by Mark Wandrey
Declared safe by their ‘expert’, Jeremiah moved in to examine the thing in more detail. It was bigger than he first thought, almost two meters long and maybe less than half that wide at the rear. It wasn’t cylindrical so much as a flattened sphere. The point was indeed partly melted and still stuck in the ground. He poked at some of the ground that had been removed from around it as the men had dug. The dirt had been fused, resembling solidified lava.
“Damn thing came in hot,” he remarked. Without thinking that he was actually doing physical labor, he grabbed a shovel and excavated some more of the nose. It wasn’t burned, but blunted by impact. He put the shovel aside and knelt next to the thing. He bent over and looked at it closely. The thing was made of a seamless metal that cast a yellowish glint in the dying light. There was no sign of any rivets, welds, or heat distortion of carbon scoring. “No effects from reentry,” he said to himself.
“What does that mean, boss?” Alex asked.
“Well, NASA said it came in at more than thirty degrees, going better than 38,000 miles per hour, or about eleven miles per second. Even though it only spent a minute or so in the atmosphere, it would have kicked up unbelievable thermals.”
“Like a meteor burning in,” one of the men said.
“Bingo,” Jeremiah said without looking up. He finished his examination of the exterior then tried to get a look inside. The opening was just too small to admit his head. What he could see looked like it was coated with plastic, or carbon fiber. And just like the exterior, there was no sign of heat damage from the insane reentry. He didn’t want to turn this into a high school ballistics lesson so he kept the part that bothered him the most to himself. It might have hit the atmosphere at more than ten miles per second at an attitude of thirty degrees, but it had hit the ground at less than five degrees.
He ran the numbers in his head. Without slowing, how many gravities would it have to pull to do a twenty-five degree turn from thirty to five degrees, at ten miles per second, and below the radar where it had been last detected? He guesstimated at somewhere around 250 gees.
This is not a meteor or fallen satellite, he decided without comment. Pulling out his smartphone he checked his email. It confirmed his message to Theodore at NASA was sent, but not received. It was sitting in a server somewhere, waiting for his old friend to realize his missing ‘asteroid’ had been found. He chewed his lip and considered for several long minutes, his team standing around and letting him think.
Points, he considered. One, was anything made on Earth capable of what this machine (and it must be a machine, calling it a thing or meteor was a complete waste of energy) had done? No, of course not. Some missiles were capable of upwards of twenty-gee maneuvers, a turn no aircraft could match. This thing pulled at least 250 gees.
Point two, what exactly was the intention of this machine then? He turned and looked back along the crash track. Back towards the beginning of the skid mark, forgotten among the search, lay the crumpled body of the fox.
Everyone was busy examining the crashed machine, using smartphones to take pictures, tapping the metallic structure, their voices excited with supposition on just what it might be.
“Do not upload so much as a selfie next to that thing,” he warned them. One of the men snorted, they were miles from a cell signal out here.
Jeremiah pushed through the press of men and walked back to the little body of the fox, circling it and chewing on a fingernail now. He’d thought it was a fox before, but now he shook his head silently. Its proportions were all wrong, he realized. The torso wasn’t long like a fox, but more squat and fleshy. Its limbs were too long, and was that an extra joint on each leg? He knelt again in the dirt, grimacing as some of the blast glass bit into him through his jeans. Its hands, he thought as he leaned still closer. Its forelimbs didn’t end in paws like of a fox, they were hands! Oh, there were three fingers and what looked like two thumbs, one on either side, and they had too many joints, but they were hands!
“Holy fucking shit,” he barked, stood up and looked from the body back to the machine. No, he corrected himself mentally, to the spaceship. “Fuck me.”
“What’s that, Boss?” asked one of his men.
“Watch out for that dead thing,” another man said, “you don’t want to get maggots and shit all over your clothes.”
Jeremiah looked back at the body, that of an alien spaceship pilot. No, there were no maggots. In fact it had been dead for days, in the Texas hill country April heat, and not only were there no maggots but there no flies buzzing around. He leaned down again, though careful not to touch it, he sniffed deeply. All he smelled was burned wood and scorched earth.
“Alex, give this thing a whiff with your toys, will you?”
The man walked over and glanced at the dead pilot with distaste and used the probe. Don’t you see it? Jeremiah silently admonished the man.
“Some radiation,” Alex pronounced after a moment. “Less than the impact site, but more than that thing. And that same gas trace it can’t make sense out of.”
“Okay,” he said, “lose the gear and get the containment equipment. Have the men finish excavating the shi—” he stopped himself short, “that thing and get in into a carrying rig. Use the straps because it’s bigger than what we were expecting.”
“If we’re using the carry rig why bother with containment?”
“For that,” he said and pointed at the alien pilot.”
“Oh, boss, you’re kidding, right?”
“I am not,” Jeremiah said emphatically. “Furthermore, you will exercise all caution to not damage the body and if you find anything under it, but sure it goes into that containment pod as well.” Then he reconsidered. “On second thought, just get all the dirt under it and put the whole thing in as one piece if you can.”
“That’s a lot of work!” Alex complained.
“Then you best get to work,” Jeremiah said and turned to head back to the helicopter. When he climbed in the ACU was still running, so the interior was cool. He settled into the seat and checked the computer, already synched with his smartphone. No change to the email status. He’d quietly taken more than fifty pictures on his smartphone that he uploaded to a secure drop box on the internet through a satellite connection that none of the men had access to.
When that was complete, he leaned back and sighed. “I’m going to be famous,” he decided. His news feed had restored itself automatically when he’d linked with the satellite signal. He closed his eyes and considered his next move, not noticing the news stories concerning reports of witnesses saying they’d seen convoys and trains loaded with tanks all heading south across Texas.
Chapter 12
Friday, April 20
Lieutenant Andrew Tobin looked up from his pulp sci-fi paperback when the lock on the door clicked and opened. Two MPs stood there and came to cursory attention.
“Lieutenant,” the buck sergeant said and saluted. His last name, Ward, was on his camos.
Andrew came to his feet and returned the salute. “Men,” he said.
“We have orders to transport you stateside,” the sergeant said.
Andrew nodded. “C-130?”
“Commercial,” the corporal named Prescott said with a wink. Andrew let a small grin escape. At least they’d popped for a decent ride. The trip from Saudi in a C-130 would have been long, arduous, and anything but comfortable. Commercial was a bit of luck in one way, a bad sign in another. It meant that a trial was awaiting his immediate return.
“What about Colonel Sommers?” Andrew asked.
“He left yesterday, jump seat in a C-17 heading for Andrews.”
“Ouch,” Andrew said. By now his former CO was standing in front of a board with all their shoulders covered in stars. He doubted he was in for such treatment.
“Come with us, sir?”
Andrew nodded and submitted to the obligatory search by the men, as if he could have materialized a shiv or other weapon in the sterilized cell. The assholes from
NSA had even had his laces confiscated and made sure all the implements with his chow were plastic.
Confident that he hadn’t somehow armed himself, they returned his laces and belt. Andrew quickly redid them and then they handcuffed him, lightly, arms in front in complete violation of regulations. These men knew enough to be giving silent signs of protest as to how he was being treated. He thanked them in his mind when the sergeant draped his off duty jacket over Andrew’s hands, hiding the handcuffs and preserving some of his dignity.
He squinted against the glaring Riyadh sun as he walked outside, his personal effects held in a yellow lined plastic duffel by the corporal. They climbed into a commercial cab and without fanfare were down the road and out of the base.
They went through the special military customs desk, the two MPs giving prisoner transfer papers to the officer in charge who looked from the paperwork to Andrew, back to the paper, then sneered at him. The man, a staff sergeant shook his head and punched keys on his computer. “Take him in for search,” he said and gestured with his head to a room nearby. Andrew sighed, knowing in his gut he was in for a bad time.
“Not necessary, Staff Sergeant,” Sergeant Ward said.
“I don’t agree, Sergeant,” the other man said, his eyes narrowing suspiciously.
“Well, I’m sorry to say you don’t get to agree or disagree. This is our prisoner and unless you are willing to take responsibility of him and explain to my CO why you relieved me of my prisoner, and then needed to take a surprise trip to Texas, you will sign off that this man is secure and let us make our flight that leaves in less than an hour.”
The staff sergeant puffed out his cheeks and glared at all three of them. Corporal Prescott just grinned and shrugged while Ward gave a poker face. “You need to sign off on that,” the staff sergeant said.
“I’m aware of that,” Ward said and produced a pen. Twenty minutes later they were at the gate, Andrew sitting in the plastic upholstered seats with a Coke (courtesy of Sergeant Ward) and waiting for their flight.
“You didn’t need to do that, Sergeant,” Andrew said and gestured with the can back towards the security checkpoint. He imagined the stiff-necked staff sergeant was likely making life miserable for anyone of a lower rank that came through.
“Yes I did, sir,” Ward said. “That guy is an asshole.” He added a wink and Andrew chuckled.
Their flight was still over an hour away. Coach, of course, seventeen hours direct to George Bush International in Houston. At least no tedious transfers. And on an A380 as well! He’d always wanted to fly on one of those beasts. Still, the food in coach would be the typical exotic stuff they tended to serve on Saudi Air. “Say, you guys want a sub or something? On me.” He pointed to his personal effects bag.
“We shouldn’t let you dn that,” Corporal Prescott said then promptly disregarded his own proclamation and opened the bag, fished around and produced Andrew’s wallet. As the man had been rummaging he’d heard the telltale tinkle of a loaded M9 magazine. They’d even put his sidearm in the damned bag. He thought about mentioning it for Stateside customs, then remembered that since he was a high value prisoner, he’d not be going through TSA. Those pussies would shit themselves if they even saw his venerable Beretta.
“What do you want?” he asked them.
“I’ll pass,” Ward said, “I’m looking forward to some native food.”
“I guess I am too,” Prescott said as well. “We’re not usually over here, so it’s still exotic for us.”
“It gets old fast,” Andrew admitted and got up. He was fifty yards away approaching a Subway before he realized they’d just let him walk away. He had his wallet, his Air Force common access card, CAC, in place. He knew there was at least a thousand dollars in it. He could walk out of the terminal and disappear into the sprawling city. And then what? Go native? His Arabic was pathetic, and of all the cities in the Middle East his grand wouldn’t go far in Riyadh. He was sure they’d have frozen his personal accounts by now, too. Standard operating procedure.
Ten minutes later he was back with a foot-long meatball sub, extra sauce and hot peppers, with two bags of good old fashioned Lays barbecue potato chips. Sergeant Ward looked up and nodded. As Andrew sat down and dug into the sub, he wondered if the look on the sergeant’s face at seeing him return was just a little bit surprised.
They boarded shortly after he’d finished the sub. It wasn’t quite as good as he’d hoped. There were some seasonings in there that one wouldn’t find in a stateside sub. Still, it was close and the peppers delighted his tongue long after the Coke was gone.
The A380 was a massive plane, double decker from nose to tail. So big it was serviced with not one jet bridge, but by four, two for each deck. All but the forward quarter of the lower deck was coach. Inside it was as massive as outside, with three isles down the length. Seating in their section was three on each side by the window and two sets of four in the center. They had a window section, seats A, B, and C on Row 62, First Deck. The MPs gave him the window seat without comment, and he knew that was protocol they weren’t willing to ignore. There would be MPs coming on board to meet them in Houston.
They boarded at the same time as First Class for security purposes so they sat and waited for almost an hour as the other three hundred and twenty passengers crowded onboard. Innumerable carry-on bags jostled for space, kids fussed, and people complained. Loading a plane was the same, regardless of the size, destination, or even nationality of the passengers.
As the plane loaded Andrew kept the boredom at bay by observing the operations of the massive plane. There were three galleys on the main deck, one only two rows forward of his seats, and all were bustling with activity. There’s had a service door through which he could see a truck. Men in Arab garb were busily moving crate after crate of food, drinks, ice, and who knew what else. A few passengers were always restless, needing this or that in order to settle in.
In the middle section an enormous fat man in an expensive Italian suit was wedging himself into two seats, the flight attendant was hooking together two belt extenders and even then barely managing to buckle his bulk in place. Further on, a woman with at least six children was trying to corral them, and failing badly. The flight attendants went from securing the postulant travelers to infant pursuit without missing a beat. Amazingly, the doors closed and the preflight announcement began right on time.
The tugs struggled and pushed the A380 back from the gate, the engines started, and they taxied away. Owing to the plane’s huge size, it got special clearance and in only minutes they were roaring down the runway. Andrew caught himself unconsciously going over the procedures the pilot and his FO would be going through.
RPMs at maximum. Flaps verified. Airspeed climbing. Runway clear, airspeed one hundred knots. R1! Airspeed one hundred eighty knots. R2, rotate! The huge plane angled nose up and through the sheer force of will imparted by four Rolls Royce turbojet engines it clawed its way into the afternoon sky. Clear, and gear up. He felt the floor resound as the huge quad sets of rear gear retract and the doors closed. The plane climbed up and away, turned east, and climbed towards home and his fate.
* * *
The huge sprawling chicken farm named Pollo Bueno just south of Mexico City was a now wasteland. Once over two hundred acres including four massive brooding buildings, hatchery, and what was boasted as the largest growout shed in the country now looked like a scene from a war torn Middle Eastern city like Lebanon or Beirut. Bodies of the staff were sprawled in various states of death all over the sprawling property, many straggled out towards the main gates where a pair of M-1 Abrams tanks sat idling along with a squad of Stryker armored cars and dozens of Humvees.
“Looks clear,” the American advisor said from his perch in the command seat in one of the M-1 tanks. His gunner had his head up through the other hatch with binoculars pressed to his eyes surveying the carnage with professional detachment. He suddenly panned and pointed.
“There, sir!”
<
br /> Several sets of eyes followed his arm to reveal a group of maybe five men running low and fast towards the east perimeter fence. The commander whistled to get the attention of the ranking Mexican soldier, a captain in their Federales. The man looked at him and the commander pointed, made a twirling gesture in the air with his index finger, then at the runners again. The Mexican captain nodded and barked orders in Spanish.
Two Humvees detached and raced off at high speed, flying in the air as they vaulted a culvert to pincer the runners. Several of the soldiers in the Humvees fired assault rifles in the air, bringing the runners to a quick stop, hands in the air. The American commander scowled at the unnecessary use of ammo.
He gave orders to his troops working with the Mexicans to see that the farm was cordoned off, then jumped out and down to the ground, grunting at the two-meter fall. His knees weren’t what they used to be. Too long warming a chair with his ass instead of pushing steel like now. He strode to the command truck, a huge trailer towed behind a Humvee and inside. A few minutes later, a squad of Federales escorted the prisoners inside.
His Spanish was for shit, so his translator was waiting to help out.
“Why did the others attack us?” he asked through the translator.
“They were possessed by the devil,” one of them, a man in his sixties with skin so tanned it looked almost black.
“Bullshit,” the commander said, then shook his head so the translator didn’t render that part. “What makes him think that?”
The man went on in rapid fire Spanish for almost a minute before he just seemed to trail off, his mouth falling open and eyes becoming unfocused. “He says they all became sick. The Patron took them back to the bunks and put them to bed. Then, all of a sudden, they came rushing out of the bunkhouse and attacked everyone. They were biting, and clawing at them. Some,” he says with difficulty, “were eating other people.”
“What the fuck,” the commander said. “Are you sure that’s what he said?”
