"Maybe the guy isn't paid in money, maybe he's paid some other way," Robbins said as he looked at Jack and the others.
"You mean like artifacts and antiquities?" Everett asked.
"Why not? It's the hot investment of the last hundred years, safer than cash and easier to get rid of... or to hide," the doctor said. "Plus it would explain his high interest in our Group."
"Okay, where does that leave us?" Jack asked.
"Nowhere. We just may have figured out that however he's paid, we won't be able to trace it back to those people who are rewarding him with these items," Ryan answered.
Jack stood and stretched, then turned and walked to the glass wall and looked in at the now still robotic loading system that fed programs into Europa.
"Doc," Jack said while he was still looking at the interior of the clean room, "can you bring up his military record again and see if he had any service time at an embassy or consulate in the States?"
"Yes, I think we still have it out, let me see." Robbins typed in a command. "Yeah, the program's still up.
"Europa," Jack said.
Yes, Major Collins. The screen flashed the words in blue script.
"File, Farbeaux, Henri, Colonel. Question, any correlation between his duties in the French army and visits or duty in the United States?" Jack looked at the others, who were watching the screen.
The screen went blank.
"That would be too easy, Jack," Everett said.
"Maybe, but it's worth a try." Robbins looked at Everett. "I think the major may have asked something we just assumed would be covered up, but something like that could easily be overlooked."
The screen flashed back to life.
Five clandestine visits, 2002-2005. Discovered by FBI file examination of United States Customs videotape. One military assignment February-December 1996, Europa typed out in blue letters.
"I'll be damned," Carl said as he leaned over the desk and wrote down the dates.
"Question. Duties involved with military assignment in 1996?" Jack asked before Robbins could.
Military Attache, French Embassy, Washington, D.C., then assigned to French Consulate, New York, New York, September-November 1996.
"Question. Available diplomatic or public record photographs or reports filed by Colonel Farbeaux while conducting diplomatic business in Washington and New York?" Dr. Robbins asked.
Suddenly the robotic loading system sprang to life behind the glass, and the arms loaded at least eight new programs in a matter of a few seconds that would dig into every newspaper account, pilfered report, or tapped phone call the U.S. government had recorded on the Frenchman.
The screen went blank and then almost as fast came back on.
All NSA reports classified security sensitive and destroyed. All CIA reports classified security sensitive and destroyed.
"Now that's covering your tracks. Think he had friends somewhere?" Robbins asked, looking at the military men around him.
Jack looked at the screen but remained silent. The loading system placed one more program, then came to a stop.
Several pictures started to show up on the large screen. They looked as if they had mostly been gleaned from newspapers and looked to be coverage of the same event. They were pictures of Farbeaux, not dressed in a military uniform but in a tuxedo, but he was obviously not the subject of the photographer's lens. In almost every picture there was a dark-haired man, smiling almost arrogantly into the cameras lens; the Frenchman was always nearby.
Coverage is copyrighted material of the Washington Post.
"Question. Subject matter of the article?" Jack asked Europa.
Reception for the newly installed Centaurus Corporation CEO, in thanks for two-hundred-million-dollar endowment for the arts in Washington, D.C.
"Question. Name of Centaurus Corporation CEO, please?" Robbins jumped in.
Charles Phillip Hendrix II, Europa answered.
Jack was thinking back to the story the senator had told of the crash in 1947 in Roswell.
"Europa, any information on the Genesis Group, and what is the business of the Centaurus Corporation?" Jack asked.
Genesis Group, Strategic Military and Corporate Technologies Advisory Group to the United States Intelligence Community, United States Armed Forces. Centaurus Corporation, Advanced Electronics and Optics, Divisions in Aerospace, Communications, Genetics, and Optics. Current contractual obligations with NASA, Lockheed Martin, Boeing, Jet Propulsion Laboratory, Bell Laboratories--
"Europa, date of the founding of Centaurus Corporation?" Jack asked, interrupting the lengthy response of the computer.
Corporate papers filed in New York, New York, February 3, 1948.
"With contracts with companies like that, why haven't we ever heard about Centaurus? And I've never heard of a think tank called Genesis," Robbins said aloud.
"I don't know why--," Jack started to say.
"Europa, is there any listing for board of directors, Centaurus Corporation?" Everett asked.
The monitor cleared all the previous answers from the screen, and the system started reacting to the question, flashing newspaper filings and corporate reports.
No information filed publicly on sixteen-member board of directors, Centaurus Corporation.
"We need access to the Centaurus mainframe. Think you can do it, Doc?" Jack asked.
"I think she can, yes," Robbins answered.
"Hurry, Doc, things are moving too fast around us and we're running out of time, we need to catch up. I think the senator's right, I'm getting bad vibes about this encounter, and now we have these bastards to contend with."
"Europa, access Centaurus database," Robbins ordered.
Accessing, she said, then the screen went blank. Unable to comply. Security system is unknown at this time, Centaurus mainframe inaccessible.
"Incredible," Robbins said. "Europa, access Genesis Group, either mainframe or personal computer."
Accessing, Europa said, and then the screen suddenly came alive.
"Excellent, they have all that security for the corporate end, but they either didn't care or omitted the same standards for their think tank," Robbins said.
Ten personal hard drives found.
"Access Hendrix, Charles," Jack asked.
Hendrix, Charles. Program headings:
Defense at Sea.
Air Defense.
Subsurface--Offensive.
Viable Hybrid Aluminum.
Biowarfare--Altered Human Species.
Optical Warfare--Particle Simulations.
Wormhole--Opening the Gate--1947.
International Space Station Defense Platform.
Plastic Aluminum Composite Armor Pla--
"Stop!" Jack said, making the others jump. "Access Wormhole Program." He leaned over and watched the screen intently. "Synopsis of study?"
Evidence of wormhole travel, Southern Hemispheric Gate. Study indicates all UFO activity originates at 90 degrees south, 0.00 degrees east. Project Genesis confirms craft of same type as 1947 Incident. Photographic proof indicates use of wormhole corridor by enemy for planetary access, project code-named Crossroads. Air Defense Study, offensive operations by United States against attacking force.
"Good God, the bastards found out how they're getting here," Jack said. "They're actually formulating a plan for attacking them at this gate they've discovered."
"Just where in the hell are these coordinates?" Everett asked. "They sound familiar."
Robbins asked, "Europa, identify coordinates ninety degrees south, zero degrees east as noted in study file Crossroads."
Antarctica, polar south.
"The south pole," Ryan said.
"I guess that's why both incidents have them arriving from the south on the same track," Carl said, looking at Jack.
Collins patted the back of Dr. Robbins and nodded. "Make this program secure, Doc."
"Thank you, Europa, this search program is now coded level one security," Robbins said aloud, "dire
ctor and his advisory staff Eyes Only. Personnel cleared for further research on"--Robbins looked up at Jack and he gestured at the three of them--"Genesis and Centaurus file are presently logged on to Europa, is this understood?"
File, new--coded level one, Eyes Only: Director Compton, Senior Adviser G. Lee, Special Assistant A. Hamilton; file research security clearance: Robbins, Everett, Ryan, and Collins.
"What do we do about this Centaurus Corporation?" Carl asked.
"I don't know yet, I've got to think. You guys get me some stills of that get-together in Washington and have them blown up and enhanced. I need clear shots of Hendrix," Jack said, then he used his key card to exit the clean room.
Ten Miles South of Chatos Crawl, Arizona
July 8, 21.30 Hours
The Talkhan sat aboveground and seemed to study the desert surrounding its still form. There was no movement. The scurrying of the smaller animals had ceased and now they either sat still or had fled before the onslaught of slaughter. The beast was storing food, and her instincts dictated she needed even more. Every pore of its alien skin pulled in the aroma of protein near and far.
It moved its tail with a swish of air as it brought the stinger down with a thousand pounds of pressure to impact the cooling desert sand. It used the large stinger and flipped the now wet, cooling particles up and onto its distended belly, then repeated the motion, tossing venom-soaked dirt and sand into the still night air and allowing the cool soil to regulate its 180-degree skin and armor. The small movements inside her belly and increasing core temperature were indications that the nesting cycle would soon begin.
The offspring that were even now hatching inside her distended abdomen were developing quickly and were consuming the nutrients almost as fast as she could supply them. As studied by those of Matchstick's kind, its young, when born, would have abilities far beyond those of the mother.
The beast looked to the dark night sky. The bright, illuminated green eyes blinked as the moon was in its full bloom. The mandibles clicked together once, then the tail was brought up and the beast groomed the barbed tip. It licked some of the venom from its stinger, then used that substance to groom the thirty bubbled and spiky-haired parts of its long tail.
Then it suddenly stopped. The tail went into the air and it froze. Small openings in the creature's skin opened and closed. The feathered armor plates on its neck expanded out away from its body. It had caught a scent. The green eyes narrowed, and that brought the thick, hairlike brows to points resembling sharp horns. Three-quarters of the 22 million pores on its body needed for the intake of chemicals from the air closed down completely. It settled to no more than an intake of the oxygen environment every five minutes. Suddenly it sprang from its back and stood to its full height of over eighteen feet and then turned its monstrous head, first left, then right, sending its roosterlike neck armor swinging outward with the force of its action. The thickly matted and coarse hair on its body stood up, sensing all that was being transmitted on the night air. The billions of hollow hairs twitched and moved, creating a rippling effect that made its skin shimmer in the moonlight.
Suddenly the animal engaged its strong hind legs and ran six feet across the desert hardpan, all the while emitting a high-pitched buzzing from its palate. The unheard sound softened the alien soil, making it lazily bubble, once again changing the atomic structure of the earth. Then it sprang into the air fifteen feet, closing its neck armor, making itself streamlined, and hit the sand and small rocks claws first, burrowing into the ground as easily as a man diving into water.
In the distance, unknowing, the prey continued on their way. The Destroyer was on the hunt and their fate was sealed.
The machinations of most American police agencies were slow at most times, but when it came to two of their own officers who were missing, the wheels and pulleys seemed to be a little better greased than usual. When Dills and Milner hadn't shown up at shift's end, the machinery started moving. All state and local agencies were notified, and the hunt for the troopers had been on officially since sundown.
The Arizona State police car was parked behind the Winnebago camper as the two troopers assisted the driver in changing a tire. They were pulled onto the side of state road 88. Ed Wasser held the flashlight while his partner, Jerry Dills, Trooper Tom Dills's brother, waited impatiently beside him.
Jerry didn't care for the fact that they were making this courtesy stop in the first place when they should be out looking for his older brother. The tourist obviously had things under control, Dills thought, except for his wife, who would every once in a while lean over and say, "I told you so."
The trooper looked around and stomped his black boot on the macadam. It wasn't like Milner and his brother Tom to not check in upon shift's end and notify base if they were going to extend their patrol. That and the fact that they had tried for hours to raise them on the radio told him Tom and his partner were in trouble somewhere out in the desert. Tom had been on the state payroll three years longer than Jerry, but that didn't mean he had any more sense than Jerry did. At least Jerry knew George Milner to be a tough man in a pinch who would look out for Tom if it was at all humanly possible.
Jerry turned suddenly as the radio screeched and hissed their call sign. He quickly made his way from the camper and trotted to the cruiser. He was gone only a few minutes when he called, half in and half out of the car, "Hey, Ed, we have a call, code five down on Riley Road."
Wasser said something to the man changing the tire and turned away. He trotted back to the car and jumped in the driver's side. Jerry looked at his partner, just grateful to be moving again as every call could have Tom's life at stake. You just never knew out here. The desert was a killing place for even those who knew it well.
"Riley Road is right up here," Wasser said, taking the cruiser up to sixty, flipping on the overhead red-and-blues. "Hell, the only thing up there is Thomas Tahchako's ranch."
"That's what I figure too. There's the road right here." Jerry pointed to the right. "If I remember right, it's all the way down and just below the foothills."
"Right." Wasser swerved the patrol car onto the small sidetrack.
The washboard road played hell with the suspension on the state car. Jerry tightened his seat belt and hung on, using his right hand on the windowsill to brace himself as the bumping became worse. The high beams picked out several jackrabbits dashing not from but toward the car. Dills turned to look behind them in the road, wanting to say something about the bizarre scene, but staying quiet as his partner was concentrating on the rough road. The red taillights and dust made it impossible to see, but Dills thought he saw a few more jackrabbits running across the road after the cruiser had sped past. This time he had to say something. "Did you see that?" he asked, looking at his partner.
"What--oh, shit!" Wasser yelled, as he pulled the wheel to the right and narrowly avoided one of Tahchako's cows as it ran down the middle of the road.
"What in the hell is going on, a rabbit and cattle stampede?" he asked incredulously, straightening out the car and speeding up again.
Suddenly the headlights picked up the form of Thomas Tahchako standing on the side of the dirt road. He had an old Winchester .30-30 at his shoulder and was shooting into the darkness, the muzzle flare lighting up the scrub around him.
"What is he doing?" Jerry asked loudly, as the car skidded to a halt. They quickly opened their doors and ran to the side of the road, where the old Indian continued to fire his weapon.
"Thomas... Thomas!" Wasser screamed.
But the rancher kept ejecting spent shell casings and firing. Finally the state patrolman touched Tahchako on the shoulder and the man spun around. The trooper was quick to grab the barrel of the rifle and push it down until it was pointed at the ground.
"Oh, God, you scared the tiswin out of me!" the older man said, referring to the traditional alcoholic beverage favored by the Apache. The old straw cowboy hat was cocked at an angle on his head, his eyes still wild.
/> "What in the hell are you shooting at?" the state trooper asked, the gunshots still ringing in his ears.
"Goddammit, something's killing my cows!"
"Thomas, it's too dark to see out there! What in the hell is it you're shooting at?" Wasser asked, squinting into the darkness.
Jerry heard a cow lowing. Then the sound was cut off suddenly with a scream. He drew his nine millimeter out of its holster and flipped the safety off with his thumb. "Goddammit, cows aren't supposed to scream like that! What in the hell is out there with your cattle?"
"I don't know, but it's goddamned big!"
"Thomas, calm down and tell me what's going on here," Wasser said angrily.
"What is it, a mountain lion?" Dills asked, peering into the darkness nervously, pistol aiming first right, then left.
"We can't sit here and talk, man, my cattle are being killed," Thomas said as under control as he could manage, gritting his teeth.
That said, he turned and started walking slowly away from the road. He ejected a spent shell casing and raised the gun to waist level. The two state troopers followed. Wasser clicked the safety to the off position on his sidearm, and Jerry flipped on the large flashlight. He shone the beam in a wide arc as they proceeded away from the light cast by the cruiser's headlights. The red and blue flashers of the cruiser's overheads cast an eerie strobe effect onto the desert scrub. Wasser stumbled and almost fell when his foot came into contact with something big, and the sound it made told him it was wet. Dills heard the squishing sound and first put the powerful beam on Wasser, then on what he had tripped on.
"Good God almighty," Dills said with a sharp intake of air. His partner jumped back when he saw what he had stepped on in the dark. The cow's eyes were open and their whites were predominating in terror of what had killed it. The head looked as if it had been sliced cleanly through. The tongue had lolled out of the mouth and rested on the sand.
Event (event group thrillers) Page 25
