Optimus checked Sky Lynx's sensors. The Autobot, now in shuttle mode, circled 60,000 feet above the Arabian Peninsula. No aircraft, human or Decepticon, were near them. They should be able to conduct negotiations with the humans undisturbed.
I only hope they listen to reason.
He looked over his shoulder. The soldier named Hiatt treated the injured Qatari near the rear of the shuttle. Across from them, Wheeljack was reattaching Ironhide's severed arm. The human officers, Lennox and Ali Saeed, checked on the injured Qatari.
"He's got a concussion and a broke leg," reported Hiatt. "We need to keep him immobile and make sure he doesn't fall asleep until we get him to a hospital."
Both officers nodded, then went around to the other humans. Optimus observed them the entire time, noting their concern for the other soldiers. Whenever encountering a new species, that was one of the first traits he looked for. How do they treat others, especially those who are wounded or unable to defend themselves?
He sensed honor and compassion in both Lennox and Ali Saeed, sensed it in many of these humans. That and a willingness to fight against impossible odds. Even with weapons that could barely scratch a Decepticon, they still fought. These humans could make for good allies, perhaps even good friends.
"Always remember, Optimus, friend and ally are not always one in the same." He recalled the words of his long ago mentor, Alpha Trion.
"You doing okay, um, Ironhide, right?" Lennox stared up at the gray Autobot.
Ironhide grunted. "I have had worse damage. I will be functioning optimally very soon. It would be sooner if Ratchet were handling my repairs instead of Wheeljack."
Wheeljack flicked off his laser torch. "Well Ratchet is in the Dibaka System, so you have to settle for me. And by the way, you're welcome."
"You guys are lucky," said Lennox. "You lose an arm, you can get it reattached fairly easily."
"According to my data base on this planet," Ironhide spoke, "your repair specialists, or doctors, can also reattach limbs."
"Sometimes. Usually they use prosthetic limbs."
"And has this happened to you?"
"No. A lot of other soldiers, some friends of mine, they haven't been so lucky."
Ironhide slowly nodded. "From what I have accessed about your biology, human bodies are not as durable as ours, and need more time to recover from damage than we do."
"It depends on the damage . . . or injury. Of course, some people never fully recover."
"That will likely change as your medical technology advances."
"I'm not talking about just physical injuries." Lennox pointed to his head.
Ironhide gave him a confused look.
"Sometimes," said Bumblebee, "humans are unable to deal with war and suffer mental trauma because of it. Their term for it is PTSD, post-traumatic stress disorder."
Ironhide looked from Bumblebee to Lennox. "And you do not have programs within your processing core, or brain, to prevent these malfunctions from happening?"
"Considering what some of my friends have gone through, I wish we did."
Optimus' gaze fell on Lennox. He accessed his data banks for the term PTSD. His sympathy for the humans grew as he processed the information. This affliction resulted in depression, isolation, high usage of perception altering substances, even self-termination. Electric tremors went through his circuits. He couldn't comprehend the desire to want to end one's existence. All beings, from all civilizations, have dilemmas they deal with. Some minor, others serious. What sort of dilemma could be so serious that death was the only solution?
But the humans had many groups that help others deal with this PTSD. More often than not, they were successful. It was a testament to their compassion, and for those who have overcome this affliction, their strength.
They could indeed make great allies . . . and friends.
"Excuse me, Optimus Prime."
He looked down to find Simmons standing near him, still clutching the box containing the Allspark fragment.
"Since it doesn't look like we're about to be shot at by Decepticons or Iranians, shouldn't we get started on formal negotiations."
"You are correct." Optimus raised his head. "Sky Lynx. Access the communications network of the Americans' White House."
"At once, Prime."
"Whoa," said Simmons. "You're just going to call up the White House?"
"How else do you expect us to talk with your country's leader?"
"Um, look, Prime. This is the White House we're talking about, not the local pizza joint. What, are you going to tap into the phone in the Oval Office? You know what will happen if an alien race is able to break through all that communications security with almost no effort?"
Optimus paused. "It could cause them great concern, perhaps make them suspicious of us."
"Concern?" The pitch of Simmons's voice rose. "Suspicious? How about a full-blown panic attack. If they know you can break into White House communications, they'll think you can gain access to anything secure network in the country, or the world. Not the best way to build trust."
Optimus folded his arms across his massive chest and stared at Simmons. The human had a valid point.
"Very well. Who should we contact first?"
"Call the White House Communications Agency. And you better let me talk first. If you tell them you're a robot from another planet, they'll think you're nuts."
Confusion took hold of Optimus. He wondered why Simmons was making a reference to an Earth food. Another check of his information about humans revealed the term also referred to one's sanity, or the distinct lack of it.
"Sky Lynx. Do as the human says."
"Affirmative, Prime." Moments later, he said. "Link established."
A dull, pulsing tone went through the interior. That was followed by a clipped, female voice. "White House Communications Agency."
"Please pass the following coded message to your executive director. Spartan Sierra Tango Seven Five Two Four X-Ray."
A pause, then. "Standby."
At least three minutes passed before a new voice came on, male.
"Spartan, this is Colonel Raymond. Your code has been authenticated. So what's this about?"
"Please alert your bosses to the fact that I am with . . . one of the parties involved in the today's incidents in the Middle East."
"Who exactly is this party?"
"Sorry, Colonel, but you're not authorized to know," said Simmons. "I assume you've seen my security clearance level."
"I have."
"Good. Then put me in touch with someone who has that same clearance."
"Everyone who does is currently meeting in the Situation Room," Raymond told him.
"Then put me through to the Situation Room."
A heavy pause. "Standby."
Simmons looked up at Optimus. "Sorry about this. That's the way government works. You have to go through six or seven different people before you get the one you actually want."
"A most inefficient way to operate."
"Tell me about it."
Five minutes later, a major from the White House Situation Room contacted Simmons. After more codes and cryptic talk was exchanged, the major replied, "Standby."
"We will eventually talk with this President of the United States, won't we?" asked Bluestreak.
"Don't worry," Simmons turned to him. "We will . . . maybe . . . hopefully."
Ten minutes passed before another male voice was heard. "Agent Simmons, are you there?"
Simmons's brow furrowed. "Director Banachek? You're at the White House?"
"I'm on a video feed to the Situation Room. All hell's broken loose with the attack on our JSOC base and the Carney."
"I figured it would, sir."
"What's the status of the NBEs?" asked Banachek.
"The hostile ones retreated when the friendly ones showed up."
"Friendly ones?"
"They're called Autobots, sir," replied Simmons. "The ones that destroyed the base and the Carney are Decepticons."
"Autobots? Decepticons?" The doubt in Banachek's voice was unmistakable. "You're serious?"
"You can ask them yourself. I'm in a shuttle with five of them. We'll, six if you include the shuttle itself. It's actually an Autobot named Sky Lynx."
"Sky Lynx? The alien's name is -"
"Director Banachek," Optimus interrupted. "I am Optimus Prime, leader of the Autobots. What Agent Simmons says is true. We prevented Megatron and the Decepticons from taking the fragment of the Allspark he recovered."
"Where is the fragment now?" Banachek asked in a deliberate tone.
"I still have it," said Simmons. "Optimus Prime wants to negotiate with the President for us to return it to him."
"That is not the only reason I must talk to your leader," Optimus added. "Now that Megatron knows there is an Allspark fragment on this world, he will not rest until he secures it. As you witnessed with your desert base, he will not hesitate to kill any human who gets in his way. It will be in both our interests to form an alliance. In fact, it might be the only way to save your civilization from destruction."
"Uh-huh," muttered Banachek. Several seconds passed before he said, "Standby."
There was a click over the communicator.
"'Standby,'" echoed Springer. "I'm starting to hate that word."
"Maybe we should take bets on what'll happen first," said Epps. "We talk to the President or Megatron blows up the world."
"Much as I hate to say it," said Bumblebee, "but at this rate, if I did have money, I'd have to consider putting it on Megatron."
"Ha!" Donnelly barked out. "Robot's gotta sense of humor."
Lennox stepped over to Simmons. "So this Banachek guy. What's he director of?"
"The agency I work for."
"Which is . . ."
Simmons gave him a half-grin. "Sorry, Captain. I'm still not authorized to tell you."
Lennox scowled at him.
A minute later, Banachek re-established contact. "Simmons. Do you have video communications capability?"
He looked up at Optimus, who nodded. "We do, sir."
"Good. We're going to patch you through to the Situation Room."
"Sky Lynx. Set up a secure video link between us and the White House," Optimus ordered.
"At once, Prime."
Seconds later the screen over the cockpit window flashed on. It showed a large wooden table with men and women in either suits or military uniforms. The closest man to the camera was tall, wore a dark suit and had black-gray hair. His eyes widened in surprise and his mouth started to hang open wordlessly. Quickly, the human regained his composure.
"Are you Optimus Prime?"
"I am."
The human nodded. "I'm the President of the United States, and it appears we need to talk."
TO BE CONTINUED
