Complete Independence Day Omnibus, The

by Molstad, Stephen

  “If these creatures ever did turn hostile,” Dworkin pointed out, “you may be the only person in the world who could have us prepared. So far your sponsors in Washington, whoever they are, have denied you nothing. It might be time to petition them for some new personnel. I doubt whether we old fellows are going to be around here much longer.”

  Okun waved him off. “It’s nothing we have to decide tonight. I’ve still got three years on my contract, and you four guys are going to outlive me by a decade. Now, come on, you should try to get some sleep.”

  “You’re right.” He sighed. “I’m feeling awfully tired.”

  In the morning, Dworkin didn’t join them at breakfast. When they went in to check on him, they discovered he’d died in his sleep. One day after learning that Freiling’s neck was on the chopping block, they had lost their leader. While Cibatutto got on the phone and began making burial arrangements, the others retreated to their rooms and their personal despair.

  *

  “Six down and three to go,” Lenel whispered as the minister delivered a brief eulogy over the body. The ceremony was the same one given to the men who had died before Okun arrived. It was all part of a package plan offered to them through their bank. Parducci Mortuary offered embalming, makeup, coffin, a catered open-casket viewing period, transportation to the cemetery, flowers, and interment services all for one low price. The only thing not included was a police escort to the cemetery. The Parducci family, was not friendly with the police. When the minister was finished, he announced there would be a few minutes for those assembled to wish Dr. Dworkin their final farewells. There were more people in attendance than Okun had expected. Two of Dworkin’s sisters were there and brought their families with them. There were four or five scientists who had worked with him earlier in his career, Ellsworth, accompanied by two other officers, and Dr. Insolo of the Science and Technology Directorate. Everyone formed a line and filed past the open casket, pausing to say a few words or lay a flower on Dworkin’s chest. When Okun approached the pine box, he hardly recognized the figure inside. The cheeks were too rosy and the hair was fluffed up in a way Dworkin had never worn it. When someone behind him uttered the word “lifelike,” Brackish felt his heart drop halfway to his knees and quickly headed outside to get some air.

  He dumped himself onto a bench next to the chauffeur of the hearse, who was reading a newspaper. “How’s it going in there?”

  “Tough. Very tough.” Okun’s voice broke.

  “Were you related?”

  “Kinda.”

  The man nodded as if he knew what that meant. The two of them sat there for a few minutes watching the traffic on the street until the driver returned to his reading. Okun was thinking about what Dworkin had said about not knowing if he was prepared to continue the work. He felt a sudden urge to run away, to disappear into the city and hide, to start a normal life like the one the man next to him had. He turned to ask a question, but something caught his eye before he could. A headline on the newspaper read “Chihuahua Quake Darkens Parts of Texas” and then in smaller print, “Electromagnetic Mystery Hampers Construction Efforts.” He leaned in closer and started reading the story off the back of the man’s paper. The farther down the page he read, the more he nodded. At the end of the column, it said “continued on A6.”

  Under the watchful gaze of a security agent posted in the parking lot, Brackish went to the van and retrieved his journal notebook. He quickly looked over the notes he’d made after his conversation with Wells. “This is it, this is the real enchilada,” he said to himself. He strode back to the ceremony. As he passed the chauffeur he snagged the paper out of the surprised man’s hands and carried it inside.

  The three older scientists were gathered around the open casket, solemnly conversing with their deceased friend. Okun joined them, thwacking down the newspaper on the coffin so he could straighten it out. “You guys,” he said in an excited whisper, “I found it. It’s in Mexico.”

  Bad manners were one thing, but this was flagrant boorishness.

  “Brackish, this is neither the time nor the place,” Freiling pointed out.

  “He’s right,” Cibatutto growled. “For Sam’s sake.”

  Okun looked them in the eyes. “Sam told me that he always sacrificed his personal happiness for the sake of the work, and I’m sure he’d want me to read you what’s in this article right this second.”

  Somewhat reluctantly, they made room for him and he stepped up to his place at the head of the coffin, where he kept the paper low and read in a whisper.

  “‘A massive earthquake measuring 8.2 on the Richter scale rumbled through the desert state of Chihuahua earlier this week, destroying villages, damaging highways, and toppling dozens of high-voltage power poles that bring electricity to the state as well as the Texas towns of Sierra Blanca and Van Horn.’”

  “Get to the point.”

  He skipped down the column.

  “‘…but attempts to run power through the Nuevo Casas Grandes area have been delayed by severe damage to local roads and the inability to use radio or phones in the area. Indeed, nearly all electrical devices brought to the region known to locals as La Zona del Silencio, or the Silent Zone, experience some sort of disruption.

  “‘“It’s been this way for a long time,” said Octavio Juan Marquez, a spokesman for the power company. “Our radios don’t work in some of the hills out there. We get a lot of static in some areas, and in others they die out completely. The local people say it’s caused by the chupacabras, furry animals that hunt little children at night,” he said with a laugh.

  “‘But for residents of the mud-and-thatch villages that surround the area, it is no laughing matter. Speaking through an interpreter, an Indian woman who lives in the area said, “What makes it so scary out there is how quiet it is. No plants grow out there anymore, and animals don’t go there, not even insects. That’s why people say the chupacabra live out there.”

  “‘The untraceable atmospheric disturbances have baffled experts since they began in July of 1947.

  U.S. troops stationed farther south in the town of Guerrero conducted an extensive geological survey of the area during the early 1950s, attributing the phenomenon to the huge amounts of iron ore found in the ground.’”

  As Okun turned to page A6, he glanced up long enough to see that the scientists realized he was onto something. Any lingering doubts any of them might have had were erased forever when Okun turned the page. There was a small photo of construction crews working on the downed power lines. A long line of giant power poles stretched away into the distance, each one of them shaped like a giant Y.

  As far as Okun was concerned, there was no need to read any further. He looked around at his fellow scientists with a look that said, You know what we have to do now.

  The four men stepped outside and Okun ran through his theory on how the whole thing worked. “OK. We were right. There was another ship flying with the one at Roswell. They were scouting around or whatever when the missile was fired from Polynesia. The blur that moved across the radar screens before the rocket exploded must have been yet another ship. Maybe that ship was hit, or sent out a retreat signal or perhaps—I haven’t figured that part out yet. But we do know the Roswell ship took off north and another ship flew south. The Army thought it crashed near Guerrero, and they invaded Mexico looking for it, but they were too far south. The Y must have been a signal from the downed ship.”

  “Then why didn’t that third ship on the radar screen come and pick them up?” Freiling asked, starting to get it.

  “The wires overhead?” Lenel ventured. “Maybe the field of EM waves blocked their signal.”

  Four heads nodded.

  “But that means,” Cibatutto pointed out, “during their next visit, if the aliens visit again anytime soon, they will be able to receive the signal. It’s probably still being sent if we picked it up last year.”

  “When’s the next time we’ll get a window of Van Allen activit
y?”

  Cibatutto pulled out a pen and did a few calculations on the newspaper. “Mamma mia. Dio de cane!”

  “Translation, please.”

  “Three days. The inner belt’s energy peaks in three days.”

  Okun, unconsciously fingering the ankh-shaped figurine on his necklace, looked around the group. Trying his best to sound like Dworkin, he said, “Gentlemen, we find ourselves in a rather dramatic predicament. If we return to Area 51 after the funeral, we have little or no hope of finding the second ship before our alien visitors do.”

  *

  With the ceremony over and Dworkin’s coffin loaded in the hearse, people began getting into cars for the trip to the cemetery. Radecker walked to the front of the line of parked cars, expecting to ride in the hearse. “Have some decency, man,” Lenel snarled at him when he touched the door handle. “You helped put the man in his grave. Let him take this final ride in dignity with his friends.”

  The two men traded icy stares until Radecker went farther back and climbed into the van. Lenel opened the passenger side door and wondered how he was going to get inside the vehicle. Okun, Freiling, and Cibatutto were already scrunched in tight next to the driver.

  “No, absolutely not,” the chauffeur said. “We can’t have anyone else ride in here. I’ll get a ticket.” But the scientists, some of the Strip’s most experienced con men, could be very persuasive. The driver quickly changed his mind and signalled for Lenel to climb in. With some difficulty, he climbed onto Okun’s lap, and the procession pulled out of the driveway and headed south along famous Las Vegas Boulevard. Before they’d gotten to the first stoplight, Freiling began chattering about the door.

  “Did anybody check the back door? It wasn’t closed all the way. When we get to the next light I’m going to get out and check it. The last thing we need is for poor old Sam Dworkin to roll out the back door and spill all over the Strip.”

  “Don’t worry, sir, the door is closed.”

  “You’re awfully kind to say so, and I know you mean well,” Freiling doddered, “and I’m sure you’re very good at your job, but at the next light, I’ll just step out quickly and check.”

  It only took three stoplights for Freiling to annoy the man so thoroughly that he screamed, “All right already, I’ll check the darn door.” He got out and stormed to the rear of the hearse, opened the door, and yelled to the passengers in the front seat, “Like I said, the door was closed. Now I am going to close the door again and make sure it is securely sealed.” But before he could execute his plan, Freiling had slid himself into the driver’s seat and stomped down on the accelerator pedal. The tires screamed as the vehicle peeled out into the cross traffic moving through the intersection. The sudden momentum caused the coffin to slide out the back and crash, right side up, onto the roadway. Thanks to blind luck and the quick reactions of several drivers, the hearse bolted through the intersection untouched.

  While his passengers held on tight, Freiling, who hadn’t driven anything in over twenty years, pushed the Cadillac engine up to seventy miles per hour while Dworkin did his part by holding Radecker and the rest of the procession at bay.

  Running over traffic islands, scattering pedestrians, and ignoring his passengers’ pleas for him to slow down, Freiling pointed the nose of the machine at the center of the road and roared straight through town. They were headed for the Tropicana, but their driver was so focused on weaving through traffic he didn’t see it until it was nearly too late. What, here already? he asked himself, and pulled the wheel hard to the right, steering toward what looked like a driveway. While several nearby cars swerved, skidded, and crashed into one another, Freiling ran the hearse onto a curb, blowing out the two front tires. Undaunted, he plowed through some of the landscaping, over another curb, and up to the Tropicana’s front doors. While dumbfounded valets looked on, the three elderly fugitives, assisted by their younger accomplice, jogged through the front doors.

  It wasn’t long before Radecker pulled up, but long enough for the old cardsharps, who knew the building well, to make themselves hard to find. Half an hour after they’d disappeared through the front doors, he had forty men scouring the building in a door-to-door search. And just in case they’d somehow managed to slip out, he called in the sheriff’s office and the Highway Patrol to set up a perimeter around the entire city. They were searching every car headed out of town. Radecker asked himself where the old men would go if they had already fled the building and, to his credit, he guessed right. He jumped in the van and tore down the street. A short distance later, he parked the car on the street outside Parducci Savings and ran inside.

  Salvatore Parducci was in the middle of counting a stack of bills and didn’t want to lose count. He ignored Radecker’s questions about seeing three old men in suits until a hand swept across the counter and scattered the money on the floor. When Sal looked up, Radecker had a pistol pointed at his face. “Yes, sir, how can we help you today?”

  “Where are they, damn it? They’re hiding in here, aren’t they?”

  “The three old men? We got a lot of retired people as customers. Can you describe them for me?” In the background there was a sudden high whine that sounded like an electric motor.

  “Lenel, Cibatutto, and Freiling,” Radecker said, coming around the counter to search the office. “Recognize those names?”

  “Very well. My family has been doing business with them for many years.” Parducci held his hands away from his body. He remained perfectly still and perfectly relaxed, even when Radecker kicked open one of the locked office doors to look inside.

  “When’s the last time you saw them?”

  “You’re not with the IRS, are you?”

  “What’s that?” The whine of the motor had turned to a hollow slapping sound.

  “What’s what?”

  “That noise?”

  “Oh, the noise: That thupa-thupa-thupa sound? That would be Parducci Enterprises’ helicopter.”

  Radecker rushed to the window and tore back the curtains in time to catch a glimpse of his employees lifting off. He turned back to the heavily bejeweled banker, who explained, “We’re a full-service financial institution.”

  *

  By the time Radecker’s second APB in as many months went out to law-enforcement officials across the western U.S., the fugitive scientists were renting a car with cash at Ontario Airport in California.

  12

  CHIHUAHUA

  With Okun at the helm, the crew headed south. The rental agency had put them into a brand-new Ford LTD station wagon, which bobbed and weaved down the freeway like a small yacht. Their plan was to slip across the border at Tijuana as quickly as possible. During Okun’s last AWOL escapade, Radecker had mobilized a small army to find him. They could only imagine what kind of dragnet he’d set up this time.

  Okun had never been to Mexico, so he didn’t realize anything was strange when he pulled up to the San Diego side of the border and found himself in a long line of traffic waiting to go across.

  “Something’s not right here,” Lenel said, leaning forward from the backseat. “There’s supposed to be a line on the other side, not this one. Entering Mexico should be faster than this.”

  “Maybe things have changed since the last time you came down here.” Okun shrugged.

  “No. Turn around and get out of here,” Lenel told him. But it was too late for that. They were in the middle of seven lanes of one-way traffic. So the older men quickly devised Plan B. One by one they slipped out of the station wagon and made their way to the footbridge. They would wait for one of the many tour groups crossing into Tijuana for a day of shopping and blend in with them. Okun thought they were being a little too careful at the time, but when he approached the gate he saw two men in suits and sunglasses walking back and forth, looking into every car. When one of them came close to him, Okun flashed him a peace sign and a smile. The man moved on without changing expression to continue his hunt. Has Radecker figured out where we’re h
eaded? Okun wondered. Then, he thought about the complicated path he’d taken to deduce the location of this second spacecraft. Naw. Radecker won’t figure it out.

  “Where are you headed?” the uniformed border guard asked when Okun pulled even with the booth.

  “Ensenada.”

  “What’s the purpose of your visit?”

  “Mucho tequila.”

  The guy smiled, told him to drive safely, and waved him through.

  He found the three old men waiting for him a hundred yards up the road. They climbed in, and off they went. Once they found their way to the road they wanted and were out of town, Okun drove twenty miles an hour faster than the rutted roads would allow.

  *

  That night, they pulled into the mountain town of Nuevo Casas Crandes about 10:30, expecting to find the place completely dead, out of commission until morning. All the way up the twisting road that took them into the foothills of the dry Sierra Madre mountains, they saw downed telephone poles and freshly broken cinder-block houses. But, in the “Grandes,” there was little evidence of the huge earthquake that had rolled through the town a week before. The main street was lined with old wood-frame buildings. The brightest, loudest place on the block was the Taverna Terazas, which stood directly opposite the town’s church. A jukebox inside filled the street with sound, adding to the noisy chug-a-lug of portable generators. A dozen men sat outside the bar, talking and laughing, chairs tipped back against the wall.

  Lenel, Freiling, Cibatutto, and Okun, all of them still dressed in the suits they’d worn to Dworkin’s funeral, parked the car and walked down the center of the street. Striding four abreast, they looked like a not-very-threatening group of gunslingers. The men outside the saloon were tough-looking dudes, vaqueros who looked like the real deal: dusty leather boots, dungarees, and Western shirts. They stopped laughing when the Norte Americanos walked up.