“Mary-two-thr—”
Something interrupted the response.
Ridley waited for the dispatcher to continue, but nothing happened. “Mary-two-three,” he said again.
This time, a burst of static and rapid clicking replied.
Weird, Ridley thought.
The interference ended after several seconds, followed by the dispatcher’s voice. “Three, clear to transmit.”
“Mary-two-three, ten-nineteen to yours.”
“Ten-four.”
Ridley made a note to report the motorcycle’s radio malfunction to the watch commander. He proceeded along Clark Street and drove the eight blocks to the station. Similar to hundreds of times in the last three years, he entered the underground parking structure and cruised into one of the spaces reserved for patrol vehicles.
Removing his helmet, he heard familiar voices echoing around the gray cinder-block structure. He could not hear exactly what the other officers discussed, but something felt out of place. Instead of hearing the usual radio traffic from the dispatch speakers mounted along the walls of the parking structure, he heard no traffic at all. Although it was a slow night, during shift change, units regularly called in their on- or off-duty status.
But now, something else penetrated the air. The quiet speakers broadcasted clicking, rapid clicking, like earlier, except fainter, more distant.
Ridley approached the other officers and noticed that Lieutenant Walter Maxwell, the watch commander, stood with them. After flashing a cheerful, “I’m okay, you’re okay” smile, Ridley said, “Lieutenant, I’d like to report a radio malfunction.”
“Well, if you’re reporting officially, then I’ll need you to fill out the appropriate forms, in triplicate,” Maxwell said, but without the typical firmness of his baritone voice.
“In that case, the report should come from someone with actual technical qualifications. I’m more of a people person.”
Further radio interference produced a grimace on the watch commander’s face. He rubbed his sun-scorched forehead. The motion caused flakes of dandruff to precipitate out of his stiff, black flattop, a hairstyle he had worn for thirty years or more, beginning with his service as a special agent with the Air Force Office of Special Investigations. The flakes landed on his wide shoulders and ever-thickening midriff. Some of it even fell the entire six feet, four inches from scalp to greasy cement floor. “Never heard anything like this before. The interference is on every channel, so we know it’s not a cued microphone.”
One of the officers tried a radio check, but dispatch still provided no response. Just rapid clicking interference permeated the parking structure.
Lieutenant Maxwell shrugged and yawned. “Well, it must be a system problem. They’ll have to coordina—” A sharp jolt of static silenced his comments.
Ridley and the others winced at the harsh sound as it ricocheted throughout the parking structure. After several seconds, the static and clicking tapered off. A string of on-duty status reports came over the air in rapid succession. As the transmissions continued, the officers in the parking structure dispersed. Some entered the station, while others went to their waiting patrol vehicles, already forgetting about the odd interference. Ridley followed Lieutenant Maxwell to the building’s entrance and held open the door.
“What do you think the problem was?” Ridley said.
“Don’t know. Like you, I’m no technician. No biggie, though—seems to be working fine now.”
“I thought it might have been my unit’s radio, but since it’s not, can I go ahead and take off now? I’m anxious to start my vacation.”
“Just make sure your reports are done.”
“They are. Dropped them off earlier.”
“See you when you get back, then. Have a good one.”
With that, Ridley stepped inside the police station and headed for the locker room.
What a slow night, he thought.
<> <>
Inside the oversized navy-blue Chevrolet Suburban parked amidst the desert scrub, the controllers no longer engaged in idle conversation, but rather focused on their main display screens. Another ten-minute delay in the countdown had left them ample time to review the planned flight profile for the experimental aircraft and to triple-check their various electronic systems. The sergeant and lieutenant waited with practiced patience for resumption of the countdown, which held at T-minus forty-seven seconds.
On the radar panel in front of the sergeant, a flat, twenty-inch screen displayed white and blue lines crisscrossing a dark gray background. The white lines formed the perimeters of the test ranges adjacent to Nellis Air Force Base. The blue lines, which resembled the shape of an inverted pyramid with a narrow rectangle protruding from the bottom point, delineated the airspace assigned for this particular test of a flying saucer recovered in 1947. The craft, otherwise known as the “experimental,” originated from beyond Earth. Its collision with another similar vehicle and their subsequent crashes in the desert near Roswell, New Mexico, had provided the US government decades’ worth of reverse engineering and sporadic flight tests.
Words and numbers on the screen also denoted various mountain peaks and their elevations: “SHEEP PK/9750,” “CHARLESTON PK/11918,” and “MUDDY PK/5363.” At the bottom of the screen, near the center, was, “LAS VEGAS/MCCARRAN.” A similar screen on display in front of the lieutenant also included several dashed yellow lines within the borders of the assigned airspace. These marks indicated the planned flight path for the experimental, represented by a white dot on both screens and labeled as “XP/0.” Radar data had the experimental positioned near the upper left corner of both screens. The dot flickered at irregular intervals, something the controllers had noticed during other tests and had been told would occur again.
As he watched the dot, the lieutenant lifted his headset back to his ears and nodded to the sergeant to do the same. He turned off the cabin audio switch and folded his arms. For a split second, he thought he heard his headset crackle with static, so he double-checked that its connector remained attached in the console jack. The interruption cleared, and both listened as the countdown resumed.
“T-minus forty-seven and counting. Med reports normal life signs. Thirty seconds, mark. Telemetry reports online. All systems normal—”
More static hissed through the controllers’ headsets. The lieutenant tapped the earpiece with his index finger. He glanced at the sergeant and saw his subordinate’s face change from a look of bored professionalism to utter confusion.
Sergeant Gonzales jerked forward. What he saw made no sense. Another white dot appeared near the “MUDDY PK” marker and moved in the direction of the experimental. Report. Report as you’ve been trained to do, he thought. His still boyish voice squeaked out the warning. “Target! Unknown target!”
The vehicle’s onboard computer assigned the unknown target a designation, “UNK/7803.” The dot tracked steadily, with its altitude indicator showing a rapid descent.
The lieutenant scanned the display. “What the hell?”
This time, the static blasted through the headphones at high volume, and both men instinctively ripped them off.
Anxious to call in his report, the lieutenant carefully raised the headphones to his ears. The static dissipated, but a strange clicking now emanated from the earpiece. With no radio transmissions, he attempted to broadcast an update. “Uncorrelated observation inbound at angels seven, rapid descent, entering quadrant four.” He checked the screen. The experimental remained on the ground. “Can you hear anything, Sergeant?”
Preoccupied with the image on the display, the sergeant did not answer. The unknown target just performed an instantaneous ninety-degree turn and dropped to below two thousand feet.
“It’s coming this way,” Sergeant Gonzales said.
The lieutenant, despite the technical problem with the radio, kept sending the status reports. “Unknown now on course three-one-zero at sixteen hundred feet. Variable airspeed.” He turned to
Gonzales and said, “Get with the driver and do a visual check.”
“Yes, sir.” Gonzales stepped out of his seat and slid open the driver cab’s access window. The driver leaned toward the radio console, checking different channels. “No time for that, Bresch; the radio’s down. Get your binoculars and get out.”
After grabbing his night-vision binoculars, Airman Bresch lifted the rifle from its dashboard mount and joined Sergeant Gonzales at the front of the vehicle.
“There’s an unknown target, southeast, about five miles,” Gonzales said.
Bresch searched the desert terrain for intruders.
“No,” Gonzales said, pointing at the sky, “an unknown, airborne target.”
“What altitude?”
“Under two thousand.”
“Civilian or military?”
“Unknown!”
Gonzales’s eyes darted back and forth, trying to find the object. He knew there must be a reasonable explanation for this situation. The briefing was clear enough: one flight, one target. Must be a technical glitch, he thought.
“There it is,” Bresch said, confused. “It’s low. I thought the experimental was restricted to five thousand or above?”
Looking toward the horizon, Sergeant Gonzales spotted a glowing ball of light. Alternating between glossy shades of green and blue, it moved steadily to the northwest.
Silently.
The luminous orb, orange now, instantaneously jumped skyward several hundred feet, and then danced ahead.
It stopped.
Red and silver strands, a flickering halo of plasma, encircled the sphere.
The rapid clicking now emanated, but not from the radio; it echoed through their heads. A chill shivered up Gonzales’s spine, causing him to arch his shoulders and shake his head.
The unknown target hovered, emitting a radiant glow and obscuring the stars behind it.
With eyes fixed on the object, Airman Bresch stepped backward until the truck’s bumper pressed against his trembling legs. “What’s that clicking sound?” The binoculars dropped to the ground, and then so did he, onto his knees.
Out of the darkness, the air vibrated with another, more familiar noise. Sergeant Gonzales turned around and found a relieved expression on Bresch’s face.
“Here they come!” Bresch said.
Two F-15 fighters raced in from the north. As dual intakes greedily consumed huge droughts of air, the hot turbofans propelled the planes toward the unknown. They approached, encountering their target in a matter of seconds.
It waited for them.
The fighters rushed in aggressively, closing the gap.
The object maneuvered, jumping again, two thousand feet straight up.
One of the F-15s fired its afterburners and accelerated into a steep climb. The second jet rolled through a right turn, heading west. It circled low, near the truck’s location, and then ascended directly toward the target. The other F-15 also reversed direction, running parallel to the craft and slightly above it.
The fighters engaged.
A plume of white luminescence spiraled outward from the intruder, blanketing the hilltop in a brilliant flash, and then it collapsed as quickly as it had appeared.
And the fighters vanished.
Before Sergeant Gonzales comprehended what happened, the object disappeared in a white streak toward the northwest. “My God!”
“Where are they?” Bresch said.
Gonzales grabbed the binoculars from the ground and scanned the sky and terrain. “I don’t see them.”
“They can’t just be gone. They must have crashed.”
Gonzales ran back to the truck and spoke to the lieutenant. “Sir, we need search and rescue out here right away.”
The lieutenant provided no response. His headphones lay on the console, and he held a cell phone next to his ear. He did not speak, except to say, “Yes, sir.” After hanging up the phone, he said, “Sergeant, the test was scrubbed due to a communications malfunction. All other systems are normal. We’re returning to base.”
“But, sir—”
“The site is secure and all systems are normal! We are returning to base.”
About the Author
Daniel P. Douglas is a U.S. Army veteran who has also served as a senior analyst in the U.S. intelligence community. As a writer, Douglas creates epic tales—of the past, present, and future—with the most unlikely of heroes, and calls upon them to join extraordinary and mysterious struggles. His characters' sometimes-reluctant choices and actions put them on a collision course with destiny and reveal unimaginable truths. In every pulse pounding, edge-of-your-seat adventure, survival means confronting personal flaws and doubts, and forging unexpected fates as inspiring new champions in the eternal battle against evil. Douglas explores this theme through science fiction, action-adventure, conspiracy, mystery, suspense, thriller books and screenplays.
Born and raised in Southern California, Douglas has also lived in Virginia and Arizona. He now lives in New Mexico with his family, pets, and livestock, and enjoys reading science fiction and conspiracy thrillers as much as writing them.
For more information about Daniel P. Douglas, please visit http://danielpdouglas.com.
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