She and her father and the vice president had spent the rest of the evening talking over dinner. And later drinks. The more time she spent with Alan Wallace, the more impressed she was with the man. And very glad he was joining their cause.
She closed the outer door behind them and punched a code into a panel near the inner door. After a moment the door clicked and opened quietly.
She stepped inside a few paces and then moved sideways so the vice president could see the entire room in front of him. The place still gave her the chills and she knew how it affected others. Shock.
And sometimes pure terror.
Followed by complete loyalty to the cause. The main display was designed for just that purpose.
Actually, the room was nothing more than a large warehouse converted into a combination modern lab and control center. The floors, walls, and ceilings had been painted pure white. Hundreds of lab tables formed groups around the room. Some tables were covered with parts of machines. Others were filled with computers. At the moment about thirty people were at work around the room, yet it still seemed mostly empty of life.
The center of the room was filled with a huge global map surrounded by computers and cluttered desktops. Neda's desk was near that map, where she could run everything going on around her.
However, it wasn't the maps and the desks and the painted walls that always struck visitors first. It was the two gigantic statues of the alien Klar that occupied an elevated platform against the far wall.
The statues were of two Klar standing side by side.
Neda and her father had the two statues built using descriptions Neda and others who had seen the aliens gave the artist. The two statues were as close as anyone could get to what the Klar really looked like. Height, weight, everything.
Those two giants pieces of plaster always made Neda shudder. This morning was no different.
Neda used the alien statues shamelessly to recruit help. She would use them to recruit the vice president of the United States for the team working to fight the real aliens out there. The statues, combined with the previous night's presentation and six notebooks full of documentation would do the trick.
Both Klar statues were over eight feet tall, with hoof-like feet. Viewers' first impression was that they were snake-like. They had two intense black eyes and two slits below the eyes that appeared to be nostrils. Their mouths slanted downward in slashes that extended down onto their wide necks.
Their heads were cone-shaped and positioned forward of their bodies on thick, wide necks. Their necks were cords of thick muscles, far wider than their heads, which gave them a cobra-like look. Their "skin" was a scale-like brown-and-white substance that formed intricate patterns. They had four arms, the two major ones extending from the huge neck muscles and ending in four claw-like fingers. The two smaller arms were tucked under the larger ones and also ended in four claws.
Both wore a tight-fitting form of elastic uniform. Both appeared to be of the same sex. One alien held a rifle-like gun in its two large arms, aiming it out over the room.
The vice president's mouth dropped open for a moment as he stared at the statues, then he closed it and swallowed hard. After a moment he moved toward them slowly, talking as he went. "Where did you get them? Is this actually what the Klar look like? How did you have them made?"
Neda laughed. Even the vice president asked the normal questions. She moved up past him and stood in front of the two statues. "These two," Neda said, pointing at the statues, "are the best representations we can come up with of the two Klar I saw when I was abducted."
The vice president's head snapped around and he looked at her. "I didn't know."
She laughed. "Very few people do. And I was one of the lucky few that have gotten away."
Neda could tell that he desperately wanted to ask more questions of her, but thought better of it. Later, if she had the chance, she'd tell him her story.
He looked back up at the statues towering over the room.
"They are real Klar in every detail we've been able to piece together. Over sixteen hundred people have stood here just as you are this morning and looked at these two statues of the aliens. Every person who has seen them is now working for us in one way or another."
"Working?" Again the vice president pulled his gaze away from the two Klar statues to glance at her. "Doing what?"
"Another long story," she said. "But first, sir, take a good look at them. Imagine yourself stretched out on a table, unable to move, being studied by those two. Then come and sit down. We've got a lot to talk about in a very short time."
He nodded, then turned and stared at the two Klar statues. Then, with one word—"Creepy"—he moved over and sat down across from her desk.
"What's the first question you have at this moment?" Neda said. "I'll try to answer it and then outline what we are doing to stop those creatures."
The vice president glanced back at the two alien statues. Then he turned back to Neda. "I didn't ask this last night, but do you know how long they've been here, on Earth? Studying us? And where did the name Klar come from?"
Neda nodded. "We have a pretty good guess. At least fifty years. And they've just always been called Klar by humans. We're not sure exactly why."
The vice president's face went white, then he nodded.
With that movement Neda began to outline what the sixteen hundred people working for her were doing. And where they needed his help.
Chapter Nine
If you know anything about detective work, you'd know that the most seemingly impossible conditions are often the easiest to explain.
—-CAROLYN WELLS
FROM VICKY VAN
7: 20 A.M. JUNE 23.
CENTRAL IDAHO PRIMITIVE AREA
The flight from Portland to the little resort community of McCall, Idaho, had been quick as far as McCallum was concerned. He'd kicked back the wide chair, put up his feet, and slept from the moment the wheels of the Harris Industries jet left the runway in Oregon to the moment they touched down in Idaho.
Harris told McCallum later that he had managed to do a little business during the flight and McCallum had no idea what his freckled assistant Arthur had done. But when McCallum woke up the kid's face looked a little pale and he wasn't talking much at all. Maybe the flight had been bumpy. McCallum had been far, far too sound asleep to even notice. Thanks to Claudia and her unusual hiring-an-investigator methods.
Valley County Sheriff Bill Holt met them as they got off the plane. He was a solid, friendly man with a big smile, a thick black mustache, and a small pot belly that hung over his wide belt. He wore a brown uniform and a wide-brimmed hat. McCallum knew from the reports that he'd worked with the state police on the Harris case, and Mr. Harris actually seemed glad to see him again.
Short introductions, a transfer of a few bags of supplies from the jet, and ten minutes after leaving the corporate jet they were airborne again, only this time in a helicopter with the words BACK COUNTRY AVIATION stamped on the doors.
The pilot, a middle-aged guy named Tom, swung the chopper around and headed it at an upward slant toward the top of the mountain range in the distance, barely clearing a telephone pole as he did.
McCallum had taken the front seat, with the sheriff and Harris in the back seats and Arthur half-kneeling, half-sitting in the luggage area behind them. It wasn't McCallum's first time in a helicopter, but the way Tom sort of aimed the thing at the top of the mountain ridge gave him an uneasy feeling. There were far too many reports of small planes and helicopters crashing against high mountains for him to like having one he was riding in aimed at a mountain.
McCallum forced himself to relax, wake ,up, and look around a little. The roar of the helicopter's engines was a steady background noise and made almost any form of talking impossible. So the only thing there was to do was look at the countryside below. And there was plenty to look at.
The day was beautiful, with crystal-clear air and only a few fluffy white clouds floa
ting through the bright blue sky. Tom, in the only full sentence he'd uttered before they left the ground had said, "It'll be a hot one."
The valley they were climbing out of was postcard-stunning in its beauty. A river wandered through the green fields and a crystal-blue lake filled one end. The little town of McCall crowded against one side of the lake and McCallum could see houses strung along the lake shore in the pine trees, tiny fingers of docks poking into the blue water. Right at this moment he would have much rather been sitting on one of those docks reading a good mystery, with Claudia sunning herself beside him.
Strips of bare ground cut through the trees of a tall mountain to the north of the lake, marking it as a ski hill. He could see the poles of the chairlifts dotting the hill. All in all, McCall was a beautiful place. McCallum decided that if he ever got the time he and Claudia would come over here for a vacation. It certainly looked relaxing enough. He'd bring a few books to read, and they might even be able to find some country bar to go dancing one night. It would be a fun trip.
Tom took them over the top of the mountain ridge about two hundred feet above the tree tops and the snow drifts and then leveled out.
McCallum glanced over at the altimeter. Eight thousand three hundred feet. McCallum would have been much happier with a few hundred feet or so more height over those trees, but he didn't say anything. Clearly Tom knew exactly what he was doing and had most likely done it hundreds of times.
At least McCallum hoped he had. If this was Tom's first flight McCallum didn't want to know about it.
Ahead, and in all directions, McCallum could see nothing but mountains. Ridgelines disappeared in the clear distance in front of them like waves on an ocean. Snow-covered peaks jutted into the sky far higher than the helicopter was at the moment. McCallum always knew this area was huge, but until this very moment he had no idea just how vast it really was.
And below them not a building or road in sight. It was as if humans didn't really belong here.
Maybe they didn't.
McCallum pushed that thought right back where it came from.
Over the next fifteen minutes Tom skirted close to the tops of three more ridgelines. One moment the chopper would be three thousand feet over a valley floor and the next it would seem to clip the tops of the trees on the ridge. Finally, after barely clearing one rock- and tree-covered peak, the chopper turned to the left and dropped down into a valley.
"Sulfur Creek!" Tom shouted over the sound of the chopper, pointing at a faint blue ribbon winding through the trees below. "We'll follow it down to the Middle Fork!"
McCallum only nodded, not bothering to try to shout back. From the look of the headphones Tom wore, he would have had to read McCallum's lips to hear him anyway.
McCallum leaned over and stared at the small creek below. If that was Sulfur Creek, then he knew they were smack over the largest primitive area in the lower forty-eight states. He'd studied the map of the area enough to know that Sulfur Creek dumped into the Middle Fork of the Salmon River about three miles above where Tina Harris and Jerry Rodale had disappeared.
McCallum stared into the distance to his right. In that direction the resort town of Sun Valley, Idaho was about a hundred miles to the south of their location. The edge of Yellowstone Park was a hundred plus miles to the east, dead ahead, and the River of No Return was a hundred miles to the north out Tom's window.
There was nothing but dangerous mountains, rivers, and wildlife where they were now.
After a few more minutes Tom had the helicopter down a few hundred feet above the valley floor, skimming along at about sixty miles per hour. The huge mountains now towered above them as they flashed along, occasionally being jarred by an air pocket. McCallum's biggest fear at this height was of an air pocket slamming them into the trees.
"Moose!" Tom shouted, and pointed ahead.
A huge moose, its long nose pointed up at them, stood in the middle of a meadow. The thing was bigger than a horse and looked much meaner. Not even the sound of the approaching helicopter seemed to scare it.
"Stay away from them!" Tom shouted, then laughed to himself at some private joke.
McCallum had no intention of arguing with the man. Or even asking what was so funny. Moose had never struck him as funny animals, except maybe Bullwinkle.
A moment later the helicopter banked over a large blue river and headed downstream.
The Middle Fork of the Salmon River tumbled and fell over rocks below. From the air the water looked extremely rough and fast. McCallum couldn't imagine that people actually rafted that river, but they did, starting about ten miles upstream from where they were at the moment.
Three minutes later a clearing appeared near the river and Tom slowed and finally hovered, setting the helicopter down with only a slight bump in the grass between the tall, thin lodgepole pines.
Tom flicked a few dozen switches and the engine roar slowly died away, leaving McCallum's ears ringing. He was very glad they were back on solid ground. Unusually glad.
Climbing out, the first thing McCallum noticed was the heat. For some reason, flying over snow drifts and between snow-covered ridges, he'd not realized how hot it might be in the mountain valleys. But it wasn't even ten in the morning yet and this area felt damn hot. He was glad they weren't going to be in here long.
He moved away from the helicopter into some shade and waited until the others climbed out and joined him. A slight wind made a rustling sound in the trees, and the river filled the steep-walled valley with a dull, faint roar of water rushing over rocks.
"This way," the sheriff said, and started off across the meadow. They wound through a few trees before coming on a dirt trail that ran parallel with the river. The next half mile turned out to be much farther than walking a half mile in downtown Portland.
The trail climbed up and down like a yo-yo, and wasn't straight for more than twenty feet. Three times they had to either go around or climb over fallen trees. For a few hundred years the trail was on a ledge about a hundred feet over the river, then it wound down until they were beside the roaring water. Then it climbed back up into the trees.
McCallum knew that most of the people who were crazy enough to walk this trail carried heavy packs. He couldn't even imagine that. He was having trouble with the trail without carrying a thing. And he considered himself in good shape.
Finally Sheriff Holt said, panting, "Here we are." He pointed above the trail and started up into a small clearing.
"Thank God," Arthur said softly behind McCallum. McCallum actually agreed. His shirt was totally drenched with sweat and his heart was racing. He had no doubt Claudia would say it was good for him, but at the moment he wasn't so sure.
Holt stopped, turned, and handed McCallum a water bottle. "Take a good one," he said. "This heat and altitude will drain you faster than punching a hole in a water balloon."
McCallum laughed, but did as he was told, then passed the bottle to Arthur. The water was warm, but it clearly hit the spot.
McCallum glanced around. Harris was sitting on a large stone back near the trail. He had a lost look in his eyes. Arthur handed the bottle back to him and he took another drink, then passed it back. "Thanks."
"No problem," Holt said as he took a drink himself before putting the bottle back into a carrier on his belt. "I'm just glad Mr. Harris has got someone else looking at this case. It's been a real puzzle to my office and to the state police."
"I'll bet," McCallum said. "Arthur, go sit and keep Mr. Harris company."
Arthur nodded, a look of relief on his flushed face.
McCallum glanced around at the trampled earth among the trees. "Sheriff, would you mind telling me how the kids' camp was laid out? I saw the pictures, but it would be nice if you described it, too."
"Sure," Holt said. He turned and pointed at a flat area between two trees. "Their tent was pitched there, opening facing east. Any experienced backpacker tries to pitch a tent facing east to catch the morning sun."
M
cCallum nodded and for the next ten minutes Sheriff Holt described the camp of the two young college kids, detail by detail, sometimes mentioning how they had been doing something right in their camping skills.
McCallum listened intently, then glanced around at the valley. "So, this far into the back country, how were they ever reported missing?"
"A lot of luck," Holt said, pulling out the water bottle and taking another swig. He offered it to McCallum, who shook his head no. "Three trail workers from the Forest Service just happened past here, heading for a slide ten miles downriver. You know those three are the only ones responsible for maintaining almost a thousand miles of trails in this wilderness area? Can't be done. A few years from now most of the trails won't be passable. And except for the river or helicopter, there's no other way in or out of here."
Holt shook his head in disgust. McCallum could tell that this was a very personal subject for the man. And McCallum knew enough to not get him started on it.
"So," McCallum said, steering the conversation away from government shortfalls and back to the missing kids, "the trail crew stopped?"
Holt nodded. "Their names are in my report, but no telling where in here they are at the moment."
After seeing mountain range after mountain range from the helicopter, McCallum figured that there was no point in even trying to find the trail crew.
"They saw the camp," Holt went on, "and as they always do, they stopped to see if everyone was all right. Sort of a survival courtesy in these mountains."
"I can understand that," McCallum said.
"They found the camp just as I described it," Holt said. "They figured the occupants were off fishing or something, but the leader of the crew, a guy named Bob, said the place felt odd, so they took a break and hung around a while. When no one showed up in an hour Bob sent his two co-workers on to the landslide to get to work while he waited here."
"Smart guy," McCallum said.
"That he is," the sheriff said, then went on. "By late that evening it was clear that no one was returning to this camp, so Bob left a note for his workers, dropped his gear, and hightailed it back up the river to the forest ranger at Dagger Falls. About ten miles."
Abductors Conspiracy Page 4