The Children of Roswell (Book One) The Swift Chronicle

by Alan James

  “What the hell,” he asked, as six small black circles, in two vertical lines, danced slowly, in unison, over the nose and wings of his adversary. And then it occurred to him; he was, somehow, bore-sighting down the barrels of his Brownings. Wherever he laid those little circles was exactly where the fifty caliber Ball rounds would go.

  Doing the calculations quickly he figured that a closing speed of almost twelve-hundred miles per hour meant they were approaching one another at a mile every three seconds. He had no more than five seconds. He put the six circles on the nose of the one-oh-two, aligning the center circle on his left side on the starboard intake fairing. As he fired as short a burst as he thought possible, he saw the circles jump up just the slightest bit before the fifties roared.

  “Brother, did you do that?” he blurted.

  “Yes Kelly, we did. You did want to correct for fall, did you not?”

  It didn’t matter one way or the other now, because as Kelly concentrated on his target, he saw that he had been a second too late. Just before the black smoke started pouring from the tail pipe of the Dagger, he saw the tell-tale white smoke of all four GARs as they leapt from their trapeze perches. He checked left, right, up and down, nobody else had fired at him yet. They were waiting for him to commit.

  One or two of them would have him covered no matter which way he chose, so he picked no direction at all. As he thought ‘Stop’, he felt the inside of the cockpit close in on him again, squeezing him, holding him in place. He was beginning to understand what was happening now. The drive was creating a small gravity well in his immediate vicinity, and it was increased whenever it was needed to protect him against the wild G-forces from high speed turns, or in this case, sudden stops.

  Kelly sat, motionless, counting seconds. He fired another short burst, this time at the GAR’s, then he waited. The next three seconds seemed like an eternity with the missiles and Daggers all bearing down on him. As two of the Gar’s exploded, he raised the disc straight up toward the one-oh-two diving from above. The GAR’s made a turn upwards toward him, but, his speed was enough that the distance between them started to increase. The proximity switches detonated both remaining missiles. The concussion sent him tumbling, as if someone had thumb-flipped a silver dollar. Picking out a prominent feature on the horizon, he waited for it to come around again, then snapped the disc to a full stop.

  He now had all six bogies placed in the three dimensional battlefield in his mind. He could see them all at once, and the Dagger diving from above was nearly on him. With his change of direction he had thrown their timing off. They would all reach the center of the globe at different times, and now they were all too close together to use their GARs, unless they were really stupid (and he didn’t think that for a moment).

  In the next second the pilot in the wounded Dagger blew his canopy and punched-out while the remaining five all let loose with a barrage of smaller SNEB unguided missiles, each plane spraying its shots by yawing with their rudders as they fired.

  Kelly watched for a moment as they all broke formation to avoid each other’s missiles. “Look at that,” he said aloud, “not one of them turned east … I’m home free.” And with that he accelerated to the east, toward the base, as the little SNEBs passed harmlessly below and behind him.

  Looking back to the west he could see the Daggers gathering themselves, in a loose formation, miles behind him. Even if they all went to full afterburners they wouldn’t catch him now. He had enough of a lead that he decided he could take the time to make his approach look good. He still wanted to give the impression that he was not much of a threat. He wanted to land in the middle of his enemy, and he was counting on them not wanting to do the disc a great deal of harm.

  Just before reaching what he thought was binocular range, he started the disc to wobble, as if damaged (if only slightly). He hadn’t actually felt himself take damage in this last close call with the GARs, but, if he had, it was so small it wasn’t affecting the way the disc handled. Either that, or the disc was healing itself extremely fast now. As he approached the base his magnified vision showed, as expected, four batteries of ground based missile launchers and what looked like a line of forty or fifty-seven millimeter anti-aircraft guns. The latter were mounted on huge, fully swiveled, grey painted, iron platform mounts, as if they had been lifted straight off of a battleship. The runway looked to be about two or two and a half miles long (‘a little long for my needs,’ he thought), and there were six large hangars lined up in the same south south-east to north north-west direction on the east side.

  As he flew over the last foothill that defined the west side of the little valley that the base was nestled in, he watched two helicopters heading east under him. They had been dispatched to pick up the pilot he had downed just seconds earlier. He brought the disc to a dead stop, still allowing it to continue its little wobble; wanting everyone down there to take a deep breath; and he wanted to make sure that the F-one-oh-twos, now coming up fast on his six, weren’t going to give him any more trouble. As he watched them, flying in a left echelon, they peeled off to the south and began a big circle to the east. They would leave him alone, for now. It looked to him like the folks down there wanted the same thing he did (the disc on the ground; and in one piece).

  ‘That means cooler heads have prevailed,’ he thought. ‘The guy in charge must not be a Brandt.’

  As the Daggers went by him in the distance to the southeast, he stopped the wobbling motion and jumped the disc forward the last mile in an instant, and, not knowing the correct configuration for silent flight yet, a powerful sonic boom echoed through the valley, visibly surprising the men below. He made a near ninety degree turn to line up with the runway, and slid over the threshold to a spot that was even with the second hangar on the flight line. This was the hangar with all the important looking brass standing around, waving arms and barking orders.

  At a hundred feet off the deck he eased off the power and slowed to about fifty miles per hour before making a final ninety degree turn directly toward what he thought was the man in charge. As the men on the ground started to duck or take cover behind vehicles, and with the anti-aircraft guns tracking him (still holding their fire) he brought the disc to a full stop no more than a hundred feet in front of the only full-bird-colonel on the flight-line. Without hesitation he dropped the disc to the asphalt, stopping only a foot or two above it. Kelly chuckled, exclaiming a subdued “Oops”, as he watched the colonel’s (and everyone else’s) hat, fly from their heads as the compressed air from his little maneuver struck them like a small hurricane.

  YOREEL

  There he sat, watching the airmen and soldiers climbing out from under and behind the trucks, cars, and anything else they could find to give cover. The Colonel, however, had stood his ground, except for a slight duck and a mad grab for his cap as it left his head.

  With the canopy closed, Kelly was surprised to find he could hear the man shouting orders, “Bring those jeeps up and flank this thing … line ‘em up so you don’t have to worry about cross-fire.”

  Two jeeps with swivel mounted Brownings pulled up on either side of him; the soldiers each chambering a round; making ready to fire on the order.

  “Bailey, make sure no one’s been injured,” he said, taking his cap from the Lieutenant now standing next to him, “and get Washington on the horn.”

  “Yes Sir,” came the reply and the young officer started barking his own orders, yelling and pointing in all directions; men coming to attention all around him, saluting, and then running off to the four points of the compass.

  “Calm down, young man,” Kelly said to himself as he smiled, remembering the exuberance of his own very recent youth, “you will get a lot more done if you just calm down.” Then, thinking with a questioning exhalation, “Huh, here I am, twenty-six years old, calling a man, probably as old as I am, young man.”

  Strangely, he did feel older, but not physically. In fact, p
hysically, he felt better now than at any time he could remember. But, mentally, and with a self-assuredness he hadn’t experienced before, he felt … he hesitated to say mature … he felt more … in control.

  “Probably because I am no longer alone,” he thought.

  As the Colonel continued barking orders, Kelly took stock of his position. He could see, clearly now, the rose colored glow of his Brothers, but, they were not in one of the hangars on the flight line. The glow was, strangely, coming from the hillside on the east side of the runway about a mile away.

  “They’ve got the other disc hidden in a bunker,” he said to himself. “I wonder what other surprises they have got for me out there.”

  Taking a better look around the valley, now that he had time to relax a little, he could see that this place was completely isolated. There was absolutely nothing for miles around, and he remembered seeing nothing worth noting on the way in.

  “Looks like they can do pretty much as they like out here,” he said with a sigh.

  He knew, sooner or later, he would have to open the canopy and make an appearance, but, to what level of grandiosity would his first appearance take? Well, he hadn’t, quite yet, decided. For now, he was relatively safe right where he sat.

  The Colonel was still standing in the same spot, apparently waiting for something, or someone. As young Lieutenant Bailey came running up behind him with a field phone (handing the receiver to his superior) Kelly could tell that this was what he was waiting for. ‘Must be Washington,’ he thought.

  Kelly leaned forward in the Colonel’s direction, forgetting that a simple bit of concentration was all that was now needed to hear, at least one side of the conversation.

  “Yes … yes, I’ll talk to him now,” the colonel said, matter-of-factly. Then, after a short pause, “Yes, yes Mister President, this is Colonel Waterman … yes Sir … yes Sir … no Sir, those helicopters and their air cover have not returned sir … no Sir … yes Sir … no Sir, and from what little radio traffic we could monitor, they won’t be coming back … yes Sir, the Daggers too, all of them … yes Sir … no Sir, that was one of the strange things, not a single loss of life. We thought we had lost one of the pilots, but he got out at the last minute … yes Sir … even this last sortie just west of the base, nobody lost … yes Sir, that’s true, but Brandt took a much more aggressive approach Sir. He went in with guns blazing and lost everybody, including himself. We went in holding back a little. It appeared to us after the battle over The Mohawk Valley, that the disc wasn’t interested in doing physical damage. It seemed to be in a defensive mode Sir … yes Sir … it’s here Sir … right here, we have it on the ground not fifty feet in front of us now Sir … yes Sir, right in front of me … no Sir … it landed here, all by itself after the little tiff we had with it.”

  Then followed: a prolonged period in which the colonel did a lot of affirmative head nodding, followed by a couple of quick, verbal “Yes Sirs,” and a final “Yes Sir, Mister President,” and then after the colonel disconnected, he blurted a loud, “Damn it!”

  “What is it Sir?” Bailey asked, taking the receiver from Waterman.

  “General Macon is about two hours out and the President himself will be here by fifteen-hundred hours tomorrow.”

  “Damn it … Sir,” the lieutenant copied his colonel’s expletive.

  “What, Lieutenant?”

  “Oh, nothing Sir … I’m sorry Sir,” Bailey said apologetically, “what are we going to do now, Sir?”

  As the two officers continued their conversation, Kelly was again taking stock. This colonel, standing in front of him, looked, and acted, like a level headed soldier. He didn’t relish the thought of dancing to the tune of a desk-hardened General, especially one out of Washington. Kelly was familiar with the type: fine tuned by years in the cockpit, now forced to live out the rest of his career pushing papers, and looking for the first chance to regain a little bit of the glory he once knew. He would be hard headed, set in his ways, and he would believe himself nearly invincible.

  Kelly stared into Colonel Waterman’s eyes, who, although he had no way of knowing it (the canopy being in a chromed state) was staring right back at him, and after a brief second of contemplation, decided that this was the man he would deal with.

  Reaching to his chest, he took hold of the coverall zipper and pulled it all the way down. If his ruse was going to work, he couldn’t go outside looking even the smallest part human. Two arms, legs, two eyes, a nose and mouth, and a head (albeit bald) was human enough; he didn’t want to ruin his chromed effect with a Stuckey’s uniform. He pulled his shoes off and slipped out of the coveralls, and, finally said good-bye to his briefs. With the slightest effort he watched as he turned himself into a shining example of Michelangelo’s David. Well, maybe not quite that well muscled, but, ‘Hell, I don’t look half bad,’ he thought aloud.

  As he prepared himself mentally to open the canopy, he noticed that the Colonel, his Lieutenant and a few armed soldiers had started advancing on the disc. Wanting a little more breathing room for his grand entrance, he brought the gravity drive up the one-quarter speed very rapidly, then let it fall back to idle. The sudden increase in local gravity sent a concentric pulse of energy in all directions. It was as if a huge invisible hand had suddenly pushed against the men moving toward the disc. They staggered backwards as the Colonel grabbed his Lieutenant, who had lost his balance and was gasping for air from the unexpected blow to his chest. He then raised both arms, calling for a quick retreat.

  “That’s better,” Kelly said as he tucked his rolled-up clothes and shoes behind his seat. He listened carefully. No one, or thing, was moving outside. He could hear the faint roar from the five remaining Daggers to the south, still circling the base. He held his open hand up to his face for a final check: chrome face, eyes, ears, and looking down, chrome chest, legs, and package. He almost wished he was standing outside the disc, waiting for the shock of seeing himself stepping out of the cockpit. With his check complete, the canopy opened with an amazingly high pitched crack. “Easy,” he told himself, “you’re going to scare one of these guys into doing something foolish.”

  He sat for a moment, as the small chorus of gasps and exclamations of wonder died away. Then he stood; his chromeness exposed to this little corner of the world.

  It would not do, to step out of the cockpit and down to the tarmac as a mere human would. ‘No,’ he thought, ‘this must be done with style … an unearthly style … and without the slightest hint of fear or trepidation.’ He snapped his head to the left and started a slow panoramic sweep of his enemy. He wanted to look as un-worldly as possible, but in truth, he ended up looking almost robotic, which was fine, after all, he was made of metal. Placing his left hand on the wind-screen, he stepped from the cockpit onto the starboard wing and walked directly to the leading edge. With both eyes now trained on the Colonel, he lowered the disc the last few feet to the ground, stopping it just before it touched the tarmac, and stepped off. Without looking back, he raised the disc back to its former position a few feet above the ground, and then, he made a big mistake.

  Raising his right arm and showing an open and empty palm, he began to stride toward the Colonel. It was way too quick of a move for one of the hot-shots holding a side-arm on him. Sergeant Telford was a rummy from the old red-neck school of shoot first and ask questions later, and wanted nothing more than to be able to tell the story of how he single-handedly brought down this alien-menace. Now, having what little excuse he needed, he squeezed off a round that caught Kelly just below his shoulder joint in the middle of the lateral head of his deltoid muscle. Strangely, the first thing Kelly thought of, as he reached for his shoulder while flying through the air to his left, was being blindsided by Perry Littleton (they called him “Little John”) in an off-campus pick-up rugby match back at MIT. Little John wasn’t much of a ball handler, but he loved to sneak in his patented, and nearly deadly, tackles whenever th
e opportunity presented itself. Kelly remembered sitting out the rest of the game (or was it the rest of the week?)

  As Kelly slammed the ground, landing hard on his left side, he watched, in an illusional slow motion, as the Colonel’s mouth opened and closed in a strange silence. He was apparently yelling at someone, but Kelly could hear nothing. The world around him was filled with pressure. A pressure he could feel on his skin, against his eyeballs, but mostly in his ears. All at the same time, the disc had slewed right, and with the six Brownings nearly directly over the top of Kelly, it had fired about a hundred rounds into the half smiling, dim-witted Sergeant Telford, and, at the same time, it had cycled the gravity drive to full power three or four times in about a second. The resulting gravity surges acted like hammer blows sent out in an ever enlarging circle. He continued watching as the Colonel picked himself up from the tarmac, wiping pieces, and blood, of the sergeant, from his face and clothing. The soldiers, who had been manning the fifty cals on the flanking jeeps, had also been blown to the ground and were in the process of, half-heartedly, clambering back to their posts when the Colonel began yelling at the top of his lungs: “Hold your fire … damn it! … Hold your damn fire … everybody, hold … your … fire!”

  Kelly’s eyes met the Colonel’s again, and this time the Colonel raised both hands, palms open, facing Kelly, as if asking him if he would be willing to let cooler-heads prevail in this volatile situation. Kelly gave him a slight head nod, and then, tucking his legs under himself, and still holding his shoulder, he rocked up onto his knees. As he looked around, he could see most of the soldiers cowering behind vehicles or the hangar doors, not wanting to tangle with the deadly fifties, or the gravity drive again. Moving slowly this time, he lifted himself to his feet, and expecting to find his hand covered in blood, he removed his grip on his right shoulder. He looked with astonishment as his open hand showed only the flattened remains of a forty-five caliber ACP round. Remembering his situation, he pulled himself out of his state of wonder, and quickly took on his alien persona once more. The Colonel was still staring in a state of wonderment all his own, and, as their eyes met, Kelly held his hand out, turned his palm down and slowly let the flattened piece of lead fall to the ground.