One of the officers tried a radio check, but dispatch still provided no response. Just rapid clicking interference permeated the parking structure.
Lieutenant Maxwell shrugged and yawned. “Well, it must be a system problem. They’ll have to coordina—” A sharp jolt of static silenced his comments.
Ridley and the others winced at the harsh sound as it ricocheted throughout the parking structure. After several seconds, the static and clicking tapered off. A string of on-duty status reports came over the air in rapid succession. As the transmissions continued, the officers in the parking structure dispersed. Some entered the station, while others went to their waiting patrol vehicles, already forgetting about the odd interference. Ridley followed Lieutenant Maxwell to the building’s entrance and held open the door.
“What do you think the problem was?” Ridley said.
“Don’t know. Like you, I’m no technician. No biggie, though—seems to be working fine now.”
“I thought it might have been my unit’s radio, but since it’s not, can I go ahead and take off now? I’m anxious to start my vacation.”
“Just make sure your reports are done.”
“They are. Dropped them off earlier.”
“See you when you get back, then. Have a good one.”
With that, Ridley stepped inside the police station and headed for the locker room.
What a slow night, he thought.
<> <>
Inside the oversized navy-blue Chevrolet Suburban parked amidst the desert scrub, the controllers no longer engaged in idle conversation, but rather focused on their main display screens. Another ten-minute delay in the countdown had left them ample time to review the planned flight profile for the experimental aircraft and to triple-check their various electronic systems. The sergeant and lieutenant waited with practiced patience for resumption of the countdown, which held at T-minus forty-seven seconds.
On the radar panel in front of the sergeant, a flat, twenty-inch screen displayed white and blue lines crisscrossing a dark gray background. The white lines formed the perimeters of the test ranges adjacent to Nellis Air Force Base. The blue lines, which resembled the shape of an inverted pyramid with a narrow rectangle protruding from the bottom point, delineated the airspace assigned for this particular test of a flying saucer recovered in 1947. The craft, otherwise known as the “experimental,” originated from beyond Earth. Its collision with another similar vehicle and their subsequent crashes in the desert near Roswell, New Mexico, had provided the US government decades’ worth of reverse engineering and sporadic flight tests.
Words and numbers on the screen also denoted various mountain peaks and their elevations: “SHEEP PK/9750,” “CHARLESTON PK/11918,” and “MUDDY PK/5363.” At the bottom of the screen, near the center, was, “LAS VEGAS/MCCARRAN.” A similar screen on display in front of the lieutenant also included several dashed yellow lines within the borders of the assigned airspace. These marks indicated the planned flight path for the experimental, represented by a white dot on both screens and labeled as “XP/0.” Radar data had the experimental positioned near the upper left corner of both screens. The dot flickered at irregular intervals, something the controllers had noticed during other tests and had been told would occur again.
As he watched the dot, the lieutenant lifted his headset back to his ears and nodded to the sergeant to do the same. He turned off the cabin audio switch and folded his arms. For a split second, he thought he heard his headset crackle with static, so he double-checked that its connector remained attached in the console jack. The interruption cleared, and both listened as the countdown resumed.
“T-minus forty-seven and counting. Med reports normal life signs. Thirty seconds, mark. Telemetry reports online. All systems normal—”
More static hissed through the controllers’ headsets. The lieutenant tapped the earpiece with his index finger. He glanced at the sergeant and saw his subordinate’s face change from a look of bored professionalism to utter confusion.
Sergeant Gonzales jerked forward. What he saw made no sense. Another white dot appeared near the “MUDDY PK” marker and moved in the direction of the experimental. Report. Report as you’ve been trained to do, he thought. His still boyish voice squeaked out the warning. “Target! Unknown target!”
The vehicle’s onboard computer assigned the unknown target a designation, “UNK/7803.” The dot tracked steadily, with its altitude indicator showing a rapid descent.
The lieutenant scanned the display. “What the hell?”
This time, the static blasted through the headphones at high volume, and both men instinctively ripped them off.
Anxious to call in his report, the lieutenant carefully raised the headphones to his ears. The static dissipated, but a strange clicking now emanated from the earpiece. With no radio transmissions, he attempted to broadcast an update. “Uncorrelated observation inbound at angels seven, rapid descent, entering quadrant four.” He checked the screen. The experimental remained on the ground. “Can you hear anything, Sergeant?”
Preoccupied with the image on the display, the sergeant did not answer. The unknown target just performed an instantaneous ninety-degree turn and dropped to below two thousand feet.
“It’s coming this way,” Sergeant Gonzales said.
The lieutenant, despite the technical problem with the radio, kept sending the status reports. “Unknown now on course three-one-zero at sixteen hundred feet. Variable airspeed.” He turned to Gonzales and said, “Get with the driver and do a visual check.”
“Yes, sir.” Gonzales stepped out of his seat and slid open the driver cab’s access window. The driver leaned toward the radio console, checking different channels. “No time for that, Bresch; the radio’s down. Get your binoculars and get out.”
After grabbing his night-vision binoculars, Airman Bresch lifted the rifle from its dashboard mount and joined Sergeant Gonzales at the front of the vehicle.
“There’s an unknown target, southeast, about five miles,” Gonzales said.
Bresch searched the desert terrain for intruders.
“No,” Gonzales said, pointing at the sky, “an unknown, airborne target.”
“What altitude?”
“Under two thousand.”
“Civilian or military?”
“Unknown!”
Gonzales’s eyes darted back and forth, trying to find the object. He knew there must be a reasonable explanation for this situation. The briefing was clear enough: one flight, one target. Must be a technical glitch, he thought.
“There it is,” Bresch said, confused. “It’s low. I thought the experimental was restricted to five thousand or above?”
Looking toward the horizon, Sergeant Gonzales spotted a glowing ball of light. Alternating between glossy shades of green and blue, it moved steadily to the northwest.
Silently.
The luminous orb, orange now, instantaneously jumped skyward several hundred feet, and then danced ahead.
It stopped.
Red and silver strands, a flickering halo of plasma, encircled the sphere.
The rapid clicking now emanated, but not from the radio; it echoed through their heads. A chill shivered up Gonzales’s spine, causing him to arch his shoulders and shake his head.
The unknown target hovered, emitting a radiant glow and obscuring the stars behind it.
With eyes fixed on the object, Airman Bresch stepped backward until the truck’s bumper pressed against his trembling legs. “What’s that clicking sound?” The binoculars dropped to the ground, and then so did he, onto his knees.
Out of the darkness, the air vibrated with another, more familiar noise. Sergeant Gonzales turned around and found a relieved expression on Bresch’s face.
“Here they come!” Bresch said.
Two F-15 fighters raced in from the north. As dual intakes greedily consumed huge droughts of air, the hot turbofans propelled the planes toward the unknown. They approached, encountering their targe
t in a matter of seconds.
It waited for them.
The fighters rushed in aggressively, closing the gap.
The object maneuvered, jumping again, two thousand feet straight up.
One of the F-15s fired its afterburners and accelerated into a steep climb. The second jet rolled through a right turn, heading west. It circled low, near the truck’s location, and then ascended directly toward the target. The other F-15 also reversed direction, running parallel to the craft and slightly above it.
The fighters engaged.
A plume of white luminescence spiraled outward from the intruder, blanketing the hilltop in a brilliant flash, and then it collapsed as quickly as it had appeared.
And the fighters vanished.
Before Sergeant Gonzales comprehended what happened, the object disappeared in a white streak toward the northwest. “My God!”
“Where are they?” Bresch said.
Gonzales grabbed the binoculars from the ground and scanned the sky and terrain. “I don’t see them.”
“They can’t just be gone. They must have crashed.”
Gonzales ran back to the truck and spoke to the lieutenant. “Sir, we need search and rescue out here right away.”
The lieutenant provided no response. His headphones lay on the console, and he held a cell phone next to his ear. He did not speak, except to say, “Yes, sir.” After hanging up the phone, he said, “Sergeant, the test was scrubbed due to a communications malfunction. All other systems are normal. We’re returning to base.”
“But, sir—”
“The site is secure and all systems are normal! We are returning to base.”
Chapter 2
The Elusive Fifth Species
A mid-July morning in Washington, DC, formed into another oppressively hot and humid day. Beads of sweat joined easily into pesky rivulets on the brows of hurried commuters. They emerged, wet, from the many metro stations and headed for their nearby offices, silently cursing those who believed building such a city on a swamp was a good idea.
Meteorologists predicted rain for the afternoon. In anticipation of the inclement weather, some carried umbrellas concealed with other items in their bags or briefcases, or windbreakers tucked under their sticky arms. Most, squirming in their increasingly pasty garments, simply did not know what to expect.
At Reagan National Airport, lengthy rows of taxicabs inched forward, each approaching their turn to help transport the steady stream of travelers who exited the terminal. Tourists, soldiers, business executives, students, and other visitors waded into the muggy air that hung over the Potomac.
Among them stood a very purposeful figure, General Edward Taylor, US Air Force. After a brisk walk from the main terminal, he took his place behind several people waiting curbside for taxicabs. Instead of his uniform, the general wore an off-the-rack gray suit, which fit his trim six-foot frame well, but made him appear more like a warehouse supervisor unexpectedly promoted to management than a career military officer. Only the combination of Taylor’s close-cropped gray hair and disciplined bearing suggested his real identity as he stood there, nearly at the position of attention, with a firm grip on the soft leather briefcase in his left hand. Polished black leather shoes stepped occasionally to move him forward. His green, motionless eyes stared directly ahead.
When Taylor reached the front of the line, an attendant asked him for his destination. He responded with Washington, DC, and the attendant directed him to the appropriate taxi. As others around him jostled and struggled with luggage, Taylor stepped immediately into the cab and shut the door. Glancing once at the driver, he informed him that his destination was the Naval Observatory.
The taxi wound its way onto the George Washington Parkway. This route, along the Potomac on the Virginia shore, offered a scenic view of Washington’s distinctive and symbolic architecture. The monuments—Lincoln, Jefferson, and Washington—and the Capitol rose above the lush green of the mall and river foliage. Despite the summer heat and humidity, joggers filled the running trails. Although familiar sights to Taylor, they passed with little confirmation of their presence.
Instead, he focused his thoughts on the meeting due to commence, by his watch, in twenty-two minutes. He had attended dozens of these sessions in the last fourteen years. This one was different, however, as it was unscheduled and convened at a location other than Nellis or Wright-Patterson. As such, Taylor anticipated more-anxious-than-usual participants, especially when they learned of the latest developments.
He recognized why.
The walls of secrecy around the Saint Mary Project had weakened. Fear of a breach stalked his colleagues and threatened to expose the Circle. Time was running out for them.
And for Taylor.
Retirement was just under six months away. Thirty-five years had passed since he received his commission in the air force. As a fighter pilot in the 1970s, he thought he had reached the pinnacle of his aviation career. Work as a test pilot in the 1980s showed him otherwise.
Looking back, he would have preferred to remain assigned to an air wing after serving as a test pilot. But he chose, instead, what he thought would be the stable duty of air force intelligence.
For the most part the assignment was stable. In twenty years, he had served at two bases, Nellis and Wright-Patterson. This was ideal for his wife and son. They put down roots, and so did he.
Gradually, though, the duty came to dominate his life. The highly sensitive details and special burdens reshaped him. Once a model officer and family man, now an obedient sentinel guarding without distinction the gates of heaven and assassins of hell, Taylor felt his self-respect, like Saint Mary’s secrecy, slipping away.
The taxi jerking to a stop on M Street in Georgetown interrupted his thoughts. Having just crossed the Key Bridge from Virginia, they ran into the remnants of heavy morning traffic. As the cab moved again, Taylor let his gaze drift out the window. Mist settled, casting the scene in a sullen, colorless hue.
“You don’t have much luggage,” the driver said, a tuneful Caribbean accent carrying the words toward his passenger.
Surprised by the comment, Taylor turned and said, “No.”
“Your stay in Washington will be short?”
“Yes.”
“Must be a business trip?”
“Yes.”
“What business you in?”
“I sell computer systems. Hardware and such.”
The cabby seemed impressed, and then mentioned something the general thought sounded like a question about his alleged profession.
Leaning forward, Taylor said, “I’m sorry, what did you say?” He did not want the driver to quiz him on this, but he was familiar the routine.
“Care for some music? I have a radio.”
Taylor relaxed and sat back. “Yes. Fine. Perhaps a news station instead?”
The driver tuned the radio to one of the local news stations and nodded at his passenger. Taylor thanked him, and then watched the facades pass by as the taxi approached Wisconsin Avenue.
On the sidewalk, people scurried along, gaits hastened to avoid the intensifying drizzle.
Except for one person.
Clad in blue, this figure stood motionless, looking into a store window.
Was it a uniform? Taylor thought.
With cockpit-perfect vision, Taylor zeroed in on the individual’s profile. A man with short brown hair. A young man, tilting his head to one side.
Looks like Drew, Taylor thought.
The stoplight turned red, but this did not prevent the cabby from getting them through the intersection. The acceleration brought Taylor’s attention to the driver. Anger quickened his pulse. Grief, several years old but still fresh as the last breath of air filling his lungs, cranked his head back to the sidewalk.
The young man disappeared.
Taylor closed his eyes and tried to subdue the growing strain. As much as he missed his son, he had learned from previous instances that these encounters were th
e result of wishful thinking. Figments of his imagination, an imagination comfortably restrained by a precise mechanical mind.
Except when it came to Drew.
The facts were hard to accept, the explanation inadequate. By all accounts, official and otherwise, his son was dead, killed in a sortie over Baghdad during Operation Iraqi Freedom.
Naturally, he had been very proud the day his son graduated from the Air Force Academy. He told Drew time and again, “As long as you’re in the air force, just fly. Don’t do anything else. Just fly.”
Drew had intended to do just that.
The military never found his remains. There was wreckage, but no body. At the time, no one at the Pentagon seemed interested in pursuing the case. As it turned out, the only information Taylor obtained was that his son’s mission was classified.
“Edward, I am sorry,” the air force chief had said. “Andrew was confirmed killed in action. How we know this, why we don’t have the remains, and other mission details are classified. I’m sure you understand. You’ll just have to trust me.”
Taylor, turning to double shots of scotch, but mostly absorbed in his work, survived the uncertainty.
His marriage did not.
With diminished traffic on Wisconsin Avenue, the taxi hastened its pace to the Naval Observatory. After the driver pulled into the public entrance and parked, Taylor took two twenty-dollar bills out of his wallet. “Keep the change.”
“Thanks, man, good luck to you,” the driver said.
Once Taylor passed the guarded entrance, the air-conditioning cooled his skin and helped him to gather his thoughts. Just ahead, a wrinkled face smiled in his direction. Seeing the old man gave Taylor a sense of reassurance.
Truth Insurrected: The Saint Mary Project Page 2