"Yeah, Captain. He's the perp who killed his wife with his cast, then took off for Peru. Ramon Juarez, and his wife was the sister-in-law to a Mexican Diplomat."
"Yeah, yeah, I remember now. You're sure it's him?"
"Looks like him. Here, check it out," Albertson said as he passed the picture to the Captain.
Washington took the photo and scrutinized the image and then stared at the television. "Goddamn, it sure does look like him. Anybody see a cast?"
John looked at Jesus and they both shook their heads. "I haven't seen one, but then I wasn't looking. The camera has been either too far away, or too close up," John said.
As the entire homicide squad began closely following the camera, looking for a cast on the man's arm, Captain Washington went back into his office and called the Chief.
Governor Slater's office
Sacramento, California
Julius Slater hung up the phone and called for his Secretary, "Dan, get the President. He needs to hear this."
An aide entered the room with a ‘While you were out' message form. Julius scanned the pink paper. "Get the Mayor back on the line and get the details," Julius said.
"He's on hold now, sir. Line four"
Governor Slater picked up the receiver and pressed the button next to the blinking light. "Mayor Joseph?"
"Governor, it’s good to talk to you."
"You to Glenn. What's this about identifying the UFO guy?"
Glenn Joseph was slightly put out that the Governor cut right to the chase. Small talk is traditional, if even for a moment. Personal conversation impresses the hell out of visitors in his office, but today he was alone, so he wasn't overly offended.
"We have two Detectives who recognized the guy from a case they were working on. His name is Ramon Juarez. He killed his wife a few days ago."
"Glenn, that doesn't make sense. He kills his wife and ends up on a UFO representing an Alien?" the Governor said.
"Is that what he's doing?"
"I didn't say that, Okay?"
"Sure Julius, sure. I know it makes no sense, but that's what happened. He killed his wife and flew to Peru. His flight never made Lima, but diverted somewhere else. Then he shows up here."
"Okay. Listen, I gotta go Glenn, the President's on the other line. I'll have my aide pick up your line and get the details. Thanks." He pressed the hold button and called "Dan, grab line four and get whatever you need from the Mayor."
He pressed another button on his phone and the line changed. "Mr. President," he said.
"One moment sir."
"Hello, Governor," Steve Bermin said.
"Mr. President, I just got off the phone with the UFO guy. He wants to talk with what he calls "The Authority". God knows why he landed in San Francisco instead of Washington."
"What did you tell him?" the President said, trying to keep the annoyance out of his voice.
"I told him that I would set something up and he should call back in an hour."
"Good man, good man. We'll have someone there soon. I'll call back within the hour. Thanks Julius."
"One more thing Mr. President. The Mayor of San Diego called just before I called you. It seems he has two Detectives who identified this guy. They said that he killed his wife earlier this week and fled to Peru. The flight diverted somewhere else, then he ends up here."
"What? Are you serious?"
"Yes Mr. President. That's what they said."
"Okay Governor. I'll get back to you." The line went dead.
CHAPTER 32
National Security Agency
Washington, DC
Deep inside the bowels of a nondescript government building in Washington DC, Tores Munillo was barely able to contain his excitement. He was a small young man with acne scars on his face. His Pakistani origins were obvious in his dark skin and straight black hair. He rushed to his supervisor and then had to wait until she got off the phone. When she did, Kathy Runion turned to Tores and asked, "What is it?"
Tores replied in his sing song accented English so quickly that he was unable to be understood. Kathy coaxed him into slowing down.
"Miss Runion, I was scanning the big satellite when I caught a fragment of signal. I held that bandwidth and frequency for just a few seconds and it happened again. Just a very low powered snippet that I would have missed if I hadn't been looking in the right place."
Kathy smiled. She was a large woman with a round face. She was not popular in school, probably due to her size and intellectual prowess. Studies have shown that most women don't do well in higher mathematics due to a genetic predisposition associated with the double X chromosome. She was different. Kathy came by her spatial perceptions and hence, her mathematical abilities, naturally. Perhaps nature felt that there should be exceptions to every rule to prevent stereotyping. Whatever the reason, her abilities allowed her to excel in a man's specialty. Fortunately, the government had instituted policy changes that prevented the 'old boy network' from discriminating against women such as Kathy. While these policies didn't always work, in Kathy's case, they prevented her from being held back.
Kathy earned her job through hard work. An outstanding mathematician, most would say gifted, she had done some interesting work in random number sequences. The term random number would seem to imply that the next number in a sequence would be unknown, yet nature has her rules and Kathy had discovered some of the parameters of a new one. It had been her idea to look at photos of the satellite and calculate the length of antennas that they saw. Once they had the approximate length, they could predict the band of frequencies that the aliens used. "So Mr. Munillo, what do you think it is?"
"Spread Spectrum," was his reply. "Duration was about five milliseconds, so I would guess that they're frequency hopping around two hundred times a second."
Spread Spectrum is a technique that was originally developed in America for secure communications. The idea was to spread the radio signal out over a huge bandwidth, thereby requiring a special radio to listen in. The advent of high speed microprocessors and a technique called 'phase locked loop', for frequency control, allowed for changing channels very rapidly. This variety of Spread Spectrum is called frequency hopping and is very difficult to spy on. You have to know where the next channel is before you can listen to it. Some varieties follow the same sequence over and over and are fairly easy nuts to crack, while others use complex algorithms to calculate the next channel. These are the tough ones.
Kathy Runion raised her eyebrows in question. "Bandwidth?"
Tores replied "Fifteen kilohertz. Just like narrow band FM but I think this is Phase Modulation."
"You think?"
"Yes. Just a hunch, but it's different enough to point at it. I need more signal to tell for sure."
"Okay Mr. Munillo. I'll see if I can get you some help and a few resources allocated to this little project." Kathy felt the adrenalin pump into her system. She loved puzzles and this would prove to be a good one. “Good work!”
But Tores was already back in the zone, his supervisor’s praise passed unnoticed.
32°43’44.10”N 1°51’55.98”W
Near Bouafra, Morocco
Staff Sergeant Wilbur Jones raised his arm and gestured to get down silently as his point man, Willie B suddenly hit the dirt. Willie B, also known as Corporal William Beasley, lay silent and still as the rest of M Squadron did likewise.
Slowly, Willie felt his adrenalin recede. He had seen a flash in the sky from the same direction they were traveling. Close too!
Thoughts of UFO’s had been spinning around inside his head for hours now. Too much of a professional to let it impact his behavior, he and his squad mates had been talking about it pretty much nonstop since they left Gibraltar.
UFO’s? Unbelievable on its face, yet here they were, crouched in the sand trying to sneak up on one. And why send Marines to the middle of the desert to check it out? Why not send the RAF or the Royal Army. Billy and his squad mates had no idea that their Special
Forces rivals were similarly engaged across the pond, as they referred to the Atlantic Ocean. Oh well, he thought, when you care enough to send the very best, it was Squadron M, SBS. Poor Mary on the terrace!
Sergeant Jones gradually, slowly crept up on Willie’s inert form. “What’cha see Willie boy,” he asked?
“I saw movement about a klick out in front, low in the sky,” Willie replied. “Looked like something was heading down, maybe landing,” Willie continued. “Bloody strange, it went down in front of that plateau, not on it. Don’t they know anything about high ground?”
“Maybe they do and maybe they don’t Willie, but we certainly do. Yes indeed, we know all about it.” Jones said as he turned and made his way slowly and carefully toward his commanding officer.
Ancon Peru
Passing through the coastal community of Ancon was a change as remarkable as any Chester Adams had ever seen. His rural back-country upbringing had prepared him for poverty, but the 'young towns' had shocked him. As a PFC, he had been on a cruise to the Far East where he had seen over crowded conditions. Yet nothing in his life had even come close to the horrid lives these people had endured.
By contrast, here they were in Ancon, an obvious upscale resort community surrounded by opulence and wealth. How could a people abide by rules that left an upper class and a lower class without a middle class?
In America, the middle class far and away outnumbers the other two, and in fact, there is no clear line dividing them, more a blurred definition on a census takers pad than anything else. In person, not far away reading a newspaper, it became easy to understand revolutionary appeal. The 'Shining Path' could have openly recruited in the 'young towns' merely by conducting a tour of Ancon.
However, Sergeant Adams was a Recon Marine. The finest outfit in any service anywhere he firmly believed. He knew that the SAS could credibly argue the point, but he believed in his bones in what he felt. He could, and did, evaluate other people with values undoubtedly skewed to his way of thinking. So be it. He was a Marine, not a philosopher. But then, since November 11, 1775, that had been enough.
"Step it up Benuchi. We ain't got all day," he growled. Like Sergeants the world over, he was never satisfied.
"Sergeant," called Captain Marsh.
Adams moved in the ranks until he was even with his Lieutenant and the SAS Captain. "Yes sir."
"We take the west road at the Y ahead. About ten klicks and turn east. Some Green Berets have marked the spot for us. I don't know how they marked it, but I'm sure we can't miss it."
Moffett Naval Air Station
Sunnyvale, California
Similar to Pearl Harbor in the surprise aspect, the landings in San Francisco caused predictable reactions in the military community. Christopher Jorgenson had a sticker on his vehicle, issued by Onizuka A.F.B., admitting him onto the Air Station, but the Air Ops building became off limits for non-military personnel. He discovered this when he parked his car in the lot and walked to the double glass door entrance to the terminal. Just outside was a sailor armed with a vicious looking assault rifle. The sailor was young and looked just about old enough to shave every other day. The rifle he carried looked to be entirely lethal, regardless of the maturity of the bearer.
"Halt," bellowed the baby faced sailor.
Christopher's surprise at the decibel level emitted from this young man almost caused a laugh to escape from him. Almost. The rifle wasn't funny.
"I've got a plane to catch," replied Christopher.
"I'm sorry, sir. Non uniformed personnel are not allowed into the terminal."
"But I'm on important government business."
"I'm sorry, sir. You are not allowed into the terminal."
Christopher paused for a moment before realizing that the young sailor was following orders and talking to him was going to get nowhere. He returned to his car and turned on the radio. He turned the knob until 810 was displayed on the AM side. The usual banter between the morning hosts was replaced by live reports of UFO’S in the Civic Center.
Christopher was dismayed at the news. He had assumed that this was limited to Peru. A San Francisco landing cast an ugly pall over what he thought was an unexpected adventure. He alternately sat in his car and leaned on the fender for over an hour and a half before a Navy Lieutenant Commander walked toward him.
"Are you Jorgenson?"
"Yes," replied Christopher.
"I've got your transportation here."
"I hope you can get me through the door. I've been here a while, but he won't let me in."
"No problem."
And there wasn't. Escorted by the Commander, Jorgenson was passed through and brought to a Marine Major in a flight suit. Twenty minutes later, similarly dressed, he left Moffet behind as the TAV-8A Harrier Jump Jet two seat trainer left the runway. Not vertically as he had expected, but, after a conventional take off roll.
"I thought these things were vertical take-off?" he said into the intercom.
"They are when they have to be.”
Christopher looked around through the canopy, amazed at the view, even from the back seat. Fifty-five minutes later, they landed at El Toro Marine Air Station, refueled, and left again for the intercept at sea with the USS Coronado.
CHAPTER 33
C21 VIP Transport Aircraft
Over Mid-America
Charlie Wilson had smoked cigars since he was twelve. His Uncle had smoked them and young Charlie thought they smelled great. The first one that he put between his lips made him very sick and threatened to cancel his love of the aroma. Tenacity paid off however, and he overcame the harsh nauseating flavor. By his twenty-second birthday, the sight of Charlie without a cigar became rare, and the smell of Dutch Master Presidents inundated all of his garments. It was the smell, more than anything else, which first caught Sharon Pearson's attention.
Sharon met Charlie at a social affair where their friends conspired against them. A friend of Charlie's just happened to know a friend of Sharon's. In a moment of self-proclaimed brilliance, they arranged a 'chance' encounter at a cocktail party heavily attended by fresh-from-law-school rookie attorneys. Fresh from prestigious, Ivy League Law Schools that is. Upwardly mobile long before the term was dreamt of.
Sharon's first reaction to the brash young man was feigned disinterest and real distaste for his stogie. Charlie's reaction was love at first sight. Over the next eighteen months, Charlie won her heart and Sharon accepted his fifth proposal of marriage. Tenacity makes its own reward.
Sharon even accepted the smell of his cigar, although that took an even longer time. Over the years, she began to associate the scent with Charlie's undeniable masculinity.
Charlie's law career spiraled up and Sharon's took a slightly different, though equally successful, path through public service. Each achieved success through the American ethic of hard work and long hours, yet their love flowered and blossomed with the scant free time available between them. A son was born and a nanny was hired for the long days when both Mom and Dad were away. A time of great beginnings and great deeds to be done. Time for his career and her ideals. His income and her mission. All things in life were great, yet there was not enough time to enjoy what she now realized was really important. Each other. All three of them.
She began to realize that they may have made a mistake when Charlie became ill. “It's just a sore throat,” he said. “Nothing to worry about. I'll go to the doctor next week, after I finish this case. It’s really important.” Next week became next month as time was scarce and important case followed important case. Finally, with his voice becoming a rasp, Charlie went to the doctor.
Cancer.
How can one word change a life, a dream, a family? Yet it did, as they desperately sought a cure for the disease that had run rampant. "Too long before detection" became the words that sealed their fate.
Charlie became progressively worse as his once muscular frame shed pounds at an alarming rate. He was but a skeleton when the day came. He was
home from more surgery when he decided to leave his bed for a trip to the bathroom. He was too weak for the brief trip, yet, a stubborn man all his life, he attempted anyway. The coroner said that he must have stumbled on something, perhaps even his own feet, before falling and striking his neck on the toilet bowl. Whatever the cause of his fall, the result was the same. The impact opened unhealed surgical wounds in his throat, causing profuse bleeding. Charlie drowned in his own blood.
Sharon's world came apart as her husband was laid to rest. Oh, she was stoic on the outside, but her world, her very foundation was swept from beneath her. Like so many long term marriages, theirs had been one of mutual support, love, and understanding. Without conscious thought, they had grown to depend upon each other, gaining more from each event by sharing it. Her loss seemed total and unjust. Her son, now a grown man, was some comfort, but the love of one's child cannot replace the loss of a lifelong spouse. Emptiness was not word enough to describe her emotions.
Many lifelong friends had attended the funeral, including one of the conspirators who had introduced them so many years ago. This particular attorney was now the President-elect of the United States of America.
Nine months later, following the untimely death of the Secretary of State, she received a phone call from the Oval Office. After much thought, she accepted the nomination and was confirmed by the Senate shortly thereafter.
Sharon Wilson, Secretary of State of the United States of America, was a harsh task master. Throughout the Department of State, she was known as the Queen Bitch. They called her that behind her back, yet those things become known to all very quickly. It's funny, she thought, a man is aggressive, but a woman is a bitch. Oh well, so be it.
One of the foibles of human nature is the complaining about one's job, and, frequently, about the boss. She had taken her share of shots at those in authority, little aware of the pain those shots can inflict on the target. Now she knew.
These Few Brave Souls Page 14