While trying to devise a plan based on this new information, the two craft returned. The fighter shot by in front of him at an angle, turned sharply back toward him, then past. Flash! Barely half a mile away, the UFO glowed brightly, then it shot straight up to some ten thousand feet.
What was the fighter trying to do? Was it asking for help? Or could it be warning him?
He knew what the UFO had in mind. It had chosen to end this charade by assuming a winning advantage from its position high overhead. Stationary and commanding a tremendous field of fire, it flashed repeatedly at the fighter that was jerking and twisting away at tree top level.
The fighter needed help. Greg grasped the microphone and keyed the transmitter. He did not talk, he just held the microphone out in his fist toward the UFO.
Flash! from the UFO. Trees exploded two hundred yards to his left. Flash! again. More trees exploded off to his right. Flash! again and trees blew up right in front of him.
“Okay, I’m bracketed. I get it,” he yelled across the void as he released the button.
The fighter climbed fast to reduce the UFO’s advantage, then Flash! It was hit. Pieces flew off, only this time there was no glow. Was its shield gone? It gyrated wildly as he held his breath, then it seemed to get its act together and continued climbing.
Greg keyed the microphone again, squeezing it so hard that his fist shook. Flash! More trees blew up right below him. Flash! again, then a horrible light filled the sky. His plane buffeted hard, but that was the least of his concerns. His breathing stopped, and he stared in shock at a roiling fireball where the UFO had been. The fireball expanded quickly, feeding upon itself, then it slowly dissipated until only a few wispy streamers remained.
Chapter Two
It was over.
Greg stared at the remains of the fireball with his mouth open, horrified by the implications: UFO’s, aliens, death, First Contact blown out of the sky in the space of a few minutes of furious battle. He had not wanted this. Was it his fault? Was mankind’s only chance lost?
The bored voice of International Falls Radio kept trying to contact him on the radio, but he could not bring himself to respond. Fishing and vacation no longer seemed important. He felt like he had been pulled right back into the horrors of war where so many innocents had died. Were the creatures aboard the UFO innocent? He had no way of knowing, but they had likely come a long, long way for some purpose, only to die far from home.
His eyes blurred as he watched the smoke dissipate, knowing there were no survivors. Did they have a god? He whispered a short prayer just in case, then he turned his plane away.
Searching briefly, he discovered the fighter five hundred yards off his left wing. Is he just as overwhelmed as me, Greg wondered? He waved and looked for the pilot, but no windows were apparent, and he gave up. The craft flew unsteadily, the cause readily apparent when he examined the tail section. Most of it was gone, melted in places, blown clear away in others. That guy needs to land. How has he managed to stay in the air this long, he wondered? He must need help, or he’d have left.
He found his chart under the copilot’s rudder pedals and searched it for the nearest place to land. He decided on Kenora, directly south of his last known position and still in Canada. He started a slow turn and continued the turn until steady on an approximate heading. The fighter held its position off his wing, unsteady even in level flight which concerned him. He slid over closer to the craft, but the craft edged away, holding their separation constant. He examined it but could find no damage other than to the tail. No smoke was evident, so at least its engines weren’t coming apart.
It would take at least forty minutes to reach Kenora, possibly longer depending on how far they had traveled during the engagement. He wasn’t exactly sure where he was, but he had a pretty good general idea. Looking at his watch for the first time, he was surprised to see that it had been forty-five minutes since the fighter had flashed by on its first pass. That was one heck of a fight, whoever you are, he thought to the other pilot.
Ten minutes later the fighter faltered.
“Come on man, hang in there!” he yelled across the void separating them.
In response, the fighter rapidly fell behind, then suddenly dropped like a stone. He caught his breath when the forward section separated violently from the craft and shot up to a higher altitude, then began a gentle descent toward the ground. The remainder of the craft tumbled through the air until the forest swallowed it.
One disaster after another he thought, shaking his head as he circled the slowly descending capsule. There was no evidence of a chute or rocket exhaust, and he puzzled over its method of propulsion, but whatever it used worked well. A long minute passed before the pod settled gently into a clearing with some last-minute maneuvering to avoid trees in its path.
What an ejection seat! He circled the clearing, waiting for someone to step out and wave, but no such luck.
At least this was one disaster he was prepared to handle. The pod had landed only half a mile from a long, skinny lake that he could land on without difficulty. He could walk the distance in a few minutes. He was supposed to notify the authorities and await their arrival, but as he circled the pod one last time, he knew he wasn’t going to do it. He had earned the right to see this thing through to its conclusion. Breaking a few more rules now seemed trivial.
Ten minutes later he coasted up to a typical Canadian lake shore, the forest growing right down to the water. He shut off the engine and bumped to a stop with the tips of the floats touching the shoreline. He pulled on his waders, then slumped back with his eyes closed, just soaking up the sudden stillness. He could spare a moment or two.
He could not bring himself to think about what had happened. It was too new, too unexpected. History was his hobby—he was working on a PhD in his spare time after work—and he knew that today’s events mattered. Some of the implications were obvious, and they weighed heavily on his shoulders. Consequences were not so clear, but if history had taught him nothing else, it had taught him that the consequences would become clear in time, probably at the worst possible time.
He opened the door of the plane and looked down at the tranquil shoreline of the lake. It seemed so ordinary, as if nothing unusual had happened. He shook his head. For the moment, he would just focus on a simple rescue.
Getting out of the pilot seat felt good. He was only six feet tall, but he was solid, as most special operations soldiers tended to be. He leveraged himself awkwardly down two small struts until reaching the walkway on the top of the float. There, he stopped to stretch his bad hip, then he moved back along the float to the passenger door. He climbed back up and rummaged through the mess in the back of the plane for his survival gear, grabbed a few items, and set them on the top of the float. He climbed back down to the float and worked his way to the front of the float.
Before getting wounded, he would have jumped down to the shoreline with his arms full of gear, but now he set the gear down, sat himself down on the float, then lowered himself into the shallow water. Only then did he reach back for his supplies and move them to dry ground. The ruined hip had forced change in his life, but considering the alternative, that he might have lost the leg or his life, he never complained.
Next came an examination of the plane. His encounter with the trees had scratched the floats, but not deeply. Green stains streaked the sides and what he could see of the bottoms, but the small rudders were undamaged. The plane floated as it should, without listing, so there probably weren’t any holes to worry about. It would not sink while he was gone. His mechanic would not be happy, and he suspected his story would never stand up to scrutiny, but all in all, things could be much worse. Once again, he marveled at his good fortune.
He quickly inventoried the meager emergency supplies in the back pack: a small first aid kit, a compass, a knife, some rope, a wool Army blanket, rudimentary fishing gear, and several pouches of dried food. Squaring his shoulders against the forest, he set out.
A minute later he was back to gather up the portable GPS receiver and the plane’s paddle.
As a leader of special operations soldiers, he had first demonstrated, then lived, extreme fitness during his time in the military. He and his men had not only been fit, they had been hard, meaning they kept going despite physical exhaustion. He had not left that mindset behind when he left the military, and despite his desk job, he had stayed in good condition. Half a mile of hiking through dense forest, despite his bad leg, was nothing.
When he stepped into the clearing, he stopped in awe. There it was, dark gray in color and huge, at least two stories high at the back, tapering to a wide flat nose at the front. It was otherwise featureless, offering no clues as to where it had come from or who it belonged to.
And this was just the cockpit. The whole craft must have been far larger than he realized.
Its surfaces were smooth and unbroken, and as he circled the clearing he discovered that even the edges where separation from the rest of the ship had occurred were razor sharp and clean, with no visible couplings or protrusions. It looked like it had been designed to be just this way and never part of anything else. Surprisingly, there was no visible damage from its encounter with the UFO.
Greg circled the ship again, but he found himself moving slower and slower, growing wary. He always listened to his instincts, and they were telling him that something felt wrong. Why was it so big? Fighters were nowhere near this size. Why didn’t it show any damage? Why, in fact, did it look to be in perfect condition, even after crashing?
Where was this thing from?
He circled it one more time before his curiosity got the better of him. When it did, he stepped up to the craft and ran a hand along its surface. It felt warm to the touch, more like a composite material than metal. It gave him the impression of something solid and durable, as if a glob of obsidian had been molded into this shape and placed carefully into the clearing. He had discovered no windows or doors, no sounds or vibrations from a power plant, yet he had a feeling that the ship was alive, or at least not completely dead.
He looked around at the tranquil surroundings, then at the ship, and shook his head. It had to be dead. What was he thinking?
He took a deep breath, then tapped lightly on the side. There was no response from inside. He looked around sheepishly, then he pounded harder and put his ear against the skin. Nothing. What now? If the ship was designed for rescue, there should be an obvious method for the untrained to gain entry.
Things just didn’t add up. A feeling of dread swept through him, but he controlled it. Still, he respected the nature of the response and let caution guide him. He backed away to the edge of the forest and fumbled through the pack for a weapon, undecided about whether to brandish the paddle or the knife. He settled on the knife. A thought that had been floating around in his subconscious, a thought that he had not wanted to accept, forced its way to the front of his mind. This felt wrong. Could this be an alien craft?
His eyes stayed riveted to the ship while he considered. What should he do? He had chosen to come here, but deep down he had known all along what he might find. Well . . . it looked like he might have found it. The very nature of the ship implied that someone, or some thing, was inside. Would it turn out okay and he would discover a human crew aboard, or would something unthinkable come screaming out a hidden door toward him with its fangs dripping?
A jolt shot through him when the ship came to life. A circular area two feet in diameter began pulsing a deep red glow from within the skin, throbbing like a heart. He backed away to safety behind a tree and crouched, waiting for something to emerge. The circle just kept pulsing slowly, growing bright, then fading, beckoning. He waited, then he waited some more until finally he could stand it no longer. Reason pushed enough of his natural caution aside that he looked at himself in embarrassment. Whatever is in that ship must know I’m here, he reasoned, and what does it see? A scared animal hiding behind a tree with a knife to protect itself from blasters.
He stood slowly with his hands at his sides and stepped from behind the tree. He stood without moving, waiting, the throbbing red glow beckoning. Nothing happened. He took a deep breath and approached the ship, then he brushed his hand lightly across the pulsating section. He expected heat, but it was cool to the touch. He touched it more firmly.
Snick! To his right, a door slid up into the ceiling of the craft. He pressed his back against the skin of the ship with his eyes wide and the knife held at the ready, waiting for an attack. Senses tuned to their peak, blood pounded through his ears. He remained rigid, totally focused, his whole universe that opening into the ship. The clearing remained silent as if it, too, waited.
Time stretched. Moments lasted forever. Nothing changed. Slowly, warily, he inched his way to the opening and glanced inside.
He gasped. Lights, switches, buttons, computer screens, those he saw and expected, but the view! Most of the craft—the sides and floor, even the ceiling overhead—was transparent. The transparency was so complete that he could see the clearing through it as clearly as if there was nothing there. He jerked back to look at the outside of the ship, but it was still dark gray, opaque.
He leaned back in and called, “Anyone home?” He heard no response, so he called a little louder, “Hey, anyone home in there?”
Still no response. He stepped up into the ship, his eyes searching quickly. He immediately noticed damage, lots of damage. A large portion of the opposite wall hung in tatters, and a seat nearby lay on the floor with its base blown away. The walls and ceiling had been hit by something that left scorch marks, particularly around the door. What had happened in here? Surely the laser shots from the UFO would not have done this kind of damage, would they?
Then he discovered a pilot slumped across an armrest in the front seat. He sucked in his breath. Yes, he had known someone was aboard. He shuffled across the glass floor, a little unnerved by the feeling that he was walking on thin air, then he leaned cautiously over the body.
He breathed a huge sigh of relief. Human!
The pilot was a woman, a badly burned human woman. Back on familiar ground suddenly, he knew how to deal with this. He would take his time and do things right.
He searched the craft with his eyes and noted four empty seats, two along each wall aft of the pilot, and lots of compartments or cabinets farther aft along the wall and possibly in the ceiling. Nothing moved, and there were no visible hiding places for other crewmembers, so he returned his attention to the pilot. She was unconscious, with horrible burns covering her back and left side from neck to calf. He slid his hand across her throat and breathed a sigh of relief when he found a pulse.
A grim expression settled onto his face. She was alive. Could he keep her that way?
His first-aid training was rusty, but he knew that shock, dehydration, and infection were immediate problems with burn patients. He ran outside and grabbed his pack, laid out the blanket on the floor, then he lifted her as gently as he could from the seat. Terror-filled eyes flew open with the movement, but the woman did not seem capable of taking in information. He chewed on his lower lip as he lowered her to the deck. He laid her face down and gently placed his pack under her feet to elevate her legs, knowing that gravity would help her blood go where it was most needed. He would have preferred laying her on her back, but the burns were just too bad to even consider it.
He pulled the blanket loosely around her and considered what to do next. Despite whatever else had gone on this day, saving her life now took priority. He had to make the right decisions during the next few hours or she would die. She might die anyway, the burns looked ugly, but he would do what he could. Should he go back to the plane, leaving her here while he radioed for help, or should he attempt to move her?
He stood up, thinking hard. To carry her back through the forest and lift her up into his plane would be a challenge for him, but for her it would be a horrible ordeal. On the other hand, it would take hours to get a helicopter out
here. The location was remote, and he doubted if there were any rescue helicopters closer than several hours away. If he left her here and went back to his plane, took off, climbed high enough to reach someone by radio, then waited all afternoon for professional help, she might be dead.
He knelt beside her and spoke into her ear. “I’ll get you to a hospital. Do you have any pain killers here?”
Her eyes fluttered open to stare at the glass floor in confusion, then her gaze seemed to firm. Her eyes found him, but she had trouble focusing. She said something, but all he heard was a whispered croak. She swallowed and tried again. Greg leaned in close.
Her eyes closed with the effort as she enunciated carefully, “More coming.”
“More coming?” he asked softly, bending even closer.
“Harbok,” she seemed to say.
“Harbok, Harbok? What’s a Harbok?” She opened glassy eyes and stared at him until his gaze narrowed. Leaning back a little, he said, “The other ship. Were Harbok flying the other ship?”
Her look was answer enough. He stared at her for a moment longer, then he leaned back toward her and said gently, “We’re getting out of here.”
She snaked an arm out from the blanket and grasped the front of his shirt. When she spoke, she struggled for each word.
“No . . . hospital.”
He reached a hand out and caressed her cheek. “Of course you’re going to a hospital. I’ll be as easy on you as I can, but we can’t delay.”
Visibly gathering strength from somewhere, she lifted blue eyes to look directly into his own. She spoke slowly and clearly, “I . . . am . . . not . . . of . . . this . . . Earth.”
Chapter Three
He jerked his hand from her cheek. The next thing he knew, he was on his feet backing away. An alien! How could she look so human? And he had touched her. Was he going to catch a disease from her?
She groaned and closed her eyes, eloquently making him feel the fool as she collapsed back to the deck. And he was a fool. Of course, this was a UFO, even if it wasn’t round. Looking around the cockpit, he admitted he had known all along that we did not have this technology. How could he have been such a fool? How could she be an alien and look just like a human? And where was the rest of her crew?
Ship's Log Page 2
