| Prologue | ||||
| Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five |
The man stood in the copse of pine trees that filled the area behind his home. He was standing at the edge of the mountain and looking down into the valley watching the road snaking up the hill. All of a sudden, a glint of sunlight caught his eye. He looked up. It was near dusk and he saw the flash of sunlight as it bounced off an object in the eastern sky.
It was an object all right but there was something strange about it. It was too low and too bright to be a plane. It moved funny too. It seemed to hover in the air like a helicopter but he couldn't hear any noise. It was floating in the air near the ridge and it wasn't over two thousand yards away. If it were a helicopter or any other motorized air- borne vehicle, he felt that he would have heard it.
The wind was blowing from the east. Since he was west of the object, he felt certain that he would have heard something if there were anything to hear. Save for a slight hissing sound that was more of a hum than a hiss, there was nothing.
He concentrated and strained his ears. Nothing!
The craft's movements diverted his attention from the lack of sound. It descended. As it came down, it began to make erratic movements in the air. They reminded him of a leaf falling. He thought the object might be a balloon or a blimp of some sort but the periodic upward movements it made as it descended belied that assumption.
Besides he could see it clearly and it certainly wasn't any blimp or balloon that he recognized. The craft had clean, well-defined lines and it appeared to be constructed out of a ceramic of some kind. Although he had the impression the craft was ceramic; it glinted in the sun like burnished metal.
Then there was the light.
The sun was in the process of sinking fast in the west. The nether world of dimness that presages the coming of the night had engulfed the mountain. Yet, the object remained bright. It was an amazing sight. The light from the craft seemed self-contained; it didn't illuminate anything on the ground below it. It just glowed.
The man continued to watch the object from the shadows underneath the trees. It jigged up and sideways and then headed for the clearing. The man stepped out and waved his arms as if to warn the craft against landing in that particular spot. Then, something intuitive inside him decided that exposing himself to the craft wasn't a good idea. He thought better of it and backed underneath the trees so he could continue watching.
After a few jigs, the oval-shaped craft settled down onto the surface. The man watched as three small beings came around from the far side of the craft and walked to the edge of the clearing.
He wished desperately for his binoculars. He strained his eyes to see what the creatures looked like. All that he could determine was that they were small, humanoid, and it seemed to him that they moved strangely. They didn't walk like he understood walking but moved in a gliding motion silhouetted against the brightness of the craft.
He guessed that they were moving somehow without touching the ground. After all, he knew it was very muddy where they were. They didn't seem to have any trouble getting around. Two more beings appeared and began to explore the area outside the craft.
These creatures, whatever they were, didn't seem to be human even though they resembled small children. He wished he were closer so he could see more, but then he was glad he was able to watch unobserved.
Then, the craft began to move slightly. It didn't happen all at once. First, the left side dipped a little, about three feet, as far as the man could tell. Then the right side caught up. The man snickered. These things, whatever they were, had landed right smack in the center of Anderson's Bog, a sinkhole of local repute.
The occupants of the craft had also realized that something was wrong. They began to glide toward the other side of the sinking craft. Soon after they disappeared, the structure began to glow with a brilliant intensity. The light got brighter and brighter as the craft shuddered for a moment or two.
Then the light became dimmer and the craft settled back into the bog. Then the light glowed, brighter than it had a few seconds before. The ship began to vibrate and shake the earth around it.
The man imagined the strain that the interaction of the muck and ship had created. All of a sudden, the craft just plopped out off the bog with a jerky movement that propelled it about two hundred feet into the sky. It seemed to the man that the motion should have created a "pluck" noise as it separated from the earth, but he wasn't able to hear any sound at all. He was too busy laughing.
He had begun to realize that he was viewing some sort of space ship, a UFO, others called it. Here they were, God knows how many light years from home, after traveling billions even trillions of miles to get here on earth and then they got stuck in the mud.
He continued to laugh.
He laughed so hard that his sides hurt. Tears were streaming down his face. This was too much. Wait till he told people what he had seen. They probably wouldn't believe him, but that didn't concern him now. He was too busy laughing.
As he laughed, he had closed his eyes. He was bending over, holding his sides and still laughing. He paused for a moment and opened his eyes. The craft wasn't in view. He looked around. The craft had moved to the north to a position about three hundred feet from him.
Although the ship was thirty yards in diameter, it seemed to the man at that moment that it was a least a mile long. The man had the distinct impression that the occupants of the craft knew he was there under the canopy of pine boughs.
Apprehension crept into his thinking. All of a sudden, things didn't seem so funny. He felt himself getting scared.
His thoughts turned to flight. He turned in the direction of the path that would lead him to the safety of his house. He started to run. Suddenly, he was unable to move. His legs felt wooden, dead. His own body seemed unable to respond to the idea of flight. No matter how hard he tried, his legs wouldn't operate. He felt grateful he still seemed to be breathing. Then, fear began to overwhelm him. The apprehension and dread he had felt turned to terror. At that point, he heard the voice inside his head.
DO NOT BE AFRAID!
Chapter OneHarry Miles sat in the waiting room. It wasn't a waiting room in the proper sense of the word--just two sofas and an easy chair stuck in the corner of the car dealership showroom. Depending on which sofa you sat in; you either had a view of the car lot outside or a view of the showroom. Either way, you had to look at the new cars. Harry sensed that was the purpose of the arrangement. Other people sitting were obviously waiting for their cars in the Service Department. Harry wondered if anybody ever bought a car because they got bored waiting on their service work.
He sipped the coffee the receptionist had brought him and waited. Harry had flown in from San Antonio that morning and rented a car at the airport per instructions. After arriving at the dealership and announcing himself, he sat there and drank coffee as he waited. When he began to get impatient, he had to make an effort to pull himself back mentally.
Hey, the man was paying the freight. Why should Harry complain?
As he sat there, watching the salesmen talk to customers, he relived a bit of the nostalgia which had engulfed him as his plane landed.
The local Witchia Falls airport shared the runway with Sheppard Air Force Base and Harry had spent a year at the base learning to fly. Since he went through pilot training as part of the Euro-NATO Joint Jet Pilot Training (also known as ENJJPT) program, he shared his training with members of the air forces of many various countries. Harry enjoyed the memories of the camaraderie he had shared with the other student officers.
He recalled the joy he felt when he soloed in the T-37 "Tweetie Bird" and the mastery he felt as he neared the completion of the T-38 phase of training. Even though he had gone on to fly the F-15C Eagle fighter, one of the Air Force's hottest airplanes; nothing quite gave him the sense of accomplishment which he had felt when he received his wings here at Sheppard.
A pervading sense of disappointment began to engulf Harry as he realized that he would never again be able to experience the thrill of flying. It had been several years since he had been medically disqualified from flying and about a year since the Air Force had medically retired him.
He had spent a lot of time and effort trying to look at his current situation with a positive attitude. Most of the time, he felt like he had succeeded. Until today that is, when his commuter plane had turned on final approach and Harry could see the T-37s and the T-38s in the NATO parking area as the commuter plane glided in for a landing.
Harry understood that his sense of futility at not being able to fly again was beginning to depress him and he tried to think of positive things. He knew instinctively that if he dwelt on these things, his depression would deepen and it might seep out and ruin the inner view he tried to maintain.
Expenses and two hundred and fifty smackers a day. Now, there's a bright thought. Not bad. Hey, this washed-out fighter pilot ain't doing so badly!
"Mr. Miles."
Harry looked up, glad not to be fixating on the dark thoughts swimming in his coffee cup any longer.
"Yes."
"Mr. Dunn can see you now."
She wasn't bad looking. Kinda cute. Nice ass. Harry smiled as he followed the receptionist down the hall. She's probably married and a Sunday School teacher. Harry knew one thing about himself. He called himself a Walter Mitty leech. He often fantasized about women he met casually. Imagining what he could do but wouldn't. It was a game with him. A game that he knew that someday, he was going to have to sit down and think about. He was going to have to analyze this aspect of his character carefully because he knew it wasn't a good thing to do, dehumanizing people like that. He often rationalized; telling himself it was only a game he played with himself in his head. Harry realized that this game was the result of some defect in his own character that he needed to face and resolve. And he fully intended to do something about it. When he got some time, that is. A small voice inside him whispered that now was as good a time as any. Once again, Harry pushed the voice down a deep hole. He really didn't want to get into this right now. So, he continued to play the game. After all, she did have a nice ass.
She opened the door to Mr. Dunn's office and stood there while Harry walked in.
"So you're Harry Miles!"
Harry focused his attention on the man. Donald Dunn was a short man. A little overweight. A stink of cigarette smoke pervaded the entire office. Harry noticed a full ashtray on the coffee table in front of him. The nicotine stained yellow fingers drummed in an aggressive manner. In other men, Harry would have called it assertive. In this man, Harry called it aggressive.
Harry and the man sat there looking at each other. Harry had the distinct feeling he was small game being sized up for a meal by a hungry predator. Harry wondered if he ought to say something. Before Harry could act on his thought, the man leaned forward and dug into his shirt pocket for a cigarette.
"Call me Don. Cigarette?"
Harry shook his head. Donald Dunn pulled a gold lighter from his pants packet and lit his filtered cigarette. Another pause.
"You came highly recommended."
Harry wondered if he were going to get a word in. He ventured an effort.
"Thanks."
Well, that's nice. Harry congratulated himself. He had finally gotten a word in edgewise into this conversation. Hey, cool as ice private eye finally gives potential customer his come-uppance with one word. Thanks. Yeah. Right.
There was a short silence. Harry wondered if he should say something else. Don sat there and puffed his cigarette and looked at Harry. Harry wondered what the man was thinking. Harry figured the best thing to do was to wait.
Don finished his cigarette and lit another. Although he had to divert his attention from Harry to light the cigarette, it seemed to Harry that Don's eyes never left his. Boy, this guy is cold. I'd hate to be a business rival of his. Hell, I'd hate to work for him. Wait a minute. Here I am sitting here getting ready to go to work for him. Talk about intimidation!
"You'll do."
Don had broken the silence. Harry felt relieved. From this man, the phrase "you'll do" seemed like high praise. Before Harry could think of anything to say, the man continued.
"I want you to find somebody for me. Just locate her, that's all."
Don tossed a manila envelope over at Harry. Harry opened the envelope. There was a wad of hundreds wrapped together with a rubber band, two photographs, and some information written in a precise, legible handwriting. Harry looked at the information sheet. Darla Elizabeth Dunn. Date of Birth. Height. Weight. Some likes and dislikes. Really not much to go on.
"Who is she?"
"My daughter."
Harry thought he could detect a note of vulnerability in the man's demeanor. But, he wasn't sure.
"How long has she been missing?"
"Five years."
"By the way, I really don't want anyone to know you're looking for her. The people in this town are too damn nosy. Besides, it's none of their business."
"That's going to be tough. It would help if I could talk to some of her former friends."
"Out of the question."
"Well, have you heard from her at all?"
"I've received several cards from her. You know. Birthday. Christmas. That sort of thing."
"Where from?"
"Well, one was postmarked Seattle, one Atlanta, one West Palm Beach and two from Dallas."
Harry began to feel the anger and frustration that seemed to envelop the room.
"It would be nice if I could talk to some of the people she was close to. What about her mother?"
"Dead. Died giving birth to her."
"Do you want the job or not?"
"It's going to be very difficult. Not impossible, but difficult."
"There's $3,000.00 in the envelope. Off the books, if you know what I mean."
"I report all my income. My fee is $250.00 per day plus expenses."
"Well, that ought to cover you for a couple of weeks. Let me know what you've got when that runs out."
"Okay."
Don Dunn stood up. It was obvious that the interview was over. Harry sensed he had better have some results in two weeks.
At lease, he didn't have to work directly under him.
Harry pushed the photographs and money back into the envelope. He looked up wondering what he should say next. Don had already left the room.
When Harry walked out to the car, he noticed Don standing in the Service Manager's office. The Service Manager had a pained expression on his face. Don was standing above the man seated at the desk. Harry didn't feel like it was going to be a pleasant conversation.
Harry parked the car off the side of the flight line access road and watched as the planes took off, maneuvered in the pattern, and landed.
As he watched, Harry could tell which phase of training the student pilots flying the T-37 were in. It was something that came from experience. From their approach, he noted the ones who were either getting ready to solo or were on the solo flight. You could tell, even from his rather poor vantagepoint, which ones they were. There was that deliberate hesitancy in the way they turned into final and began the final descent toward that first solo landing.
Taking off was a piece of cake, everybody agreed. Basic flight maneuvers were also cool. The T-37 was so aerodynamically sound that it seemed to fly itself. It was the landing that got you. Every thing had to be right. And the first time you did it all by yourself, solo, without your instructor sitting in the plane next to you, ready to take over in the event you made a serious mistake, everybody was down there on the ground watching you when you came in on final.
Your instructor. The runway supervisors in the box. Your fellow classmates watched too, particularly the ones who had not yet taken that eventful flight, although they would never admit it. It was a trip all right. Then, after all that unbearable tension, it was over. You had made it. There was the debriefing at the plane with your instructor. While your instructor was talking, you spotted your classmates out of the corner of your eye. Then your classmates who were trying to hide around nearby planes, although not very successfully, would appear and lift you up. You, fighting, struggling against the inevitable ceremony but inwardly glad as they dunk you in the tank in honor of that time-honored tradition you had heard so much about. When they did dunk you, you felt good. Wet but good.
For then, you knew that you had done it. You had taken a jet airplane into the sky alone, maneuvered it and best of all landed it safely and walked away leaving both the plane and your body in relatively good shape.
With that landing, you started to walk different, a little cockier, kinda like somebody had stuffed a corncob up your behind. You developed a slight swagger in our walk and authority in your tone. After all, you had soloed.
From that moment on, your self-confidence was at an all time high. Everything you had accomplished up to this point in your life was meaningless. You had taken on the mountain and it was yours. Even though you knew you were only one-third of the way through your flying training program, you felt you could take anything the Air Force and NATO could throw at you for the duration of the flying training course. You would take those things and master them because you had flown solo, you had mastered gravity, and you were the master of your destiny. Everything else was gravy.
Yea though I fly through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil. For I have mastered the sky and come back to earth--solo!
Harry started the car and pulled out and began driving toward the Officers Club. It was nearly lunchtime and he could have some lunch and figure out what he was going to do next.
This was not going to be easy. But he could figure something out. After all, he had learned to solo, hadn't he?
"Yes, Ma'am, I'm doing some background work for the Defense Investigative Service. The young lady has applied for a job with the defense industry. So we are checking all the records available."
Harry sat across from the Assistant Principal. She was a middle-aged woman. The lines on her face told Harry she had given her whole life to this school or others like it. She studied the record.
Harry knew his client would throw a fit, maybe even fire him if he found out. Harry figured that if the ruse was successful and he did convince this Assistant Principal that he really was an investigator for the Department of Defense, he could swear her to secrecy under the guise of national security and nobody, particularly Mr. Donald Dunn, would be the wiser.
"Well, Mr. Miles, like I said, she left school after the eleventh grade. Other than receiving a request for her academic records from the Springs Community College in Colorado Springs, we haven't had any contact."
"What kind of person was she?"
"Well, she kept to herself a lot. I was teaching then and she took one of my literature classes. She was a bright child, kept to herself a lot. I believe she tried out for the cheerleading team. Very independent. Like her father."
Harry then launched into a series of questions that dealt with Darla's loyalty. After all, he had bluffed his way in here as a contract investigator with the DIS and it would be appropriate to ask these questions.
He wasn't far from the truth. After he had been grounded from flying, the military had assigned Harry to work for the Defense Investigative Services checking on facts in security applications. To him, it had been a pretty boring assignment and Harry had been pleased when his transfer to Air Force Intelligence had been approved.
"I understand her family is in the automobile business."
"Yes, that's right. Her father owns a dealership and runs a used car lot. I gather he's into other business interests as well."
"Oh?"
"Well, this has nothing to do with Darla. But you know in some ways she's like her father. Independent. Self-reliant. That kind of thing. My husband's in the banking business and like every other banker, he's been trying to get Dunn's business for years."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, most car dealers need lots of bank financing to maintain their inventory. But not Mr. Dunn. He started small about thirty years ago and pyramided his profits back into inventory. He doesn't seek loans like the other dealers. He seems to have some special deals with the factory. Anyway, he doesn't fit in."
She continued.
"The bankers also don't like him because about ten years ago, he started investing in smaller businesses which needed money. Mom and Pop stores. Laundry and dry-cleaning stores. That sort of thing. Anyway, once he invests, those businesses don't need to borrow the money from the bank and Mr. Dunn gets richer.
"Anyway, he doesn't seem to care what people think."
After a little small talk, Harry swore the Assistant Principal to secrecy about his visit.
Harry waited for his plane and sorted through the information he had gleaned. It wasn't much but now he had a lead.
Harry thumbed through the local newspaper. On page 1, there was a small article about a UFO that had hovered for a while between three and five A.M. a day or two ago. Apparently, it had occurred in Clay County, the county adjacent to Wichita County, where he was now.
Some people in a convenience store had spotted it and called the police. When the police responded, they had observed the same thing.
Harry concluded that the UFO was probably some stars or a satellite or something. Harry would have figured it for night flying at the base except for two things. First at that time of the morning, the flying training wing would have finished with the flying program long before that. And second, that part of the country wasn't part of the military fly area. Oh well, none of my business.
Harry moved to the security area and waited for the passengers to disembark from the plane. As they deplaned and walked through the walkway toward the baggage claim area, the passengers passed the security area. A clear plastic wall separated the deplaning passengers from the boarding passengers waiting in security.
Harry stood up and stretched, preparing himself for the cramped ride to Dallas in the small plane. He looked out and saw a familiar face passing through the deplaning area.
What was his name? Clete something. Harry remembered him from his DIS days. Clete had been an agent with the OSI, the Air Force's Office of Special Investigations. As he walked by, Clete glanced into the plate glass window separating the security waiting area from the disembarkation walkway. When his eyes met Harry's, Harry nodded. Clete eyes just passed over him without any sign of recognition and he continued his trek into the small terminal. Probably going to Sheppard for something. Clete was standing at the rental car counter. Probably going to a meeting. Maybe he was going to bust a Commie for Mommie.
Harry snickered to himself. In 1997, there didn't appear to be too much business in busting Commie spies.
Harry shrugged and walking down the ramp towards the waiting airplane as directed. He wasn't in the Air Force any more. Well, he figured since he had a medical retirement from the Air Force and he had access to base privileges, he could say he was still in the Air Force. Anyway, he wasn't active.
Besides, he had other fish to fry. He had a missing person to find and he had a solid lead. Harry wasn't about to tell Don Dunn that he had failed.
Tim Riddle waited at the house. It was a strange situation. Earlier when the deputy came and looked at the steer, he told Tim to use the forklift on his tractor to pick the animal up and take it inside the barn. The deputy also told Tim to keep quiet about the incident and to wait for a phone call.
Later, the phone rang. When Tim answered, he discovered it was the deputy. The deputy told him he would be by about six that evening with somebody who was very interested in his steer. Tim could go about his chores, the deputy said, just be back at the house by five-thirty. He also told Tim again not to tell anybody about the incident.
Tim had grumbled all day. There was only one good hour of daylight left after five. Tim sure could have used that time to get some things done. But, he had promised the deputy so he had finished early and waited for the deputy.
It was past six-thirty and good and dark when the deputy's patrol car and another car pulled in the drive. Tim walked out on the porch. The deputy and a tall, thin man walked up the steps.
"Evening, Tim."
"Evening, Deputy."
"This fella here is a federal agent...er..."
"NSA...National Security Agency."
Clete flashed a badge holder and let Tim look at a badge and an identification card that looked official and had the letters "NSA" highlighted as part of the background.
"Where's the animal?"
"In the barn, where the deputy told me to put it."
"Let's go."
The trio walked over to the barn. It was one of Tim's prize steers and he told the other two so as they walked.
When they got to the barn, Clete walked around and looked at the animal closely. Something had carved the animal's rectum out, cut its penis off, and sliced the right eye and right ear neatly off the head. What's more, the cuts were precise and it appeared as if there had been no bleeding. The incisions seemed cauterized.
Clete put on a pair of latex gloves. Then he took a metal probe out of a plastic bag and used it to poke around the animal.
The single light in the barn caused shadows to dance around the animal's corpse as the men walked around. When Tim got between the light and the body, the deputy pulled him away so as not to interfere with the government agent's inspection.
After ten minutes, Clete stood up and walked over to Tim.
"What do you suppose that animal was worth?"
Tim considered the matter thoughtfully. He knew without a doubt what the animal was worth on the market. After all, he had been commiserating himself about his loss all day.
It did appear to him that this agent, whoever he was, was interested in the steer. Tim figured he had better inflate the price a little in case a negotiation was about to begin.
"Probably around $3500.00 at today's prices. I was hoping to get some stud service out of it, though."
Clete reached into his coat pocket and pulled a business-sized envelope out of the pocket. He reached inside and started counting hundred dollar bills. He finished counting and handed Tim a hand full of hundreds.
"The United States Government wants to buy your animal for research purposes. There's $5,000.00 there. Plus another thousand because this is a top secret project and your government does not want anybody to know anything about it."
Tim looked at Clete then down at the $6,000.00 in his hands.
"Sure."
"Remember, your government doesn't want anybody else to know about this."
Clete produced a piece of paper, pulled out a pen and filled in some blanks.
He handed the paper to Tim.
Tim read the document. It stated that the United States Government had purchased a steer from Tim for research purposes. It further stated that the purchase was a classified matter and that disclosure could result in a fine, prison or both.
Clete handed Tim a pen. Tim signed the document.
Clete informed Tim that the deputy would return the next day escorting a van. The driver of the van would pick up the carcass and give Tim a receipt for the animal.
Clete left. As he got to his car, he remembered the name of the familiar face he had seen at the airport. Harry. Harry Miles. There was probably no connection, but he would note Harry's name in his field report just in case. After all, you never know.
Clete drove back toward Wichita Falls. He was in a hurry. He had a plane to catch. With luck, he could be in Washington by midnight.
The deputy was hanging back like he wanted to talk to Tim. When Clete's car sped down the road, the deputy stood by the door of his patrol car.
"Man, that was slick." The deputy grinned.
"What do you mean?"
"You know Richard Hendricks over on County Road 829, he only got twenty-five hundred for his steer."
Chapter TwoAt l930 hours Rocky Mountain Daylight Time, one of the Space Command's deep space radars picked up the object outside the earth's atmosphere. Like many of its predecessors, it had simply appeared without warning. It materialized in a millisecond traveling at a high rate of speed. The computer calculated the object's speed at over 100,000 miles per hour. In addition, the computer indicated the speed of the object was increasing, then decreasing, then increasing as the object attempted to align its trajectory for optimal entry into the planet's atmosphere. The computer satisfied itself that this object did not fit into the parameters for natural heavenly bodies. Then, a bright red light illuminated on the left side of the radar screen.
Technical Sergeant Jon Davidson looked at the red light that appeared on his radarscope. He immediately adjusted the cursors, which placed a box around the object on the screen and punched a button on the console. These actions enabled his console to automatically track the object and continue to highlight it on the screen.
Digital counters on Jon's screen began displaying the object's speed and spatial orientation as it pursued its dogmatic course toward Earth.
Jon then dialed a code on his intercom that connected him directly with the General. Space Command always kept a general officer on duty 24 hours per day in the Command Post. The Air Force had instituted the policy of having a general officer on duty 24 hours per day, 7 days each week, 52 weeks a year during the early days of the Cold War. During that period of heightened tensions, the brass had decided that the nation needed a general officer who would be able to alert the national command authority, the President and his top military advisors, to threats to North America from Soviet missile and bomber attacks.
Forewarned was forearmed. With sufficient advance warning, the President could direct a retaliatory strike. The national military and political leaders attached various labels to this policy. People heard terms such as 'massive retaliation', 'mutual assured destruction' and other aptly coined phrases. Behind these phrases coined through the years, the basic philosophy remained the same. The United States could detect a nuclear attack against the North American continent in sufficient time to launch its own nuclear forces to virtually destroy the Soviet Union as a viable entity. It did not seem to matter that the United States itself would be destroyed also. The important thing rested in the fact that the country had the technical ability to detect an incoming Soviet attack and possessed the will and the resolve to retaliate if necessary.
At the end of the eighties, the world witnessed the lessening of tensions followed by the breakup of the Soviet Union. With these developments, the Cold War began to grind down and simply started to fade away.
In the mid-eighties, the government began to effect many technical improvements on the equipment located within Cheyenne Mountain. The capability to track images received from all the over-the-horizon radar stations surrounding the North American continent remained. In addition, deep space radar stations were constructed in diverse locations throughout the world in exotic places. Through an intricate system of signal equipment employing the latest advances of digital communications, encrypted data flowed through triple redundant communications lines to the command post in Cheyenne Mountain.
The nation and the Air Force changed its organizational structure as well. The commander-in-chief of the United States Space Command exercised command authority of all the space and missile resources of the Air Force, Army, and the Navy. This individual, an Air Force four-star general also conveniently held the dual position as the commanding general of the Air Force Space Command. The Air Force Space Command consisted of all the strategic missile resources in the Air Force as well as all the components that made up the service's space activities. Combined with the Army and Navy resources, the resources of the United States Space Command were considerable.
The United States Space Command Commander-In-Chief reported directly to the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. During times of war and other times at the discretion of the national command authority, the United States Space Command Commander-In-Chief controlled all the space elements of the Air Force, Army, Navy, and certain secret units assigned to the National Aeronautics and Space Administration. He personally supervised the activities of the National Reconnaissance Organization. The public was unaware of the fact that, due to a secret Executive Order which had been reaffirmed by three successive administrations, the United States Space Command had been acting under a 'national emergency' for a number of years.
It would have been obvious to even the casual observer (had they known about the Executive Order) that this "national emergency" had nothing to do had nothing to do with Russia or even the Peoples Republic of China. After all, what possible threat could these potential enemies launch from the deep environs of space where the focus of attention surely laid? But the Executive Order remained in effect.
The focus of the responsibilities in response to this Executive Order eventually found their way through the command post located beneath tons at Cheyenne Mountain south of Colorado Springs.
The Air Force had a program whereby they brought civic leaders from many communities throughout the country to the Colorado Springs area for public tours. This enabled the Air Force to combine visits with active Air Force installations in the area with a visit to the Air Force Academy at the northern end of Colorado Springs. In this manner, the Air Force served to bolster public opinion in favor of the military services and the Air Force. The Air Force realized that favorable public opinion helped support defense budgets.
The bases included in the civic leader tour consisted of Peterson Air Force Base, the headquarters of the Air Force Space Command; Falcon Air Force Base, the home of the 2nd Space Wing; and, of course, Cheyenne Mountain Air Force Station. The tour culminated with a visit to the Air Force Academy.
Officially, the Air Force downplayed the importance of Cheyenne Mountain Air Force Station. The government presented the site to the public as an installation with a limited but necessary mission in the post-Cold War era. Whenever an escort officer brought a group into the command post, the people working there displayed a sleepy, Camp Swampy atmosphere.
The command post itself consisted of several areas. In two of these areas, the people in charge of classifying equipment and information had concluded that the display screens themselves would provide an acute observer with information the government didn't want disclosed. Therefore, these areas were not included in the tours.
The Air Force limited the tours of the mountain to three hours in duration and the public affairs officer usually scheduled the tours for Friday mornings and ensured that the tour group visited the Air Force Academy north of the mountain on Friday afternoons.
Excited about the prospect of visiting the Academy, the number one tourist attraction in the state of Colorado, members of the group had few, if any questions for the Cheyenne Mountain crew. The Air Force officer assigned to guide the group would proudly point out the space debris-tracking program where the Air Force kept track of all objects floating in orbit around the earth. If a space shuttle mission were in progress during the visit, a giant screen would display the orbit track of the shuttle on a giant screen within the command post. The flight paths of the shuttle and of other major satellites were overlaid against an immense Macerator projection of the earth.
Sometimes, a visitor would comment that this seemed to be an awful expense to keep track of a bunch of space garbage or to replicate what Houston Control was already doing; however, questions such as these were few and far between.
Most of the classified activity generated by the Executive Order took place at night; therefore, there wasn't much concern that visiting groups would see anything of a classified nature. There were considerable training sessions scheduled during the daylight hours (every day except Fridays) to hone the crew coordination and communication techniques necessary to implement the mission. If a training exercise were in progress or a classified mission was in progress during a tour, the officer would bypass the command post and take the group to the underground caverns which housed the supplies and equipment necessary to support over 2,000 people for at least 30 days.
The general officers (which had been mandated by Government's perception of the requirements of the Cold War) remained. Occasionally, a reporter would ask a few pointed questions about the need for twenty-four hour shifts of general officers. The reporter would receive the same sort of rhetoric that served the North American Defense Command well during the sixties and the seventies. The reporter would usually leave and write an article about military waste that stood about a twenty- percent chance of getting published depending on the mood of their editors. Despite this occasional scrutiny, the twenty-four hour shifts of General Officers continued.
The general on duty punched the button that connected him to the flashing green light that appeared on his console. He had been debating the merits of one of his officers who would face a promotion board soon. He had to decide if he was going to give the officer a strong recommendation or not. It was a hard decision since he had many deserving officers of the same grade working for him and he was only allowed to give a few high recommendations. The flashing light had provided him with a momentary distraction from his task.
" Bulldog," the general growled into the microphone contained in his headpiece.
" Sir, we have a positive; looks like it's headed for the Great Plains. By the way it's traveling, I'd say Oklahoma is the most likely destination. I will have computer lock and confirmation within fifteen seconds."
" Roger that, Angel, keep me informed."
" Yes, Sir. Happy hunting!"
Brigadier General James "Bulldog" Rippenger grunted assent and punched the button that disconnected the Sergeant. He punched in a series of buttons which alerted the rest of the Command Post staff to the activity detected by the deep space radar system and duly reported by Technical Sergeant Jon "Angel" Davidson.
As lights lit up on the various boards, members of the crew began to take very highly specialized actions that "Bulldog" had drilled into them during long training sessions over the past months. At first, the crew had thought that the sessions were designed to get the General up to speed since he was the newest member of the Command Post team, but that notion was quickly dispelled as the training continued against a wide range of simulations and scenarios. "Bulldog" measured success in terms of microseconds, it seemed, but the team noted with pride that the effort paid off, as they became more efficient.
In fact, the crew had become so efficient that they had the distinction of being one of the few crews that had scored hits against the targets. They had downed two of the visiting craft. But, under Bulldog, the relentless training had continued.
It seemed that success represented progress, never perfection in Bulldog's mind.
Captain Mary Ross spoke softly into her mike as she coordinated actions with one of the unit's action arms located at the Sandia Labs just outside Albuquerque, New Mexico. She listened carefully and dialed the General's terminal.
The General was expecting the call and answered before the first ring had finished.
" Speak," he stated in a flat voice.
" Ross here, sir, Sandia's at eighty-one percent power and climbing. Colonel Nichols is on line two."
" Thanks, Captain."
Bulldog pressed the button that connected him to line two.
" Nick, how's it look?"
" Sir, things are looking pretty good. The primary tracking radar developed a glitch, but the backup is on-line. We are at seventy-eight percent power and I anticipate that we will be at ninety-five percent power within the next twenty-two seconds."
" When you get to ninety-two percent power, take the shot. We might get lucky."
" Yes sir, Nichols out." The connection broke.
Based upon experience gained from previous attempts, the general knew that he didn't have a snowball's chance in hell of hitting this craft with this particular shot; however, he had a plan. If he took a shot and missed maybe he would get another chance when the craft hovered near its destination. It was risky at best, but he was one of two team leaders in the United States military who had ever hit one of the craft with particle beam weapons. And he had not only hit four of the craft; he had downed two of them. One thing he had learned through his many attempts: never be consistent. Always try something new. Anyway, it was time to arrange for backup, just in case.
His experiences in this activity had taught him that these bastards learned quickly. Although he recognized that there were several different groups that operated similar craft, you never knew which group you were dealing with at any one time. There were three groups, the analysts had informed him, which used this particular approach when arriving to earth.
It really didn't matter to him which group it was. His mission was to locate and destroy. Of course, he realized that 'destroy' was a misnomer. The government preferred to capture these craft intact but that was next to impossible. That left Bulldog's team and other teams one option. Hit the craft and force it down.
Bulldog was successful because he was dedicated and he trained his team harder than the others. He had insisted on team integrity. Once somebody got assigned to the team, they stayed on the team. They trained together and they worked together. All the members of the team were high achievers. Bulldog constantly evaluated his team members and his training exercises capitalized on each member's strengths. In addition, he ensured each individual worked on areas where they required improvement. After a few weeks under his supervision, nobody wondered where his nickname, "Bulldog", came from. Persistence was his middle name and it became the middle name of each member of his team as well.
Because they had achieved success in this endeavor, each member of the team sported extra fruit salad on their chests. Ribbons which indicated decorations, medals of valor symbolizing extraordinary service and dedication to their country. They wore these decorations with pride although they knew they could never reveal to outsiders the real reason for these awards. They had each been provided with a cover story to explain the award if asked.
It wasn't likely anybody in the military would ask. Once you got in this business, you stayed in it. Everybody was in a closed loop, career-wise. There were not very many transfers out of the operation.
Bulldog checked a small chart that he carried inside his shirt pocket and then called Captain Ross' console.
" Yes, sir."
" Captain, alert the Blue Team Lima for possible deployment. Also alert Blue Team Hotel they may have to deploy also."
" Yes sir, on it now." The Captain hung up without further ado and dialed the Command Posts at Tinker Air Force Base in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma and at the Fort Sill Army Base in Lawton, Oklahoma. When the Command Posts responded, the Captain issued a set of coded numbers that caused the action officers within the command center to alert personnel located within secure sections of each base.
"Blue Team" was a code name assigned to retrieval teams designated to recover crashed craft of otherworldly origins. The primary objective of each team was to secure the crash site, keep the curious away and neutralize any inhabitants of the disks that they encountered.
The Blue Teams were ostensibly assigned to the Air Force for organizational purposes; however, the members of each team came from each service. The Blue Teams were highly elite units. Every member had been personally recruited. After being recruited, each member had successfully completed a rigorous training program which possessed elements of Army Ranger and Green Beret training and Navy SEAL training. Following the physical training, team members received extensive training in explosive ordnance disposal, computers, electronics, and psychological warfare.
Once cleared into the true nature of the Blue Team mission, individuals received extensive continuation training in exotic subjects. They also become "lifers". There was no turning back or reassignment once they understood the true nature of their mission.
The number of personnel in each Blue Team unit varied depending upon the location of the team. Overseas units typically consisted of more members than stateside Blue Teams. Whenever a crash occurred, members of several Blue Team units would converge upon the crash site to assist in the recovery.
The teams would arrive at the scene, normally in the black, unmarked helicopters assigned to their units and take charge of the crash scene from local law enforcement authorities. Team members carefully noted the names and addresses of these officials as well as the names and addresses of any witnesses. Plain-clothes agents assigned to another agency would conduct follow-up visits to these individuals to ensure their silence in the interests of national security.
Once secured, the Blue Team would camouflage the scene to disguise the true nature of the crash site. The team would then coordinate the removal of the craft with a secret chain of command.
This covert chain of command had links to the military command structure of all the services. These links assured that any actions necessary to support retrieval operations would be instantly forthcoming. This fact enabled the directors of each recovery operation to summon the support of hundreds of individuals without compromising security. Members of the Armed Forces who were not cleared into the exact nature of Blue Team operations were provided with cover stories that were also highly classified. Therefore, a member of the military service would possess the training and inclination to safeguard the "classified" cover story that would itself protect the real secret.
The Blue Team organization cut across bureaucratic boundaries. In this manner, certain officials of the FBI, CIA, NSA, and other governmental agencies could provide assistance to the recovery operations. Normally another civilian agency took care of any coordination required with other federal agencies. Blue Team members were unaware of the exact nature of this civilian agency. Local officials near crash sites would receive requests for assistance from highly placed sources within the federal government. For the most part, these requests usually consisted of isolating the target area and keeping everyone at bay.
Meanwhile, at Sandia, Colonel Richard Nichols, United States Army, peered intently at a power meter located at his console and watched the digital counter inch up to ninety-one percent. At ninety percent, he had flipped the cover guard away from the toggle switch and prepared to throw it when the power reached ninety-two percent. A side-glance at the radar monitor confirmed that he was dead on target. Like shooting fish in a barrel or so it seemed. The Colonel knew better. His past experience told him that this shot might not be successful; however, since the complex had received an automated command to power up as soon as the shot was complete, he thought he knew what the General had in mind.
Nick could sense the perspiration which flowed from the engineers' brows as he waited for the shot. They always worried. Too bad. They should loosen up. The numbers turned in the display and read ninety-two. Nick flipped the toggle. He could almost feel the beam as it shot upward, sort of like a giant ejaculation. Yeah, he liked the feel of that. Come on you aliens, catch my sperm!
Instantaneously, a huge electric current fueled by an atomic reactor, forced electrons and neutrons through a barrel-like tube. These particles, their energy intensified by the ordered light generated by the laser sped into the stratosphere at the speed of light.
International World Airlines Flight 287 bound for Los Angeles from Dallas was just about ready to depart the Albuquerque Air Traffic Control Center area. They were ready for hand-off to the Los Angeles Air Traffic Control Center and were cruising at 45,000 feet. Captain Lee Warren was preparing to transmit his intention to depart the airway to the air traffic controller when a bright beam shot into the stratosphere approximately two and one-half miles in front of and to the left of the aircraft.
" Christ, did you see that?" His second officer exclaimed in a loud, excited voice.
" What?"
" That light which just flashed by. Holy Shit! It was some kind of lightning flash, but it wasn't lightning. "
" I think you've had too much coffee, " the Captain turned and looked at his second officer with a deadpan expression on his face. " There wasn't anything there. "
" What's going on, Lee, you know as well as I do that something happened out there. We need to file a report. "
" Nope, we don't! If you will look at your route map closely, the location where you thought you saw something is restricted military airspace. As far as I'm concerned, even if you did see something, you didn't. I don't think we need to be filing any reports. That is, unless you want to get grounded and never fly again. Now, I am going to put it very plainly. I was looking too and I didn't see anything. Did YOU? "
" Now that I think about it, you know I must have imagined something. Let's get this baby to LAX. "
The particle beam lunged into the stratosphere and departed the earth's atmosphere at literally the speed of light. It seemed inconceivable to the engineers at Sandia as they tracked the beam toward its target that nothing could prevent the destruction of the craft. But the inconceivable happened. Again. As had happened many times before, the target did a little right angle jig while traveling at approximately 14,500 miles per hour and the beam passed harmless by the object.
In fact, the beam also appeared deflected a bit as if hit by an invisible force field causing it to impact upon the surface of the moon. The resultant dust cloud caused intense speculation among astronomers for several weeks before being written off as a giant meteorite. "Written off" was quite literal since twelve articles appeared in scientific journals, twenty-one articles in the UFO press, and two doctoral theses resulted from the curious incident.
Aboard the craft, except for a slight shudder, the occupants felt no unusual movements. The craft was programmed to automatically adjust for events that threatened its predestined course. The creatures in the disk could alter its movement, speed, and course whenever they desired or whenever they felt the necessity to take defensive maneuvers.
Most defensive maneuvers as well as other functions of the craft were automatic. Threats to the programmed flight plan such as the one which just occurred were countered by a preprogrammed set of instructions contained in the ship's navigational organic computer.
All five inhabitants of the craft belonged to a social memory complex, or group consciousness, known as B1J49S. As a result, the members of the crew functioned as one mind, one mind which reacted to all stimuli. Whenever each individual member of the crew had a thought, it appeared as individual thoughts within the single group consciousness. The entire group consciousness consisted of a total of 500 biological androids; however, smaller segments of B1J49S could be sectioned off for participation in individual missions. When so sectioned, the leaders programmed the smaller mission unit to function independently of the main group.
In this manner, the five-crew members would function as a complete unit. After each mission was finished, the experience and memories gathered by the smaller segment would be merged into the consciousness of the entire B1J49S group and into other groups as determined by the higher order group which controlled B1J49S.
The home planet possessed a very highly organized society. There were hundreds of thousands of social memory complexes like B1J49S. The function for which each complex had been created determined the size of the complex and the number of biological entities created.
Higher order groups had created these lower social memory complexes and directed their actions. There were seven layers of higher order groups with certain layers possessing responsibility for various specific aspects of society.
All aspects of the society were subordinate to 25 units of consciousness that formed the second highest level of control for the planet. The particular unit of consciousness that monitored and controlled the B1J49S group was known as T9K.
Above all these elements, a supreme consciousness directed all the activities of the society. This consciousness sought to protect and expand itself. Other elements of the society, particularly the more sentient ones, referred to this power as the Law of Two.
The craft's computer simultaneously communicated information regarding the near-miss incident to the crew members and to the T9K group back on the home world via their space communications systems system. These communications systems were biological and consciousness-driven and mechanical at the same time. When T9K group members were aboard the craft, most communications could be transmitted back to the home world at the same instant. With only B1J49S group members aboard, the best the computers could do was a transmission delay of the equivalent of thirty minutes Earth time. The density of this particular solar system brought about the situation. This delay was not an insurmountable problem and technology was in development to correct the deficiency. If the Law of Two excelled in anything, it was technology.
The five-crew members on board merely noted the occurrence as it flashed into their individual consciousness at the same moment. Due to the introduction of an attempt to crossbreed members of Earth with the progenitors of group B1J49S, a small degree of individuality existed within each member of the memory complex. Though the individuality was not as pronounced as it was in higher level groups such as T9K, the group members were different from other groups of their same level
However, this slight anomaly had not presented any problem. They still functioned as of one mind. This group of beings had served as the sole members of the same crew on many missions to many worlds without incident. The routine nature of this mission did not justify the inclusion of any higher order memory complexes. The Law of Two Society had been visiting this particular solar system and this world for centuries. Although there had been incidents, the monitoring, harvesting, and colonization program proceeded according to plan.
The craft quickly readjusted its course as it sped through space toward the southern part of the Great Plains of the North American continent.
Back at Sandia, the engineers worked furiously to re-power the lasers. During the process, they had discovered a glitch that had developed in the power generating circuits.
Colonel Nichols had a few delicate moments when the engineers had approached him with the problem. They had also recommended that the fire mission be scrubbed. These whiz kids wanted to shut down the equipment and wait for repairs on the following day.
Nick was in the midst of having what he termed a "quiet little talk" with the engineers when he noted the arrival of Richard Favor. A brilliant physicist, it had been rumored that Dr. Favor had spent time at the super-secret facility located on the high desert floor in the center of Nevada. Since the colonel had access to the personnel records of the key scientists, he knew this was in fact true.
In fact, as far as Nick could determine, Favor was one of the top scientists in the country when it came to knowledge of alien technology. He was a strange individual, but then everybody in this program seemed strange to everybody else. So much had to be hidden and kept from others. Details were arranged into compartments and only people with a strict "need to know" received access to a particular compartment.
Dr. Favor's arrival provided the engineers with hope. Sure enough, his presence plus the impetus of Nick's remarks enabled them to identify the cause of the problem. They were now hard at work making the repairs. By the way it looked, they were doing a damn fine job. Now, he wouldn't have to call Bulldog and tell him they couldn't do it. He couldn't think of a faster way to get an assignment to some godforsaken place in the boonies. Hell, he wouldn't put it past Bulldog to court martial them all for dereliction of duty. The old man's obsession with knocking these things down with far beyond a simple dedication to duty. That's probably why Space Command had kept the General on this assignment so long. Well, he didn't have to worry; Sandia would be back on line before Cheyenne Mountain could give him the new coordinates.
Jon Davidson kept his eyes glued to the radar screen and marveled at the way the craft had eluded the particle beam and regained course and heading at such a phenomenal speed. This was not the first time he had seen it happen nor would it be the last. In fact, he was certain that Bulldog was going to take another shot at this one. The last shot had been too obvious as far as Jon was concerned. A sucker punch designed to throw them off guard. Already the General was pestering him for a landing site even though he knew the craft would actually have to land or hover for Jon to give him an accurate fix. The Ground Positioning Radar System (GPS) satellite would enable Jon to tell his boss the exact position of the object on the ground within thirty feet, but the craft had to be there in order for him to calculate its location. And the sensor lock would have to hold.
Jon normally felt very secure underneath the tons of granite that covered him in the command post at Cheyenne Mountain. As he tracked the object that had eluded the particle beam, he thought about the technology which powered it and the few cases he had heard about in which these discs had turned hostile. He wondered how much protection the granite walls would offer if those things decided to attack. He shivered and went back to the business at hand.
After a few minutes, he called the General on the intercom.
" Sir, I have them. The object appears to be hovering near Mount Scott located near Lawton, Oklahoma."
" Roger that, keep me informed if there's any change."
" Yes, sir, Davidson out."
Jim "Bulldog" Rippenger reflected a moment and smiled. Nobody can be this lucky. Those creatures are hovering next to Fort Sill where an alien recovery team is located. In addition, the team had been alerted for possible action and even now would be assembling preparing to wait for further instructions.
The general reflected upon the beauty of this assignment. What the Pentagon didn't know wouldn't hurt them. God, how he hated those things, those discs flying up there as if they owned the damned aerospace. Well, in the past he had demonstrated that they weren't so high and mighty. Those bastards! The Pentagon had left him here, but they had promised him his second star. In fact, they had delivered. The Major General promotion list would be released next week, and the Commander of the Air Force Space Command had already informed him that his name would be on the list. After all he was one of the few people in the world who had ever shot one of them down. And he had gotten two! Good for him and good for his career. That was, he reflected, sweet revenge. His mind drifted as he remembered the first time he became consciously aware of the visitors.
The incident had occurred almost twenty years earlier halfway around the world.
Captain Jim Rippenger flew the F-15 Eagle, the hottest fighter plane in the Air Force inventory. He was good and he knew it. He felt that he was one of the best fighter pilots in the world. Although he was only able to measure himself against other Air Force and NATO pilots, his confidence was well founded. He had spent months learning the airplane, flying it, and testing its limits. The young officer spent time every single day studying various tactics on the best ways to employ his airplane to maximum advantage against an enemy. He also studied the tactics of his enemy closely and constantly experimented with various ways to counteract these tactics.
The young man wasn't afraid to make mistakes. He chose to make those mistakes for the most part in the flight simulator. Like most fighter pilots, Captain Rippenger detested flight simulators but he viewed them as an opportunity to "fly" every day as opposed to the two to three times a week he got to fly the real airplane. This individual elected to fly the simulator every chance he got, sometimes several times a day. He requested more simulator time than any other pilot did and he received it. He practiced and practiced and practiced. And then, he practiced some more.
This dogged determination to excel in the art of aerial combat and the tenacity he exhibited while engaged in the pursuit of his goal had earned him the nickname "Bulldog" and he adopted the sobriquet as his tactical call sign used to identify himself while engaged in aerial maneuvers. Not that he had much choice in the matter. His fellow fighter pilots had tagged him with the call sign and it stuck. It was true. He was a "Bulldog."
Jim Rippenger displayed this stubborn streak, this bulldog determination in every endeavor that he undertook. He had recently started playing racquetball and had quickly learned the game. In fact, he was considered one of the best racquetball players on base, and he helped represent his squadron in base competitions.
On the morning in which the incident occurred, Jim had risen early and attended his preflight briefing in the hour just before dawn. He took off in his F-15 Eagle with both afterburners blazing as the sun broke over the horizon. His plane carried four captive AIM-7 Sparrow air-to-air radar guided missiles and two captive AIM-9 Sidewinder air-to-air heat-seeking missiles. The missiles were captive in the sense that the pilot could track other aircraft through the sensors located in the front end of each missile and obtain a lock-on when the parameters reflected optimum opportunity for missile launch. Once lock-on was achieved, the pilot would depress the switch on the control stick and register a "kill" against an opposing aircraft. Since the missiles were captive, electrical and mechanical safety mechanisms prevented an actual missile launch. In that manner, the aircrews could practice flying dogfights against each other in a realistic scenario.
The mission which Jim flew that morning required him to fly out over the North Sea to practice his over-water navigation skills by flying checkpoints at various altitudes as directed by a ground controller. After he completed this routine and albeit boring task, he refueled in midair from a KC-135. The young pilot then received vectors to the DACT training zone. DACT stood for Dissimilar Air Combat Training in which two different types of aircraft were pitted against each other under simulated combat conditions.
This particular morning, Jim entered the training airspace at 25,000 feet AGL (Above Ground Level) simulating a Combat Air Patrol (CAP) mission environment. Immediately after entering the area, two Italian F-104 fighters, pretending to be MIG fighters from the Warsaw Pact, jumped him and a simulated air battle commenced.
Undaunted, Jim proceeded to teach the two intruders a thing or two about air-to-air combat. The engagement took about eight minutes, but to the Italian fighter pilots it seemed to take about three hours. Their relatively easy 2V1 (two versus one) mission had turned into a nightmare. They quickly lost their team coordination and to them, it seemed like the American fighter ended up behind each one of them in the kill position at the same time. First one then the other heard the tones in their headsets which indicated that they had been locked-on by a missile and "killed" by the Eagle they had jumped. When they returned to their unit, they learned it was the American who used the call sign "Bulldog" who had bested them. They joined a long list of NATO pilots who had been "bit by the bulldog."
After his encounter, Bulldog requested another DACT encounter, but Ground Control declined his offer. Jim then flew back to the base. When he returned, he debriefed the mission and attended a meeting which his flight commander conducted.
After he had finished the meeting with his flight commander, Captain Rippenger decided to jog through the German countryside before showing up at the base gymnasium. He had promised to be at the gym for a racquetball tournament. Bulldog loped along a road that tracked along the base perimeter and then headed south through the countryside for a few kilometers. He had turned toward the east when he noticed a bright light in the sky. It was in the same relative position that the sun should have been in except that this light hovered in the east and the sun should have been in the west. He stopped to observe the light closer.
As he stood there he felt strange. His legs did seem to want to move. He seemed to hear a voice inside his head.
DO NOT BE AFRAID. The voice echoed in his head.
Suddenly, it seemed to be getting dark. That was strange. It should only be mid- afternoon. Bulldog was standing in the road looking to the northeast. He felt tightness around his waist and groin. It seemed as if his jock strap had shrunk. It was late. If he didn't hurry, he wouldn't make the end of the racquetball match and he would have to forfeit his title. So he hastened to his car and made it to the gymnasium. Once there he went into the locker room to change from his jogging suit into his racquetball outfit. Some members of his squadron were in the locker room when he arrived. Bulldog began to remove his jogging suit while catching up on the rest of the match from his fellow squadron members.
When he removed the bottom half of his jogging suit, he saw his buddy, "Jink", and some of his fellow pilots stare at him. He looked down. To his amazement, he realized his jockey strap had been replaced with a pair of women's panties. A pair of women's panties which were literally "too tight."
Another pilot, "Bam-Bam", the wing weapons officer snickered and made some remark.
Bulldog flushed and made some statement to the effect that he wanted to see if his squadron mates were paying attention. The squadron commander, Lieutenant Colonel Jack Ashley, just shook his head and told him to get out to the court and win the match. Bulldog had changed into a jock strap, dressed into his racquetball outfit and proceeded to win the match showing no mercy on his opponent.
It literally took him months to live the incident down. There was even some good-natured talk for a while to change his tactical call sign from "Bulldog" to something like "Silk" or "Pantywaist". He passed it off as a prank he had concocted; however, he associated the incident with the panties to the bright light and the voice that had seemed to originate inside his head. He didn't know what had happened but he did know one thing for certain. Any fighter pilot that admitted to a loss of consciousness or a loss of memory didn't stay on flying status. Bulldog wanted more than anything to stay on flying status so he remained silent and let the incident die a natural death until nobody mentioned it any more.
The young fighter pilot put the memory out of his mind and continued his career as a fighter pilot.
Bulldog had never forgotten the incident at Bitburg. Neither had Jack Ashley, his former squadron commander who was now a general with four stars and the current commander of the Air Force Space Command. Once again, he was the individual to whom Bulldog reported. Whenever General Ashley wanted to needle Bulldog, he would make some oblique remark that reminded Bulldog that he still remembered the incident.
Jack was one of those individuals who always had to have the upper hand in every situation he encountered. Possibly, that was why the Air Force had presented him with four stars and the command of all United States space forces as well as the strategic missile forces of the country. Bulldog felt that Jack was tiresome at times, particularly when he alluded to the Bitburg incident. When Colonel Rippenger, as a Brigadier General selectee, finally gained access to the restricted classified information about the discs, he wondered at times if he had been a victim of the abduction phenomena. He still didn't say anything to anybody because to do so might jeopardize his special access security clearances he had received in order to work in this field. He was relatively certain that General Jack Ashley had reached the same conclusion that Bulldog had reached about the Bitburg incident.
Although Jack hadn't said anything, Bulldog had noted that his promotion to General and his assignment to join Space Command had come just after the after the government had made the decision to take a more aggressive policy toward the visitors. If true, Bulldog had reasoned, then he was here because Ashley really wanted someone on the team with somewhat of a personal ax to grind. Normally, Bulldog would have expected Ashley to have never selected him for this assignment.
He had worked hard to train his team and to ensure that the distant assets of the operation performed as expected. He had trained his team hard and let supporting units know that he would not tolerate anything but success in performing their respective mission. His promotion to two stars attested to the training he conducted and the teamwork he fostered.
He had received certain information both on a "need to know" basis and through his own informal network within the secrecy veil. He knew that several different groups were visiting this planet. But, it didn't matter. His standing orders were to track and shoot every target, positively identified as an "unknown craft of extraterrestrial origin." His orders were to hit the craft, disable it and force it down and direct recovery teams to the crash location.
In any case, Bulldog didn't care. He had the opportunity to participate in a combat environment of sorts and, if what he suspected were true, extract a measure of sweet revenge at the same time. Every time his team launched a shot at one of the discs, a thought welled up out of the depths of his subconscious and he sent them a mental message of his own, DO NOT BE AFRAID.
Darla noticed that the other girls were busy tonight too. It seemed unusual for a Wednesday. Payday at the air base wouldn't be until the following Monday and as far as she knew, none of the other big employers in the city had paydays either. Oh well, she didn't want to question her good fortune too much because it might spoil her good night. As she rode up Robinson in the John's Mercury, she recalled that she had seen four others working the street tonight. Now, there were no girls on the street so Darla naturally assumed that they were out with customers at the moment. Of course, they could have been in one of the bars or cafes that dotted the avenue between 25th and 44th Streets. But the only reason they would have done that would be to avoid the law since the business was to be made here in the street. And there wasn't any evidence of the cops here at the moment. Yes, it was a very good night.
She adjusted her halter-top. As she did, she noticed the customer looking at her out of the corner of his eye. Darla had that effect on people. After all, they had just finished, and she knew for a fact that he had seen everything she had.
She had thirty dollars of his money. But maybe, there was a way to get a little more. Darla placed her hand on his leg. The quiet shudder she felt told her she was right about this.
Back-end sales, her father had said. Always have something else to sell them. This time, she was selling a touch.
Although she had been caught twice, she hadn't been arrested. Once, the officer had let her go with a stern warning and the second time, Darla had seen the look in the police officer's eye so she took a chance and made him a proposition. She felt lucky that it had worked. She realized, however, that unless she was extra careful she wouldn't maintain her lucky steak forever.
She was prepared for an arrest if such an eventuality occurred. Darla possessed a driver's license and other identification cards in another name. If the police arrested her, her plan was to use the false name and address, post bond, hire an attorney and pay the fine. Therefore, she felt she wouldn't have any record under her real name if she got busted. Darla reasoned that she would be out around fourteen hundred dollars if that happened but she could proceed the rest of her life without the threat of a record hanging over her.
Another lesson that her father had taught her--be prepared.
Darla Dunn was extra cautious though because she couldn't particularly afford a fourteen hundred-dollar incident right now. She was quite literally working her way through college, and she had a tuition payment coming up in a couple of weeks.
Darla was a senior majoring in psychology at the University of Oklahoma in Norman, Oklahoma, located about twenty-five miles south of her present location. She lived in Moore, Oklahoma, a bedroom community located between Oklahoma City and Norman. Her apartment was definitely middle class and tastefully furnished. She owned an older, mid-size car, but Darla didn't drive it when she was working. She used public transportation or taxicabs to travel when she was working.
So far things had worked out. It was one of those time periods when she needed to save her pennies. Things looked good to meet her next scheduled tuition payment, as long as Robin Dunnich, her assumed identity, didn't make a costly mistake which got her arrested and cost her a lot of money.
She told her customer to drop her off near the Mexican restaurant. She would pop in and have an order of nachos, then hit the streets again. The John gave her another five dollars and wanted to know when she would be here again. She gave him a nebulous answer. Her business wasn't anybody's business but her own. You know, she thought, when she was her usual bossy self, the men liked it. They seemed to gravitate to her dominating personality.
She watched him drive off. Darla didn't even remember his name. He had told her several times during the course of their date that lasted about thirty minutes total. Yet, here she was, fifty dollars richer, and she didn't even know his name.
Dad was right. In effect, she had just sold her touch for twenty bucks. Even after selling her body for thirty.
Darla looked forward to the break she had given herself. She would relax a few minutes and enjoy the nachos. Then, she would dash over to her place for a sec to leave most of the money she had accumulated during the course of the evening. She had earned over a hundred and fifty dollars so far. That would go long way toward her rent and other expenses for the month. This money was a good start toward making her goal.
Her only problem was the police. If they arrested her, it was an automatic one thousand-dollar fine. Excessive to be sure, but it was the manner in which the city fathers had of inflicting the greatest damage on ladies like Darla. They hit them where it hurt, in the pocketbook. But tonight was going to be a good night. She could feel it. As long as she avoided the police, it was going to be a very good night indeed.
She was seated at the window eating her nachos when she saw the patrol car drive by. Probably Officer Richards, making his rounds. Yep. It's time to scoot home and put some money away. Give things time to cool down.
Darla turned and asked the owner/waiter/cashier, Nick, to call her a taxi.
Chapter Three" Well, Cliff, since you asked, let me tell you. But before I do, have you got twenty or thirty minutes or so? Because, that's what it will take for me to tell you about what I've learned. And then, I won't even begin to scratch the surface. As you know, I have been interested in this UFO business for several years now. I was just one of those guys who read a great deal about the phenomenon, but I didn't have time to pursue it any further. I read as much as I could but that was it. Once I got laid off and the company gave me a small pension; however, that was all she wrote."
" I started going to all the conferences I could afford, and let me tell you, there's so much information out there, you wouldn't believe it. Some of it is really intense. Wow! Anyway, there I was, getting inundated by all this stuff. Some of it is pure garbage, I mean, who would believe it. But, like I said, some of it was pretty intense, really mind-blowing! You know; I didn't know what I was going to do. Here I was, being exposed to all this stuff. I didn't know which way to turn, I mean, even as a hobby, I was going to have to specialize. That's the way it seemed anyway."
The first impression a person got of Ed when they met him was that of a Sherman tank. He had a massive chest that matched his bulging stomach. He weighed in at 275 pounds and carried his six-foot, seven-inch frame in an erect manner.
Even sitting, his bulk was impressive. He tended to sit upright and when he talked, he punctuated the air with jabbing movements with the index finger of his right hand. His posture and mannerisms gave others the impression of authority. When he talked, people listened.
Today was no exception. Ed leaned over his plate of lemon chicken and spoke to his companion in a conspiratorial half-whisper. They were the only customers who had elected to sit outside next to the river's edge.
It was shortly past the noon hour. A few tourists passed along the river walk. The sun drifted down through the live oak trees, which lined the river.
Ed's voice was tense. As he talked, he looked around to see if anybody were listening. Satisfied that nobody paid them any attention, he leaned over and continued to answer the question that Clif had posed to him.
" One of the things I did find out, though, is that they, those aliens, are not so great that they don't make mistakes. In fact, they act downright human. In other words, they mess up too. And when they screw up, sometimes, it's big-time, baby."
" The first inkling I got of these snafus was strange. It took a lot of work to finally get some of this information, but it's worth it. At least, it's worth it to me. Here's how it all got started."
" I mean, there I was, in January '96, bout a year and a half ago, at this conference in Nevada, having my breakfast, minding my own business, when all of a sudden, I hear a lady crying in the booth next to mine. So I peeked and noticed that she had an ID badge from the conference I was attending. To make a long story short, I started talking to her."
" To be honest, I felt a little sorry for her. She looked so sad and forlorn. After we talked for awhile, I was a little disappointed. I guess I can admit it to myself, I let my imagination run wild. I was kinda hoping she was one of those half-breed alien hybrids. We had just heard a speaker who claimed his father was an extraterrestrial. So, I must have thought that maybe she had found out that she was the daughter of an extraterrestrial, too. Like, she was crying because she couldn't cope with being a half-breed. Maybe, I figured she would give me some extraterrestrial secrets or something. It must have been the conference and all because I couldn't get the idea that she was a hybrid of some sort out of my head. I even had it figured out that she looked a little strange."
" Nothing happened. At least, not while we talked, anyway. We talked awhile, mostly about some problem she was having with her boyfriend. Then she got up and left. I mean she didn't even say good bye. It was all kinda weird. She was so upset that she didn't make a lot of sense. All of a sudden, she calmed down. Then, she just stood up and walked out the door, pretty as you please."
" Well, I was about to skeedaddle myself when I noticed something lying in the seat next to where she had been. So, I picked it up and looked at it. It was a round cylinder about an inch in diameter and about six inches long. The surface was smooth. I have to admit I couldn't figure out what it could be. Since it wasn't any of my business anyway, I stuck it in my pocket intending to give it back to her when I saw her at the conference. Never did see her. Anyway, that thing ended up in my room. I had intended to give it to the conference organizers, but I never did. So I stuck it in my bag and brought it back home with me."
" I did try to contact the lady through the conference organizers, but they acted like they had never heard of her. So, I figure that I had remembered her name wrong or something like that. It seemed very strange to me at the time. Now that I look back, I think I have it figured out. What I have figured out is that maybe her job was to get that thing to somebody. And that somebody happened to be me. Lucky me! Talk about fate!"
" Anyway, since I couldn't find her, I stuck the object in my bag and brought it back home with me.
" It was a while before I got around to looking at that thing again, what with catching up with things at home and so forth. Anyway, when I did, about three weeks later, I examined it a bit closer. I noticed the thing seemed to be burnished metal with some kind of markings on it. Before I re-examined the thing at home, I thought I had guessed what it was. I thought it might have been a holder for some of those tampon things that women use. But, no such luck. Actually, it's good for me that's not what it was, as you will soon see.
Ed stopped talking for a few seconds. Cliff was looking at some tourists walking by. Then he turned his attention back to Ed.
" Are you with me, Cliff? I'm only giving you the highlights." Cliff nodded his head. "Good, as I stated this could get quite long, so stop me when you want to. Okay!
" Anyway, my curiosity was peaked so I began to study this thing in depth. Let me tell you, it took a lot of time, a lot of correspondence, and almost every penny I had to figure out what this thing was and to make some sense of it. But, it was worth every penny and all the time I spent.
" The markings on the cylinder resembled the markings you find in ancient Egypt; some form of hieroglyphics. With that in mind, I sent photographs of the markings to some Egyptologists to look at and give me their opinions. What I learned was that these guys have an inflated sense of their own worth. It cost me a lot of money and several weeks to figure out they couldn't help me."
" After a lot of wasted time, I sent the photographs to that fellow in the Midwest, you know the one. He's published a few books regarding his theories about where the UFOs are coming from. I don't know if he's right but I do know that he recognized the markings as a glyph, a form of cuneiform. I didn't know this, but this fellow states that cuneiform glyphs predate even the hieroglyphics of Egypt. And, another thing, you know what, he didn't charge me one red cent!"
Ed paused to take a bite of food. When he had finished chewing, he continued.
" Anyway, his conclusions about what the markings meant were a while coming, but he finally deciphered most of the markings. They turned out to be instructions on how to open the cylinder. How about that!"
" He offered to help open the cylinder but I refused. Now that I think of it, his help would have probably prevented the loss of some of the information, but I was paranoid. I felt that if I hooked up with anybody, they would cheat me out of what I had. That's considering that I had anything at all. Well, it turns out I did have something. It took me a long time to figure it out, but I did. Did I ever!"Ed paused again. He pushed his plate over to the side. He was too wound up to eat. He signaled the waiter for more tea.
" After I got the cylinder open, I found a cylinder of what looked like stainless steel which was about four and a half inches long and an eighth of an inch thick. I chipped a small piece of the material off and sent it to a metallurgical testing lab for them to analyze. The lab reported back that they could not identify the metal. They wanted me to send them some more samples. They said they had destroyed the sample I sent them during the testing. I refused because they had told me what I wanted to know and by then I had discovered the true purpose of the rod. Besides, I didn't have the money to pay them for the work they had already done.
" To make a long story short, it seems the rod was part of a recording device of some kind. It appeared to be the part where they placed the information. By this time, I had some technical help.
" I had to call on my new-found friend in the Midwest again, but by this time, I was more trusting of him. I had checked him out some more and my confidence level in him was pretty high. By this time, the government started getting involved. They sent some guys over to talk to me, but I wasn't around. I was in the Midwest helping my friend translate the data we found on the rod. Good thing for me I hadn't told anybody where I was. Those guys can get pretty nasty, as I soon found out."
" We found out that the data was encoded on the rod by some kind of electromagnetic process. I don't understand the technical aspects of it myself. The way it was explained to me was that the rod was like a compact disc that picks up the information and stores it as electromagnetic waves on the rod. I understand that even that explanation grossly oversimplifies the process. The important thing for me was that we had figured a way to get the data off the rod and on paper."
" The data ended up in the form of symbols; much like the hieroglyphics on the cylinder. But, my friend lost no time in translating most of the symbols. He wasn't able to do it overnight, but it didn't take him more than three weeks to have most of it translated."
" What we got was groups of data, Cliff, a report of some kind. We had a lot of gaps in the report because I had accidentally erased some data and they flat couldn't translate some of it. But, Cliff, it's really amazing."
" What this report is, it appears, is a report of a surveillance mission under which members of one extraterrestrial race were monitoring the actions of another group of extraterrestrial beings, you know aliens, as they conducted an operation here on earth."
" It' really amazing, Cliff. Here's some of the report if you care to read it. I have taken the translation my friend did and tried to fill in some of the gaps. I also tried to simplify the technical stuff the best I could. I don't think I messed it up too much. Anyway, take a look at it. I think it will really amaze you."
Ed picked up an accordion file folder bound together by a brown, cloth string. He untied the string, opened the flap of the folder and pulled out a sheaf of papers. He selected a group held together by a bulldog clamp and handed them over to Cliff.
As Cliff accepted the papers, Ed looked around. Nothing appeared unusual. He chastised himself a little. He was getting too paranoid; seems like he saw government agents behind every tree. Ed lost his paranoia somewhat as he focused his attention on the bosom of a shapely young blond passing by on the walk between the river and the restaurant.
A slight breeze drifted down the river and ruffled the papers somewhat as Cliff began to read.
Mission Status- Mission 3649AJE- 23....... Prepared by Mission Commander
Archival Number EJJA-5492-HJ
This report is prepared in accordance with the directives and under the authority of the Inter Galactic Confederation, Sub Space Central, Division
(Unable to translate).(Several lines of text deleted.)................................................................................ .............................................................................................................................. ....................................................................................................................................................... continuing investigation of the testing conducted on the planet by members of the fourth planet in the system created by the sixth star of the galaxy of the ADELPHI system. Since the ADELPHIANS do not belong to the Confederation, they are not bound by the Protocols that prohibit direct contact with the inhabitants of inferior cultures. In addition, their persistent use of Level 3 bio-androids constitutes another violation of the Protocols.
This mission, labeled 3949AJE- 23- 07A for archival purposes, commenced on 5924/63. Crew of the observed craft consisted of five Level 3 bio-androids. There were no Level 2 or Level 1 beings aboard the craft. As we have noted in previous transmissions, the ADELPHIANS have begun to send more and more missions without Level 1 and Level 2 life forms. These missions were routine in nature consisting of their continuing environmental and medical surveys of the planet and its inhabitants.
Your attention is directed; however, to the superior capabilities of the Level 3 bio-androids when compared to the members of the subject planet. The Level 3 bio-androids possess the ability to control the consciousness of the planet's inhabitants and to bury the memory of each encounter once the particular phase of testing has been completed.
Although most species possess the ability to control the consciousness of this primitive planet's inhabitants, the transfer of this ability to a Level 3 bio-android is quite remarkable.
As commander of the third fleet, I once again urge the Grand Council to consider modification of the Protocols to allow a pre-emptive strike on elements of the ADELPHI fleet. As previously noted
_________________________(Several lines of text deleted)_____________________________________________________________________________________________________ of the invasion scenario for the planet.Our monitors located within the host solar system detected the craft as it came out of hyperspace and began its navigation though the solar system enroute to the third planet.
The craft used by the ADELPHIANS for this mission was similar to our Stage 5 craft. It reflected a technology above our capabilities while in hyperspace. Our craft perform better, however, once the hyperspace portion of the journey is complete. Our sensors were able to obtain some technical information relative to the drive system. We have, as required, forwarded this data to the technical departments. We believe the data obtained will provide assistance toward resolving the hyperspace technical issues our technology faces.
We observed the mission and were ready to direct our sensors to the secondary mission when certain events transpired. These events provided us with invaluable information regarding the actions of Level 3 beings when faced with Un-programmed stimuli. Therefore, we continued to observe.
First, the craft descended into a flat region of the planet. The inhabitants of the planet refer to this region as the Great Plains. This portion of the mission also gave the surveillance team an opportunity to view the progress of the planet in their rudimentary development of aligned particle transmission weapons. This technology represents an attempt by various groups on the planet to develop weapons utilizing subatomic particles. Crude as these weapons are; it appears to represents an attempt on the part of certain elements of their society to advance technologically. Xxxxxxx xxx xxxxxxxx xxxxxxx xxxx ...............................
As Cliff continued to read, two men in a hotel room across the San Antonio River scrambled to focus the telephoto lens of the camera on the document he held in his hands.
"Damn," one of the men muttered as he strained to get a clear shot. " It's the wrong angle."
" Well, we got most of the conversation, anyway. This new parabolic mike is good." His companion checked the mount that kept the microphone trained on the pair in the restaurant.
"Yeah. But our job is to get the rod as well as the report. The boss is getting awfully pissed."
"Let him. We're doing the best we can. Shit, all he gave us was six agents. Now that the guy is on to us, we have to be doubly careful. This guy is pretty cagey. God only knows where he's got the rod hidden and as far as we can ascertain, he only has one copy of that report. If they want to prevent his partner in Chicago from publishing the information in his book, they'd better start shaking loose some resources on this case."
" Yeah. I think we're all they got right now. Keeping the lid on the Roswell thing is eating up a whole lot of manpower. The Air Force has screwed that one up royally. Now, we've got every half-assed UFO investigator and their brother looking into that. Then, there are the people who smell money in this thing. Shit, there's a big deal coming up in Roswell in a couple of months. Almost every agent in the country will be there under cover. Most of them are establishing cover now."
" Look, he's moving to get out of the sun. Maybe I can get a lock on the report. Shit! His shoulder's in the way."
Chapter FourHarry stood in line at the counter at the BX waiting to pay for the toilet articles he had come on base to purchase. Old habits died hard. Even though it had been three years since his retirement, he still thought in terms of shopping on base even when it was more convenient to do otherwise. He clung to the Air Force as much as he could. After all, he had given it eight years of his life. He would still be in if he hadn't had his medical problems. First, disqualified from flying. Then, medically retired.
Wasn't bad though. He still got a monthly check that was mostly tax-free since it was a medical retirement processed through the VA. He had an ID card giving him access to military installations and use of the Army Post Exchanges and the Navy Exchanges as well as the Air Force Base Exchanges. In addition, he could shop for his groceries at any military installation in the world--not bad.
Harry also belonged to the Officers Club at Randolph Air Force Base near his home in San Antonio. That gave him access to military officers throughout the world. And San Antonio was a good place. There were three good clubs there. Randolph, Lackland, and the Army club at Fort Sam Houston. By good clubs, Harry acknowledged that they were good places to ogle women on certain nights and if a guy was careful he would be able to meet someone and angle a date.
Harry found himself with a love/hate relationship with military bases. Since he no longer was able to serve in the military, he found that occasional visits to bases to do the daily routine tasks he had become accustomed to doing on the bases themselves brought up bitter sweet feelings and seem to contribute to his overall maladies.
May he ought to stop visiting bases? Just take the money each month and run. Do his shopping like everybody else. At regular stores, drug stores and super markets. Yet, old ties were hard to break. So the love/hate, bittersweet relationship continued.
He was beginning to wish he hadn't given in to his yen to visit the base. After all, he had a very productive visit to Colorado Springs and got some good leads. And he had figured out a way to narrow his leads, if valid, down to a single locale. He hoped he wouldn't have to explain his methods to Mr. Dunn. After all, the solution appeared so simple that he probably should have thought of it sooner.
Well, that's life. He grinned and then as he left the Exchange and headed across the parking lot, his depression returned. He lowered his head and made his way to the rental car.
All of a sudden, he heard a horn blare behind him. A voice boomed out.
"Captain Miles, you need a haircut."
Harry whirled at the familiar but as yet unrecognizable voice. A flash of light blinded him as the afternoon sun bounced off the windshield blinding him. The three stars of the plate in front of the car registered in his brain and instinctively, Harry pulled himself up to attention and saluted.
Laughter met his actions.
"Harry, you're retired. You don't have to salute."
More laughter.
Harry squinted. The general was laughing so hard; his head was bent down. Harry saw the bald spot that many fighter jocks sported. Then the face turned toward him. Bulldog!
Harry laughed. A little sheepishly, but he laughed. He was glad to see his former wing commander.
Three stars. Three stars in four years. Bulldog's doing all right for himself.
Later, at the BX coffee shop, the two fighter pilots caught up with each other.
Harry let Bulldog know that he had found out that his former boss had pulled some strings and had gotten Harry transferred out of the routine drudgery of the Defense Investigative Service into a more meaningful assignment with Air Force Intelligence. After thanking him profusely, Harry had been catching the general up on things.
"...And after awhile, I got bored with that job, so I used my GI Bill benefits to go to Private Eye school, which incidentally was a snap after the training the intelligence community gave me. So I serve a few papers, I'm a duly sworn magistrate of Bexar County in San Antonio and I've started to get a few cases now."
"What are you working on now?"
"Oh, a missing person case. Quite lucrative. That's beside the point. What about you, Bulldog? Three stars in four years. Whose ass have you been kissing? Ashley's?
"Oh fuck off, I've been pulling special duty. Besides, it's closer to five years. Anyway, this third star is mainly for my new assignment. I'm headed for DC to serve as deputy for a spook outfit. That's all I can tell you. I may have told you too much already. I know you had a Top Secret and several SCI clearances while you worked in Intel. So, I've told you more than I should. If we talk any more about it, I'll have to kill you."
Both men laughed at the old joke. Harry had used that line several times himself. But there was something about the way Bulldog had said it that made Harry wonder if he were serious.
Harry knew that after Bulldog had made general, he had been sent to the mountain to serve as a Command Director. That much he knew from reading the Air Force Times. Harry had always considered the mountain post as kinda a dead-end job.
When Bulldog had been assigned to the mountain, Harry figured that Bulldog had reached the end of the line. Given a star as a reward for all his service as an Eagle Driver, they put him out to pasture so to speak in a job which had out lived its usefulness but, for bureaucratic reasons, still existed. Honored with the promotion and put out to graze. Yea. Harry continued his train of thought. He knew Bulldog had served well as the commanding officer of an F-15 fighter wing. Bulldog had flown the Eagle for years, and it was his stubborn persistence that had served him well as a fighter pilot because he never gave up the fight. It was the bulldog-like determination that earned him the tactical call sign, "Bulldog."
Bulldog carried the same qualities into his Air Force leadership and bureaucratic career. They simply had to promote him and give him choice assignment. He simply never took no for an answer and pushed and prodded everybody until they not only did the things he wanted them to do but they also did them the way he wanted them done.
Sure, everybody, thought he was an asshole, even Harry. But even though he was an uncompromising son of a bitch, he was probably the best fighter pilot around, the best F-15 Eagle driver around. Widowed, he gave his flying and the Air Force mission his undivided attention.
Harry had wanted to be like Bulldog and Harry found out that he could keep up with Bulldog. Harry had even bested the general in some 1 v 1 (one versus one) mock dogfights, but he soon found that Bulldog would keep coming at him until Bulldog had devised tactics to overwhelm and resoundingly defeat Harry.
Harry reveled in it. He was one of the few fighter pilots who had even come close to out flying this living Air Force legend. Harry had not only mastered the Eagle and the complicated switchology involved into making himself one with the aircraft, he had become the creme de la creme--a world class fighter pilot.
Then his body had failed him. It seemed to come about the same time he was promoted to Captain. With his status and his supreme sense of self-confidence, Harry knew that he was destined to make Major early. Then out of nowhere, in a matter of weeks, he found himself grounded and transferred to the routine, monotonous hell of the Defense Investigative Services.
After being rescued by the assignment to work for Air Force Intelligence, his body failed him again. Now officially medically retired, he found himself clinging to the remnants of the Air Force which many of the other retirees clung to--the BX, the commissary, the clubs.
In Harry's case, he hated those ingrained habits, which lead him to think of the BX and the Commissary, when he realized he needed some stuff. Even though he appreciated it and was glad the service was paying him and taking care of him in a manner of speaking, he still resented it when he had cause to remember the good times and what might have been.
The depression continued throughout the long drive from the Springs to Denver's International Airport. It had come over him again after the general and he had parted company and he walked back to his rental car. This feeling of discontent clouded his thoughts, and he didn't notice the lady taking his photograph.
Although depressed, Harry had been glad to see Bulldog and was really glad that Bulldog had seemed to break out of the living purgatory to which the Air Force had regulated him.
To the casual observer, it was another beltway bandit company like the many others which seemed to spring up like rabbits near military installations which let government contracts. The company occupied a single, three-story building. Like many of the regional offices of the agency around the country, the company conducted legitimate business from the first floor and its officers actually won a government contract or two. These contracts consisted of services such as food service and Base Exchange concessionaires, thereby giving company officers legitimate access to the bases where it possessed contracts.
The agency really didn't need this access but it gave some of its agents quasi-legal status on the bases and helped them conduct its affairs.
This particular office building was focused upon security and what its agents termed counter intelligence. The assigned agents kept tabs on the activities and actions of those individuals who worked the visitor interdiction program in Cheyenne Mountain. They also watched the individuals who were cleared on the visitor program within the United States Space Command, United States Air Force Space Command, the United States Army Space Command, and the United States Navy Space Command.
Since the visitor program was a Sensitive Compartmentalized Information program beyond the Top Secret level of clearance, relatively few people outside of the operational teams possessed clearance and knowledge of the visitor secrets.
Those individuals who possessed the clearances, both on the operational teams and on the staff, were unaware of the existence of this security detachment which operated twenty-four hours a day to monitor their movements and personal lives. They would have been amazed regarding the amount of data that the agency had collected about them. The agency had even installed listening devices in the homes of some of the individuals who were under observation.
What they didn't know wouldn't hurt them, members of the agency reasoned, and it would help the agency recognize any individuals early on who demonstrated any sign of instability or any other action which might put the visitor program secrets at risk.
They even watched General Ashley, the four star general who ran the United States space effort and directed the visitor interdiction program as part of his duties. Sensors tracked his every move twenty-four hours per day and recorded his every sound including the encrypted communications he had with the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. His enlisted aide polished his brass and arranged his medals on uniforms daily, unaware that some of these items contained extremely sensitive transmitters.
The videotape of Harry and Bulldog and the photographs of Harry had come out quite well. The agent had prepared several copies of the photographs and recorded the necessary information on the forms which would accompany the photographs when they transmitted them to the agency's central repository in Washington.
This one was extremely easy since Bulldog was now aware of the surveillance and he had supplied the agents with Harry's name and enough background. It was simple to pull Harry's file from the computer.
The agents had noted the fact that a field agent had identified Harry in the vicinity of a sighting and an animal mutilation in North Texas. Now, a week later, Harry shows up at Peterson. A coincidence? Maybe. No alarm bells tripped yet.
Harry stared out the window of the plane. The craft had reached cruising altitude and the flight attendants had started their beverage service. Harry wanted a drink but he had promised himself he was going to lay off the booze for awhile. But thinking about it, his throat got thirsty. He was telling himself that one or two wouldn't hurt. But then, he had enough medical problems, and the alcohol wouldn't do his liver any good.
Harry had read somewhere that livers regenerated themselves and his theory of the moment was that if he could stay away from alcohol for about three months then his body would be able to process alcohol better. Anyway, that was a month ago and here he was, trying very hard to convince himself that it would be okay to have a couple of shooters. Just the thing. The right thing to do at the time.
But Harry didn't order a drink after all. There was something inside him that told him no in a stronger voice than the voice that told him to order the drink.
One of the flight attendants had been especially friendly. She let Harry know she was staying in San Antonio for a few days. Wanted him to tell her where to go and what to do. Harry wondered if she was hitting on him. She was nice looking with a good body and seemed to have a great personality.
Harry wondered if there was something wrong with himself. Normally, he lusted after everything female and now, here, this lady was looking like she might want to get something going and it didn't do a thing for Harry.
Lou Ann, that was her name. Well, Lou Ann, it's like this. I'm in training to be a monk. A lustful monk, but a monk in training
.At least, thinking about what might have been turned Harry's mind away from the booze. Then things stated to happen in Harry's mind regarding the case. He had picked up some leads regarding Darla in Colorado Springs. She had finished her high school work and two years of college at the community college. After that, the college had received requests for transcripts from several universities located in various parts of the country. Washington State. Boston. Oklahoma. Florida. Even one request from a school in Toronto.
Even though she had listed her occupation as a waitress, Harry had been unsuccessful in determining where she had worked in the Springs. If she had been a waitress, she had gotten paid off the books.
He pulled out a small notebook and began writing down some thoughts he had. He had begun to realize that finding Darla, if she were in the United States, would be very easy. Hell. He probably didn't need to have made this trip to Colorado Springs. It was nice to have seen the Academy again and running into Bulldog had been okay, despite the fact that Harry seemed to get more and more depressed. Maybe, it was time to move on.
When the plane landed, Harry took his time so that he was one of the last passengers to disembark. He struck up a conversation with Lou Ann on the way out and found out her last name and the name of her hotel. He made a date for dinner on the river the following evening.
After all, maybe there's something there. It's only dinner. Maybe the fact he was a little depressed about the way his life seemed to be going had something to do with it. Dinner wouldn't hurt and it would do his ego good. After all, she did have a great personality and nice tits.
It was one in the morning when Harry got home. Universal City was a bedroom community that had sprung up around Randolph Air Force Base north of San Antonio. Some of the old timers had told Harry that Universal City and Randolph used to be considered in the country from San Antonio. Not any more. Wall to wall houses and businesses. It was hard to tell where San Antonio left off and Live Oak and Universal City began.
The drive from the airport to Harry's house took about thirty minutes. Harry realized as he pulled into his drive that Lou Ann's hotel was on the other end of the city off of Interstate 10 West. It would take him almost an hour to pick her up.
Harry was thankful he had good neighbors when he got home. His mail was stacked neatly on the kitchen table and there was plenty of food and water put out for Harry's cat.
Harry helped himself to a soda and put his bag in the living room. He went into the spare room he used as an office and fired up his computer.
Why didn't I think of this before? As the computer booted up, Harry searched through his course material until he found the study guide on Information Data Retrieval. Hacking 101 was what Harry and the others had called it, especially when the instructor had provided much information that went far and beyond that which the text materials stated.
Harry had taken copious notes and had stapled them to the study guide.
Once the computer booted up, Harry found the disc that connected him to the on-line company. He loaded it and provided the information requested, credit card number, name, address, and so forth. Maybe he should have subscribed earlier, but he didn't need anything from the Internet until now. After all, he got ten free hours.
Harry finally figured out how to log onto the service and get on the Internet by two thirty. He was tired but he wanted to keep at it until he got some results or he didn't.
He made some coffee and drank it while he studied his notes. Then it was back to the computer. He didn't take no for an answer. These were traits that made him a good fighter pilot. Persistence. Stay on the enemy until he is yours. Keep the target in front and don't let go. Otherwise, he may slip in behind and shoot your ass off.
Harry took another break about seven. He heard the sounds of automobiles as on his block as his neighbors drove off to work. Harry cooked some grits and made more coffee.
By early afternoon, he had broken the code to the Social Security Administration and got a possible fix. It was a matter of time then. Oklahoma. Drivers License Bureau. Believe it or not, she had received a driver's license in her own name. Then on to the University of Oklahoma at Norman. Bingo! He had her. She was a graduate student at the University of Oklahoma soon to receive a degree as a Master of Social Work.
Harry kept at it. He was now paying for the service having used up his free ten-hour trail. He wanted to know where she was working. She had worked briefly at an aircraft facility in Oklahoma City. That's how he had picked up her social security number, but her work record indicated she had only worked for a few weeks.
Harry wondered how she was paying for college. Probably a sugar daddy somewhere in the wood work.
Harry disengaged from the on-line service about five in the afternoon. He rummaged through some CDs he had purchased several weeks ago and found the one for which he was looking. He removed the cellophane wrapper and threw it on the floor. He was going to have to get better organized. That's all there is to it. Shit. He didn't dare get a cleaning lady. If anybody cleaned up, he would never be able to find anything. He never would get organized. Shit. He pulled the CD out of the box and popped it in the computer.
After studying the screen for a moment, he typed Darla's name into the screen and presto! Her address and phone number.
There she was. Not three hours drive from her father. He will shit when he finds out. I'd better go up and check it out. Maybe I could drive. No, fly and get a rental. Don't know. Damn. I'm tired.
Harry had a headache. He popped two aspirin and sent out for a pizza. While he waited for the pizza to arrive, he decided to fly to Oklahoma so he called the airlines and got a reservation for Monday morning. They fixed him up with a car. A little more than he would have normally spent but it was convenient. And Harry was tired.
When the pizza came, Harry ate it in the living room while he watched a movie he had taped earlier in the week. By the time he finished it was after nine o'clock, and he dragged himself to his bedroom and plopped into the sack for a good night's rest. He didn't set the alarm because he had arranged for an afternoon flight.
He didn't remember his date with Lou Ann until he woke up on Saturday morning. He called the hotel but she had checked out.
Oh shit. With his luck, she would probably be working the flight from San Antonio to Dallas on Monday morning. If so, he would feel very uncomfortable during the flight.
He was right.
She was working on his flight.
He did feel uncomfortable.
Chapter FiveRanger John G. Hawkeyes peered intently at the scene which unfolded before him. It was hard to believe. About two hundred yards to the south of Mount Scott, he saw an incredible sight, one that his brain refused to accept. There was a huge object hanging motionless in the night sky, bright and gleaming. An incandescent glow surrounded the object. The craft reminded him of two heavy white ceramic saucers like the kind you used to find in roadside diners. These giant saucers seemed to be pressed together although it was hard to tell because the glow caused the craft to shimmer in the sky obscuring the moonlight. Silent, the disc hung there and kept the ranger in a spellbound trance.
He had been drawn to this spot because he had heard the bleating of a buffalo cow and had walked over to the ridgeline to investigate. That's when he had spotted the object hovering there in the stillness of the evening. That wasn't all.
John crouched transfixed as a buffalo cow drifted soundless up a blue light that emanated from the center of the craft. This animal didn't cry out or move. It remained motionless in the blue light as the light drew it up inside the craft. John wondered if the animal was alive or dead.
Fear gnawed at him. Conflicting emotions gripped him. John felt like he needed to take some action but he was afraid. He wondered momentarily what his great-great-great uncle, the warrior, Geronimo, would handle this situation. How many times had his father told him the legends about how Geronimo had fought a bitter campaign with only fifty warriors against a Union Army force a hundred times as large? Now here he was, afraid and undecided about what to do.
After a quick review of his options, John had decided that discretion was the better part of valor. As he turned to go, he thought he saw something immediately to his right. Then he heard a voice that seemed to come from inside his head.
DO NOT BE AFRAID.
It seemed as if numbness had engulfed his whole body. His senses appeared intact. He could hear, see, feel, and smell. He supposed he could still taste. He knew one thing -- he could still feel fear! He couldn't remember ever being this afraid in his entire life. This fear gnawed at him and clouded the inputs to his senses. He stood there, dimly remembering another voice from inside his head.
BE STILL.
The voice felt the same as the other voice but it guided his thoughts in such a powerful way that his subconscious mind was compelled to obey. This voice reached the depths of his subconscious and triggered the power that governed his automatic bodily functions such as breathing. By exercising control over this subterranean element of his mind, this voice was able to direct John's conscious body. It caused him to contradict his conscious mind. Try as he might John had no choice but to do as the voice stated.
The power generated by the voice possessed an authority that overruled any thoughts generated by his conscious mind. Even though his fear told him to run like hell, the subconscious command kept him rooted at the spot.
John became aware of movement near him. He felt something touch his hand. The material touching his right hand seemed smooth yet rough -- like a snake's skin covered with chalk. A feeling of lightness engulfed the ranger. Buoyant. As if he had lifted off the ground.
FOLLOW ME.
A form appeared in front of him and began moving toward the blue beam. It wasn't walking. It seemed to be gliding as if its feet weren't touching the ground. Then John realized that he was following behind the diminutive creature. It was then he realized that he wasn't walking either. His legs weren't moving, yet he was. He also seemed to be floating or gliding along the ground. He was headed toward the iridescent blue beam also. Once again, fear overwhelmed him.
Another voice appeared in his head.
BE CALM. SLEEP.
When he awoke, he was lying on a table. A soft, bright light permeated the room. John thought he was in the inside of an egg. The walls were oval-shaped turning inward the way that the Indian always imagined the inside of an egg would be. The light shone through the walls giving the room an eerie appearance. From his observation of the outside of the craft, the inside of the craft, if in fact that's where he was, seemed to be larger than it should have been. But then, everything seemed strange.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw two of the creatures waving wands of light around the body of the buffalo. They appeared to be making incisions of some kind near the animal's eye and its rear end. Then a movement caused John to divert his attention to the activity going on around him. His consciousness registered a huge black eye hovering around his face. He felt uncomfortable around his gut and realized that they had inserted some object into his anus. And, damn, it hurt! He felt some thing touch his head. The pain went away