Vincent Zandri Presents
Chase Baker & the Apocalypse Bomb
(A Chase Baker Thriller #7)
By Benjamin Sobieck
Edited by Vincent Zandri
A superior, non-human entity of natural or supernatural origin that is indigenous to planet Earth.
-- The definition of an “ultraterrestrial,” as listed by UrbanDictionary.com.
Recently, the press has been filled with reports of sightings of flying saucers. While we need not give credence to these stories, they allow our imagination to speculate on how visitors from outer space would judge us. I am afraid they would be stupefied at our conduct. They would observe that for death planning we spend billions to create engines and strategies for war. They would also observe that we spend millions to prevent death by disease and other causes…Our visitors from outer space could be forgiven if they reported home that our planet is inhabited by a race of insane men whose future is bleak and uncertain.
-- Rev. Martin Luther King, Jr., 1966
Some no-name motel
Midnight
Albany, New York, USA
Summer, 2016
I figure out she’s a secret agent 60 seconds after we undress at the motel room. Scratch that. Sixty seconds after I undress. She’s still standing there in that little black dress, the one that made me thank God for making me a man, from the bar only 30 minutes earlier. We allowed ourselves a drink for posterity’s sake before continuing our physical conversation in private.
Chase, the gentleman.
She looked familiar at the time, but I couldn’t quite place her face. In my state, she could’ve been the ghost of Margaret Thatcher for all I knew. Or cared. It’s Saturday, I’m loaded with a big payday, I’m single and there’s three months’ worth of lonely pent up between my thighs. All the reasons I needed to buy her a drink.
But now, sprawled out naked on a comforter, looking in the reflection of the mirror opposite the bed to admire the view up her dress as she crawls on top of me, I spot something on her left calf that gives me pause. It reminds me of a time not long ago in an unearthly place called The Pit in northern Minnesota. I joined a Chinese journalist in search of a legendary Viking runestone. The journalist, who turned out to be the East’s version of Indiana Jones, took a bullet in her left calf. The scars on my present companion match perfectly.
“Biyu?” I say, pronouncing her name like bayou.
If it really is her, I’ll be doubly surprised. Biyu died back in The Pit, or so I thought. I never did recover the body.
The woman on top of me halts her ascent up my chest and slides off. Standing up, I get a better look at her in the light. If I squint, I can see remnants of Biyu’s appearance in her face. But there’s something off. She looks like a poor man’s version of Biyu, almost as if she’s hiding beneath a thick layer of plastic surgery.
You’ve had too much to drink, Chase. You’re having a flashback to The Pit.
Or maybe not.
“Hello, Chase,” Biyu says, allowing her accent to penetrate her voice. Now I understand why she talked so quietly in the most dimly lit part of the bar.
“I thought you were dead,” I say and get to my feet, my penis clearly not understanding its mission has been aborted. It’s not that I don’t want to keep this night going. It’s that I prefer my sexual partners to stay put when they travel between life and death.
Besides, I know Biyu came here for a reason better than casual sex. Her role in China, as I came to learn looking for that runestone, is to travel the world collecting artifacts useful to the Chinese government. She didn’t come all this way for nothing.
“In a way, you’re correct,” Biyu says. She reaches up her dress and draws a small pistol, a .380 caliber Ruger LCP, from beneath her breasts and racks the slide. Can’t believe I didn’t notice the gun hidden there before, but bra holsters, like the Flashbang, have come a long way.
My .45 caliber Colt 1911 pistol, along with the ESEE-5 fixed blade survival knife that saved my life in The Pit, is somewhere in my pile of clothes on the floor. Biyu stands in my way, finger on the trigger.
“So you’re not Biyu?” I say.
“Biyu’s comrades rescued her from the brink of death in The Pit. They gave her a new face and a new name so as not to arouse suspicions back home. Officially, Biyu died. Unofficially, you’re looking at Chenguang,” she says.
I had no idea. But then again, I wasn’t thinking with my brain.
“Well, you’ll always be Biyu to me,” I say and point to my clothes. “Mind if I get dressed?”
“Don’t think I don’t know what’s in there, Chase,” Biyu says and wags the pistol. “Hands up.”
So this is my reward for saving her life back in The Pit? I should’ve let those neo-Nazis get her after all.
“You are by far the kinkiest date I’ve ever had,” I say and follow directions.
Biyu remains humorless. “This is no time for jokes. We have some very serious business to discuss,” she says.
“Oh, yeah? Like what?”
I’m answered by a knock at the door. Biyu says something in Mandarin, and two burly guys in suits enter the room.
“See to it Mr. Baker is made comfortable for our ride,” Biyu says to the men.
“How considerate,” I say.
I land a punch across one of the men’s faces, but it hurts me more than him. He silently shakes his head no, barely blinking from the blow. Strong hands lock my arms into place.
The last thing I remember is one of the men grinning as he holds a syringe up to my face.
“Welcome back, Mr. Baker,” Biyu says after I regain consciousness.
I breathe in deeply and detect the musty sawdust of a workshop. Opening my eyes, I see that I’m correct. I’m in a garage stuffed to the rafters with tools and woodworking projects in various stages of completion. The fluorescent lights turn everything a pale shade of blue.
Biyu and her strongmen must’ve dressed me, because I can’t feel the thistle of the ropes tying me to this chair cutting into my skin. A thick hand on each shoulder lets me know the two men flank either side of me. Biyu stares at me blankly from a few feet away.
My head feels like someone beat it with a hammer. I gather it’s from whatever drugs they stuck into me at that fuck-rate motel.
I kick at the sawdust near my feet and say, “We building birdhouses today?”
Biyu runs her hands over a table of rusty tools. Saws. Pliers. Drills. I think about how quickly metal tools rust when exposed to blood.
“That depends on well you decide to cooperate,” Biyu says.
“And that depends on why the hell you went through all this trouble just to talk to me,” I say. “Couldn’t you have just called me? Maybe sent an e-mail? This cloak and dagger stuff is a little silly.”
Biyu picks up a keyhole saw and traces her finger along the flat of the blade.
“It was the only way to make sure our conversation was held in the utmost confidence,” Biyu says, still calm and cool as ever. “This workshop is a safe house for operatives like me. There’s more technology in this one room than you could possibly imagine, Mr. Baker. It’s all to make sure things remain private.”
Quite the build up. Whatever she’s got, it’s going to be good.
“Then maybe we can get right to the chase,” I say.
“Yes, let’s get to the chase, Chase,” Biyu says with a frightening menace in her eyes. “Why don’t you start by telling me about your daughter, Ava?”
Hearing my daughter’s name com
e out of Biyu’s mouth sends a flurry of energy into my arms. I struggle against my restraints, but the two strongmen hold me in place.
“The hell you talking about my daughter for?” I say.
I only recently started to repair my relationship with Ava. She lives with my ex in Gramercy Park in New York City. I’ve made a point to spend more time with her despite my adventures. Saving the world comes with a steep price if you’re a parent. She needs a father figure more than ever, especially now that she’s on the cusp of her teens.
So, sure, I’m not the world’s greatest dad. But that doesn’t mean I take Biyu’s words lightly.
“Don’t act so surprised. My contacts reach far and wide. There’s plenty I know about your daughter,” Biyu says. “Like how she’s about to need surgery.”
“What are you talking about?” I say.
I spoke with Ava last week by phone. Her most serious concerns were about grades at school. Pretty typical fare. No mention of being sick at all.
“Didn’t your ex-wife tell you? I suppose not, considering you spend your time in bars picking up women instead of paying attention to your family life,” Biyu says. “Your daughter recently went in for a routine physical exam and to check into some pain in her lower back. I regret to tell you, Mr. Baker, that your daughter has polycystic kidney disease. She’ll require surgery to remove the cysts on her kidneys. It’s quite serious and particularly expensive.”
How Biyu could know any of this is beyond me. She could be gaming me, but I can’t risk not believing her. This is my daughter. I can’t chance it.
I should’ve let you die in The Pit.
“I don’t believe you,” I say, in part because I don’t want this news to be true.
Biyu recites Ava’s doctor’s name, the location of the clinic and other important details, including my daughter’s Social Security number.
“It’s a pity, really, that she should have to suffer because of you,” Biyu says.
“This is my fault? How?” I say.
Biyu places the keyhole saw back onto the table. “Because you, your ex-wife and her husband have no way of paying for Ava’s care. None of you can even afford the gas to drive her to appointments. So she will suffer. This is your American health care system at work.”
I think of my last payday. I could probably pay for the whole thing on my own with plenty to spare. I’d go bankrupt for Ava in a heartbeat to keep her healthy and happy.
“Bullshit. You need to buy a new calculator,” I say. “I might’ve bought you a cheap drink back at that bar, but it doesn’t mean I’m broke.”
“You might want to check those bank accounts again,” Biyu says. “The People’s Republic of China bought out majority interests in the banks you, your ex and her husband use. It only took a phone call to suspend any and all activity on those accounts. You are, as you say, broke. Recall that you paid with cash at the bar tonight. Those were the last dollars you’ll ever spend.”
“Unless what?” I say. “There must be some reason you went to all that trouble.”
Biyu smiles for the first time since the bar.
“If you want your daughter to live, you’ll do exactly what I tell you to,” she says. “You may refuse, but know that there’s a reason I brought you to a workshop full of tools. Your daughter will receive quite the surprise in the mail. One. Body part. At a time. Until you decide to cooperate.”
I’m hot with rage, but there’s nowhere to put it. The restraints are too tight, the strongmen too built, the stakes too high. If Ava’s on the line, there isn’t much of a choice.
“Fine. I’m listening,” I say.
Biyu folds her arms. “So you’re a man of reason after all. Very good, Mr. Baker. Tell me, have you every heard of the term ultraterrestrial before?” she says.
“Don’t you mean extraterrestrial, like that E.T. movie?” I say, then grin. “Or maybe you’re thinking of the Chinese knockoff.”
“I meant what I said. Ultraterrestrial,” Biyu says. She clears her throat. “What would you think if I told you human beings aren’t the most advanced species native to this planet?”
What Biyu tells me next is nothing short of Earth shattering.
Biyu blows my mind one cog at a time until the wheels stop spinning and fall off. What she says is so out there, so beyond even my awesome experiences, that I can’t help but believe her. If anyone were able to make these claims with any shred of conviction, it’d be her. Now I understand why we’re in a “workshop” outfitted with tech to keep out prying eyes and ears.
“Since the dawn of humanity, people claimed to have strange encounters with gods that passed down knowledge from a higher power. Other traditions told of advanced civilizations that disappeared, such as Atlantis,” Biyu says. “As humans progressed in their understanding of the world, alien visitors from other worlds took the place of gods in these stories. I’m sure you’ve heard of the ancient alien theory before, where humanity’s culture and technology were seeded by visitors from outer space.”
Indeed I have, most notably on an adventure to find an ancient flying machine called The Golden Condor in the Amazon Rainforest. The theory goes that ancient civilizations misinterpreted alien visitors as gods. The evidence is supposedly scattered throughout the world’s most incredible antiquities, such as the Great Pyramids.
You ask me, I don’t know what to think anymore. I’m a god-fearing atheist. Lowercase g. That goes for alien gods, too. If extraterrestrials really did jumpstart civilization, I hold them wholly responsible for giving us YouTube comments and Kardashians. Pricks.
Biyu continues.
“And you might also have heard about high-profile UFO encounters of the modern era, such as the Roswell crash of 1947, the Battle of Los Angeles in 1942, the mysterious ICBM shutdowns in the 1960s, the Rendlesham Forest incident of 1980, the Black Knight Satellite, the UFO sightings in Turkey in the 2000s, the alien abduction phenomenon, censored NASA transmissions from the International Space Station and others. All were attributed to extraterrestrial visitors. Those assessments, in nearly all cases, were completely incorrect,” Biyu says.
“No shit, huh?” I say. “Then what were they? Swamp gas? Weather balloons?”
“As scientists rightly point out, it’s highly unlikely aliens would visit Earth. The distances are too vast. The probability of finding Earth in the first place is too low. And if they had the technology to do so, why would their aerial vehicles perform like high school science projects?” Biyu says. “The truth is much more disturbing, both to the average person and to the governments of the world.”
“And that truth is?”
Biyu exhales and rubs her hands together.
“The truth is that every religious visitation, every alien encounter, every claim of a secret society supposedly running the world, can be explained by the presence of a species native to this planet more advanced than the homo sapiens. They’re not visitors from outer space, no matter how fantastic they or their technology is described. They’re a branch of the homo genus several centuries ahead of our species. Humans aren’t, and never were, at the top,” she says.
That there could be some other entity looking down at us the same way we do other animals is beyond unsettling. It makes me wonder how the world’s people would react if they knew the truth. My guess is religious, government, economic and cultural institutions would be better off in the dark.
But, as Biyu explains, some governments are already in the know.
“Upon making contact with the ultraterrestrials, or U.T. as they’re called, the world’s most powerful governments took different approaches, all under the strictest veil of secrecy. Some bartered with the U.T. for technology. Others ignored them. Two nations even declared war on them after they figured out a way to kill U.T.: the Soviet Union and the United States. The U.S. took an even harsher view after the end of the Cold War, spending enormous resources on finding ways to kill or capture U.T. as a way to retain its hegemony. It was successful. The
U.S. holds much of the U.T. technology, releasing it in stages so as not to raise alarm with the public,” Biyu says.
Holy shit.
“What about the Chinese government? I suppose it has an interest in this, too,” I say.
“Of course. It traded with the U.T. for technology, which is part of why the U.S. wanted to kill any U.T. that didn’t work toward its interests. No sense in giving a rival an advantage,” Biyu says. “It was a silent war, but one that the U.S. ultimately won. Captured U.T. were held in confinement until they died, working away on U.S. military and industrial projects. All others were killed. Except for one.”
I can see where she’s going with this, but I’ll let her say it for certain.
“And I suppose you want me to go find this last U.T., right?” I say.
Biyu gives me a slow nod.
“Many of our best operatives were killed trying to retrieve the U.T., either by the U.T. itself or by mercenaries hired by the U.S. to find the creature before we do,” she says. “You’re lucky, Mr. Baker. Luckier than anyone I know, so you may fare better. You are to deliver the U.T., alive, to me at Mount Shasta in California. My purposes for the U.T. are none of your business. You’ll know how to find me at the mountain if you manage to pull this off.”
And pull it off I must. This is for Ava. I hope I’m as lucky as Biyu thinks I am.
“And once I bring this U.T. to you, you release the bank accounts so Ava can get that surgery. Did I get that right?” I say.
“Of course. A U.T. in exchange for your daughter’s life,” Biyu says.
I still can’t tell if she’s bullshitting me. This entire thing is so out there, it might as well be science fiction. She could be making up this story about ultraterrestrials to cover for something else.
All I know for certain is there’s a lot more to the past and present of the world than I’ll ever find out. And that my daughter, apparently, needs me to come through for her more than ever.
Chase Baker & the Apocalypse Bomb (A Chase Baker Thriller Series Book 7) Page 1
