Desert Assassin

by Don Drewniak

  “Okay.”

  “I poured the drink and took a sip. He watched me and said that I seemed to enjoy it and asked me why. I told him I didn’t know, that it was something some humans seemed to be programmed to like, while others were not. He then asked me if I drank it often. ‘Probably too often,’ I told him. He wanted to know if it was bad for me. I told him too much was. And then came the turning point, he said he would like to try it.”

  “Mother of Mercy, you got him drunk!”

  Fowler broke into laughter. “Bill is guilty of serving liquor to a minor.”

  “So, Art, the case is for me?”

  “Can’t be too careful these days. Seeing that you haven’t tried to down a bottle, we know that you haven’t been taken over by Assassin.”

  There was nothing Morgan could say.

  Williams went on to describe why he slid his own glass over to Assassin.

  “He asked me if he should drink it slowly the way I did. It was everything I could do to stop myself from laughing. Here I was telling an alien how to drink scotch. I told him yes. He took a sip, then another. Before long, the glass was empty and he tells me he wants more.”

  “Incredible!”

  “I asked him if he would mind if I had some. He said no. I slowly slid over to the glass, refilled it and took my time taking a few sips. I could tell he was getting impatient. I reached for the bottle, topped off the glass, put it on the ground and slid it to within his reach. A few minutes later, the glass was empty again. He said it was very good and he must be programmed like me.”

  Tears began to form in Morgan’s eyes as he tried to stop laughing.

  “From then on, I would take one sip and he would polish off a glass. Finally, there was only enough left in the bottle to fill one last glass. He asked me if I had another bottle. I told him no. He said that was too bad and he wanted the last glass. I filled it and slid it back to him. He had trouble picking it up and the barrel of the rifle began to drop slowly. He finished the glass and his eyes began to shut. I attacked.”

  “You killed an alien using a bottle of scotch! When you told me the story the first time around, I thought it was strange that Assassin let down his guard only because of the conversation.”

  “Morgan,” said Fowler, “I saved the bottle. After my book about this, The Drunken Desert Alien, becomes a best seller, I’m going to auction off the bottle.”

  Morgan’s helicopters arrived just before four in the afternoon. With them came Ralston Mitchell, Morgan’s operational replacement, and Andrew McBride, who offered to assist Rappaport, especially with respect to integrating Morgan’s men into Rappaport’s team. Also in the mix was Kevin Pezeshki, the tech expert. Pezeshki wasted no time in setting up an impressive looking array of equipment in the van.

  The General invited Mitchell into the house where they spent over an hour going over plans for providing Williams, Morgan and Fowler whatever they might need. This including having troops brought in to assist the three if necessary. While they were conferring, the General’s helicopters arrived. Rappaport, with McBride at his side, called a meeting with both teams of men. He kept it brief telling them they would fly to a base camp at six the next morning where they would be provided with everything they would need for the mission. Details of the mission were to be revealed shortly after their arrival at the camp. “Meanwhile, enjoy your overnight stay here in the desert.”

  By nightfall, the two remaining sleepers arrived, along with two portable toilets and supplies for the eight who would be remaining on site: three MPs who were brought in with the sleepers, Pezeshki, Ling, Henderson and two biologists, or at least two who were presumed to be biologists, courtesy of Morgan. Both were due to arrive the next day, as were Ling and Henderson. The General and Mitchell planned to use Williams’ house when not at the base camp.

  “Do you have anything to wear other than the black uniform?” asked the General.

  “Yes, two civilian outfits,” replied Mitchell.

  “Good, get your stuff, bring it in here and change into one of them.”

  Twenty minutes later they were in Williams’ old jeep and on their way to Killer Two’s. The General gave Mitchell a heads up as to what to expect. “Whatever you do, don’t say anything negative about Killer Kowalski or wrestling.”

  “I’ve heard the name, but that’s all I know”

  “Look for the picture of Killer Two in a ring with Kowalski. Ask him if he beat Kowalski.”

  Despite the heads up from the General, Mitchell wasn’t prepared for the interior of the diner. Per the General’s request, he made his way to the picture, all the while taking in everything else in sight. After examining it, he joined the General at the counter.

  “Who’s this, Tom?”

  “Army friend of mine, Rallie,”

  “Great to meet you, Rallie. Any friend of Tom is a friend of mine.”

  They shook hands. Mitchell pointed to the picture and asked Killer Two if he beat Kowalski. Killer Two was all smiles as he described the circumstances under which the photo was taken. When he finished, he said, “Whatever you guys want, it’s on house.”

  The General was now all smiles.

  After the General and Mitchell had finished eating, Killer Two reemerged from the kitchen.

  “Killer, I’ve got something for you,” said the General. Reaching below his counter stool, he picked up a small paper bag and handed it to Killer Two. Tears began to form in Killer’s eyes as he opened the bag. Inside was a two set DVD titled, The Best of Killer Kowalski: The Legend. “I hope there are some clips you don’t already have.”

  Once Killer Two regained his composure, he said, “Thank you, Tom. I don’t know what to say.” Scanning the titles, he yelled, “Look at this, Killer Kowalski, Pat O’Connor, Cowboy Bob Ellis vs. Rikidozan, Giant Baba, Great Togo! He raced to the DVD player, pulled out his nephew’s disc and replaced it. Hurriedly fumbling with the remote, he eventually found the match. He stood perfectly still for the next few minutes, oblivious to the world around him.

  The General whispered to Mitchell, “Let’s go.”

  When the match ended, Killer Two turned around to an empty counter. He wiped his eyes and went back to the kitchen. He kept checking the clock. When ten o’clock finally came, he locked the front door, lowered the lights and watched both videos, even though he had seen most of the matches on them.

  “We can set up camp near Reserve tonight and start our search from there in the morning and then slowly move south,” said Williams.

  “Hold on, Bill, let me check something. He rebooted his tablet. “There’s a small motel just outside of Reserve. It’s probably not much, but three rooms there should beat tents. I’ve got a budget which will cover motels as long as we can find them while we’re out here. Any objections?”

  Neither Williams nor Fowler said a word. Morgan placed the call and made reservations.

  The conversation turned to how they were going to find one or more human-like beings which may or may not have existed. Facing back toward Morgan, Williams said, “Until and if you get some intel, we play private detectives on the ground.”

  “Better than that,” said Morgan as he flashed an FBI badge and backup identification. Looking at his tablet, he added, “There’s a bar in town. Should have time late tonight to make a quick check to see if anyone has seen someone who looks like Hector Morales.”

  “In the morning, we can check what other few businesses are there.”

  The motel appeared to have seen its better days. The exterior was weather beaten and offered little promise that the rooms would be much of an improvement over tents. However, the rooms had been completely remodeled and proved to be a pleasant surprise. Attached to the motel was a restaurant with excellent food – another surprise. Upon the finishing of the meals, Morgan showed the picture of Morales which he had on file in his tablet to the waitress. She did not recognize him.

  It was on to the bar. During the course of drinking one bottle each of Chicken
Killer, Morgan questioned five customers, the bartender and the waitress. None of them recognized Morales. Shortly before they were about to leave, Fowler struck up a conversation with the waitress, who was in her late thirties, attractive and divorced.

  “I hope he doesn’t think he has time for that,” said Morgan.

  The conversation lasted about five minutes and ended with her giving Fowler a slip of paper.

  Back in the Pathfinder and heading to the motel, Fowler said, “We may have something.”

  “She’s got two friends?” asked Williams.

  “Who knows?” replied Fowler. “She gave me two numbers. One is hers. I told her I’d give her a call when I finished my assignment. The other is for some guy named Floyd. He lives on the north edge of town, is retired and spends a lot of time horseback riding through the hills. Sally thought he might know something.”

  “What’s his number?” asked Morgan.

  Fowler passed him the slip of paper. Morgan keyed the number into his tablet. “Got the address. It’s Floyd Westerlind.”

  “We’ll check him out in the morning,” said Williams.

  Morgan added, “Good work, Art.”

  Directly following breakfast at the motel attached restaurant, the three headed out to find Westerlind.

  “Bill, I suggest that you carry the conversation as he’s retired Army – twenty-six years.”

  “What rank?”

  “E-7.”

  “Any combat?”

  “Gulf War.”

  “Wounded?”

  “No.”

  By the look of it with an old, faded white house and a large barn with the beginnings of a concave roof, Westerlind’s property had once been a farm or a ranch. Those days were gone as, other than two horses, there were no animals or crops in sight. Less than a mile from the property and extending in every direction except that of Reserve was a thick strand of evergreen trees, part of the Gila National Forest.

  “If there are any Assassin juniors out there,” observed Fowler, “it would be all but impossible to find them. They could multiply into hundreds or thousands in short order.”

  “I’m afraid you’re right,” said Morgan.

  As they approached the house, the door opened and out stepped a heavy set, tall figure with a shotgun. “What do you fellas want?”

  “Sergeant Westerlind?”

  There was no response.

  “I’m Major Bill Williams, U.S. Army. A young lady named Sally at the bar in town said you might be able to help us. It’s a national security issue.”

  “Who are these two with you?”

  “Jesse Morgan, FBI, and Arthur Fowler, ex-United States Army.”

  Westerlind could see that none of the three were armed. “Let me see your identification, Major.”

  Williams slowly pulled out a leather license holder from his shirt pocket and tossed it toward Westerlind. Keeping the shotgun pointed directly at Williams, Westerlind picked up the holder and examined the contents. He lowered the shotgun to his side. “Can’t be too careful these days.”

  “My apologies, Sergeant, we should have called first.”

  “What can I do for you fellas?”

  “We understand you do a lot of riding up in the hills. We are trying to track down an illegal who disappeared a while back.”

  “Who the hell cares about an illegal? What about Bottomly?”

  “That was a ways from here.”

  “Lotta land, Major. Not many folks. News travels. Anyone looking for him?”

  “It’s being worked on. Would you mind looking at a photo of the illegal?”

  “Won’t do you any good. Haven’t seen anybody out there and no one around here I don’t know except you three.”

  “Seen anything unusual?”

  “About twenty miles northeast of here, a black bear torn to shreds. Can’t imagine what kind of animal could’ve done that.”

  Looking back at his Pathfinder, Williams asked if they could drive to it.

  “Impossible.”

  “Could you get us there by horse? We’ll pay for your time and expenses.”

  “I’ve only got two horses and that was a week ago. There’s probably not much left of it now.”

  “Bill, if Sergeant Westerlind is willing, I’d like to go. If there is anything there, I’ll let Mitchell know. He can pass it on to the General.

  “This is that important?” asked Westerlind.

  “Yes,” replied Williams.

  Westerlind looked at Morgan. “Any time you’re ready, FBI.”

  Williams and Fowler spent the rest of the morning and early afternoon canvassing Reserve with no luck. Morgan called shortly after one o’clock to say that he and Westerlind were on their way back and were about five miles from Westerlind’s property. They found what little was left of the bear. Mitchell had been contacted and provided with the site coordinates.

  Back in the Pathfinder, Morgan said, “There was very little that was visible, but hopefully they can scoop up something of use. Also, on the way back in, I told Westerlind to be careful out there. When I did, he said, ‘Why, the devil beast?’”

  “So, that’s leaked out,” said Fowler.

  “Local cops let it out. Also, I gave him a hundred from my budget. Now, how about some lunch?”

  Following lunch, they decided to spend another night at the motel, but to first drive south to Glenwood, and spend the afternoon and, if necessary, the evening questioning the locals.

  Ling and Henderson were greeted by The General upon their return to Williams’ property. Following a hug from the General, Henderson asked, “Where’s Bill?”

  “Searching for possible human like versions of Assassin west of here along Route 180. Arthur and Morgan are with him.”

  “Morgan?”

  “Yes, Morgan.”

  The General proceeded to give them a briefing of Morgan’s latest visit and ended by saying, “His ‘conversion’ appears to be genuine.”

  “I hope so,” said Henderson.

  “Regardless of his motivation, Morgan does bring with him valuable assets. If they are able to work together, the three of them make a helluva team.”

  Ling couldn’t help but envy Williams’ combat abilities and toughness. Having seen the size of Assassin and its fearsome appearance, he knew that, unlike Williams, he would have had no chance against it. He also understood that his envy was irrational, but his love for Alice and fear of losing her made it impossible to feel otherwise.

  After explaining the two front search efforts underway, the General indicated they would find new equipment in the van along with Kevin Pezeshki, the tech man. “Also, two scientists will be arriving shortly to assist you. You will turn over to them the information I asked you to bring. However, do not under any circumstances tell them where we have Assassin.”

  “What is our role here?” asked Ling.

  “Until and if we find anything, wait and watch. Also, let me know if Morgan’s men have anything we can use.”

  “Stan,” said Henderson, “who does Cyclo remind you of?”

  “A know-it-all.”

  “Well, there’s that, but I’m talking about physical appearance.”

  Ling thought about it and came up empty.

  “You are a typical male. Morgan, he’s got to be Morgan’s son.”

  “Now that you mention it, I think you are right.”

  Cyclo was one of the two men who Morgan had assigned to work with Ling and Henderson. The other was a biologist, Dr. Norman Saunders, who Henderson had met several years earlier at a conference in Atlanta. Cyclo was dressed in one of the identification-less black uniforms used by Morgan and his men. He was twenty-six years old and may or may not have graduated from high school. He never attended college. In grade seven, aided by a photographic memory, he began a sequential reading of the Encylopaedia Britannica. He was one of those rare individuals blessed with the ability to look at a page of writing and instantly remember its contents. It was from this that Cyc
lo earned his name.

  It had taken but a few minutes after his arrival for Ling and Henderson to find out what everyone who knew Cyclo had learned. The breath and scope of his knowledge seemed boundless. Saunders told Ling that Cyclo probably understood String Theory as well as Brian Greene, but that Greene probably could not rattle off, as could Cyclo, the batting averages of just about every major league baseball player, past and present. Saunders told this to Ling in the presence of Cyclo.

  Unable to resist, Ling, who had become a Cincinnati Reds fan in his early days of being stationed at Wright Patterson, asked Cyclo, “What was the lifetime batting average of Gookie Dawkins?” Ling had seen Dawkins play in a Reds’ game back in 2002. He also knew that thousands upon thousands of individuals had played one game or more in the majors and that there very little chance that Cyclo had ever heard of Dawkins, let alone know his batting average.

  Before Cyclo could answer, Saunders said, “I’ve got twenty says he knows the answer.”

  Ling immediately accepted the bet.

  “Majors or minors,” asked Cyclo.

  “Uh-oh!” exclaimed Henderson, who then said, “Stan, I think you better take out your wallet.”

  “Majors,” replied Ling.

  “In ninety-eight at bats spanning 1999 through 2003, he batted .163.”

  Ling went to a computer, typed Dawkins name into the MLB official site player search and, while reaching for his wallet, said, “Damn!”

  “If you have two tens,” said Saunders, “I would appreciate it.”

  When Henderson finally was able to stop laughing, she said, “Stan, I suspect you are not the first person to be taken by these two.”

  While Saunders smiled broadly, Cyclo remained expressionless.

  Directly after Ling handed over to Saunders and Cyclo copies of all the research done on the remains of Assassin, Cyclo walked out of the van. He returned fifty minutes later. “Interesting.” Holding up the copies he had been given, he continued, “As your team has noted, Assassin appears to have been a long way from being fully matured. I suspect that if there are others left in its wake, unchecked they will eventually be able to take over the identity of other organisms, including humans, by doing nothing more than transferring the virus into those organisms. The virus it was carrying is like nothing known here on Earth. In fact, I’m not certain that it is a virus.”