by Allan Burd
“What about NORAD?” asked Commander Britton. He leaned his overweight body forward as he spoke.
“We contacted our NATO allies and they have yet to offer any answers. Also, our friends at NORAD say their telescopes have yet to reveal anything,” answered Smythe, as he placed his fists on the table, leaning forward.
“What about the cameras?” asked Gaines. Each fighter was equipped with a gun camera lodged in the belly of the aircraft.
“Revealed nothing at this time,” answered Smythe.
“How about a new experimental space craft created by the Japs?” Britton asked, “Or Ruskies—or the Americans for that matter,” he added. He was a career military officer only a few years away from retirement. Over the years, he developed no love for any country except his own.
Commander Weston from foreign intelligence made his presence known. He didn’t particularly care for Britton and couldn’t resist a chance to make him look bad. “Doubtful. This object didn’t burn up in the atmosphere, which indicates it had to have some kind of heat shielding. I know of only two countries with the capabilities to develop the kind of shielding technology that would allow an entry like that; Japan and the US—but neither one’s there yet.”
Britton turned his head towards Weston and cleared his throat. “Maybe they are and we just don’t know it yet. The potential advantage to returning space vehicles and satellite salvage teams is significant enough where they might have pushed their progress forward a year or two,” he said, fully intending to challenge Weston’s sources.
Weston did not like when he was doubted. He prided himself on perfection of both the mind and the body, as his muscular build attested to. He was in great shape for a man over fifty. “If they had it, trust me, I would know. Besides, the object vanished into thin air. Unless, of course, the Japanese got some type of alien cloaking device, I would rule them out,” he added sarcastically.
Smythe could not help but crack a smile. He didn’t like Britton either and enjoyed it when someone made him look like the fool he was.
Commander Britton wasn’t very happy when he gazed upon Smythe’s reaction. Admiral Brock growled, annoyed at the inappropriateness of it all. This was hardly the time for important men to bicker.
Before things got too heated, Gaines decided to diplomatically intercede. “Perhaps that’s not so far off base, gentlemen.” Immediately all heads turned towards Gaines. “Well, I mean…” The sudden turn of so many high ranking heads caused Major David Gaines to pause temporarily, wondering if his “save” was going to place him in hot water with the Admiral.
“Don’t be shy, Major. I’d be interested in hearing all theories,” Smythe responded, returning everyone’s attention to the seriousness of the situation. Gaines was his protégé for years and he knew he was very insightful. He had high hopes of Gaines one day taking over his position as Commander of Canadian Intelligence.
“Well, what about an extraterrestrial spacecraft?” queried Gaines dead seriously. He ran his fingers across his chin and waited for their reactions.
Commander Britton rocked back in his chair, his hand pressed against his forehead. “Extraterrestrial space craft. Oh, c’mon!” he roared.
Gaines immediately countered. “For years there have been documented cases of aircraft reported on radar speeding through Canadian air space and maneuvering like no known man-made vehicle. We ourselves have had over 750 sightings and events on record, before we transferred the records to the National Research Council.”
Britton erupted in an outburst. “Nonsense. Next thing you know, you’ll be telling us this is a time traveling machine from the future.”
“Well, actually sir, that is also a conceivable possibility,” remarked Gaines.
“Any other ideas?” interrupted Admiral Brock. He was not completely dismissing Gaines’ theories, but he knew that further discussion of these ideas would be counterproductive in present company. There was a moment of silence. “Nothing. OK. Weston, continue to check all your sources. If anything turns up, I want to know about it immediately. Britton, have those pilots interviewed again and send all transcripts to Major Gaines. I want this done within the hour. That will be all.”
Commander Britton and Weston acknowledged their orders and left the room. Gaines rose slowly, preparing to follow them out.
“Major Gaines, one moment please. Commander Smythe and I decided we want you to handle the investigation.”
Gaines looked at Smythe who gave his nod of approval. “Why me, sir?”
“Well, to speak frankly, I think you’re the best man for the job.”
“What about Britton and Weston?” Gaines asked.
“Britton’s main concern is our military. Since this doesn’t appear to be an immediate threat, I don’t think he’ll give it any thought. Besides, I think he’s a bigoted horse’s ass. Weston’s a good man, but he also has more immediate concerns. I want you because you’ll give this investigation the proper attention it deserves and Bruce tells me you’ve got a good open mind. Frankly, I don’t know of anything else either, besides some friggin’ alien or time traveler that can do what this thing did. In this envelope are the transcripts, film, and tape. As more information comes in, I’ll forward it to you. Look it over and let us know what you think. I’ll see you Major, in one hour.”
“Yes sir,” said Gaines saluting the Admiral.
“One more thing, Major,” said Bruce Smythe with a smile, as he and Admiral Brock were leaving the briefing room. “Take a shower. You stink.”
“Yes sir.” Gaines smiled and went to work.
4
MARINE CORPS BASE CAMP PENDLETON,
CALIFORNIA
General Henry Chesterfield rolled over and reached through the darkness for his bedside phone, wondering what could be so important that someone actually had the temerity to call him at this ungodly hour of the night. His strong stubby hands gripped the receiver and placed it against his ear as he sat up in bed. Clearing his throat with the low unappealing growl of an elderly man just awakening, he answered. “Chesterfield here. What’s up?”
The voice on the other end filled him in on this evening’s events. Chesterfield rubbed his eyes, becoming more awake with each detail he heard. By the time he received his orders he had moved all the way over and was now sitting at the edge of his bed. Checking the clock—3:38 A.M.—he bent down and put on his slippers. “Yes sir. I have the perfect man for the job. I’ll put him on it right away.” He pushed the button labeled program one which simultaneously disconnected his call and connected him with Colonel John Chase. The phone rang twice before it was answered.
“Colonel Chase. Good morning, General.”
He figured Chase must have known who was calling by looking at a caller ID display on his phone. “Not any more it ain’t. Initiate the Roswell Protocols. Then meet me in my office and I’ll fill you in on the details.”
“The Roswell Protocols, General?” queried Colonel Chase. He had to make sure he heard that right.
“Yeah,” Chesterfield paused briefly, standing up. “How ‘bout that?”
5
PRINCE RUPERT, CANADA
So alone … so vulnerable!
Stacy’s thoughts spiraled wildly out of her control.
Why did I choose to live here? The nearest house is two acres away. Town is a ten minute drive. What was I thinking? Even this living room is way too large.
She stared out at the expansive room, watching wearily as the moonlight shone through the skylight and windows, casting shadows that crept eerily and quietly across the walls. She curled into a fetal position on the couch, pulling the blanket up to her chin, trying desperately to fend off her paranoia.
The house creaked.
She quickly rose to her feet, rapidly scanning in all directions. Her heartbeat quickened as she involuntarily gulped down on her next breath. She looked toward the sliding glass door leading to her deck and cursed herself for not completely closing the blinds.
Th
e house creaked again.
No, not the house—the skylight directly above her.
She quickly scanned upward. Nothing but the hazy night sky could be seen through the thick glass, but still the casting shadows denied her a clear view. She backed away slowly, feeling a sharp jab in the back of her leg. She whirled around quickly, as the end table she had just bumped into wobbled back to its original position.
She let out a gasp, placing her hand on her chest until her breathing became more controlled. A menacingly shaped shadow flickered across the couch. She raced to the sliding doors, double checked the locks, confirmed the wooden door stop was firmly in position, and then sharply yanked the cords sealing the blinds tightly shut. She noticed the window across the room and raced there to do the same.
A few nervous moments later, Stacy finally sat back down. She fidgeted for a moment then impatiently jumped back up and went to the kitchen for more wine. She took a sip, feeling the sweet dizzying warmth on her tongue, then uncharacteristically slugged down the remainder. She gagged and wiped her lips and poured herself another glass.
The house groaned again—a short grunt followed by the short rap of wind bouncing off glass.
Stacy didn’t move. She just glanced back and forth cautiously doing her level best not to make a sound. When she heard no further noises she rose slowly, making her way to her granite countertop. She opened the draw below carefully—so as not to make a sound—and grabbed a twelve-inch long Ginzu cutting knife, holding it in a white-knuckled grip.
Ever so slowly, she stepped out of the kitchen and back into the open chalet-style living room. Now the shadows crept faster along the walls as the quickening winds repeatedly tapped on the windows. The creaks which she intently listened for were deafeningly silent. She whirled around, looking back toward the kitchen, but saw nothing. Then she stood still, tightening her grip on the knife even more, waiting for whatever it was that she was sure was out there. And even though in the back of her mind, she knew her intense irrational fears had returned, she was completely unable to calm herself. She knew only one thing for certain—this was going to be a very long night.
6
PALO ALTO, CALIFORNIA
Ringggg … ringggg …
“God damn it! Who the hell is calling at this hour?”
Logan Grey mumbled to himself as he awoke. A glance at the digital clock told him he had gotten less than an hour of sleep.
“Oooo … Shut it off,” moaned Lisa.
Ringggg … ringggg …
Logan fumbled about, grabbing the phone in the dark.
“Yeah.”
“Is Wolf there?” the deep voice asked.
“Wolf?”
“Is Wolf there?” the voice impatiently repeated itself.
“Wolf! Holy shit … uh, yeah … Wolf here.” Logan sat up quickly stumbling to find the lamp. As he flipped the switch illuminating the room, Lisa sat up and shielded her eyes.
“Party time, Wolf. Be there at seven. We’ll bring the six-pack.”
“I’ll meet you at, um … Sam’s,” replied Logan, clearly concerned.
Having heard the proper counter sign, the person on the other end hung up.
Logan couldn’t believe he actually got a call—the call.
About two years ago, at a business seminar where Logan was giving a symposium on international business relations, he was approached by a man from the National Security Agency. As an expert on the social differences of various cultures, as well as an expert in kinesics, the study of body language, his skills made him extremely useful to companies negotiating business deals overseas.
Logan had been chosen as a consultant for the government in the past, but the man from the NSA approached him from a slightly different angle. He asked Logan if he thought he could communicate with an alien. An “otherworldly being” was the phrase the man used. Could he successfully interpret their movements and their facial expressions to understand what they were saying? At first Logan couldn’t believe it, but he realized the man was dead serious. Confident at the time, Logan responded affirmatively. The truth was he was unsure. He was offered a monthly stipend for being on call, briefed on procedure, and given the code name Wolf. He couldn’t believe the government was willing to pay him a sizable fee just in case ET ever really showed up. If only the taxpayers knew, he laughed to himself at the time.
For the next year, as the paychecks piled up, he got curious. He began buying books and reading articles on the subject. While in Chicago on business, he visited the J. Allen Hynek Center, the only private organization respected by the government still studying the phenomena. He also attended some MUFON meetings in various cities and managed to make friends with some credible people who claimed to have seen UFO’s. He even asked former President Jimmy Carter about his experience when he met him at a Symposium in Atlanta. The more Logan learned, the more he believed it could be true. Hell, he thought, if the NSA was interested, it had to be true. Still, he never expected to actually receive the call—especially now.
He tried to control his panic and think things through. OK, party time means they need me immediately. Shit! There goes the Harrison account. Be there at seven means they’ll come for me. He’ll bring a six-pack. One six-pack … singular—one hour. Six pack … possibly six days. He was beginning to realize his situation. The National Security Agency, a powerful organization that paid him handsomely for doing nothing, finally needed him—in one hour—and he was half hung over with a beautiful naked woman in his bed. He took a deep breath and tried to control himself.
“Who was that?” asked Lisa.
“Oh Shit! You have to go,” Logan said seriously.
“What?”
“You have to go.” He got out of bed, holding the sheets across his waist. He reached towards the floor with his free hand and began to hand Lisa her clothes.
“That’s funny. Most men like me to stay,” she replied coyly.
Logan looked into her deep green eyes, a wave of sadness overcoming him as he settled down. “Look, I’m sorry. I re ally am. But this is incredibly important. Top secret government stuff … and I shouldn’t have even told you that much.” Logan’s pout said more than his words. “I’m sorry. I can’t explain.”
Lisa grinned. Oh well, she thought. It had been a perfect day and a perfect night. “I understand. Don’t worry about it.” She smiled at him. “I usually don’t stick around for long anyway,” she added with a wink.
“Let me call you a cab,” offered Logan.
She showed him her car keys. “Remember, my car is out front.” She got dressed, all the while admiring Logan’s physique and his adorable face, yet wondering what could have unnerved him like this. She had always known Logan to be cool, calm, and collected but now … “Hey, don’t feel bad. I had a wonderful time.” She kissed him passionately, but with the definite sense of finality usually found in a good-bye kiss. Then she headed for the door before turning to him one last time and smiling again. “By the way, thanks for making me a millionaire.” Then she left, gently closing the door behind her.
“Great, just great,” Logan mumbled to himself. He liked her, but this was no time for regrets.
Still naked, he went into the kitchen and put up a pot of coffee. He then went into the cabinet for aspirin and downed two with a large glass of water. While the coffee brewed, he made his way into the bathroom for a quick shave and shower. Fifteen minutes later, he emerged feeling much better. He got dressed and made his way back to the kitchen for a cup of coffee, relaxing for a few minutes before returning to his bedroom to pack. He paused. “Damn, how can I pack when I don’t even know where I’m going?” He decided to pack some business suits along with the essential clean underwear and toiletries. “They should have made up some damn code for where I’m going.”
To his surprise, he still had some time left before anyone arrived. He reached for the telephone to make some calls—the first to his secretary Doris. On the sixth ring she answered the phone.
<
br /> “Hello,” Doris muttered. She sounded a bit perturbed about her early awakening.
“Doris, this is Logan. Something just came up. I’ll be out of the office for at least a week. Cancel all my appointments. Tell Ms. Harrison I’m truly sorry and I’ll reschedule when I return.”
“Is everything OK?” Doris said, concerned. She knew it was unlike Logan to change his business schedule.
“Everything’s fine. Just … a family emergency.” He hated using that excuse. “Nothing serious though. I’ll call you again when I can.”
He hung up and sat down at the kitchen table, the magnitude of the moment really hitting him. The United States government was calling on him to communicate with an alien. He was about to meet a totally new life form not of this world. What would it be like? Would it be friendly? Was it really a being of extraterrestrial origin, or more likely, was the government just calling in his marker for an international trade negotiation? A thousand questions popped into his head at once. If it was an alien life form, how did the government contact it? Did they come to visit and ask to be taken to our leader? Did the government shoot down a UFO and capture the alien pilot? Did the UFO crash land? On a whim he called a student he knew at Berkeley who was just crazy enough to be up at this hour of the morning.
The phone rang four times before someone picked up. “Seismic studies, this is Larry. What can I do for ya?” The voice was slightly muffled, and Logan swore he could hear the Twinkie that Larry must have been snacking on.
“Hi, Larry, this is Logan—Logan Grey.”
After a gulping sound Larry responded. “Hey man, what are you doing up this early?”
Ordinarily, Logan would make small talk—in this case, a definite well-intentioned comment on Larry’s previous promises to lose weight. But Logan only had time to get straight to the point. “Well, I was sleeping, but then I thought I felt a tremor. I was wondering if you had anything on your seismographs.”
