Lunar Orbit - December 31st

        The Weapons SubOfficer, no, Officer, he corrected himself, waited impatiently as the gravlift descended to the main weapons bays. He still felt badly at his faux-pas with the SubCommader and somewhat miffed at the rebuke. How was he to know about the report if no-one had informed him? Damn his predecessor for keeping the information so close to his chest.
        The gravlift decelerated slowly and the doors whooshed open. He stepped out into the brightly lit corridor and walked quickly towards Station Five. On the way, he noticed a few curious glances - some probably envious of his newly acquired status, some distrusting, some just plain stressed out.
        He was driving his workers as hard as he dared, pushing them beyond the limits of endurance in order to deliver as many working batteries to the SubCommander. He reflected on how strange it was that he was willing to break the bodies of his subordinates, acquiringe a fair share of enemies along the way just to satisfy his superior officer. Who, in a moment’s notice, would cut his neck if there was something to gain.
        But that was the way of the Kraals, warrior race above all else. Push hard, demand all, expect little but the sense of accomplishment.
        The corridor was stained black where fires had burned, tainting the dull metal glow of the alloy. A great rent in the superstructure, exactly were the previous Weapons Officer had been fatally standing when the attack came, had been hastily patched. Substandard work, but every Kraal was needed elsewhere. Proper repairs would come later. The corridor ended in a dull brown door. A guard posted in front of it, Security was going a little overboard (what did they expect, a terran boarding party?), moved slightly to one side to let him pass.
        Bay Station Five. From the elevated circular platform, he could oversee the whole repair process. Below him, a dozen Sectoid technicians worked at full speed around the complex banks of machinery and computers, a Kraal SubOfficer supervising.
        The huge force field generators, necessary to contain the anti-matter torpedoes, had been damaged. He looked down and to the left where harried alloywelders had patched the holes left by the terran’s kinetic weapon. Damn them! Kraals he knew from long had been in here when the integrity of the hull had been breached, killing those not lucky enough to reach the seals in time. The generators had been effectively put out of commission. He mentally reviewed the damage report. Three of the power coils had been ruptured and were being worked on. They could be repaired. About half of the conduction lines - both ionic and power - were useless. All four pressure stabilizers pulverized. Most of the electric equipment fused into a unusable mess. And the main generator was structurally unsound, cracks all along the outer alloy walls. As well as most of the control computers.
        So they were being dismantled, scavenged for parts that could possibly render Station Six operational again. He would present the SubCommander with the incredible news.
        After that, the following priority was to get the Ion Batteries up. Without them, close-in defense was impossible and half the plan would fail. The half that called for destroying the terran’s large sea going vessels and mechanized ground forces from orbit. The smaller plasma batteries would be unable to traverse Terra Three’s dense atmosphere without losing most of their energy in the process. And they didn’t have enough anti-matter torpedoes to destroy the military centers and deal with mining area defense.
        Admittedly, the gunships still in terran orbit were firing their few torps at the most critical of locations, but they had never been designed for sustained orbital attacks and carried a smaller load of the awesome weapons. And their Batteries would never do any damage from the distance.
        He would succeed with his job, if it meant driving every single Kraal and Sectoid to exhaustion or death.

        New York - December 31st

        Captain McCormick hurried along the dark tracks of the subway towards his unconscious team mate. He flicked on the NVGs he had collected from the Osprey, and spotted the wounded Sergeant sprawled up ahead.
        "He should be right in front of you, Mac," came the voice from his headset. The Sergeant’s armor was emitting a continuos radio signal to a GPS satellite in high Earth orbit, a group of sats that had survived the bugs destruction. His position was being relayed to their New York base where and operator matched his coordinates. "Fifty feet."
        "Yeah, I got him," he said into the mike. He turned and called the NG medic team and then sprinted forward cautiously. Don’t let him be dead, he prayed. He wasn’t. A faint pulse, a very faint pulse, but nonetheless there. The medics arrived and pushed him out of the way, flashing a miniature light in his pupils, checking his heart rate and then expertly manhandling him into a stretcher.
        He rose and walked over to the floater, wrinkling his nose at the smell of fried meat. Ugly bastard. He located the bug’s weapons lying to one side and picked it up. Hoped the techies could figure it out because it sure packed a wallop.

        McCormick stepped out into the cold, bleak New York evening and took a deep breath. He looked around, taking in the destruction nearly for the first time. He had been so psyched on arriving that he had casually glanced at the fallen rubble, the burning and crushed cars, the toppled lamp posts. His brain storing it for further use, hardly acknowledging the scenery.
        Shops, their Christmas decorations adding a surrealistic effect, sported shattered fronts, glass littering the sidewalks. The sky was heavily overcast, snowing again, piling on the sidewalks and creating a river of slush. It felt strangely peaceful. The calm after the storm.
        Where would it end? Would we all die?
        A squaddie came running up.
        "Mac, we got a couple of NG ‘copters coming in for med evac."
        "How many wounded we got." He reflected that he hadn’t had time to count the casualties.
        "KC’s squad has two wounded, one ... gone. Lee’s whole squad is out. Nothing fatal but they won’t be playing ball this afternoon either. Four squad is okay and we have a mild concussion." Besides the beheaded squaddie.
        "Who?"
        "Dee." Beautiful. Seven men left of sixteen. And the rest were probably feeling as shitty as himself. Tired as hell.
        "We sure we’re done here?" asked the Captain.
        "Local blues are two blocks south, doing a house to house. They have something like a thousand cops moving in. Unless there’s an insecto hiding right around here, the area is secure."
        "OK, let’s get the guys evaced and wait for the cops. Set up a perimeter defense, non-exposed." His work was done. For today.

        Cheyenne Mountain - X-COM Base

        Keller walked stiffly, picking his way through the rubble of the base, the bones and muscles of his chest aching at every step. His squads had combed every corridor, stairwell and room and found no other threats present.
        A Rapid Deployment company of Rangers had come in from the west coast and were now organizing in defensive positions. A further two companies, another two hundred men were due to arrive shortly. Bad news was starting to pour in by the truckload. NORAD had also been hit, but not as badly, the security forces managing to hold the aliens at bay while all personnel had holed up in the reinforced nuke shelters. X-COM base in comparison had been extremely ill protected. A lesson learned. The hard way.
        Colonel Hammet had been found dead, a rifle in his hand. Fought to the bitter end. The same fate of the fifty men that composed the base’s security detail. General Sachs had been at a conference at NORAD and had sought refuge in one the shelters.
        The scientists were okay, shaken but under the circumstances extremely lucky. They were to be evacuated immediately to a safer location and would return at a later date to retrieve whatever material had escape the destruction wrecked by the aliens.
        Keller trudged down a corridor, sidestepped a fallen man, a boy really, his open eyes staring unseeing into space. He knelt and passed his hands over the kid’s face, closing his eyes. The joy that he had felt on discovering that Catherine was safe was slowly leaving him.
        He had stared at Death many times, defied Her and turned away victorious every time. He had felt the pain of fallen comrades, seen friends die. But never had it touched him so. He remained kneeling, head bowed low, a lump growing in his throat.
        A hand touched his shoulder gently. A group of Rangers were herding the scientists and techs to waiting helicopters. Catherine stopped and knelt by his side.
        "Hi," she said. What a silly thing, but how important to him. He caressed her cheek, wiped a tear that escaped an eye.
        "Why?" she asked. Why. Why us? Why the attack? Couldn’t we have worked together?
        "I don’t know," his words heavy. She leaned over and pecked his cheek.
        'Thank you’ she mouthed silently. He smiled.
        "Don’t miss your ride," he said. "I’ll check up on you as soon as we get this mess cleared."
        "I love you," she said suddenly. "I knew you’d come. I had a feeling that it would all be all right. I’m a dumb tech, aren’t I?" she said, a tired smile forming faintly on her lips.
        "Nah. Rocket scientist."

        Area 51 - The Dinosaur Pen

        Big Bertha was in high gear, symbols racing down one side of the screen, images appearing and disappearing quickly in the center.
        "What’s it doing?" asked someone.
        "Scrolling strange symbols," replied Cole with a dirty look. Jeez, what a dumb question. Ahh, he’d spell it out. "Attack coordinates, my friend. It’s pretty obvious. They’re synching the attack, passing out information. Being pretty open about it all."
        "Like they think we could never listen in on their conversation," said a computer tech.
        "Or couldn’t care less."
        The symbols stopped. The screen was quiet for a second and then a global map appeared.
        "Uh-oh."

        The White House

        The Crisis Center seemed like a mad house. Operators conferred quickly on phones, gathering information, passing out orders. Men and women raced in and out with updates. The Secret Service stood guard, dead pan faces showing the strain.
        The President had retreated to the Oval Office in the Executive wing of the building.
        "Mr. President," said the JCS entering the room. "I have the latest updates." He carried with him a sheaf of papers, e-mail printouts and faxes. Internet was proving itself to excel at the job it had been designed for - keeping communications running in wartime conditions.
        The President waved him to a chair.
        "You might want to grab a coffee first," he said. Admiral Rourke rose and walked over to a tray with a coffee pot. How many hours since he’d last slept? He forgot. He poured the black liquid and sat down.
        "New York is secure. X-COM Team Two has neutralized all the aliens and Police and National Guard units are conducting house to house searches. More Guard units are mobilizing from upstate, arriving some time tomorrow. SWAT teams are stationed along all exits from Manhattan just in case. We’re diverting all available ambulances and emergency vehicles from the Tri-State area to help with the wounded. Hospitals in the region are preparing for the flood of wounded, and we’re also moving several squadrons of Army helicopters to assist with evacuation. Army is setting three campaign hospitals in Central Park for those deemed in critical condition."
        "Do we have an estimate of the number of wounded?" the President asked.
        "Anywhere up to five thousand, sir."
        "God Almighty," he breathed.
        "The blast knocked down several buildings, catching a lot of people inside. Add those that were out on the street. Firefighters are on scene, searching for survivors."
        "Can we cope?"
        "Yessir," said the JCS without a doubt. "We’re moving everything we have."
        "God Bless those people." It wasn’t just a worn phrase, he really felt it. "What about the other cities?"
        "Washington, Los Angeles and Miami also report extensive damage and a high number casualties. Same story, buildings that weren’t ready for the shock waves just gave. Obviously, LA reports less damage, but still in thousands range."
        The President sighed audibly. He seemed to have aged ten years. "Any other civilian targets?"
        "A few towns too close to military installations. Shock side effects mostly, nothing even comparable. But we’ll still be expecting dead and injured." The Admiral continued.
        "I have confirmation on military targets. Cheyenne Base was hit very hard. X-COM Team one was coming to New York to assist but managed to backtrack and arrive in time to save the people there. The whole security detail was," he paused. "Every one, killed."
        The President had his head resting lightly between his hands.
        "NORAD," continued Rourke, "was also attacked but the people managed to reach the shelters in time. The base was destroyed though. We’ve lost the Command Center, the Air Defense Ops Center, Missile Warning, Space Control. The whole deal."
        "What do we have that can replace this?"
        "National Command Authorities as well as regional command centers, Strategic Command. We’re covered, for now. Also, San Diego Naval Base reports extensive damage, along with Forts Bragg, Benning in Georgia, Drum in New York and Meade in Maryland. Other installations, I have the complete list, are confirming light attacks. I’ll have more in less than half an hour. "
        The head of the Vice-President Margaret Bloomenthall appeared at the door. She rapped loudly on the frame.
        "Margaret, come in."
        "Just got word from our allies. Madrid, Rome, London and Berlin are reporting attacks. Much smaller than ours and confined only to a few military installations. We expect to receive the same news from Paris, Brussels, Oslo and other capitals shortly."
        "Are we on the horn with them?"
        "Yes, but everybody’s occupied with damage control at the moment."
        The President turned to the JCS.
        "How effective was our attack on the alien vessel?"
        "Very successful, all things considered. They had their guard down and missed the sat until it was on them. Photographic analysis indicates heavy damage throughout the hull. They’ve abandoned Earth orbit and are currently stationed at the Moon. Localized attacks are being carried out by the smaller UFOs."
        "Can we take them out?"
        "Negative, sir," said the JCS softly. "That’s all we had. The ASAT program was decommissioned in ninety three and we only had the eight birds. As you know, all our Brilliant Pebbles sats are gone."
        The President smashed his hand on the table.
        "For the love of God," he cried. "Are we powerless to stop them?"
        "For now, yessir."
        "For now?"
        The JCS looked at the Secretary of Defense who had been sitting quietly to one side.
        "Let me get you up to speed, Mr. President. After funding was cut for the ASAT programs and land-based weapons were to comprise only terminal warhead defense, BMDO - the Ballistic Missile Defense Organization - started funding significant research in space-based particle weapons."
        The President had his eyes riveted on the Admiral. So far, it was old news to him.
        "We currently have two Neutral Particle Beam satellites in orbit that have escaped destruction. Mainly, because they were designed to closely resemble weather satellites."
        "Neutral what?" asked the President.
        "The NPB concept exploits the capability of atomic particles to kill sensitive electronic equipment."
        The SecDef raised his eyes and spoke. "We discussed it as an alternative to the NEO buster but discarded it. One reason basically. The Advanced Beam Control System, the eyes of the bird, was to be replaced next year. Right now, the bird is non-functional."
        "By what means was it to be rendered functional next year?" asked Hartman.
        "Shuttle mission. We were going to substitute the ABCS with a new component."
        "Hard to do now with the aliens orbiting up there," said Hartman slowly. He felt as if the two men were holding back.
        "Possibly. The satellite could be moved into Earth orbit directly opposite the Moon."
        "Gentlemen, cut the crap," said the President. "If you have an idea I want to hear it."
        "It’s a suicide plan," said the SecDef. "Consisting of hiding the NPB sat from the large UFO by positioning it directly away from the Moon at all times. Then launching a Shuttle mission on a direct window profile, with zero orbital passes, repair the bird and get back down."
        "How long?"
        "Seven hours to reach and capture the satellite, four to six hours to fix it."
        "What about the smaller UFOs?"
        "At present, stationary over Europe. But the pattern they’re following indicates they could be over Australia in six days. We’d be launching on the other side of the planet. There’s a possibility it will go unnoticed."
        "A possibility."
        "That’s correct. It could be a total fiasco."
        "Can we set up a launch in three days?" asked Hartman incredulously.
        "Endeavour has been ready since hostilities began. Setting on the pad would take forty eight hours, sir."
        "If this ... beam ... hit them, would it work?"
        "Yes, sir. The alien vessels we’ve investigated use electronic concepts similar to ours. The resulting surge would cause considerable damage to their equipment."
        The President removed his glasses and passed his hand through his hair, letting a long breath out. He remained thus for a minute then raised his head.
        "Can it be done?"
        "Very low odds, sir. A lot of coincidences have to grace us. It’s a gamble."
        "I don’t gamble, Admiral."
        "I’m not a religious man either, Mr. President. But I’ve been praying every day."

        A young Captain coughed at the door.
        "Admiral, sir. I have a call on a Satcom link from Nevada AFB, authenticating with Snowbird. Verified it’s them, sir."
        The JCS turned to President Hartman.
        "Area 51, sir."

        Admiral Rourke terminated the communication with Area 51 and walked back to the Oval Office, a worried look on his face. More bad news. The President followed him with his eyes as he entered the room.
        "Good news for a change?"
        "No, sir. Area 51 believes the extraterrestrials are going to initiate a full scale invasion on Australia," said the Admiral bluntly.
        The President reeled at the news. He blew air and looked up at the ceiling.
        "How’d they arrive at that conclusion?"
        "The alien computer just pinpointed a possible attack on Northern Australia. Analyzing the data, they have reason to believe that anywhere from fifty to eighty UFOs and Robots will be involved. They’re sending the raw information for a second opinion."
        "Christ Almighty. Get the Australian Prime Minister on the horn right away."

        Northern Australia - January 2nd

        "There it is again!"
        The radar officer walked over again. He leaned over the radar operator and stared at the disappearing signal.
        "Bearing zero-zero-five. Range three-zero-zero. Right over the Pulau Kepu island."
        "What’s the course?"
        "Didn’t have it long enough," spat the operator.
        "Sir," someone said loudly. The senior man spun around. "Receiving a flash priority from RAAFCOM."
        "Print it," he ordered. He walked over to the machine as the paper started to spew. He read it and muttered a curse. He grabbed the radio that communicated with the cockpit.
        "Captain, orders just came in. We’re to move south east. Weasel activity east of Darwin."

        Kakadu National Park - Northern Australia - January 3rd

        The MH-60 Blackhawk flew at tree top level over the beautiful expanse of the Kakadu national park. Kakadu - derived from the Aboriginal Gagadju - stretches over 19,000 square kilometers in the tropical north of Australia, encompassing four different territories. Sheer cliffs, gorges and ravines dissect the Arhem Land Plateau, hosting torrential rivers in the wet season and allowing monsoon forests to grow unchecked. To the north and west occupying the largest slice of the park, a traveler can find the rolling lowlands, covered with open forest.
        Further north the lowlands end in wide floodplains which flank the major rivers and creeks. Regular flooding during the wet season transforms these plains into inland seas. Finally, the floodplains turn to saline tidal flats, housing mangrove forests, before meeting the sea.
        Inside the helicopter, eight men of the Australian X-COM Team sat huddled in full jungle gear, faces blackened with dark green grease paint. The helicopter skimmed at its maximum speed of one hundred and fifty knots, whipping the leaves of the low, lush trees as it passed by.
        The pilot checked the instrument panel, his eyes darting continuously between the jungle and the gauges in the cockpit, RPM, torque and engine temp. Outside, impressive thunder clouds hung heavy in the night air. Northern Australia has two seasons: dry and wet. They were slap in middle of the latter and the storm was brewing mightily, close to discharging.
        The pilot rotated his head slowly from side to side, the NVGs giving him a robotic appearance. Through them the world became bright green, shadows dancing in front of him as he flew with inertial navigation and precious little else at twenty feet over the canopy of the jungle. The base commander had promised American Pave Lows before the end of the month, fully equipped with all-weather systems and FLIR navigation, but for now he would have to make do with the Blackhawk.
        "Ten miles to the LZ," said the left-seater. The pilot nodded silently as the copilot toggled the red warning light in the rear cabin. The pilot smiled lightly, briefly remembering how he gotten into Special Ops. Initially a SAR operations chopper driver, he vividly recalled the morning a tough Major had asked to see him. A hot and humid morning, almost a year ago today, sitting, somewhat nervously he had to admit, in front of the hard-ass officer of the Australian SAS.
        "You have to make a tough decision, Captain. Continue flying Search and Rescue missions, bragging to girls about it to get laid. Or," he had said and paused. "Or, have the shit beaten out of you in SOF training, then spend the rest of your career flying at less than 100 feet in the worst imaginable conditions."
        Easy choice.
        It takes about a year to train a SAS pilot, motivate him and perfect his skill to the point where he can yell the aircrew’s motto: ‘I’ll accomplish the mission if I have to carry the damn helicopter!’
        Radio silence was being maintained as always in deep infiltration missions.
        In the rear, Captain Andy Scott checked his equipment, Plasma Rifle with attached grenade launcher, medikit, PRC 112 emergency radio and MX-300 squad level radio, spare batteries, water bottle, binoculars and a small video camera. Each man would be carrying over 100 pounds of equipment.
        The light above his head turned green and the helicopter slowed quickly, dropping to the ground. The back ramp swung open and the commandos raced out.

        Scott crept invisibly through the foliage, blending like a chameleon with the surroundings. The wind had picked up considerably and he judged the thunderstorm to be very close. It would be another very wet night. Fine with him. A former Australian SAS member, water was second nature to him. The only thing that worried him was lightning exposing them. The Top End, the colloquial term for Australia’s northern regions, hosts more lighting strikes than any other spot on the planet.
        The team moved fast and silently, a living, breathing animal, totally coordinated, hand signals passed constantly back and forth supplying information to the man in front and behind. If a fire fight erupted, everyone needed to know instantly what to do.
        They set up in the typical SpecOps fashion; Point Man twenty or so yards in front, then the Patrol Leader, two Gunners, Corpsman, a third Gunner, the Assistant Patrol Leader and Rear Security Man. He pulled the hand-held GPS Plugger unit from his pack and lit the screen, dousing the light with his hand. About one mile from the target area.
        A night heron exploded in a flurry wings in front of them, startling the point man. Electricity flowed through them, rivaling the electron buildup form the storm. The landscape had become easier to transverse, trees spreading out thinner. They walked single file through the tall grass, making no noise.
        The point suddenly lifted his hand and they all crouched on the spot.
        "Point," said Scott in a whisper through the squad radio.
        "Billabong," came the reply. A fresh water pool of water formed during the rainy seasons. The point had come up on a croc, the prehistoric beast over 10 feet long, spotting it a few yards away. It spoke highly of his keen eyesight, unaided by NVGs so as not to ruin his night vision, that he had not trodden on the hard to see animal.
        "Push right." The team angled to the right, avoiding the billabong.

        The alien camp lay in total darkness. Hardly anything moved but a powerful hum reached them clearly, indicating the use of heavy machinery or high energy lines. Scott fiddled with the magnification of the NVGs until he closed in on several structures. Clearly not from this world.
        He lay immobile, green camo DCPUs (Distorted Camouflage Patterned Uniform) over the armor blending him perfectly against the tall grass. A loud thunder clap signaled the beginning of the downpour, the heavens opening up like a broken dam. Lighting crashed into the earth, rippling in a million patterns, a bright blue flash a minute.
        He returned to his examination of the alien compound, panning slowly form left to right, taking every small detail in. The size of the compound shocked him. Several large structures occupied most of the central area, power lines snaking to and fro at ground level. Through the amplified glasses he spotted doors in each of the structures, most at ground level but others at different heights. Most of the structures however, he couldn’t assign a function to. He supposed they were mining equipment, power production systems and the like. What he did distinguish, bringing a bad taste to his mouth, were the eight large robots standing together at the farthest edge of the compound. Right in front of a half dozen fighters. Bad news. The fighters were stationed in a row, sleek, beautiful craft. Sitting on squat skids, they gave the appearance of being heavily armored, very fast and above all sporting a enormous amount of firepower. Very different from the ones he had been shown in photographs.
        Other structures were also recognizable. Ion Batteries for AA defense and possible a sprinkling of ground batteries.
        The compound was extremely well protected and he had no doubt that destroying it would turn out to be a major headache. For a fleeting moment he considered sneaking down for a closer inspection but quickly perished the thought. Giving the game away to a motion sensor, or whatever they used, would be foolhardy.
        The turned to his radio man.
        "Set up the Satcom." The satellite radio would burst transmit the information to HQ, a millisecond of bad news bouncing from one of the few intact comm birds.

        The rain came down so hard they could hardly see the compound any more. A sheet of water drenching them to the bone. Fortunately, the night air remained warm so the discomfort was lessened.
        Scott thought about all those movies of his youth. Han Solo, Captain Kirk, those were the voyages of the Starship Enterprise, the Millennium Falcon on point in case the going got tough. It pissed him off that extraterrestrial contact turned out more like the movie Alien than anything else. It’s probably what the Aztecs felt so many centuries ago when the Spanish conquistadores arrived. Hola, but we’ve got to kill you now.
        Well, screw you greenbutts, but we gonna fight back!
        He felt a hand touch his shoulder and looked back.
        "Transmission from HQ," said the commo man. "We stay put until further notice."
        Scott didn’t flinch. That’s what he had expected anyway.

Thanks!

X-COM: UFO Defence is copyright 1996 by Microprose Software, Inc. All rights reserved.