Washington, DC Sol III

2012 EDT August 16th, 2001 AD

The President stood behind the podium of the Speaker of the House, hands placed firmly to either side and swept his gaze from the members to the teleprompters and back. There had been none of the usual applause at his entry. The announcement of a speech to be delivered before the combined House and Senate was too sudden, too ominous, for any sign of pleasure. In the scant days between the announcement and the speech, the country and world had reached towards panic as rumors raged like wildfire. Units throughout the world had been placed on alert without any indication of what the emergency might be. Increasing numbers of scientists and technicians had disappeared, major projects shutting down right and left as key personnel disappeared into an informational black hole. Everyone knew, now, that there was a secret and that it had world-shattering implications, but the secret had held. Held until this fateful night.

"Members of Congress, Justices, my fellow Americans," he began, expression as somber as any that the country had ever seen, "this is such a night as will live in history, such a night as will burn in the memory of mankind should we exist for a million years." His gaze swept the room again and he could almost smell the unease rising from the assembled politicians. It was the first time he had ever seen the usually distracted group actually concentrating on someone else's words; this was one speech they did not know the text of and were not going to be doing instant commentary on.

"There have been many rumors in the media about recent events, secret meetings, military movements and sudden changes in the budget. I am here tonight to lay to rest all the rumors and bring to you the truth of the matter, in all its wonder and all its terror.

"My fellow Terrans," he continued, using a phrase that keyed many who were listening to the coming words, a phrase never used before in such a setting, "five months ago, I and other world leaders were contacted by emissaries of an extraterrestrial government." He raised his hands to quell the buzz of conversation that erupted on the floor. "They brought greetings, a plea and a bitter warning. . . ."

Not bad, thought Mike as he watched the C-SPAN coverage in the cafeteria. He could have watched from his room but, somehow, after all the time the teams had spent together it just seemed natural to watch as a group. The GalTech teams were gathered in their groups, sipping whatever was their chosen potable. While they watched the most viewed speech in television history; unlike most they were able to take the terrible news in stride and even comment on the delivery. They waited as the President worked slowly through the description of the threat and the situation. Mike smiled at the ironies. In the first week after the disappearances began, a noted off-beat Internet columnist had looked at the list of missing personnel, realized that better than thirty percent were science fiction authors, and combat SF writers at that, with the remainder being military, and had come to the correct conclusion. He was generally and summarily dismissed by the majority of the media. "Martian Menace?" was the kindest headline. Mike could see the journalist in his mind's eye, bottle of whiskey in hand, shouting a loud "yee haw!" at being right.

" . . . The delay was agreed upon by all the contacted leaders to ensure the truth of the situation. What if, despite their apparent friendliness, they were lying to us?

"Validation arrived only three days ago. The team sent out with these emissaries included a multinational assortment of scientists, military officers, government officials and press. I will come back to that in a moment.

"In the meantime, in secret, teams of military and industrial personnel have worked round the clock with their Galactic counterparts to develop new weapons combining Earth, Terran, know-how with Galactic technology. In that time these teams, locked away on military bases, unable to see friends and family, unable even to tell them why they were separated, have made great breakthroughs. In spite of their many sacrifices, they have worked miracles."

"Ah, it wasn't a sacrifice," quipped a fighter jock behind Mike. "The bastard was going to leave me anyway."

Mike glanced at General Horner. The officer was staring at the screen, stone-faced, his expression suddenly lined and old. Only the day before the final determinations had been made on what forces were going to be equipped in what order and who was going to lead them. Despite his obvious qualifications for the slot of Commander Fleet Strike, the position was going to another and General Horner was to return to the "regular" forces, there being no other lieutenant general slots in the Fleet. If he had not been promoted to lieutenant general he might have been given command of one of the divisions, but as it was, his fate was up to the Army personnel placement program. Furthermore, since he was not going to Fleet, he had been placed on the regular roster for rejuvenation. With his relative youth it might be years or even decades before he would be up for therapy. All in all the news that day had not been good. The capper of receiving divorce papers had only been frosting on his cake.

"Designed and ready for evaluation and production are the fighters, dreadnoughts, carriers and missiles that will destroy the enemy in space. Also designed are new rifles, armor and tanks to protect our nation and world on the ground. . . ."

Mike shrugged almost unnoticeably and detached his AID from his wrist; he definitely knew the rest of this story. The teams had been working twenty hours a day for the past two months and there had been a lot more interaction with the international teams than expected at the beginning. There were still disagreements among the primary partners, the G-8, about tactical details, but with very few exceptions, the designs for everything from superdreadnoughts to the suits that were his particular baby had been finalized. It was a validation, production and fielding problem now, and he suspected that he was going to be on the sharp end of that, too.

He lifted the AID to his ear and whispered, "Home." The AID, released only a moment before to contact outside lines, tapped into the regular telephone system, dialed Mike's home phone and billed it to his phone card account. Around him, others did the same and a babble of relieved conversation filled the air.

"Hello?" said a wary female voice.

"Hi, honey, guess who." He found it hard to choke the words out and his eyes misted over at the familiar tone. His mouth tasted of salt.

"Mike? Cally, it's daddy! Come here. I guess that was you?" asked Sharon.

"Yeah, me and about a hundred fifty others in the States. Thanks for not up and leaving me." He winced as he realized what he said, but General Horner seemed to be on another plane.

"You mean throwing your clothes out the door? I've got most of the grass stains out." The throaty chuckle held a note of tears.

"Well, everybody wasn't so lucky," he said quietly, glancing at the general.

"That's the way the President made it sound."

" . . . I must, unfortunately, report that the loss of human life has already begun . . ."

"What? Sorry, honey, I'll call you back." He squeezed the AID, breaking the connection, and slapped it back around his wrist. He hoped Sharon would understand.

" . . . in the press pool was the internationally famous reporter, Shari Mahasti. She, her cameraman Marc Renard, soundman Jean Carron and producer Sharon Levy, along with Marshals Sergey Levorst of Russia and Chu Feng of China, Generals Erton of France, Trayner of the United States and a French paratrooper security detail were all lost on Barwhon 5 . . ."