The Roswell Protocols

by Allan Burd

  “Here? Sorry bud, nothing shaking now in Northern Cal.”

  “How about anything over the last few days? Anything on the charts—and not just here, all over the world?”

  “All over the world? I don’t think you’d be able to feel quakes from across the globe. What do you really need Logan? Is this related to that research you were doing a few months back?”

  When Logan began to get more involved in his extraterrestrial research, he had read that scientists believed strange glowing unexplained lights were phenomena related to earthquakes. Something about tectonic shifts creating pressures so great that they discharged energy in the form of geoluminescence. He didn’t really understand it, but he did speculate that if a UFO ever crashed the impact would register on a seismograph. He found one incident where a minor tremor correlated with a reported crash, but he knew that could just have been coincidence.

  “OK, Larry, you got me. So have you got anything?”

  “Hold on, let me check.” A few moments passed silently. “Nothing major on the charts.”

  “How about minor? Anything low on the scale?” asked Logan grasping for any clue that might enlighten him.

  “Anything low … c’mon, we get readings of hundreds of minor tremors every day. Last year alone California had over 18,000 quakes.”

  “Give me anything that strikes you as odd—any readings that are slightly higher or more frequent than normal.”

  “Hold on …” Larry reread the data for the past few days. After three minutes of hmmms he spoke. “Yeah, what do you know … got three unusual tremors. One, two days ago in the south pacific. That’s fairly common but it was a little stronger than normal. Got a three point three yesterday afternoon in LA. Got another one a little over an hour ago, in the Northern Canadian Coast Mountains … by the border. Does that help?”

  “I’m not sure. I’ll let you know. Thanks.”

  “No problem.”

  Logan hung up. He still had time for a few more calls before they arrived. He dialed his friend Pierre Le Buc, a linguistics professor at Miguel University in Montreal. Pierre also did consulting work for major corporations and the Canadian government. The last time Logan saw him was about a year ago. They had dinner at a popular restaurant just outside Montreal. A few beers in his system, Pierre began to ask unusual questions about communicating with other-world life forms. Would it be as simple as reading people or as difficult as communicating with the dolphins? As their conversation continued, Logan got the distinct feeling that Pierre might have been called by his government, just as he was. Although Pierre was much more open to discussion on the subject than Logan. Logan was embarrassed to talk about the possibility of alien life with most business associates for fear of ruining his impeccable reputation. Pierre had no such inhibitions.

  “Hello, you have reached the home of Pierre Le Buc. Please leave a message at the beep and I’ll return your call as soon—” Logan hung up before the message ended. It was early morning in Montreal, yet Logan wasn’t surprised Pierre wasn’t home. He was probably away on an international negotiation right now. Logan didn’t have time to think about it. Someone just knocked on the door. It was time to go.

  7

  JAPAN

  The sun had set just over two hours ago on the Pacific Rim, but darkness had not yet claimed the super-metropolis called Tokyo. That wouldn’t happen until a little after midnight when the trains made their last stops, dropping off their final passengers before heading back to the yard. At this hour, thousands of neon lights radiated colorfully throughout the Ginza District beckoning pedestrians to shop. Pachinko parlors chimed noisily, exciting the risk-taking patrons within. In the Kabuto-cho district the karaoke bars filled with businessmen needing to release the pressures of their long hectic day. In the Shimbashi and Shinjuku districts the dance clubs were welcoming the young and adventurous.

  Even in the Kasumigaseki district, just southwest of the Imperial Palace grounds, within the building that houses the Diet, Japan’s parliament, things were happening. It was just forty minutes ago, when the officers working under the unusual pyramidal roof learned of the unknown object that appeared on their radar scopes. Just like the other countries who witnessed the phenomenon, their sky watchers quickly deduced the object was not a meteor.

  As was standard operating procedure, they tracked the object and the point of impact was calculated. New programming instructions and coordinates were relayed to the closest satellite in the area, the Sonysat 4W. It was their most sophisticated weather tracking satellite to date, which also doubled when necessary as a spy satellite. Via computer relay, the cameras F stops were opened to maximum and the lenses were repositioned to take photographs of the descending object from four different angles as it passed. Soon thereafter, the image was captured and transferred to a mainframe at military headquarters, copies of which were quickly circulated among the attending generals in the room. The results were extraordinary.

  Unfortunately, impact predictions indicated the object would touch down in Canada. There was no way they could retrieve it. Then they learned the object disappeared off their radar tracking surveillance system. The generals present reacted frantically but quickly gave up, thankful that the Canadians would not be receiving this unexpected gift from the heavens, but equally disappointed that they would never know what it was.

  All, that is, except General Sato Yamakazi. His esteemed colleagues were small-minded, he thought to himself. Instead of despair and relief, the object’s mysterious vanishing filled Sato with hope. He alone believed it still must have crash landed, only not where anyone expected it to be. To him, this unexpected turn of events was an opportunity that allowed an equal chance at recovery, but he was the only one who saw it that way. The other generals respectfully disagreed and slowly the room emptied—the moment forgotten and the extraordinary photos to be filed away into obscurity. General Yamakazi exited to his office.

  He sat behind his desk, his hands folded together in his lap while he pondered how to accomplish the seemingly impossible feat of locating and retrieving this object on his own. His piercing brown eyes roamed his modern office noting the sword his predecessor bestowed upon him for his years of faithful service. Sato was proud of the gift, a short sword that was personally used to kill the enemy in combat during W.W.II, and displayed it directly below the portrait of the man who wielded it. He rubbed a hand across his receding brow, leaning back in his high-backed black leather chair while he formulated his plan. As it came together he pounded his fist on his mahogany desk and stood up, pacing to and fro across the rug as he firmed up the details in his mind.

  Yes, it could work, he thought—beaming confidently at his own brilliance—but only if the Canadians were very slow in locating the object. He would have to act quickly. Having the SonySat 4W already in position, he believed he could succeed. It was a bold plan. One surely his colleagues would disapprove of if they knew. So he’d make sure they wouldn’t learn of it until later. He would run the operation clandestinely. The risk to his career was great, but the rewards were even greater. This was too important an opportunity for him to let pass. If he succeeded, newfound power would be his and Japan would once again become a military force to be reckoned with.

  He reached for the phone and requested the immediate presence of his most loyal subordinate. Within a minute, Officer Yoshiguro Musamato knocked on the door.

  “Come in,” Yamakazi ordered.

  The young officer entered the imposing office. He stared briefly at the large portrait of the recently retired General Sakiguso which hung on the wall, as if under scrutiny by a second superior officer. He then closed the door behind him, bowed, and stood at attention.

  Sato furrowed his brow, gazing at him with an intimidating stare. He spoke with a strong booming tone. “Tomorrow is the second phase of our field test for the Ninjas.” The Ninjas were the two new state-of-the-art stealth helicopter prototypes developed by the Tobison Corporation. They were currently stati
oned on the Tsunami, an aircraft carrier patrolling the Pacific. Fortunately, their field test fell solely under Yamakazi’s jurisdiction. “Cancel it. I am issuing new field test orders, security classification level six, eyes only. You will personally see to it that these new orders are received promptly and you will make sure they are kept in the strictest confidence. Send the Tsunami northeast …” He continued, revealing his plan to the junior officer.

  Musamato listened intently, a bead of sweat dropping from his brow. He knew he hadn’t misunderstood these new commands, but they couldn’t be right. They were too aggressive and their implications, if they were taken one step further, were even deadlier. Surely, it was just a more realistically designed exercise drill. It didn’t matter. It was clear from Sato’s intonation and demeanor that he meant business, and Musamato knew that General Yamakazi was not a man who tolerated failure. “Hai,” he responded with a curt bow.

  Yamakazi continued. “I want a high delta search pattern program downloaded into SonySat 4W, radius 200 miles around the initial scan. When they locate the intended target, I am to be notified immediately and those results will be kept with equal confidence.” Sato paused for a moment adding a new element to his plan. “Also, I want the Masuka clan quietly notified to be on the lookout for any unusual information. Remind them they will be compensated handsomely, as usual, if they manage to provide anything of value.” His eyes bore down on the young soldier who looked hesitant. “Any questions?” Sato asked, his eyes focusing like daggers.

  Musamato had a million. “No sir,” he answered firmly.

  “Hai, I’ll be expecting to hear about your progress shortly.”

  “Hai,” Musamato bowed quickly then left the office.

  Sato smiled inwardly. He looked to the portrait of Sakiguso. The image was proud. He would be pleased, Sato thought, as he imagined his predecessor was actually gazing down upon him with a look of approval. His orders given, he strode back to his chair and sat down. He would wait patiently for his plan to unfold, savoring every minute of his walk on the path to greatness. His hunt for the ultimate prize had begun. It would soon be his.

  8

  RUSSIA

  The bitter cold afternoon wind bit at Nikolai Rasputin’s face as he walked hurriedly across Red Square, the ceremonial center of Moscow. Despite the rush he was in, he still paused a moment to appreciate his surroundings. To his south he admired the Cathedral of St. Basil the Blessed, better known as Pokrovskiy Cathedral, each of its ten domes a different design and color. It was built by Barma and Posnik Yakolev from 1554 to 1560 to commemorate the defeat of the Mongols by Ivan IV the Terrible. Nikolai knew its history well, as he did each building within eyesight. He turned to face GUM; the State Department Store built in the Old Russian style. He turned to the north towards the State Historical Museum built from 1875 to 1883. Then, he turned left to the most impressive historical landmark, the Kremlin, his destination.

  It wasn’t his favorite view—he much preferred to see it from across the Moshva River at night when the floodlights brightened it, revealing all its full glory—but it still impressed him nonetheless. No matter how many times he came here, he never failed to appreciate its magnificence.

  He strode onward towards the east wall, passing the bulky Lenin Mausoleum beneath it, and quickly made his way past the Nikolskaya Tower. Eventually, he came to the Spasskaya Gate Tower, whose clock chimes are radio broadcast throughout Russia every day, and walked through the gates. His solemn brown eyes looked around at the crenellated red brick walls, the many palaces and cathedrals, each different in their brilliance, wondering why he was being called here today. What assignment did General Vaskev have for him this time? What new national crisis would separate him from his family again, so he could serve the greater cause?

  With his mind preoccupied, Nikolai’s six-foot four, solidly muscular physique strode on as if on auto-pilot. He pondered his own history wondering what brought him to this place for the first time all those years ago. The answer was the idealism of socialism. He believed with all his heart his nation could be, and should be, the greatest in the world—millions of people all working in unison to serve the state, each person working to make the whole greater than the sum of its parts. As a lifetime member of the Russian military, it was a goal he spent his whole life fighting for.

  Unfortunately, he was losing faith. There should have been no hunger or poverty. Each person should have been respecting and helping his fellow man. But that was not the case. Communism had failed, and the cause, Nikolai thought, was the greed and corruption of the leaders who inhabited this very same building he held so dear.

  Nikolai saw many of them come and go. Most of them were the same. When they achieved power, no matter how well-intentioned they may have been, they eventually used it to further their own selfish desires instead of the needs of the community. The symptoms were always the same. To achieve their goals they had to cooperate, which ultimately led to compromises, which in turn became indebtedness to the undesirable. Each man eventually did whatever was necessary to hold onto their positions and status in society, like an addict holding onto drugs. It was a contagious disease, he thought, infecting everyone it touched until it became an epidemic that brought down a country … his country. Absolute power indeed corrupted absolutely.

  However, Nikolai was different. He never craved a position of power, so he was free from its trappings. He only sought to serve his country as best he could. General Vaskev was also an exception, Nikolai knew. He had known him for years, always admiring and respecting his unwavering devotion and honesty. If there were only more people like Vaskev, he thought, who believed as strongly as he did.

  Nikolai always believed that communism failed because the common man didn’t work hard enough to make it happen. Instead of the whole being greater than the sum of its parts, the weak, lazy, and corrupt dragged down the entire structure. When democracy took over, Nikolai could do no more than watch in pained silence as the dream died.

  Yet deep inside he hoped this was the wakeup call his people needed. Despite his doubts, he continued serving his country faithfully despite the changeover to democracy, and over time, optimism got the better of him. Perhaps, he thought, this new system of government could be better. The strong and ambitious were allowed to grow and prosper. Each person would do as well as he or she desired. People would learn to survive on their own. They would be more independent—no longer under the dictates of the foolish few.

  However, he quickly saw this system corrupted as well. Since it valued the individual over the group, ambition and greed were no longer distinguishable. He watched as the fledgling democracy became anarchy. The changeover resulted in chaos, where on each corner a new “organization” filled the void, seizing the opportunities that awaited them. The working class that fought so hard for the changes was still being held down by the corrupt. He grew weary of the political machinations and the endless power games.

  He looked up and saw the door to General Vaskev’s office, not even remembering the path he had walked to get here. He had been here so often before that his subconscious knew where to take him, even if he wasn’t paying attention. He turned the brass door knob and entered without knocking.

  The office was huge and overpowering in its emptiness. The walls were adorned with paintings of the Iconoclasts and shelving units housing Vaskev’s personal medals. Other than that, just Vaskev’s desk, a few chairs, and a tea area consisting of an antique table and a tea station, decorated the room. The rest was just vast open space.

  “Good afternoon, Comrade Nikolai,” greeted Vaskev in Russian from across the room. The slender General stood up and walked over to the tea station.

  Nikolai closed the door behind him. “Afternoon, comrade,” he nodded. They knew each other long enough to be informal. He removed his hat and coat and hung them on the solid brass coat rack next to the door.

  “Would you like some tea?” asked Vaskev, as he poured himself a cup. “It’s a
Latvian brand, quite good actually.”

  “Spaseeba,” Nikolai paused. “I assume you didn’t invite me here for some tea.”

  “Ah yes, always right to the point.” Vaskev filled a second cup anyway. The water still hot, he drained the tea leaves through a small round silver strainer then placed the sterling silver pot back on the burner. “Very well … about an hour ago our radar systems picked up a very mysterious object heading into NATO air space. We were not able to record the final descent, as our radar does not reach that far over the horizon, but our agent in the Pentagon relayed some very—unbelievable information. He claims this mysterious object just disappeared. No explosion—it just vanished.”

  Nikolai walked towards him and took the cup. “You retrieved this information in only one hour.”

  “Yes. Apparently our agent thought it so significant, he bypassed the usual channels and called his contact officer direct from a cellular phone.”

  Nikolai took a sip, the hot liquid warming his body. “A rash and foolish move. For an agent to take such a risk with so little information does not make much sense, nyet?”

  “Well it did not … until we received these photos from one of our spy satellites. Take a look at these,” said General Vaskev, as he lifted an envelope from his desk and handed it to Nikolai.

  Nikolai placed his tea on a coaster and opened the flap. He turned the envelope over and the photos slid into his hands. He quickly rifled through them, studying a couple of shots from different angles. “And you think this spacecraft has touched down?”

  Vaskev simply nodded yes.

  “Where is it?”

  Vaskev smiled and looked up, a gleam in his eye. “We do not know yet. But we will soon,” he paused and looked directly into Nikolai’s eyes, “and then I am sending you to retrieve it.”