Free The Biofab War by Stephen Ames Berry Page B

his second in command. “Bradshaw,” he said, “go to DEFCON 2.”
    The colonel looked up startled at the big board. Except for Cape Cod, all was normal.
    “General?” he asked.
    “DEFCON 2 please, Colonel,” O’Brien repeated. “Per contingency.”
    “Very good, sir,” said Bradshaw. Turning back to his console, he began issuing the necessary orders.
    “Okay, Sutherland,” the general said, “you’ve got thirty minutes to get me White House confirmation or we stand down. You know the drill.”
    “I know the drill.”
    “You realize this will put the world on a war footing?” added O’Brien. The command center was now bustling with activity as the alert went out and acknowledgments poured in.
    Sutherland glanced down at the dead alien. “I certainly hope so, General.”
    “Be advised,” said O’Brien, “there’s an airborne craft with advanced capabilities operating in your vicinity. It appears to be extraterrestrial in origin and it’s landed. Otis F-15s are looking for it now.”
    “What do you mean, ‘advanced’?” demanded the CIA officer.
    “I mean, Sutherland,” said O’Brien tersely, “that we’re von Richthofen’s Circus and it’s an F-15. Give me your number—I’ll call you with your reinforcements’ ETA.”
    “What was all that?” asked Bakunin.
    “‘Rome Falls’? A contingency established shortly after Foxfire began. The phrase ‘extraterrestrial invasion’ is never used, but the plan calls for area quarantine, full alert and even projects nuking our own cities to stop an ‘enemy’ landing. I never believed it was meant for Chinese paratroopers.” They turned at the slight rumble of an elevator door opening. Flannigan stood alone in the elevator, dazed, unmoving, pistol held limply in one hand. The door started to close.
    “Flannigan?” snapped Sutherland. At that, the FBI agent’s hand shot out, banging back the door. He stepped out, blinking, seeming to see Bakunin and Sutherland for the first time.
    “A lab worker in marine biology tried to shoot me,” he said slowly, walking to the desk. “I shot first, then she, it . . .” He stopped short, spotting Tuckman’s head protruding from behind the security station. “What happened?” he asked hoarsely.
    “First, holster your weapon,” ordered Sutherland. Flannigan complied. “Now look behind the desk. Was that what you killed?”
    The agent peered down over the desktop. Biting his lower lip, he nodded. “It killed the DCI,” he said, looking up.
    Bill nodded. “Never knew what hit him. And neither do we,” he added, hefting the dead alien’s weapon. “I’ll recall the others, Tim.” He placed a gentle hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “Get yourself some coffee. There are some vending machines down that hall, on the left.” He pointed to where a corridor curved out of sight across the lobby, opposite the elevators. “I’ll call you.” The agent had gone perhaps ten yards when Bill called, “Oh, Tim. When did you become right-handed?”
    Flannigan’s hand flashed to his pistol even as Bakunin reached for his own gun and Sutherland fired. A bright-blue bolt took the agent full in the face. His form shimmering, he fell like a stone.
    Two dead insectoids now lay in the Institute’s lobby, their deep-hued green a stark contrast to the floor’s blue-veined Florentine marble.
    “You know, Sutherland,” said Bakunin, putting his pistol away, “we—you and me—are the only ones here we know aren’t . . . those.” He nodded at Flannigan’s killer, its short, thin neck ending in a charred stump. “The safest thing, I regret to say, would be to shoot your men as they get off the elevator.” He stopped at the American’s hard stare.
    “You are a ruthless son of a bitch, tovarich Colonel. If Marsh, Johnson and Yazanaga aren’t Marsh, Johnson and Yazanaga, I’ll know. But until I know, all are innocent.”
    The Russian officer shrugged. “You’re a sentimental fool,