by Alten-Steve
“You think it was human?”
“I suspect it may be all that remains of whoever killed Lilith. Let’s search the rest of the ship.”
* * *
The ravine is in shadow by the time they exit the space plane and return to the hot air balloon. Mick spreads the panels while Julius ignites the propane burners, filling the envelope.
Ten minutes later they are airborne, slipping out of the ravine and over the mountain’s summit into the late afternoon desert sky.
Julius scans the horizon. “Looks like we’re alone. Our first priority is to hide the ship.”
“Camouflage netting?”
“Contact Manolo, but be discreet.”
“What about tourists? If they explore the ravine—”
“—I’m more concerned about Majestic-12. If they find the ship, it won’t be long before they locate Sam. Michael, it may be wiser for us to destroy the ship once we figure out how to access its computer records.”
“Sam will know how. If we bring him back here, the sight of the ship could jar his memory.”
“It’s risky. The shock of seeing Lilith like that …”
“Pop, there’s something I have to tell you. While you were below looking at the computers, I went back to the cabin. I placed Lilith’s head near her body, then I slid open her eyes. They were blue.”
“Just like your Aunt Laura’s, I know.”
“What the hell’s happening here?”
“I don’t know. I need to think it through, but I’m too exhausted. Meanwhile, don’t say anything about this to Sam or your aunt. As far as they’re concerned, we were out on the plateau, cataloguing zoomorphs.”
The sun has set on the horizon by the time the hot air balloon is once again hovering over the city of Nazca. A few young children wave in the streets. Most people ignore the object, having grown used to its presence over the last six months.
Julius guides the craft over their backyard, then cuts the burners, setting the basket down in an open field. Mick leaps out, catching the deflating envelope by its parachute valve, spreading the panels out across the dry terrain. “Wonder where the two lovebirds are at?”
“Your aunt probably took Sam into town to do a little shopping. Apparently our taste in men’s clothing wasn’t to her liking.”
Mick’s expression darkens. “We’ve got company.”
Julius scans the sky. “A Fastwalker?”
“Worse.”
A dozen soldiers in desert camouflage race across the yard from all directions as a military jeep drives over the front lawn.
“On your knees! Now!”
Mick and his father drop down to the ground, hands held over their heads. A boot in each of their backs sends them face-first onto the cracked earth.
Julius spits out dirt, his weak heart racing. “What’s the meaning of this? We’re Americans. We’re here legally on an archaeological grant. I demand you release us at once!”
“Same old Julius, still full of piss and vinegar, still oblivious to how the real world works.”
“Pierre?” Julius wheezes as he’s lifted to his feet by two soldiers to stare into the face of his former colleague and most outspoken critic. “Working for the private military sector, I see. I knew it wouldn’t take long before your uncle pulled you in to the dark side.”
“What you call the dark side is actually the inside. I’ve been given access to the most important discovery in the history of our planet, and now I’m here, against my better judgment, offering you the same access.”
“Not interested. Now let us go.”
“Oh, I think you’ll be very interested. The pathetic truth is, you may have been right. There could be a Doomsday scenario out there, and you may be the only one knowledgeable enough to stop it.”
Chauchilla Valley
Nazca, Peru
The orange 1980 CJ7 Jeep leaves the Panamericana Highway, its female driver veering right onto a dirt road. Laura Salesa glances at her shaken passenger as the rusted steel chassis bounces wildly beneath them.
Samuel Agler struggles to buckle his seat belt while fighting to keep from falling out of the bouncing vehicle. “If you’re trying to get rid of me, there are easier ways.”
“Haven’t you ever gone four-wheeling?”
“Is that what we’re doing? I thought we were going sightseeing.”
The road continues west another seven miles, dead-ending at the two-thousand-year-old graveyard, distinguished only by a sign and a thatched roof held aloft by tree branches serving as posts. A few tourists shop at an adjacent pottery exhibit.
A guide greets them with a toothless smile. “Welcome to Chauchilla Cemetery. You are just in time for the last tour of the day. Five hundred nueva, por favor.”
Laura hands him ten dollars, expecting change, receiving none. “Doesn’t seem like much to see.”
“Treasure hunters took the gold and valuables long ago. Archaeologists removed the skulls of our leaders and sold them to museums. But their ghosts still linger, along with the remains of the commoner. Come.”
He leads them beneath the roof. A dozen open graves are set in the dry earth, the walls reinforced by round stones. Situated in each tomb like ancient scarecrows wrapped in blankets are the blanched skulls and bones of the dead. Incredibly, a few of the heads still possess petrified braided hair.
“The Nazca people who were buried in Chauchilla predated the Inca,” the guide explains. “The bodies were preserved using natural mummification means, no chemicals. The arid climate of the valley prevented deterioration.”
Sam moves to a photo exhibit. His heart palpates, his flesh tingling.
The images are of artifacts taken from Chauchilla, held in museums across Peru. Some of the objects are elongated, others bulbous-shaped and much smaller.
Ancient human skulls. Only the beings had definitely not been human.
Nazca, Peru
They had spoken for several hours in a military vehicle while Mick remained inside the house, guarded by a team of armed men. In the end, the archaeologist had agreed to accompany Pierre Borgia to Nevada, not because he trusted him, but because he didn’t. Julius Gabriel knew his former Cambridge roommate’s briefing was extensive enough to issue a death warrant should he not agree to help, and Majestic-12 was not a group to be trifled with. Like it or not, Julius was flying high above the radar; his priority now was to protect Michael and Sam.
Julius asked Borgia for a few hours alone to pack and make arrangements for his son to be taken care of in his absence. He would meet Borgia at the airport no later than 7:30 p.m.
“Pop, this is crazy. Let me go with you. If whatever Borgia wants you to see really is linked to the Doomsday prophecy, then you’ll need me there with you to resolve it.”
“Not this time, kiddo. I need to keep you away from Majestic-12 as long as I can.”
“What am I supposed to do while you’re gone?”
“Go back to Spain with Laura and Sam. Live a normal life for a change. I’ll find you in Europe once I’ve earned Borgia’s trust.”
“Pop—”
“Michael, somewhere out there is your future soul mate, the mother of your child. You’re not going to find her in Area 51.”
Tenancingo, Mexico
The brothel is an island of insanity surrounded by predators. Congregating on the street outside the shanty, they leer like hungry wolves, licking their chops between swigs of whiskey.
Hiding beneath the front porch, the lamb cowers. She has no concept of what is going on inside the building behind the thirty partitions of blankets hanging from clotheslines, only that the line of men is long, and she can hear the girls inside crying.
She squeezes tighter into the shadows as she sees the car roll up the drive. A blast of horn summons the madam, who greets the man known to all as El Gallo.
The kidnaper thrusts a Polaroid photo into the woman’s cherub face, his chiseled mouth spewing orders.
The woman yells into the bordello.
“Dominique Vazquez! Venga!”
The man in the car is staring at her. He calls out to the woman.
The nine-year-old’s heart flutters in her chest. In the last month she has been taken from her mother and her village, she has been beaten and starved, and now she is being tossed to the wolves as the rotund Mexican woman drags her out from beneath the porch by her feet.
But the lamb has the heart of a lion. As her hands claw at the earth, her fingers grab an object.
The madam kneels, slapping Dominique across her face, yelling at her.
The child smashes the baseball-size rock upon the bridge of the woman’s nose. Blood spurts from both nostrils as the madam collapses forward in a heap.
The child wheezes several breaths, then turns to run—the Rooster scooping her up in his arms, slamming her down across the hood of his car. “You’re a tough one, eh? A lucky one, too. Now listen carefully—your Uncle Don has decided to send you to America to live with a relative. You hear me? I’m taking you away from here to your family.”
“You are going to kill me.”
“Are you calling me a liar?” Reaching into his jacket pocket, he withdraws an airline ticket. “Can you read English? See? Dominique Vazquez. That’s your name, yes?”
Dominique nods.
“Now do as I say, or I’ll leave you here.” El Gallo tosses her in the backseat and drives off, heading for Mexico City. “I am taking you to the airport. I will give you the ticket and identity papers when we get there. You will be taken aboard the airplane by a nice lady who works at the airline. Not many peasant girls from Guatemala ever get to fly on a real plane. You are a lucky girl.”
“I want my mother.”
“Your mother will meet you in Tampa,” he lies. “If you try to run away, or if you tell the police about what happened, then she will not be there to greet you in America. Nod if you understand.”
The child nods, tears of happiness streaking her grimy cheeks.
El Gallo smiles to himself. The plane ticket and forged papers had cost him two hundred dollars.
The girl will earn that back from his cut of her sale to the Tampa bordello in her first two weeks.
TESTIMONIAL
May 9, 2001: National Press Club, Washington, D.C.
My name is Don Phillips. I was in the United States Air Force, and I have worked with certain intelligence agencies of the United States government. Prior to joining the Air Force, I worked for the famous Lockheed Skunk Works, and I was working for them when I was attending college, and I worked for them in a capacity as a design engineer […]. My main project was known later as the SR-71 [Blackbird]. […]
My first field assignment for the United States Air Force was at Las Vegas Air Force Station, and that was my first experience with Las Vegas. I couldn’t understand why people were so excited about going to a place such as this, but I found out about a year later.
Nellis Air Force Base is located there. Nellis is a major training center for different types of special aircraft and fighter aircraft, one of the premier training sites for pilots all around the world. […] I learned that my assignment was at a radar site fifty miles out of town, up near Mt. Charleston [… and I] reported in, in 1965, for duty.
In 1966, early in the morning, about 1:00 to 2:00 a.m., I was sleeping—I was staying there on base, and our barracks were at about, oh, eight thousand feet. I heard a lot of commotion. You know, at that altitude sound carries, sound carries tremendously, and I thought, well, it’s early in the morning, […] maybe I should get up and take a look. I […] walked up to the main road near my office, which was the commander’s office. I was on the commander’s staff—Lt. Col. Charles Evans. […] Four or five people were standing there, one being the chief of security. They were looking up in the air […] at the same direction. Well, I looked up to the west-northwest, and to my amazement, there were lights flashing around the sky, moving at anywhere from what seemed like 2,400 to about 3,800 miles per hour. […] We continued to watch these darting lights go across the sky and stop—absolutely stop—come to a dead stop, and reverse in an acute angle their direction […]. They were traveling so fast that you could almost see a pattern left by—if you are computer people, when you move a mouse real quick across the screen, you see a little bit of a tail—well, that’s exactly the way these six or seven craft worked.
After five minutes of watching these things, they all seemed to group up to the west-northwest, okay? They started to come in on a circle, but what I would like to point out is that where they were putting on their display, in the north-northwest sky, just directly east of that is what is known as Area 51. Area 51 is a AEC name, okay? Atomic Energy Commission. […] We knew it as the Groom Lake Flight Test Facility […]. And it was where we tested our aircraft after we got the prototype made from the Skunk Works […].
What they did was coalesce and started rotating in a circle, and then they disappeared. Well, I thought, gee, this is something that we have to keep quiet. That was verified by the chief of security. We waited there and talked it over for a little bit … it seemed like, I think it was an hour. Then came the radar people from the scopes, which were at ten thousand plus feet, came down for their dinner at two o’clock in the morning, and the first person off the bus was a good friend of mine, Anthony Kasar. He was white as a sheet, and he says, “Did you see that?”
“Yeah,” we all said. “Yeah, yeah, it was a nice display. What a show.”
He says, “We documented them on radar […]. We didn’t give ’em clearance. The standing order was, let ’em fly through the radar beam. We documented six to seven UFOs.”
We don’t know who was guiding those, but they were certainly intelligent. And we don’t know where they landed, because they coalesced and disappeared. […] I will testify under oath as to what I say is true, and I will do so before Congress.
—Don Phillips,
Lockheed Skunk Works employee and CIA contractor
Used by permission of the Disclosure Project
21
ELEVEN YEARS LATER …
AUGUST 19, 2001: SANTANDER, SPAIN
The Magdalena Peninsula is located along the northern coastline of Spain, bordered by the deep blue waters of the North Atlantic and the silt-tinged outflow from the Gulf of Biscay. Tucked inside this estuary is Santander, the capital of Cantabria, a city bordered by beaches and fishing villages, towering cliffs and rolling hills, its maritime streets laced with gritty taverns and five-star restaurants. More than a quarter million people inhabit the area, making it one of Spain’s more densely populated centers.
Somo Beach, located by the seaside city of Ribamontán al Mar, is a thin expanse of golden sand that runs four miles to the east of the Bay of Santander. Windswept and crowded, its ocean view features an island of flat rock known as Santa Maira. With year long swells of eight to twenty feet, the area is a hotbed for surfers.
The narrow arena of seascape is no place for beginners. Waves are powerful, fueled by a heavy surf break, and the locals do not take kindly to visitors.
There are nine surfers vying for a wave—eight males ages nineteen to thirty—and the girl. Nine years old and barely sixty pounds, she is dwarfed by her fellow surfers—the runt of the litter.
To the crowd’s delight, the runt is dominating her competition.
First up on every wave, balancing on surprisingly muscular legs, she attacks each curl as if it were her last, often zigzagging around any surfer in her path before going airborne, flying heels over head as she exits the dying swell as if launched from a catapult.
If her peers have any problems with the child’s lack of surfer etiquette, they don’t show it. Many have been watching her shred waves since she was old enough to walk. She is the pack’s mascot and their identity, and they are as protective of her as is her imposing father, who is watching from his chaise lounge chair on the beach.
To the researchers and curators at the Regional Museum of Prehistory and Archaeology of Cantabria, she is
known as the granddaughter of director Marcus Salesa. To the women’s Olympic gymnastics team, she is coach Raul Gallon’s best hope for a gold medal in the 2004 games in Athens, Greece.
To the surfers of Somo Beach, she is known simply as Sophia.
The setting sun turns the cliffs of Santa Maira to gold, the diminishing day accompanied by a noticeable chill in the air. Sophia’s father signals to his daughter to come in.
Sophia pretends not to see him.
A few of her male companions chide her, knowing better than to be on Samuel Agler’s bad side.
“Sophia, regresa! Your padre, he is growing impatient.”
The girl ignores them, paddling out to greet the next series of swells rolling in on the horizon.
The first wave rises majestically before her, a wall of water far more powerful than any of the swells in the previous sets.
Her surrogate brothers warn her off.
She hesitates, then decides to ride it in, her tenacious ego refusing to back down.
The swell plucks her from the ocean and tosses her upon its back, the shoal cresting behind her at thirty-three feet. Her heart flutters in her chest as the angle suddenly steepens and she registers the wave’s unbridled fury.
Fear shatters cockiness seconds before the tip of her board catches the monster’s face, vaulting her head-first into the path of the roaring locomotive.
The initial blow blasts the air from her lungs even as it swallows her deep inside its churning mouth, knocking her senseless. For twelve long disorienting seconds she is a human doll in a clothes washer’s spin cycle until the wave passes over her, punching her to the bottom.
The second blow is her skull meeting rock.
Samuel Agler is in the water before the crest collapses into a burst of foam. Each powerful crawl stroke sends him knifing through water that glides over his sizzling flesh like heavy motor oil. Somehow he is moving incredibly fast—