Divine Destruction (The Return of Divinity Book 1)

by Suggs, Lester

  Braden watched the technicians. They had been flown in from God knew where and had arrived at various intervals throughout the night. The techs were coordinating data between Air Mobility Command, Catalina Sky Survey, and the PA Air National Guard. On many of the monitors the technicians reviewed, sorted, and slaved over image data straight from cameras and telescopes locked onto the strange object, X2018d. He had four F22 Raptors on his deck, two fueled, armed and sitting on the end of the runway 4 East, and two in similar kit waiting outside their temporary hanger.

  By Lt. Col. Braden’s side was Flight Officer Major Dean Sutton. Sutton had been Braden’s Executive Office for two years now and had become Braden’s most competent flight officer. The two men, surrounded by technicians and equipment neither knew, caught the two glancing at each other with ‘Pinch me, where the fuck am I?’ faces. There were two communications channels open. One was a conference call to a NASA senior technician from California. The other was a coded direct line from the Pentagon. That line was being used by a reporting Director to the White House, Frank Lovas. Braden couldn’t give a pinch of monkey shit about the NASA technician but the Director made Braden’s cheeks pucker.

  After a long silence, Lt. Col. Braden heard a voice come over the conference call. “Object is entering lower atmosphere over West Virginia,” said a member of NASA, whose name Braden already forgot.

  “Are the F16's up?,” asked Director Frank Lovas over the intercom.

  “Yes above Morgantown, West Virginia at 53,000 feet and holding, heading due south,” Flight Officer Sutton replied.

  “Matt, current speed of object?” Frank’s question passed over the speaker phone.

  “Just below 2,000 nauts, Frank,” the NASA geek's response came after a few second’s delay. Lt. Col. Braden caught the NASA senior tech’s name and made an effort to remember it was “Matt.”

  “Lieutenant Colonel Braden, I suggest you turn those birds north. The object will pass over West Virginia in nine minutes,” Director Lovas spoke again over the table-top speakerphone.

  “I agree, sir,” Braden said under his breath. He nodded to his flight officer.

  “Swallows Two, Swallows Two,” Sutton said into his headset.

  “Swallows Two,” came the reply from the overhead speakers.

  “Swallows Two, change heading to zero zero general and increase speed to six-hundred.” Braden nodded his approval of Sutton's call.

  “Heading zero zero, speed to six-hundred,” crackled over the speakers.

  “Banking left,” the flight leader’s voice said. The sound seemed like a speaker within a speaker.

  “Aye - left,” said the wingman whose voice was repeated through the leader’s cockpit.

  “Give me that trajectory on the scale,” ordered Lt. Col. Braden.

  “On the large, sir,” One of the techs said pointing at the largest monitor on the command unit.

  Braden and Sutton both eyed the orange icon on the screen as it was passing, left to right, across a graph of green lines layered over an elevational cross section of West Virginia. Mountains peaked across the bottom of the scale indicating the varying elevations which were directly under the object's flight path. Far to the right of the graph were two purple icons denoting the pair of PA Air National Guard F16's.

  Over the next few minutes Braden and Sutton conveyed orders lining up the pair of F16s with the incoming X2018d.

  “This won't take long,” Sutton said to Braden.

  “Lieutenant Colonel, what was that?” Frank asked.

  Braden squared his shoulders to the phone.

  “Object will catch the birds in a few minutes, Director,” he said in his best military tone. “We should have visual soon.” Braden checked the clock, 3:38 p.m. EST.

  Three minutes had passed in silence when Braden looked over at Sutton.

  “The object should be within visual range,” Braden said. He glanced back at the monitor. The graph had the object's lead indicator well out in front of the F16 icons now.

  "Check your six Swallows Two,” Sutton said into his headset. “The object should be overtaking you now.”

  "We have visual on a blue ball,” the lead pilot said.

  “Confirmed,” echoed his wingman.

  Sutton barked rapid orders, “Swallows Two, split your formation. Allow the object to come between you. I want detail observation. Attempt to shadow object, best speed and course.”

  “Object is down to five hundred slowly falling below your elevation,” Matt said from the speakerphone.

  “Radar,” Lt. Col. Braden demanded.

  There was a long pause as his technicians made busy, banging out commands on keyboards and throwing switches.

  “No radar signature, sir.”

  Braden approached the pod of technicians and looked at the monitors. “Are these systems on?”

  “Yes sir,” a quartet of defensive affirmations rang out.

  A low chuckle rumbled from the speakerphone. “No radar, Lieutenant Colonel, never have been able to paint it with radar since we discovered it in space,” Lovas said.

  Braden was alarmed by this new information. He snapped his head around to Sutton and made a circular horizontal spin with his right hand and index finger.

  Sutton switched headset channels on his belt. “Launch Raptor One and Two,” he said into the headset.

  An immediate whine blended seamlessly into a whoosh of air. The sound's volume grew immediately louder. In two seconds a roar came from outside the hanger as the two F22s screamed down the runway and away from the command hanger. Braden saw the other two F22 pilots stand from their chairs and walk toward their aircraft.

  “Put a tanker up out of Pittsburgh, have it circle northwest,” Braden said pointing at Sutton.

  “Sir!”Sutton acknowledged.

  “Command, this is Swallows Two,” cracked over the speakers.

  Sutton switched back to the primary channel.

  “This is command,” Sutton replied.

  "We are astride the object, speed four-twenty, heading eight degrees true,” the pilot said. But from within his cockpit a long “Hoooooly shit” came over the speakers, too, from the wingman.

  Sutton barked, “Swallows Two, report!”

  "Sir, we see a large humanoid shape, flying prone, approximately fifteen meters in length, made of sparkling blue light, his face forward. From the waist down it looks like a gigantic blue propane torch. It’s the god-damnedest thing I've ever seen.”

  Braden watched as the technicians traded smirking glances. He could feel Sutton’s eyes on him. The speakerphone was silent. “I understand that a pee test will be required after this mission,” the speaker cracked. “But I stand by what I said.”

  Sound still crackled over the open mic. “It’s looking at you, Cue Ball,” the pilot said, giving his wingman’s call sign.

  “I see that, Chuckers. Creepy,” the wingman replied.

  A ragged crunch came over the line, and the pilot began screaming.”

  “Cue Ball's Falcon just broke in half, I'm breaking off for an offensive — run — I —” Over the speakers came sounds of focused breathing mixed with muttered curses. Occasional engine roars drowned out all other sounds.

  Emergency personnel on the mobile command unit began screaming orders into their headsets. Braden watched each to ensure the proper procedures were being followed. Inside, he ached. Braden had shared beers with these two pilots two weeks ago.

  “Swallow Two?”

  “Evading….evading….Oh god!”

  Screams of torn metal and a crush of wind came over the speakers before they went silent.

  Lt. Col. Braden, sweat bleeding out onto his face, nodded calmly to Commander Sutton. “Launch the second pair of Raptors.”

  Sutton called for the Swallows over and over. There came no reply.

  Clean Before Death

  Griffin stalked around his house. He felt helpless but not afraid. As he stomped through his house he flexed his hands back and fo
rth making fists. Occasionally, a knuckle popped. He was over the self guilt of hallucination now. Seeing the woman, he knew none of the hallucinations were in his mind. Griffin could not prove his visions were real, of course. But, somehow he knew he wasn’t crazy. He also realized that woman was in the same boat. The looks on her face and the questions the woman asked, and the way she behaved clearly demonstrated her mind sat on the edge of questioning too. Just like Griffin had been days ago.

  After the adrenaline ran its course, Griffin sat motionless in his favorite old chair, an arm chair purchased from Ethan Allen with a matching ottoman. It was a tight plaid of muted earth tones. From a distance it looked beige. Griffin used to enjoy it back when he watched TV, the arms at a perfect height to allow him to slouch down in zombie viewer position. Now he enjoyed it for the practicality of being in his living room and not costing him a cent.

  Griffin spent the next twenty minutes pondering his recent past, trying to recall any odd occurrence. A bizarre sentence whispered by a passerby. Any trigger that Griffin could associate from any given “then” to “now.” There was that sensation after he helped the old woman cross 9th Street on Penn Avenue. But that experience had been overshadowed by the “encounters” with the stranger. He tried to recall the words the woman said in thanks, but couldn't. Griffin moved onto any significant news he had heard tying him to these extraordinary events. Even if everyone else around him was going on with life as normal, his world was changing in most peculiar ways.

  Griffin rose and began shutting the house down for the night. It was very late. 3:02 a.m. late. He made busy in the kitchen, methodically working through the dirty dishes. Unloading and reloading the dishwasher. Setting the cycle for a long and intense cleaning. Next, Griffin cleaned off the counter tops and read the piled up mail. He went after the broom with earnest, sweeping then mopping his floor.

  Finally, Griffin caught on to his own behavior. “Why in Cheesus am I cleaning my kitchen?!” he said aloud. He added in his mind, “I’m on personal leave. This is supposed to be when my kitchen gets dirty.” Quickly walking around the house and killing the lights, locking doors, ensuring appliances were off, Griffin strode to his bedroom and prepared for bed. 3:34 a.m. Griffin noted on the alarm clock. His lights were off. The world was quiet. He heard and felt nothing. He was exhausted. This is when Griffin found peace. Emptiness. Harmony. He sat on the end of his bed and allowed his mind to work. He smiled. His mind's eye was back on the beach. The complete and utter quiet, a vacuum of sound. The perfect blue sky. The breeze. He was holding the hoop of figurines in his hands again, still not understanding their meaning. But that was fine. All was good. He saw the woman from the strange place, and in his memory, they both smiled. Griffin liked her smile. He wanted to comfort her. Guard against the world for her. He smiled again and gave into the mystery of it all.

  Griffin blew out a slow breath, allowing calm to penetrate his core. It felt good. For the first time in weeks, Griffin began to feel whole. Secure. He felt the blue cotton roughness of the bed spread. His feet and toes swam in the deep pile rug. After his whirlwind of chores, the rug was clean and inviting. For some unknown reason, Griffin recalled bringing this rug home. He allowed himself this tangent of thought. He recalled moving the furniture and carefully placing the large burgundy rectangle. The magic of that recall came back to him. Griffin felt he could reach out and acquaint himself with any moment in his past. He found he could recall any memory and relive it in high quality. The series of encounters had tapped into Griffin. Something had been released. Unlocked. Charged a new. His mind could now swim through time.

  He drifted back when he was a child. Walking to school one morning he had taken a path through an undeveloped area instead of using the street’s sidewalk. The woods there were not a mature forest. High undergrowth and small trees made up three blocks separating his neighborhood and the school. Halfway through the first block Griffin heard his name called out in a whisper. He had stopped and looked in all directions for a full minute. No one was there. The whisper had come from nowhere and everywhere. The voice wasn’t female or male, young or old. Recalling the memory gave Griffin chills.

  His mind moved further back into the past. Griffin was ten years old and had witnessed a argument between his parents. That night he had had a memorable nightmare. In his memory, Griffin was standing in the living room of his parent’s home. His father was speaking in loud direct tones from the hallway. Father strode quickly into the living room straight toward Griffin. Griffin flinched, knowing he was in trouble. From behind him came two large hands. These hands were too large to be from a normal human. The hands wrapped around Griffin’s torso and pulled him through a veil. It was if the air itself opened up and pulled Griffin into nothingness. As he passed through the veil color ended and everything was in black and white. Griffin saw his father’s face. He was astonished. His son had vanished before his eyes.

  He stopped his mind from going further. These memories were disturbing and frightening. He didn’t want to relive his painful childhood.

  Then, Griffin had a strange feeling. He wasn’t alone in his room.

  The View

  Charles “Chuckers” Akers was so curious he almost couldn’t control himself. He and his wingman, William "Cue Ball" Ruger, had been positioning their F16’s via command for thirty minutes. Not given a target or a reason for the high-altitude tour of southern West Virginia was annoying; however, Captain Akers knew the Air Guard didn’t waist good jet fuel. There was a reason for being up here. “Chuckers, word?” Cue Ball asked over plane to plane comms.

  “No, Cue Ball, I’ve got nothing, and don’t ask me again,” Captain Akers retorted. “You’re like my kids.”

  After a long pause, “Are we there yet?” crackled over the local comms. Chuckers couldn’t help but laugh and look over to Cue Ball in what he imagined was both hands up in an exaggerated shrug. Unfortunately, the darkness of 3:20 a.m. was complete and all that he could seen were a few running lights on the edges of the even darker matte blackness that made up his wingman’s F16.

  Captain Akers was glad to have refueled at their current altitude of 53,000 feet. The high altitude offered little resistance. Fuel would last much longer here, and the thought of another night refueling made Chuckers re-adjust his posture in his cramped cocoon of instruments. There was nothing, nothing fun about that twenty minutes of nerve-racking precision flying.

  “Swallows Two, Swallows Two,” broke over comms, startling Captain Akers.

  “Swallows Two,” Akers said.

  “Swallows Two, change heading to zero zero general and increase speed to six-hundred.”

  It was a commander Akers had never worked with before tonight. He thought he knew the radio voice of every commander in their wing. After a second thought Akers knew who he was wasn’t important. The briefing was clear: do as he and his wingman were told. No questions. No attitude. No chatter. This kind of mission was the reason Captain Akers joined the Air Guard after two stints with the Air Force. He hadn’t found an occupation or hobby that could match this moment. The rush was beyond intoxicating. But the reason for being up here hadn’t unfolded, and there were no clues so far.

  “Heading zero zero, speed to six-hundred,” Captain Akers repeated. "Banking left.” Chuckers and Cue Ball executed a slow turn.

  “Aye - left,” replied Cue Ball in his pirate voice.

  The pair increased speed as ordered. The radio crackled again. Akers was expecting command, but it was Cue Ball instead.

  “Did we pass whatever we are chasing, and were going back to intercept?” he asked.

  “Unclear,” Akers replied, choosing a word from the military dictionary of short, sarcastic words.

  A full minute of silence dragged by.

  “Swallows Two.” It was command again.

  “Swallows Two,” Captain Akers replied, eager like a benched quarterback given another chance during a homecoming nail-biter.

  “Begin elevation change, minus
twelve,” command ordered.

  “Down minus twelve,” Akers repeated in a razor-focused tone.

  “Fascinating,” Cue Ball added in his best Science Officer Spock voice.

  “Lower speed to four-fifty,” command said.

  “Four-fifty,” Akers replied. They were obviously being lead and curiosity was about to make his head explode.

  “The Klingons may be cloaked. I recommend we proceed with caution, Captain,” Cue Ball added. Akers shook his head and let out a warm chuckle like sunshine and golden retrievers. This laugh was the source of his call sign back in flight school. Akers knew it would make his wingman happy as shit to hear him laugh over comms.

  “Check your six, Swallows Two,” Akers heard over command from the second officer. He instinctively looked over his left shoulder behind his wingman. The recent humor gone now.

  “This is fucked up,” Cue Ball said, finally returning to his own voice. Pilots don’t like objects coming up their tail pipe. Akers craned further around in his cockpit, scanning the stars for anything distinctive, anything out of place.

  “Uh,” Cue Ball squawked, “What the fuck is that?” And then Akers saw it too. A bright blue ball had just fallen below the horizon of stars. It was unmoving against the thickening atmosphere. Akers could make out some color flickering coming from behind the object giving it a more three-dimensional shape.

  "We have visual on a blue ball,” Akers trailed off his words into the radio. His mouth fell open and he felt his eyebrows hit their stops. He barely heard his wingman.