Operation Indigo Sky

by Lawrence Ambrose

  As thirst set in – more of a hollow, headachy sensation than actual thirst – I hiked down a slope away from the tent to a small creek I'd noted in passing yesterday. I drank two bottles' worth with my LifeStraw before filling them. I was starting back when I heard laughter and approaching footfalls. I scrambled away from sound into a patch of brush.

  Five soldiers emerged from the trees maybe forty feet downstream from me. Four of the men stripped down, rinsing and wringing out their clothes and hanging them in the trees lining the shore before wading in with theatrical shivers and one dude crying out "Jesus, this is colder than a witch's clit!"

  The cry of opportunity. I eased toward them while they laughed, sneered, and traded insults. Just young military dudes having a good time. Not much concern for security, obviously, other than the token sentry, who'd stepped away from the hanging clothes to inject his own choice barbs into the conversation. But then why should they be on hyper-alert? They weren't in enemy territory, and were far removed from civilization.

  In their omission my salvation resided. I inched closer to the nearest uniform. Everything was there: boots, radio, ASEK survival knife, and even, incredibly, his M4 and ammo clip. All conveniently placed at the edge of the brush!

  I maneuvered into pilfering position. Watching the soldiers more than the objects of my desire, I started by sliding the boots into my bushy lair. Followed by the cap, knife, radio, ammo belt, and M4.

  Now the hard part. Any sudden move would trigger their peripheral vision. I stood ever so slowly, shielding myself behind the hanging uniform, and inched it down – more like centimetered – keeping a rapt eye on the soldiers as if I enjoyed watching frolicking naked men.

  The deed was finally done. Now I just had to depart without earning a cluster of .223 holes in my back. I tiptoed maybe twenty yards away before breaking into a quiet run for the tent. Fifty, one hundred, then two hundred yards without cries of alarm. I doubted they would cry out when one dude couldn't find his stuff. It would be more like: "Man, I could've sworn it was right here!" The thought that someone or something would've dragged off a uniform, M4, ammo, and knife would only occur in painful degrees. A cougar or bear with military aspirations?

  I paused at the forest perimeter to scramble into the uniform and attach all the accoutrements. I jammed the telephoto into some branches and cut a small hole in my right side pocket with the knife. I set the camera to record-video, and wedged it into the pocket so that the lens pointed through the hole. The video wasn't going to win any Oscars, but hopefully it would capture what was needed.

  I slapped my cap on and braced myself. You're a kick-ass member of this elite force. You fucking belong here. Blue Fly or die! And with those inspiring words I marched out of the trees and straight for the tent.

  As I figured, no one paid me any notice. At best I got a momentary glance. Just another soldier on a private mission. I banked on the various squads not knowing each other that well. If they did, it was over. No sense in worrying about it.

  I arrived at the heart of the beast without fanfare. And the beast wasn't all that impressive: part of an ellipsoidal white craft. The surface looked like baked-on enamel. Most of whatever had been inside was missing. So was maybe half of the ship itself, as if it had been cross-sectioned and carted away. A fortiesh woman was speaking earnestly with a pair of engineers. The silver eagle on her cap and collar labeled her as a Colonel.

  I made a point of bending to tie one of my boots. When I straightened back up I had the distinct displeasure of staring into the raptor-grey eyes of a fifty-year old officer with the standard-issue granite jaw and stern gaze. His gold cloverleaf identified him as a major. His breast pocked labeled him as Major Matt Kinley.

  "Run into something sharp, Lieutenant?"

  It took a moment to realize what he was talking about – tracing his raptorial stare to the hole in my side pocket.

  "Yes, sir." I willed myself not to gulp. "Hung it on the wrong tree."

  The smallest smile cracked his granite expression. "Did some summer cleaning, did we?"

  "I was getting a little ripe, sir." I offered a faint but respectful smile. As always with a higher-ranking officer, it was about treading the line between chutzpah and servility. A polite, calm deference was the ticket.

  "Talk to Nellie. We should have some spares."

  "Yes, sir."

  The Major continued on his way, my existence soon, I hoped, forgotten. But now the woman Colonel was staring at me. I prayed she was intrigued by my rugged good looks.

  I averted my eyes with a polite half-nod to acknowledge her gaze before moving. That seemed like the right response, but as I walked away I braced myself to hear her call me back. Fortunately, that didn't happen. When I dared to glance back twenty yards later she was re-immersed in conversation with the presumed two engineers.

  What would the next challenge be? Murphy wouldn't allow me to just walk out of here and back to my fortress on the ridge, would he? But walk out of the tent I did – every excruciating inch of the ninety yards – and made my way around a parked Osprey. I dared another glance – and this time was rewarded with the unpleasant sight of four of the five soldiers from the creek entering the far side of the tent. I figured their birthday-suited comrade had wisely stayed behind. They appeared more mortified than alarmed.

  They were still trying to put the pieces together. To reduce their embarrassment, I guessed they would likely speak to the supply officer. The last thing they'd want is for their misplacement of the uniform and attachments to race up the chain of command. Still, at some point this was going to turn into a serious inquiry. I hoped I would be long-gone by then.

  My luck ran into Mr. Murphy when I entered the forest on the far side and two patrolling soldiers spotted me. Nothing to do but be cool and friendly and press on.

  "Hey," I said.

  "What's going on?"

  "Nothing much." Think fast. "One of Major Kinley's boys spotted something reflective a couple of clicks up the hill. I'm supposed to make sure it's nothing."

  "By yourself?"

  Soldiers would usually work in pairs in this situation, just in case.

  "Yup. We're kinda strapped for time and men. I'm gonna make a quick jog up there. And frankly, I could use the freaking exercise."

  The men stared at me with more than a hint of skepticism – but I guessed that was about the order, not me. Then the guy who'd been speaking shook his head and smiled.

  "Yeah, I hear ya. Have fun on your nature run."

  "I'll say hi to Bambi for you."

  I launched myself forward with a nod and a thin smile. I knew the soldiers weren't entirely satisfied, but they couldn't think of any reason to stop me. And I wasn't going to hang around and give them any reasons.

  I made an abrupt executive decision – and a painful one. Within the hour, if not sooner, helicopters and soldiers were going to start combing the area in search of the mystery uniform-snatcher. I'd be a sitting duck on the nearby ridge, and their search was guaranteed to cover that. My best option seemed to be to make a run for it south, toward the highway that ended at Mt. Baldy. Maybe I could get some compassionate motorist to give me a lift.

  I discarded the radio, ammo clips, and the M4 – no way would I be using that on anything or anyone – but kept the knife and uniform. The extra layer of clothing might help keep me warm during my all-night run. Aside from that, I had my LifeStraw and a couple of powerbars. Without the pack, and going downhill, I'd travel much faster. The half-moon was already up and would shed enough light to make navigating doable. Soon I'd cut west toward the closest highway. I might ditch the uniform then. Or maybe that would help me get a civilian to stop?

  About forty minutes out, I veered west. Behind me, helicopters were launching out of the base like fireworks on the Fourth of July. They were onto me now. I figured they'd begin sweeping the area, starting further out than they thought I could be and working their way in. They probably would move the roadblocks further down
the road. Despite my apprehensive shudders, I knew that finding me would be a tough row to hoe. They had no idea what direction I was headed in or even if I had fled the area. They'd have to assume I ran. Depending on how many helicopters they could put in the air, they might run three or six or nine-ring pattern starting at the theoretically farthest point. That was a lot of territory to cover.

  As I'd expected, several helicopters rolled in from the east, a half-mile or so apart, overlapping their search grids. It looked like the innermost of them was on course to detect me. They were coming on too fast for me to escape their search grid.

  I chopped off a pair of branches and stuffed them, antler-like, under my cap. I stripped off the uniform, exposing my dark windbreaker and jeans. I transferred the camera to my windbreaker. My best chance was to get to the nearby creek. A foot or two underwater ought to make me undetectable, assuming I could hold my breath long enough.

  Time was running short. The clatter of the approaching helicopters rattled through the dusk. They might already have me on FLIR.

  Feeling like a fool, I dropped down on all fours and started bounding toward the creek. If they'd picked up my heat signature, maybe the motion and the shape might fool them long enough for me to get into the water. Bouncing along on rough and uneven ground like a drunken Bambi thrust every aching muscle and burning joint into bold relief. That icy creek water might actually feel good if and when I reached it.

  The helicopters came on fast - a plague of rabid locusts. The creek edged into view. I maintained my drunken deer form.

  Then something truly weird happened – like Mr. Murphy's resentful mother-in-law: I spotted a real deer ahead, dipping it head in the creek. I didn't have time to contemplate this strange synchronism before the deer bounded away and I reached the water. I dropped the camera on the ground and plunged into the creek. The water welcomed me with an icy fist – first a blow to the head, then a punch to my chest, squeezing the air out of my lungs. I gritted my teeth and forced myself down, bumping into and then clinging to a rock.

  The night blew up. Searchlight . The beam speared the water, but arced quickly away. The light switched off a moment later. A helicopter passed almost directly overhead and then was gone. I clung to the rock for a few more painful seconds before surfacing. I crawled out, shivering, and grabbed the camera before slogging across. I was so cold now that if the helicopters returned, I'd probably barely raise a blip on their FLIR. But if my guess was right, they wouldn't be back in this area for fifteen or twenty minutes, and their search radius would shrink outside my line of travel.

  I jogged as fast as I dared, propelled by the warmth it generated as much as my desire to reach the highway. I didn't have far to go: I spotted headlights moving along a ridge about two miles ahead. The trees thinned out into a final rise of rock. I was exposed as hell, but without any helicopters in sight, I wasn't worried. I sprinted up the last hill with a deranged smile. Was it possible that I might actually pull this off?

  But I had a few miles to go before I slept. The highway was empty when I reached it, and as the last vestiges of twilight slipped into night, I wasn't feeling super-optimistic about hitching a ride on what appeared to be more a rural road than a highway. How many people would be traveling out here at this time of the evening?

  I followed the road south toward Gunnison. As my adrenaline evaporated – much faster than the moisture in my waterlogged clothes – my optimism deflated to a more realistic perspective. I didn't know how far I was from Gunnison, but I guessed it could be thirty or forty miles. I could be in for one hell of a walk if someone didn't drive by, and there was no guarantee they'd pick me up even if they did.

  I jogged and walked along the highway for the next two or three hours. Time was becoming a bit elusive. I nibbled through one of my two remaining powerbars, and my dawning headache reminded me that I hadn't drunk anything for a while. I might need to take a detour back into the wilderness in search of water, but I wasn't prepared to do that yet. I wished I'd taken a few moments to drink at the creek, but you can't think of everything.

  I soldiered on, a little punch-drunk. I could always take a break or even crash, though I doubted it would be very restful with me shivering all night. I could chop some branches and gain some insulation by covering myself –

  That hopeful thought stopped dead as I reached for the ASEK survival knife – I'd slipped it into my back pocket rather than taking the time to strap it in place – and came up empty. I had no idea when it had fallen out. Maybe in the creek or maybe while pretending to be a deer. Left behind along with all that other cool stuff. Almost $900 worth.

  But I had the most important thing. I felt the camera in my jacket just to make sure it hadn't leaped out to join the knife. I breathed out. I had what I'd come for. All the money and all the toys were a means to that end. No reason to sweat the little stuff. I had to focus on the big prize.

  Headlights cast my shadow down the road. Shit, a car! I jumped out into the road, waving my hands wildly. This was no time to be shy. The car slowed, stopping a cautious thirty feet from me. I must've made a wild-looking figure. I raised my hand in reassurance. The car – an older pickup – crept forward. The passenger-side window rolled down a few inches. A large dude packing about five pounds of beard eyed me from inside.

  "What are you doing out here in the middle of nowhere this time of night?" he asked.

  "That's a long story. I'm not a serial killer, I promise."

  "Where you headed?"

  "I could just use a ride back to the nearest civilization."

  "As it turns out, I'm heading in that general direction." He chuckled and unlocked the doors. "Hop in."

  "Thanks."

  I slid in beside him on a tidal wave of relief. He seemed friendly enough: fiftiesh, on the portly side, with long grey-streaked brown hair and a round, cherubic face framed in a thick, bristly beard that would need hedge clippers to trim. He slapped it into gear and we started down the road.

  "Did your car break down?"

  "No. I was, ah, backpacking." The man was staring at me expectantly. I tried to think of something semi-plausible. He deserved something for picking me up. "I lost my backpack in a creek."

  The man grunted sympathetically. "Interesting time to be backpacking. You notice a lot of helicopter activity in the area?"

  "Yeah, I did."

  "That's why I'm here, to be honest." He gave me a tentative smile. "If you've been up here for a few days, you probably don't know about the supposed 'meteor' that passed over the area."

  "Is that why you're up here?"

  "You got me. Just thought I'd drive up and see what's goin' on. But I ran into a roadblock around Mount Baldy. Made me think maybe something more than a meteor came down."

  "Oh."

  "In the interests of full disclosure, people tend to think of me as a UFO nut. But I can't see anything nutty about thinking we aren't alone in the universe, and that if they did come here our government would keep us in the dark."

  I smiled. Life sure could be strange sometimes.

  "Let me guess. You think I'm a crackpot?"

  "No. I wasn't thinking that."

  He nodded and smiled as if he knew that I was thinking exactly that.

  "You wouldn't happen to have any water?" I asked.

  "Sure thing. There's a case of bottled water in the back."

  I twisted in my seat, and there it was: the answer to my current fantasies. I tore off a bottle.

  "Thanks."

  "No problem. I've got some chips back there, too, if you're hungry."

  "I'll take you up on that."

  It was just a bag of plain Fritos, but at the moment they tasted as good as prime rib. The man chuckled as I stuffed down a handful.

  "How long were you out there after you lost your backpack?"

  "Not too long. But it doesn't take long."

  "No, I wouldn't expect so. Did some backpacking when I was your age, but I guess you could say I grew out of it." He
patted his ample belly and laughed. "The name's Hank, by the way. Hank Gilmore."

  "Uh, Scott. Scott Harrow."

  "Good to meet you."

  "Better to meet you. You really saved my ass."

  A half-mile ahead, two flashing red lights blocked the road.

  "Well, what do you know," he murmured. "Looks like they set up another roadblock."

  "Shit," I said.

  Hank slowed the pickup, glancing at me.

  "Thanks for the ride," I said. "But I'm going to need to get out now."

  Hank stopped the truck. "Is there a problem?"

  I thought quickly. What I said to him could make the difference between him reporting me or playing dumb. His interest in UFOs and what was going on up here could work in my favor.

  "I stumbled on something up there," I said. "And I took photographs."

  "Holy fuck." Hank stared at me in amazement. "Are we talking a downed ET craft?"

  "Some kind of exotic craft."

  "Whoa. Man, sounds like the fucking mother lode. You say you got pictures?"

  "Yes." I tapped my pocket.

  "Jeez. Okay." Sweat had broken out on his brow. "This is what we're gonna do. You get out. I'll drive through the checkpoint and pull over maybe a half-mile past it. You go around on foot and catch up with me there."

  "Sounds like a plan. Thanks, man."

  "I'll be waiting. Unless they arrest me or something."

  I climbed out and jogged off the road. The pickup accelerated away. Getting safely past the checkpoint was going to require reaching the thin line of trees a few hundred yards below. No biggie. I lost sight of Hank's truck as I descended. I expected they'd let him through after a few perfunctory questions. They would know what their quarry looked like.

  Soon, the checkpoint appeared on the road above me. Didn't appear to be much more than a pair of jeeps with their emergency blinkers on. Three or four soldiers tops.

  I spotted the dark silhouette of Hank's pickup off the road where he'd said he'd be. I sprinted up the hill to him, one eye on the checkpoint. No sign of movement there.