by Allan Burd
Captain Tanaku hit the deck when the lights went out. His radar screen was gone and he heard the screams of his men between the echoing sounds of battle. Instinctively, he knew he was next. Before he even saw the incoming missiles, he closed his eyes, accepted his fate, and prayed for forgiveness.
Moments later, Lynx’s AIM-9 Sidewinders found their mark, exploding the bridge upon impact.
In only two more minutes, the aircraft carrier was completely destroyed under an unrelenting volley of Air-to-Ground Missiles by the rest of the Canadian squad that turned night to day. Even the lone Japanese pilot to make it to the air was shot down. The Tsunami was sunk and its entire crew was gone.
70
Gaines was recklessly driving over eighty miles per hour. He had to reach her as quickly as possible. He had to know the absolute truth.
He relived every moment he spent with Rebecca, concentrating on the happier times that he would never have again. Logan had to be wrong. He had to. Even if she was Russian, he couldn’t be right about everything. Rebecca would never have hesitated so the Japanese could murder more of his men. She was strong, professional, and very capable, but she wasn’t cold like everyone thought. He had seen her softer side. The connection they shared couldn’t have been fabricated. She had to feel the same way about him as he did her.
That must’ve been why she didn’t allow herself to get close, he thought. If she truly didn’t care about me, she would have slept with me. She would have used me in every conceivable way, playing on my emotions like a violin. But she didn’t. Because she knew some day her betrayal would be revealed and the pain would be too great. In her own way, she must’ve been protecting me.
He knew he was rationalizing, but he didn’t care. He had to reach her in time. As long as she didn’t do anything foolish, he could make things right. He would change her mind, make her see how much he loved her, and she would stay. He would protect her from a vindictive investigation and in time everything would work out fine. It had to.
He came upon the scene of the battle and slowed down. He drove around a destroyed Jeep, doing his best to avoid the fragments of glass and shrapnel that were strewn all about. The first thing that caught his attention was the fires burning brightly around him, but they seemed to be small and under control. Then the death toll of Carlson’s men became immediately obvious. EM personnel were either treating the wounded or carrying away the dead. One injured man was being airlifted away, the pilot of the helicopter being careful to avoid spreading the flames with the winds generated by his rotors. Could Rebecca really have contributed to this carnage? No, he couldn’t believe that.
He spotted the remains of the Ninja in the woods. Eight men with hoses were wetting it down to cool its heated surface. Before him, the dead Japanese pilot was still in the cockpit, as if on display for his crimes like they did in the Old West. He was the monster, Gaines thought. Not Rebecca.
He opened the Jeep’s window and called over to the man in charge. After being assured everything was under control, he continued on. There was nothing more he could do for them anyway. He had more important matters to attend to. When he passed the lead vehicle, the road was clear and he accelerated.
Soon he was back driving at speeds in excess of eighty miles per hour. Sensing he was closing in on her, he became more determined. He could do it. He could save Rebecca from herself. He could prevent any more mistakes and stop this insanity right in its tracks before it went any further. He could restore order back to both their lives. He would not give up on her.
He pressed the pedal to the floor and watched the speedometer cross ninety.
71
PRINCE RUPERT
Dirt and pebbles kicked up under the power of the wind, pelting the two police cars as the helicopter landed gently in the recently vacated parking lot. The Chief of the Prince Rupert Police Department ducked his head and jacked up the collar of his overcoat as he plodded through the artificially generated gusts to play ambassador.
Ever since receiving a call directly from the offices of Canadian Intelligence, he was determined to do his district proud. Whoever these big wigs were, they were going to know that he did things right. Plus, he wanted to butter them up so they would reveal what the hubbub was all about.
An hour ago, he got word of an accident. An old man and a young woman were admitted, the man’s condition much more serious. Then he had heard the bizarre tale of assault by an alien creature. Of course, he gave the report all the attention it deserved—none—then filed it in the loony bin.
But after getting a phone call and watching a helicopter land where it had no business to—and with officials from military intelligence coming to investigate—well … suddenly the peculiar circumstances had more credence.
He became enthralled with the idea it might be true. Perhaps that was why he never asked Chase and Logan for their ID’s as they exited the chopper. “Welcome to Prince Rupert,” shouted Braxton.
“Thank you, Officer,” replied Chase.
“Jerry Braxton. Jerry’s fine.” When they walked clear of the rotors and the background noise faded a bit, he continued. “So, what’s this all about anyways?”
Chase was not about to answer any questions. He didn’t want the head honcho of a Canadian police force to know that two Americans were about to step all over his jurisdiction. He continued walking, Logan in tow, saying nothing until he reached the hospital doors well out of range of the heavy drone of the chopper. “Where is she?” he asked.
“Down the first corridor … then make a right and two lefts. Room 104.”
Chase nodded his head and walked away from Braxton. The Chief started to follow, but then Logan stopped and gave him a stern glance that halted him in his tracks. With Braxton cowed, Logan turned and continued behind Colonel Chase, thinking to himself how with the proper credentials and the right body language he could probably get away with anything.
A quick jaunt later they entered the room of patient Stacy Michaels. She was fully dressed, sitting on an examining table with her legs hanging over the edge. She had a bruise on her forehead and her hands and cheek were bandaged, but no apparent serious injuries.
She glanced their way, sizing them up.
En route, both Chase and Logan had changed into standard Canadian military fatigues. It was all that was available at the moment but they looked impressive enough so they could pass themselves off as government officials, and Stacy wouldn’t know the difference anyway.
“Does this mean someone finally believed me?” she asked.
“Yes ma’am,” Chase said politely, as he removed his cap. “We received a … report and were sent to … investigate.”
“Yes ma’am,” Logan put in, sensing Chase’s awkwardness. “We’re from Canadian intelligence. This is Colonel John Chase. I’m …” He was unable to think of a suitable rank. “… Special Agent Logan Grey.” He extended his hand.
She hesitated then shook it, sensing there was something about Agent Logan that didn’t quite fit right. “Stacy Michaels,” she said, following up by shaking Chase’s hand as well. “So, what can I tell you gentlemen that I haven’t already told them twenty times?” She was looking at the policemen standing in the doorway.
Chase signaled the policemen politely with a nod so he would give them some privacy. Then he walked over and closed the door. “We’ll need you to go over it again.”
She looked annoyed. It had been a grueling day to say the least.
Logan spoke up. “We apologize for the inconvenience. It’s just that when one hears a story like yours second and third-hand … well, we’d just appreciate it if we could hear it straight from the source,” he said with a friendly smile. He found himself staring. She was quite striking. Even bruised and without makeup, her natural beauty radiated an innocent, honest quality he found immediately endearing. He quickly returned to business. “Just once more. Then we’ll check in on your friend and see about getting you safely home.”
Stacy started
her story with the ride in Jack’s pickup truck, recalling every detail she could remember. “Next thing I remembered was the medics found me and the alien was gone. His blood was found where I last saw it, but it was gone.”
“What color was the blood?” Chase asked abruptly.
“Red. Just like ours. But I told them a hundred times, it wasn’t human.”
“Describe its hands?” Chase asked.
“The hands?”
“Yes. You said it reached in to get you. What did its hands look like?”
“Like ours, but totally different. Gray skin and webbed. You know, like a duck. Might have had sharp nails. I couldn’t tell. It was too dark.”
“The head?” Chase continued.
Stacy was looking increasingly agitated as she rubbed her eyes with both palms.
Logan just watched her the whole time, looking for tells. If she had lied so far, he couldn’t detect it. “Colonel.” Logan motioned him to the side before she could answer so they could whisper privately. “She’s for real.”
“I don’t doubt that. I need to know if everything she’s telling us is accurate.”
“We need to find out why,” Logan added. “She’s obviously had a traumatic experience. Getting her to tell the same story over and over again isn’t going to help.”
Chase looked at her. She briefly glanced back and then dropped her head into her hands before running them hard through her hair. “Yeah,” Chase acknowledged.
“I think if we tell her what we know, it’ll be helpful. Kind of a quid-pro-quo sort of thing.”
“Do it,” Chase reluctantly agreed. “Just keep it basic. Nothing more than necessary.”
Logan walked back over to her. “You OK?”
She pondered the question for a moment. “Yeah.”
“We believe you.” Logan paced, thinking how best to phrase everything. “What I’m about to tell you is highly classified. Under law you are not allowed to share this information with anyone—not even your own mother. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”
Chase added to it. “Ma’am, what we’re about to tell you is classified under the strictest regulations of national security. Under Article 18, subsection 2.1, any person knowingly revealing information protected as a matter of national security can and will be tried under the penalty of treason, whereupon the strictest sentence shall become mandatory upon conviction. Is that understood?”
“Yeah, I guess,” she said with a shrug.
“Don’t guess,” said Chase.
“OK. Yes, I understand.” She comprehended enough to know she had to keep this secret.
Logan took it from there. “Late last night a spaceship crash-landed in the mountains less than sixty miles from here. Its point of origin is unknown, but it was clearly not from earth. We know that one of the aliens got away and you’re the only person that we’ve met that has had contact with it.”
Stacy stared away from them. “It’s true,” she muttered under her breath grateful for the third party confirmation. “But why me?” she asked Logan.
“That’s what we need to find out!” Chase added.
“Why me?” She began to daydream.
Logan noted the uneasiness. “Is there something that you didn’t tell us?” he asked.
Stacy seemed unusually disinterested, totally lost in her thoughts. After a long moment, she leapt off the table. “Can we see Jack Peterson, now?”
“Is everything OK? Did you hear what I just told you?” Logan asked.
“Mmm hmmm, Yeah. Everything’s fine?” she said, though it clearly wasn’t.
Chase nodded to Logan and they took her to see Jack. She walked into the recovery room. Jack looked terrible. His head was wrapped in gauze and they could see the dark blue and purple bruises underneath the edge of his bandages. He was unconscious. The attending physician told her not to worry, he would recover.
Logan and Chase watched from the doorway.
“I say we stay with her. Her story, while I believe it, just doesn’t make sense,” said Logan.
“The police say the physical evidence backs up her story to a tee. There was blood—we’ll have to confiscate that sample by the way—and they found that guy’s toolbox and windshield fragments from his pickup scattered over a mile away from where she crashed—along with skid marks confirming the sudden stop that sent them flying.”
“Yeah, but why would an alien attack them? There’s got to be more she’s not telling us.”
“I know. As long as I’ve studied them, attacking people at random while they’re driving has not been their standard M.O..”
Stacy approached them, still looking dazed. “Can I go home now?”
“Sure, Ma’am. We’ll take you,” Chase said.
72
INSIDE THE SPACESHIP
The long corridor curved to its right, somehow seeming much larger than it was before. Blaze knew that was just an illusion, which just made him appreciate every detail even more. The ceiling glowed with the incandescence of the deep sea, but still provided sufficient light, like when you look up from underwater on a bright sunny day, just without the refraction of light that made everything wavy. The sea blue floor was softer on the feet than the cold silvery metal that was there before. The walls came alive with purple-hued lights that formed holographic images real enough to fool the eye and solid enough to touch.
He stopped to study one that caught his fancy—an object shaped like a sideways S, doused in a pool of green and purple light. Similar to a worm, but its movements indicated more purpose.
He reached out for it, his hand passing clean through the projection. He studied it further, noting the light seemed to bleed out from a small panel lodged into the wall behind it. Yet he knew the panel was also a holographic creation since it was not there before. A touch confirmed his hypothesis that the panel was solid. His eyes shifted about, noting many other images lining the corridor. He smiled—a thousand mysteries to unlock, each a clue to a new technology that would change the course of mankind. The ultimate puzzle that, when solved, led to the ultimate prize.
A pulsating concave blob, from just above his field of vision, caught his attention. He glanced up, listening to its barely audible rhythmic beat that seemed to react to his presence. He stepped toward it and its pulse quickened. He stepped back and its beat eased. Then, in a moment of unquenchable curiosity, he grabbed it, feeling the soft light vibrate in his hand with such increasing frequency it tickled his palm to the point where he had to let go. A small laugh escaped him as he heard Carlson gasp and then relax as the pulsating returned to its original slower beat.
Blaze walked on a few feet further, Carlson in tow. He stopped and gazed down the alien hallway thoughtfully in both directions. “All GBIV, very little ROY,” he said. Then he walked on again, this time making sure Carlson was at his side. “Probably due to their aquatic ancestry. Their physiology must have evolved to allow them to survive in an aquatic environment as well as on land, therefore giving them a higher ocular range with which to view the electromagnetic spectrum.”
“In English?” Carlson asked.
“Notice how most all the colors are blues and greens. There are very few reds, yellows, or oranges. They perceive things differently. They can see into what we call the ultraviolet spectrum, but they shy away from the warmer shades—probably because their ancestors were aquatic.”
“Hmmm,” Carlson feigned interest as he stayed with Blaze. The ship did fascinate him. However, the pace in which Blaze explored did not. If it were up to him, a quick perusal through this hallway would have been more than enough. Unfortunately, he thought, Blaze had a different idea of exploration. Like an anthropologist on a dig, Blaze indulged himself in each area, drowning himself in the tiniest of details. He had been with him for almost forty-five minutes and they still hadn’t managed to explore any living quarters, which was where Carlson’s true interest lay. Thirty boring minutes on the bridge followed by an even longer fifteen minutes spent trav
ersing this corridor. Under his breath, he cursed Gaines’ order.
Loud enough that Blaze got the hint. “Sorry, Lieutenant. I tend to move slowly when I analyze. Care to try a room?” he said, stopping at the nearest door.
Carlson smiled. “No need to apologize. Just a little anxious to see how these things live.” He hesitated momentarily at the doors before cautiously touching the panel next to them.
The doors slid open, revealing a room approximately twenty-by-twenty that was reasonably square in shape, except for the rounded far wall, presumably the location of the outer hull of the ship. To their left floated a black structure with rounded corners that looked like a table with no legs, except for its unusual curvatures. A few feet behind it was what appeared to be another moving 3-D image. A diagonally striped cabinet was located on the back wall. Adjacent to that was a low smooth platform elevated a few feet above the moving blue floor.
Moving! “You first,” said Carlson.
Blaze crouched down and touched the floor. His hand went through the blue light and straight to the soft floor underneath. He pulled his hand back, stared at it for a second, and then repeated his actions. “Remarkable. Simply remarkable.”
“And?” said Carlson.
Blaze ignored him. He walked into the room as if nothing was unusual and went straight to the hovering curved “table” that had sparked his interest. He placed his hand on its surface. It felt solid. He looked beneath it then ran his arms underneath, like a magician waving a hoop over a levitating girl. There was nothing holding it up. “I love this ship,” he muttered.
Carlson stepped into the room—and then jumped back as the “wetness” surprised him, as if he had just accidentally stepped in a puddle.