Desert Assassin

by Don Drewniak

  “One revelation after another! Did he in any way communicate with the Eagle Assassin?”

  “Not as such.” The General went on to put into words as best as he could what Williams had told him about the encounter.

  “We could use him here.”

  “Right now he is working with three others trying locate any aliens which may have assumed human form.”

  Once the questioning of the General ended, he asked the assembled scientists if the damage to Eagle Assassin was repairable.

  “We don’t know,” said Stanton. “I have two vets who specialize in birds at the ready. First, however, we will have to see about sedating it. Unfortunately, we have no way of communicating our intentions to it.”

  “Maybe there is a way,” said Henderson. “Can we get an artist to sketch the eagle as it is now and sketch what it would look like with a repaired wing, assuming, of course, that the wing can be repaired?”

  “That might work,” said the General with a smile that was barely on the safe side of flirting.

  Henderson returned the smile.

  “Dammit,” thought Ling. He immediately felt guilty. “My god, what is wrong with me?”

  The General concluded by looking at Stanton. “Do what is necessary to try to repair the damage, but do not further harm it in any way. Do not conduct any experiments on it without first clearing them with me. If something were to happen to Eagle Assassin, I would not want to be the one responsible and have to explain to Major Williams what went wrong.”

  Ling wanted to yell out, “Who is running the show, you or Williams?” Instead, he said nothing as the others, including Henderson, laughed. They understood the General was tweaking his audience.

  The General, Rappaport and McBride were back at the van by mid-afternoon. They brought with them two corporals to assist Pezeshki with what was now to be a twenty-four hour watch. From there, they continued on to the base camp. Once there, the General called for a meeting with Rappaport and Mitchell. Following a phone conversation between Mitchell and Morgan, it was agreed that both the General and Morgan would add five helicopters to the search, each with six men. This brought the total number of helicopters available for surveillance and troop deployment to twenty. A second drone was added to the mix.

  Five four-man squads were assigned to patrol the woods and hills during daylight hours. Any animal, including eagles, which appeared to be even remotely out of the norm were to be fired upon. During the first two full days of the retooled operation, three bears, a golden eagle, a mountain lion, and a coyote were killed. All ultimately proved to be virus free.

  Just before noon on day three, Pezeshki radioed McBride that one of the drones had spotted what looked to be a black bear with what appeared to be excessively long hair. McBride immediately ordered his command headquarters to have a drone commence a rocket attack.

  When the first helicopter arrived at the scene of the attack, the crew found remains of the Bear Assassin scattered over a wide area. The remains were torched.

  Morgan, who had been picked up in Reserve with his personal helicopter, offered to use it to fly the “HC” (short for Humanoid Cabal, a name drummed up by Fowler) back to Reserve.

  “Where will you leave it?” asked Williams about the helicopter.

  “I’ve talked to Westerlind about renting his barn to store it. It would be out of site and available whenever we might need it. Your call.”

  “Good idea.”

  Morgan landed the helicopter in a field near the motel outside of Reserve which had become HC headquarters. Cyclo drove the Pathfinder to Westerlind’s and picked up Morgan once the helicopter had been flown there and tucked away. Morgan shared his room with his son, while Williams and Fowler retained their separate rooms.

  The HC met at the motel restaurant for an early dinner and to discuss search plans.

  “I just spoke with the General,” said Williams. He said the new SUV will be delivered here by early morning. I’d like to restart the search in the morning. Morgan, would you and Cyclo cover Reserve, while Art and I tackle Glenwood?”

  “No problem.”

  “We can move on to Mule Creek and Gila in the afternoon. On the way back in the evening, we can hit the hot spots in Glenwood and Reserve.”

  That evoked a sarcastic laugh from Fowler.

  “Plan on breakfast at seven. Meanwhile, Morgan, let’s hope you get some news of a crime or two that fit what we are looking for.”

  Shortly after they returned to their rooms, Williams heard a knock on his door.

  “It’s Art.”

  Once in the room, Fowler asked Williams if he could borrow the Pathfinder.

  “Sally?”

  Fowler smiled. “Yah, but I won’t be long.”

  Williams tossed him the keys. “Curfew is eleven.”

  “Thanks.”

  Williams was sound asleep when he heard a knock at the door. “It’s Art. Let me in.”

  “Damn,” muttered Williams as he looked a digital clock on the nightstand. It was 11:16.

  As Williams opened the door, Fowler said, “Put on some clothes, I’ve got something to show you.”

  Three minutes later, Fowler lifted open the rear door of the Pathfinder.

  “What the hell is this?” asked Williams as he stared at a struggling body which was handcuffed behind its back, legs tied together, gagged and blindfolded.

  “Morales.”

  “Let me get Morgan.”

  A few minutes later, the HC was on the way to Westerlind’s barn. Williams called the General. “Art has captured Morales, that is a Morales Assassin. We’ll be flying to the camp to hand him over to you.”

  After he let what he just heard sink in, the General said, “Are you sure its Morales?” He was speaking loud enough to be heard by all in the Pathfinder.

  “Art says it is. That’s good enough for me.”

  “How the hell did he do it?”

  “Don’t know. We haven’t had time to ask him.”

  “This is unbelievable.”

  “Do you have someone there who speaks Spanish?”

  Before the General could respond, Cyclo said, “No need. I do.”

  “I should have known,” said Williams.

  “He’s fluent,” added Morgan.

  “One more thing,” said the General. “Tell Arthur I’ll treat him to a meal at Killer Two’s the next time we are there.”

  “You’ll pay for all of us, or I’ll turn Morales loose,” chuckled Fowler.

  “Arthur, what am I going to do with you?”

  When they arrived at Westerlind’s, Cyclo said, “I have a suggestion.”

  “Shoot,” said Williams.

  “Cut his legs loose and take off the blindfold. Let him walk into the chopper. Try not to touch him. We don’t know what he’s got under the hood.”

  “The virus? asked Williams.

  “That and maybe a lot more. Once we get him in the chopper, then we can blindfold him and tie up the legs – carefully.”

  That was the way it was done.

  Once they were airborne, Morgan looked back from his pilot’s seat at Fowler. “Okay, Art, let’s hear it.”

  “Well, I figured it wouldn’t hurt if I got an early start to the search.”

  “Load of crap,” laughed Morgan, “you went looking for Sally.”

  “Who’s Sally?” asked Cyclo.

  “A waitress at the bar in town,” replied Morgan.

  “When I got to the bar, the only customers were three white guys sitting at a table in the far left corner. The bartender told me Sally had the night off. I was about to turn around and leave when I decided to have a quick Doctor Pepper.”

  This time it was Williams who said, “Load of crap.”

  “About halfway through the Doctor Pepper, in walked a Latino wearing old dungarees and a frayed flannel shirt. As soon as I looked at his face, I was sure it was Morales, or what used to be Morales. I was sitting at the middle of the bar. He sat down about ten feet to
my right. Speaking Spanish, he placed an order for a beer with the bartender. As soon as he spoke, I knew it was another Assassin. Like Bill’s Assassin, he paused after every word. I decided to use page one of the Major Williams’ Alien Playbook and ask the bartender for his best scotch. The trouble was I had never ordered whiskey of any kind from a bar. I knew that Bill always had single malt scotch and, back at his place, he always had water on the side. So, trying to sound like I knew what I was talking about, I asked the bartender for his best single malt scotch with water on the side.”

  Morgan smiled and said, “Did he ask you if you were going to use it to wash down the Doctor Pepper?”

  “No, but he told me it was expensive. I said that was no problem as one of the guys I was in there with the last time was paying for all the scotch I drink. Told him I’d need a receipt before I left.”

  Williams and Cyclo couldn’t help but laugh.

  “He put a small glass with the scotch in it on the bar and another glass with water. I then imitated the General. I slowly swirled the scotch around for about a minute, brought the glass up to my nose, stuck my nose in the glass and took an exaggerated whiff. I’m always amazed that the scotch doesn’t get pulled into the General’s nose when he does that.”

  Now it was Morgan doing the laughing. “I’ve thought the same thing.”

  Fowler flashed a broad grin and continued. “I waited about a minute, took a sip and tried to look as if I were about to have an orgasm. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Morales looking at me. Another minute went by and I took a second sip. By now he couldn’t take his eyes off the glass. At this point, I wasn’t sure if it was my acting or the smell of the scotch that he was fixated on.”

  “Your acting?” asked Williams.

  “After about my fifth sip, Morales asked the bartender something. I had no idea what he asked until the bartender answered. I heard him give a money amount in Spanish. It sounded like ‘Onsay Dolores.’ I had no idea how much that was, but Morales pulled some bills out of his pocket and it was obvious that it would have left him with not much left over.”

  “That’s eleven dollars,” explained Cyclo.

  “I then opened page two of the Major Williams’ Alien Playbook and told the bartender to give him a glass of the scotch.”

  Tears began to form in Morgan’s eyes. If Williams had any lingering doubts about Morgan being a decent guy, they disappeared at that moment. He wondered how much of Morgan’s pre-Assassin personality was colored by the loss of his wife.

  “The bartender looked at me as if I’m a gay trying to hit on Morales.”

  At that point, Williams, Morgan and Cyclo started to laugh and took a good minute before they stopped.

  “Morales briefly tilted the glass at me as the bartender handed it to him. He then did a near perfect imitation of the General. He swirled and swirled the scotch, stuck his nose so far into the glass that it touched the scotch and then he took a big whiff. At that point, I almost pissed my pants.”

  Fowler had to stop again until the group stopped laughing.

  “No joke, he waited about a minute and then took a sip. His eyes opened wide. He was in love.”

  “With you or the scotch?” asked Morgan who once again was laughing out of control.

  “With the scotch,” replied Fowler trying his best to sound indignant.

  “Morales kept taking sips, but each one came a little bit faster than the one before it. Ten minutes later, the glass was empty. I bought him a second one. Five minutes later, it was empty. Just as he emptied it, I got up as if I was about to leave. Morales pointed to the bottle and I could tell he was asking the bartender how much for the bottle. I couldn’t understand a word the bartender said, but I figured he had to be telling him that he couldn’t sell anything that would leave the bar. Morales looked like a bear staring at a jar of honey it can’t quite reach. ‘Bingo,’ I said to myself. I told the bartender to tell Morales that I had a bottle in my car that I would sell to him for ten dollars. There was no question then that the bartender thought I was totally gay.”

  “The bartender relayed to Morales what I said. Morales slapped three dollars on the counter for the beer he bought and I tossed fifty on the bar and asked for a receipt.”

  At that point, Fowler stopped, fished through his pockets, pulled out a wrinkled slip of paper and passed it to Morgan. “Here’s the receipt for the scotch, Morgan.”

  Williams looked at Morgan and said, “I think I had better take the controls.”

  Once again laughing, Morgan said, “The two of you are out of your minds.”

  When all of them settled down, Fowler finished his tale. “Morales followed me out of the bar. I had parked the Pathfinder in back. There were only two other vehicles there. I figured they belonged to the bartender and the guys sitting at the booth. No one was in sight. Just as we approached the Pathfinder, I kicked him the right knee and as he began to go down, I caught him in the back of the neck. He was out cold. I put on gloves and five minutes or so later, he was wrapped up and ready to go.”

  The General, Rappaport, Mitchell and McBride greeted the HC as they landed. A half dozen armed troops quickly surrounded the helicopter.

  Williams said, “I think you ought to hear what Cyclo has to say.”

  The General nodded.

  “Can we talk away from the chopper?” asked Cyclo.

  The General immediately began to walk away from it. Everyone except the troops followed. Out of earshot of the troops, Cyclo continued, “As I told the guys earlier, we don’t know what Morales may have under the hood. Fowler took a heck of a chance. If it were my call, I would have him moved to a secure facility with everyone handling him wearing protective gear. Remember, this is Assassin, not Morales.”

  “By under the hood, you mean the virus.”

  “That’s only part of it. If it is a virus, it’s far more advanced and potent than anything we’ve ever encountered on Earth and it may not even be a virus. In fact, it might even be something that has been created artificially.”

  “By who?”

  “During the last two decades, hundreds of exoplanets have been discovered, this includes the possibility that planets are orbiting the closest star system to Earth, Alpha Centauri, and also around Tau Ceti, a star which is only 11.9 light years away. It is quite likely that most of the billions upon billions of stars in our Milky Way galaxy have planets orbiting them. Beyond that, there are billions upon billions of galaxies. If even a minute fraction of these planets have environments suitable for the creation of life, I can’t imagine that the universe is not teeming with it. Look at the incredible advances we are making in virtually every area of science, including genetics. Imagine what might be created by beings hundreds, thousands or millions of years more advanced than we are.”

  Cyclo paused as if to see if there were any questions or comments. None were forthcoming.

  “One of the most frightening aspects of the Assassins is the incredible rapidity with which they can replicate themselves or whatever organisms they attack. I’m certain Morales Assassin One has that capacity. Remember, also, that the original Assassin incorporated into it whatever it thought was of value to its survival. We have to hope that Morales has not made a replicate of itself. Who knows what else it may be capable of doing?”

  The General had heard enough. He, Williams and Morgan conferred briefly. Several minutes later, Rappaport and McBride were assigned to deliver a sedated Morales to Texas. Accompanying them would be six troops, three from the General and three from Morgan. Their primary responsibility was to be the guarding of Morales on a twenty-four hour basis. In addition, Morgan was to provide a former F.B.I. agent, Marco Baldarelli, to assist Stanton’s team. Baldarelli, the product of an Italian father and Hispanic mother, spoke fluent Spanish and was an experienced interrogator. Eight hours later, Morales was safely quarantined in Texas.

  While Rappaport and McBride were preparing to bring Morales to Texas, the General hosted a conference in hi
s tent. In addition to the General, present were Williams, Morgan, Mitchell, Fowler and Cyclo. The General passed out six glasses and passed a bottle of scotch around. The HC contingent looked at one another trying their best not to start laughing.

  “Arthur, how did you get that sucker?” As the General asked the question, he poured scotch into his glass and began to swirl. After a full minute, he slowly poked his nose into the glass and took his customary exaggerated whiff.

  “What the hell?” asked the General as all four of the HC crew burst into laughter and couldn’t stop. Minutes seemed to pass before Williams said, “He’s almost as good at it as Morales.” That began a second round of laughter.

  Both the General and Mitchell had no idea what was happening and could do nothing more than watch in disbelief. When the laughter finally subsided, Fowler turned to Williams and said, “Bill, I think you better tell him.”

  Williams gathered his thoughts and recounted what Fowler had described up to the point where Fowler bought the glass of scotch for Morales. To that point, the only thing said by the General was, “Unbelievable!” – three times.

  “Art then told us that the bartender looked at him as if he was a gay trying to hit on Morales.”

  The General laughed.

  “The bartender handed the glass of scotch to Morales.” Williams paused and looked point blank at the General. “Art then tells us that Morales did a perfect imitation of you. He swirled the scotch over and over, then stuck his nose so far into the glass that it touched the scotch. Next came a gigantic whiff. Art admitted to almost pissing in his pants and told us all he could think of was that it’s amazing you don’t pull the scotch up through your nose.”

  “Son-of-a-bitch!”

  “Then Morgan said he wondered the same thing about you.”

  Williams had to wait until everyone stopped laughing. Everyone, that is, except for the General who tried to disguise his emotions.

  “Morales waited another minute before taking his first sip. Art said Morales’ eyes opened wide and he was in love. At that point, Morgan interrupted Art and asked, ‘With you or the scotch?’”