The Roswell Protocols

by Allan Burd

  His only regret was that, once again, he left behind his son Mikhail and his beautiful wife Katrina. He would miss them. He wondered if they would miss him as well. One day, he thought, he would have to keep that promise he made to his wife years ago and retire.

  He took his seat quickly and strapped himself in to the contoured chair. Moments later the plane jostled about as it taxied on the runway. Then, like a silver streak, it sped off, lifting forcibly into the skies. He leaned his head to the side trying to catch some shut eye, knowing that he’d best rest while he had the chance. In Alaska, there was plenty to prepare, many paths he could take, each dependent on how the situation was playing out when he got there. Improvisation would be the word of the day. He would finalize the details in his mind when he got there, and to do that, he needed a well rested mind and body. The one thing that was certain to him was that he would succeed. He always had. And with that thought, a smile crossed his lips and he fell asleep.

  23

  RUSSIA

  Nikolai’s wife Katrina stared out the foggy apartment window. She would not miss the view of the brick wall of the tenement next door. Nor the uncomfortable couch. Nor the aging kitchen. Nor the old-style decor, the neighbors, or the neighborhood. She had had enough. It was time to go. Everything she needed—false documents, a few changes of clothes, toothbrush, a few cosmetics, and copies of top secret documents—were packed in a carryall she slung effortlessly over her shoulder.

  As for her son Mikhail, other arrangements were already in place for his departure. Where she was going, it was best that he was not along for the ride. For now he was safe, and if she survived, she would be able to get him later.

  As she walked towards the door, she scanned the walls focusing on a spot where the wallpaper separated and curled; glad she would never see it again, yet nostalgically remembering how happy she was when she first moved in. Unfortunately, that was a long time ago. Why Nikolai? Why? But this was the way it had to be.

  Her mind drifted back. She fondly recalled falling in love with Nikolai the first time she saw his handsome face proudly displayed on the front page of Pravda. The victorious hero who stood for everything good and noble about Russia. A strong leader who fought not for glory, but for the love of his countrymen. He was her dream come true. She remembered the article, written just one week after his return from his mission to Kabul N4, she had stored safely away between the plastic pages of a scrapbook.

  The memories flooded to the surface all at once. How several nights later she met him in person for the first time at a victory party hosted by distinguished members of the Politburo. How her well-connected brother managed an invitation and how she continuously begged until he agreed to take her along. How upon arrival, she quickly made her way towards Nikolai, as she was determined to do, and made the most of the opportunity. It was as if they had known each other forever, becoming close almost immediately. They shared the same beliefs and stood up for the same causes. Within a year they were man and wife.

  But that was many years ago, she sighed, around the time of the collapse of the Soviet Union. For years she stood by him as he served the state. Then she felt bitterly betrayed when the state no longer served them. They fought more and more. She would argue it was time to take care of themselves. He was adamant that his country must come first. She would say it’s time to face the present. Nikolai was caught up in the ideals of the past. He was strong and stubborn. It was the reason she fell in love with him and it was the reason she now felt very alone.

  Her mind was made up. She could no longer remain Nikolai’s wife under these conditions. It was time to take her life into her own hands, for better or for worse.

  Wrapping a scarf over her face, she exited the small apartment for the final time. Closing the door behind her, she jogged down the rickety stairs and out of the building. On the next block, she ran down cracked concrete steps, deciding to take the subway. She could have taken the car but she wanted to be inconspicuous, and traveling by the most used public transportation system in the world—eight million riders daily—was the best way for her to go.

  She got off at the station after Gorky Park, nudging her way through the crowd, and eventually made her way up into the street. She hesitated, looking at the surrounding buildings to regain her bearings. Then she walked three blocks south, where she knew she would find a man named Piotr Kelstov. A man who, one way or another, would get her in to see Volikoff.

  She had never met “Dapper” Pete before, but his reputation was well known in the neighborhood. This was where, and when, he was known to hang out. All she had to do now was stake out the area and wait for the first person who fit his description—handsome young man, stocky build, hair always slicked back, always impeccably dressed in a suit that cost more than the typical Russian earned in a month. More importantly though, she looked for his attitude—the one that showed no fear, the one so smug because his association with Volikoff allowed him free reign over the neighborhood.

  She didn’t wait long. A man fitting that profile stood across the street, leaning against a vehicle she was sure wasn’t his. She approached him slowly and looked him straight in the eye. “I need to speak with Volikoff,” she said bluntly.

  Dapper Pete sized her up, taken aback by the boldness of her request. Yet, he remained at ease. Clearly she was not a threat to him. In fact, he was pleased by her appearance to the point where he decided to impress her rather than shoo her away. “Mr. Volikoff is not available. Perhaps I can be of service. Name’s Piotr,” he said with arrogance.

  Katrina found his smugness unbecoming. “I doubt that.” She looked at him with disgust. This was not a man in front of her. He was a weak little boy whose courage was found in the reputation of another. “I am looking for a man. Not a frightened little cub who proves himself by terrorizing his own brethren.”

  He did not take the insult lightly. His initial attraction toward her was quickly replaced by his need for respect. He reached out with his left hand and grabbed her by the throat. “Perhaps, I’ll show you what kind of man I am,” he said angrily, his perfectly white teeth gritted.

  In a swift, almost invisible motion, she grabbed his wrist with her left hand and twisted it inward and upward, nearly breaking the bone. A split second later, she lifted her right knee upward hard into his testicles. With a sharp moan, his eyes glazed in pain, he doubled over onto the sidewalk and curled up like a baby. She reached into his jacket and removed his small .22 caliber pistol. Then she removed his hands from his groin and replaced them with the barrel of the gun.

  “Dapper Pete, huh,” she said. She had hit him harder than she intended to, but didn’t mind. She hated people like him for what they were doing to her country. Even more so, she hated herself for what she was about to do. So what if this man became the focus for her rage. She pulled his head up by the hair and stared directly into his tearing eyes. “Unless you would like to be known as Dickless Pete, please, tell me where I can find Volikoff.”

  He quickly complied, nodding his head towards the apartment building a little ways down the street. She noticed two men, probably armed, standing on the porch and knew he hadn’t lied. Unfortunately, her actions had not gone unnoticed. The two men gazed intently in her direction.

  She should have spotted them sooner, she thought. “Looks like you may be of service after all.” She grabbed him by his hair, pulling him up off the concrete. Standing behind him, she forced his head back with a tight grip on his oily hair and placed the gun at the back of his neck. “I think you’re man enough to be my bodyguard. One misstep though—you’re fired.”

  He plodded forward as best as he could under the circumstances, acting as her shield. The two men on the porch, guarding the entrance, remained silent. They drew their weapons—44 magnums, she guessed—and steadied them in her direction. Their “all-business” demeanor never changed as she walked over to the building.

  “I wish to see Volikoff,” she said. “I have information for him that
will prove extremely profitable. May we dispense with the unpleasantries and get down to business?”

  The man on the left nodded and lowered his gun. He figured Volikoff might wish to hear her out, and if he was wrong, they would just kill her later.

  The other man followed suit. As a sign of good faith Katrina dropped her hostage to the street. Both men re-holstered their weapons and silently invited her inside. Leaving Piotr in the gutter, she followed them as they went inside the tenement and led her to an apartment on the third floor.

  From the outside it was nothing special—just an ordinary looking apartment in an ordinary building. On the inside, it was quite the opposite. The side walls, separating it from the neighboring apartments, were taken down giving Volikoff one huge apartment taking up half the floor. It was easily five times the size of what Katrina called home.

  The room they walked through had a twelve-foot marble dining room table atop an elegantly designed, old-world Persian rug. Katrina immediately recognized it as a Morris. Above that was a dazzling crystal chandelier. To the sides were two all brass stands with 18th century busts resting comfortably atop them. Artwork adorned the walls. Katrina noticed the Monet’s and the Picasso and one she thought was a Da Vinci. She quickly estimated their value at over 200 million.

  Passing through a door with a gargoyle mounted above it, they led her to the den, where the decor unexpectedly traveled two centuries ahead. Volikoff was relaxing on a leather sofa watching ESPN on a 62” High Definition Sony TV. Beneath it lie an SVD player—the successor to the DVD—and six small multi-phase VII speakers. One bodyguard sat with him, the other watched from across the room. Katrina felt as if she had just passed through a time portal.

  He gave Katrina a quick glance and then went back to watching his program, dismissing her as if she were insignificant. It was his usual gesture, intended to show disrespect to any outsider. He felt it was necessary to maintain the appearance of a man too important to be bothered with people less worthy than he. Then he glanced again. “Forgive me. This is a surprise. To what do I owe the unexpected pleasure of your company, Mrs. Rasputin?”

  “You know her?” one of the two men who led her up inquired.

  “And you don’t?” he questioned. “No. Why should you? Please forgive my employees, Madam. This new generation has little use for our history,” he said. He stood up to face her.

  “I wish to speak with you alone,” said Katrina.

  Volikoff gave his silent approval.

  “I wouldn’t recommend that, sir. She’s dangerous … took down Piotr right on the street.”

  Volikoff became angry. “Do you have such little respect for me that you believe I cannot handle myself alone with a lady? Go, now, before I mistake your concern for an insult,” he commanded with a stern voice. They left and closed the door behind them. “Now, what can I do for you, Mrs. Rasputin?” he asked pleasantly.

  “I understand you have contacts within the Japanese government to whom you broker classified information.”

  “I would sell nothing to them. They are an enemy to our people,” said Volikoff, dismissing the accusation with a wave of his hand. His eyes narrowed. His face showed a mask of seething anger. “I granted you an audience because of my respect for your husband’s accomplishments. Do not insult me by calling me a traitor.”

  “Spare me the patriotic routine. It’s unbecoming of you. My husband is not the only one who has friends in the Politburo. They are as corrupt as they are greedy—and they led me to you. The Japanese pay a great deal of money for good information. Money you would take in an instant to feed your comfortable way of life.”

  Volikoff thought for a moment. Then his features softened. “Your friends, I would imagine, are probably well paid to look the other way,” he queried. “Provided, of course, that the information can cause no real harm to our country,” he added.

  “Of course,” she replied, less than sincere.

  “Suppose I did know of some people who knew some other people who were less patriotic than I. Why would that interest one such as you?” he asked.

  “Because I have information which will prove very valuable to them and I wish to sell it to you.”

  “Forgive me, but I find that hard to believe. Surely a woman of your stature would have contacts of her own.”

  “That’s true, but you can obtain a much higher price,” countered Katrina. The chatter from the TV was annoying her. She nonchalantly reached for the remote and turned it off.

  “So I see.” Money was a motive he could relate too. “Why should I believe this is not an elaborate scheme to set me up?” he asked, taking the remote from her hand.

  “I’m sorry, perhaps you misunderstood me. I’m not interested in selling the information directly to the Japanese. I’m selling it to you. You can choose to make whatever arrangements you deem necessary without me.”

  “How much?”

  “650 million yen wire transferred directly into this bank account.” She handed him a piece of paper supplying the name of the Swiss bank and the account information.

  “That’s too much.”

  “They’ll pay you three times that—maybe more. This information is only useful within a very short period of time. You pay me now. I’ll give you the information coded. When I’m certain that my money is safe, I’ll phone you the decoding sequence.”

  “How do I know this information is as good as you claim?”

  “I am the wife of Nikolai Rasputin. There is not one thing my husband does that I am not aware of. You will have to trust my word.”

  Volikoff weighed his options. He doubted this was some kind of sting operation to capture him. His “friends” were well compensated and would gain nothing by shutting him down. Besides, Katrina Rasputin was not a woman who followed standard operating procedure. If she wished to shut him down, she would not go to such obvious lengths. The most he could lose would be approximately seven million American dollars. What he could gain, however, was thrice that amount, a powerful ally, and a good source for more future income. Besides, her choice of currency showed she had inside information on his operation that could only have come from trusted sources. “You have a deal,” he said.

  He lifted the phone and arranged the monetary transfer from one of his many bank accounts to her bank in Switzerland. When he hung up, she handed him the coded information. It contained sets of coordinates, mapping an area within a thirty mile radius located in the Coast Mountains, and a message revealing what could be found there. It was copied from her husband’s mission file when he briefly stopped at home to pack and say good-bye.

  “It appears that we are not so different after all. Da Svedanya,” Volikoff said to her as she left. The look of disdain on her face told Volikoff that he had indeed made the correct decision.

  Twenty minutes later Katrina verified the transfer and phoned the decoding sequence to Volikoff. It did not mean anything to him, but he knew his Japanese associates would understand, and that was all that mattered. He didn’t need to know the information to understand its worth. He arranged for an immediate meeting and within the hour he was thirteen million American dollars wealthier than he had been this morning.

  An hour after that, the information made its way via the Masuka clan into the anxious hands of General Sato Yamakazi, ending his hours of frustration searching in all the wrong places. He would make sure when all was said and done, the “right” corporations received the “appropriate” contracts. But that was tomorrow’s work.

  Sato quickly ordered the new coordinates to be programmed into the SonySat 4W spy satellite. He studied the map at his desk and smiled brightly at his unbelievable luck. The ship’s location in the Coast Mountains was ideal for him to plan a strike. Close to the Pacific Ocean, he could order the Ninjas in and out with only a minimal amount of risk.

  He immediately called Musamato in and issued new orders. When Musamato left, he slumped back into his chair. His momentary uncharacteristic weakness in posture aler
ted him to how tired he was. It was getting late. He decided he would go home, get some rest, and return later when the operation was ready to proceed. He picked up his phone and called for his car. Making his way to the door, he looked up at the portrait of General Sakiguso that hung on his wall, smiled mischievously, then turned out the lights. Tomorrow would be a glorious day.

  24

  Major Gaines anxiously scanned the report. Both the existence and location of the spacecraft had been confirmed. It was time to alert his troops to the true nature of the mission. He walked to the front of the plane, his gait and demeanor enough to capture everyone’s attention. When the aircraft grew silent he made his speech.

  “Men, due to the intelligence report I have just received, I can now reveal to you the full purpose of our mission. I apologize in advance for keeping these facts from you prior to your assignment, but the necessity of confidentiality prevented me from revealing them to you sooner. Once you hear my briefing, I’m sure you’ll all understand.” He then proceeded to fill them in on the incredible details.

  “Our goal is to secure all evidence intact for research purposes. This includes all biological, chemical, and technological findings. We’ll be landing shortly and splitting up into four teams. Two helicopters will then transport us to the nearest clear areas which surround the crash site. From there we proceed on foot. As an additional precaution, we will all be wearing class three containment suits. The extraterrestrials may have unintentionally brought with them biological agents which are dangerous to mankind. We don’t believe this to be the case but contaminants are a possibility, so for now we’ll err on the side of caution.

  “We have no idea what type of craft we will find. We don’t know if any beings survived the crash, or if so, what their condition or intentions might be. Extreme caution must be exercised at all times. If it becomes necessary, we must be prepared to defend ourselves, but do not—I repeat—do not fire upon anything unless you are positive it is life threatening. We are about to explore the unknown—and that can be a fearsome thing. Do not let that fear rule you. I chose you for this mission for a number of reasons. In particular, the fact that all your psychological profiles indicated you were open to the possibility that alien life does exist and they are most likely not interested in taking over this planet.”