Saucer s-1

by Stephen Coonts

  'How do I know you will play fair?'

  'As I said, you have to trust us. Do you?'

  'No.'

  'Well, you have our number. If you — '

  'Wait a minute! Okay? I have to think about this for a minute.'

  'We're on your dime, mate.'

  Soldi was standing, looking into the darkness toward the ship. Rip lay in the sand, looking skyward at the stars. Dutch was sipping coffee.

  'I work for an oil company,' Bill Taggart said to the man on the other end of the satellite phone. 'I'm on a seismic survey crew working in the Sahara Desert. I'll give you the coordinates in a minute. We've found something, something extraordinary that I think would be of interest to Neville and his associates.'

  'I'm listening, Bill. Talk away.'

  'I want two million dollars.'

  'I'd like ten my own self.'

  'I'm serious.'

  'I am listening, my friend. You're paying for this call.'

  Captain Kathleen Sullivan was the duty officer in the operations center at Space Command, in Colorado Springs, Colorado, when one of the enlisted technicians called her over to his computer console.

  'We were processing data from the equatorial satellite when the computer found an anomaly, Captain. I think you should take a look at this.'

  'Okay,' Captain Sullivan said.

  'The area we are looking at is the Sahara, on the border between Libya and Chad. The computer says the area of interest is a few meters inside Libya, but as I recall, the exact border has never been formally agreed upon.'

  'What do you have?' Sullivan asked brusquely. She was in no mood for a long wind-up.

  'This.' The sergeant punched a key on the computer keyboard and a picture appeared. He used a track ball to make the picture larger, and larger, and larger. In the center was a perfect circle. The sergeant stood back from the console with his hands behind his back.

  'That circular shape is made of metal, is highly reflective, is about twenty meters in diameter, and wasn't there four days ago on the satellite's last look at that area.'

  Sullivan leaned close to the computer screen. 'This is a new one on me,' she muttered.

  'Yes, ma'am,' the sergeant agreed. 'Me too. If I didn't know better, I'd say the damn thing is a flying saucer.'

  'Or the top of a water tank.'

  'There? In the middle of the Sahara?' The sergeant reached for the computer keyboard. 'There is one vehicle near it and one small piece of wheeled equipment.'

  'People?'

  'At least one, perhaps two. If we had a little better angle on the sun we might have gotten a shadow…"

  Sullivan straightened up and frowned. 'You don't believe in flying saucers, do you?'

  'I have an open mind, Captain. An open mind. I'm just saying that circular shape looks like a saucer. It could be a water tank. It could be the top of a nuclear reactor. It could be a twenty-meter metal sunshade for the queen of England's garden party.'

  Sullivan picked up a notepad, jotted a series of numbers off the computer screen, then tore off the sheet of paper.

  'Thank you, Sergeant,' she said and walked back to her office.

  'Since I'm not an officer,' the sergeant muttered under his breath, 'I can believe any damned thing I want. Sir.'

  Captain Sullivan consulted the telephone number list taped to her desk, then dialed a secure telephone. After two rings, a male voice answered.

  She explained about the anomaly and dictated the latitude and longitude coordinates. She was very careful not to label the anomaly a flying saucer. 'It appears to be the top of a water tank, but it's in an empty, barren godforsaken place. I suggest, sir, that we request a more thorough examination of this site.'

  'Libya?'

  'Near the place where the borders of Libya, Chad, and Sudan come together.'

  'I'll be down for a look in five minutes.'

  Exactly six and a half minutes later, the general was leaning over the sergeant's shoulder while Captain Sullivan watched from several paces away.

  'We're doing an initial analysis before we send this data to NIMA,' she explained. NIMA was the National Imagery and Mapping Agency, which collected, analyzed, and distributed imagery for the various agencies of the U.S. government.

  'Hmm,' said the general.

  'Yes, sir,' the sergeant agreed flippantly.

  'What do you think it is, Sergeant?'

  'Looks like a flying saucer to me, General, but I just work here.'

  'Darned if it don't,' the general said. He straightened, checked the lat/long coordinates on the screen, nodded at Captain Sullivan, then walked away.

  In less than an hour a computer printer spit out a sheet of paper in a windowless office on the ground floor of a hangar in Nevada, at an airfield that wasn't on any map, in a place known only as Area 51.

  Two hours later a pilot wearing a helmet and full pressure suit manned an airplane that had just been pushed from the hangar. The airplane was all black and shaped like a wedge, with seventy-five degrees of wing sweep. An enlisted crew helped the pilot get into the cockpit, then strapped and plugged him in.

  The airplane was receiving electrical power from a piece of yellow gear. The pilot set up his cockpit switches, then spent fifteen minutes waiting.

  Only when the minute hand of his wristwatch was exactly on the hour did he signal the ground crew for an engine start.

  Precisely ten minutes later he advanced the throttles of his four rocket-based, combined-cycle engines and released the brakes. The noise from the engines almost ripped the sky apart. Even snuggled in the cockpit under a well-padded helmet, the pilot found the noise painfully loud.

  As he rolled down the runway, the engines were burning a mixture of compressed air and methane, augmented with liquid oxygen. As the plane accelerated, the mixture would be automatically juggled to maintain power.

  The spy plane rolled on the fourteen thousand-foot runway for a long time before it lifted off. With a flick of a switch the pilot retracted the gear. Then he pulled the nose up steeply and climbed away at a forty-five-degree angle. Passing Mach 2, the pilot toggled a lever that hydraulically lifted an opaque metal screen to cover the windshield and protect it. He had been using computer displays as his primary flight reference since liftoff, so being deprived of an outside view was of no practical consequence.

  He watched his airspeed carefully, and at Mach 2.5 monitored the computer-controlled transition to pure ramjet flight. The air compressor inlet doors were closed and the flow of LOX secured. When the transition was complete, methane burning in the free airflow through the four ramjets provided the aircraft's propulsion. Fifteen minutes after lifting off, the plane leveled at one hundred twenty-five thousand feet above the earth and accelerated to fifty-four hundred miles per hour.

  The pilot kept a careful eye on the computer screen that displayed the temperature of various portions of his aircraft. He was especially vigilant about the temperatures of the leading edges of the wings, which he knew were glowing a cherry red even though he couldn't see them.

  Despite the deafening roar of the engines and the shock wave that trailed for miles behind the hypersonic plane, a placid calm had descended upon the cockpit. Engine noise reached the pilot only through the airframe. Amazingly, almost none of this noise reached the ground. The sonic wave of aircraft flying above one hundred thousand feet dissipated before reaching the ground, as did ninety-nine percent of the engine noise. And at this altitude the stealthy plane was invisible to radar and human eyes. Only infrared sensors trained skyward could detect it, and there were few of those.

  The pilot ensured that his two Global Positioning System (GPS) devices agreed with each other, then coupled the primary autopilot to one of them. The autopilot would take him to the first tanker rendezvous over the Atlantic. He would drop down to thirty thousand feet and slow to subsonic speed on the turbine engines to refuel from a KC-135 tanker, then climb back to altitude while accelerating to hypersonic cruise for the flight across Afr
ica.

  The night would not yet have passed when he arrived over the central Sahara, but no matter. His synthetic-aperture radar could see through darkness, clouds, or smoke. The digital signals would be encrypted and transmitted via satellite to NIMA for processing into extraordinarily detailed images.

  With its mission in the Sahara complete, the hypersonic spy plane would make another pass over the Mideast — this pilot made the Mideast run at least once a week — then turn and head for a second tanker rendezvous west of the Azores on the way back to Nevada.

  Just another day at the office, the pilot told himself, and tried to make himself comfortable in his padded seat.

  When Bill Taggart got back to the circle of light from the propane lamp, the professor was explaining: '… Modern man appears in the archaeological record about one hundred thousand years ago, but the story is mixed, hard to decipher. At least two other species of hominids lived at the same time. All we know for a fact is that modern man survived and the other hominids became extinct.'

  Professor Soldi gestured into the larger darkness. 'A hundred millennia ago this area was probably a lot like parts of Arizona are today, with wooded hills and mountains rising above the arid desert floor. People lived wherever there was a dependable source of water — didn't have to be much, just a little, but steady. The desert encroached and retreated with variations in rainfall.'

  'How do you see what's under the sand?'

  'We use radar. We look through the sand with radar, map the terrain, locate places that we think it likely that water might have been more plentiful than elsewhere. If these sites aren't buried too deep, we dig.'

  'Any luck so far?'

  'Oh, yes,' Soldi said, and from a trouser pocket he removed a large flint blade. 'This knife,' he said, cradling it in his hand, 'may be fifty thousand years old.'

  'The saucer might be that old,' Rip said. 'Or older.'

  'Extraordinary, isn't it?' Soldi exclaimed, his voice vibrant and full of energy. 'The technology in that saucer and the technology represented by this knife blade. They were found just thirty miles apart and are apparently so dissimilar. And yet… '

  The sky was just beginning to lighten in the east when Rip Cantrell awoke. He was too excited to sleep. He could think of nothing except the saucer.

  He rolled off the cot, pounded his boots to make sure that they were empty, then put them on. He pulled on his shorts and a T-shirt he had worn only a couple of days, then slipped out of the tent.

  The air was invigorating, cool, and crisp. Actually, it was cold. He went back into the tent and rooted through his clothes for a sweatshirt. And a sweater.

  After a long, delicious drink of cool water and a couple of leftover rolls from last night's dinner, Rip set off on foot for the saucer. Dutch and Bill and the professor could bring the Jeep later.

  As he walked he watched the first light of dawn chase away the shadows. This summer job was his first real experience with the desert, and he loved it.

  He was at least a mile away when he saw the saucer reflecting the dawn's pink light. God, it looked… so… sublime! Mysterious and sublime.

  Today would be the day they got some answers. Yes. He could feel it.

  He climbed around on the rock, looking at the saucer from every angle. He put his hands on it, felt the cool, smooth, sensuous surface. When he lifted his hands, their outline remained in the surface dust.

  From the top of the stone ledge that had imprisoned the saucer, he watched the sun rise over the rim of the earth.

  Why here? Why had they landed here, in this place? Was it a desert then?

  When the sun was completely above the horizon, Rip got the shovel and began removing sandstone debris from under the saucer. He brushed loose sand and rubble away from the exposed landing gear skid with his fingers.

  He almost missed it in the darkness of the early morning light. There, in the stone!

  A handprint!

  Just like the ones he had left in the dust on the skin of the ship… a handprint in the rock.

  He blew all the sand from the print. Placed his own right hand in it.

  The print in the stone was just a tiny bit smaller.

  He sat down and stared at the print, trying to understand.

  Finally he covered the print with loose sand, then packed the sand in hard.

  He had the compressor going and was jackhammering rock under the saucer when the others arrived in the Jeep. He heard them drive up when he paused to move the hammer and rearrange the handkerchief he had tied over his mouth and nose.

  Rip Cantrell grinned to himself. Yes. Today was going to be the day!

  About nine that morning the men took a break from moving rock and rigged the tent, which was really a large tarpaulin without sides. An hour after they resumed work they uncovered a corner of the hatch in the bottom of the saucer. It was just aft of dead center, the thickest part of the ship.

  The hatch cover joined the rest of the fuselage in a joint that was so fine it was easy to miss. As usual, Rip noticed it first.

  They worked feverishly to break the rock loose from under the rest of the ship.

  Panting from exertion and excitement, Professor Soldi crawled in and lay on his back, looking up at the hatch, which was about two feet above his head. Rip and Dutch lay on each side. In the center of the hatch was a drumstick-shaped cutout. At first blush, the cutout channel looked like an engraving. It was no more than a hundredth of an inch wide, if that.

  Soldi wiped his hands on his shirt, then used his fingers to wipe the dust from his glasses. 'Look at the workmanship,' he whispered.

  'Should we open it?' Dutch asked.

  'You're assuming that we can,' Soldi remarked.

  'Of course we can,' Rip said, his voice reflecting his optimism. I'll bet this whole ship is just the way they left it. There isn't a speck of rust on it.'

  Soldi reached up and caressed the hatch with his fingertips. 'We are on the threshold of a new age.'

  'Let's do it,' Rip said. He was out of patience.

  'Relax, Rip,' Taggart rumbled.

  'Perhaps we should wait for experts,' Soldi muttered, probably just to rag the young man beside him, who was almost quivering.

  Dutch Haagen was kneeling beside a landing gear skid. 'I really don't want to meet anyone who claims to be an expert on flying saucers,' he said. 'Let's just get on with it before Qaddafi's boys arrive and run us off. Besides, the suspense is killing me.'

  Soldi reached over his head. He pushed gently on the small cutout. Nothing. Pressed on one end, then the other. 'This is like pushing on a bank safe,' he said with his teeth clenched.

  He pushed, tugged, pried with his fingers. Nothing.

  'There's gotta be a trick to it,' Dutch remarked.

  'I'm sure there is,' Dr. Soldi agreed.

  'Let me try.' Rip bumped his hip against the professor, who glanced at the youngster's eager face, then moved over.

  Rip put his hand against the cutout and held it there for a moment. Then he pressed on the large end. It gave. The small end moved down away from the fuselage.

  'How about that!'

  'It's sensitive to the heat of your hand.'

  'How did you know that?'

  'It just makes sense. Doesn't it?'

  Carefully Rip grasped the handle. He applied pressure downward, then sideways. Finally he tried to rotate it. Now the handle turned, then the rear edge of the hatch moved inward.

  The hatch opened slowly, making a tiny hissing sound.

  When the sound stopped, the four men laid frozen looking at the gaping hole in the ship's hull.

  'Oh, man!' Dutch exclaimed.

  Chapter Three

  Professor Soldi crawled toward the open hatch and sniffed the escaping air. 'It is air, all right,' he said, 'but the aroma is a little strange… '

  'That hatch has been closed for a very long time,' Dutch Haagen remarked, more to himself than the others.

  The professor stuck his head into the open hatc
hway and inhaled a lungful through his nose. Then he sagged back onto the sandy rock. 'Stale. Very stale.'

  Rip Cantrell snorted. 'I like your scientific method,' he said and laughed.

  Soldi didn't even bother to glare at him.

  The open hatch beckoned.

  'Rip, you found this ship,' Dutch said. 'Would you like to go first?'

  Rip didn't have to be asked twice. He scooted over to the hatch and positioned himself immediately under it as Bill Taggart told Dutch, 'Thanks for not asking me.'

  Rip got his knees under him and eased his head higher in the hole. His eyes adjusted to the dim light.

  His stomach felt like it was full of butterflies.

  He inched his head up.

  His eyes cleared the rim of the hatchway, and he could see into the ship.

  The only light came into the ship through the canopy over the pilot's seat, which was on a pedestal of some kind.

  No doubt the pedestal kept the pilot high, so he could see out.

  Maybe seven feet of headroom in the center of the ship around the pedestal, less as the distance from the pedestal increased. The compartment was only about ten or twelve feet in diameter. There were six seats with seat belts lying beside them, but no bunks. All the seats faced forward. One seat on each side of the pedestal faced a blank white panel. On each panel were some switches and knobs, but no instruments were in sight — none.

  After he had surveyed the entire compartment and his eyes were completely adjusted, Rip stood up in the hatch. His head just cleared the hatchway. The air in the ship was cool. That was unexpected. A metal ship, sitting in the sun. It must be well insulated.

  He climbed in. Now he realized that there was a handhold and cutout for his foot, so that he could climb in easier. He hadn't seen that before.

  Standing inside the ship, he breathed deeply. Was there a faint odor of salt? Of perspiration? Or was it just his imagination?

  Rip Cantrell took a careful look around, then climbed up into the pilot's seat and seated himself. The canopy was deeply tinted and offered the pilot a good view in all directions.