Season of the Witch

by David L. Golemon

  On the large viewing screen, the video was started. Sokol saw what was there and sat down, only mildly interested.

  “Just what is it I am supposed to be looking at?” Sokol asked.

  “The lower deck of the craft. We assume it is a specialized area of the saucer. Possibly prison isolation. Look.”

  On the screen was a large cocoon-like chamber that resembled an old-fashioned Iron Lung that had been used for medical purposes in earth’s past. Only this one looked much larger and possibly a few tons in weight.

  “What is that?” Sokol inquired.

  “Speculation has run a little amok here since we found it. It’s not what it is that is so confusing, it’s the fact that whatever it is is still functioning,” Urisky answered with a smile.

  As Sokol examined the video, he did see flashing lights that were covered with dust from the moon dust that had been brought down by vibration and meteor strikes outside of the hull. They saw needles and gauges moving back and forth and audio was picking up the buzz of energy and the humming of atmospheric filters.

  “Is…is something still alive in there?” Sokol finally managed to ask.

  “Video, show him,” the doctor said, this time the roles had been reversed. It was his time to shock Sokol.

  Again, the video was rewound. The still frame stopped and Sokol felt his mouth gape open. A large window at the top of the tube-like chamber showed what was inside the still operational device. Sokol stood.

  “Good God.”

  Doctor Urisky smiled and shook his head as Sokol just said the exact words most of his mission staff had cried earlier.

  The restraints held the creature in place. Thick nylon-looking straps crisscrossed the giant of a Grey’s body. This was unlike any Grey ever examined. It had long and stringy, sparse white hair covering its bulbous head. The features were slightly off, almost a more human-style quality to them. It was not in a mummified state of decomposition like the three hundred and eighty-seven chained and restrained corpses they had discovered since the rover had entered the craft.

  “Is it…is it…?”

  “Breathing? Yes, it is. Artificially aided, but still breathing. Amazing after ten thousand years, and the damn thing is still alive.”

  Sokol sat hard into his chair and shook his head.

  “We assume this was a prized prisoner of the Greys.” Mission Control Manager Urisky moved to stand near Sokol. “Are you ready?”

  Sokol looked up from the most amazing sight he had ever seen. He waited, not really knowing if he wanted to know.

  “Video, move to minus footage fourteen minutes, fifty-one seconds, please.”

  On the screen the tape rewound and then stopped to a still frame shot to highlight a written language report on what they were seeing in the tube. The dit-dot, dash, dash and symbol language of the Greys was clearly seen.

  “We have been in contact with the Russian linguist Doctor Igor Lanikov of Moscow University. He has the security clearance for just this kind of mission because he was on the United Nations team of linguists in our battle against the Greys. He translated the words on, what we here think, was the bill of lading, or manifest, that was discovered on the side of the container. It seems this very much larger than normal Grey was a very despicable character on their world. He was most assuredly one of their civilization’s most wanted. A prize prisoner so to speak. And considering the ruthless nature of the Greys and what they had planned for the human race, this Bolshevik must have been a real monster.”

  “Among those human eating creatures, what is their definition of despicable?” Sokol asked with a disbelieving snort.

  “I’m afraid until we can possibly interview this creature, we just do not know. We must make every effort to get this Grey back to Earth alive. Failure would mean we lose so much valuable knowledge. We must!”

  “Rather enthusiastic, Doctor, why the sudden change over a larger than normal Grey, but still just a Grey nonetheless?”

  Urisky smiled, relishing the fact that he had the power before him to finally have the upper hand over the Central Committee member.

  “Well?” Sokol asked, losing patience with the suddenly overconfident and arrogant man of science.

  “We have changed the programming on Gagarin, she has been taking readings from the thing in the capsule for the past six hours.”

  “Doctor, the ice under your feet is growing increasingly thin. Just get to the point.”

  Urisky turned and faced a large still picture of the giant Grey. Its white hair wild, framing a mouth that had double the size and count of teeth from other normal Greys.

  “Mr. Sokol, this creature is drawing power from itself. Self-generating and sustained over four to ten thousand years. And we have discovered there is no external power source. In other words, the power keeping this thing alive is coming from it.”

  “Are you insane?” Sokol asked.

  “If I am, so are the medical staff that designed our most advanced recorders and monitoring devices on our rover Gagarin.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because Gagarin is picking up not only massive amounts of electrical power from this thing, it’s picking up sizable brain activity.”

  “What?” Sokol said with dawning understanding crossing his features.

  “My people are excited, and very much frightened, Mr. Sokol.”

  The committee member stood and faced the doctor. He waited patiently as the mission control manager fought to find the right words he needed. Finally, he stated what everyone in the center felt.

  “That creature is not only alive and producing its own life sustaining power. It’s aware we are there.”

  Part I

  Cactus Roses and Pizza Rolls

  * * *

  “…Well now everything dies, baby that's a fact,

  but maybe everything that dies, someday comes back…”

  The Band—Atlantic City

  Chapter One

  Desert Rose Cemetery,

  Las Vegas, Nevada

  On the four converging dirt roads leading up to the small, private cemetery, United States Air Force Humvees stopped the few vehicles filled with hikers, dirt bike enthusiasts and campers from climbing the hills that surrounded the once peaceful setting. The state highway department, with the assistance of Nellis Air Force Base, had successfully quarantined the general area to allow the largest forensics team ever assembled in Nevada to descend on the privately held property. Blackhawk helicopters on loan from the base kept the airspace clear of any unauthorized flyovers of the small cemetery. Thus far the lid on the pressure cooker had been secured tightly. That situation could change at any time. After all, news of the vandalism had been reported by the Las Vegas Sheriff’s Department, and grave robbing of any kind was indeed news. It was bound to leak out to the general public soon, so time was short.

  One hundred and thirty forensics experts from the FBI and the Department of the Air Force scoured the cemetery looking for any clue as to the disposition of the vandalism that had taken place the night before. The most interested party stood aloof to allow the experts to do their jobs. The situation was beyond frustrating as they had orders to stand down by the President himself.

  The large man stood off to the side of the front gate of the Desert Rose and watched silently as the government techs went about their forensics work. The approach of an even larger man with short-cropped blonde hair brought the waiting man back to the here and now.

  “Just received this from the complex, Jack. The Director is throwing a fit with the President over this thing. Niles claims that because of our status as a secret department we are being kept out of something that only we can deal with. I guess there is someone in Washington making a stink about the assets being misdirected by the Department of the Air Force.”

  Colonel Jack Collins looked at his friend. Captain Carl Everett handed Jack a note. He read it.

  “Harold Brigs again?”

  “He’s making a stink. Even
has the Air Force Chief of Staff on his side about allocating resources from Nellis. The good Congressman is all over the President. He’s been chasing rumors about us ever since the war with the Greys.”

  Jack wadded up the flimsy and was tempted to toss the paper away but pocketed it instead.

  Carl could see the situation with the vandalism of the small alien’s grave was wreaking havoc with Jack just as it was with him. “We just have to be patient buddy. We both know the little green guy just didn’t wake up and take a walk into the desert. We’ll find out who did this.”

  He could see that Jack was acting just like Director Niles Compton. He felt responsible and horrified that the Event Group had prematurely buried little Matchstick Tilly without realizing he wasn’t dead. Both Jack and Niles had agreed that because of the manner of death involved in Matchstick’s murder, an autopsy of their small friend was not needed or justified because the thought of cutting into their friend to see what made him tick was just too much for them to contemplate. Now that decision was weighing heavily on both men.

  Jack’s eyes kept moving to the empty grave next to that of the still intact Gus Tilly buried site. He bit his lip and seemed to fight back the despair he was feeling.

  “Jack, why don’t you take a break. Sarah is staying at Alice’s house while we figure this out. She had some harsh words with the director who wanted you and her to continue with your honeymoon plans. She tore up your tickets to Bali and threw them at Niles. I think you need to go and talk to her. All her happiness about your wedding has been zapped from her mind over this.”

  “Sarah knows what’s up. Honeymoons can wait for now and the director should have known that. Just how in the hell did Niles think Sarah would react?”

  Carl was about to continue to try and convince Jack to take a break, when they were approached by a man in a blue shirt. The FBI logo on the breast pocket identified him as an agent. He held out a hand to Jack and Carl both.

  “Colonel, disappointed I missed the festivities last night, congratulations on your recent nuptials. Surprised the hell out of me that’s for sure. Single man Jack Collins brought down by the smallest woman I know.”

  “Tom, good to see you. How is Washington?” Carl asked, trying to get the conversation of Jack’s recent wedding to Sarah off the table.

  “That’s why I wasn’t able to make it to the wedding. Director Compton and the President has me tailing that asshole Congressman who is hell bent on exposing Department 5656. The man smells blood.” Tom Wilkerson, FBI agent-in-charge, and a deep mole of the Event Group through presidential order, saw his comments about Congressman Briggs had no effect on Jack. He kicked at the desert sand. “Then this came up. I guess the theft of Matchstick’s body is weighing heavily on everyone’s mind, including the President. Thus, here I am. Your man at the Bureau.”

  “Thanks for handling this, Tom. I still don’t understand why the President and Niles don’t allow our people to conduct this investigation,” Jack said in abject frustration.

  “Colonel, for the exact same reasons friends don’t investigate the death of a partner when a cop is killed. You and your people are just too close to make a good judgement calls where Matchstick is concerned.”

  The look from the face of Jack Collins made the agent hesitate and Carl strategically stepped in between him and Collins.

  “Jesus Jack, I’m sorry. I’ll get the Group some information as soon as I can. I know it’s driving your people batshit crazy trying to get an answer. If I have to torture someone for information, I’ll get whoever did this.”

  The three men shook hands and the agent moved off to consult with the crime scene technicians.

  “He didn’t mean anything by that, Jack,” Carl said. “You can tell the situation about that fool Briggs and his accusations to anyone in Washington who will listen, and with what happened here last night is effecting everyone. Including fearless FBI agent Tom.” Carl was about to continue when they noticed a scuffle near the empty grave of the Matchstick Man. A tall, thin, white haired man was actually rolling on the ground with a plastic-suited technician. As they watched, Will Mendenhall and Jason Ryan were in the process of running toward the two to break up the fracas. “Oh, shit!” Carl said, as he and Jack also sprinted to the scene.

  As they arrived more white plastic environment suited forensics men from the FBI were nearing to join in the fight. Professor Charles Hindershot Ellenshaw III was being held at bay by a very much smaller but also stronger Jason Ryan. Will was pushing the forensics technician back from continuing the fight.

  “Professor, what in the hell is this about?” Carl asked, as he and Jack took in the wild-haired Cryptozoologist. His wire-rimmed glasses were askew and he was so angry he failed to form words.

  “Keep that maniac away from me!” shouted the technician being held by Will Mendenhall. The man’s clear face mask had been cracked and his nose was bleeding.

  “Jesus Doc, calm down,” Jason said as he tried to move the tall man away. “Now, what in the hell happened?”

  “First these fools don’t know how to catalogue evidence properly, this needs to be treated like an archeological event,” Charlie hissed and tried to break free of Ryan’s grip but steadied when Carl stepped in front of him. “And then their snide little remarks about moonlight strolls by moon men. By god I don’t have to put up with that crap. Matchstick deserves better than that!”

  “So, the crazy bastard just attacks me? What kind of nut is he,” the technician asked as his friends on the FBI forensics team gathered around their man for support while the Air Force personnel watched from a safe distance. One FBI Tech was even brazened enough to get too near Will Mendenhall.

  “Cowboy, you take another step towards the Doc or me, I will consider you intend us harm. Then your friends can just drop you into that empty grave to replace our friend.”

  The FBI technician caught the not-so-very veiled threat and stopped moving.

  “Come on Jack. Get your people out of here and let us do our thing, would you?”

  Collins looked from the Agent-In-Charge to the still fuming Professor Ellenshaw to a ready-to-pounce Major Mendenhall. He reluctantly nodded his head at the lead agent, realizing his people were too much on edge over Matchsticks disappearance.

  “Okay, my people, let’s get the hell out of here.”

  Carl, Will, Jason, with a struggling Crazy Charlie Ellenshaw in tow, started to leave with Jack for the waiting Blackhawk sitting outside the back gate of the Desert Rose Cemetery.

  As Ryan assisted Charlie into the sliding door of the Blackhawk, he smiled at the crazy haired professor as everyone crowded around waiting to hear the real story from the Cryptozoologist.

  “I don’t know Doc—I think you’ve been hanging out with the wrong crowds lately. You’re turning into a crazed version of Mike Tyson.”

  Carl and Jack saw the change in Ellenshaw as his demeanor calmed considerably. It was Everett, with a nod from Jack who stepped up and held out his hand to Ellenshaw.

  “Yeah, he’s hanging out with the wrong crowd alright—you and Mendenhall. And yes, the Doc is crazy, but crazy like a fox. Hand it over Doctor.”

  Ellenshaw smiled at Everett and he glanced at Jack Collins who nodded that he should do what the Captain asked. Continuing to smile he handed Carl the small notebook. During the scuffle Ellenshaw had removed the forensic notes from the technician who failed to notice his pocket had been picked.

  “Sorry, they weren’t answering my questions. I thought this would help us start the ball rolling as they say.”

  “You’re one crazy bastard Doc,” Mendenhall said, but everyone could see Will’s pride in what Ellenshaw had done.

  “Mister Everett, we’ve trained a pack of thieves,” Jack said as Ryan started the Blackhawks rotor blades to spinning.

  “I take it we’re not going to wait on the FBI?” Everett said as he snapped his safety harness closed.

  “Have we ever?”

  * * *


  Novosibirsk, Siberia,

  Russia

  The Alexander Nevsky Cathedral was a massive stone structure erected in 1899 and was a marvel of architecture. Since the downfall of the old Soviet Union the building and its religious purpose had found new life and has since become a popular tourist destination for architectural students visiting from abroad. There was however, one aspect of the great shrine you could find no description of in any tourist brochure—that located five hundred and eighty-seven feet beneath the tiled flooring of the cathedral was housed the secret and shadowy men and women who actually ran the new Russian state. The committee hid itself in plain sight in the third most populous city in Russia. The Presidium, of which it was referred to by its members, housed eighteen floors of offices that did the bidding of the highly secretive Central Committee. The puppet committee in Moscow had no official say but for the dictates that was handed to them for public consumption. In other words, the real power of the new Russia solely resided with these powerful men and women. While each member had a name, they were referred to inside the chambers as a numbered entity. Even the numbers were never spoken outside of Siberia for security reasons. The look-a-like puppet at the head of the country in Moscow was the only person outside of the Presidium to actually know of their existence.

  The council chamber was semi-dark as it usually was during the meetings that were held to govern the growing prospects of the new government. Circular in design and numbered according to power, the only empty chair was that of the new Sciences Division Chairman, Number Ten. This fact did not go unnoticed by the most powerful of these men and women, the man who held the ‘Number One’ position. As progress was reported on the new aspect of their latest triumph overseas, the handling and assistance in the United States for the audacious possibly getting a man sympathetic to the Russian cause elected as the most powerful man in the world—the Presidency of the United States of America.