Phil Garner stood outside the United Nations headquarters, bracing himself against the biting December cold. Snowflakes swirled through the air, settling over New York in a scene that would have been idyllic—if not for the ominous alien spaceship hovering above the skyscrapers.
It was Christmas Eve, and the world held its breath, waiting to see what the aliens would do. All the hopes of the UN now rested with Moses and his small team.
"Now that's an impressive sight," Bob Denton said as he joined Phil. Dressed in a thick jacket and a woolly hat, Bob tried to ward off the chill.
He gestured toward the vast military presence gathered nearby. New York had been transformed into a makeshift fortress, with armies from around the globe converging to prepare for the alien threat.
Phil sighed, his breath clouding in the cold air. If it came to a fight, he knew many of those soldiers wouldn’t make it. The uncertainty gnawed at him.
He still wasn’t pleased about General Dougray's involvement. The hotheaded general wasn’t someone he trusted to remain calm under pressure. After the Taiwan debacle, Phil was surprised Dougray had even kept his rank.
The power of corruption and lies triumphs again, Phil thought bitterly.
Noticing Phil's sombre mood, Bob offered him a cigar. "Cigars, Bob? I never imagined you smoked," Phil remarked as he accepted it.
"Yeah, well, they’re the only thing that gets me through these bloody winters," Bob joked before his expression turned serious.
"My team’s been monitoring the alien vessels. The one blocking the Manhattan skyline is emitting some kind of low-level energy bursts. We think it’s their method of communication. If so, it’s way more effective and faster than radio signals. The signals seem to travel just under the speed of light."
"And the other one—the one that's disappeared from our observers and telescopes?"
Bob scratched his nose and took a drag of his now-lit cigar before answering. "That ship is definitely the source of the initial transmission. It hasn’t vanished completely, though. One of our telescopes can still see it in the X-ray spectrum. They must be using cloaking technology—straight out of science fiction."
Phil shook his head. "Maybe we should just take it down. Imagine the tech inside. It could advance us by centuries."
Bob raised an eyebrow. "Always thinking about the tech, Phil. But have you considered the consequences? When the Spanish arrived in the Americas, they had superior technology too, and they wiped out the civilisations they found. What’s to say this will end any differently?"
"Moses will figure out what they want. If they intended to wipe us out, they’d have done it by now—and sent more than just two ships. Besides, these two are quite different from each other," Bob replied.
Before Phil could respond, the deafening roar of dozens of fighter jets echoed above them. The skies over New York were already thick with jets and helicopters, but this was different.
"Looks like the Europeans have arrived," Bob said, tossing his cigar into the snow and stamping it out.
Out in Hudson Bay, the battle groups of six nations had arrived.
Humanity was ready for a fight. Phil just prayed it wouldn’t come to that.
Genera sped toward the airfield in his Pontiac Firebird, a task at hand that would make him wealthier and more powerful than he ever imagined. He drove as fast as the car could go, the desert landscape blurring past. His destination was a remote airstrip, as instructed by his new employer. He knew exactly what needed to be done.
In the glove compartment lay the key to his success: a small alien device that would allow him to take on the appearance of anyone, as long as he could get a clear view of them. For espionage, the Olmeca cloaker was unmatched.
Veering off the main road onto a hidden dirt track, Genera drove for several miles before the airstrip came into view. The Olmeca agent sent to Earth decades ago had ordered the construction of the site, operating under the guise of a wealthy oil tycoon.
Genera smirked. These Olmeca are my kind of aliens.
He parked by a large, rusting hangar and forced open the rotting doors. Inside, a battered old aeroplane sat under a tattered blanket. It wasn’t the sleek alien craft he had expected. He frowned, circling the plane in confusion.
Then, the small device in his pocket beeped. He pulled out the metallic disk and pressed the flashing button at the top. The plane shimmered, dissolving before his eyes. In its place was a bird-shaped craft with a sleek, silver hull—like nothing he had ever seen before.
Approaching cautiously, Genera watched as the canopy of the craft popped open with a soft hiss. He found a rusty stepladder nearby, climbed it, and settled into the command chair.
Itzamná, the alien orchestrating this mission, had explained everything. All Genera had to do was insert the metallic disk into a slot in front of him. Once done, the craft would synchronise with Itzamná’s ship, and the coordinates for New York would be set.
Genera slid the disk into place. Instantly, the craft lifted off the hangar floor, rotating as its stealth systems engaged, rendering it invisible to any would-be observers.
Within minutes, the ship soared northward, carrying Genera toward the unfolding drama in New York. Soon, Itzamná’s plan would begin in earnest.