Event (event group thrillers)

by David L. Golemon

  Jack and Everett nodded, then turned to leave.

  "I'll have to excuse myself, as well," Alice said. "We're having a very small memorial for Gunnery Sergeant Campos. You two have work to do, so you're excused. I'll make your apologies." She too headed for the door.

  Lee called after Collins, "Jack, you have a moment?"

  Jack stopped short and turned to Lee.

  "We have an extensive file on the activities of Mr. Farbeaux. Somewhere there's a link to whom he is working for. If you can't find anything, study him; learn his tactics, because I expect him to show his face right when we don't need him to. That notebook you found tells me he's interested, either for himself or whomever he's working for. As you know, you and Commander Everett will lead the discovery team when the saucer is found. Niles has already ordered all of our security personnel off field duty and we're bringing them home. If the worst happens, we'll need everyone, so plan for it. And you had best start considering what we do if"--Lee looked at Ryan, then back at Collins--"if the animal is loose."

  "Yes, sir," Collins said.

  Lee turned to the young navy flier. "We have a lot to discuss, and I'm feeling a little tired. May I just say, welcome to the Event Group, Lieutenant?"

  "Will I fly here, Senator?"

  "I think we can accommodate that, yes, Lieutenant."

  Ryan took the senator's hand again and gave it a brisk shake. "My days were numbered in Tomcats anyway," he said, just now realizing his naval aviation days were all but over. "If you're offering me a job, I'll take it, sir. Now, what in the hell is the Event Group?"

  PART FOUR

  THE STORM BREAKS

  Run you fathers and pick up your sons, for the night of the Destroyer soon comes.

  -- ANCIENT HEBREW TEXT

  SIXTEEN

  Fort Platt, Arizona

  July 8, 16.55 Hours

  The Arizona State trooper glanced over at his partner, then slowly removed his sunglasses and scanned the area. The heat of the day was settling down as was the sun in the west, its glare still blinding off the mountains. The trooper's right hand went to his service automatic as he stepped over the low wall that outlined the foundation of the old cavalry post. The feel of the steel hand-grip comforted him as he viewed the utter chaos in front of him, and that view made him slowly pull the nine millimeter from its holster. There were at least six motorcycles in different positions, some on their sides and others lying broken against the adobe walls. Their owners were nowhere to be seen.

  The state trooper jumped when the crackle of his cruiser's radio broke the eerie silence that had settled into the old fort. He looked back at the open door of the patrol car, then at his partner, and let out the breath he hadn't noticed he had been holding. He had been by this location a hundred times before today, and the most he had ever had to do was chase kids away on their dirt bikes or have a maintenance crew come out and remove beer bottles and other garbage.

  Tom Dills, his partner, had taken his hat off and was kneeling by one of the overturned bikes. He shook his head in wonder at the scratches in the fuel tank of the big Harley-Davidson. The gouges were long and ragged and penetrated the double-walled tank.

  "What in the hell happened here, George?" he asked his sergeant.

  Trooper George Milner looked from one of the bikes lying on its side to one that was upright, the kickstand still holding it in place.

  "Damn strange," he answered.

  They were both startled by a dust devil that sprang up from the middle of the old foundation; Dills quickly pulled his weapon from its holster. Both men watched as it twirled against a low wall and then broke apart, only to reform on the other sight and move off into the desert. Milner tilted his Stetson back on his head and wondered if his partner was going to try to shoot the dust devil. He noticed another strange sight in a mess full of strangeness and stepped closer to a dirt mound that circled a large hole. It looked as if it had recently been dug. The earth looked freshly turned over, and as he kicked at it, he found only the top few inches had been dried by the desert sun.

  "Think they had trouble with another group of bikers?" Dills asked, standing and holstering his automatic.

  "No other tracks but theirs leading in, Tom." Milner continued to look down. "Come and look here."

  Dills walked over and looked down at the hole. Something wet had dried on the dirt mound and had hardened.

  "What is that, oil?" he asked, looking around nervously.

  "Or blood." Milner holstered his weapon and leaned down on one knee. He reached out and felt the clump of drying sand. He rubbed his fingers together and they produced a bright red smear. "Damn." He stood, absentmindedly rubbing his fingers together harder to rid himself of the blood. "Look around, it's all over the place." He pointed to other areas where blood had been spilled and then left to dry in the sun. "We better call this in." He started to move toward the cruiser.

  "There goes the damn weekend," Dills said with all the bravado he could muster, but he wanted more men out here also.

  Dills looked at a license plate on the rear fender of one of the bikes. "Goddamn people are from California, Sarge, they may have been just stupid enough to walk off into the desert." He grinned, but sobered when he saw his sergeant wasn't in the mood for California jokes, which was just as well because Dills had only said it to keep up the brave front that he surely wasn't feeling at the moment.

  "Notice something else?" Milner asked, coming to a stop just inside the weatherworn adobe walls.

  "What?" Dills looked around nervously.

  "I haven't seen or heard any animal life out here at all, not even the damn crickets."

  The younger trooper spit his toothpick out onto the sand. "Okay, you've succeeded in giving me the creeps here, Sarge. I could have gone all damn day without you pointing out that little matter."

  Both state troopers watched the desert for any kind of movement. Not hearing or seeing any intensified their already hardworking imaginations. They had both heard the stories about this place from that old geezer Gus Tilly down at the Broken Cactus and had laughed with the rest of the bar's regulars when he'd talked about the ghosts that haunted the old fort, laughed to his face even to the point of being hit with a wet dish towel by Julie, the owner. But looking around at the remains of the old adobe fort at this moment in broad daylight, you were able to believe just about anything, including ghosts.

  "Well, we better call this thing... whatever it is, in."

  Milner stepped over the low wall and was ten feet from the cruiser when the dirt and sand erupted in front of him and then sped off in the direction of Dills. He turned quickly and followed the spewing earth until it disappeared beneath the adobe wall, actually exploding a six-foot section of mud brick into the air.

  "Watch it, Tom!" he shouted in fear, his right hand reaching for his gun and pulling it free.

  Dills had his back turned to the patrol car when the ground and old wall behind him flew skyward. He turned quickly, and both troopers watched in stunned silence as dirt, sand, and rock were thrown high into the air, obscuring their view of each other. Milner heard his partner yell something he couldn't understand, and when the sand and dust settled, Trooper Tom Dills had vanished. Only his hat was rolling away from where he had been standing.

  Milner still had his automatic aimed in the direction he had last seen his partner and quickly started to run to where Tom had been just a moment before. He had gone three or four feet when he realized that he needed to call this in fast because no one knew they were out here. He turned and ran for the car, trying to find purchase in the thick sand as his cowboy boots fought for traction.

  The earth exploded into the air again right where Tom had vanished. This time whatever it was moved faster than it had before. The wave crashed into the low wall of broken foundation, again spewing the old mud brick in all directions. Milner screamed and tried to move faster, running for his life while dodging the airborne adobe. He glanced back, then took quick aim and despera
tely fired two shots over his shoulder into the dirt wave as it drew nearer. He saw the bullets strike, but the wave actually accelerated. He turned just in time to avoid crashing into the hood of the cruiser. The driver's side door was open and he half closed it to get around. He threw his large frame into the front seat and reached for the radio, almost shooting himself in the head with his own weapon in his rush. Loud crashing noises came from above as adobe landed on the hood and roof of the cruiser.

  "This is Unit Thirty, Unit Thirty, goddammit!" he screamed into the microphone, but there was nothing but static in return. He was about to repeat his frantic call for help when more sand and dirt were thrown onto the hood and windshield of the cruiser.

  Outside the car, dirt was being thrown up around the vehicle in an ever-accelerating circle. First it was three feet in diameter from the car, then five, then six. The area around the large cruiser was obscured by swirling dust as Milner tried in vain to see what was happening. The car shook from side to side, lifting and then dropping back on its springs. The microphone fell from his hand as he tried to steady himself, grabbing at the seat belt and dashboard simultaneously. He heard a sudden wrenching noise as the cruiser dropped down into the ground. As he looked out the side window, he saw through the swirls of dirt and flying rocks that the patrol car had sunk about four feet into the earth. He screamed again and fumbled for the car radio, finally grabbing the microphone, trying desperately to hit the transmit button. Suddenly he and the cruiser were tossed to the right violently. The driver's-side door slammed shut hard enough to send a crack cascading through the glass. The closed door cut off most of the noise from outside. As the dust settled in the car, he felt the cruiser sink even farther into the ground. Soon the dirt and rocks covered the windows and he knew he had been buried alive. Again he tried to transmit, but again the microphone was knocked from his trembling fingers. In his haste to grab the elusive mike, he hit the overhead red-and-blues and they came on.

  Darkness filled the interior of the patrol car as a final crashing movement bounced him deeper into his seat, then suddenly shot him straight up, smashing his head against the roof of the car. Blood flowed from the crown of his scalp and lower lip as the vehicle finally settled. He fumbled for the dome light, and finally his shaking fingers found the switch. He pulled and turned on the headlights, then twisted the knob to the right and the interior was filled with light. He raised a hand to his head and it came away red with blood. Then he looked around himself and took stock of his injuries. That's when he noticed he could see something outside the car. The headlights were cutting through the darkness and bouncing back at him through the swirling dust. The strobe effect of the overheads flashing against rock and dirt made the whole seem as if it were some strange light show. The swirling dust still obscured the light from the holes opening far above him.

  He realized he wasn't buried, but had fallen through into some kind of shaft or tunnel, maybe a cave of some sort. He reached for the heavy-duty flashlight that was clipped under the dashboard and brought it up and clicked it on. He aimed both the light and revolver outside the front window. The dust still eddied and swirled as the light cut a swath through the semidarkness.

  "What the hell happened?" he asked himself, his voice sounding distant and muffled in the stuffiness of the car. He jumped and voiced a yelp when rocks and dirt thumped down on the roof of the car from above.

  He knew he couldn't have fallen that far, or there would be more damage to him and the cruiser, so maybe he could stand on the roof and pull himself up to the surface. He glanced up through the window at the fading sunlight shining in through the thirty-five-foot sinkhole he had fallen into.

  "Doesn't look that far," he mumbled.

  He shone the light against the wall nearest him. From what he could tell, it looked smooth, almost as if some giant bit had drilled it out, or as if it were made of black concrete that had been trowel-smoothed to a shiny finish. He saw the old roots of long-dead trees and bushes buried into the semigleaming surface, reaching through like ancient skeletal arms and hands. Milner was just getting ready to crack his door when a shadow fell between the light and the wall.

  His eyes tried to adjust to the sudden movement and darkness beyond and see what had caused the distinct change that had come into the strange tunnel. Then he screamed as something crashed into the dirt-covered windshield, sending a spiderweb of cracks through the safety glass. He screamed again, the yell bouncing off the glass and reverberating through the car.

  Dills's body lay torn and bloody and looked as if something had taken out a huge bite between his head and left breast, as the light fell on the man's glazed, dirt-filled eyes.

  Milner screamed again while he retrieved his gun and forced the door open and started to scramble from the car.

  The beast rose from the cool earth under the patrol car and rolled the cruiser over as the state trooper jumped clear. He heard the metal crunching as it was tossed over and over as something attacked it. The overhead lights went out and the tunnel was thrown into utter darkness save for the dust-diffused sunlight coming through the tunnel roof. Now, in the swaying beam of his flashlight, Milner saw massive, swinging arms crashing into the underside of the cruiser again and again. The attacker shifted its angle; it walked slowly around the upturned cruiser, alternately attacking and then falling back and then circling again. Milner started backing away, using his heels to dig into the earth as he crab-walked backward, using his elbows and heels, his breath coming in short, terrified gasps.

  The animal turned at the sound. The man saw the evil-looking eyes fall on him. It was a smooth, fluid motion, the air parting with a loud swish as it swung its elongated arms and, to the trooper's horror, its long, spiky tail.

  Milner tried to bring his left hand up and fire his weapon, but it had caught under his right leg in his effort to back away. The animal stood before the lone trooper and just stared at him. It took a step forward, then another, its hind claws sinking deeply into the dark earth, the massive tail swishing the air behind it. Then a blackened tongue rolled from its mouth and the beast roared, shaking its head, sending out the armored plates layered on its thick neck.

  On the surface of the desert above, a hawk swept low across the hardpan and lit for a moment at the mouth of the large hole the cruiser had fallen through. When the triumphant scream of the animal sounded, followed by gunfire, the screaming of Arizona State Trooper Milner began. The small bird of prey cocked its head and then quickly flew away, leaving the desert motionless once again.

  Below the surface of Fort Platt, the Destroyer fed.

  SEVENTEEN

  Chato's Crawl, Arizona, Twenty Miles East of Apache Junction

  July 8,19.00 Hours

  The dining room window of his mother's bar and grill afforded Billy Dawes a view of the piece of desert entrapped in the large valley, and for the first time in his young life the view didn't hold imaginings of adventurous things. It now seemed to be holding a dark secret that was hidden from him and those around him. He couldn't put his finger on it, but the world out there was different somehow and it made him wish they lived where there was no desert, valley, or stone mountains.

  As he turned from the window, he saw two tourists, a man with plaid shorts and black socks, and another, who had to be his wife, with a sunburned face. Both were sitting at the bar eating hamburgers and drinking Cokes; they had spent the last half an hour arguing over the map they had just purchased from Phil's Texaco. There was also Tony Amos, trying his best to stay on one of the high barstools and not succeeding well at all; the beer glass he had in front of him had been emptied twenty minutes before. Then there was Billy's mother. She was wiping water rings off the bar with a dish towel as she looked his way and smiled.

  Julie Dawes had purchased the bar a year after the death of Billy's father in a mining accident. Billy was proud of his mom, the way she handled the bar and grill and the constant fending off of advances by the miners and construction workers who found their
way into the Broken Cactus. She was still pretty at age thirty-eight.

  She gave him a wink as he walked back behind the bar and started cutting limes and lemons for tonight's run.

  She walked up behind him, lightly throwing the bar towel over her shoulder. "Why don't you go riding for a while before it gets too dark, baby? I'll do that."

  Billy cut the lime on the cutting board into four wedges and sighed.

  "Gus is in the mountains," he answered, hoping she didn't see the worry on his face as he didn't want to answer any questions about how he was feeling about the desert.

  Julie raised her left eyebrow. "That's never stopped you before. I thought you liked it out there."

  Billy set the knife down and looked through the large plate-glass window again. He wiped the acidic juice from the fruit on the apron he had tied around his waist, then brushed back some of his brown hair as it fell across his forehead.

  "I don't want to go out there today." He hesitated. "I... I think I'll wait until Gus gets back."

  Julie didn't really like Billy's only having one friend. And that friend being Gus Tilly, who was old enough to be his great-grandfather, made it worse. Oh, she liked the old man well enough, but she thought it couldn't be too healthy for Billy to be around Gus only. For that very reason she was thinking of selling the Broken Cactus and moving back to the Phoenix area. The boy needed kids his own age.

  "What's wrong with you, kiddo?" she asked.

  Billy turned and faced his mother, then glanced at the two tourists who had driven up in one of those battleship-sized Winnebagos. They were busy looking at a map, arguing about whether they wanted to drive to the San Carlos Reservation or move on to New Mexico and Carlsbad Caverns, and weren't listening, but he lowered his voice anyway.