He silently prayed that his father could get to General Thomas in time. The growing resistance was going to need him. They would need everyone they could reach before the shit really hit the fan.
Chapter Sixteen
Washington DC
USA, Day 26
“I hate Washington,” the Colonel commented to no one in particular. The city seemed to stink of the stench of politics — and pollution. There were thousands of cars on the roads, driving as if their drivers had to be at their destinations yesterday. “I really hope Toby was right when he gave us directions.”
No one said anything. Washington DC seemed to be undergoing one of its permanent traffic jams. The van they’d driven all the way from Virginia might not stand out among all the other unmarked vans, but the Colonel was grimly aware that being stopped by the Highway Patrol or the Police might prove fatal. Whatever the Second Amendment said, there were things in the van that would ensure that they received a hefty prison sentence, if they were caught and stopped. The Colonel had used a number of tricks to hide their trail as best as he could, yet simple bad luck had foiled more operations than anyone could count. And bad luck now would be disastrous.
“The General’s address is right up here,” Packman assured him. They’d already had a long argument about why a former CIA field agent couldn’t read a map. “I guess the wife must be a wealthy girl. Look at some of these apartments.”
The Colonel shrugged. They were in one of the wealthier areas of Washington, dominated by large houses and larger gardens. It was a far cry from the farm — and he’d never been very happy in any kind of city — but he had to admit that if one had to live in the city, there were worse places to live. Even so, he knew that it probably cost more money than he’d seen in his life to buy a house here — and he was fairly sure that Generals didn’t get paid that much, even the successful ones. But in Washington, success was often measured by how many asses you could kiss at once, rather than actual combat prowess.
General Elliot Thomas had been a fighting soldier before being promoted to the Joint Chiefs of Staff. The Colonel had hoped that one of his little organisation members would know the General personally, but so far no one had admitted to serving beside General Thomas, at least in any position where the General might reasonably be expected to recognise him. At least there was nothing phoney about the man’s war record. He’d served in Iraq and Afghanistan before being promoted to take command of CENTCOM and then the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Unlike so many uniformed politicians, he did know what end of a gun was the dangerous end.
And he was just who the growing resistance needed. General Thomas commanded respect, even from those who hated his guts. The Colonel had a high opinion of himself, but he’d left the military over a decade ago; almost all of the younger soldiers wouldn’t recognise him if they passed him in the streets. And General Thomas’s life was in danger. If the aliens were prepared to murder relatively harmless bloggers to silence anyone who might speak out against them, what would they do to someone who commanded national respect? There were people who even talked about General Thomas as a potential President.
“That’s his house,” Packman said. He nodded towards a moderate mansion that looked — to the Colonel — as if someone with too much money and too little taste had allowed the architect to drink while building the house. General Thomas — or, more likely, his wife — had little taste. “How are we going to make the approach?”
The Colonel scowled. Even if they’d had someone who knew the General, there was a second problem. The General was almost certainly under alien surveillance — and utterly unaware that there was any need to worry. And even if he had worried, could he get rid of the alien surveillance device? Somehow, the Colonel doubted it. Toby had gone through a full search to have his removed — and they’d only found it because the device had been broadcasting at the time. They would have to talk to the General without saying anything out loud.
“I’ll take the lead,” he said. “Bob; you’ll come with me. Blake, Sam, Jack; stay where you are and keep an eye on the situation. If we need help, we’ll whistle for it.”
“Gotcha, boss,” Sam Mason said. He was a former National Guardsman, but he hadn’t allowed his skills to lapse since his effective retirement. The sports bag slung under his seat contained his assault rifle and enough ammunition to fight a small war. Even if the cops let that past, they’d have real problems ignoring the grenades and the small quantity of C4 the team had brought with them. Blake had insisted that one could never have too little C4 and the Colonel was inclined to agree. “Just watch your back. You can never trust anyone who moves to Washington.”
The Colonel scowled at him — Toby had moved to Washington — before he opened the door and slipped out onto the pavement. Bob Packman slipped down beside him, one hand in his pocket where he’d concealed his pistol. They both had concealed carry licences, but they couldn’t afford to attract any attention. Gun carry laws changed so often that someone could become a criminal merely by driving over the state line. He scowled at Packman until the former CIA agent took his hand out of his pockets and stood to attention. Wearing a civilian suit that didn’t quite fit him, he looked more like a gangster than a military man. The Colonel rolled his eyes, checked that his Sig Sauer was in a convenient position, and started to lead the way up the driveway.
General Thomas’s home address had never been made public. It was a security precaution that dated back to the days when terrorists had tried to harm the morale of American troops by hitting their families back home in America. The media had probably been trying to bribe someone to disclose it, but for once the alien subversion of the media worked in their favour; they wouldn’t want someone of General Thomas’s statue publicly opposing the Galactic Federation. After the government had effectively signed away American independence, who knew what kind of reaction they’d have from the people? The Colonel had heard — from a drinking buddy who was still in the National Guard — that the Guard was being prepped for mass civil unrest. Rumours were flying everywhere, none of them good.
“I feel as if I’m in a bad movie,” Packman whispered, as they crunched their way up the driveway. General Thomas — or his wife — drove an expensive car. “Do you think he’ll have a butler and a maid?”
“Shut up,” the Colonel whispered back, not unkindly. Packman dealt with stress by making jokes; the Colonel grew colder and quieter. “Remember; we need to convince him to join us without any proof, or saying anything out loud.”
He pressed the bell and smiled as he heard a series of chimes from inside the house. A long moment passed slowly, and then the door swung open, revealing a middle-aged mulatto woman with grey streaks in her dark hair. Two sharp brown eyes examined the two visitors and found them wanting. Judging from the faint look in her eye, her husband’s resignation had shocked her. General Thomas had been a natural lifer, someone who would have been happy to spend their entire lives in the military. And now he was a civilian again, even if all the paperwork hadn’t been processed. The Colonel understood how he must have felt.
“He’s not in,” she snapped. The Colonel guessed that some reporters had already been to visit, even though they would have had problems finding the General’s address. But in Washington one could find out anything with a bribe to the right person. “He’s permanently out to you.”