These Few Brave Souls

by Rodney Manchester

  "Only forty-five minutes?" Nicholas asked with a sweaty grin. "In that case we'll quick time the next fifteen minutes, just to work up a good sweat."

  Adams smiled and managed to climb to his feet without his fatigue showing. Experience had shown him that his body was capable of fifteen minutes of quick time followed by the remainder of the exercise period, but it wasn't fun and it did require a great deal of effort. Especially difficult would be the effortless facade he would show to the Lieutenant and the Platoon.

  The Lieutenant took a short drink to moisten his mouth and let the water rest on his tongue. He twisted the cap back on his canteen, got to his feet and swallowed. "Let's move it people," he said, and thirty-two tired and sweaty men got to their feet. Sergeant Adams barked out the necessary commands and the Platoon began the quick time cadence run around the deck.

  Chiclayo, Peru

  Hector Huante sat quietly in his SU-22 Fitter 'F' fighter plane. Quiet is a relative term. He was seething inside with anger. He was a Major in Peru's Air Force, the Fuerza Aerea Peruana or FAP, and charged with defending his nation from aerial assault. A nation that had recently come under surprise attack. Peru had absorbed that attack, but now was the time to strike back.

  Hector accelerated down the runway and rotated skyward. He was at the head of the first of 2 fourship fighter groups charged with avenging Peru's defilement. They set a southern course and climbed to 7 thousand meters, their speed reaching 500 knots.

  Each Fitter was equipped with 4 of the AA-2, Atoll, air-to-air missiles. This is a 1st generation heat seeking short range weapon that must be pointed at the hot exhaust of an opponent to be effective.

  Hector loved flying the Fitter. It was a stone bitch to muscle around with its stiff controls, but more maneuverable than almost anything else in the sky. He was confident in his ability to get on any opponent's "six". With a combat radius of over a thousand miles, it had more than enough range to intercept an aircraft over Lima.

  An hour and ten minutes later Hector spotted an aircraft on an intercept course with them. This is it, he thought. Retribution.

  One hundred eighty miles east, a US Navy E2C Hawkeye watched the unfolding drama. The legendary strength of the SU-7 family of fighter aircraft was found wanting as violent mid-air collisions took one plane after another from the sky. The old Soviet design never stood a chance in the game of tag that the UFO’S played.

  CHAPTER 11

  Royal Marine Base Poole

  Poole, England

  Sergeant Willard called the men to attention.

  Major Cecil Mumsford, Commanding Officer of Black Group, M Squadron spoke to his men. “At ease gentlemen.

  “All right you men, we have been ordered to Gibraltar. If you haven’t seen the news, there are reports of chemical weapons being used in South America with many casualties. We have stepped up readiness and we will be flying to Gibraltar as part of that increase with our MOP gear in hand. I don’t know where we will ultimately be going, but I can tell you one thing. It will be hard. If it was easy they would send someone else.

  “Sergeant, send the men to mess, then back here at 1230 hours.”

  22 SAS Regiment

  Hereford, England

  22 SAS, known throughout the British regular army as “The Regiment”, boarded their first flight of the day, ultimately ending the first leg of their journey in Pope Air Force Base, next door to Fort Bragg, North Carolina, USA. This is the traditional home of the American Special Forces Green Beret.

  Captain Marsh, in command of the 60 strong B Squadron, watched his men board the RAF C-130 Hercules turbo prop aircraft and get settled in. A long uncomfortable flight was in front of him and his men, a flight he personally had taken several years earlier as he joined his Yankee friends in combat training. However, going ‘operational’ was another thing entirely. He privately worried if his Yankee brethren were up to the task.

  Lieutenant John Mainwering, of the New Zealand Special Air Service was one of his subordinate commanders. Lieutenant Mainwering was on a joint inter service exchange program and was half way through his two year commitment. He commanded one of four “Troops” of B Squadron, a fifteen member sub group specializing in man portable heavy weapons.

  Hours later the Squadron was escorted to the Kennedy training center where, for public consumption, they were to engage in joint training with the Yankees. In reality they were being briefed on the unfolding drama in Peru.

  CIA Headquarters

  Langley, Virginia

  Technicians sat before the consoles that controlled the KH-12 Satellite. Senior staff had gathered to view the first images of Peru following the Ingersoll incident. This pass would provide a somewhat oblique view of the Peruvian West coast, but it was still the first and best view available for several hours. Later orbits would provide better overhead imagery, but for now, this would have to do.

  Randy Weston, Deputy Director of Intelligence, stood quietly in the corner. Aware of the tension he imposed by standing over people, he chose to observe from a distance and let the experts do their thing. This was a successful technique he had learned long ago. It was one the Director could stand a lesson in.

  Director Garrison hovered over the department head as the view from the KH-12 Satellite began to include the Andes Mountain Range.

  "Zoom in," Garrison ordered after the technician had already started to do so. The lush green rainforests of the Amazon basin stood in stark contrast to the barren snowy heights of the Andes. On the other side of those mountains was the coastal urban center of Lima and its suburbs.

  Slowly the image crept toward the coast and early morning fog became evident. They were told by regional experts to expect this, yet it came as a disappointment.

  Unordered by the Director, probably because the old fart wasn't nearly as smart as he thought he was, the technicians switched to infrared imaging. At this extreme range and angle, very little was evident. Only the contrast between the warmer coast and the slightly cooler but, uniformly even, Pacific Ocean stood out to the untrained eye. Suddenly, static filled the screen.

  "Fix it God damn it!” the Director ordered loudly, as if the force of his voice alone could right all wrongs.

  Subordinates scrambled to comply, yet their best efforts proved inadequate to solve the problem.

  Director Garrison was livid with the inability of his agency to deliver vitally important information. "God damn fucking junk," he fumed. "We spend billions on these worthless toys so they can break when we need them the most. These so-called experts probably couldn't fix their fucking shoelaces if they broke. That's why they invented velcro, so stupid assholes like these don't have to."

  Randy moved in and spoke quietly to his boss. "Vince, let's get out of here and let them do their job. They know what they're doing, we just have to let them do it."

  Garrison let himself be guided from the room as he thought about ways to cover his ass with the President. Failure of something this important could ruin his career.

  Twenty-five minutes later, the satellite still had not come back on line. A short time later, they got the word from the 2nd Satellite Tracking Center that the satellite was no longer in orbit. It had been struck by a UFO, re-entered the atmosphere and burned up, leaving a short bright streak in the sky as it flashed into white hot molecules.

  A short time later, they were again notified that additional telecommunication satellites were off the air, including sixteen commercial 'birds'. No more HBO for a while.

  CHAPTER 12

  Aboard the USS Houston

  The Los Angeles class submarines carry the BQS-15 short range sonar array. The Houston was using hers to try and locate a piece of a downed aircraft on the bottom of the Pacific Ocean. This would ordinarily sound like a daunting task, even for a highly advanced platform such as the Houston. In this particular instance, they were searching the continental shelf at a depth of three hundred thirty feet. If the craft had sunk some distance to the south, it could have entered
the Peruvian trench, a very deep slash in the ocean floor plunging six thousand feet down. To the north was a similar trench though not as deep.

  Chief Jablinski leaned against the crypto gear, trying to stay out of the way in the mid-sized room called the sonar suite. Sonarman First Class Martin James Robinson was acknowledged as the best Sonarman on the boat. He was holding the headphones tightly to his head, careful not to hold them so tight that he could hear his own pulse. His eyes were focused on the sound display CRT in front of him as he tried to make sense of the reverberating echo that resulted from the powerful blast of noise from the transducer.

  The Division Officer, Lieutenant Ronson, stuck his head through the door and caught the eye of Chief Jablinski. A nod preceded Jablinski's exit from the compartment.

  Outside in the slightly more spacious passageway, 'Ski said "Nothing yet Lieutenant, it's hard to separate objects from the bottom echo."

  Any reply was cut short from a loud "Gotcha" from inside the enclosure. 'Ski pushed open the door and saw Robinson's finger tracing a line on the display. "That's it," he said. "I got that puppy solid."

  Less than a minute later the submarine began rising to a depth of sixty feet. From here, her sensitive antenna would extend to the surface and send a message whose importance could not even be conceived of as yet.

  Onizuka Air Force Base

  Sunnyvale, California

  Christopher was exhausted. He had been up all night and most of the day without a break. However, if he had bothered to put his emotions into a coherent thought, it would be one of elation.

  He was faced with a real mystery. Until today, he worked on computer instruction code that had been designed and built by humans. He was in his glory as he attempted to decipher a truly alien data burst.

  The inclusion of computers as a tool in decryption had greatly sped up the trial and error process. Possible solutions can be attempted very quickly instead of the painstakingly slow method of calculating and printing each character by hand.

  Christopher sat facing his computer screen. The projected number matched the actual number. The computer had crunched it so quickly that he was unaware of the implications immediately. Slowly, realization dawned. "Son of a bitch," he said quietly, almost a whisper. "Son of a bitch," he said again, this time loudly emphasizing each syllable. "I got it."

  As a crowd of some of the brightest people on the planet gathered around, he explained "I found the mathematical process that generates the checksum."

  As these things go, it was only a small step in the right direction. It was of major significance in that it pointed out which direction was the right direction.

  CHAPTER 13

  San Diego Police Department

  Homicide Division

  Jesus sat down at his desk and stared at the files that lay upon it. So much work, so little time he thought as he bastardized the often heard phrase. His top priority was the now political Juarez investigation. He reached for the manila folder and noticed the Post-it attached to the cover. 'Juarez vehicle, 1ECD322, 1987 Toyota Celica, found at L.A. Airport. Impounded at 3:15 A.M. pending forensic exam.'

  "Hey Johnny," Jesus called to his partner, "they found Juarez's Toy at LAX. It's at Investigations."

  John Albertson reached for the phone and said "I'll call and let 'em know what we want with it. By the way, did you hear what the neighbors called Mrs. Juarez?"

  "No."

  "The neighborhood fifty cent piece," Johnny chuckled. "She wasn't real popular with the other ladies."

  "She was a hooker?" queried Jesus.

  "No, nothing like that. She just liked men. A lot of men. According to the neighbors, she had male visitors all the time when her husband was at work." Johnny held up his hand to signal his phone connection and Jesus turned back to his own desk.

  He reached for the Department Phone Book and looked up the number for the State Department Liaison. He flipped through several pages before running his finger down a column of numbers. He called the number indicated.

  "State Department, Police Liaison, Harolson speaking."

  "Good Morning Harolson, Jesus Escobar, San Diego P.D. We got a perp that killed his wife yesterday, fled to Peru. We need to know..."

  "Peru?" Harolson interrupted.

  "Yeah, I talked to Harry Keats yesterday. We arranged for the Peruvian National Police to grab him as he got off the plane."

  "Forget it," replied Harolson. "Watch the news and see. Somebody did an Auschwitz on them last night."

  "What are you talking about, Auschwitz?" asked Detective Escobar.

  "You know. Gas. Don't cops go to school," he chuckled without humor. "Fuckin place is gone. Casualties are going to top 5 million at least! If he was there he's dead. If he's on his way, he won't make it. Either way, things are going to be so fucked up that he'll fall through the cracks. File this one as pending forever and forget about it!"

  "Thanks," Jesus mumbled into the telephone and hung up.

  CHAPTER 14

  The White House

  Washington, DC

  Inside the Situation Room the air was stuffy. The room was surprisingly small and the air conditioning was struggling mightily, but fighting a losing battle.

  The hours had passed with great anxiety for those confined to the underground chamber. Forced to try and formulate a response to an as yet unknown problem is an aging process unlike any other known to man. The pressure to produce the right strategy is self-imposed and directly proportional to a combination of ambition and patriotism.

  Deputy Secretary of Defense George McHenry spoke forcefully. "The military situation requires that we cordon off the sea lanes approaching Lima and, as assets are allocated, block air and ground travel into and out of the area. We must contain this."

  Secretary of State Sharon Wilson had quietly entered the room. She spoke as she approached the rectangular table, "Contain it? If this UFO is responsible and is in orbit, how can we hope to contain it? They can come down wherever they choose."

  "Madame Secretary, the Navy shot one down this morning. They can be beaten, at least tactically. We must proceed on the premise that we can win."

  "Mister McHenry," Sharon began, her anger growing quickly "I was not suggesting that we lie down and die. This is a unique situation. We must be open to all avenues of approach including, indeed especially, diplomatic ones. Limiting ourselves to militant action limits the possible outcomes, most of which are decidedly unattractive." Her icy stare easily conveyed her sense of outrage at being talked down to.

  George McHenry felt the power of her focused attention and quickly realized his mistake. "Madame Secretary, I was merely conveying information that I had presumed you were unaware of. If I have offended you, please accept my apology." A little groveling might help and certainly couldn't hurt he surmised.

  Ignoring his last words Sharon asked "Have we been able to establish any kind of communication with it."

  Sensing an opportunity to put their friction behind him George said "We have tried standard inquires such as the Navy uses on the high seas and we've tried greetings straight out of Star Trek. There has been no response. The only emissions detected have been computer binary data bursts, apparently aimed at the aircraft over Peru. We have our best people at NSA and the Air Force working to make sense of them and we've had some promising results. Nothing substantive yet, just good beginnings.

  "We also have nose camera video from the Navy fighter." George handed the Secretary some still photos taken from the video that had been computer enhanced. "High delta wing with no tail, probably couldn't stay in the air at less than 200 miles per hour. It looks like a model of some stuff NASA was working on a few years ago. The Air Force has promised us some 'good' pictures of the area around Lima."

  "Interesting. Does anyone have any plausible ideas about why chemical attack and why Peru," the Secretary of State asked?

  Randy Weston, Deputy Director of Intelligence for the CIA was amused at the exchange between McHenry an
d Secretary Wilson. There had been concern by some at the CIA about the reception the first woman Secretary of State would receive in Arab countries after April Gillespe's Iraq debacle. He did not share in this opinion having known Mrs. Wilson since they served on opposing debate teams in college. Weston's Harvard team had suffered against Wilson (then Pearson) and her team from Sarah Lawrence. While they had not stayed in touch and certainly had not become friends, they respected each other as their careers had advanced.

  "Secretary Wilson, there are a variety of ideas on the table. Everything from gathering raw materials to setting up an advance base in preparation for conquering the world. Realistically, at this point we can only speculate. Until we can gather more information, we're guessing," the DDI said.

  Secretary Wilson turned to her old adversary, thinking that they had each traveled a long but different road only to arrive in the same room at the same time.

  "I presume you are now working harder to gather that information than you were the first time," she queried, cocking an eyebrow?

  "Me and the Air Force," he replied with a smile.

  Upstairs, in the press briefing room, the White House correspondents were very angry with the administrations silence. Individually, the correspondents knew that there was a big story working, but each had a different reason for wanting to break it.

  Lewis Mann had been a reporter for years before the term 'correspondent' was fashionable. How did the old saying go he thought. Yesterday I couldn't spell correspondent, today I are one. He was surrounded by a room full of people, some of whom worried more about their 'on air' appearance than the substance of their reports. There were enough of the good people to get the story out, but he was one who didn't 'suffer fools gladly'. Just now he was standing next to a fool.