Scotty held up the key to Platt. “Want this?” Instead of handing it over to him, he tossed it over into the room’s farthest corner.
Alison took a quick step backward, watching Scotty throw back the covers then swing his legs over the side of the bed. He grabbed up his new pile of clothes and headed out past the privacy curtain. “Come on!” he yelled.
She stood there, looking as calm as she could manage considering what she had just witnessed. Platt’s fleshy face was turning a dark shade of red from the exertion of trying to free himself. “Don’t cross me again, Platt. Next time, you’ll be facing federal charges.”
“Bite me, bitch,” Platt said back, fuming. He stopped struggling. “Look, I’m doing my job here. What I’m paid to do. And pending arraignment, this boy’s due back in jail.” His Louisiana bayou drawl was as thick as molasses. “Go now and fetch me that fucking key.”
Head held high, Alison turned and walked out through the curtain. Past the shocked older man, lying in the adjacent bed, and out into the corridor. Scotty, just then exiting a men’s room down the hall, was wearing his new clothes. He’d finger-combed his mop of wetted-down hair. Off-balance, he was struggling to slip on his right shoe when Platt began yelling for a nurse to come help him. The sound of metal handcuffs could be heard clanging against the hospital bed’s railing.
Scotty hurried over to Alison, who instructed him, “Elevator’s up ahead. Just walk casually, try not to bring too much attention to yourself.” God … what am I doing, she wondered. Only the previous evening she’d had another heated phone conversation with her supervising agent, Donald Price. She could tell he wasn’t really listening to her. He definitely didn’t give much credence to the incongruities concerning Scotty Sullivan’s second DNA profile, ordered by the hospital’s physician. As far as he was concerned, the case could now be put to bed. Yet, the missing boy was, in fact, the same person as the man now lagging two steps behind her. So what? According to Price, the FBI wasn’t social services—most definitely wasn’t chartered to help out the homeless. Officially off this case, she was expected back in the office first thing Monday morning. Now Saturday, she figured why not spend the weekend enjoying Nantucket, this beautiful seaside island? What she did in her own free time—well, that was her business. Price might not see it that way, but he wasn’t here and she was.
Down the hall ahead was the second floor’s bank of elevators. She heard the soft ding of a car arriving. When the door began to slide open, she urged, “We can make it.” Once they were inside, she slapped the Close door button then the Lobby button. Waiting for the car to start its slow descent down, they both leaned against the elevator’s back railing.
“How did you do that?” she asked, without looking at him. Her expression was all business. “Jeopardizing my career is not an option, so no bullshit.”
Before Scotty could answer, the elevator dinged again and the door slid open. Together, they made their way through the lobby, and exited through the automatic sliding glass doors.
“My car’s this way.” Alison said, over her shoulder. By chance she glanced up to the second floor of the hospital. A large dark form loomed at one of the windows overlooking the street. Damn! Officer Platt was going to be a problem. And this case was getting stranger by the minute.
Alison pointed her key fob at a dark, non-descript sedan parked ahead and heard the doors unlock. “Hop in.”
Even before Scotty got the passenger-side door shut all the way, the engine was turning over, the transmission shifting into reverse. Powering backward out of the parking space, she shifted into drive, goosing the engine hard enough that the rear wheels left rubber streaks across the pavement.
“Tell me, damn it. How?” she ordered again, though some part of her really didn’t want to know. Unless Scotty Sullivan had spent the last sixteen years traveling with a roving circus—perhaps learning the ropes as a young magician—there really wasn’t a good explanation for what had occurred with the handcuffs. That’s what she was afraid of. Because Scotty Sullivan had already alluded to who he was, what he was, twice, which was too impossible to believe.
Chapter 17
Commander Landon had no illusions; he probably was going to die, and probably pretty soon. Hell, that was always a consideration in this line of work anyway. He didn’t relish that fact by any means, but he’d already made peace with just such a probability occurring a long time ago. Being strapped to a launching Falcon Heavy rocket, one billowing out five million pounds of thrust, tended to prepare one for the possibility of an early demise. So, at the moment, Landon wasn’t scared. Sure, he thought a lot about Jan, his wife of eight years, and his five-year-old daughter, Elsie, and six-year-old daughter, Mia, but mainly he wanted to tell them about what he was experiencing in that very moment—what he was now witnessing. Something amazing.
Within the ISS Zarya space module, Greg Fischer and Peter Mirkin were up on their feet, standing next to Landon. Spacesuits removed earlier, the three stood in their specialized NASA long johns. Landon suspected they pretty much were experiencing what he was experiencing—a kind of weird, bemused, excitement.
For the moment they could breathe fine. The surrounding ambient temperature was comfortable. There were, by Landon’s last count, seven different alien forms scurrying in and out of the Zarya module through the recently made bulkhead opening.
“Any idea which alien is in charge here?” Greg asked.
“Not a clue,” Landon replied, watching the nearly transparent, bluish, glowing forms carry various items from the ISS out through the opening.
“I want to know what is out there—out there in the darkness,” Mirkin said in low tones, gesturing toward the opening.
Landon shared in the Russian’s curiosity, though he had a fairly good idea already. Somehow, the ISS had become situated within the bowels of the alien ship. That explained the earlier loud noises—the ISS seized, then repositioned within this enormous vessel.
“Obviously, we’re in some kind of hold area,” Fischer said, clearly reaching the same conclusion. “And did you notice? They all have a slightly different hue, some more of an azure blue, some a royal blue, some more … ”
Mirkin cut Fischer off mid-sentence, sounding annoyed. “Yes, of course we can see that too.”
Landon watched a new, different, glowing form enter the capsule, coming to a stop right before them. He was taller than the others.
Landon said, “Hello.” Shit, how profound was that, he thought. “Um … can you understand what I am saying?” Landon caught Fischer rolling his eyes in his peripheral vision. The tall alien’s facial features were no different from the others, nearly non-existent. Only a faint semblance of eyes, nose, and mouth evident—more like subtle protrusions, having no actual purpose.
“You can call me Halm. Yes, your words are understood, and I trust you can understand mine as well.”
The two astronauts and cosmonaut exchanged a quick glance. Landon said, “Yes, loud and clear, Halm.” Again, inwardly chastising himself for voicing a second stupid comment. Best now to get right to the point. “What are you doing with our space station—with us?” Landon’s gaze concentrated on the alien’s face, trying to discern where his voice emanated from.
Halm said, “This must be frightening for each of you. For that, we apologize. In time, you will understand why this encounter was necessary. Necessary for your kind’s ultimate survival.”
Landon detected no accent, no crazy alien mispronunciations. If he weren’t staring at what clearly was an extraterrestrial, the speaker could have been from Los Angeles or Denver.
Fischer asked, “So what are you doing with all our stuff?” He raised his chin in the direction of one of the aliens, carrying off a canvas satchel. Landon knew the satchel contained bathroom supplies: toothpaste, bottled soaps and shampoo, rolls of toilet paper.
Halm turned his attention to Fischer. “Should you need any of these items, we will make them available to you.”
“We’re not coming back here … to the ISS?” Fischer asked.
“It will not be necessary,” Halm said.
“Can I ask you something else?” Mirkin asked.
Halm simply adjusted his standing position without answering.
“Your physiology … something like energy-based. Yes?”
“That is correct. Our race is called Vallic. We derive from a world called Lorimar, which is approximately six light years from Earth. Your scientists have yet to discover this neighboring area of space. Our physiology is approximately ninety-seven percent dynamic energetics.”
“What does the other three percent consist of?” Fischer asked.
“Matter. Our species evolution began much like that of the Human race.”
Landon, gesturing toward an alien carrying another satchel, asked, “Can you tell me how forms such as yours, composed primarily of energy, can lift and carry hundred pound satchels full of laboratory supplies?”
“High energy density gravitational waves.” Illustrating, Halm extended out a glowing hand and held it there.
Landon, unsure at first what was expected of him, put out his own hand and shook the offered hand. He felt the alien’s firm grip. There seemed to be a flesh-like texture to it—in how it felt. “That’s … amazing.”
Halm tilted his head in such a way it conveyed a sense of curiosity. “It was only a handshake, Commander Landon.”
After a beat, both Fischer and Mirkin laughed. Evidently, the tall alien had a sense of humor.
Landon asked, “So what now? What are you going to do with us?”
“I assume you would like to make contact with your Mission Control, down on Earth’s surface?”
“You’ll let us do that? Let that happen?”
Halm raised his chin. “It is understandable you do not trust our intentions.”
“I don’t know what I believe, to be honest. No offense, but none of us were given much of a choice, how all this went down. Our space station’s been damaged. We’ve been abducted, standing around in our underwear. And I just shook hands with an alien.”
“Apologies. Time is an issue, Commander Landon. Recently, the University of Hawaii’s Pan-STARRS 1 telescope, on Haleakalā, discovered a 400-meter-long meteor, careening its way through your Solar System. It took Earth’s scientists totally by surprise. A lone, interstellar object from outside your planetary system encroaching dangerous close to Earth.”
“We’re aware of that,” Landon said. “It’s still being tracked.”
“What your scientists have yet to discover is that the gamma ray burst, spanning many thousands of miles, is on a direct, intersecting trajectory with the meteor and this Solar System.” Halm gave Landon and the others time to digest those dire implications.
Mirkin asked, “When? How long do we have?”
“Sixteen of your lunar-based months.”
“You’re telling us that Earth has less than a year-and-a-half to exist? For mankind to survive?”
Halm said, “Those are two completely separate questions, Lieutenant Fischer.”
Chapter 18
The previous highest-ranking official at the National Aeronautics and Space Administration was the Director of NASA. He’d been fired by the incoming White House administration for reasons still undisclosed. Now filling in, the current big cheese was a short, albeit jolly-looking, middle-aged man named Gordon Borkner. Since childhood, he’d suffered from a facial skin condition called rosacea, which colored his rounded cheeks an odd fuchsia shade. He always looked as if he’d just come in from the cold—perhaps building a giant snowman outside—along with his eight, all under the age of twelve, children. All suffered from the same, non-life-threatening, facial skin condition—a whole clan of jolly-cheeked Borkners.
Gordon Borkner worked out of Independence Square, offices within two non-descript buildings in Washington, D.C. His job title was simply Acting NASA Administrator. An appointee from a previous administration, continuing on in this lofty position was anything but guaranteed. This made Borkner nervous. Made him jittery. The stink of desperation clung to him, like an ill-fitting suit.
For all intents and purposes, Borkner was a politician. He spent most of his time working with other high-ranking, often competing, government officials, jockeying for their own piece of the US budget allocation. In his particular case, to acquire additional NASA funding, not only for the coming year, but for many years into the future. NASA space exploration projects required elaborate financial planning—spanning multiple decades.
So when Acting Administrator Gordon Borkner learned of the presumed demise of the International Space Station, while attending a two-hundred-dollars-a-plate dinner gala—one co-sponsored by one of Washington’s major lobbyist groups—he had to immediately excuse himself and head to the men’s room. Once there, after ensuring each toilet stall was indeed empty, he yelled out, “Yes! Yes! Yes!” while repeatedly fist-pumping his stubby right arm into the air. Borkner fucking hated the ISS program. Hated anything to do with it. Even though five other international space agencies assisted monetarily, but only barely, the ISS sucked up far too much of NASA’s limited budget. Constant maintenance issues; never-ending resupply missions; the costs added up to more than the GDP of many small nations. Added to that, NASA was everyone’s bitch … fucking Russia … private industry …
Attempting to compose himself, Borkner leaned over the nearest sink and peered at himself in the mirror. His rosacea cheeks were damn near glowing and his face certainly didn’t portray a look of despair. Before heading back out into the gala affair, he needed to think of something terrible—perhaps an event from his past; something that would sadden him. He racked his brain. But mental images—the ISS blowing up in space from multiple angles, like a professionally choreographed Hollywood blockbuster—kept invading his thoughts. Still giddy, ready to give up, he decided to splash cold water onto his face. After reaching for one of the linen towels, folded up on the counter, he decided to be strategic—study which areas on his face to actually pat dry. Leave just enough moisture beneath his eyes to emphasize the fact that the head of the National Aeronautics and Space Administration was tearful, devastated by the latest news. Inconsolable.
Straightening up to his full stature of five-foot-five and, in an overhand, Kobe-esque, motion—he tossed the wadded towel across the restroom into an available wicker hamper. “Three points,” he whispered. Two steps from the exit, he felt his breast pocket vibrate. Withdrawing his iPhone, he checked the Caller ID. Oh terrific, Mannford. Paul Mannford was one of the three Flight Directors, stationed at the Johnson Control Center, in Houston, Texas. No one doubted who was actually in charge there. An ex-test pilot, then an ex-Space Shuttle astronaut, Mannford ultimately made all the really big decisions when it came to the ISS—he was also the primary thorn under Borkner’s saddle.
“Paul, I just got the awful news. I’m so, so sorry.”
“Thank you, sir,” Paul said. “Of course, we haven’t completely given up hope yet, but … ”
“Oh, I thought it was pretty definite. A terrible, cataclysmic accident had, well, destroyed the space station.”
“I don’t know who it is you spoke with, but until we have some compelling proof of what actually occurred, we’re going to stay vigilant,” Paul said. “Every world agency has focused its attention spaceward. Every resource—infrared, radio, X-ray telescopes— of every size and complexity, and, of course, our high-orbit birds are meticulously examining space debris for … well, anything. Absolutely nothing has been found or detected. Even the worst kind of explosion should have left residual wreckage. It’s strange … some fragments should have been left behind. So, for that reason, I’m cautiously holding back in making a statement. I would recommend your office do the same, if I may be so bold, sir.”
“Of course, Paul. I’m here; we’re all here to support our incredible NASA team of men and women. Now I want you to keep me in the loop. Updates throughout the day tomorrow, okay? And
let me know if there’s anything else you need there in Houston, anything at all. We’ll make sure the purse-strings remain wide open to get us through this terrible ordeal.”
“Thank you, sir. There is one thing … ”
Borkner rolled his eyes, fighting not to tap his foot. “What is it, Paul … anything.”
“I’d like to fly-in the crew’s families: Commander Jack Landon’s wife, Jan, and his two daughters; Lieutenant Greg Fischer’s parents; and Russian cosmonaut Peter Mirkin’s fiancée.”
“Fiancée?” Borkner repeated, without thinking.
“Yes, sir. She’s in Novosibirsk, Russia.”
Fuck … this is going to cost a small fortune. It’s not like they’ll ever actually see, hear from these loved ones again. Why drag them all the way to Houston only to learn the same inevitable bad news that everyone else is surely cognizant of already?
“Of course, whatever you need, Paul. Get it done.”
“Yes, sir and thank you.”
“It’s an honor to help. And to show my support, I’m clearing my schedule. I’ll arrive in Houston this time tomorrow … the next day, at the latest.”
“You’re coming here? To the Mission Control Center?”
“Yes. You can give me a tour, since I’ve never actually visited the Center before. And Paul, best you prepare for a few transitional changes.”
“Changes?”
“We’ll discuss more about all that when I arrive.”
Chapter 19
Her lunch shift now ended, her bare arms wrapped tightly around herself, Brianna Sullivan sat within the smoky confines of Captain Jack’s cramped, mildew-smelling office. Since Jack was the current owner/manager of Stillworth’s Skiff, not to mention her landlord, she had little choice other than to simply nod and listen as he continued to chastise her for the racket above. Even now, she could hear Larry over the piped-in mariachi music, and the nearby kitchen help’s banter. The dog’s incessant barking was mind-numbingly annoying. She inwardly cringed, hearing Larry switch to howling instead of just barking. Shit!
Boy Gone Page 7
