights were on in the hospital, only the ones on automated timers. The lobby, which had pools of blood visible even from out here on the street. Corridors. But all the wards on the higher floors, everything else was dim grey.

 

Jackson glanced up curiously. Another plane?

 

The world heaved an inch, a sonic boom clapped Brewer across the ears and sent him sick to his stomach. "Fucking hell, not again! That's like the eighth one toda-"

 

"Brewer." Jackson started backing away, pointing up at the sky.

 

Brewer followed the line of Jackson's finger.

 

Weird shapes took a placid arc down off the jet's line of flight. Cross-shaped twirling aerobrakes holding back on broad, stubby missile-like objects. Growing bigger.

 

Brewer's legs jolted him around the ESU van and he was only just curled up like a frightened baby when the interior of the hospital stopped being dim grey.

 

For a second it was blazing white, then red, and the windows, all of the windows, blew out in plumes of flame followed by hellish black smoke and the noise had already made Brewer deaf, but he knew the sounds must have been terrible because the ground was quivering.

 

Something picked up the van and rolled it over him, crushing the air out of his body and even if he was deaf he could feel the cracking noise splitting around his back, feel the abrupt pain, the moment of weightless wonder while he was thrown aside like a piece of kindling and the awful thudding of his body on rough ground. There was nothing but choking dust all around marked by blazing flames everywhere the hospital had been.

 

Brewer couldn't move his arms, he was limp like a fish. He thought he gasped out Jackson's name, he didn't even bother trying to stand up because his leg was all the wrong angle and tears were pouring out of his eyes like he was a baby but the pain was too awful, his gut was rollicking and heaving and for the first time in his life he felt like a coward.

 

He found part of an arm, insensibly he thought it was his until he realized he was holding onto it with two hands, then he dropped it.

 

The dust cleared a little, and he could see other burning plumes in the sky, some near, some far away, and it was then that he really understood that his city was under attack.

[Skonar]

58. --- New York City, Manhattan, 155th Street, December 23rd 2000, 16:23 EST

 

 

 

"Was that another airstrike?"

 

"No. That had to be them, some kind of anti-vehicle weapon, has to be."

 

"What the fucking hell kinds of vehicles are they shooting at, man?" Porter winced at the sound of another blast, turning to gaze south.

 

They were practically on the northern tip of Manhattan island. Well, they were moving to try and cut it off, anyway. Sergeant Nigel Capstain, 1824-cjr-XCM, was not looking forward to trying to clear that objective with just four men. But Lieutenant Cyr didn't have the manpower for more. Hell, nobody had the manpower, at his last count there were, what, maybe thirty X-Com troops on the ground in New York? And out of that, ten casualties, medevacs, the works, easy.

 

There it was again. It wasn't the sound of thunder, like other plasma weapons. The noise was this single low thump, like someone slapping your chest. Barely audible, really, but it was carrying for miles and freaking miles.

 

Thump.

 

And every time, a flash on the horizon against the darkening sky.

 

Corton and Howards were working their way down the opposite side of the street, ducking their heads to glare into the cars crawling along towards the Macombs Dam bridge. 155th, right here, was elevated to keep it straight as the island slumped down to the river. Nigel leaned over the railing to glare down into a small, open park with a baseball pitch... field, whatever, laying abandoned. Nothing.

 

Corton ducked her head, stepped out into the road, waving at a driver. "Yo, yo! Could you wake him up please?"

 

The driver nervously rolled down her window, glanced aside at the bloated looking man in the passenger seat. "He's..."

 

Fear knifed into Nigel's gut. He paused, casting a glance up and down the row of cars that'd suddenly halted behind Corton's.

 

Corton pulled a tight smile through her application of urban camouflage. "Wake him up, please."

 

"Honey?" The driver shook her passenger.

 

He came to with a start, shook his head. Slumped back down lethargically. "Mmn?"

 

"What's your name please, sir?" Corton angled her head under the level of the car's roof.

 

"Geor- Hey. Hey, why I got to answer to you?"

 

Porter shook his head. "Well, that's not the right kind of combative unconscious maniac," he muttered, glancing south again.

 

Corton's smile loosened. "That's fine. Carry on." She sidestepped a slow-moving van and got back onto the sidewalk with Howards.

 

"He's just narcoleptic, that's okay, isn't it?" The driver craned her head out of the car window.

 

"Yeah, it's fine," Corton yelled back before resuming her steady pace, eyeing the cars as they went be.

 

The driver hesitated. "Is it true aliens are invading? Only I heard-"

 

Corton pointedly ignored that, stepping along.

 

"I heard people been getting abducted, you know? The aliens are pissed off, and-"

 

Another driver rolled down his window, yelled, "Hey, lady, will ya friggen move it?"

 

New York drivers. Best in the world.

 

Nigel loosened his grip on his G3. "We need a roadblock."

 

"What we need is some kind of miracle. Where are these Chryssalids we're looking for, anyway?" Porter looked south again, caught a flash against the sky. The low thump followed a few moments later.

 

Nigel bit his lip. Plumes of smoke were crawling up the horizon. The city was dark, most streets that didn't lead out of town were eerily empty. "I think they're busy, Porter."

[Skonar]

59. --- Nova Scotia, X-Com Base 'Nova Scotia': XF-37, Base Command and Control Center, December 23rd 2000, 16:24 EST.

 

 

 

"Oh my God." "Is this live?"

 

The news presenters had lost it, anyone could see that. Javier leaned low over one of the intel staff's shoulders, glaring at the screen.

 

A live feed from a helicopter. Just then there was another flash. Another swathe of traffic disappeared from Brooklyn bridge, was replaced by ash and wreckage.

 

"It's like some kind of nuclear device." "What's happening there?"

 

A ticker started playing across the bottom of the screen, 'Incident in New York'.

 

Javier chewed his lip. "Why hasn't this been censored yet? This has been going on ten minutes."

 

"I'm guessing the War Room doesn't have this keyed in on their automated program. I mean there's nothing we can actually see right now as alien activity, as it's defined by the system, sir."

 

The Camera panned across the mouth of the East River. Two ferries, crossing the river, were masses of ash and flame. Others were fanning away from the coast like desperate gnats. "Oh God. Oh God, those poor people." "This can't be terrorists, can it? Do we have anyone on the scene?" "We had a correspondent at the plane crash but she's lost contact with us, and-"

 

"Cut that chatter," Javier ordered. Amongst the rising buildings that began to grow into clumps of skyscrapers, then the concrete Jungle of Southern Manhattan proper, there was something there shouldn't have been. The helicopter's cameraman had picked up on it too, zoomed in. Gouts of red smoke at the base of something not quite a skyscraper in height, built with white pillars and domed rooves like all those American governmental buildings, the whitehouse, you name it. "Can you zoom in?"

 

"Uhm." The intel officer ducked his head. The display quartered, one of the quarters grew to fill the screen. Red smoke, a thin plume - not concealment, a marker. As issued to X-Com soldiers.

 

"What is that building?"

 

An officer nearby consulted a map on a seperate computer display, glanced up across at the display from CNN, the map again. "One center street. The... Manhattan Municipal Building. Database says that is some kind of governmental address. Tax offices, that kind of thing. WYNC radio station transmits from there."

 

"Do we have access to the station?"

 

"Uhhh. Christ, sir, you're not asking for much. Give me a minute, maybe off one of the team's whips..."

 

The image from CNN disappeared in a sudden wrenching blur of green-tinged static.

 

Javer thumped his fist on the desk. "Fuck! What was that?"

 

"No idea, sir. That wasn't the censor program."

 

"Hold on, they're back..." An unsteady camera image now. Very unsteady. Pieces of wreckage were hitting the East River, a few moments passed, another flash on the bridge.

 

One of the officers, the one dealing with the radio station, pressed a hand against the earcup of his headset. "Sir, I can't get anything for WYNC. It's dead air."

 

"They're a goddamn local news station, aren't they? There's a lot of goddamn local news!" Javier grimaced. Reached up and pinched the bridge of his nose. "That's roughly the location Throop's squad lost contact in, wasn't it?"

 

"Roughly, sir."

 

"Damn. The first thing you do in a coup is take over the news stations, the TV, announce your victory to everyone, isn't it? Maybe the bugs were paying attention. Do we still have any ordnance in the air, after the strikes?"

 

"No, they'd be down to nose-cannons, sir."

 

"Well turn them around, we've got a marked building, and they have to be firing those damn blasting things from somewhere. Get one fly-by and have another on station to strafe."

 

"Yes sir."

 

Javier crushed the heel of his palm against his forehead and backed off a few steps.

 

A nervous looking secretary from the other side of Command and Control, a young man stationed with admin who'd been transferred over from Houston a month before, held out a folder. "Sir? You need to look at this."

 

"What is it?" Javier asked, taking the folder and automatically flipping it open. Faxed copies of hand-written notes?

 

"These, uhh. These are the orders coming through in fifteen minutes from the War Room, sir. They're being typed up now, I have a buddy over there and-"

 

Priority One - Arrest Colonel Javier Deerman 5831-9ct-XCM on war crime charges. Transfer command for operations at landing site 1811 to Colonel David Powers 9427-ju9-XCM.

 

Javier froze. "Shit. I didn't think Colonel Eddings would do this to me."

 

"Sir." The secretary grimaced. "That's not Colonel Eddings's handwriting, it's Powers's."

 

Javier blinked. "War Room's in Washington, Powers is the commander at Houston. You're sure?"

 

"I typed his memos for him for six months."

 

"What the- get me a line to Colonel Eddings on the double."

 

"Yes sir."

 

Meanwhile, one of the air controllers was glancing back for him. "Sir, we've got our flyby, pilot reports multiple figures on the roof of the marked building with some kind of heavy equipment and- Shit, he's lost power, he's ejecting-"

 

The main GEOSCAPE display abruptly lost another yellow diamond marking one of the fighters.

 

The air controller was frozen. He pulled off his earpiece slowly, lay it down. Crushed a hand against his mouth.

 

"Put a strike on there immediately," Javier snapped. He glanced back. "I need that line to Colonel Eddings now!"

[Skonar]

60. --- New York City, Brooklyn Bridge Approach, December 23rd 2000, 16:26 EST.

 

 

 

Thump.

 

The world went searing white and Darren's skin stung, he could smell smoke, burning meat, and there was blood in his mouth. A wave of heat, like standing behind a goddamn jet's engines, then nothing.

 

"Boss!"

 

He wiped at his eyes, skin stinging like he'd fallen asleep sunbathing, and managed to squint back up at the sky. An XF-23 Black Widow, sharp wings and sleek frame cartwheeling out of the air, blazed as chunks of fuselage sloughed off the back end. The cockpit popped open, an ejector seat blazed for a heartbeat before the bright red and white panels of the parachute began flowering open.

 

"I see it Jon," Darren murmured back.

 

Jon was squatting by the street corner, holding his face, waiting for his vision to return. "They can hit fucking jets now?"

 

Those blasts were worse than flashbangs at close range, in terms of light. And the heat they put off was incredible. God only knew what kind of radiation accompanied that, but at close range it was certainly enough to cause skin burns. Close range being somewhere outside the fifty metre wide kill zone.

 

The dull rumble of an aircraft crashing echoed back over the city.

 

"If you see the blue flash before it hits, shut your eyes!" Darren grabbed Jon's shoulder and pulled him along after Alex Guerrera.

 

"Yes sir!" Walsh belted out in a crisp, clean American style, glancing over his shoulder to check on his buddy Harrison before sprinting after the other three getting across the street.

 

Darren thudded to a halt behind Alex, standing in the open now that they had buildings between them and the civic looking building the bugs were on. Getting close enough to set off a smoke grenade had been a nightmare, and even though the pilot had apparently seen it he'd been shot down. Any hope of an airstrike seemed remote.

 

The situation was intolerable. They'd all been in the van, the blasts, Jon had pulled it back onto the sidewalk and they'd all ran, just another blot of humanity in the sea of targets the bugs were shooting at.

 

Sometime between getting out of the van and catching burns from the blasts he'd tried his radio and found out it was dead. Darren's laptop, too, even his fucking wrist-watch.

 

And now there was the screaming, filling up every gap of sound there was.Civilians whipped past every so often, running like the blazes. There were pale faces huddling fearfully in every other storefront.

 

On top of all that, the bloody pilot who was meant to have saved them from this mess just got shot down.

 

"I don't suppose a Radio Shack would carry spares?" Harrison asked hopefully.

 

Darren tugged at his radio pack on his belt, angled it to see the display... the display was dead. Maybe those blasts really were some kind of nuke, he'd heard that EMP effects would neutralise electronics. "I doubt it."

 

"What's the plan now, Boss?"

 

Darren sucked down a breath and risked a glance back up at the sky. He heard another thump, felt the tremble in his feet of a blast. "Well we came down here on that report of a saucer at the bridge, and we've found the goddamn bugs, so..." Darren grimaced.

 

Nobody else seemed to like that idea either.

 

The now familiar whine of a Jet's engines became audible. Close. Darren's heart leapt, he backed up to the corner and stuck his head around just in time to see the specks of light before the rolling thunder washed over him.

 

A second black widow was diving on the bugs's position, lines of tracer rounds were battering into the roof and chunks of masonry and flame were gouting into the air.

 

The jet pulled away and a moment went by. Another.

 

Darren twisted around.

 

"Jon!"

 

But Corporal Money was already behind him, rifle up with his eye glued to the scope. "Hold on, hold on..."

 

The civvies were still screaming, but the patter of masonry falling from a few blocks down filled the air with hope.

 

Moments ticked by.

 

Jon bit his lip. "I don't see anything."

 

"That's going to have to do. Come on. That first pilot didn't go down far from here, and if he's alone much longer he might end up in a lot of trouble."

 

Besides which. With any luck, someone would send a ranger to pick him up. Maybe they could hitch a ride.

[Skonar]

61. --- New York City, Manhattan, Middle of Central Park, December 23rd 2000, 16:34 EST.

 

 

It was one of the sergeants, or at least Ellen thought it was one of the sergeants. She wasn't sure, she didn't know how to read rank insignia. In any case, the Japanese Sergeant came back out of the Tennis Courts's changing room and started yelling.

 

"Listen to me, you four all that's left out here? We've got one last ranger incoming and then we're out of here, and we are not babysitting you people through the park!"

 

A few soldiers, like the australian sounding guy who hotwired a car a few hours ago, were glaring out at the dusk-shrouded park with night-vision goggles dangling around their necks or up against their helmets. Every so often another of those... those grinning monster bug things came close and the soliders started yelling, shooting as if the worst thing in the world was on its way. Ellen knew she didn't want to even try and get across the park, babysat or not.

 

"So, grab whatever you've got and get inside the changing rooms, when the ranger touches down you wait at the door and when everything's secure I will wave you aboard like this," he swept an arm sharply. "There are seats inside with seatbelts - do not try and buckle them yourself, pull them up over your lap and before takeoff we will do them for you. Any questions?"

 

Rodney lifted a hand.

 

The sergeant pointed at him. "You?"

 

"A ranger is that, that plane that was here?"

 

"Yes, that's a ranger. Sorry about that, plane, ranger, same thing."

 

A person Ellen didn't know, a guy in jeans and an overcoat, someone else who hadn't been on the cars that got out of the park, blurted out, "Where are we going? I want to go home."

 

"McGuire Air-Force Base, apparently it's in New Jersery. Trust me buddy, you do not want to be in New York right now."

 

"New Jersey? Fuck! What about my girlfriend? My parents?"

 

The sergeant's face hardened. "You can't do anything about them right now, and I can leave you here but trust me you do not want me to leave you here either."

 

Rodney shouldered past the other guy, eyes blazing. "Can we get our cameras back?"

 

The Sergeant's eyes narrowed. "No. Now go wait."

 

When the sergeant's back was turned Rodney gave Ellen a grimace. "Fucking hell. Story of the century and we can't even-"

 

Ellen held up a hand. "No, Rodney. No. People are dying. You remember those kids, at the crash site?"

 

Rodney faltered. It took him a moment to find his voice. "Yeah."

 

"We all just need to get out of this alive." She glanced back at Sid. "Right?"

 

Sid nodded rapidly. "So long as I don't have to lock myself in the van again."

 

She forced out a laugh. "If we ever see the van again."