Invaders: The Chronowarp

by Vaughn Heppner

  “CAU was running the Utah underground facility?” I asked.

  “You claim you don’t know?”

  “Lady…” I turned away. How could I have been such a trusting fool? Kazz had tricked Rax. I should have stuck with my instincts. But Rax had always been right before this.

  “What happened, Logan? Why did you hitch a ride to Reno? Why did you drive to this site?”

  I kept looking away.

  “Where did you find the apeman?” I asked, without looking at her.

  “I’m the one asking the questions.”

  I regarded the beautiful but deadly serious Jenna Jones. “Kazz—that’s the Neanderthal’s name—found me in Reno a few nights ago. He told me aliens had abducted his friend Philemon.”

  “That’s the Homo habilis’s name?” she asked.

  “That’s right. I used—”

  Before I could say more, I saw something fast and dark skimming toward us. It flew several feet above the ground. I stopped talking to watch the thing. My eyes widened.

  Agent Jones turned, and she sucked in her breath.

  It was a missile. It lifted and zeroed-in on one of the chinooks.

  Chaff fluttered from the nearest chinook. Another one used a Gatling machine gun, hosing fire at the streaking missile.

  The missile ignored the chaff and shrugged off the machine gun fire. It rose fast and slammed against a chinook. A terrific fireball erupted. It was brutal, powerful, awe-inspiring. The chinook disintegrated as shrapnel blew in all directions. Another chinook wobbled crazily up there, before tilting onto its side. The thing started coming down.

  At the same time, the missile blast struck us on the Nevada floor. I crashed against my motorcycle, flipping over it. I didn’t see what happened to Jones and her guards. I imagine they hit the sand.

  I raised a groggy head just in time to see the chinook come down. I buried my face against the sand, hugging the ground. The sand shook as a tremendous explosion blasted.

  Heat washed over me. Then, the shockwave lifted me from the ground and tumbled me backward end over end. The Harley flipped, too, arching up and over me to land a foot away in a twisted heap.

  I was in shock, and I realized I was trembling.

  Finally, I looked up. The last chinook raced in the direction the missile had come.

  “No,” I said.

  Another missile had appeared. It rose from its ground-hugging approach and took out the last chinook in another fiery explosion.

  I hugged the ground again, but this time it didn’t matter in terms of blast and heat.

  Who was firing missiles at these guys?

  I scanned the blackened area. The three armored CAU agents staggered to their jetpacks. I don’t know what they figured they were going to do. Working fast, they each helped the others don and secure their jetpacks. Jones found her helmet and shook out the sand before putting it back on her head.

  I glanced at my Harley. I doubted I was driving out of here any time soon. I noticed Jones clomping toward me. The two gunmen didn’t aim anything at me, but watched the horizon where the missiles had first appeared.

  Jones’s helmet visor was up. Her face was smudged, and there might have been tears in her eyes. A look of hatred filled her.

  “I had nothing to do with those missiles,” I said.

  She didn’t say anything, just stared at me with loathing.

  “Jones,” someone said in her helmet earphones. I could faintly hear it from where I was standing.

  She turned toward her guards.

  I climbed to my feet. I saw a dust cloud in the distance. It looked like several vehicles were roaring toward us. Had those guys fired the missiles?

  Jones regarded me in earnest. “Remember that you’re an American,” she said.

  I nodded.

  She looked over her shoulder, seeming indecisive. I noticed that one of her hands was on a holstered pistol. I had the feeling she was thinking about shooting me, had been thinking that for the last few seconds.

  Her visor snapped shut. The two guards turned toward her. Seconds later, all three jetpacks howled into life.

  Black ash and dust billowed as each flyer rose several feet off the ground. They flew away at speed, heading in the direction opposite the approaching vehicles.

  I stood there, wondering what all that had been about. I also wondered who was heading toward me.

  -7-

  I didn’t have long to wait. Three big Hummers drove right up to me. Hard-eyed military types sat at each wheel. They wore suits, which reminded me of the alien Unguls six months ago.

  A door opened, and two big blond-haired toughs climbed out. Each of them had a heavy revolver aimed at me.

  “Get in car,” the nearest one said.

  That was either an Eastern European or a Russian accent.

  “You the guys who fired those missiles?” I asked.

  The same guy glared—he had a flat-top haircut, wore mirrored sunglasses and had nicely tailored threads. “Get in car,” he repeated.

  “You gonna kill me otherwise?”

  His lips parted. Maybe he thought that was a smile. “Yes. I kill you otherwise.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  He scowled and glanced at his partner. They both shoved their guns into shoulder rigs. After that, the two started toward me.

  The same door opened again. A slender officer type stepped outside. He spoke in a foreign language. It sure sounded like Russian.

  The two guys stopped. Each of them took out a pair of brass knuckles from a pocket and slipped them onto his right-hand fist.

  “I believe you have the advantage,” the officer told me. He was tall and sandy-haired, and had high cheekbones. There was only a hint of an accent in his voice. His suit was as well-tailored as the gunmen’s.

  “Are they going to beat me up?” I asked.

  He nodded.

  “And drag me into the Hummer afterward?”

  The man smiled without any warmth. He seemed highly intelligent and ruthless. “You are stalling, Mr. Logan.”

  “It’s just Logan.”

  “I am on a tight schedule,” he said. “Either my men will subdue you or I’ll use an elephant tranquilizer on you.”

  I realized he was serious, as I saw that the two bullyboys wanted a go at me. And I noticed two other gunmen climbing out of a different Hummer. Each of them hefted a big dart pistol, such as might be used on African safari shows.

  I shrugged. “How about I just save us time and climb into the Hummer with you?”

  “First, you will have to allow Ivan to handcuff you.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “That’s not going to be a problem.”

  ***

  I sat in the back of the Hummer with the Colonel. I didn’t know if he was a colonel, but he had that feel. My wrists were cuffed behind my back, making the ride uncomfortable. They’d patted me down, taking my flick knife and a pack of gum from a pocket.

  The Hummers moved fast across the desert terrain, making for a bumpy ride. I noticed the Colonel had instructed some of his men to toss the Harley’s saddlebags into a vehicle. That meant they had the lump of metal I’d picked up before. As far as I knew, the comm device was still hidden in its hole, though.

  “I am delighted to finally meet you,” the Colonel said.

  “If you uncuff me, we can shake hands.”

  “Perhaps later,” he said.

  “Did you launch those missiles?”

  “I ordered the launch, yes.”

  “Why?”

  He smiled urbanely.

  “Okay. Sure. You wanted to kill them. But—”

  “No,” he said. “The American deaths are regrettable. It also makes our situation highly unstable. Yet, I have you. You are the key, Mr. Logan. I have desired to make your acquaintance ever since you eliminated the alien vessels. That was a remarkable performance.”

  “I thought so, too,” I said.

  “You wonder as to my identity, I suppose.”


  “Not really,” I said. “You’re Russian.”

  I got the feeling he was amused with my guess. I couldn’t figure out why.

  “You killed Americans,” I said. “It was a mistake on my part to think the world didn’t notice what happened six months ago. A few people definitely noticed me, the wrong kind of people.”

  “That depends on one’s perspective,” he said.

  “Sure,” I said. “I’m guessing you want the alien technology represented by the Guard ship.”

  “But of course,” he said.

  “The Americans also want that technology.”

  “We are in a new Space Race, Mr. Logan. But it isn’t just Russians and Americans this time. There are Chinese, German and Israeli agents all desiring the same object. You are a valuable commodity, Mr. Logan. Unfortunately, it appears you have lost your alien ship.”

  I looked at him. How could he know that?

  The Colonel gave me another of his man-of-the-world smiles.

  “Americans are wizards of technology,” he explained. “This is without question. Russians know a bit more about human nature. Because of our superior understanding, we have better undercover agents and moles.”

  “Spies,” I said.

  He made an offhanded gesture. “CAU is careless with its human security. For instance, I know about your assault against the Utah Testing Center. I also know about your foray across Nevada. My people have spoken to the truck driver. I know how you appeared penniless near Kirkwood. That would imply a power struggle on the alien ship, one that you lost. Instead of killing you, your enemies marooned you. I find that an interesting choice, to say the least.”

  “Why would you want me if that’s true?”

  “Come, come, Mr. Logan. That is a silly question. You have priceless knowledge. We want that knowledge.”

  “What will you give me for it?”

  “What would you like?”

  I glanced at him. I had a feeling he was serious. “I want my Guard ship back,” I said.

  “That would appear to be a difficult maneuver for us. Besides, if we could acquire the ship, we would keep it. Thus, I do not see how I can help you in that regard.”

  “Could the Americans help me?”

  He became thoughtful. “They have taken a different approach, certainly. I believe they are attempting to track the alien ship’s whereabouts.”

  “Why did you kill the Americans?” I asked. “Don’t you realize humanity should work together against the aliens?”

  “Please, Mr. Logan. That is an idealistic approach. That is not how the world operates. A few always hold the whip hand. They give the orders. The rest obey or feel the lash on their back. Someone must control the alien technology. We are better suited for this. The Americans with their supposed altruism—”

  He stopped talking, appearing to become earnest instead of relying on his easy urbanity.

  “Please tell me, Mr. Logan, what would you like in exchange for a detailed account of what happened with the Min Ve and the Starcore?”

  He clearly wanted me to be impressed with his knowledge. I decided to play along.

  “How do you know about them?” I asked.

  “We captured a hominid of our own. The creature spoke at length. He was quite informative. Unfortunately, he died during the interrogation.”

  “You went too far?”

  “We’re hardly such fools as that,” the Colonel said. “He killed himself.”

  “Why?”

  The Colonel nodded. “We would like to know that, too. My theory is that he had a post-hypnotic command embedded in his subconscious.”

  If the hominid had belonged to the Starcore, I could well believe that.

  One of the gunmen in the front seat twisted around and spoke rapidly to the Colonel in Russian. The slim officer appeared thoughtful. Finally, he twisted around and peered out the back window.

  He swore in Russian.

  I tried to look back—

  The Colonel grabbed the back of my head with both his hands and shoved downward.

  “Get down,” he said.

  There was urgency in his voice, so I got down, tucking my head as low as it could go.

  Several seconds later, a violent explosion sounded from nearby. Our Hummer swerved. Something crashed nearby with metallic crunching and squealing sounds. A second explosion outside rocked our Hummer again.

  The Colonel shouted in Russian. It wasn’t wild shouting, but it was loud and demanding.

  Our Hummer accelerated. The sounds of more metallic crunching and squealing occurred behind us.

  “What’s going on?” I yelled.

  No one answered me.

  I finally looked up. The Colonel had a heavy revolver in his right fist.

  “You gonna kill me?” I shouted.

  “The thought has occurred to me,” he said.

  “What did I do?”

  “I suspect the Americans are making a play for you. Did any people fly away from the helicopters before the missiles destroyed them?”

  It seemed he didn’t know about the three who’d flown down on jetpacks. Jenna Jones and her guards had definitely gotten away. Were they responsible for whatever had happened to the Hummers?

  I sat up and glanced around. There were no other vehicles with us. Farther back, I saw a smoking Hummer lying on its hood. There was no sign of the third vehicle. I suspect a Hellfire missile had taken out each one.

  Our driver shouted in Russian, pointing through the front windshield. A Predator drone was flying up there, heading toward us.

  “I would have liked to know more,” the Colonel told me. “But I feel my part is about to end. It is a pity yours will have to end as well. I have always been a vengeful man and I see no reason to stop now.”

  He aimed the gun at my head.

  I had nothing left to lose, so I shoved my feet against the floorboard and drove a shoulder against him with everything I had. He grunted. The gun boomed. It was deafening—

  A Hellfire missile struck, I realized, making everything go red before its massive shockwave knocked me unconscious…

  -8-

  I heard voices, and I wondered if they were angels.

  “He’s coming to,” someone deep-voiced said.

  That didn’t sound like an angel, not that I’d ever heard one. I opened my eyes and then wished I hadn’t. A pounding headache made my vision blurry, so I could hardly see a thing. I realized I was lying on my back and that I was in something that was moving.

  “Logan?” a woman asked.

  I seemed to remember the voice. It struck me then that I was ravenously hungry and thirsty.

  “Water,” I whispered.

  “Is that all right, Doctor?” the woman asked someone.

  “He should be dead,” the deep-voiced man said. “I do not understand how he is even conscious, let alone desiring food and drink.”

  “Can he drink?” the woman asked.

  “I would say no.”

  “Then you’re wrong,” I whispered. “Give me water and then get me something to eat. A lot of something,” I added.

  “This is against my recommendation,” the doctor said.

  A few seconds passed.

  “Take it,” the woman said.

  My vision was too blurry for me to take anything.

  “He is blind,” the doctor declared. “The blast obviously damaged his vision.”

  Someone placed a water bottle in my hands. I raised my head. I felt a hand on the back of my head, helping me. Then I guzzled the water dry.

  “More,” I gasped.

  I drank three waters and then I ate eight bars. Some might have been protein. Some were simply chocolate bars.

  With my altered cellular structure, I had a crazy ability to heal, but that took energy and building blocks, which meant lots of food and water.

  With that in my stomach, my supercharged metabolism went to work. Soon, the blurriness began to depart. I saw Field Agent Jones crouched over m
e. A thin man in a white lab coat and with a shallow face was on the other side. The doctor.

  I was in different garments than before. What had happened to mine? Had the Hellfire blast burned them?

  A glance around showed me I was in another helicopter. This one had high-speed computers and possible ECM gear packed into a high-tech machine. Why hadn’t they used this one in the first place?

  “What happened?” I asked Jenna.

  She was no longer wearing the body-armor. I’d been right about her. The lady was stacked and she had a figure to ogle. She was wearing a tight-fitting one-piece, and she’d tied her long dark hair into a single ponytail.

  “Are you getting your eyes full?” she asked.

  I sensed disapproval in her tone. Instead of a witty comeback, I nodded. I shouldn’t have done that. The headache lay in wait, sending tendrils of pain through my head. I groaned as I lay back.

  “He should be dead,” the doctor said.

  “What happened to the Colonel?” I asked from my back.

  “Who?” Jenna asked.

  “The KGB agent who grabbed me,” I said.

  Jenna and the doctor exchanged glances across me.

  “Do you mean the Ukrainian Mafia?” Jenna asked.

  “What?”

  “The Ukrainian Mafia in Vegas stumbled onto a secret alien desert base several months ago,” Jenna said.

  I remembered the one I’d reached six months ago. Unguls had flown me out of Nevada in what had appeared to be a regular plane. It had gone into low Earth orbit and landed in Greenland in record time.

  I told Jenna about that.

  She nodded. “The Ukrainian Mafia flew two of those space planes to the Ukraine. Since then, they’ve spent millions to learn more—”

  “Wait a minute,” I said, interrupting. “I don’t think that’s right.”

  “What part?” she asked.

  “The Colonel—”

  “Who’s this colonel?” she shouted.

  “That’s my name for their leader. He was a slim officer type.”

  “Oh,” she said. “You mean Sergei Gromyko. He was Ukrainian, born in Cleveland—”

  “Wrong,” I said.

  She frowned, grew thoughtful and finally asked, “What’s troubling you about the Ukrainians?”