Chapter 1

The Kamikaze Project served as one of the better justifications for having established think tanks and research colonies. The genesis of the project was the result of an observation made by a Commodore Singh. He watched the effects of his dependent toddlers on a stack of papers piled on his desk. He advanced the concept with one open-ended 'if' question to an AI, made without well-defined parameters, and then compounded the situation by turning the idea to subordinates without any limitations.

The resulting plan was to create inclement weather as a weapon to use against the Swarm. In theory it could have, should have worked; F5 plus tornado winds caused by a monstrous force field bellows scattering Swarm forces across a battlefield. In reality, that turned out to be unfeasible; the idea had been a complete failure. The modified generators would have required only about fifty thousand cubic feet of available space, no more space than an unexpanded habitat pod. The energy expenditure on the other hand required a seventy-thousand-ton Goddess Class Battle Cruiser's entire energy output, while committing the generating ship to a near geosynchronous orbit. The Navy never even received the proposal. It went straight into the misfit file.

Resurrected from that file, the idea found use on a much more delicate scale. Locating the field generators outside of the Artemis moon base solved two of the issues instantly. The power requirements were reduced by over three magnitudes, down to half of what a factory replicator needed. Between the Earth's rotation and the moon's orbit, the relative differences in angular momentum supplied power for the fields' movements similar to dragging your foot to stop a rolling automobile. These furrows in Earth's atmosphere never could actively control the weather. But by making tiny adjustments, changing the barometric pressure a few millibars in an area, drawing moisture toward or away from a location, it, more accurately, shaped the weather. The occurrence of forest fires, droughts, and floods had been changed. Growing seasons became a bit more stable. Even a few cyclones and hurricanes had either never grown in intensity as originally projected, or they had remained offshore. Such subtle changes required little effort, given a few days or weeks to nudge a parameter or two.

Such was the case in central Florida during the rainy season. Specialist Miyazaki Hideaki delighted in playing with thunderstorms. If only he had had this setup when he was seeking his M.S. in Meteorology at Virginia, life would have been much easier. Miyazaki's assignment was to create a storm as cover for an extraction operation. That was last Tuesday. He started shifting the sea breeze collisions westward at 2:30 PM on Wednesday. By Friday, 4:00 PM the National Weather Service at Ruskin, Florida had issued a severe thunderstorm watch for Hillsborough, Pasco, and Polk Counties until 9:00 PM.

Hideaki picked eight target cells. By 5:15 PM, the tops of those clouds reached sixty thousand feet. He made conductive conduits between his creations eliciting a heavy display of lightning. Once the extraction team was in place, he would increase the lifting force field over the selected thunderheads. The sudden cooling of that tropical air would trigger the thunderstorm. Now the dance began. He had to keep the potential threat active, but deny the formation of a funnel cloud. Mimicking circulation in the clouds for the local weather radars to view became the challenge.

Corporal Edward Ramirez found his predicament not amusing at all. Yes, he still had a valid driver's license good for another three years. He still had brown eyes, black hair, and the natural honey tan any Puerto Rican sported; unfortunately, it didn't reflect the sixty pounds of muscle or the nine extra inches added to his frame. He couldn't flash his Confederacy ID, as this was a covert mission. His hair kept rubbing into the sagging headliner of the battered USF maintenance van, flakes of something kept falling. When he found the punk who pissed off the Intelligence Department and got his squad volunteered for this operation ... Officer or not, that guy needed one good punch to the gut.

Having the Kusari body armor did little to comfort him. The nanotube scales effectively made seventy percent of his body able to withstand an AK47 round. It was the fact that his head was in that exposed thirty percent which added to his tension. Having an MPC carbine eased his worry a bit. About the size of an H&K MP5, the close-quarter plasma weapon brought to the table a wicked set of surprises. These even included a stunner mounted under the main barrel in place of the GL-8 grenade launcher. Stop 'em, drop 'em and then fry 'em; a recipe for Earth First Fritters.

The wind buffeted the van, jarring him back to the present. Lightning flashes danced bright and seemed to be very near. Booms followed within three seconds.

The professors' people being extracted believed it took a semi to deliver the cargo-rated transporter pad. They had been snowed big time. Captain Unitas didn't like the setup one bit, saying his 'butt hairs weren't as kinky as this fuck up'. They were there that Friday night to evacuate a group of engineering pre-packs, snatching them two days before an Earth First plan to fake a pickup, kill the volunteers and acquire a weapon to attack testing centers. On Sunday afternoon, the Earthees would find no scientists waiting to be killed, just a marine ambush.

Driving slowly, he made his way to the cluster of engineering buildings. He had thought having a GPS with flashing arrows was annoying. Try having an AI give you directions while storm clouds are brewing. It was times like these that he wanted to rip the computer interface out of his head. If it reminded him one more time that the turn into the Math-Physics parking lot is not a direct ninety-degree left...

The AI continued the onslaught that only he could hear. "The turn into the Math-Physics parking lot is not a direct ninety-degree left. You will be required to signal a U-turn followed by an immediate right turn."

Ramirez turned sharply. The abused van bounced over the flat twenty-foot wide median. Driving onto the sidewalk, he took the most direct route to the back faculty parking and service area.

"Had a law enforcement official been present to cite you, you could have accumulated over twelve points on your license." The smooth voice served only to further agitate him.

Arriving at his destination, he shifted the van's transmission in park and shut off the engine. The growl of anger, frustration, and rage ended as Ramirez shook his torso back and forth using the wheel to steady himself.

"Fucking AI! Sarge, I want it removed." Ramirez could see spittle flying from his mouth.

Avery Dumont, Ramirez's sergeant, rolled out of the front seat onto the pavement. Laughing hysterically, he pointed at Ramirez. "Payback's a bitch!"

He lay there until Ramirez crossed to his side of the van. He stood looking down at Dumont then thrust out a helping hand. Grasping the corporal's hand, the sergeant took Ramirez's offer to help him stand.

"Payback for what, Dumont?"

Dumont motioned for a moment. By now, the six other members of the team were filing out of the van watching the display. Taking a deep a breath, the sergeant got that look he did when he talked to the AI. He turned to address the men trying desperately to decide if laughing was appropriate.

"I see twenty tables and two hundred chairs. They need to be stored in the custodial area of Engineering Building Two." He pointed to a loading dock with a half-open rolling steel door. "There is a catering crew wandering around. Blend in. Remember to act like you are lifting something heavy, other than the van." Choosing safety in action, the men dispersed to the task.

"Let's get the bags out of the back."

Opening the back, Dumont handed the top two bags to Ramirez. "Remember when we got picked up," Ramirez smiled. "I had to lose my Prince Albert." Ramirez glanced down quickly at Dumont's groin. "Who convinced the AI that I would need instructions on how to use my fixed dick?" He finger quoted the words 'fixed dick'.

Memories flooded back, Ramirez felt his jaw where the tooth had been temporarily lost that fateful evening. Ramirez began snickering. "Come on Sarge, I remember the look on Enid and May's faces when you yelled out, 'I do have the necessary skills to use my own cock'." In slow motion, Ramirez faked an illegal low blow. "What those two did to you that night to verify the truth for the AI will live forever in battalion lore."

Dumont smiled, shifting his package to the right, "Maybe."

"Trust me, I have the box score."

Dumont just smiled, shrugging his shoulders. A sudden thunderclap ended the mirth. He and Ramirez shifted into readiness mode.

"Get inside with Brady and isolate the communication links."

Ramirez jogged toward the back of the building carrying two equipment bags. Dumont watched him enter before turning his attention to his men.

"Sarge," droned out a complaint, "why are we policing this area?"

Dumont paused long enough to push thoughts of murder out of his mind. "I believe the words 'move these fucking tables and chairs inside' came from out of my mouth!" He grabbed the last two large equipment bags out of the back of the van. "The eight of us need to blend in, Porkins. Try to act like you belong here."

How the squad of men ranging from six-foot-seven to six-foot-nine could look inconspicuous didn't seem to bother private Porkins. This was Charlie Company's last pickup before heading out to a post.

Porkins put the last few chairs onto the dolly. "I'd rather be on Brak bangin' my women." He lifted the front half of the loaded hundred-chair-dolly up over the curb and onto the sidewalk with his foot. The fact that he lifted five hundred pounds with little effort never registered. He moved to the back of the dolly, lining it up to lift the rear wheels onto the sidewalk.

Sergeant Dumont set the equipment bags on the stacked folding chairs. "We have a tight timeline. Keep jackin' around, and fuckin' up, and the only place your dick is going is up a maneuvering thruster on our shuttle to check for carbon buildup while I burp the throttle."

Porkins lifted the back half with his foot, setting the dolly wheels firmly on the ramp to the loading dock. "Sarge, is that how they used to cure crabs?"

"Only for little tweezers dicks like you..." Sergeant Dumont paused.

Porkins halted the half-ton dolly, keeping it from rolling into Dumont.

"Specialist Miyazaki Hideaki is preparing to strengthen the thunder storm." The AI spoke calmly into each squad member's implant. "Simulations predict the National Weather Service will declare this a severe thunderstorm in approximately twelve minutes. Corporal Ramirez has deployed the systems interrupt module. The internal functions of the targeted Engineering Building are now under Confederacy control."

The greenish black hue dominated the sky, triggering Dumont to flashback to his youth, growing up in tornado alley. "You faggots heard that, move it!" All of the university buildings might be hurricane shelters, but fucking twisters were scary.

Robbie Moore pushed the vendor cart along the sidewalk of Apple Drive in front of the library. Getting the vendor permits to sell at the Friday market in front of Cooper Hall had been one of his granddaddy's best ideas. Eight months of onsite observations, it also meant spending more time with his bitch-wife Joyce. However, the trinkets she sold had kept him in beer. Since it was still warm, there was a good bit of eye candy flaunting itself for his viewing pleasure. What a man must suffer to be a patriot. He hummed the James Bond theme.

"We're coming tomorrow Robbie, right?" Joyce asked.

There were disadvantages to being with Joyce in public. He couldn't afford to slap her in the face. "Tomorrow yes, Sunday is the Jets game."

"The people from Dahlia's Florist want me to bring all the triple layer plant hangers I have." Whiney as ever, she was like a child seeking approval.

"Regular price?"

"No fifty cents off each..."

He jammed his index finger into the ribs he had punched this morning. She flinched and stepped away.

"How many?"

Trembling, she replied while pulling her hand up to her chest. She made a fist then a peace sign. "Fifty units Robbie, the last of the ones from spring."

"How much are we getting?"

"Two-twenty-five."

"Get the van open. I'll think about what to do while I walk over."

Joyce wasn't fun anymore. No more tears, the fight was all gone, she was just a pleasing manikin. As his granddaddy would say, you should trade women when you trade boats. He had seen the neatest Bass Tracker last week at O'Grady's. He would buy it when granddaddy's plan worked out. A storm was brewing; he pushed the cart a little faster.

Back in January, Colonel Jessop had contacted Robbie's granddaddy, Vernon. He and some of his Vietnam War buddies knew what needed to be done. Sometimes sacrifices happened; sometimes innocent people had to die. This Confederacy plot was just a way to bring about the New World Order. Everyone swallowed the bait. The United Nations even had a vote. It wasn't like the Freemasons who were holed-up, waiting to swoop in and take over; it was aliens. Once the humans had beaten the lizard guys back to the far side of hell, this Confederacy would want to keep them as slave warriors.

A boom of thunder made Robbie look up. He needed to get to the parking lot. Joyce had the back doors open, and was setting the ramps in place. He would be able to load quickly.

As he neared the divided four-lane street that served as USF's main entrance, a van full of college workers cut over the median. He watched them hurrying up the sidewalk behind the three-story building, where the outside demonstrations had been for the Expo. They looked like football players through the windows, perfect patsies for the New World Order.

Crossing the four-lane street, he saw them exit the van in the distance near, near the back of the building, where a bunch of chairs and tables stood. These wannabes who couldn't make it at UF or LSU, rejects who'd get their brains wired and bodies pumped up on steroids. Then they show up selling a pack of lies while pretending to be Space Marines. They had computer interfaces in their head, once implanted they were nothing but robots. They never knew he and his granddaddy were gonna save punks like them from becoming duped slaves of aliens.

Those humans strong enough to resist received low scores like his. The few people whose mind was strong enough to possibly expose them, were murdered. Their killers hid behind a law protecting those with six point five or higher scores.

To keep different universities from seeking the truth, the Confederacy tossed money and technology crumbs for the professors to play with. Old Mack, one of Vernon's soldiers, had a great-grandson involved here at USF. They had developed what they called a land torpedo. Robbie had seen the video that Old Mack had. It could ram through any wall, cover over a quarter mile in eight seconds, and carry two tons of explosives. They were working on a way to stop it from melting and let it turn.

It took three months of surveillance to verify that the torpedo existed; followed by two months of covert contact until they convinced Professor Jenna that they were part of the Confederacy.

Hook, line, and sinker, those so-called geniuses swallowed the bait. Sunday night, the last day of the Engineering Expo, would be the pickup. Trophy fish on this stringer would include a few prototypes and the people who could build more. The Confederacy would never know until testing centers started blowing up.

A fucking Spic in a security cart waved at him. Robbie forced himself to wave back, another wetback taking a job from a real American. If this invasion was real, maybe they could force the Swarm to land in Mexico. Eat a bunch of greasy Spics, the aliens would die from Montezuma's Revenge. That thought he would share; he would get a laugh from Vernon. Robbie lifted his leg to help ease out a long fart.