Alien Deception

by Tony Ruggiero

  "Well, what do we have?" he asked, his lips tight.

  "Not much," Clyde Barnes, the head of the Secret Service detachment, answered grimly. "This reporter, Schume, has some photographs, but there's no way to validate them. The explosion eliminated every trace of what was in the morgue. The explosive…" he hesitated in embarrassment. "We're not able to identify it and neither can any of the law enforcement agencies around the world."

  "Well, then, what's the next step?" Edward asked.

  "Mr. President," Monroe began. "We need to make a statement on what we know to the public before Mr. Schume or any other reporter says something else in an attempt to discredit you."

  Monroe was obviously in a frenzy trying to figure out how they were going to address the matter. His nervousness was apparent to the rest of the members assembled in the room, but Edward knew he was an excellent thinker when the pressure was on. More than once when things were looking extremely bad, he had brought them through by finding a way to explain the inexplicable in the most sensible of ways.

  "I can see your point," the president said. "But what are we going to tell them? We don't have any answers, just further questions and speculation. Monroe, you've been creative on many occasions. Don't you have even a wild idea?"

  "We could…twist it around on them," Monroe said, with a sudden look of excitement in his eyes. "They keep accusing us, but isn't it convenient for them?"

  Edward looked at him with a confused look. "I don't understand."

  "Suppose the body turned out not to be an alien, but some hoax the media initiated. Perhaps Mr. Schume has put together some plot to make us look bad. Right now, there's no way we could prove him wrong and he has nothing else he can use against us. Maybe he destroyed the evidence."

  "I like it," Edward said. "It's a little ugly, slinging mud and all that. But what about the explosive? How do we get away from that one?"

  "It's new, that's all. We've just not seen it before. Does that mean that it comes from outer space?" Monroe chuckled. "It could've just been developed by some group of terrorists or something, maybe another government, and no one wants to take credit for making it."

  "That part may backfire if we're not careful," Edward cautioned. "If something is new or unidentifiable, people immediately suspect secret organizations or hidden conspiracies, usually involving political connections. But there isn't a whole lot we can do about that. It'll have to be enough for now."

  The president looked from advisor to advisor, all good people he had handpicked, and asked, "Are there any other comments?"

  There were none. Edward stood and slowly paced the room. He knew they looked to him for strength and determination. It wasn't about his giving orders, which they, like little robots, went out and followed to the letter. He knew these people did what they needed to do based on the trust and encouragement he bestowed on them.

  "People, I hope you see what's happening," he said. "We announce our breakthrough in space travel and immediately someone or some group wants to create a strange liaison with aliens. I ask myself ‘Why?' and the answer I get is ‘People still don't trust people.' This was a cheap shot at trying to derail our success.

  "I want you all to coordinate with Ms. McClendon to increase our media campaign of awareness of how our successes will help our great country. I especially want the statement we were blindsided by the reporters reiterated again and again. I won't have cheap journalism or people who think cooperation is another word for ‘conspiracy' to think they have a victory here. Is that clear?"

  Heads nodded in unison, indicating new vigor in their determination. This team had always possessed confidence in their commander-in-chief and shared his enthusiasm, but now they were ready to rally to his call, charge out and do what he needed done.

  Sarah admired Edward for his speaking abilities. It was almost like the ability to influence, in a sense, the way he could sway a group or individual with his passion for speaking. This was one of the qualities that made him a great president. Nobody had to talk for him and, when he did speak, it was from his heart with sincerity and understanding.

  "Okay, then," he told the group. "What're you all standing around for? Let's get to work. We have a press conference to prepare for."

  * * * *

  Ray Schume sat in his office at the Washington Tribune composing the story of the government cover-up on his computer. He played with the wording to be speculative, but to leave the reader wondering. Always leave the reader wondering was his cardinal rule, even if he had to stretch the truth a bit. That was how he had made his name in the news world—his ability to make the most open-and-shut case seem controversial, thereby causing people to question what they thought to be true and indisputable.

  Schume's work during the last presidential campaign two years earlier had been critical to the fall of the two-party political system that had dominated the country. There again, an anonymous informant had given him information leading to breaking news that garnered him a spot in the world press. From these sources, he had received information that proved there was a party collusion in full swing and totally without the knowledge of the public. That had opened the gates for President Edward Samuel to get elected.

  But things had slowed down since then and Schume had hoped he would soon get lucky again. It was certainly nicer to be on top.

  He was placing the final touches to his story on the explosion at the hospital which had destroyed his evidence that would have blown the whole story open. Now, he was speculating recklessly, which was bound to raise the eyebrows of even his staunchest reader. Perfect for circulation, he thought.

  However, there was nothing substantial enough to prove his accusations against the government either. It was a word-against-word scenario and he knew he would not win.

  Glancing up at the clock, he returned to his typing as the hour grew nearer for the press conference the White House had called. He surmised they would rebut all of his accusations which was exactly what he wanted. Trying to regain his train of thought, he lost it entirely as the telephone began to ring.

  "Yes," he answered, his frustration evident.

  "The president has called a press conference in one hour," the familiar voice said.

  "I know and so does everyone else in the country," Schume said curtly. "If you have something, it needs to be better than what we've got so far. Otherwise, we have—"

  "I'm the person who's going to make you famous, remember?" The voice dripped with sarcasm. "I sent you a note about the explosive being from ‘off-world,' I believe the term was."

  "A lot of people tell me they're going to make me famous," Schume sneered.

  "Let's not forget the advance notification about the body's location. So, shall we move on?"

  "Okay, so maybe you can do what you say you can," Schume stated nonchalantly. "So far, I have no credible evidence I can use. I need proof. Something substantial I can lay before the masses."

  "All in good time, my friend. In good time." The sneer was evident even through the electronic distortion.

  "Do you have anything for me or not?" Schume asked, his impatience obvious. "I have to get going to the press conference."

  "Be very careful, Mr. Schume. I do not take to rudeness well. It has always been a weakness of mine."

  Schume moved the telephone to his other ear, somewhat nervous about the dangerous undercurrent in the mysterious voice. He had heard the hidden anger and ruthlessness in that tone, and realized suddenly this association could be extremely dangerous to his health.

  He had dealt with many mass murderers and killers, talked with them for hours and hours on the eve of their deaths. He could hear the insanity in their voices that convinced him if they ever were released, they would kill again. This conversation was beginning to feel like one of those.

  "Please, go on. I'm listening," he said.

  "Very good. I am glad to see your…change of heart." The caller chuckled. "Now, what I want you to do is to look in a slightly different
direction."

  "Different direction?" Schume asked in confusion. "I don't understand what you mean."

  "Sometimes the past can be very revealing about what's happening in the present. In particular, I have an individual in mind."

  Schume felt a cold chill go down his spine. However, despite his apprehension, he felt once again strangely compelled to follow up on any lead he could get related to this story. He reached for his notebook and pen and prepared to write. He hoped he wasn't making a mistake he would regret.

  "Go ahead, I'm listening."

  The sound of his fax machine as a piece of paper slid into the output tray caused him to jump with nervousness, as did the sudden dial tone in his ear. He wiped his brow clear of the beads of sweat that had accumulated there and hung up the phone.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “When we accept a position of authority, we immediately give up ourselves to the greater good of the organization. When we can no longer do that, it is time to step aside and let change take its course.”

  Greg Carlson

  Greg stood in the marshy area underneath the blazing glare of a moon so bright it blotted out the bluish tint he had observed on his earlier visit. Back again, he thought.

  He squinted and stared at the moon, hoping to see in its face that almost-understood message he had seen before, but now there was nothing. Nor was there any sound; none at all. Only silence accompanied him on this trip to this place in his dreams—or was it his nightmares? He wasn't sure how to classify it any longer.

  Suddenly, the ground shook and a wave of nausea wracked him, doubling him over. He thought he might vomit, but he didn't. Then, as suddenly as it had assaulted his senses, the feeling was gone and he felt all right. He looked up, and to his surprise found himself in a desert, standing atop a dune that was one of many spreading out as far as his eyes could see. His bare feet did not feel the texture of the sand. The sky above him blazed with stars that filled every inch of blackness with startling clarity, but there was not one moon in the sky.

  This is not the same place.. But where am I now? What is happening to me?

  A circular cluster of bright stars caught his attention as he struggled to identify the constellations. A moment later he called out, but there was no answer from the desert. There was no sound at all.

  Again the ground shook and the nausea returned; however, the upsetting feeling was less then the previous occurrence. This time he did not double over and maintained his field of vision. The dunes blurred, as if they were water flowing across the vastness of the land in front of him. When his vision cleared, the sand had actually become water. He was now standing atop a yellow-orange ocean that stretched from horizon to horizon under a bright daytime sky with a crimson moon about midway to zenith.

  He was standing on the water, yet his feet were not wet and he did not sink. A sense of brief amusement arose in him as the astonishing nature of his position settled into his mind. It was quickly replaced, however, with anxiety.

  What is happening? It makes no sense.

  Again the sense of movement, but this time there was no accompanying physical discomfort. The image blurred and he was back where he had started, staring up at the familiar bright moon that filled the sky. Hearing had returned. Someone or something was approaching as he stared at the moon in the sky he was confident held the secret to all that was happening. The sound was so clear that whoever or whatever it was had to be very close now. He knew he should look toward where it was coming from, but he could not take his eyes from the moon that hung ominously in the sky above him.

  The sight began to fade, and he first imagined the strange transfer was happening again, transporting him somewhere else.

  No…No…not yet! he screamed in his mind. I have to see what's there!

  Before the words fell silent in his mind, he opened his eyes and found himself in his own familiar quarters, lying on his bed and staring up at the ceiling. Not the strange sky of another world where oceans or sand covered its surface, or where a moon in the sky foretold of a coming of some unknown destiny. It was just his ceiling in his quarters on the planet Earth. He got up, feeling extremely tired and weak but happy for the reassuring hardness of the cool floor against his feet.

  "At least I'm in a real place again," he said. "Or is it? I'm beginning to wonder what's real anymore and what isn't. But if it's all real, where have I been?" he asked the vacant room.

  "Computer," he said and then described what he could recall from the two new places he had seen. The mental images in his mind were amazingly clear and easy for him to recall as he fed the information to the computer. "Correlate data from descriptions for identification of the planets."

  As the computer worked, Greg wondered if he was not chasing mental ghosts or even if perhaps his own mental faculties were not collapsing around him. Could all of the alterations he had undergone in his mind have caused a failure in his reality conceptualizations? Was he going…insane?

  The thought frightened him, but he dismissed it quickly, not sure whether it was out of fear of the idea or the realization it might be true. The computer's voice thankfully ended his confused reverie with its findings.

  "The planet with the yellow-orange ocean has a ninety-eight percent probability of being the planet Deloria. The planet with the sand dunes has a ninety-seven percent probability of being the planet Arcturia."

  "Interesting," Greg mused aloud. "The ambassadors in my dream, the ones that fell to pieces at my touch, were from Deloria, and the ambassadors from Arcturia managed to let us know Acuba is somehow involved in all this mess when their vessel was destroyed."

  He walked to the window as he thought about the information. "Why are these images, these places being shown to me? What does it all mean?"

  He sat down in frustration, his weariness showing as his shoulders sagged and his eyes burned. "What does it all mean?" he repeated, his voice frustrated.

  ::Because you need to see,:: a voice answered in his mind, jolting him as if an intense electrical charge had been run through him. Greg was suddenly wide-awake and very scared.

  * * * *

  Ray Schume casually strolled into the White House press conference room. Most reporters were already seated and anxiously awaiting the arrival of Robert Monroe, the press secretary. Schume carried a notebook in his hand that he was reading very intently, between watching where he was going and looking at other pieces of paper. Eyes watched him and his fellow reporters talked about him with the image of the earlier press conference and his vicious attack on the president and Sarah McClendon still fresh in their minds.

  Outside of some kind of disaster or threat to national defense, press conferences were usually not short-notice events. The fact this one had been hastily called and the events of the past twenty-four to forty-eight hours had piqued the curiosity of the media. They were anxious to begin, and when Robert Monroe emerged from behind the curtains and urged them to take their seats so the conference could begin, they did so quickly and quietly. Edward and Sarah appeared and took their positions at the podium.

  "Ladies and gentlemen," the president began, "there has been an unusual chain of events over the past several days. Although somewhat bizarre, these events are not related to anything in which this administration is involved." A flurry of whispers and camera shutters followed the remark. "Let us look at them with open minds so we can dispel the rumors they've caused together.

  "First, as you may recall, Ms. McClendon and I made the announcement of the early completion of the space-drive platform." He kept his voice under perfect control, even and calm and fraught with honesty. "There are those who might want to detract from such a momentous event by making an announcement of such a proportion as to draw us away from this heroic achievement and dump us into a quagmire of innuendos."

  "But, Mr. President," one man began, drawing a look of admonition from the press secretary and his fellow reporters.

  "Please, let me finish," the president said. "There's
no proof of this alleged alien cover-up beyond the word of one man, a member of the media. As you all are aware, the explosion at the facility where the body was being examined completely destroyed all evidence of the supposed alien. This event, I suspect, was an attempt to keep us from finding out, not about a cover-up here at the White House, but a ploy by a person or group of persons who were about to be caught committing fraud against the American people by their fabrication of this unbelievable and bizarre story."

  He paused and carefully phrased his final words. "Ladies and gentlemen, I submit to you that this was part of a plan to deceive the American people by those who would seek to draw attention away from our goal of achieving space flight. This is because of their antiquated and outdated beliefs that cooperation among countries means the downfall of the democratic system we all believe in so strongly."

  The air was still and the room was silent. Once again Edward's talent for speechmaking had soothed the crowd, at least for the moment. It was time to move on to the harder part now—the questions. "Are there any questions?"

  "Mr. President," a fresh-faced reporter from one of the wire services jumped in first. "What about the type of explosive used in the bombing at the hospital? Has there been a determination as to what type it is?"

  "The CIA and FBI are still trying to determine that, but it appears to be of a type we have not seen before. We suspect it's a new design used specifically to discredit our efforts in the areas I mentioned earlier."

  "Is it a group or individual?"

  "We have no substantiated information at this time."

  "Why haven't we heard about this person or group before? How long have they been under investigation?"

  "We had no prior warning of any attack. Neither has anyone stepped forward to claim responsibility."