by D F Capps
Jared shook his head. “There’s got to be more to it than this.”
“There isn’t,” Andrews said. “It’s just that simple. We can plug one of these generators into the grid and the cost drops to three and a half cents a month for the average customer.”
Jared studied the sheet as Andrews handed pages out to the others in the room. “And the government is going to give this to us?”
“Here’s the deal,” Andrews said. “We lease the technology to you for one dollar a year. You build the machines, incorporate them into the infrastructure, and sell the electricity at half the current rate. I’m happy, you’re happy, and the public is happy. Everybody wins.”
Jared shook his head. “What about all of the people we have working in the supply side of our business?”
“Retrain them to make the machines,” Andrews replied.
Jared drummed his fingers on the table. “Why cut the electricity rates in half? That costs us money.”
“You keep your people employed, you cut your production and maintenance costs dramatically, and even at half the current rate, you’ll double your profits.”
Jared studied the sheet again, a frown forming on his face.
“Look,” Andrews said. “I’m trying to help you here. Right now I have control over this technology. If this falls into the public domain, you’re going to be out of business. Everybody is going to be in the energy business. I don’t want that kind of chaos in the market. I want businesses that are dependable and reliable serving the public.”
Jared rubbed his hand over his mouth. “We’re going to have to think about it.”
“Don’t wait too long,” Andrews warned. “I can’t give you a monopoly, just a head start.”
Jared and the consortium stood. “We’ll let you know.”
* * *
“Ride with me,” Wilber Jared said.
Ron Turkel glanced back at the White House. “Yeah,” he said. “We need to talk.”
They settled into the black stretch limo as it moved onto Pennsylvania Avenue.
“This thing will devastate the oil business. We can’t let it happen,” Turkel said.
Jared nodded in agreement. “Andrews is trying to sugarcoat his proposal by telling us it’ll increase our profits while decreasing our expenses. But what the offer does is transfer control of our business to the politicians. We pay them through campaign contributions so we can control the supply and the price of the product. I’m not about to hand that kind of control over to a money-grubbing political hack, even if he is the president.”
“And we have only the word of a politician that the terms aren’t going to change next year, or even next month,” Turkel replied.
“Exactly,” Jared said. “So what are we going to do about it?”
Turkel pursed his lips for a moment. “I’ve got a well-connected friend. He’s a V.P. of a major defense contractor. Believe me; this machine of Andrews’s is never going to see the light of day.”
Chapter 19
Twenty Blackhawk helicopters swept across the rolling hills and high desert meadows of northern New Mexico, closing in on the small town of Sweetwater. Colonel Novak listened intently to the communications coming in over the encrypted radio system. This was his favorite part of covert operations—experiencing the adrenaline rush building in his veins and the hard, compact pounding of his heart. There was nothing quite like it in the world.
“Strike Leader, this is Command. Be advised satellite imagery shows a large number of civilians assembling around your target.”
“Armed?” Colonel Novak asked.
“Unable to confirm, Strike Leader. No weapons visible at this time.”
“Acknowledged, Command. Civilians on the field of battle. Will assess and advise, over.”
Always a new wrinkle, he thought.
“Squadron One Leader, this is Strike Leader, we are sixty seconds out. Status?”
“We are en route, Strike Leader. No enemy craft in the air. Ready to commence Operation Can Opener,” Diane replied.
“Any impressions?”
“They know we’re coming, sir. A lot of scrambling going on.”
“Acknowledged, Commander. As soon as I have eyes on the target and an assessment of the battlefield, you can start your attack run, over.”
“Roger that. Say the word and we’re on it.”
The Blackhawks split into two main groups, swinging toward opposite sides of the small town so they could converge on the hangar from all sides.
The Blackhawk helicopters swooped in low over the buildings and homes of Sweetwater, forming a circle around the entrance to the alien underground base. As the choppers flared and touched the hard-packed soil surrounding the huge hangar, Colonel Novak and his men jumped to the ground and spread out, surrounding the target.
Civilians’ cars were parked in a wide circle to form a physical blockade around the hangar. Horns blared, drivers were yelling and shaking their fists in the air. In front of them stood men, women, and children, five to six people deep creating a dense human shield around the base entrance. Two to three dozen more people stood next to buildings to the back of the soldiers, watching the events unfolding.
“Henderson, cover our six,” Novak yelled.
“Roger that!”
If the civilians were armed, no weapons were visible. Henderson’s squad spread out, aiming their weapons at the people standing near the buildings at the edge of the large open area surrounding the hangar. The people didn’t run, as he expected, but stood firmly and confidently, facing the soldiers.
“What in the . . . ?”
None of the civilians were getting out of their cars. No one was running anywhere, and no weapons were visible. The only opposition came from the honking horns, the fists shaking, and the thick ring of people blocking access to the underground base.
“In position to commence attack,” Diane said. “Waiting for the word.”
Colonel Novak lowered his weapon and looked closely at the ring of civilians protecting the underground base with their cars and their bodies. Something was off. The people didn’t look scared, just angry, irritated, impatient. They didn’t even seem to recognize that military troops were there. The last time he had seen people behave this way was in New York City during a demonstration. His mind raced as his eyes jumped from person-to-person, trying to understand what was happening. Finally it dawned on him.
“Squadron One, abort, abort. Stand down. Strike Team, set all weapons to stun only, I repeat, stun only. Take these people down and into custody, now!”
“Everyone, sir?” Henderson asked.
“Yes, everyone. I want this whole town taken into custody.”
Henderson switched his weapon into stun mode and fired at the people standing near the buildings. The people staggered and stumbled, but none of them fell to the ground. The rest of the soldiers fired at the people in the cars, watching them collapse, slump in their seats, or fall to the ground.
“People on the outside are not going down in stun mode,” Henderson said. “Do we go to kill?”
“No!” Novak shouted. “Chase them down and capture them. No one dies today. We need those people alive for interrogation. Now go!”
Henderson’s squad rushed the people by the buildings. The people tried to escape, but they couldn’t run after being shot with the stun mode. Stumbling and falling, they were easily captured.
“Connors, get those people into custody. Then make sure no one comes out of that hangar.”
“Roger that,” Connors replied.
“Command, this is Strike Leader, I need as many buses as you can find, right now. I’m taking the town of Sweetwater into custody.”
“That’s over twelve hundred people, sir. What did they do?”
“Consider it protective custody. I need them under our control and out of the area of the base. You copy?”
“Copy, Strike Leader. You’ll have forty school buses within the next two hours. What else do you
need?”
“I need a medical facility with a secure wing, and I need it empty of all personnel, medical or otherwise. Lock down the town of Sweetwater—no one in—no one out.”
“Copy that, Strike Leader. Locking down the town of Sweetwater.”
“Squadron One? You still up there?”
“Right here, Strike Leader,” Diane said.
“Can you circle the hangar and make sure we don’t get rushed by aliens?”
“Can do.”
“Do not fire on civilians, leave them to us. Fire on Zeta Greys only. Copy?”
“Copy that, Strike Leader. Target Zeta Greys only.” She chuckled. As if we would shoot at people, she thought.
* * *
Two hours later the last of the residents of Sweetwater were being loaded on large yellow school buses and on their way to a detention facility, all in plastic cuffs. The people who appeared resistant to the stun mode of the flash guns had been loaded onto Blackhawk helicopters first and transported to the secure wing of a medical hospital outside of Albuquerque.
The Strike Team climbed into the Blackhawk helicopters and departed, leaving a ghost town behind them.
Colonel Novak approached the medical director of the secure wing, Dr. Charles Morgan.
“New ground rules—no one goes anywhere near those people without wearing one of these helmets—no exceptions of any kind. Am I clear?”
Doctor Morgan frowned. “What have they been exposed to? We have full protective bio suits. Why the helmets?”
“To protect you from their mind control.”
Dr. Morgan glanced around. “What? Are you nuts?”
“Trust me, these are not normal people. They can manipulate and control your mind. I want every test known to man run on them: DNA, heart and brain scans, MRI, blood panels, the works. I want to know absolutely every medical thing there is to know about them, and I want it now. Do you understand?”
Doctor Morgan pursed his lips, stared into Novak’s eyes, and said, “You think there’s something different about them. Maybe something not entirely human?”
“That’s exactly what I think. You’ve run into this before, haven’t you?”
“Sort of. Once in a while an EMT reports that a person has been seriously injured and refuses medical treatment. Then a few days later they see that same person walking around and there’s no sign of injury or damage. It’s like it never happened.”
“Don’t you want to know why?”
Dr. Morgan nodded. “Yes, I do.”
“So do I,” Novak said. “You’ve got twenty-eight prime candidates, right in there. Something makes them very different from normal people, and I need to know what it is.”
Dr. Morgan nodded and glanced toward the secure wing of the hospital. “So, helmets?”
“On everyone, at all times.” Novak quickly checked his watch. “Four dozen helmets should be arriving on your roof any second now. Everyone who comes within a hundred feet of them wears a helmet. Got it?”
“Certainly.”
Chapter 20
General McHenry and Colonel Novak entered the open door of Dr. Cowen’s office. He didn’t look happy. Dr. Cowen was an MD specializing in psychiatry, primarily responsible for recruiting pilots for the Space Command.
“Close the door behind you,” Dr. Cowen said.
“So what have you figured out?” Novak asked as he shut the office door.
“I’ve never seen anything like it before, and I must say, I’m both shocked and intrigued.”
“Meaning?” McHenry asked as he sat in a chair.
Dr. Cowen paused for a moment, then said, “The twenty-eight people who were resistant to the stun function aren’t really people, as we understand the term. Two of them have anomalies in their DNA and physical bodies, including larger eyes and heads. Two hundred thirty-one gene sequences in their DNA do not appear in normal people, even among the various races on this planet.”
McHenry closed his eyes and breathed out heavily. “So they’re aliens?”
Dr. Cowen shook his head. “They’re hybrids—part human—, part Zeta Grey. They have the eight lobes of the human brain, but the lobes are small and pressed against the outer skull. The bulk of their brain is the limbic or primitive brain, something that is relatively small in normal people. In these two, the limbic brain is very large and well developed. That part of them is characteristic of the Zeta Grey anatomy. They also have a small electronic implant in the center of the brain, again, a match to the Zeta Greys.”
This is getting worse by the minute, McHenry thought. “And the other twenty-six?”
Dr. Cowen raised his eyebrows. “That’s where it gets intriguing. Only twenty-two DNA anomalies from humans, the limbic brain is slightly larger, but aside from that, they are physically indistinguishable from normal humans.”
“Implants in the brain?” Novak asked.
Dr. Cowen shook his head.
“So what are they?” McHenry asked.
Dr. Cowen paused again. “They are probably a cross between a hybrid and a human—a hubrid—if you will. The normal DNA scan that the police and military use wouldn’t pick up the anomalies. That requires a full DNA analysis. For all practical purposes, they appear completely human.”
“But they’re not, are they?” Novak said.
Dr. Cowen shook his head again. “Not by a long shot.”
“My people report that all twenty-eight have remained silent. No one is saying anything,” Novak said.
“I’m not surprised,” Dr. Cowen said. “They are probably fully telepathic, just like the Zeta Greys. I have no doubt that they’re communicating with each other and probably with the network of Zeta Greys, maybe through others like them in the area of the hospital. I think you should put shackles and antitelepathic helmets on them for isolation and move them to a secure underground facility before the Zetas find a way to rescue them.”
“How many of these hybrids and hubrids do you think there are?” McHenry asked.
“On our planet?” Dr. Cowen shrugged. He glanced around the room and returned his attention to McHenry.
“If you want me to speculate, there were twenty-eight in Sweetwater, a town of twelve hundred people. Based on my interviews of EMTs in Albuquerque, it’s probably a smaller percentage there. My guess is that we’re going to find them in small to medium sized cities where the Zetas can control the exposure risk. If we project that percentage to the population of America, we could be looking at something like seven hundred, eight hundred thousand of them mixed into the civilian population.”
McHenry jolted back. “And they would be able to control normal humans, like they did in Sweetwater?”
Dr. Cowen nodded. “Potentially? Yes.”
McHenry slumped back into his chair. “I thought it was bad enough when we were up against eighteen thousand Greys. Those we can recognize on sight. These hubrids look and act exactly like the rest of us. How do we tell them apart from the innocent civilians?”
Dr. Cowen shrugged. “Short of a complete DNA analysis, I don’t know.”
McHenry shook his head. “Even if we could take everybody’s DNA, which we can’t legally do, how long would it take to do the complete analysis?”
Dr. Cowen thought for a moment. “With our current lab facilities? Something in the range of fifty to sixty years.”
McHenry looked up at the ceiling. “By then we will have lost control of the planet.”
“This eight hundred thousand number,” Novak said, “best case, worst case, somewhere in the middle?”
“I think that would be our worst-case scenario,” Dr. Cowen said.
“Okay. We know they avoid medical treatment,” Novak said. “They have integrated into our society— so that means they have driver’s licenses, birth certificates, and social security numbers. We know that from the twenty-six hubrids we have in custody. The hybrids didn’t have any kind of identification on them, so that’s a different issue. Could we do a computer search comparing s
ocial security numbers to medical treatments and flag everyone who doesn’t have medical records?”
Dr. Cowen raised his eyebrows. “And how would we separate them from healthy people who haven’t needed medical attention?”
McHenry thought about that for a moment. “What about vaccination records?”
Dr. Cowen shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe?”
“Look,” Novak said. “We’re just trying to narrow down the suspect pool, okay? We eliminate the obvious normal humans, and maybe come up with a test for whoever is left, maybe something we can do without all the legal hoops we’d have to jump through for a full DNA analysis.”
“I see where you’re going,” Dr. Cowen said. “The list is going to be long, but we need a reasonable place to start. That’s what you’re saying, right?”
Novak smiled. “Exactly.”
“Would it be possible to come up with a specific test to check for only the alien part of the DNA?” McHenry asked.
Dr. Cowen looked to be deep in thought for a moment. “Probably. Maybe. Not my area of expertise. Let me get back to you on that.”
“Okay. Meanwhile, we have to isolate and move the hubrids and hybrids we have in custody. We can’t afford to lose them now.”
* * *
Kaplan answered his satellite phone. “Yeah?”
“Andrews has a new energy device,” Ron Turkel said. “With it he will take control of the energy market worldwide.”
This wasn’t the kind of news he wanted. “What kind of device?”
“It’s an electrical generator. It’ll run for seventy years without fuel or maintenance.”
Conrad Kaplan closed his eyes. USAP317, the black op group’s unacknowledged special access program he had been invited into, had been asking for information regarding Andrews getting possible help from an off-planet source. This just confirmed those suspicions. “Okay, I’ll take care of it.”
He used his encrypted phone to connect with USAP317. He typed in the details of his conversation with Ron Turkel. Andrews was making a move to take control of the energy cartel. No one was allowed to do that.
