Area 51_Redemption

by Bob Mayer

  “Area 51,” Mrs. Parrish said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I need clearance to land there in—“ she glanced at Maria who flashed five fingers, then three-- “fifty-three minutes.”

  “I am afraid Area 51 is closed to all flights, Mrs. Parrish. Is there something I can help you with?”

  “I just told you,” Mrs. Parrish said. “I will be landing at Area 51 in fifty-two minutes. You’ve already wasted one minute. I understand you have a small peacekeeping force in place. Your first order of business is to clear my plane.”

  “May I ask why?”

  “You can ask.”

  A silence ensued. Kaong fidgeted; Mrs. Parrish did not.

  “The situation at Area 51 is a bit fluid,” Kaong finally said.

  “That’s bullshit for it’s screwed up, pardon my language. The Fynbar has returned from Mars, has it not?”

  He hesitated again.

  “My people visually tracked it,” Parrish said.

  “Yes. It’s back.”

  “It landed at Area 51, correct?”

  “That’s classified,” he responded, the futility of that response showing on his face. “You know where it is. Is there a point?”

  The slight pushback caused a small twitch just below Mrs. Parrish’s left eye. Almost imperceptible, it would have been caught by an expert poker player or her late husband. It passed unnoticed by Kaong. “I want to talk to Major Turcotte.”

  “About?”

  “That will be between me and Major Turcotte.” Her voice grew sharper. “You also have not told me anything I didn’t already know. But let me educate you. One of my subsidiaries, Perdix, has just launched two orbital vehicles. One is an orbital, reusable shuttle and will intercept the derelict talon. The other is a Super-Heavy-Lift-Launch-Vehicle and will be rendezvousing with the derelict mothership to ascertain the level of damage.”

  “That’s was tried,” Kaong said. “The space shuttles Endeavor and Columbia were—“

  “This grows wearisome,” Mrs. Parrish said. “The Columbia was destroyed by the talon’s automated defense system. Since Lisa Duncan did us the favor of smashing the master guardian into Mars, that system is off line. The crew of the Endeavor had a Guide among its crew who sabotaged it to keep the mothership from being taken over. Nothing has changed on the mothership though. My crews have not been infiltrated by any alien influence. I am telling you this in the interest of transparency, as tracking stations have undoubtedly picked up my launches. You can either cooperate or I can do this on my own.”

  “Do what exactly?” Kaong asked. “If you’re doing a heavy lift, you’re bringing material to the mothership. Do you believe you can fix it?”

  “Why did UNAOC send the Endeavor up?” Mrs. Parrish didn’t wait for an answer. “Have you gotten me clearance to land?”

  Kaong held up a finger and the screen went mute as he talked to someone on the side. He turned back to the screen. “You may land. But—“

  “Thank you.” Mrs. Parrish turned off the link.

  She looked at her own flexpad, tapping the next action, then scrolling the resulting flow-charts, up and down, then forward to examine possibilities and probabilities. Satisfied, she shifted her attention to Maria:

  “Support?”

  “En route,” Maria said.

  Mrs. Parrish nodded. She removed the straw hat with a sigh, revealing thin white hair barely covering a sun-spotted aged scalp. She sighed. “Mr. Parrish’s stash?”

  Maria went to the other captain’s chair. She opened a humidor built into the armrest and retrieved an unopened box, covered with a thin layer of dust. She brought it to Mrs. Parrish.

  The old woman slit open the box’s seal and retrieved a single cigar. She peeled the wrapper and waved it under her nose, inhaling deeply, her eyes closed in memory, other hand over her chest, fingers spread wide.

  Maria waited silently, the dog sitting to one side and slightly in front.

  “Confusion and misdirection,” Mrs. Parrish mused out loud. “Much can be accomplished under the cloak of those two tactics. Deputy General Kaong has outlived his usefulness and his demise will cause both. Make it so.”

  Maria gave no visible reaction to the execution order. She typed onto her flexpad and sent it to the appropriate recipient.

  AREA 51

  A ring of military vehicles surrounded Turcotte, his fellow travelers, and the Fynbar. Most were up-armored humvees, along with a handful of pick-up trucks with guns mounted in the beds. The machine guns weren’t pointed directly at Turcotte and his comrades, but they were manned and everyone seemed a bit too twitchy for Turcotte’s liking.

  “Who are they?” Turcotte asked Quinn, who had run operations at Area 51 for years under the auspices of Majestic-12. He was the only one left from the original Majestic-12 operation that had headquartered the place from the underground Cube. The others had been corrupted by an Airlia computer discovered in South America, which had initiated a mish-mash of power grabs between both sides of the Airlia civil war and various human factions.

  “No clue,” Quinn said as an officer dismounted and walked forward, “but we’re going to find out.”

  “Major Turcotte?” the man called out with a down-under accent. “I’m Colonel Rennie. UNAOC.” He awkwardly pronounced it as one word, not individual letters.

  “What can I do you for, Colonel?” Turcotte asked.

  “We’re here to escort you and your friends into Hangar One,” Rennie said, indicating a van outside the circle of armed vehicles. “It’s still a bit messy but we’re cleaning it up. We’d also like to move your craft inside, out of sight.”

  “Why?” Turcotte asked.

  Rennie wasn’t a typical blue-helmet, let’s-all-get-along-and-don’t-shoot-at-me UN peacekeeper. He had a severe buzz cut that struggled to make a shadow against baldness. His blue beret was tucked in a pocket, as if he were embarrassed to be seen wearing it. His uniform was a faded camo pattern, which was either Australian or New Zealand. The way Rennie deported himself was the thing Turcotte noted above all else: he was Special Operations, not standard army.

  Rennie halted five feet away. “For your protection.”

  “From whom?” Turcotte said.

  Rennie indicated the blasted doors. “Last time you were here it seems things didn’t go well. We’d like to avoid a repeat. The situation is confusing all over the world. Wars in a number of places. Isolationists versus Progressives. Not everyone agrees with what you folks did. Smashing the chance for immortality into Mars?”

  “We had—“ Turcotte began angrily, but Rennie held up his hand.

  “Listen, mate, not arguing with you. Just telling you why we’re here. For your safety. I have orders to escort you inside. There’s food, a place to rest. Protect the ship. I assume someone will be coming from New York to get a debrief from your lot since the details of what happened on Mars are not clear.”

  Kincaid, the NASA Mars mission specialist, spoke up. “The Airlia communications array was destroyed. Earth is safe.”

  “No parade?” Yakov threw in. “You Americans do not know how to celebrate.”

  “I’m not American,” Rennie said. “And there isn’t going to be a parade any time soon as near I can tell.”

  A crane and HET—heavy equipment transporter—were rolling down the taxiway toward them.

  “You’re not moving the Fynbar,” Turcotte said.

  “Orders,” Rennie replied. “We want to get it out of sight of overhead surveillance. And--“

  Turcotte interrupted. “It’s not yours.”

  Rennie spread his hands. “Major, I’m not here to cause problems. Earth might be safe from little green men—“

  “Tall, white creatures,” Yakov corrected. “With red hair. And six fingers. There are other, scarier, called the Swarm. But they are not small or green either.”

  Rennie pressed on. “But there are a lot of people fighting each other right now. Plenty who want that craft. We’re here t
o help make sure you keep it.”

  “I keep it or UNAOC keeps it?” Turcotte asked.

  “Above my pay grade, mate. If you’d like, and it would be easier, you can fly it into Hangar One.” He cocked his head, distracted as he received a message via his earpiece. He turned and pointed at two of his humvees and gestured. They peeled away from the encirclement.

  “Trouble?” Turcotte asked.

  “Visitor,” Rennie said.

  “Unexpected.” Turcotte didn’t make it a question.

  “Seems most things are unexpected these days,” Rennie said. “Listen, major, I’m not here to give you a hard time. Everyone’s on edge. We’ve had nukes thrown about. Chemical and biological agents. World War Three. Seems like most doing the fighting and killing have been human enough. Not everyone is buying into the whole alien bit, despite the obvious evidence to the contrary.” He indicated the Fynbar.

  “They can see the derelict mothership in orbit,” Quinn pointed out. “With the naked eye.”

  Rennie was distracted, turning to the southwest.

  A large private jet was approaching the classified military base. Area 51 is ninety miles northwest from Las Vegas. In the middle of nowhere on the way to nowhere. To the west is the Nevada Test Range where hundreds of nuclear weapons were detonated over the years, forming an effective barrier.

  Established during World War II as part of Nellis Air Force Base, at least that was the public story, Area 51 had been one of the most secretive places in the world for decades. That was because in the midst of World War II the US Government had tracked a Nazi spy to here and made the shocking discovery of a massive alien mothership underneath Groom Mountain. Majestic-12, whom Quinn had worked for, had been established to deal with this and subsequent discoveries of alien artifacts.

  Majestic-12 hadn’t known the truth about the aliens; that was something Turcotte and his fellows had just recently discovered. The Airlia had come to Earth over ten thousand years ago and established a base at what would be known only in legend: Atlantis. A subsequent civil war between two Airlia factions, partially instigated by Lisa Duncan and her partner, had destroyed Atlantis and led to a tenuous truce between the two alien groups.

  One side was led by an alien named Aspasia, the other by Artad. Aspasia was banished to an Airlia base underneath the surface of Mars at Cydonia, where Nyx was now the only survivor. Artad and his followers went to China, building the massive tomb at Qian-Ling over their base and, like Aspasia and his people, went into deep sleep.

  However, the two alien groups continued a subversive civil war throughout the millennia on Earth. Aspasia’s side was led by a continually regenerated human, Aspasia’s Shadow, who passed Aspasia’s memories and personality through succeeding generations via the ka, a memory device that could be updated much like a computer hard drive. Artad’s side was represented by the Ones Who Wait, Airlia-Human clones, and Shadows of Artad, such as ShiHuangdi, the first emperor of China, and subsequently, King Arthur.

  It was here at Area 51 that the simmering alien civil war finally exploded into World War III with humans fighting the aliens and each other in a confusing, shifting, coalition of alliances. The initiating event was Turcotte and Lisa Duncan halting a test flight of the mothership here in Hangar Two, after learning that turning on its interstellar FTLT drive would send a signal that could be picked up by the Ancient Enemy: the Swarm, an alien species that was the enemy of all sentient life.

  Turcotte had assumed that destroying the last surviving Airlia and their attempt to communicate back to their Empire via the array on Mons Olympus had ended things. He should have remembered what he’d learned early in his military career about assumptions.

  The jet touched down on the long runway, blowing sand about. As it slowed, Rennie’s humvees caught up to it and flanked as it taxied toward their location.

  Rennie had one hand to the earpiece. “Private citizen,” he said to Turcotte. “Somehow she got UNAOC approval to land.”

  “Who is it?” Turcotte asked. “What does she want?”

  “Some rich lady,” Rennie said. “Probably bribed her way in.” Rennie turned away, speaking into his throat mike.

  The jet came to a stop and the side door opened, extending down to the tarmac. Mrs. Parrish exited, taking the steps carefully, the wide-brimmed straw hat keeping her face in the shade. Maria followed taking the steps confidently, the dog behind her and immediately at her side once they reached the ground. Maria held his guide leash loosely in one hand. She had a leather briefcase in the other.

  Rennie signaled for Turcotte to join him and for his men to remain in position. They met the two women and dog between the jet and the Fynbar.

  “Mrs. Parrish?” Rennie said. “I’m Colonel Rennie and—“

  “Major Turcotte,” Mrs. Parrish said, ignoring the UNAOC officer. “It is a pleasure to meet the man who has saved us from the Airlia.” She extended her hand and Turcotte automatically shook it.

  “Ma’am,” Rennie said, “I need to know—“

  Mrs. Parrish was focused on Turcotte. “I come bearing gifts in appreciation of your sacrifices.”

  Maria brought forward the slim leather briefcase and extended it toward Turcotte.

  “What’s this?” Turcotte didn’t take it.

  “You now own the lumber company for which your father worked when he was killed. In fact, if you look at the papers, you own every lumber company in North America. Just a little thank you for your recent accomplishments on behalf of the human race.”

  Turcotte was shaking his head, but Mrs. Parrish pressed on. “Your mother was told your father’s death was an accident. But all accidents have a cause; actually they have a series of causes and one of them is always human error either at the moment or leading up to it. Poor safety equipment. Improper procedures. A desire for greed. A myriad of possibilities. Owning the company will allow you to discover the truth behind your father’s death. That it was not purely accidental. It is something that your mother suspected and it ate at her, most likely contributing to her own death at a early age.”

  “No, thank you,” Turcotte said to Maria. “I don’t want it.”

  “Consider it a present,” Mrs. Parrish said. “No obligation. No quid pro quo. A gift to the man who has freed us from the Airlia.”

  Maria smiled, but the effort didn’t reach the rest of her face. There was a weary sadness about her that Turcotte sensed could never be erased. It was a look he’d seen every day of his childhood.

  “All right.” He took the briefcase. He addressed Maria. “Thank you. We haven’t been introduced.”

  “She’s Maria,” Mrs. Parrish said. “My personal assistant.”

  “Thank you, Maria,” Turcotte said. He knelt down and smiled at the dog, but didn’t pet him. “And who is your furry friend?”

  Maria’s voice was low, barely a whisper. “George.”

  “’George’?” Turcotte said. “I used to have a dog just like you. A long time ago.” He remained still as Maria reached out with her free hand and lightly ran it over his face.

  “Nice to meet you, sir,” Maria said.

  “Major Turcotte,” Mrs. Parrish cut in.

  Turcotte straightened. He held up the briefcase. “You’re just giving me this? There’s no such thing as a free lunch.”

  “Ah,” Mrs. Parrish said. “An aficionado of Mister Heinlein.” She indicated the Fynbar. “May I ask what you plan to do with it?”

  “That’s not for public consumption,” Turcotte said.

  “Do you have a plan?” Mrs. Parrish. “A forward direction?”

  “I just got back from Mars,” Turcotte said. “I think I’ve done enough for a little while.”

  “True, true.” Mrs. Parrish was nodding. “I would like to make you the richest man in the world, Major Turcotte. Beyond what I’ve gifted you.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I am the richest person in the world,” Mrs. Parrish said. “It’s not widely known, but my husband and m
y interests are spread wide and deep. Several who publicly claim to be very rich are actually subsidiaries of our assets. Therefore, I propose making you the richest man in the world. I have the means.”

  “Why?” Turcotte said. Rennie and Maria were the only ones privy to this conversation with Rennie’s forces at the ready on the perimeter and Turcotte’s comrades waiting by the Fynbar.

  “To the point,” Mrs. Parrish said. “I like that in a man.” She pointed at the spacecraft. “In exchange for that.”

  “No.”

  Mrs. Parrish pursed her lips. “What would you like?”

  “Nothing you can give me,” Turcotte said. “Maria, please take this.” He extended the briefcase for Maria. She didn’t lift her hands.

  “It is a gift,” Mrs. Parrish said. “It is bad luck to return a gift.” She peered at him under the brim of her hat. “As noted, your father died when you were young. You had to start working at a very early age to help support your mother. You thought football might be your future but you injured your knee and no one would give you a chance. You went into the Army. Volunteered for the toughest assignments, the most elite units. You got a raw deal in the military when civilians were killed during a counter-terrorism operation in Germany. Your mother passed just prior to that. That must have been a very hard time for you.”

  “I know my life,” Turcotte snapped.

  “Do you?” Mrs. Parrish said. “Then you were assigned to Area 51 but actually suborned by Lisa Duncan, who was not what she appeared to be. Not at all. You do finally know what she was, correct?”

  “She was a human, not a thing.”

  “Yes, but not from Earth.”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Doesn’t it?”

  “How do you know all this?” Turcotte demanded.

  “My husband and I became rich and thus powerful because we value intelligence that is meaningful information.” Mrs. Parrish smiled, a mere twitch of muscles around the mouth. “Anyone who had the capability to find the correct frequency and a powerful enough receiver could have listened in on your recent conversation on your way back from Mars with Kelly Reynolds where she relayed that information to you.”