The Zeta Grey War: The Event

by D F Capps

  Taz booted up the computers, plugged in the USB cable, and went to work on the password.

  “We found the safe. It’s going to take about four minutes to crack the combination,” Cantrell whispered.

  “It might take that long to get past the password,” Taz whispered. “Anistov is good at this.”

  Finally, Taz thought. He glanced at his watch. Five and a half minutes to break the password. It felt like a personal insult to take that long.

  “His embassy issued cell phone was locked in the safe,” an agent said quietly as he set it down next to the computer.

  Taz raised his hand in thanks and dug into breaking the encryption on the computer. He had seen similar systems on high level phones and computers before, but this one was tantalizingly different. There were elements of another, older system mixed in. He closed his eyes and focused on what he knew of Sergei Anistov’s history.

  Sergei was born in a small city on the border of Kazakhstan. There were at least fifteen languages spoken in Kazakhstan. It could be any one of them, or any combination. He looked at the length and structure of what he suspected were words. Probably not any of the common languages, he thought. Ingush, maybe? He tied the Ingush dictionary into his decryption program. Not quite right. He switched to Sinte Romani. Some words began to appear in the scrambled text. He was almost there.

  “They’ve ordered dessert,” Cantrell whispered.

  Good, Taz thought. He was going to need the extra time to figure out the encryption. He examined the structure of what was left, leaned back and let his mind organize the patterns that remained. He frowned. Could it be that easy? He tied the Uzbek dictionary into his decryption program.

  Text, diagrams, and photos appeared on Sergei’s computer screen. He set his computer to copy everything and moved on to the embassy issued cell phone.

  * * *

  FBI Director Matt Clemens ran his hand through what little hair remained on his head. The assassination of Andrews was bad enough. Now it appeared that the Russians might be involved. That was a surprise, especially since Andrews had insisted that Russia was no longer our enemy. He had personally examined the remains of three Zeta Grey aliens that Andrews had dumped and left on the floor of the House of Representatives. If the Zeta Greys were our new enemy, how did an attack by Russia make sense?

  He reviewed the files from the top six secret service agent’s phones retrieved from the bunker under the White House. What they revealed was an ugly betrayal of Andrews. He cross-referenced the names with a special file he had received from Andrews of corrupted people and those who were cooperating with the Zeta Greys. So far there weren’t any cross connections. Maybe it was the Russians.

  His intercom beeped.

  “President Harper on line one,” his secretary said.

  He sighed and picked up the phone. “Clemens.”

  He closed his eyes, listened, opened his eyes, and nodded. “We have some leads, but I can’t speculate on anything at this point.”

  He listened some more.

  “I should have something more specific by morning, sir, I—”

  He nodded again.

  “Yes, sir, I’ll get back to you with something in an hour.”

  He looked at the phone after Harper hung up and gently replaced it in its cradle. I don’t know what’s going to change in an hour, he thought. Just because the new president demands an answer, doesn’t mean there’s actually going to be one in an hour.

  * * *

  Taz discovered the password for Anistov’s embassy phone in eight minutes. The decryption program broke the encryption code within another thirty seconds. He started the copy procedure for the embassy cell phone.

  “The folder with the cell phone reader in it will be on the table any second now,” Cantrell said.

  Taz switched over to the computer he used for cell phones and logged in. Based on the passwords Anistov used on his other devices it took only eighteen seconds to get access to the phone. He smiled as he realized Sergei’s personal phone used the same encryption that was used on his personal computer. The problem was there were thousands of files, most of them graphic files, and time was running out. He copied everything except graphic files first, and then went for the photos. Halfway through the photos he lost the signal from Anistov’s cell phone. Whatever they had would have to do. Sergei and his friend were on their way home. Taz and the FBI crew had to get out now.

  Taz began reading through the files in the van on the way back to the FBI office. The other half of the communication files on the six secret service agents’ phones were there. So were the orders and plans for the assault against the White House. Within twenty minutes eight other possible Russian agents had been identified from Sergei’s devices, and since these people didn’t have diplomatic immunity, search warrants were ordered.

  * * *

  Director Clemens put off President Harper by leaving a message that eight people were being arrested. As soon as he had something solid, he would call Harper back.

  During interrogation, each of the eight people denied having any conversations or communications with each other or with Anistov. They claimed not to know each other. No one provided any explanation as to how the communication files got on their phones.

  Clemens reluctantly nodded as he listened. It was exactly what he expected from people who were involved in something this dangerous.

  At five in the morning, after his agents provided records from the phone company verifying the communications, he packed up the evidence he had, and drove to the White House.

  Chapter 38

  President Bob Harper strutted through the Oval Office fuming with anger.

  “Andrews was stupid,” he said to his chief of staff. “I told him he couldn’t trust the Russians. You see what happened? Andrews is dead along with a hundred and seventeen other people. You can’t trust the Russians!”

  There was a knock at the door to the main hallway. A marine corporal opened the door and led FBI Director Clemens into the room.

  “What have you got?” Harper demanded rudely.

  Director Clemens opened his briefcase and extracted a folder.

  “These are the communications we recovered from some of the secret service phones. Everything leads us to believe Russian agents were behind organizing and executing the assassination of Andrews and the attack on the White House.”

  “This is an act of war!” Harper shouted. “Russia is going to pay dearly for this.”

  Clemens held his hands out to interrupt.

  “These documents are preliminary pieces of information. We need time to back-check everything. We have to make absolutely sure everything we have is verified before you decide to do anything. I need at least forty-eight hours to be sure.”

  Harper shook his head. “No. That gives the Russians too much time to do something else.”

  “At least give me twenty-four hours before you make a decision. I have to have time to at least verify some of the more important aspects of what we have,” Clemens pleaded.

  Harper considered the request. “Twenty-four hours. Not a single second longer.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Clemens said. He turned and left.

  Harper stood and stared at the closed door. “I don’t know what he’s up to, but I don’t like it. It’s always been the Russians; everyone knows that.”

  * * *

  Commander Pedder grinned as they moved into the next cave entrance to another alien underground base. The design and operation of the flying pig, as it had become known, had been shared with the Russian Space Command and the Chinese Space Command. Army units attached to each were in the field with the new weapons.

  The flying pig zoomed overhead and flew into the cave entrance as before. The fuel-air combination blasted the iodine deep into the cave and the alien underground base. Pedder led his men quickly into the cave, vaporizing each alien device as they proceeded. As they reached the landing area for the scout saucers, Pedder became alarmed. Ther
e were no saucers, nor were there any Zeta Grey bodies. The base appeared abandoned. The only question was whether the self-destruct device was about to destroy them along with the base.

  * * *

  Taz read every email again, comparing copies of who sent each message, and who received it. Something was gnawing at him. Something was wrong. He just couldn’t put his finger on it. He glanced at his watch—twenty-eight hours without rest. He needed a break.

  He went down to the cafeteria and got something to eat. Maybe that would help. When he finished he headed back upstairs. SSA Cantrell, his boss, exited the elevator.

  “Mornin’, Mr. C,” Taz said.

  Cantrell frowned at him but didn’t say anything. Taz knew Cantrell hated the lack of formality; not acknowledging his rank and importance. But hey, it was geek speak. Calling him Mr. C was a form of respect. He stepped into the elevator and pressed the button. As the door closed, it dawned on him what was wrong with the messages. No nicknames, no sign of either familiarity or disrespect. The usual abbreviations were used, but it felt clinical and sterile: contrived, not natural. When he sent a message to his friend Nate, he didn’t spell out Nathan, or Nate, it was just N.

  He ran back into the tech lab and re-examined the messages. All of the metadata was correct, but the messages still felt contrived. He converted the messages back into raw code and looked at the structure. Everything looked normal except for a single line of code at the end of the messages. He checked the other messages. The same line of code appeared with some slight modifications on the end of the sequence. He’d never seen anything like it before. He copied it and posted it to an interagency bulletin board used by all of the code techs. If anyone had run across this line of code before, it wouldn’t take long to find out.

  Chapter 39

  This must be a joke, Peggy Sue Behnke thought. The short quiz on the computer screen read, “Have you been contacted by Aliens?” Ten simple questions followed. How would they even know? she wondered.

  She thought about Jasper and the incubator ship and shook her head. They can’t be serious, she assured herself. Who would even know? She was about to click on something else when she paused. It’s some kind of scam, she realized. I teach my students to question people who they think are trying to mislead others. She grimaced as she thought about the secrets she was hiding. They’re not ready to hear what’s happening to me, she rationalized. It’s too upsetting, and way too outlandish to believe.

  She stared at the questionnaire. Someone needs to call them on this, she thought. They probably have no idea about what’s really going on. She scanned down the questions. Each question looked simple enough, but they weren’t what she expected. The questions were a little weird. Well, at least obtuse. None of them actually asked for proof or factual information. She checked the bottom of the form: they wanted her email address. She hesitated again. If she ended up on somebody’s sales list, she could at least block the address. Worse case, she could report them to the authorities.

  She quickly filled in her answers to the questions and clicked submit. She didn’t like scams, and she disliked the people who ran them even more. If this is what they wanted, then game on. They just had no idea who they were dealing with.

  * * *

  Sean Wells frowned. This can’t be right, he thought.

  He had run the questionnaire under six different titles on twenty-eight websites. Responses had dribbled in over the last month. Dr. Jackson provided a scoring system for the questionnaire to weed out people who were only looking for attention. Anything under seventy points could be ignored. Ninety was considered a strong candidate. Dr. Jackson said it was rare to find a response score above ninety-five.

  Sean ran the numbers again. A ninety-eight. He emailed the results to Dr. Jackson, who gave him two specific follow-up questions. He forwarded the two questions to the lady and waited for a response.

  * * *

  Peggy Sue grinned when she saw the email in her inbox. What were they selling? She opened the email, read it, and froze. Her hands started shaking and her breathing became shallow. The two questions were very specific: describe the appearance of the aliens, and describe the medical procedures they performed. She stood up and paced around the room. They know, she realized. It’s not a scam. But what if it’s a trap? What if Jasper was testing her? Should she answer, or drop the whole thing?

  She closed her laptop and walked out into her backyard to get some air. She paced around the fenced-in yard not really looking at anything in particular; just thinking.

  After ten minutes she strode swiftly back into the house, opened her computer, and checked the email addresses on an email tracking website. She dug deeper into the identities of the names in the emails. The answers that came back were more unsettling than the questions: the original email traced back to a reporter from the New York Times, and the forwarded questions came from a retired psychiatrist from Yale University; a psychiatrist who had written a book about alien abductions.

  Peggy Sue desperately wanted a way out from the control Jasper, the hybrid, exerted over her. Maybe this was what she had prayed for. She answered the questions and clicked send.

  * * *

  Sean Wells felt his blood run cold as he read the answers in the email. He forwarded a copy to Dr. Jackson and called the phone number she provided. As soon as he finished talking to her, he booked a flight to Sheridan, Wyoming.

  Chapter 40

  No responses on the interagency bulletin board.

  Taz drummed his fingers on his desk. That meant none of the other techs had run across the single line of code before. That was disturbing. Most code was built on something similar, with roots of many code sequences going back years. It was actually rare to find a code sequence that was totally original. He frowned and breathed out slowly.

  “Only one way to find out,” he mumbled to himself.

  He took a new cell phone of the same model the secret service agents use and loaded the strange code into it. He turned the phone off and back on to initialize the code. He waited. Nothing was happening. He sent a message without anything else happening. He sent a message from his own phone to the test phone. Nothing. He looked at the secret service phone on his desk again.

  The only difference is that’s password protected, he thought.

  He set up a password, turned the phone off and on again, and logged in. Still nothing.

  He sat staring at the test phone for another ten minutes.

  It’s got to do something, he thought. Nobody writes code like this without it doing something. What is it?

  He picked the phone up, turned it on, and quickly thumbed in the password.

  Access Denied. Incorrect Password.

  He grunted. Must have fat fingered something, he thought. He entered the password again and gained access to the phone. Three new messages were on the phone that hadn’t been there before. He opened the first message, read it, and froze.

  The message was from one of the Russian agents under arrest at the FBI building confirming the plot to assassinate President Andrews. The second and third messages were from fellow secret service agents, who were now dead. Two more messages had apparently been sent as well. The strange thing was that the messages were dated and timestamped before the time of Andrews’s assassination.

  “Can’t be,” he said out loud.

  He dug through the evidence bags until he found one of the phones of agents copied in the new messages. He didn’t have the password so he connected the phone to his computer and worked at bypassing the password.

  When he got into the phone he saw that three new messages were present. As he read the messages his left hand began to tremble. They were the counterpart of the messages on the test phone—messages that shouldn’t have existed either here or on the new phone.

  He picked up his phone and called Cantrell.

  * * *

  “Empty?”

  Commander Pedder nodded.

  General McHenry looked ove
r at Colonel Novak.

  “We’re having the same experience. Everywhere we go, the Zeta Greys have vanished. We know there are self-destruct devices in the bases. We can’t locate them, but they’re not being detonated either.”

  “Curious,” McHenry said. “I can’t imagine that they’ve given up. What do you think is going on?”

  Novak raised his eyebrows. “I’d be consolidating my forces about now if I were the Zeta Grey commander. The flying pig attacks have killed more than half of the Zeta Greys we think are here.”

  McHenry nodded in agreement. “So we continue to use the iodine to poison all of the bases we can find.”

  “Denying them more areas of operations,” Pedder commented.

  “Precisely,” McHenry said. “Meanwhile, we can expect them to come up with another approach.”

  “If they haven’t done so already,” Pedder added.

  McHenry breathed out slowly through his lips. “I hate surprises.”

  “Don’t we all,” Novak replied.

  * * *

  “Explain this again,” Cantrell said.

  “Let me show you,” Taz replied. “These bags hold the cell phones of dead secret service agents who were killed in the attack on the White House. Pick one.”

  Cantrell frowned and reluctantly selected one.

  “Open the seal and sign the chain of custody log.”

  When Cantrell finished, Taz took the phone and plugged in the cord connecting it to his computer. He used his special program to locate and enter the password. He then pulled up the messaging history and swung the screen so his boss could read the messages.

  “Yeah. So?”