Chapter 30
Eclipse
The Pentagon, Virginia
A Navy officer, a commander, took a print out and looked at it. He shook his head when he’d finished reading it. He read it a second time and then a third. He still couldn’t quite believe what he was reading.
He walked across the room to a space-age door with an electromagnetic seal. He pressed the “enter” button and the door chimed. Another button was pushed on the inside and the doors slid open with a whoosh.
The commander walked into the briefing room. The Joint Chiefs of Staff, the senior men in the US
“What is it?” asked General Warren, the chief of staff for the US
“Sirs, this is for you. I can’t really believe it,” he said, keeping his voice calm.
General Warren took the pieces of paper and read it. His eyebrows raised early on.
“What is it Mike?” asked Admiral Kane.
“It’s happened,” replied the General.
“It’s happened,” replied the General.
Villa Cyranno , Venezuela
She had paused in front of the lit flamethrower for just a moment. In that moment, the whole world had seemed to become brighter, more focused and Oscar felt like he could see everything clearly. He could make out the darker red stiching in her skirt where it had been taken in, the soot stains on Newman’s jacket, the powder burns on Jubal Storm’s face.
She stood in front of the flamethrower and at first she just looked terrified. She refused, refused to burn herself. Wharton explained in his fluent Spanish.
“You’ve got to do it, we have to know that you aren’t infected. Then you will be safe,”
She shook her head. Wharton took a step towards her.
Somewhere, Oscar thought he could hear a bird singing.
The woman, not much older than twenty one, looked at Wharton approaching her. She turned towards the flame-thrower. She pulled her arm back and then punched the canister that held the fuel as hard as she could.
Oscar’s last rational thought was ‘Well, that proves she’s one of them then,’
There was a cracking sound, a hiss and then a flash of light and fire as the flame-thrower detonated.
There was a giant push of warm air and Oscar felt himself lifted off his feet and thrown to one side. Oscar felt the heat increase and all of a sudden he became convinced he was about to be incinerated. He moved his arms over his head, even as he was hurled fifteen feet away from where he had been stood.
He collided with the ground with a thud and the lights went out.
The Post-Guard at the Whitehouse was an important job and Gunnery Sergeant Gregory Hollister took it very seriously. Generally speaking he’d never had to deal with anything beyond college students trying to get over the fence.
When the girl had cleared the fence to try and shoot the previous President, Hollister had been off duty that day but Sergeant Faulks had told him all about it. The Secret Service had been there in about ten seconds. The marines was only supposed to act if the Whitehouse was under a serious military style assault.
Posse Comitatus prevented them from being involved in “law enforcement” on the continental US without a declaration of martial law. Still, Post-Guard was the first and most critical line of defence before you reached the Whitehouse and Hollister took it seriously.
His radio crackled and Hollister picked it up.
“This is Saratoga One, receiving,” he said.
“This is General Welker here Sergeant. Do you know who I am?” asked the voice.
“Yes sir,” replied Hollister.
“Good man. Do you follow orders?”
“Yes sir,” replied Hollister fiercely.
“Good man. Here are your orders. You are to stand down and take your detail off the post-guard,”
“Sir?” asked Hollister.
“Sir? I thought you were as US marine. You don’t ask me questions Gunny, you just carry out my orders. Don’t make me repeat myself,” said the voice.
“Sir, I cant obey your order unless…”
“Don’t quote me regulations son. I am the senior officer in this district. Stand your detail down,”
Gunnery Sergeant Hollister stood there in mute shock for a moment. Stand down? Unless there was a relieving duty he was only ever to stand down if the President or someone from the Executive branch ordered it.
Gunnery Sergeant Hollister took up his radio and opened up a call.
“This is Saratoga One to HQ Delta,” he said.
There was the crackling sound of interference.
“What the hell is going on?” he asked no one in particular.
Sat-Com, somewhere in Virginia
Captain Thomas’s detail pushed forward, firing as they went. Bursts of machine-gun fire rattled and then there was the roar of flamethrower fire. Another body caught fire and tried to crawl away.
“Burn it!” shouted Thomas. Sergeant Spriggs let loose another blast of flame-thrower fire and the body caught totally ablaze. As it tried to get to its feet, there was the bark of machine-gun fire and it was thrown back down to burn.
“Clear!” shouted Sergeant Kelp. He turned back in from the supply cupboard and marked the door with a glow-stick. Captain Thomas nodded and took up his radio.
“This is Thomas here, the supply bin is clear. We’re moving in on the hangar now. We’ve killed about nine of these things now,”
“Good work Captain,” came the reply.
Captain Thomas stood by the large doors that lead into the hangar. There were blood stains on the walls and floor, bullet holes chewed out of the door in a ragged pattern.
Sergeant Spriggs readied himself for whatever it was that would be inside the hangar bay.
The door came open as Thomas kicked it and Spriggs and Kelp both moved in, weapons trained. Another four men followed them, weapons aimed. The hangar bay was a mess. There was a fire burning in the corner and bullet holes scattered around the place.
There was blood all over the walls and floor but so far, there were no bodies and no one was moving. A breeze blew over and Sergeant Spriggs turned to see where it had come from.
“Oh dear God,” whispered Spriggs.
There was a hole, a ten foot high hole in the door leading out of the hangar. The Virginia
“Sir, General!” he shouted. “Sir, one of them got out. One of them is away in the country-side!”
The Stryker armored car rolled to a halt outside the gates of the Whitehouse. Captain Uleski got out of it and walked towards the post-guard. He held in front of him the written orders that he hoped would persuade the post-guard to stand aside.
“Gunnery Sergeant? You’re relieved. I have written orders from the Joint Chiefs of Staff of the US
“I read that sir. But unless I get orders from the Executive branch or am relieved, I’m not to leave my post,” said Gunnery Sergeant Hollister.
“I’m a Captain, I outrank you. This is a direct order Sergeant,” barked Uleski.
“Negative sir, I cannot obey that order,” replied Hollister, his hand reaching to his slung M4 carbine.
“Damn it,” snapped Uleski. “Okay, Rice, do it,”
“What?” asked Hollister. There was the crack of a rifle shot and Hollister was blown off his feet to tumble dead into his guard-box. Uleski waved a hand forward and the Stryker rolled on, followed by another one and then more vehicles besides.
Washington, D.C, elsewhere
Peter Bierko stood up suddenly and turned to the door. It opened and a panicked young secretary stood there.
“We’re not to be disturbed,” said Peter to her. He looked at her expression and wondered what the hell must be going on to have warranted this.
“Sir, the President, sir!” she garbled.
“What the hell are you talking about girl?” asked McCoy.
“The Whitehouse Chief of staff, he says we have to evacuate the building right now!” she said.
“What? Is it a fire-drill?” asked Henry Finch.
“No, the Whitehouse Chief of Staff says we have to evacuate and it’s not a drill. He says get to Bamboo now!”
“Bamboo?” asked Henry.
“That’s the emergency escape route,” whispered McCoy.
“Jesus, we’ve got to get to the President,” said Jack Krane, the Deputy Chief of Staff.
Peter walked out into the corridor and then out into the chaos. People were running in all directions. Black-suited Secret Service agents brandishing weapons were moving in small teams as fast as they could.
“Jesus Christ,” said Jack.
“Move, we’ve got to move,” said Peter. What could possibly be going on?
They moved through the corridors when Peter heard the familiar report of gun-fire. It was small arms, it sounded to him like pistols and sub-machine guns.
Richard McCoy slunk back suddenly and Finch grabbed his chest.
“Guns? Those are guns!” breathed Henry Finch.
“Yes they are,” replied Peter. Jack Krane moved ahead of them and stood by the wall, looking out across the office. Four men in camouflage body amour were moving, side-arms drawn. A Secret Service agent opened fire at them and one of them took a round and fell.
The others returned fire and a raging gunfight broke out. Jack Krane threw himself back into cover.
“What the hell is going on? Is it terrorists?” asked Henry.
“I don’t know,” replied Jack. “But someone is attacking the Whitehouse,”
Sat-Com, Somewhere In Virginia
Back in his office, General Petersen undid his jacket and breathed out a slow sigh. Then he took up the phone again.
“This is Petersen here for General Pierce,” he said. He poured himself a glass of Scotch.
“This is Pierce here. What’s going on Tom? You have chance to think about what I said?”
“Well I’ve been busy here. But I have had time to think about it,” replied Petersen.
“Before you tell me to go fuck myself, I think there is something you should know,” said General Pierce.
“I was going to say the same thing,” replied Petersen.
“As of twenty oh-five hours, I am now in possession of the Whitehouse,”
“Say that again?” spluttered Petersen.
“I’m calling the shots now Tom. The Chiefs are with me. Well, some of them are. The others have just faxed me their resignations,”
“Dear God Alex. What have you done?”
“I’m the only one with the guts to fix this situation Tom. Now, you’re either with me or against me,”
“General Pierce, sir. I regret to inform you that infection has broken out in the continental US. I lost one, he’s loose in Virginia
“God damn it,” came the voice on the phone.
“This is Petersen out,” he put the phone down. He looked at his side-arm, laying on the desk.
The soldiers moved Peter and the others along to the Whitehouse Communications office. The televisions that were always on were showing static.
“That’s not a good sign,” said Jack Krane.
“Oh my,” wheezed Henry Finch.
“What the hell are you men doing?” yelled Peter. A stony faced non-com simply ignored him.
“You cant do this,” joined in Chris Salinger, the Communications Director. “You cant do this, this is America
Chris was cut off as a non-com clubbed him to the ground with his rifle-butt.
Peter rushed over to shield Chris and took a blow to the head for his pains. He fell to the ground but remained conscious. There was a shriek as Henry Finch fell to the ground, his hands gripping at his chest. His face had turned totally white.
Peter tried to shout, tried to tell them to help him. The soldier in front of him, a veteran by the look of him, stared down at him and then took up his rifle in his hands again, across his body, a barrier between him and his hostages.
Somewhere outside, with all the commotion and gunfire, someone hadn’t remembered to lower the flag and the Stars and Stripes still blew in the wind.
Very dramatic: I have no idea who the goodies and baddies are now. No idea at all!
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