“Good evening, Mr. President,” she replied, walking with him through one of the White House’s characteristically long corridors. “I have the Director of the FBI and Chairman of the Joint Chiefs waiting in the Oval Office.” She handed him a steaming mug of coffee.
“What?” Thomas glanced at Gail in surprise, then looked at his watch. “At this time? I was ready to turn in.”
“I’m sorry, sir. They were very insistent.”
“What’s the general doing here?” asked Thomas. General Ernest Richards had been recently promoted to the coveted position of General of the Army, a post not filled since 1950. The outgoing president had awarded him the position in recognition of his leadership against terrorism and the need for a symbolic head of the Army. He was also still Chairman of the Joint Chiefs—America’s most senior military commanders—but that was going to change when Thomas decided who was competent enough to fill Richards’ shoes.
“They won’t tell me anything,” said Gail. “It’s a black meeting. No notes, no minutes, no diary entry.”
Thomas heaved a sigh. “Very well then,” he replied, turning a corner into Gail’s office, which led directly to the Oval Office. “Wish me luck.” He winked as she opened the door for him and then closed it securely.
“Director. General,” he said, extending his hand to shake theirs. “It’s frightfully cold outside tonight. What brings you both to the White House at such a late hour?” The lights in the Oval Office were dimmed, as they always were this time of night.
George Houston, FBI Director, sat back down beside the stern general. He was an elderly man with a full head of neatly kept gray hair and a thick, trimmed moustache to match. Out of the two, he was the more suave.
“First, let us congratulate you, sir,” said Richards in his usual formal tone.
“Thank you,” said Thomas. He had met the general on a few occasions and found him almost intimidating. “But you two certainly didn’t come here at this time of night to congratulate me.”
“No,” said Houston. “You’re quite right, Mr. President. Over the next few days, you’ll have many off-the-book meetings.”
“I can only imagine,” agreed Thomas, taking a sip of coffee.
“But none like this,” said Richards. “Mr. President, the word confidential does what we are about to discuss no justice at all. Only thirty-one people on this planet currently know what we are about to tell you. After that, it must remain thirty-two people until your successor is elected or someone dies.”
“Okay,” Thomas said slowly, lowering himself into his massive leather chair and reclining backwards slightly. He suspected the feeling of sitting behind the presidential desk never got old. “You’ve certainly got my attention. Let’s hear it.”
Thomas watched as his two visitors paused, turning to look at each other. He knew in that instant he was about to be taken on a verbal rollercoaster.
“Extraterrestrials,” said Houston.
“Aliens, Mr. President. Since 1903 the United States government has played host to an alien council,” said Richards.
Thomas sat still, forgetting to breathe. Did he just hear correctly? Aliens? He had always suspected Earth had made contact with them, but to be told directly? His initial reaction was to laugh this off as a joke—after all, it was a long-standing myth that presidents were briefed on the alien presence on Earth after taking office, but Thomas hadn’t known whether to believe that or not.
The director and general stared motionless at him, not blinking.
Reality that they were serious began to slowly dawn on Thomas. “Okay,” he said carefully. He knew they were wondering if he was taking them seriously. It wasn’t totally out of the realm of possibility, and he’d always prided himself on keeping an open mind. The rollercoaster had just reached the tipping point. “Continue on.”
“The entire program is called Section 51. Despite what science fiction fanatics believe, Area 51 is truly just a testing ground for experimental craft for the Air Force. Three kilometers down beneath the base is Section 51.”
“An expansive,” continued General Richards, “military base which houses experimental laboratories and meeting rooms.”
“Laboratories for what?” asked Thomas. If this concerned human or alien forced experimentation, then he was going to have a very frank discussion with both these individuals and make the first decision of his presidency.
“Experimental technology, Mr. President,” replied Richards, opening his red military folder and flicking through it. “Climate control stabilizers, oil replication, food technology, medical science, geothermal networking—the list goes on. We have some of the best minds working down there.”
“Human minds?”
“Yes, Mr. President. The only alien in residence in Section 51 is a woman called Freda. She is our point of contact. Freda has been the official representative of the Council for this region of space. She’s been with us since 1903,” explained Richards.
“You see, Mr. President,” began Houston, leaning forward with his mug of tea, “the Council represents the four main space-faring civilizations known to exist, controlling roughly a third of our galaxy. Apparently, intelligent life is indeed very rare. The Council was set up to provide assistance and watch over fledgling civilizations such as ours, helping them progress and to provide protection from pirates. There are six ‘fledglings,’ as Freda calls them, which includes us. The Council chooses a representative for each planet, and they are to guide the inhabitants of that planet and report back on progress made. Not only that, the representative must also protect the health of the planet itself. Habitable worlds are extremely rare, and the Council will protect them just as much as a species. Freda has catered for Earth for over 100 years now.”
“And not aged a day,” quipped Richards.
“Slightly envious?” asked Thomas. “Have you worked for Section 51?”
“I work for the United States,” said Richards. “I’ve worked alongside Section 51 since the age of twenty-five.”
“Okay,” said Thomas. His tired mind was surprisingly keeping up, despite the late hour. He mused to himself. He was sitting in the White House Oval Office, being informed about aliens and councils, while the rest of the country slept. This was something he certainly did not foresee. “To be honest, this isn’t totally mindboggling. I believe most reasonable and rational people accept the possibility of aliens. It would be the height of hubris to assume we are the only intelligent life in existence. What does shock me, though, is the government’s ability to have kept this all under wraps.”
“Hence the small number of people who know about it. Every president is sworn to secrecy. There are other reasons why U.S. presidents receive such substantial Secret Service protection when they leave office. It’s a gentle reminder that they may have left office, but the government is still with them. Watching and listening,” said Houston.
“Charming,” replied Thomas, thinking ahead to his own retirement. He at least took solace that all U.S. presidents had lived long lives in the past hundred years. “Can I ask why they haven’t intervened in helping us with this genetic problem?”
“They provide us with a blueprint and nudge us in the right direction of what we can achieve and how it can benefit the world,” said Richards carefully. He looked at George for support.
“Mr. President, ever since the Second World War, Freda and the Council have been reluctant to provide us with anything more than theory and postulation about what is possible and what is not worth pursuing. They will show the way, but that’s it.”
“Please explain,” ordered Thomas, glancing between the two. “With our race on the brink of possible destruction, wouldn’t they do everything they could to help us survive?”
“Two words: nuclear power. When nuclear power was provided to another civilization to remedy a cri
ppling pollution and energy crisis, what happened? That race created nuclear weapons instead and significantly changed their course of history. Freda said after that, the Council moved to refuse any technological aid to a civilization,” said Richards.
Thomas nodded, mulling that over. “I can understand that,” he said. The topic of nuclear weapons made him think back to his studies on World War II. It frightened and engaged him at the same time how small incidents—and, more importantly, appeasement—could allow dictators to take over powerful countries in a short period of time.
“She cryptically once said that with the advent of nuclear weapons, alien civilization was in danger of approaching a red line set down by the Council for fledgling planets.”
“What’s her opinion of Earth?” he asked.
“Not what it once was,” said Houston without hesitation.
“Freda believes the United States is not the country it once was and is incapable of being the chosen nation.” Richards sat back in his chair, straightening his dark green military jacket clad with every type of medal.
Thomas watched the fascinating working relationship these two men had. They clearly worked closely together and were very aware of each other’s strengths and weaknesses. Richards now looked to George, as if acknowledging he was the one better able to explain the next part of this unforgettable conversation.
“Chosen nation?”
“Yes, Mr. President,” began Houston, getting up to pace the room. “Chosen nation is a term Freda used from the very beginning in 1903. The United States was chosen by the Council as the lead nation on this planet, the country with the most potential for greatness and that represented the best aspects of humanity. Therefore, they made contact with us. Since the Second World War, I think we can all admit in the privacy of this office that things have not gone well for our country. War after foreign war, economic chaos, and a sharp decline in social structure and civility. Thankfully, or unfortunately, Freda can find no other nation that is not heading down the same treacherous path we are.”
“What path is that?” asked Thomas. He couldn’t deny that the urge to meet this woman was building with each passing second. Not only for the personal selfish reasons of wanting to meet an alien, but for the potential opportunities that could come as a result. While what was being currently discussed was attention-grabbing to say the least, Thomas couldn’t help but consider other scenarios, as well. He was confident that Freda would, with some persuasion, grant them vital support in the genetic war scientists across the planet were fighting every day. The biggest concern for him was that they were still losing this war.
“Unknown, Mr. President. We still have a healthy working relationship with Freda, and she spends over 300 days a year on Earth. The Council is still providing us with much guidance and support through her.”
“When can I meet Freda?” Thomas asked.
“I am afraid that is impossible, Mr. President,” replied Richards firmly but with respect. “The entire operation hinges on it being completely separate from the executive offices and government in general. Our small team is highly skilled, and replacements are only sought every forty to fifty years. Suffice to say, staff turnover is minimal. Most work until their death.”
The president shook his head. One way or another, he would meet this Freda, although he didn’t say it aloud. He swung around in his seat to peer out across the magnificent White House gardens. Even at night, and with a freak storm outside battering the building and snow covering the bulletproof-paned windows, its wonder could not be overstated.
“Anyway, Mr. President, this meeting is simply to inform you that this program is in existence and to impress upon you the need for utmost discretion. The likelihood of you ever having to give it a second thought is minimal. You’ll never have to meet with Freda or engage in any official workings. Section 51 will continue for hundreds of years, long after all of us are gone. You are to mention this to no one. Failure in this regard could jeopardize the entire operation and our standing with the Council.”
Thomas felt deflated. “So the less I hear about Section 51, the better?”
“Yes,” said Richards. “Good night, Mr. President.”
Thomas watched the two elderly men gather their things. He felt strange, almost like being drunk, with such news. It was a big pill to swallow. They headed for the door.
“Gentlemen,” said the president deeply, turning around to look at both of them. “Good night.”
“Goodnight, Mr. President,” they said in unison before leaving.
Thomas watched them go, his mind spinning. It wasn’t their first meeting with a president about aliens, and it would not be their last, either.
Gail called two chauffeured cars for them as they left the Oval Office.
Chapter 3
Freda moved her little gold handheld mirror left and right, a gift from General Richards. After all these years—more than a century, she reminded herself—she was used to seeing a slightly tanned reflection staring back at her. While she had the purest of white skin, she used a skin toner to bring her appearance into the “human realm,” as she liked to put it. Apart from skin color, there was no need to disguise anything else. Intelligent life in the known galaxy, so sparse and rare, seemed to follow predefined physical characteristics—two arms, two legs, etc. It was a topic of intense research and debate throughout the alliance, with many wondering whether a super race had seeded the galaxy with life in their image. Even the Council members all looked similar, despite representing four very different civilizations. They were only distinguishable in race by their eye colors, which tended to be solid and striking compared to the human iris. Once makeup was applied, Freda looked like a short sixty-year-old pensioner with an affection for brightly colored skirt suits.
“Good morning, Christopher,” she said.
Her long-time elderly assistant came in with some fresh apple juice for the two of them. Section 51, the deep underground bunker that housed their operation, was quiet at this early hour. A drawer opened from her desk, and she placed the mirror carefully inside. The daily meeting with Christopher—drinking smooth apple juice while discussing the day’s diary—had been a ritual for the past forty years. The right type of juice was imperative; the first time she tasted unsmoothed apple juice, she nearly choked.
“Freda,” said Christopher Quincy with a smile, lowering himself into the chair before her desk. Freda remembered a time when he had much more energy in their morning briefings, but that was, for a human, a long time ago. She watched as he plopped two cubes of ice into each glass, relaxed, and unzipped his folder. Time for another day to begin.
“Let’s have it,” she finally said. Her office wasn’t overly extravagant or large—she had no interest in such trappings. The last renovation had seen a brighter color scheme used throughout the facility, with modern furniture and computers installed. Christopher always remarked how he felt like he was now working in a dentist’s office, such was the clinical cleanliness and look of the place.
“Hmm … quite a busy day ahead of us,” he remarked, scanning down the list of events, refreshing his memory from the night before. Nothing had changed.
“It’s such a pity. I was hoping for a slight alteration in the schedule to allow me to attend the Council hearing early. Council members are often more willing to engage in unofficial chatter before the meeting convenes.” She watched as her confidant perked up with the cold apple juice—a personal favorite of his as well.
“Well, except Loretta,” said Christopher.
“That’s true,” said Freda, bemused. The head of the Council, Loretta, had been the Council lead for the past 500 years and ruled it with an iron fist. She was not due for re-election until the next millennium had passed. Loretta’s species, the Bernay, had become a powerhouse within the alliance, which gave her considerable more influence than was
usually afforded to the position. Freda and Loretta had crossed swords on many occasions.
Freda focused in on her 16:00 appointment, to review progress on a new attempt at a medical cure for HIV. She couldn’t help but hope this time Dr. Roberts and his team would be successful. They were so close to developing a cure for that disease and a few others. Medical advancements were one of the primary objectives of Section 51 since the turn of the millennium. Freda wanted to drastically improve the health of the species and was trying to guide human scientists down the right path without actually doing the work for them. The genetic crisis worried her greatly, and she hoped the new president would live up to his rhetoric.
“We can always rearrange something. Meetings can always be rearranged,” he said, chuckling. In all his years working with Freda, he could only remember a handful of occasions where she did actually rearrange a meeting. If only some in the outside world had her dedication to work and duty.
“Oh no. That would be most inappropriate. We shall soldier on. I’ve yet to finish the yearly summary for the Council. Once this review is over, we’ll start on that. You know how tiresome they become while waiting for it.”
“How many reports will this be now?” said Christopher.
Freda despised the yearly report on the progress of humanity. She considered it an example of needless bureaucracy, as it was merely a glorified amalgamation of her four quarterly reports.
“Far too many, Christopher. Far too many,” she repeated, finishing her apple juice. “We have more important matters here on Earth that I’d rather be focused on.”
Her eyes darted to the corner of her desk. A hot red light had begun blinking madly, and with the smallest lift of her eyebrow, Christopher was there, pressing his palm resolutely down. The lights in the office dimmed, and the door locked itself. A light blue rectangular projection appeared before Freda with the symbol of the Council, the Milky Way Galaxy, rotating while a connection was made. A balding elderly man appeared, dressed in a slim-fitted purple tunic. He sat on an enormous white executive chair.
The White Death Page 2
