“Gus.” He hit his chest again.
“Gussss,” it said simply and quickly, not knowing or caring about the soup that dribbled from its mouth.
“That’s right, son, Gus,” he said, grateful it spoke and didn’t use that mind-talking that made his head hurt something awful. Then he pointed at his visitor, index finger safely two feet from its green chest. “You?”
The eyes went around in a small circle, and then the mouth pursed into a small, thin line and the visitor shook its head, looked at Gus, and relaxed. Gus saw a stray noodle poking out from the left side of its mouth.
“Mahjtic.” The word was spoken aloud in that strange, wavering, cotton-filled voice.
Gus’s eyes narrowed. “Well, I’ll be damned.”
The being turned the mug upside down and shook it, then when he saw there was no more, just looked from Gus to the pan on the counter.
“Want more?”
Although the creature didn’t have eyebrows, the area where they should have been furrowed.
“Is that your name, Matchstick?”
The large almond-shaped eyes with their round pupils locked on the old man and his sad ones. Then a long, thin finger went to its green chest, lightly touching the bandage. “Mahjtic.”
“Matchstick?”
The creature shook its head. “Mahjtic”
“Matchstick, I got it. And that’s about right, you’re about as skinny as one. I’m glad you’re talkin’ with your mouth.” He pointed at his own and moved his jaw up and down. “It seems when you were cryin’ in my head in the mountains, every word you said was like a punch in the nose to me, and my brain too, I think.”
Another look of confusion filled the alien’s soft features.
“Well, Matchstick boy, what say I get you some more chicken soup, and you can tell me how come you gone and crashed your spaceship right about where I was gonna dig for my gold?”
But the visitor wasn’t listening. It had turned away and discovered the filthy window and the semidarkness beyond. Its small brow creased in several thin lines, and as Gus watched, it pointed out the window at the desert beyond and started shaking. The large head and arms were in the throes of small spasms of what Gus was guessing was some sort of shock, or maybe it was fear.
The old man went over and pulled the yellowed blind closed over the window and turned to face his visitor. “Something’s out there, ain’t it?” he said, remembering the hole at the crash site and the raw fear he’d felt when looking into its depths.
Mahjtic didn’t respond as it slowly slid down onto the bed. It turned and looked at Gus and blinked.
“I’m gonna get you some more soup and me some coffee, and then I think you better tell me what’s got you so spooked.”
Mahjtic just continued to look at Gus, the thought of chicken soup all but gone. It slowly turned its attention and head toward the now covered window.
“The Destroyer, hungry, bad, bad, ani… mal,” Mahjtic said aloud. It still had its eyes locked on the window. Then it slowly said, “Man is at… an end… Gussss.”
Gus paused while using the can opener on another can of soup, and he lowered his head and his shoulders slumped.
“I figured it was something like that.”
The old man was shaking as he opened the can of soup and poured it into the pot, sloshing more on the stove than he got in the dented pan.
“When I was a middlin’ boy, my ma told me there weren’t nothin’ in the dark to be afraid of.” He stopped stirring and looked over at Matchstick, who had just turned away from the covered window. “Guess she was wrong, huh?”
NINETEEN
Nellis AFB, Nevada
July 8, 1840 Hours
Collins, Everett, and the newly briefed Jason Ryan, now wearing his new blue Group jumpsuit, anxiously watched the activity in the Computer Center while they waited for the Europa XP-7 technician to join them. Director Compton saw them and yawned. He turned from watching a search grid and walked up the stairs to see them. They were all looking at the large screen on the far wall, which was a real-time display of southeastern New Mexico that the Group’s satellite was beaming to them. The computers here were programmed to pick up every minute detail on the ground and search for any anomalies with the use of magnetometers, infrared photography, Doppler radar, and terrain-anomaly mapping. Collins nodded at the director when he joined them.
The pictures that were being sent to the center by the KH-11 were in small, red-lined, highlighted squares, so they could be broken down even further by technicians at their individual consoles, hoping to pick up the slightest trace of metal where it shouldn’t be, or an anomaly in the surrounding terrain. As they watched, they saw a tiny car speed down a road outside of Roswell, as the computer digitally added a small blue compass showing the direction of the automobile. Then the vehicle quickly disappeared as it didn’t fit the programmed profile.
“I’m beginning to believe that damn thing didn’t come down at all,” Everett said. “They doubled the size of the search area to include most of western Texas now, and still nothing.”
Jason Ryan watched the view change from the advanced KH-11 satellite. “From the view I had of the saucer it’s my opinion”—he thought a moment, then corrected himself— “it’s my guess, it wasn’t going anywhere but down. It was damaged enough that it couldn’t go back up, I’m sure of it.”
Collins looked at the navy pilot. “The senator has a hunch that if it did, it would be here, and after what I heard, I tend to believe him. It’s like whoever is piloting these things used a preset coordinate when traveling here that aligns their flight path to travel over lightly populated areas.” He turned and watched the screen roll as the bird turned its cameras to infrared for night vision to gather objects in by their ambient light as it traveled farther east.
“I agree,” Compton said.
“Just remember, it was too damaged, and after that second craft had shown up—”
“That’s it!” Niles shouted. People at computer consoles frowned and looked up at the four men, annoyed at the noise. “Mr. Ryan, how far would you say the damaged saucer was knocked off course after the second one made its appearance?”
“I think I know where you’re going with this, Doc, but it wasn’t knocked off that far, if at all. Ryan here said so earlier,” Everett said, looking at his boss.
Ryan shook his head. “He’s right, Dr. Compton, in the distance that these satellites have covered, it should have been close to the search area. Believe me, I would like to find out what’s going on. I lost a good kid in the backseat of my fighter and two pretty good guys in another, but you’re grasping at straws.” Ryan sighed and rubbed his eyes. Then he closed his eyes in thought. “Sir, I was dangling in a parachute at the time, remember? I just don’t know what to tell you.”
It dawned on Collins all at once.
“That’s right; it won’t be where it had been the first time in ’47. In the past there was nothing but the second saucer that would have changed its course, unless you count the Cessna in ’47, and that wouldn’t have been enough of an impact to send a kite reeling. But this time there was actually one more event that occurred in its flight path that could have brought it down somewhere else,” Compton said, still looking at the picture being broadcast by Boris and Natasha.
Jack remembered the Incident Report Ryan had filed about the attack. He quickly opened it and scanned the pages.
“Mr. Ryan, you said in your report you actually fired on the second, attacking craft, is that right?”
Ryan turned pale for a moment and turned away; he slapped his forehead with his palm. “My God, I fired a Phoenix at it. It was a snapshot and I know it hit, it must have. I had a solid tone and the Phoenix’s warhead had locked hard on the target!”
“Damage to the attacker could have brought both ships down, not only the victim, but the aggressor also,” Jack said aloud.
“Okay, I see your point; a missile strike would have brought it and maybe
the other down sooner, but maybe even later. It’s such a long shot I wouldn’t put five bucks on it. But giving you the benefit of the doubt, where?”
“It’s a matter of elimination that has nothing to do with the crash. West Texas is lightly populated; it may be there.” Niles ran down to the large screen and slapped the monitor. “But if it was damaged, Texas may have been out of reach of it, even New Mexico.” He walked down and plucked a digital plasma map from a desk and unrolled it. The map display automatically came to life, illuminating the sandwiched plastic pieces in a high-definition display. Niles, satisfied it was the right map, returned to the three men who were waiting. “There. We know if it came down anywhere in Southern California, there would have been witnesses. Hell, a crash there would have killed hundreds, or even thousands.” He traced a line with his finger separating Southern California from the rest of the West. The spots where his finger ran changed color to an orange hue. “Even the Mojave Desert there to the east has a whole lot of people in it.” Again he ran his finger in a circle around the desert area of California; again the digital picture changed the area to a soft orange hue. “But look here.” He illuminated the eastern part of the Western states map to a pretty much blank area.
“Arizona?” Ryan asked.
“Why not?” Compton circled the map with his index finger, touching the plastic and changing the color of central Arizona to a bluish tint. “You get east of Phoenix and what do you have? Nothing but scrub and desert spotted with little one-stop café-and-gas-station towns all the way into New Mexico.”
“I don’t know, boss, that’s awful thin,” Everett said. But he still scanned the map just a little closer than he had been before.
“Thin? Yes, but impossible, no. This time there was something else that knocked it further to the west, Ryan’s missile strike. In here would be the most likely spot. It’s so thinly populated, the Queen Mary could fall out of the sky and not be seen.”
“You’ve sold me on the possibility, Niles, but what you’re proposing is a complete shift of search priorities. That could be disastrous if you’re wrong,” Jack said, looking closer at the director.
“Pete!” Niles shouted while holding Jack’s eyes, then he turned and left and ran to the floor below. He found Pete Golding, his replacement long ago as department head of Computer Sciences. He had his feet propped up on his desk and was snoring. Niles hated to wake him because Pete had had even less sleep than himself. “Goddammit, Pete, wake up. I need you, man!”
Pete Golding felt his feet slapped off the desk and he came immediately awake. It felt as if he had been slapped off a cliff in his dreams.
“Damn, boss, what are you trying to do?” he asked, shading his eyes against the assault of the fluorescent lighting.
“Wake up; we have a search pattern we have to discuss.”
“What in the hell are you talking about?” Pete Golding asked, putting his glasses on. Niles explained his reasons for the next three minutes, with Pete interrupting only once with a question. After Niles was done, he watched Golding and waited for his reaction.
Instead of arguing as Niles thought he might, he jumped to his feet, coughed once to clear his throat, and yelled to his tired computer department, “Alright, people, wake up! The director has a hunch we’re going to bet the farm on.” He turned.to face Niles. “Remind me later we’ll have to allocate about thirty million dollars in next year’s budget for the shuttle to refuel these birds we’re zigzagging all over the sky.” Pete stretched, then grabbed his headset from his desk. “All right, boys and girls, let’s get Pasadena on the horn and get ready to retask Boris and Natasha, now!”
Jack took a deep breath and watched as Pete was in his element; he was directing people left and right, arranging the right telelinks with Jet Propulsion Lab in Pasadena, California, to make sure they had the proper codes to push Boris and Natasha to a lower and more westerly elliptical orbit.
“I’m glad you think he’s right, Major, because I think he’s just screwed the pooch. He’s way off,” Everett said.
Jack didn’t say anything. Everett and Ryan hadn’t been privy to the story the senator had told, so they couldn’t really understand the urgency. He couldn’t tell them, but Niles understood completely; it was time to start taking chances, big chances. “Come on, let’s find that damn computer tech and get to work. I feel fucking helpless.” Jack turned and left for the mainframe center.
Ten minutes later, during the retasking of Boris and Natasha, the three military men were approached by a man no more than five foot three inches in height as they waited angrily outside the Europa clean room. He removed his glasses and looked up at Collins as if sizing him up and, by his expression, finding the major lacking in some way. Then the lab-coated technician turned his attention to Everett and Ryan and a look of utter disgust filled his features as the man exhaled loudly and rolled his eyes.
“Are you the Europa tech?” Jack asked impatiently.
“Your clothing just won’t do. You’re not going anywhere near Europa wearing the clothing you now have on. If you did, the Cray people would die of a stroke. Come with me, you have to shave and disinfect.” The tech started walking away and the three men followed quickly.
Everett looked at Collins in horror as they caught up to the speedy tech. “Listen, we’ve been cooling our heels here at a juncture in this mission where action is dictated, and you took your fucking time getting here.”
The small man stopped and turned, his fists balling at his sides. “Listen to me, you. I’ve been up forty-two hours with my eyes glued to four fucking monitors searching for a damn object that may or may not have gone down in an area as large as Alaska, so don’t you stand there and lecture me on promptness. Now, shall we get to work?” he hissed dangerously, then entered the clean room.
“I’m glad he’s working for us,” Everett said as he quickly followed the tech.
The hunt for Farbeaux and his employers was on.
New York, New York
July 8, 1920 Hours
Hendrix placed the phone down and activated the speaker box, then opened the file containing the report he had received from “Argonaut,” the Secret Service asset they had on the presidential protection team. The man would have to be rewarded handsomely; he had come through with a gem. With the file open he slid it over and retrieved another file and opened it. On the cover sheet he looked upon the picture of Henri Farbeaux while the phone rang out West.
“This is Legion,” answered the irritated voice.
“Where is my Black Team?” Hendrix asked angrily.
“Reese told an interesting story that may or may not have something to do with your mysterious Purple Sage file,” Farbeaux baited his hook.
“You’re playing games with us, Legion? You know how dangerous that can be? Where is my team and why were you in Las Vegas?”
“I’m afraid I am terminating my association with your corporation.”
“Listen to me, there won’t be anywhere in the world you’ll be safe. We’ll find you.” Hendrix disconnected the Frenchman, then punched in several numbers and waited.
“Johnson,” the strong voice answered.
“This is Chairman Hendrix; our friend from Los Angeles has learned more than he need know about Purple Sage, and he may have eliminated the West Coast Black Team before he fired on you and your men at the strip club. The bastard’s gone rogue on us. Right now, Compton and Lee may still believe he is working alone. Let’s keep it that way. I suspect he’s still in Las Vegas.”
“Yes, sir, we’ve been monitoring him since he escaped the club.”
“Good. Eliminate him at the earliest convenience, and tell that arrogant French bastard I said au revoir just before you put a bullet in his brain.”
Las Vegas, Nevada
July 8, 1930 Hours
Henri Farbeaux left the restaurant and walked to his car and saw it immediately. He was being watched from the parking lot across the street. He didn’t know of many tourists, e
specially one with a black coat, who stood still in the hot evening and stared at a drab-looking restaurant for over an hour and a half. He held off smiling at the idiots as he entered his car. He engaged the ignition without fear. He knew Hendrix and his Men in Black liked to do things up close and personal, to be sure there was no collateral damage and also to make sure the job was done.
It only took him thirty seconds to spot the tail. They were in a white van that was parked across the street in a public lot adjacent to Circus Circus. The idiots had forgotten to turn their dome light off, and when the man who had been watching him entered the van, he had counted two in the front and, coupled with the watcher, at least one in the back. Undoubtedly these were the same amateurs that had tried to ambush him at the club, who’d missed him and only succeeded in killing an old man. But knowing these killers and the way they operated, he knew there had to be at least two more in the vehicle. Farbeaux put the car in drive and left the restaurant parking lot, opening his cell phone as he did, pressing a preselected number with his thumb, and waiting until his call was answered.
“Now” was all he said.
The white van left the public lot and followed the Frenchman’s Chevrolet out onto Las Vegas Boulevard and watched as he sped up and darted quickly around the next corner. They followed without fear of possible discovery because of the amount of traffic on the streets this evening. There could be no way that the Frenchman could have picked them out. As they rounded the corner, they had to brake quickly as the Chevrolet had pulled over and Farbeaux had exited the car and was flagging them down.
“What the hell is this guy doing?” the driver asked as he came to a stop. Too late, they realized they had driven right into a trap as another vehicle stopped immediately behind the van.
“What do we do?” the driver asked his boss.
“We do nothing. We’re in the middle of Las Vegas with police all over the place. We’ve obviously been seen by him and that’s all. No doubt he will puff his chest out and tell us to go away. I’ve heard plenty about this man, and I know the company overestimates his abilities. Besides, he’s French.”
Event: A Novel Page 24
