Escape
Omega: Book 1
a serial novella
Keith Latch
Smashwords Edition
Escape, Omega, Book 1
Escape © 2012 by Keith Latch
Cover Design and Layout by Apparatus Revolution, LLC
http://www.stevewands.blogspot.com
swandsart@gmail.com
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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For those that despise injustice…but are powerless to stop it
Chapter 1
July 4, 1947
Stars span our universe. In millions of galaxies far beyond our own, trillions of blazing suns exist with planetoid systems capable of supporting life we cannot begin to comprehend. There are those that say we are alone. Some say that we are nothing but a cosmic mistake and life, on any world, in any galaxy, is a fool’s notion. For millennia, humanity has cast its gaze skyward, fascinated, captivated, and enthralled by the stars filling the night sky. If only one percent of all the stars in our little corner of the Milky Way sustained life, space, long believed to be an isolated void, would literally teem with life. “Is there anyone out there?” is one of the most asked questions in the history of our race. Late in the evening of July 4, 1947, Independence Day—a perfect summer night—a handful of people in the New Mexico desert, in a stretch of barren land just outside the city limits of the small, almost unknown town of Roswell, would learn the answer. It was an answer they were not ready for.
From beyond our neighboring planets, from beyond our solar system, across light years of empty, cold nothingness, a spacecraft approached our little blue world.
The craft was tiny, inconsequential in the grand scheme of the cosmos. Chrome, sleek, without right angles, and curves instead of hard corners, it had the smooth curvature of a plump raindrop. Contrary to our own understanding of the laws of physics, the tiny ship moved without engine blast. It looked to be making way under some invisible, impossible force.
It passed the orbits of the outer planets, though the only planet it passed closely during its zooming voyage sunward was the gas-giant Jupiter. Taking no pause to study the swirling storms that raged within the planet, the ship continued on at its incredible speed. Nothing more than a small grain of sand in a vast ocean of cold darkness, the ship began to catch, and then reflect, the increasing brightness of our sun. Once safely through the asteroid belt, onboard telemetry adjusted, the course corrected for the most efficient point of approach for the third planet orbiting this star.
All went well until a few hundred thousand miles from our moon when the ship began to experience a tremor that, while unnoticeable from the exterior, rocked the swooping vessel hard enough to damage navigational systems. The ship’s course became slightly erratic. At the speed it was traveling and the distance yet to traverse, the small veer was akin to a marksman dropping his sights just a hair’s breadth to the low right on a target a mile away: the further it traveled on its angled approach, the greater the deviation became.
The sky erupted in blue flame.
An explosion as massive as it was silent lacerated the velvet night sky, obscuring hundreds of shimmering stars. Then, the massive cloud of brightest blue was gone, simply vanishing. A thin trail sliced through the heavens from the east to the west, spanning hundreds of miles, its vibrant blue, matching, if not surpassing the initial blaze.
The craft arced across the continent, having struck the upper reaches of the exosphere just above Newfoundland. By the time the ship plunged through the troposphere, it was just over Roswell, New Mexico.
Constructed of elements and materials fashioned and originating from the distant reaches of space, when the object finally collided with earth’s surface in a desolate stretch of desert, the resulting damage was simply incredible. Ten miles away, the ground trembled underfoot. Jackrabbits, coyotes, and lizards scurried away from the crash site as if Hades below had opened up to swallow them alive.
The ship did not stop at ground level. Its terminal velocity had been so great that it had punched a hole right into the sediment as if the dry, arid New Mexican landscape were warm butter and it a hot blade. Burrowing through the rocky sediment, the ship finally came to a halt twenty meters down. After a moment, the world was silent again. No animal sounds, no shifting of dirt, no falling of rock. Only a full, bloated quiet. Nothing on the ground stirred and nothing within the ship flinched. The night was suddenly so very dead.
The spacecraft’s approach and descent, while swift and brief, was not missed completely. Almost twenty-five kilometers away, south by southwest, a special detachment of American soldiers and officers of the United States Army’s 509th deployed to meet and greet the alleged threat. The convoy of jeeps and trucks was halfway there before the dust even settled.
Radar control at both the 509th and nearby White Sands Army base initially believed the fallen object to be an enemy aircraft, most likely Russian. Lightning pealed across the sky. Thunder rumbled in the distance. More than one of the soldiers in the convoy wondered just what in the hell they were rushing into.
Those men that rode out that night knew next to nothing about what lay in wait for them. Whisperings, however, began immediately upon departure. Hushed tones spoke of things falling from space, aliens with guns that melted a man before you could blink and other, worse things, things better off not known. While most of the soldiers dismissed the talk as equal parts paranoia and speculation, they all wondered, at least a little, how much of the rumors just might be true.
When the first of the convoy arrived, they found out.
The fallen craft burrowed deep. Floodlights were quickly raised and directed in the fallen craft’s location. Many throats went dry and several of the enlisted and even a few of the officers found it a little hard to swallow for several moments. But, their training had been sound and true and even as the reality of what lay before them sank in, they started to work. Quiet at first, reserved. With the perimeter secured and transport requests radioed in, the usual banter of solider among soldier cranked up. Within an hour and a half of their arrival, the quarter mile around the crash site was swarming with light and life looking not unlike a military base unto itself. For now, the storm granted them reprieve and they worked uninterrupted.
Still, the thunder grew closer.
Captain Garret Fallow was the HOIC, “Head Officer in Charge,” as it were. His orders had been explicit. Ascertain and recover was the first directive. The second: contain and conceal. Unambiguous orders expected to be carried out to the letter. Captain Fallow was not one to take any orders, especially ones from a full-bird colonel, lightly.
Fallow surveyed the scene, both pleased to see his instructions carried out and still a bit shaken from the sight of the mysterious object that he couldn’t bring himself to believe was actually right there in front of him. Fallow had no way of knowing that the local army base was not the only witness to tonight’s crash.
“Enough, Gladys, enough.” Barney was exasperated to say the least.
“I cannot believe you.” Gladys was in the front seat and, up until two minutes ago, snuggling up to her boyfriend. Now, while Barney was irritated, she was livid.
“I forgot. That’s all. Anyone can make a mistake.”
“A mistake, Barney,” Gladys laughed, and not very kindly. “That’s what you call it? I call it stupidity. That’s right. Pure D stupidity.”
Barney just shook his head as he stepped out into the night and walked back to the trunk. He was quite sure there was a gas can in there. He was also sure it was quite empty. Gladys was a knockout that’s for sure. Generally, she was a sweet little thing. When that temper of hers raised its ugly head, though, well, that was a different matter entirely. As Barney raised the trunk, found the metal can, and was rewarded with just the barest of a splash, he knew there would be no kiss tonight. He the football captain, and her the head cheerleader, they should have been a match made in heaven. However, he was also of the mind that no matter how easy the girl was on the eyes, he wouldn’t be scolded every time something went wrong. Especially if it wasn’t his fault. The gas gauge hadn’t worked for over a year. He knew it. She knew it. It was her idea to go riding after the fireworks show at the town square. He could have said no, he supposed. But that pouty way she’d suggested it, the seductive leer, well, his mama might have a raised a fool, but if so it was his brother, certainly not him.
“Tell me you’ve got gasoline back there, Barney. Tell me that right now.”
“Well,” he started but gave up. What was the use?
Gladys, even from outside the car still had a voice that made the six-foot tall high school football player’s skin shiver. Something close to fingernails on a blackboard. “Wait until I tell my father about this! I’ll bet he’ll never let you step foot back on my front porch. I’ll bet he—”
“Just be quiet for a minute, will ya, Gladys?” It came out a bit rougher than he wanted and he immediately regretted it. Gladys slung open the passenger side down and was out, half-running at him in the blink of an eye. She was already pointing at him, hateful words spilling out.
All Barney could do was straighten up and take it like a man. Nope, no kiss tonight. Not even a little one. Maybe never again.
“Let me tell you one thing you overgrown farm boy. I’m a lady, whether you know it or not. I will not be stranded out here in the middle of nowhere and let you fool me into thinking we’re out of gas. I tell you, Barney, I will…”
Barney had been looking at the ground, studying his shoes during the rampage. When Gladys fell silent, he thought for a moment she was just catching her breath. Really, how could you yell all that with just two lungs? She didn’t say anything more. Slowly, like a frightened youngster, Barney looked up at her. Her eyes were wide and while her finger was still pointed out, it wasn’t pointing at him anymore. Instead, it pointed towards the heavens. Her eyes were wide as saucers and her mouth stretched out like a big O.
“Gladys, what in the world?”
Barney turned to see just what had shut this girl up. He saw exactly what she did.
Barney swallowed hard. “G-get in the car.” He started to move but noticed his sweetheart was still as a statue. “Get in, Gladys, get in now,” he shouted.
Barney grabbed her, scooped her up under an arm and threw her inside the front of the car, with him crashing down on her just as the Chevrolet rocked on its springs like the invisible hand of God had just slapped a little toy car. The frame creaked in protest and wind beat against the windows like a tornado.
Barney’s eyes clamped tight even as the car stilled. After all that, the last thing on his mind was a goodnight kiss.
With one headlight of the ragged old Ford pickup busted out, the road was hard enough to see. Add to that the rotgut he’d been drinking and Vernon Dodd was having a hard time keeping his truck on the road. Having worn out his welcome down at Freddie’s Oasis, just a small box of a bar just outside the Roswell city limits, he was now taking swigs from the bottle of Seagram’s 7 he kept up under the seat for when he really, really needed a drink.
Tonight, ole’ Vernon need not just a drink but the whole bottle. With every sip, the remaining headlight dimmed more and more. That and the road had doubled and was now tripling as he took another long pull from the bottle. To say Vernon was in a nasty mood was quite an understatement. In his opinion, he had every right to be.
“Earnestine,” he muttered. With the hand holding the neck of the Seagram’s bottle tight, he wiped away a tear. Vernon was one of those poor souls that, at times, could go from a raging maniac drunk to a slobbering, sobbing fool faster than two shakes of a dog’s tail. This happened to be one of those times.
Vernon wasn’t an educated man. Having dropped out of school in his fourth year, after his pa ran off, never to be heard from again, he’d never sought out to further his schooling beyond the skills necessary to eke out a living as a handyman.
Bringing his drunken blobbing under control, he realized he hadn’t even turned on the radio. Sometimes music helped, sometimes it didn’t. Might as well give it a try, he reckoned. The fifteen-year-old truck had seen much better days. Rust already ate through the fenders and the engine had a cough as if it smoked a pack of Lucky Strikes every mile it rolled. It didn’t matter. It was his free and clear. Well, at least ever since his brother died. With not a penny owed on it, with Vernon was the only living relative, he claimed what he felt was rightfully his. Not that anyone really cared. While he spent not one red cent more on it than was absolutely necessary, he kept the engine running well enough and the radio was in tiptop shape.
The bottle was just about empty, but he took a drink. As soon as he switched on the radio, he wished he hadn’t. This far out in the middle of nowhere you didn’t get many stations, but the one Vernon found he wish he didn’t.
He took another swig of the Seagram’s as the twanging opening bars of Tex Ritter’s “Long Time Gone” filled the cab of the truck. Placing the bottle between his legs, he pulled a smoke from the pack in his pocket. These hand-rolled jobs were sure to kill him if the drink didn’t. But the best he could figure, a man had to go sometime.
His was the only vehicle on the road and he didn’t think twice when he let go of the wheel, using his knees to steer. Vernon couldn’t get his match to catch. Finally calling that one a lost cause, he tossed it out the window. Just as he was reaching for another, the whole world burned bright blue. The light was so blaring he thought a lightning bolt had hit him. The hum of rushing air and the chugging rumble of the aging Ford engine drowned Tex Ritter’s crooning drawl. Vernon slammed down on the brakes—which didn’t work right away—and forgot about the steering wheel altogether. The Seagram’s bottle flew from his lap, splashing its remaining liquid all over the floorboard. When the brakes did engage, the tires crunched on the gravel and the whole jalopy swerved and slid off the side of the country road. Plumes of gravel dust billowed up. There was a loud pop as one of the overworked tires finally gave up the ghost and blew out, and one last jarring crash to the whole fiasco. The twang of “Long Time Gone” disappeared. Static on the AM station and then it was as if an invisible hand spun the dial. Static intermittent with indiscernible words, sounds of explosions, even the roar of a tiger, then more static. The static cut out and the strangest words yet filled the cabin of the Ford. The timbre and resonance was much better than the tinny speakers should have been able to produce. Yet, there it was, foreign words booming into Vernon’s excited head.
Doused in liquor, cigarette bit in two but still in his mouth, Vernon threw open the door and jumped out. His legs were rubber as much from almost flipping the pickup as the dangerous mixture of liquor and adrenalin coursing through him. Blue flame bent across the sky westward, like some crazy motion capture of the setting sun, if the sun were ten times larger and a completely different color. Vernon didn’t know anything about motion capture techniques, however, and didn’t particularly care.
What Vernon did care about at this particular time was the spreading wet warmth in the crotch of his pants and the slow trickling trail down his left leg. Even that didn’t distract him from the sight he beheld. He didn’t so much as spit the hand-rolled cigarette from his mouth, as it simply fell. Vernon was stunned and felt his fingertips tingle.
He looked to his left, to his right. Nothing. Nothing at all. He turned in the direction he’d come and then back to the direction he’d been traveling. Not a soul in sight.
“Jesus, Lord in heaven,” he muttered under his breath, his words a little sluggish, his tongue a bit thick. “All you had to do was tell me to stop drinking. I would’ve listened. Honest.” Vernon Dodd almost made it back into his truck before he either fainted or passed out. His head struck the door of the truck and he crumpled. One thing was for sure. Long after the goose egg on his head healed and the hangover was gone, he’d never forget the blazing blue sky.
Chapter 2
Several miles away due east, laid the home of the Reddick family. George Reddick was a teacher at the Roswell school. His wife Clarice was a housewife and his son Darrin a highly inquisitive, and mischievously curious, ten-year-old. While George and Clarice were tucked tightly in their bed, Darrin was involved in more interesting things.
Though his father was a learned man—George Reddick was a man of history and philosophy, and while these subjects did, indeed, interest his son—Darrin was much more taken with astronomy. That is why, at fifteen minutes to midnight, he had been out in the back, the cool night air washing over him, staring at the high canvas of the earth through his homemade telescope. While the aesthetic value of the reflector telescope left much to be desired, the overall effectiveness of the instrument was superb by current amateur standards. The scope itself was made of a short but wide length of steel pipe and mounted on three small tubes approximately three feet in height. The eyepiece and two mirrors were purchased through a mail-order science company that he’d discovered in the back of a comic book. It hadn’t cost much money, but it was the most precious thing he possessed.
Using his homegrown contraption, Darrin caught the blue flame as it raced across the sky. It was more than fortunate he did so. He had just let loose a big yawn and was tidying up his area. The night had turned cooler and a thunderstorm was rolling in. Call it either divine intervention or just dumb luck. The result was the same. Darrin’s brown eyes grew big as he dropped the small notebook and pencil he used to mark his observations.
“Holy Moly!” Darrin looked away from the sky, blinked several times, and placed his eye back on the scope.
The phenomenon began to shimmer and then fade away so quickly that, when it was gone, Darrin doubted its existence at all. But, after his vision had adjusted to the dark sky, he discerned a thin ribbon of light falling away and down. Darrin pulled back and with the naked eye, the young stargazer watched as the track careened down and down and down. He felt the shake under his foot saw the small trees with their leaf-covered branches quiver as if a strong gust blew through.
The idea that something important had just happened dawned on Darrin.
He realized the chances that anyone within a one hundred mile radius had been scanning the sky at this exact moment were slim to none. As far as he knew, he was the only individual in Roswell that had more than a passing interest in the stars, as was the root of many of his frustrations. Books on astronomy were very hard to come by and the need to discuss his observations with another was, at times, maddening. Though he was only a decade old, Darrin Reddick knew he was different from the other kids. Perhaps he was no smarter, perhaps he was. The main thing was he was infinitely more serious about his hobby.
Craning his neck as the trail vanished and the tremors ceased, Darrin looked to the left and to the right then finally back to the house to see if the vibrations had disturbed his parents. No lights flashed on and the small house seemed as quiet and as still as before. Now, with him the only one awake there was but one thing to do: go find out just what in the world it was he had seen.
His father owned a Ford, but there was no way in the world Darrin was daring enough to use it. Instead, he had a bicycle that he kept well maintained himself—mechanical engineering was also a talent of his—and he went to the shed for it now. Pulling the bike out and walking it up the long, narrow gravel drive to the county road; he kept looking over his shoulder to the house. The light in the sky had shaken him to the point that paranoia was a real and decisive thing. He wanted nothing more than to begin his venture without disruption. Something had come to earth. Something, his mind raced, from somewhere in space. Either way, it was incredibly intriguing to him and he didn’t want his parents waking up and discovering him not in his bed before he could get far enough away.
A mile down the road, pedaling like crazy, and Darrin wasn’t yet breathing hard. Working around the house for his allowance combined with his very young age gave him good endurance. Two miles further, he was beginning to have second thoughts. It was dark out here on this country lane and he was beginning to consider turning back. He went as far as coming to stop and putting his feet down to support himself and the bike. The storm was growing closer. Even if he raced back home as fast as he could there was a chance he’d be drenched by the time he made it. What would he have to show for sneaking out then? Nothing, that’s what.
Between claps of thunder, he heard, off in the distance, the low grumble of engines. If not for the absolute quiet of the desert, the sounds would have been lost. Not even the wind stirred. Roads both paved and not, crisscrossed the land out here and while the engines could have been from anything, in the purpose of a million different tasks, there was something in Darrin that told him these weren’t eighteen-wheelers or farm trucks out this late in the evening on some innocuous job. Somebody else had seen the same thing as he. Straining his ears, he couldn’t distinguish how many different engines he heard or even in what direction they traveled. He did know this: if grown-ups thought whatever had shot through the sky was important enough to investigate, then so did he.
Throwing caution to the wind, as well as the very real possibility of extreme parental punishment, Darrin trudged on. He was another two miles from home when he first saw the lights of to the left. Dim, but visible, the lights were coming from behind a rise down in a plain of land that should have been completely empty as far as he knew. Darrin didn’t know who the land belonged to, but he knew there was no lights out there. In this part of New Mexico, electrical lighting was still a luxury, but the luminescence looked man-made. He took a side trail off the road, coming up to a rise near the lights. Here he heard the truck engines more clearly as well as muted shouts, no doubt blocked by the rock that rose from the ground in haphazard fashion all around.
Darrin laid his bike down, quietly beside a boulder that rose twenty feet into the air. He wasn’t sure what waited beyond, but he would take every precaution to see it before it saw him.
Carefully, softly, he hugged the base of the boulder and began to move to the other side.
He’d ridden several miles and was sweaty and tired, but that didn’t account for the hammer in his chest that he realized was his heartbeat. There was a little fear in him but there was something else to keep it company. Something that made him lick his lips with his dry tongue: excitement.
Somehow, someway, Darrin proceeded without incident.
There was no way to prepare for what he saw. No way for anyone to prepare what was to be seen. It was simply amazing.
In a bottom about thirty feet from the boulder he hid against, there were half a dozen military trucks. They were the big kinds with tarps over the back where troops rode. Parked in a circle, their huge headlamps provided light for what looked to be forty soldiers to work by. Darrin wasn’t sure what they were doing, but they looked like a colony of ants set to work by an exacting queen. Quick, hurried movements and efficient mannerisms evidenced such. The center of the activity was a small chrome structure no more than a few feet off the ground. Straining, Darrin saw that the object rose from a large hole…meaning that by the size of the exposed portion and the circumference of the hole; it was most likely deep and what it held, big. The ants continued their work as if telepathically linked and Darrin couldn’t help but admire their conformed grace. But…
…speaking of ants…
A yell escaped his mouth. Realizing his mistake, there was no way he could capture it.
Little pinpricks of fire ran up Darrin’s leg. He looked down but couldn’t see much in the meager light. He did see a large earthen mound that he’d almost managed to miss. There was small clump knocked out of the base and the boy’s quick mind processed what had happened. The fire ants bit as if they hadn’t eaten in a week. The burn was unbelievable.
Biting down on his lower lip as hard as he could, tears brimmed in his eyes. He used both hands to try to shake off the red ants, but in such darkness, it was just like swatting at invisible flies. His hands weren’t off limits to the little angry pests, either, but nothing could be done about it. When the pain subsided, Darrin remembered shouting.
He moved quickly away from the anthill, still hugged up to the rock. He tried not to imagine stepping on a similar hill, or worse yet, a rattlesnake’s nest.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a sight that stopped him cold. Fifty yards away, amidst the bustle of the men, one lone man stared straight at Darrin. A thick, barrel chested man, an older man, dressed different from many of the soldiers was giving Darrin a cold, frightening stare.
Surely, he can’t see me, the boy thought. It’s impossible. Then he remembered the events that led him out to the deserted piece of land. Was anything really impossible to Darrin anymore?
What must have been the officer in charge of the group held his gaze, as if it were noon and he could see the intruding boy as clearly as if he were ten feet away. Darrin didn’t move a muscle, didn’t even breath.
A young soldier ran up to the older officer and his attention diverted. Darrin made his move and hustled to the other side of the boulder, giving the ant mound a wide berth. He’d be lost in the darkness if the leader of the soldiers decided to come have a look or worse yet, send a squad to investigate. That being said, Darrin wasn’t ready to leave. He would hide as best he could, but there was no way he was getting out of there until he saw what mystery that strange crater held.
What Darrin Reddick did not know, however, was that what he would find out in the desert, among the soldiers, would change the course of his life. And even years later he was still undecided if that was a good thing or not. But now, as a mere child enamored with all things celestial, he sat out on his small bike about to see what would claim his childhood, his innocence, forever.
“Captain,” someone called.
“—Oh Christ—”
“Arms at the ready—”
Captain Fallow looked on. Men scurried this way and that. Confusion had descended upon his little operation in the blink of an eye and he had to struggle to understand just what was happening. The peaceful desert night just got a whole lot rowdier.
From below, in the crater, an eerie light bled out over the dirt mounds surrounding the hole. Strong enough to dispel the spotlights, men scampered away as if a bomb was about to detonate.
“Stand your ground, soldiers,” Fallow commanded, but only few listened.
A soft, gentle sound: water through a drainpipe. Steam roiled up from the front of the buried ship.
Fallow drew in a single deep breath, his chest rose high and he steeled his nerves. “I said stand your ground, soldiers.” Again, if anyone heard, they failed to acknowledge. A private, his eyes locked on the wrecked spaceship, stumbled, and fell into Fallow. Hard. The captain threw the younger man down and went for his pistol on his side.
Determined that he would not turn tail and run, Fallow gripped the handles of his gun tight enough to turn his knuckles wide. A brave man that had lived many years and planned to live many more, he stopped short of the ship by ten or so feet.
“I think we should call in reinforcements, sir.” Fallow looked beside him, one of the newest of his men. A private, but he couldn’t quite recall his name, stood straight, his rifle at the ready. Despite the terror that infected him, Fallow couldn’t help but feel a little pride and more than a little surprise that the only man that chose to stay at his side was fresh out of boot camp.
“Stand firm, kid,” Fallow ordered. The light began to die away. The softest of a breeze blew, cooling Fallow.
Everything went dark. The strange light. The spotlights. Even the headlights of the Jeeps and trucks. The sudden pitch-blackness was a devouring beast that seemed to swallow up the whole world plunging it deep into its monstrous belly.
“I need light,” the captain said. “Now.” Perhaps now the craft wasn’t as scary as what could lay beyond, unseen, in the wild land. After a moment, someone did produce a flashlight. The private next to Fallow took it, and shone it down into the crater…
Just as something reached over.
Fallow’s finger instinctively pulled the trigger, but the shot went a little wild. It was a hand he now saw as the light was placed back in position. A pasty white hand, normal enough-looking, was pulling itself from the crater.
The body that quickly followed the hand was definitely not normal-looking. Humanoid, sure, but that’s where the similarities ended. The head was slightly larger than a grown man’s and the eyes were set a bit further apart. The head, smooth and hairless was domed. Nothing green about the skin, nothing bulging about the eyes, but Fallow knew, just knew, it wasn’t human.
All he could see was the top of the shoulders up, but that was enough to know that whatever the hell this thing was, it wasn’t Russian.
And it was hurt. Badly hurt, was his guess. For the briefest of moments, they stared into each other’s eyes. Man to, well, whatever it was. Something plucked Garrett Fallow’s heartstrings. He slammed the pistol down into his hip holster and stepped forward.
“Keep that light on me, soldier.” All around him, his company inched forward. Hesitant, though they were, they were not going to leave a captain in the face of danger. Fallow, paying too much attention to the task at hand, never noticed.
He squatted down at the lip of the basin. His toes dug into the dirt embankments. He reached out his hand, offering it to the strange being. The creature, that’s how he thought of it, though somehow, that felt wrong, but it wasn’t quite a man, either, trembled as he approached.
“Come on,” he said gently in the voice one might call a scared animal. “Grab my hand.” Realizing that his words might not be understood, he spread his fingers wider, nodded his head slowly, and reached a bit further.
What in the hell am I doing? Fallow wondered.
Red liquid—blood—oozed from the corner of the creatures thin mouth. The crimson fluid bubbled. Fallow didn’t know where this thing, this person, came from, but bubbling blood was never a good sign. After long deliberation, the thing from the ship grasped Fallow’s hand.
The captain pulled with all his might but couldn’t budge the thing. Finally, the soldiers realizing that the creature was in true peril stepped in. One grabbed Fallow’s waist, one on each shoulder.
“He’s as heavy as a pick-up truck,” one soldier commented. After great exertion, the being started to move slowly up over the brink and a few more soldiers moved in. They took over for Fallow, brought the strange humanoid completely out of the hole, and lay him on his back. Fallow stayed squatted to the side of the stranger. Several flashlights were trained on the rescued …alien, that’s what Fallow finally accepted, a strange visitor from beyond the stars, was dressed in a strange bright blue jumpsuit with chrome boots, a belt around its waist and matching bracelets. There was strange insignia down one sleeve of the uniform but Fallow couldn’t make heads or tails of it. His skin, or at least he thought of it as male, was smooth, creamy white. At least six and a half feet tall, the form was thin, but was heavier than it appeared.
All the lights, save for the odd glow from the craft, came back on and for an instant everyone was blind. When Fallow’s sight returned he looked at the prone form. The thin mouth, now with more blood flowing, opened, but closed without a sound. With huge effort, it reached out its hand to Fallow. Fallow did the same. The fingertips of each connected and they held that contact for several seconds.
The alien’s arm fell to the ground with a plop of dust. The big round eyes, with irises as blue as any summer sky, fell away to nothingness and Captain Garrett Farrow, who’d never thought the stars anything more than navigational tools and decoration for the night sky, watched the extraterrestrial visitor, something he never would’ve conceived of, die silently, alone, and far, far from home.
Chapter 3
June 1, 2011
Miranda Scott was a breathtaking image of American beauty as she walked down the plushy carpeted corridor. Dressed in a smart dress suit with matching pumps, her red-brown hair cascaded in lustrous locks down to her shoulders. Irish-American by birth, a southerner by marriage, she enjoyed these jaunts back to the city on occasion. While she’d grown up in Boston, New York had always seemed the epitome of the civilized world. Which is why, after graduating high school, she turned down scholarship after scholarship from the Ivy Leagues to attend NYU.
While the metropolitan ambience of DC was never boring, the Big Apple exuded an energy that, even at forty-two, Miranda found exhilarating. Bart, her kid brother, was all the family she had left. Since he’d set up shop on the forty-second floor of the newly constructed Fushun building, already a fixture in the New York cityscape, she couldn’t help but identify New York with family. But Bart was no longer a kid. At thirty-seven he was the owner and CEO of Broken Mind Software, a company that he’d started right out of MIT, with, of course, a little financial aid from his big sis. Broken Mind was now one of the largest privately owned software companies in the country, if not the world, designing not only commercially successful computer applications but those for smartphones and tablets as well. And while the main facility was out west, Bart kept a check on the home fires from a continent away.
That was all fine with Miranda. It was much easier to make the jump from D.C. to NYC than across the country to Silicon Valley.
Miranda’s cell phone rang, the Star-Spangled Banner played, so there was no need to look at the screen before she answered.
“Hi, Bob.”
“Miranda, sorry I’m just getting back to you, but I’ve been in meetings all morning. Did you have a pleasant flight?”
“As always. The Virginia countryside is stunning as the sun comes up.”
“Yes. Yes it is. How’s Bart?”
“Just on my way in now. I’ll be back by this afternoon.”
“Have fun. Take your time. Just remember we have that dinner engagement tonight.”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
“Well, I’ll see you soon.”
“I love you, dear.”
“Oh, Bob, I love you more,” she said and hung up the phone. That was a little game they played. One she usually won. Probably because he let her.
Miranda approached the offices of Broken Mind. “One second, ma’am,” one of her escorts said. As she came to a stop, two of her three escorts made their way quickly through the glass door and separated immediately, taking in the entire environment in a swift, practiced manner.
A few minutes later, her third escort spoke into his palm. “Green light, Mrs. Scott.” It was Fleming, her favorite. A retired marine that knew his job and his boss well, she had no doubts in her mind that Fleming would do whatever it took to keep her safe. Only sometimes it was too much bother to worry with.
“Miranda,” Bart said, as she stepped through the door. He moved in and hugged her. In her periphery, Miranda saw Fleming tense, but only for the briefest of moments. Training, she thought. Exceptional training. She only hoped that Bart hadn’t noticed it. While Bart was as understanding of her new life as any sibling could be, for someone to act as if he could be a threat to his own sister, bothered him greatly.
“You look great!” Bart said, releasing her. “Come on into my office. I just brewed a fresh pot of coffee.” Barton O’Riley was a brilliant computer wizard that shared his sister’s red-tinted brown hair and her jovial outlook on things. When their parents had died in a car crash, courtesy of a drunk driver, when Miranda was only twenty, Bart, born Barton Gordon O’Riley, had taken his place as head of the surviving O’Riley clan. While Miranda, in her second year at NYU, had fallen to pieces, Bart had stepped up to the plate. Her parents hadn’t been rich, but their wealth was not insignificant. Bart took care of the funeral arrangements, put the house up for sale (with Miranda’s blessing), taken care of any debts, liquidated holdings in stock, mutual bonds, etc. and split the much needed cash evenly between them. He had done what Miranda, at least at that time, had been unable to do: take care of things.
Since then, while she considered Bart her kid brother, she knew that he was a rock that she would be able to lean on for the rest of her days. Not that he hadn’t suffered as much or as more as she had. He just found different avenues to express his sorrow. Like school for instance. Always a competent student, after their parents’ death, Bart had excelled at MIT, becoming a golden boy among the esteemed staff.
He developed an addiction to coffee during those years and eighteen months after launching BM, he married Diane Mason, an equally matched intellect for him, if there ever was one, and a genuinely charming woman, who he met during the advanced computer classes that he enjoyed so. They were expecting their first child, a boy, in two months.
Now, here he was a software giant that had come from a little house outside Boston to the top of the world. But then, hadn’t she also made a significant rise in station, herself?
Bart led the way, with Miranda and Fleming in tow. Miranda might be able to have time with her brother without a bevy of guards with her, but Fleming went everywhere with her.
Bart’s office was a study in modern interior design. Light wood furniture accented with chrome. Completely aesthetic, but quite cozy. A huge plate glass window immediately behind his desk revealed an awesome view of the city. He walked to a small sofa and invited Miranda to sit. He motioned to a nearby chair for Fleming, more out of habit then true politeness. At a large bar he poured three oversized mugs of piping hot coffee, handed one to Miranda, the other to Fleming. Miranda knew that Fleming enjoyed good java as much as her brother did.
“So, sis, tell me, what have you been up to lately?” Bart asked as he took a seat near her on the sofa.
“Not too much. I’ve missed you lately, Bart. Besides, I thought I might stop in at Saks before heading back.”
Bart smiled and turned towards Fleming. “That’s my big sister and her weakness for clothing.” Then, turning back to her, “How’s hubby?”
Miranda sensed Fleming tighten up a bit at the remark, but didn’t pay it any attention. She knew he was as loyal to her husband as he was to her, which was not a bad thing. Around Bart, however, it could be nerve-racking. While Bart and Bob were civil enough when they were together, there was no disguising their disdain for each other. It wasn’t out right hatred, which would probably be too much for Miranda, but more of a continual game of one-uppance for the two. I have this; well I have two of them and so on and so forth.
“He’s fine, Bart. And he sends his best.”
“Good old Bob. A king of a man. But anyway. Let’s not waste time with him. It’s been a while since I could sit back and have a cup of Joe with my sister. You look tired, been burning the midnight oil?”
“Actually, I have. A senator out of Minnesota has started a program that I’ve been involved with. We plan to purchase hundreds of laptops and tablet computers for inner-city schools. Should be right up your alley.”
“Senator Ross isn’t it? And yes, it’s a good program, but since they haven’t included in the small print to have any of my software preloaded on those supposed devices for the financially challenged, it’s not up my alley. Even offered a big contribution, still, no dice.”
“Really, Mark is usually as susceptible to contributions as we all are, and when you say big, it had to be huge.”
“Believe me, sis, it was. But that’s neither here nor there. What’s your part in the good Senator’s play?”
“Public relations. I’m pretty much the meet and greet spokeswoman. If you’d still like to contribute, I’m sure I could have a word with him, have at least a couple of BM’s programs preinstalled.”
“Thanks but no thanks. It is a noble venture, but I’m not that anxious to give away money.”
“Oh, Bart. A computer maestro and an economist all rolled into one adorable package.”
“That’s what they say.”
“Oh, before I forget, I have something for the baby.”
“Really, you know, Miranda, she’s not due for a couple of months and already we’ve had to expand her nursery to accommodate all the “little” things you’ve picked up for her.”
“Hush, now, Bart. Bridget’s getting ready to head off to Dartmouth, and hates being called a baby anymore. Therefore, my niece will definitely be the object of my maternal affections for a while to come. You don’t have a problem with that do you?”
“No, no, sis. Calm down,” Bart said, exuding a placating smile. “I was just stating a fact.”
“I thought so.” To Fleming, she said, “Have him bring it in.” Fleming nodded and spoke into his collar.
“Wonderful, the black suit express.”
A second or two later the door opened and all three of them expected a man similarly, if not exactly, dressed as Fleming, to step in. One such man did enter through the door, but he was dead before he concluded his entrance. Several small bullet holes rimmed with bright red blood were blaring on the white oxford shirt underneath his black suit coat. Behind him five, dangerous-looking men entered. Four of them held assault rifles in their grasps. The fifth and last to enter held a pistol with an attached silencer.
Out in the offices, an explosion of chaos. Short-lived, but incredible, the screams died, and then, finally, did the gunfire. It didn’t seem real to Miranda, not real at all. It was as if she were outside her, watching from beyond her body.
As the reverberations of horror silenced, the fifth man spoke. “Good day gentlemen and lady. I hope I have not disturbed your conference, but I assure you that what I have to say will be well worth your time.”
Miranda began to stand and speak, but Fleming, already guarding her, pushed her back down. Just as her rear made contact with the fabric of the seat, a bevy of gunfire erupted. Fleming’s chest exploded in half a dozen miniature geysers of blood. His body knocked back eight feet and he fell, lifeless, to the floor with an odd thump.
Immediately, Miranda felt bile rise in her throat. She fought it back and down. She turned to see Bart, his face ashen and paled.
With calmness she did not at all feel, Miranda Scott turned to the man holding the semi-automatic, the apparent leader of the group. “You just killed a man in cold blood! W-What is it you want?”
“Why, Mrs. Scott, I thought you’d never ask.” When the man had first spoken, Miranda had detected an accent, but she couldn’t quite identify it. Perhaps Armenian or an offshoot of Iraqi. Now, she could narrow it down to Iraqi, even if the harshness of the accent was softened by the inflection of proper English. “What I want, Mrs. Scott is for you to place a call to the President of the United States and find out just much he cares about his wife. Then, I want you to hand me the phone. If, and only if, he agrees to the terms that I have set forth, will you leave this place alive.”
Miranda looked at the man, slack-jawed and bewildered. “My husband does not meet the demands of terrorists. That’s the policy of the United States.”
“True, but for the First Lady, I believe an exception can and will be made. Do you not?”
Miranda wanted to answer, but she kept seeing Fleming—a good, honest man graced with the integrity and courage of ten men—fall to the floor, blood exploding out of him. It made her sick; it made her nauseous. She looked to Bart. Usually, a man of steeled determination and unflinching confidence, her brother looked beaten and whipped…but not defeated. She prayed that he would do something. That he would step forward.
And he did.
“Listen, I don’t know who you are or what you want. But I’m sure that you don’t want any more bloodshed on your hands than you already have.”
It looked as if the leader was considering this. He looked to one of his men and nodded. The crony aimed haphazardly at Bart and pulled the trigger of the enormous weapon. Instantly, Bart fell to the ground, his screams overcome by the cacophony of gunfire in the enclosed office. Miranda moved to him, but a harsh grip on her forearm caught her in mid-step.
“Enough of this rubbish, Mrs. Scott. At last count, there were twenty-seven people in this suite of offices alone. Now there are twenty. Would you care to continue this trivial hindrance and sacrifice yet another American life? Because I have no reservations whatsoever of taking another, or all of them, yours included, if need be.”
Miranda swallowed hard. Suddenly the air had grown thin in the room, too thin. She searched her mind for options, for alternatives, but could think of none. There were five of the men in Bart’s office, who knew how many remained out in the lobby.
“Why? Why would you do this?” Miranda Scott, judged the most formidable First Lady since Hillary Rodham Clinton, allowed fear to creep into her. When her husband had first taken the oath of office, she’d considered just this type of scenario. Never in a million years did she actually believe it could actually happen.
“Mrs. Scott, I do not wish to rush you, but time is of the essence. Either you place the call to your husband or you die. Simple as that.” The man looked as normal, as plain as any other man of mid-eastern persuasion that she’d ever seen. Not too tall, probably five-ten or –eleven. About one hundred sixty five pounds. Balding at the crown of his deep, dark hair. His skin was the perfect complexion that most women yearned for in the summer months. Yet his eyes were deep and troubling. His pupils were wide as if the light from the window did not reach them.
He brought the gun up, level to her head, and stepped slowly to her. Miranda tried to move away, but the man holding her tight refused to allow her the small backward motion. The gun pressed into the soft flesh of her forehead. Neither Miranda nor her husband had ever had a strong stand for or against gun laws. Now, if she lived through this encounter, she had a whole new outlook on the legislation. In fact, she had never been this close to a handgun, or any other type of gun for that matter. She felt like wetting her pants. But her life as the wife of a crafty politician had not left her without developed strengths. As much as she wanted to cower and beg for her life. There would be none of that this day.
“My husband will hunt you down and gut you like the dog you are.”
Instead of anger, the man, as well as his associates, broke out in loud, raucous laughter. When the harsh noise subsided, he said. “My dear Mrs. Scott, I don’t expect to ever leave this room alive.”
That simple sentence brought home just what kind of mind she was dealing with. It was pure, unadulterated fanaticism, whether it was religious or political made no difference. Such zeal was deadly no matter the cause. She decided not even to try to discover the purpose of being taken hostage. She could not deliver whatever it was they wanted. She didn’t wield such power. But Robert D. Scott, the President of the United States, the most powerful man in the world, did.
“Okay,” she said. “Okay.” She was handed a cell phone and she entered the number without even looking at the keypad.
Chapter 4
The XMK Comet was a highly sophisticated air transport constructed by a civilian contractor that had, in the last five years, almost put the once infamous Lockheed Martin’s Skunk Works out of business. Designed to carry military personnel anywhere in the world at a moment’s notice, the Comet had a top speed of just past Mach 5. While jets had commonly broken the sonic barrier in the latter part of the twentieth-century, the XMK was, so far, the only reliable transport to accomplish this safely and dependably.
Besides the remarkable speed, the XMK could also accelerate to its top velocity in a very short period. By the time it had reached its operating altitude, the Comet had already broken the sound barrier several times over. In its first two years of operation by the United States military, while its optimal speed had been handy, the need for such quick acceleration had not arisen.
Until now.
The XMK Comet launched from Nellis Air Force Base at approximately 1329 hours, local time, less than one hour after the president had received the call from his wife. Terrorists of unknown origin were attempting to persuade the Commander-in-Chief to free several confirmed Al-Qaeda members held at the base in Guantanamo Bay.
The Secretary of Defense himself had initiated the call to Lieutenant General Hendricks. Secretary Mosenberg was well aware of the work that Hendricks was undertaking in the Phantom Desert Base in Nevada and was of the opinion that only his team could retrieve the First Lady without unnecessary loss of life. Nonetheless, it was made explicably clear, in language befitting a grizzled old politician, the First Lady’s life came before all others. Mosenberg was taking one big gamble. The president did not know about Omega, but the SecDef didn’t see a viable alternative.
Lieutenant General Hendricks, a career army man with a long and distinguished service record, reaching all the way back to West Point, shared the Secretary’s opinion. If this mission could be accomplished, it would be done so by Omega.
Hendricks had inherited the Omega Project from Brigadier General Harvey Bellman, now Chief of Staff of the Army. Shrouded in secrecy, its original charter was buried somewhere deep beneath mounds of classified documents. Initially named the United States Army Center for Advanced Weaponry in 1945, the large, sprawling complex located just outside Adaven, Nevada was renamed Phantom Base in 1948. From there its history is sketchy at best.
It was an odd place for a three-star general to command, but Hendricks took an almost paternal pride in the accomplishments made under his reign. And reign he did. Phantom Base was virtually unconnected to the Army except in the subtlest ways. On the base, Hendricks was the supreme law, the supreme judge, and the supreme commander.
From his control room buried almost a mile below the desert’s harsh surface; Hendricks watched every phase of the Comet’s journey from Nellis to the New York airport. He had handpicked the team to accompany Omega to the site. The elite unit was headed by Captain Perry Black, the closest thing to a protégé Hendricks ever had.
He watched several monitors affixed to his seat and others mounted on terminals and upon the walls. The headset he wore kept him in constant communication with the flight crew of the Comet and the leader of the team, Captain Perry Black and his next in command, Staff Sergeant Eugene Cowell. The entire force were seasoned Army Rangers. Save, of course for Omega.
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