by Allan Burd
Logan placed it on his lap and opened it, finding a sealed envelope, a pen, and maps of the world and Canada. He read the report, bringing himself up to date on last night’s events. At 2:37 A.M. Pacific Standard Time, an unidentified spacecraft entered Earth’s atmosphere. Drawn on the map was the object’s flight path, expected point of impact at Ellesmere, and where the object disappeared. It was the last line that interested and concerned him the most. Two words: “Whereabouts unknown”.
Whereabouts unknown! Then what the hell do they need me for? I’m supposed to talk to them, not find them. He looked up at the men, noting that their expressions remained unchanged. OK, maybe they want me around in case they do find it. He grabbed the map and reread the report. He then drew a line between Ellesmere and the Coast Mountains. Almost two thousand miles apart but … . Logan grabbed his cell phone.
The third man stopped him. “Sorry sir. No outside contact. Our orders are to bring you straight to the base.”
“It’s very important. I need to verify some information that may directly relate to what’s in this briefcase.”
The third man nodded to the first man, who then reached into his jacket and pulled out a secure cellular phone. Logan took it and dialed.
“Seismic Stu—”
“Larry, it’s me, Logan. One more question. That tremor that occurred last night, the one along the U.S. / Canadian border, what’s the exact time that it occurred?”
“Hold on.” After a brief pause he continued. “2:50 A.M. Why?”
“Just curious … no real reason. Thanks again, bye.” Logan disconnected the call. He grabbed the pen and on the map drew a huge circle around the Canadian Coast Mountains along the border. “Gotcha!”
13
MARINE CORPS BASE CAMP PENDLETON,
CALIFORNIA
The conference room was small and mostly barren, surrounded by concrete gray walls and a cement ceiling painted dull white. Underneath superb lighting, a brown oak table stood in the middle, two blackboards adorned the wall, and a digital projector and screen had been set up. It was all they needed.
Dr. Jeff Blaze led the discussion. He wasn’t a doctor in the medical sense, but having earned his doctorate in astrophysics from MIT—top of his class—it was a title well earned. He had landed his first job eight years ago at NASA, then moved over to the Jet Propulsion Laboratory in Pasadena before the government lured him to their top secret military base at Groom Lake that specialized in the research and development of high-tech, experimental aircraft. After that, he found himself on special assignment here, Camp Pendleton, California. With him now were his two commanding officers, General Henry Chesterfield and Colonel John Chase.
In the center of the three men, sprawled across the conference table, were three markers—red, blue, and green—and a polar map of the world with blue X’s marking the important locations of the morning’s extraordinary event. Of particular importance were the large X on Ellesmere Island and a second X over the Coast Mountains around Prince Rupert. Around the X, a red circle approximating a 100 mile radius was drawn with a question mark next to it.
Dr. Blaze grabbed the green marker. “OK, this is what we know. The vehicle was originally descending at gravitational velocity. It changed course, slowed down, and was expected to impact here, when it disappeared.” Dr. Blaze pointed to the first X. “Exactly 4.6 seconds later a sonic boom was reported here.” Dr. Blaze pointed to the second X. “Assuming these two events are directly related, and I’m sure we all agree that they are …” He looked up at his colleagues to get their silent agreement. “This puts the average velocity of the vehicle at …” Jeff did the calculations on his Texas Instruments TI-66 while holding the crayon between his fingers like a cigarette. “450 miles per second—that’s 162,000 miles per hour. Very nice! I’d also say—given that they dropped down below Mach one—they definitely achieved an even higher velocity during those few seconds.”
Jeff looked up to ensure that he had not lost his audience. “Now, accounting for the decelerated velocity the craft should have landed along this line.” Jeff drew a curved line between the X’s then continued the line a little further to the west. “Depending on the altitude of the craft at the time of the boom, it should be somewhere along this line. The higher the altitude, the further away from the boom the craft is likely to be.”
Colonel Chase jumped in. “According to the radar, the craft disappeared at about twenty thousand feet. Could you close in on the location with that information?”
“Unfortunately, no. We still have a couple of variables that we could never be sure about. The first is the angle of descent when the craft slowed down to the speed of sound. Was it in a steep nose dive, therefore landing here—” Jeff pointed to a location along the line close to the X, “—or was it fairly level, therefore landing here?” Jeff pointed to a location along the line far from the X.
Jeff continued, “Also, up until this point we’ve assumed the vehicle flew straight. That is highly unlikely. It is more likely that the vehicle flew in a curved pattern similar to this.” Jeff drew an arc between the X’s. “This increases the possible area of impact sites.” He turned the crayon on its side and scribbled a zigzag line over the circle.
“What’s the bottom line gentlemen?” asked General Chesterfield, in a gruff voice, tiring of all the coloring. “I’m not committing six men and millions of dollars in military assets for nothing. What if this thing didn’t crash at all?”
“That’s doubtful, sir,” Chase replied.
Jeff backed him up. “Yes, it wouldn’t make sense for a vehicle accelerating away from earth to suddenly slow down, announce its presence with a boom, and then speed away again.”
“Hmmph.” General Chesterfield just stared at Chase, who had been around long enough to know what that meant without the general having to say another word.
“Listen, Jeff. What’s your best estimate on where this ship landed?” asked Chase.
“You’re the pilot. You tell me,” responded Jeff. Normally a question like this would irritate Colonel Chase, but he knew Jeff well enough to know that he was leading him somewhere.
“If I piloted this craft …” Chase paused to think about it. “The initial descent into our atmosphere showed the pilot had no control over his craft. A ship with these capabilities should have had much better mobility, so I’d start by saying something went wrong. Either a pilot error or a systems malfunction. At this point, where the ship slowed down and changed course, I’d say he started to regain control, slowing the fall using an orbital swing to buy himself more time. His crew uses that time to try and correct whatever malfunction occurred. But time runs out. The pilot knows he’s about to hit so he takes a chance and throttles it, trying to head back out into space as fast as possible because there’s less danger out there.”
General Chesterfield interrupted. “That’s probably why the ship disappeared off the radar screens. It was moving too fast for us to track it.”
“Yes, but they failed. They didn’t correct the problem and they crashed anyway. Just not where we expected them to,” said Colonel Chase.
“So if you were piloting that craft, what kind of escape route would you have executed?” asked Jeff.
Colonel Chase paused again. “A sudden jerk upward might be too much for the ship or the crew to handle—although I don’t see how they can withstand the G force to begin with—so he’d accelerate slightly downward and then curve upward, rising at a fairly level angle towards outer space.” He used his finger to trace the path on the map. “Unfortunately, the craft malfunctions again. They lose all velocity and they’re forced into a crash landing. But we heard a sonic boom. That means the pilot had enough control to slow his ship down before the crash.”
Jeff thought it more likely the ship’s safety protocols kicked in, but he didn’t want to interrupt Chase’s flow of thought.
Chase continued. “Otherwise, we would have only heard the impact when it hit and that hit would have been
catastrophic. When the craft decelerated below Mach One they were here …” his finger just crossed the X, “which means they must’ve landed into the mountains below, right around here.” Chase firmly pressed his finger onto the map.
The mood just changed, along with their perspective search area. What seemed as unlikely as locating a needle in a haystack just became possible. Chase gazed upon the serious faces of his colleagues.
Jeff used the green crayon and drew a circle where Chase’s finger had been. He smiled. “Now we know where to begin.”
“Good,” said General Chesterfield, abruptly breaking the mood. “Place a call to the men in Alaska. Arrange a meeting place near the Pearse Canal. Tell them I’ve given authorization for three Seals, security clearance five or higher. Program the satellites for a sweep of the area. Call the car and have them reroute that kinesics guy to meet us at the airfield. The three of you will fly together and you can brief him on the way. Arrange for anything you need to find this thing. I’ll make sure a pilot is ready and waiting for you.”
“Yes sir.” Chase reached for the phone and dialed the number connecting him to the cellular phone in the car.
14
Logan edged up on the leather interior seat upon hearing the ringing of a phone. He still held the briefcase in his lap, pretending to study the map he had laid on top of it, but secretly he tried to learn more about the situation through the men he was riding with. Logan gazed up with a smile, sizing up the man with the phone. He was big, yes, but there was more hidden beneath his bulky exterior. There was a savvy about him that indicated both street smarts and intelligence. Definitely a top man, Logan surmised—a man who was important as well as respected. He wondered why they would send such a man to escort someone like him. He knew one thing for sure—wherever he was going, it was of vital importance and dangerous. Composing himself Logan leaned back, trying consciously to exhibit the exact opposite body language one would give off as he tried to eavesdrop.
The man removed the phone from his jacket, flipped down the receiver with a flick of his wrist, and answered. “Yes sir.”
“This is Colonel John Chase, authorization code Alpha Bravo Tango. Reroute the passenger to airbase Gamma. We’ll meet with him there.”
“Yes, Colonel.” Upon hearing the rank of the man on the other end of the line, Logan quickly discarded his charade and began waving his hands frantically so the officer would allow him to get on the phone. His escort, caught off guard by Logan’s sudden excited motions, paused for a moment, seemingly impassive as Logan continued to mouth the word important. He sighed. “Sorry sir, Mr. Grey would like to speak with you. He insists it’s important.”
“Really,” responded Chase with a hint of sarcasm. He had never met Logan Grey and for the most part, considered him a “suit”. A word he used for a civilian with no combat experience and therefore no business being involved in any military operation. And though Chase read Logan’s rap sheet—a top notch negotiator, fluent in seven languages, an expert on at least nineteen different cultures, an expert on all forms of body language—to him, he was still the most unimportant piece to this puzzle. If it weren’t for the Admiral’s insistence, he would have made sure Logan, or any civilian for that matter, wasn’t involved at all. Typical military brass, bureaucratic, bullshit thinking! They wasted so much money on this guy already, that if they didn’t include him, they would have to admit they made a big mistake. So now they compounded their error by insisting he come. How utterly stupid!
“All right,” said Chase. He was curious to hear what Mr. Grey had to say despite his negative attitude toward him. “Put him on.”
The officer handed Logan the phone.
“Hi, um … sir …, this may sound crazy, but I think I know where the alien ship landed.” Logan paused, waiting for some kind of reaction from the Colonel. He got none.
“I’m waiting, Mr. Grey,” replied Chase with a certain restraint in his voice.
Logan accidentally fumbled the phone then recovered it quickly before it hit the seat. His nerves were uncharacteristically getting the better of him. “Er … sorry sir. Um … I believe the spaceship landed in the Coast Mountains, sir. Somewhere around the U.S. Canadian border.” Logan quickly ran his fingers across the circle he drew on the map. “Between 54 and 56 degrees longitude and 130 degrees latitude, sir.” Logan paused again.
Colonel Chase was stunned. He transferred the call to speaker phone and, with his hands, motioned General Chesterfield and Dr. Blaze to listen in. Then he hesitated a moment to regain his composure so his voice wouldn’t betray his surprise. “I’m sorry. I had trouble hearing you. Could you please repeat that?” he asked calmly.
Logan became even more nervous. This wasn’t like wooing a client. No, this was much different. He felt like a rookie ball player trying to maintain his dignity among a crowd of seasoned veterans. “Sure. Um … I think the alien spaceship crashed somewhere in the Canadian Coast Mountains. Somewhere near the border between longitude 54 and 56 and latitude 130,” he repeated, his voice practically cracking as he spoke.
Chesterfield and Blaze looked at each other quizzically.
“How did you get that?” asked Chase, still playing dumb.
Logan calmed himself. “I have a friend who works seismology down at Berkeley. When you called me, I called him. Don’t worry, I didn’t reveal why. Anyway, he told me the times and locations of all the unusual seismic activity in the last two days. I matched that against the time you lost the ship on the radar, or at least the time you indicated in this report.”
Chase hesitated before answering. “Interesting, we’ll keep that theory in mind, Mr. Grey,” he said then hung up abruptly.
Logan looked at the cell phone strangely, then gave it back to his escort, trying to figure out how big of an ass he just made out of himself.
Back at Camp Pendleton, Colonel John Chase simply stared, not exactly sure of what he should say.
General Chesterfield summed it up best. “For the past two hours we’ve used approximately two billion taxpayer dollars worth of the best surveillance, tracking, and recon equipment available, including a combined 126 man-hours with the most highly-trained men money can buy, and this guy gets the same results with a phone call. It’s no wonder we’ve got a Democrat in the White House.”
15
“Come on daddy. Make my blankie into a magic carpet. Pleeeease …” The cute young girl begged in the sweetest voice she could muster. Her brown eyes widened and blinked at her father as she quickly sat up. “Pleeeease,” she begged again while curling her bottom lip just so, creating the most irresistible pout she could.
Her father never stood a chance. The rugged handsome man smiled back, his face beaming with pride at his beautiful little daughter. “All right, sweetheart, but only once. Then it’s time for bed … lights out,” he slyly negotiated.
“OK, OK,” she agreed excitedly, scooting beneath the covers.
Her father grabbed the ruffled end of the thick wool blanket and deftly flicked his wrists, lifting it into the air, until the blanket took on the shape of a parachute and gently glided down, landing softly upon her.
“Wheeeee hee hee,” she giggled.
Her precious laugh and adorable smile were his reward and he wouldn’t have it any other way. He knew if she asked again, he would do it over and over, despite their deal. “Goodnight sweetheart,” he whispered as he kissed her gently on the forehead.
“Wait, wait … Don’t forget Mr. Cuddles and Rufus,” he said, referring to her two favorite stuffed animals.
Mr. Cuddles was a soft white polar bear that she loved to hug. He got it from the wooden toy box with clowns pasted all over it. Rufus was a huge, fluffy Irish Setter, easily as big as the child. He grabbed him off the rocking chair which was shared with Raggedy Ann and Barbie. He gave her Mr. Cuddles and placed Rufus at the edge of her bed to keep her safe—just the way she liked it.
“Goodnight, Daddy,” she said smiling broadly.
He smiled back then left the room, turning out the lights and closing the door behind him on his way out. The only illumination remaining was from a Daisy Duck night light plugged into an outlet on the side of her bed.
“Shhh!” she whispered, raising a finger to her mouth, motioning to Mr. Cuddles to stay quiet. She sat back up—waiting for the sounds of her father’s footsteps to fade down the hallway. Then she reached into her night table’s top drawer and pulled out a yellow flashlight. Crawling out of bed, she tiptoed over to her doll house and brought back to bed with her three plates, three cups, and a tea kettle. All miniaturized and made from plastic, the toys were painted bright pink, her favorite color. She brought everything under the covers with her. Pushing up the center of the blanket, she made a tent, and placed the flashlight underneath for light. She grabbed Mr. Cuddles and Rufus and placed them opposite her.
“It’s time for our nightly tea party. A plate for you Mr. Cuddles … you too Rufus, and a plate for me. A cup for you, and for you, and one for me. Now, who would like to have some tea? You look thirsty, Rufus.” She held the toy kettle and poured Rufus a cup of make-believe tea.
The flashlight went out.
She pulled the covers off and tried to turn it on again. It didn’t work. She shook it, listening to the batteries rattle back and forth. She tried the switch again and again but that didn’t work. A fearful chill crept up her spine as she noticed the room was especially dark. She didn’t understand why right away, but it was darker in her room now then it had ever been before.
“Daddy,” she said softly, hoping her father would hear her, without accidentally waking up Mommy. “Daddy,” she cried, a little louder this time, but still, she received no answer. She shook, no longer caring if she woke her mother at all. “Mommy,” she yelled, but her mother did not answer either.