These Few Brave Souls

by Rodney Manchester

  Over three hundred ninety-two thousand human lives were terminated when a slight breeze pushed the green chemical to the west.

  Korla Airport

  Bayingol, Xinjiang China

  Captain Guan Kai pointed his Shaanxi Y-8 four engine turbo prop toward the Taklimakan desert 300 kilometers to the southwest as he rotated skyward. A short hop of an hour each way and half an hour on station looking for flying saucers would get him home in time for dinner with his new bride. He never tired of her care and attention, especially after spending hours in this old, slow and tired airplane. Guan had hoped to be chosen to train on the IL-76, or even better yet, the H-6 heavy bomber.

  But no, here he was, flying the Y-8, a direct copy of the old Soviet AN-12. Originally built under license and assistance of the soviet’s themselves, political friction had severed the agreement and Chinese engineers had reverse engineered the aircraft, renaming it Y-8 and one of the first Chinese built aircraft in the Peoples Liberation Army Air Force.

  And what was he looking for? Flying saucers? Bah, stupid waste of time for a professional aviator such as himself he thought. But his very professionalism kept his face straight even as his commanding officer smirked as he gave him the orders.

  “Guan, you will search with diligence for the flying saucer.” As Senior Colonel Qiu Jianzhong, the base commander himself issued the orders he broke into a chuckle. “You will report all that you find, balloons, children’s toys, sand, rocks, dirt, whatever,” he said with another laugh.

  “Seriously Guan,” he said as he put his hand on Guan’s shoulder, “Beijing is very concerned about this report. Personally I am inclined to dismiss it, but those hútú dàn in the west are going crazy over UFO’s, flying saucers and other nǐ búshì dōngxi. Ha, what fools, it’s all nonsense… pìhuà!”

  But, we have our duty and our orders and we will execute those orders in their entirety. Do you understand?”

  “Yes Sir!”

  “Good, now on your way. The sooner you leave, the sooner you can get home and play with your new wife, eh,” he said with a lewd wink and another laugh.

  A short hour later Guan started flying a search grid over the Taklimakan Desert. Kilo upon kilo of empty sand lay below when his co-pilot screamed. Guan jumped, as much as his harness allowed, before looking to his right, and at the aircraft off his starboard side.

  Small in size, the satin finish of the high delta wing reflected light with a subdued gloss. The aircraft suddenly veered toward the Y-8 as Guan keyed his microphone.

  Only a few words escaped his mouth before the two aircraft collided, tearing a wing off the Y-8 and sending the airplane spiraling into the ground 5,000 meters below. Unknown to the critically wounded and rapidly dying Captain, who now had a wing support strut sticking out of his side, the radio operator in the rear of the plane was sending the critical message as soon as the alien craft had come into sight. While not anything that saved their lives, Chinese radio operators in Bayingol heard, and relayed the message to Beijing.

  Unfortunately for the peace and stability of the world, radio operators in an IL-76 Early warning electronic surveillance aircraft, out of Semey airport in the nearby Altai Republic heard it too. While most citizens of the world never heard of the Altai Republic, their political masters in Moscow knew the name quite well indeed.

  Intercept officers deep within the bowels of CIA Headquarters in Langley Virginia watched the aircraft come apart in real time.

  CHAPTER 38

  White House Situation Room

  Washington, DC

  "What?" The President's face drained of color, leaving a pasty white shade behind. Each wrinkle in his increasingly haggard features gave the indication of advanced levels of stress.

  "Thirty-three aircraft are missing with no reported survivors. The center of the attack seems to be northeast of the Los Angeles area, in the desert," General Easterly repeated himself as he closely examined his President's face. A person’s reaction to bad news is often a measure of their character. He didn't like what he saw.

  "Mr. President, this is only the beginning. It may get worse before it gets better."

  The President took a deep breath and paused a moment before saying, "What else."

  "As we feared, the Aliens have begun spraying their sterilization chemicals. A fairly large area in the California desert seems to be their target. Centered on the small town of Ludlow near Highway 40, it is near Twenty-nine Palms Marine Corps base to the southwest and Fort Irwin about 30 miles to the northwest. Both bases have been hit very hard with high loss of life, especially Twenty-Nine Palms. Apparently some units were prepared and had NBC suits on at Fort Irwin."

  "What's an NBC suit," the President interrupted?

  "Nuclear, Biological, Chemical, sir," replied General Easterly. The President's head nodded.

  "Essentially a rectangular section of California has been sterilized. We have some units from the Army's First Infantry Division heading toward Ludlow. They were training at Fort Irwin when this happened. They will reconnoiter the area, but based on the example in Peru, we're not hopeful about what we find."

  "Excuse me, Mr. President," Howard Cartier interrupted.

  "Just a minute Howard, what direction is the wind blowing General? Will we have to deal with Los Angeles turning into another Lima?"

  "No sir, not at this time. We have what the weather people call 'gentle desert breezes' and that is forecast to continue."

  "Thank God for small favors. Okay Howard, what is it?" Steve Bermin turned to look at his Chief of Staff and realized that this crisis was affecting them all, not just him.

  "Mr. President, some of the California delegation from the House and both Senators are waiting to speak to you upstairs."

  "Ask them down, Howard. I'll meet with them next door. General," he said, turning to the Chairman, "arrange to have them briefed on the current situation. I'll join them when that's done."

  "Yes sir," replied General Easterly and Howard Cartier almost in unison.

  "Also sir," added Easterly as the President raised his head and met his eyes, "we have some interesting and potentially helpful intercepts by some NSA people and the signals analysis group from the Air Force. My Electronic Engineers feel that the attack earlier was by remote controlled vehicles and that they can be jammed."

  It was the first positive sign in some hours and the President clung to it like a drowning man grabs onto a rope. "What sort of options does it give us?" he asked hopefully.

  "We are looking at some F-22's with Raven support sir," the General replied.

  "In English please," the President said testily.

  "Sorry sir. The F-22 is the new Advanced Tactical Fighter. It's engineered to be very stealthy. Not as invisible to radar as the F-117, but much more potent against aircraft. The Raven is the Electronic Countermeasures aircraft based on the F-111. It's hoped that the combination will be effective against the intruders." The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs had been awake for over 30 hours and the strain was beginning to show. His eye lids felt as if they were passing over sandpaper and continuous coffee had given him jittery nerves. And this was only the beginning.

  "Let me know the instant you have a plan developed."

  "Yes, Mr. President. One more thing sir.”

  “Yes?”

  “A sixth UFO was detected over China, destroying a Chinese surveillance aircraft. We suspected that there may have been another UFO in this area, so we were watching in real time. This confirmed it.”

  “Shit. What do we have over there?”

  “Nothing sir.”

  “Nothing? Nothing at all? No Aircraft carrier nearby?”

  “No sir. This area is over 2,000 kilometers from the Indian Ocean. We’d start World War III if we put naval aircraft over the middle of China.”

  “That may be the least of our concerns. Get me Chairman Zemin.”

  Forty minutes later, the President entered the elegant briefing room given over to the Congressional deleg
ation from California. Six secret service people followed, stationing themselves around the room. Fourteen congress men and women as well as the two Senators arose from their seats. George Hanks, representative from Laguna Hills spoke first.

  "I demand to know exactly what the Hell you’re doing about this. My constituents are in danger, great danger, and your Administration is sitting on its hands. The only man I could trust in this rat race is missing and I want to know what happened to him." His face was flushed and the veins on his ample nose were visible indicating his penchant for alcohol. His normally bushy eyebrows were especially wild, protruding about in all directions. The room went quiet with the strain just tensioned.

  The President of the United States, Steve Bermin, clamped his jaw tight and stared hard into the eyes of Congressman Hanks. Several seconds passed before the Congressman seemed to back down and join his colleagues in taking their seats.

  "To whom do you refer Mr. Hanks?"

  "Why you know very well who I'm talking about. My good friend Mr. Paul Leya."

  "As of this morning, I have declared a State of National Emergency. Part of this declaration includes the suspension of Habeas Corpus. Mr. Leya is being held until such time as he is no longer a danger to this country." The President watched several faces blanch at his announcement.

  "Why, you can't do that!" Congressman Hanks sputtered as he jumped to his feet. Three secret service men discreetly moved in his direction. The disruption of yesterday’s cabinet meeting had come as a surprise that would not be repeated today.

  "That is clearly within the purview of Congress, not the Executive! Why, it's written in Article 1 of the Constitution which defines the Legislative branch, not the Executive branch."

  "Mr. Hanks, the United States of America has been invaded! This is a time of National Emergency. I don't have the time to debate these issues at length with Congress. I have taken these measures by Executive order and they WILL stick. President Lincoln set the precedent during the Civil War and I can and have done the same."

  "Why, why...why you can't do that," sputtered Hanks again.

  "I repeat, I can and I have, sir. Now stop blustering. There are no cameras in here, no constituents are watching." The President paused and collected his thoughts. He turned to the other faces at the rectangular table.

  "We have suffered a great defeat in California, but we are not defeated. Our will to win has increased tenfold with today's trial. Our experts have studied the situation and they have come up with a plan that they believe has a high degree of success." What's a small white lie told among professional liars he thought? "We will reverse this action and remove this Alien presence from California and the World."

  "Mr. President, You and I have often stood on opposite sides on the field of politics," began the Liberal Senator. She continued, "Yet we both know that the well-being of America comes first. Each of us, in our own way, has fought for our own version of that well-being. There is no doubt here today that our interests are the same and our enemies are the same. Harsh action is necessary and prudent. I don't agree with your order regarding Habeas Corpus, but I will not fight you on the matter. History will judge you far better than I am able.

  "Today, we are neither Democrat nor Republican, neither Liberal nor Conservative. Today, we are only citizens of the United States. A United States in peril, indeed, a Perilous Earth. President Bermin, I stand with you."

  The room broke into applause from the politicians, including a reluctant George Hanks. He despised the current President, yet he was well aware of the direction of the political wind that had just now sprung from this room.

  The President shook his head to himself. He briefly considered having the California Senator checked for a tape recorder. That speech was pure Missouri mule shit, but, of course, he couldn't do that. Instead he graciously nodded his head in her direction and said "Thank you, Senator."

  Placed slightly above the returning smile, her twinkling eyes told him that they both knew how the game was played.

  CHAPTER 39

  USS Coronado

  Off the northwest coast of Peru

  First Lieutenant Warren L Harlin was unsure of the protocol when coming aboard a Naval Vessel. Especially when entering by way of an airplane. He disembarked from the Harrier by climbing down a ladder rolled over to the side of the aircraft. An officer wearing ear protectors motioned him into a hatch in the bulkhead. Once inside he removed the helmet and handed it to the officer.

  "Welcome aboard, sir. If you'll follow me please, I'll show you to your quarters," he said as he led off.

  After wending their way through a maze of inter-connecting corridors, they arrived at a door that looked like a hundred others they had just passed.

  "Your quarters, sir. I believe that Professor Jorgenson is right next door," he said, pointing. "They quit about an hour ago."

  "Thank you."

  The Naval Officer left and Warren tossed his small bag on the postage stamp sized desk. The bag contained two changes of underwear, some utility uniforms, and toiletries that he had managed to buy at the exchange just before leaving. Warren took off his crumpled uniform and crawled between the sheets of the spartan cot the Navy call a bunk.

  He sometimes dreaded sleep, or rather the dreams that came with sleep, he corrected himself. The past was just that, the past. It was over and his Father did not have control over him any longer. He tried to shut out those thoughts and fill his mind with the wonders about to be exposed to him. A real UFO, aboard this ship. And tomorrow, he would get to see it, maybe even go inside! Sleep came eventually, overcoming his excited enthusiasm.

  Warren stood in the batter's box, the bat resting lightly on his shoulder. He looked at the infielders as they chanted at him. They were ready for the pitch. So was he.

  Warren had been waiting for this opportunity since Little League started. It was the bottom of the seventh with one out and runners on second and third, and most important, his Dad was in the stands.

  He had been practicing his hitting every day and he was getting pretty good. In fact, the coach had moved the first baseman out of the clean up spot and put Warren there. He couldn't wait to show his Dad how good he was.

  The pitcher wound up and threw a fast ball. Warren swung at a pitch too high to be a strike and missed. He heard his Dad yell behind him

  "That pitch was way too high. Make him throw strikes. Don't ever give anything away."

  He nodded his head and the loose fitting batting helmet slid around, partially blocking his view. He paused to straighten it out and then crouched into his stance.

  The next pitch was right down the middle and he stood there watching it. The umpire said "Strike two!"

  Warren heard his Dad go off. "What's the matter with you kid," He shouted. "Can't you ever do anything right?"

  Warren felt himself tighten up and inwardly cringe. Sweat broke out on his forehead despite the cold, late evening breeze.

  The whole team began to chant at him as the pitcher started his windup. The baseball left the pitcher's hand and came toward him. He swung the bat as hard as he could, closing his eyes as he muscled it around. The ball was low and he missed it badly.

  "Strike three!" the umpire cried.

  Warren risked a glance at his Dad, only to see him shake his head. As he walked back to the dugout, he heard the first basemen's Father comment from the front row of the stands, "He's a loser, just like his Father."

  What was worse, his Dad heard it too. He looked at him and saw the mask of rage intensify across his face.

  The game ended with the next batter grounding out. Practice was announced and all too soon, they were on their way home. Warren's Dad didn't say a word and neither did Warren.

  When they got home his Dad went straight to the cabinet and removed a bottle of Bourbon. He poured some into a glass and drank it right down. Warren went into his room and changed out of his uniform and went right in to take a bath.

  When he turned the water off, he hear
d his Dad yelling about the game. "Goddamn kid embarrassed me in front of everyone. He couldn't even come close to hitting the ball. Made me look like a fool." Something slammed, probably the glass. He heard nothing from his Mom. She had learned long ago to keep quiet when Dad got like this.

  Warren shivered despite the warm water around him. He laid back and tried to relax as the water covered his chest. Then the bathroom door slammed open against the stop, poking a hole through the wall board and sticking open. His Dad stood framed in the doorway, his face clearly showing his hatred for the boy who had humiliated him. He held the ends of his studded leather belt in his right hand, the loop swaying menacingly back and forth. "Get up you little bastard!" he yelled. "I'll teach you to treat ME this way."

  Warren trembled as he lay there, unable to comply. He wanted to, he really did, but his muscles refused to move beyond their increasingly violent quivering. His Dad came forward in a rush and viciously grabbing his arm, jerked him out of the water and to his feet. He swung the belt at him, striking his leg with a powerful blow whose snap echoed in the tiny room. Warren felt the pain ripple outward from the impact and he lost his balance. His Dad's grip slipped on Warren's wet arm and he fell back into the tub, striking his head and splashing water all over the floor and soaking his Dad's pant leg.

  "Why you little..." his Dad screamed incoherently as he savagely dragged Warren back to his feet and began to beat his naked and wet flesh. Minutes passed in a blur to Warren as his mind was numbed by the blow to his head and the incessant blows to his body.

  Finally, his Dad threw the belt into a corner of the bathroom and left. Warren slumped over the edge of the tub and didn't move. He stared at the blood stained leather belt as his breath came in ragged sobs. Slowly, his mind returned to him and the pain became the anchor of his attention. He heard his Mom come into the room and jerk the door stop out of the wall and close it.