The Children of Roswell (Book One) The Swift Chronicle

by Alan James

  “Yeah, that’s right. But, remember, don’t leave this hangar until they’ve already checked the front sides or they start their search at either end of the back side. We don’t want you caught before you get the chance to make some noise.”

  “Don’t worry, my jobs gonna be a lot easier than yours,” Cory said, both hands shaking uncontrollably. “Betcha never expected anything like this when you left Tucson, huh?”

  Kelly smiled and offered his hand, bandage and all. The handshake seemed to calm Cory, and he smiled sheepishly.

  “Listen Cory,” Kelly said, still holding the handshake, “I want you to make sure you realize what I’m gettin’ you into here.”

  “Hey,” Cory replied quickly, “I know … I know … when I touch the wires together … people die … I know.”

  ***

  Kelly shimmied through the side window and closed it carefully behind him. He made his way north along the side of the hangar, away from the trailer. Coming to the edge of the asphalt, he hid on his belly behind a couple large tumbleweeds still firmly attached to their roots. He had situated himself so that he could see between the hangar Cory was in, and the one he had booby trapped. His view was a straight line to the trailer and the helicopters.

  ***

  Brandt was climbing down from the plane, “Harris, you got all that material stowed in my ship?”

  “Yes Sir, all the paperwork, tape reels, everything.”

  “Good. We’ll leave my chopper here. Get two of the thirteen’s in the air now. Have them reconnoiter those hangars on the other side. Tell them to make a pass: one in front and one in back at the same time, so no one can get out without being seen. I want their landing lights on so anybody that’s over there knows we’re coming … maybe they’ll try and make a run for it … and tell them I want anybody they find, left alive, for now. We’ll leave the other two thirteen’s here. Have two of those men guard this plane and bring the other two, and my pilots, along with us.”

  “Yes Sir,” Harris snapped. He turned to dispatch his orders. As the two H-thirteen’s took off and headed for the south end of the hangars to begin their sweep, Brandt, the two remaining suits and the black fatigued squad led by Harris, scrambled aboard the Sikorsky.

  ***

  Kelly watched as the little choppers made their way to the end of the hangars. At the first building they stopped. Turning to face the hangar, they slewed side to side, lighting the front and back doors simultaneously. Finding nothing at the first hangar, they continued slowly down the line until they reached number five. The pilot on Kelly’s side of the hangar saw it right away. The track that the huge doors rolled in had been cleaned. Kelly hadn’t kicked the dirt back into the groove when he replaced the padlock. The little chopper shot skyward, its pilot, obviously on the radio to his partner on the other side, because it too rose to roof height. They both snapped a sharp peel-off to the south to wait for the Sikorsky. They would leave hangars six and seven alone for now.

  As Kelly saw Cory bolt for the front of the hangar and the pallets he had leaned against the wall, he smiled to himself. His plan was in motion.

  ***

  “Sir,” Harris tapped Brandt on the shoulder as the Sikorsky was touching down next to hangar number one, “the pilot says there’s evidence of intrusion at hangar five. The door is locked, but he believes it was made to look like all the others. The rolling track has been cleaned, Sir.”

  As Brandt stepped from the big chopper, its rotors now starting to slow as the pilot throttled back, he barked, “Put one of the thirteen’s back up and have him cover the front, we’ll go in the back. Everybody with me, except …”

  Harris knew his boss too well. As Brandt was giving the order, Harris was using hand signals, telling the pilot and co-pilot to stay with the aircraft and keep it running.

  They made their way down the backs of the hangars staying close to the walls. As they neared hangar five Harris took over. Two fingers to the eyes then a finger in the direction he wanted, placed two men, one at the near and far side of the building; as lookouts. The little chopper was in position at the front.

  Harris checked the lock. Another hand signal brought a man up quickly from the rear. “It’s a stout lock,” he whispered, “but the hasp will go easy.”

  The man nodded then reached into his kit and pulled out a small C3 charge. He molded it around the lock and pushed a detonator in place. As the men slid back around the corner of the building, half on one side, half on the other, he fed the small spool of wire out behind him. Harris twisted the wire ends around the terminal of the hand generator, checked that his men were clear, turned his back and twisted the handle.

  The explosion would have been deafening, had anyone been inside. Glass fell from the windows as the sound echoed through the hangar. The soldiers were at the door before the pieces of shrapnel had finished falling around them. As they pushed the door open, the first four men led the way with large flashlights. Harris immediately saw the center of the hangar was empty so he gave the signal to cover the sides. As they reached the rear, Harris held up three fingers and pointed up at the loft. Three more fingers motioned toward the area under the loft where the old Ford was parked.

  ***

  Cory held himself as still as possible, which was in fact, nearly impossible. He was shaking from the cold and the fear. He probably would have wet himself again when the C3 went off, but he hadn’t had anything to drink all day. As the noises grew closer, his grip on the pigging wire increased to the point that his fingers were going numb. The little helicopter flying over him had passed its light over him several times, but the cross lathed pallets and his now dull and dusty clothing, were keeping him well hidden.

  The three men had reached the top of the loft and he could hear them as they rummaged through the boxes and assorted junk.

  “Check the car,” came the order from Brandt.

  “Yes Sir,” was the reply.

  A soldier reached for the door handle, and seeing there wasn’t one, moved to the passenger side.

  “Hey, I smell gas,” he said as he opened the door.

  At that moment Cory gave a yank on the wire. Nothing happened. He yanked again. Still nothing. The two-by-four, now thoroughly soaked and swollen with gasoline, was wedged so tightly under the gas tank that Cory couldn’t budge it. He gave one last heave, and to his horror, the wire snapped.

  The man at the passenger door heard the twang of the wire. He spun to see the broken end sticking up out of the sill-plate. Taking a few steps to the front of the car, the smell of gas struck him again, “Trap!” he yelled, “it’s a trap, everybody out.”

  Cory may have been scared to death, but at this instant, he kept his wits about him. He grabbed the other two wires and jammed them together. He could hear the old Ford start to turn over. As the points closed, the distributor rotor touched the base of the plug wire attached to the light filament.

  The man, who had yelled the warning, now saw that his avenue of escape was blocked by the two wing tanks. As he turned to run in the opposite direction, the first tank exploded. He did not feel the pain as his fatigues were seared to his flesh. The concussion had rendered him unconscious. The force of the explosion pushed the second wing tank toward the center of the hangar. The gasoline at its mouth had ignited and the sudden pressure buildup, instead of exploding, sent it spinning like a Fourth of July firework. It spewed burning gas over the soldiers in its path and as the fuel-air mixture and the heat in the tank reached a critical stage, it too exploded, sending more fire and shrapnel in all directions.

  The three soldiers up in the loft had been relatively safe so far. Peering out into the hangar, they saw the two explosions; the first as it boiled up around the side of the loft; and the next, just seconds later, out in the middle of the hangar. Thinking the worst might be over, they stood to assess the situation. They didn’t realize that when the first tank let loose, it raised the right
side of the car enough to relieve the pressure holding the two-by-four in place. Gas had been gushing from the tank for nearly ten seconds and when the flood of liquid hit a hot piece of wing tank, the flames boiled again, this time around both sides of the loft. The three soldiers dived for cover in the corner, and at that moment, the fuel tank on the Ford let go with a vengeance. The rear of the sedan lifted off the ground and struck the underside of the loft. The force pulled the loft’s floor joists loose from their hangars and as the floor pulled away from the wall, the loft, and the three soldiers, fell helplessly into the inferno.

  Through all this, Cory had been trapped behind the pallets against the hangar wall, which was now growing hotter by the second. As the tank on the Ford let go, it blew a small stream of burning gas out through the small hole in the sill plate. Glass showered down on him from above as rolls of fire made its way outside through the jagged openings.

  Just as he thought he couldn’t stand the heat any longer, the helicopter that had been covering the front of the hangar, decided to abandon his post. The risk of another explosion, and the chance of taking a piece of shrapnel in the main or tail rotor was too great. The pilot grabbed the collective and pulled hard. Flames licked at his skids through small holes in the old roof as he made his way to safety.

  Cory saw his chance, and as the hair on his arm was beginning to give off that sickening smell, he pushed hard on the pallets. He rolled free into the coolness of the dark desert night. The flames, and the light they were giving off, were diminishing quickly now as the gasoline burned away. He stood without looking back. As he began to run, he thought it strange: this nearly euphoric feeling that was overtaking him. He had never felt so good, so scared … and so free … all at the same time. He ran harder and harder, tears of fear and joy running down his cheeks. This was the first time, in his heretofore quiet little life, that he had ever felt the true rush of adrenaline.

  The flames were nearly gone now, but the damage had been done. Of the thirteen men that had entered the hangar, seven lay dead or dying. Brandt had pulled Harris from the flames, but there would be no saving him. He had taken too many breathes of the scalding air inside the hangar and his lungs were of little value to him as he groped for air. As Brandt held him in his lap, Harris’s body went limp. He reached up and pulled his eyes closed. To his two remaining suits standing behind him, he said, “Damn good soldier, this …,” his mouth trembled with rage.

  “Yes Sir, he was indeed,” the suit said, touching Brandt’s shoulder, “we’ll take care of him Sir.”

  “No,” Brandt jumped to his feet, “have a couple of the pilots do it. You two, get the demo man and anybody else that’s fit, and come with me.”

  KELLY’S TURN

  Kelly watched from under his tumbleweed as Brandt reorganized his troops. Even at this distance he had felt the heat from the fireballs. He wished he was able to see the other side of the hangar. He knew he didn’t have time to worry about it now, but he wanted to know if Cory had made it out in one piece.

  Now it was his turn. He raised himself to his feet and fingertips. Staying low, but not too low, he skulked to the next set of bushes. Out of the corner of his eye, as planned, one of Brandt’s men caught his motion in the darkness. With a couple of quick hand signals, the black fatigues spread out and surrounded Kelly. He only hoped he hadn’t made them suspicious by getting caught so easily.

  He raised his hand to shield his eyes as the flashlights bathed him in white.

  “Stay on your knees and put both hands behind your head,” he heard, as he felt the end of a rifle barrel press against the back of his neck. “Don’t move one inch, if you want to live.”

  Brandt walked up slowly, squatting in front of Kelly with his left knee on the ground, his right elbow resting on his raised right knee. He gave Kelly a quick once-over, then, seeing the name tag, he said, sarcastically, “Ah, you must be the new man.”

  Brandt waited for an answer but Kelly said nothing.

  “Search him.”

  Two men grabbed him under his armpits and pulled him to his feet. The search was complete. Shoes, pants legs, crotch, butt crack, all pockets. As they worked their way up, Kelly was dreading them reaching his breast pocket. As the man grabbed his shirt over his heart and squeezed, he braced for the question that would come, “What is this and where did you get it?” But, the question didn’t come. They moved up to his collar, then ran fingers through his hair, and finally, spinning him around, one man barked, “Open your mouth.”

  Kelly was shoved back to his knees. Brandt stood over him this time. “Mister Kellerman, and I call you mister because your rank doesn’t mean a damn thing to me … and you don’t either; except for the information you have, that I want.” He reached down and with a hand under Kelly’s chin; raised his head. “I’m way past being a nice guy. You and your friends have killed a bunch of good men; my men. There is only one way you live to see the sun come up tomorrow, and that is to tell me exactly what I want to know.” He pulled up harder on Kelly’s chin, “Do we understand each other, Mr. Kellerman?”

  Kelly had to push down with his chin against Brandt’s grip in order to nod in the affirmative.

  “Where are your friends, Mister Kellerman?” Brandt asked, releasing Kelly’s chin.

  Kelly dreaded what would come next, “I don’t know, I’m the only …”

  Brandt had already raised an eyebrow to one of the men, who brought his rifle butt down sharply on Kelly’s right collar bone. His head snapped to the same side, as the upper lobe of his trapezius muscle tied itself into a knot. He fell onto his right side, reaching across his body with his left hand to grab his aching shoulder. In the darkness, Brandt made no significance of Kelly reaching with his other hand and placing it over his breast pocket.

  It was still there. The little piece of chrome was still there. As he pushed it hard against his heart, Brandt grabbed him by the hair and pulled him back to his knees.

  “Mister Kellerman,” Brandt said, again raising Kelly’s chin, “you know the question … now … please, for your sake … try a different answer.”

  Kelly, his head still leaning toward his badly cramping neck muscle, looked Brandt in the eye, “I tried to give you the only answer I’ve got … if you don’t like it, you can go …”

  He never expected to finish his sentence, and he was right. The rifle butt came down hard again, on his left shoulder this time. Kelly rolled forward onto his face.

  The monster at the end of this new, long, dark tunnel, now had a face, and it had a name. It was Brandt. Fighting through the pain, he pulled his right hand up under him and again pushed the little piece of disc skin hard to his heart.

  Brandt stepped back and addressed the two suits, “Leave me one man, the rest of you get the doors blown on those last two hangars. There are three more of them around here somewhere.”

  “Yes Sir,” the suit said, pointing at one man to stay behind. They double-timed off in the direction of hangar six. Kelly envisioned Matson and Forest, behind the pallets, fighting off the cold. ‘I probably should have told them to take the car and just start driving,’ he thought to himself, ‘they might have had a better chance of getting away.’

  “Bring him,” Brandt ordered as he turned and started the long walk back to where the Sikorsky was parked at hangar one.

  Kelly struggled to his feet, the soldier helping only slightly. He walked with the end of the soldier’s rifle barrel prodding him every other step. About the time they got to the third hangar they heard the resounding bang and echo as the C3 did away with the lock hasp on hangar six.

  His thoughts, again, went to Matson and Forest: ‘Would they lie there, still and quiet, or would the soldiers find them anyway?’ He wished he could help, but he barely had the strength to walk. His arms were raised across his chest to make it appear he was rubbing each shoulder muscle, but his right hand was at his pocket again, pushing hard against his hear
t.

  ‘Maybe I’m too far away,’ he said to himself. ‘Maybe it can’t hear me …’ his train of thought changed his choice of words, ‘maybe it can’t feel me from this distance.’

  As they reached hangar one, the next charge of C3 went off, slightly softer this time. As the echo faded, they heard another report, sharp and crisp, and familiar.

  Brrrrt.

  “Damn-it,” Brandt turned to the man holding the rifle on Kelly, “that was a fifty … where in hell did it come from?”

  As the soldier was just starting to hunch his shoulders in the negative, they heard the sound again.

  Brrrrrrt.

  It sounded a little longer this time.

  “Give me your rifle,” Brandt yelled to the man behind Kelly, then, “That’s coming from the other side of the runway. Get on the radio and find out what’s going on over there.”

  Brandt held the rifle on Kelly as the soldier jumped inside the open bay door of the chopper and reached for the microphone.

  “Forward to Home Guard, Forward to Home Guard, come in Home Guard.” He got no answer. “Forward to Home Guard, come in Home Guard,” again nothing; then a third time … with the same result.

  “They’re not answering, Sir.”

  Brandt turned to face Kelly. He grabbed his arm and yanked him down to his knees. Raising the butt of the rifle he started down toward Kelly’s left shoulder blade again.

  “Sir,”

  Brandt stopped just before making contact with Kelly.

  “Sir, they’ve found two of the others behind the sixth hangar. They’re bringing them now.”

  Kelly turned his head as much as the pain in his neck would allow. He could see the soldiers marching two men, heads down, hands behind their backs in his direction. It was Matson and Forest. ‘Damn it,’ he thought. He wasn’t counting on having to worry about their welfare when the next bit of fireworks started.