Mr. Ashley froze in mid-stride.
"Go!" McCallum shouted, shoving the first missile in the antitank launcher and pushing his way through the front glass doors as fast as he could go.
He took three steps down the sidewalk, went to one knee, and aimed the antitank weapon at the light overhead. Something huge and black blocked the stars out just above the trees, but McCallum could see nothing of what it was. Just blackness.
There was no noise coming from it.
Nothing but total silence.
This wasn't a helicopter. Or any American plane McCallum had ever heard of.
Mr. Ashley started to lift off the sidewalk as though he weighed nothing and a breeze was pulling him away.
It was now or never. In a moment Mr. Ashley would be too close to the dark shape.
"Fire!" McCallum shouted, and pulled the trigger, aiming directly at the point where the white light came from the dark mass in the sky.
The force of the missile leaving the launcher rocked him back and the heat cut at his face. But he stood his ground.
The missile seemed to have only just left his shoulder when it hit the blackness overhead and exploded.
The flash lit up the underside of the dark mass, showing McCallum strange shapes and diamond patterns on what seemed to be the entire sky above him.
Then the blast concussion knocked him backward into the grass and he ended up tangled with the legs of one of the national guardsmen.
The night went pitch black around them. The blast had knocked out all the streetlights and the home's lights.
The last remains of the blast echoed off over the city below, and then all was silent.
Black and silent.
Mr. Ashley dropped back onto the sidewalk with a loud thump and a little yelp of pain.
Claudia had been standing in the open door of the home. She had been knocked backward, but managed to hang onto the second antitank missile as she fell.
McCallum quickly scrambled back up, knelt on the sidewalk, and aimed the antitank launcher upward again. "Claudia! Another missile!"
She was already headed his way.
Now he could see the blackness move slowly against the background of stars. A soft red spot seemed to glow in the center of it, maybe from where the missile had hit. But it was still up there. The missile hadn't done much to it, it seemed.
Claudia handed him the second missile and he loaded it into place.
"Brace yourselves," he shouted to the others.
Beside him Claudia dropped to the grass.
The blackness drifted to the side and down slightly, smashing with a loud crashing sound into the tops of the nearby pine trees before climbing up again.
"Maybe I did do some damage," McCallum said. "How about I do some more?"
The black shape drifted away from the pine trees and seemingly up higher.
McCallum aimed at the red spot. "Here we go again!" he shouted, took a deep breath, and fired again. . He was rocked backward as the missile shot away.
This missile took only an instant longer than the first to reach its target.
Again an explosion lit up the night and the strange shapes on the underside of the craft. The craft was like nothing McCallum had ever seen outside a science fiction movie. Round, black, and very large.
An instant later the blast impact smashed into him and knocked him tumbling backward into the grass.
He sat up quickly as the huge black shape, now with two glowing spots, side by side, moved up and up, hovered for a moment, then shot off toward the eastern mountains.
McCallum climbed to his feet and turned to Claudia, who still sat on the grass. "You all right?" he managed to ask, his voice shaky.
"I think so."
McCallum offered her a hand up and she took it. And then hugged him as she got upright.
The three guardsmen also seemed to be climbing to their feet. And inside the resident center lights were coming on and alarms were sounding. McCallum could see a dozen windows broken out along the front of the building. In a few minutes this place was going to be a zoo of police, fire engines, and reporters.
"Mr. Ashley!" Claudia shouted. She let go of McCallum and ran down the sidewalk to where the old man lay, moaning. A leg was twisted back up under him, obviously broken.
"What exactly was that?" one of the guardsmen asked, his voice trembling as he stared at the night sky.
McCallum laughed. "As a person once said to me, you wouldn't believe me if I told you."
Chapter Thirty-Two
If there was no such thing as coincidence, there would be no such word.
—HERON CARVIC
FROM PICTURE MISS SEETON
1:45 a.m. JUNE 26.
WASHINGTON, D.C.
The president of the United States pulled his thick brown robe tightly around himself as he entered the Oval Office. He'd been awakened by a phone call from the vice president, who had been awake overseeing the coming search of the nation's cities. In John's few years at this job he'd only been awakened twice before, and neither time was good news. He didn't expect this to be, either.
Vice President Alan Wallace was pacing when John entered. He was dressed in the same suit as earlier in the day, but his tie had somehow vanished and his hair hadn't seen a comb since lunch.
As John closed the door from his private office, Alan said, "Sorry to wake you, sir."
John waved him off and went to the tray of coffee and juice the staff had managed to get in place. "Just tell me what's happened."
"It's Portland again, sir."
John spun around, spilling some of the orange juice from the small pitcher. "Christ, it's still there, isn't it?"
"Yes, sir," Alan said. "Sorry to startle you."
The president snorted, a habit he'd only picked up in the last year, mostly while listening to things he didn't want to respond to. "Just get to the problem."
"The Portland mayor and police, with the help of the National Guard, set up stakeouts at nursing homes and retirement centers around their city this evening. They figured the Klar might try to get another elderly man for taking a bomb into Portland. They were right."
"So another poor soul has been abducted, huh?"
"No, sir," Alan said. "They stopped it. Richard McCallum, the man who found the first bomb, and a few national guardsmen had a run-in with a Klar ship as it tried the abduction from a secluded retirement home."
"What?" John said. He'd managed to get about half a glass of orange juice drunk. "Run-in? What in hell's name did they do? And did they really see an alien ship?"
"They saw one, sir," Alan said. "They stopped a man from being lifted into it."
"How did they manage to do that?"
"McCallum hit the Klar ship with two antitank missiles."
The president set his glass down, walked around behind his desk and slumped into his chair. "I'm afraid to ask," he said, slowly. "Did he down it?"
Alan shook his head no. "I wish. But he did manage, it seems, to do some damage. The thing smashed the tops off about thirty pine trees trying to get away."
"So the Foster report may be correct. These aliens might not be that far ahead of us in technology, that is, if we can dent one with an antitank missile."
"We don't know, sir," the vice president said. "But two antitank missiles didn't down it."
John sat thinking for a moment. "Is this going to hurt the bomb search tomorrow in any way?"
"I don't think so, sir. And neither does Neda Foster. Everything is almost ready. But the press in Portland are going nuts. I guess the shots McCallum fired could be seen all over the city."
"Stonewall them," John said, flatly. "Nothing until after the search. Nothing. I want any chance of panic over those bombs being in the cities stopped cold. Understand? No reporting, no panic."
"Yes, sir," Alan said.
Again there was silence between them for a moment, then the president said, "McCallum. Who is this guy?"
"An ex-cop turned private
investigator," Alan said. "I met him. Seems sharp."
John nodded. "Found the first bomb. And now fired the first shot in what may turn out to be the first true World War. I'm just glad he's on our side."
"So am I, sir," Alan said.
The president waved him toward the door. "I want a full report of what happened in Portland on my desk as soon as it comes in. Now go back to work. It seems I have a few dozen phone calls to make again."
The vice president nodded and turned for the door.
"Oh, Alan," John said.
Alan turned. "Yes, sir."
John smiled. "You know that meeting with the Joint Chiefs we talked about? Better schedule it for the war room tomorrow evening, after the bomb searches are over for the day. We've got some explaining to do, I'm sure. And plans to make."
"I'll schedule it, sir," Alan said, smiling at the president. Then, as he turned away, he said, "But I won't look forward to it."
Chapter Thirty-Three
Digestion should be considered before a meal.
—-VICTOR WHITECHURCH
FROM THRILLING STORIES OF THE RAILWAY
:15 a.m. JUNE 20.
PORTLAND, OREGON
The mayor sat behind her desk, her hair pulled back into a tight ponytail, the phone against her ear. She wore a baggy knit sweater and old jeans. Circles were slowly starting to form under her eyes. For a good two minutes, since the phone rang, she hadn't said more than two words.
McCallum sat in an overstuffed armchair to her right, against the bookcases. Claudia sat on the arm of his chair, resting her hand on his shoulder. Her hand felt good there and every so often he reached up and squeezed it.
Regional FBI Director Earhart had taken the chair directly in front of Janet's desk and the Portland chief of police had the one beside him.
Henry stood against the bookcases on the left.
Both Earhart and the chief of police were dressed as if they had tossed on whatever was closest when called out of bed. On an end table beside Henry was a box of doughnuts. Henry said he had brought them for everyone, but he was the only one eating them.
They were all waiting silently for Janet to get off the phone. They all knew it was an important call.
Over the last half hour, before the phone call, they had gone over exactly what had occurred on that hill tonight, detail by detail. McCallum still couldn't believe he had actually seen a Klar ship, let alone fired at one. Images of those statues of the Klar in Neda Foster's lab kept floating through his mind, no matter how hard he tried to keep them out.
But there was something bothering McCallum much, much more. About an hour after the encounter with the ship, Henry had slapped him on the shoulder and said, "Congratulations, you almost shot down a UFO."
He meant it jokingly. McCallum was sure of that. But McCallum felt his knees get weak and he couldn't even think of a response to Henry.
"Yes, sir," the mayor said into the phone. "I understand. Thank you."
She waited another moment and then hung up.
After a deep breath, she looked up at those around her. "Okay, people, as some of you might have guessed, that was the vice president."
McCallum thought it might have been. It seemed that Alan Wallace was taking the lead position on all this. And from what McCallum had seen of him, that was a good thing. The guy had the ability to get things done when they needed to be done. And right now they really needed to be done.
"Two things," Janet said, "that we have to get worked out tonight before any of us can try to get to sleep. First, we need to be ready to search the city again tomorrow just as every other city in the country is being searched."
"Why?" Henry said. "We found our bomb, and so far tonight we've kept them from taking another carrier pigeon."
Henry had started calling the thing-on-the-bed a carrier pigeon. McCallum was glad that so far no one else had taken up his slang.
"Neda Foster's organization is sending down pictures of elderly abductees from Seattle, the Tri-Cities, and Boise. We're not taking any chances that one of them might be here, carrying another bomb. We'll do the search. And we'll do it right."
Everyone in the room agreed with her.
"Mr. Earhart, could you work with the police to get this set up?"
"Of course, Mayor," he said. "It's already being done."
Beside him the chief of police nodded. "We'll be ready for an eight A.M. start, right with the rest of the country."
"Good," Janet said. "Thank you. Now to item number two: the Press."
McCallum could feel Claudia stiffen beside him. Normally that would be her job, but she had been personally involved tonight. She wasn't the right person to do that job.
"The vice president said we must keep a tight lid on what really happened on that hill tonight," Janet said. "Are those three national guardsmen under wraps?"
Earhart nodded. "They've been flown to Seattle for debriefing. They will be there for days at least."
"And Mr. Ashley?"
"He's in the hospital," Henry said. "He doesn't know what hit him. And he saw nothing."
"Okay," Janet said. "So I'm going into that press conference in a moment and tell them the truth without telling them anything."
McCallum sat up a little. "Mayor, could you tell us first, what you're going to say, so we all have our stories straight?"
McCallum was convinced that the press had to stay out of this for at least the next few days. If they spread the bomb scare over the front pages of every newspaper, the panic and looting would kill thousands. And it also might push the Klar into setting off the bombs already planted. So as far as McCallum was concerned, at this moment the American press was the biggest threat there was outside the Klar. And thanks to him blasting that ship, it was falling on the mayor of Portland to be the front line of defense.
Janet nodded. "The vice president said to tell them we had two explosions. Everyone saw those."
"Some a little closer than others," McCallum said, and Henry actually laughed.
"I'm going to tell them that we have no leads on the source of the explosions, but a full investigation is underway. I'm going to tell them the FBI is involved. And that's about it."
No one had anything to add, so Janet glanced at her watch. "We have less than six hours until we start the search. Let's get moving."
McCallum pushed himself to his feet as Janet did the same thing.
Henry grabbed the box of doughnuts and tucked them under his arm.
The chief of police and FBI Regional Director Earhart started talking as they headed toward the door.
"One more thing," Janet called out before the door was open.
McCallum, with his hand in Claudia's, stopped and turned to the mayor along with the rest of them.
Janet turned to McCallum. "Richard, officially, for the city and its people, I want to thank you for what you did yesterday and tonight. I wish I could do it in a more public way, but it seems I can't."
Claudia squeezed his hand.
McCallum smiled at Janet. "Coming from you, Mayor, this is more than enough. Thank you."
"Wait until you get his bill," Henry said.
And everyone laughed as the mayor led the way to the pressroom.
Chapter Thirty-Four
When all are prisoners, the jailers are free men.
—TED ALLBEURY
FROM SHADOW OF SHADOWS
5:5 1 a.m. JUNE 26.
SHEEPEATER CAVES,
EASTERN OREGON
"I think we're getting close," Cobb said, his voice muffled by the rock and dirt around him. In the opening in front of her, Tina Harris could faintly see Cobb's feet as he inched himself forward into the hole they'd been working on.
Above her the morning light was coming through the crack in the roof, giving fair warning of another long day of heat. And, unless the aliens brought water and food, it might be her last.
Around her, others lay scattered around the cave. The older man who had first talked to her a
ppeared to be dead, his body covered with black flies. His skin seemed to be moving by itself, and she watched in distant horror for a moment.
The two women with him weren't in much better shape. They lay side by side, not moving except for an occasional rise and fall from breathing. They wouldn't make it through the heat of another day.
Tina was the only person in the room standing. And, besides Cobb, most likely the only person who still could.
She glanced down at the hole where she could see Cobb's feet. What Cobb had thought would only take an hour, to open the passage into the next area of cave, had taken most of the night. And it still wasn't totally open yet, even though they'd both taken turns working on it since before the sun went down. There had just been too many big rocks they had to dig out.
Tina knelt and put her head into the hole. "It's starting to get light," she said.
"Damn," she heard him say, his voice distant and muffled by the dirt and rocks.
After a moment he started to inch backward.
She stood and waited for him, not even having the energy to help him out. A half minute later he stood up and pretended to brush some of the dirt off his hands. But it was only a remembered motion from the past and did no good. His hands were as cut and bleeding as Tina's. And every inch of his body was streaked black with dirt and covered with scrapes.
"It's so close," he said, his voice tired. "So close."
"Tonight," she said. But she could tell her voice had no belief in it either. "We'll make it tonight, if there is anywhere to make it to in there."
"I'm sure there is," Cobb said. "I can feel the fresh air hitting my face. You felt it too, you said. That means there's another way out. It has to."
Or just a crack in the ceiling of another small cave, Tina thought, but didn't say out loud.
Cobb glanced around his feet as the light in the cave suddenly became brighter. The sun must have crested a hill to the east, shining directly on the crack above. Soon the cave would start heating up.
Dirt and rocks from their night of work littered the area around the small opening they had created. "We need to hide this," Cobb said.
Tina almost asked what difference it would make, then bent down and started pushing dirt to one side. After a few minutes they had most of the dirt down in cracks between larger rocks and the smaller rocks scattered around the area. They rolled a big boulder over to block most of the hole, then they both sat down on the ground against it, using their bodies to cover some of the area of work.
Abductors Conspiracy Page 13