Event (event group thrillers)

by David L. Golemon

  EIGHT

  Superstition Mountains, Arizona

  July 7, 2150 Hours

  For those fortunate enough to take the time to really watch, the desert is a living, thriving place, and the magic is never more noticeable than at night. As the sun sets, the dance of life and death usually begins in all the violence and splendor that we humans can only imagine. It ensures the survival of those species indigenous to the desert, this delicate dance. Now the animals, confused and frightened, had all but vanished from the small valley, leaving it still and motionless and far different today than yesterday.

  Gus had awakened twice to the sound of his mule wandering away from camp. It was as if Buck was attempting to sneak off, so after twice having his sleep disturbed by having to drag the beast back to camp, Gus finally placed the bit and reins back into the mule's mouth and tied him to an old deadfall. If he had enough rope to cut up, as much as he would have hated to, he would have hobbled him. As it was now, Buck was actually trying to pull the old fallen tree away from camp. The mule's rear legs dug into the sand as he tried to back away an inch or two at a time. He would jerk his head and move it back a foot, then he would gather strength and do it again.

  Gus sat up and watched as the animal struggled. He finally stood and quickly began to roll up his sleeping bag, wrapping it securely with the tarp. He then started packing the rest of his gear.

  "You're right, old boy, I don't want to be here any more'n you do," he said as he threw his things together.

  He kicked out the smoldering embers of his campfire and tossed what coffee remained in the old, battered pot onto the coals. Buck seemed to understand what he was doing because the mule stopped his efforts to escape long enough for Gus to load him up. As he reached down to untie him from the fallen tree and undid the reins, a piercing scream filled the night. Gus clutched his hands to his ears, dropped the reins, and sank to his knees. Buck, sensing he was free, rose up on his hind legs and jumped over the old miner, the rear hooves and steel shoes missing the old man's head by mere inches.

  Gus didn't feel the wind as the mule jumped over him, nor did he see him gallop away into the dark night. He was trying with all his strength to crush his hands hard enough into his ears to muffle the awful scream. He went from his knees to his back, rolling over sharp pebbles, thrashing around and kicking at the sand, rolling in pain. Unable to stand it any longer, he rolled onto his stomach, then risking further pain, he removed his hands from around his ears and used them to push into a standing position. He staggered a moment until he had his bearings. When he stuck his fingers in his ears, he realized the screaming wasn't coming from outside his head, but within it. He touched his fingers to his nose and felt the stickiness of blood. The old man couldn't know it, but the high-pitched screaming had opened pinprick-sized aneurysms in his outer brain. The flow of blood stopped as soon as the invasion of sound suddenly ceased.

  As he looked around, the quiet was deafening. To Gus it was like being under fire by artillery during the war: once it stopped, you encountered the silence that anyone who has lived through it can attest to, a quiet that continues to roar. Now the only thing he could hear or feel was his own ragged breathing and a heart he thought was trying to escape his chest.

  "What in the hell was that?" he asked himself out loud, his voice shaking. The uncaring desert absorbed his question, but didn't hold an answer.

  He finally brought his ragged breathing under control and thought he heard Buck braying in the night some distance from camp. He looked around and finally noticed the mule was gone.

  "Buck!" he called.

  But the only answer he received was the return of his own voice from the mountain, and even it looked down with its unsympathetic, ancient face.

  Eight hours after the craft slammed into the earth, the mountain clearing was still active with subtle and unnatural noises rising on the soft night breeze that swept gently through the valley. The wreckage was scattered among the rocks and large boulders of the mountain. Some pieces caught the light of the rising moon, while others were so dark in color they were invisible. The chunks of metal ranged in size from inches to pieces the size of pup tents. The ground was gouged into an ugly scar where the craft had hit the earth. Some of the debris had glowed for a time after coming apart in the impact, and even now some of the wreckage hissed softly with the pulsing of power. But now the site was dominated by one sound, an intermittent noise coming from a large boxlike structure that had survived the crash intact.

  The container stood ten feet high and was about the same in width. The small canisters attached to the top were crushed and leaking a mist into the night. The hiss of the escaping gas seemed loud and out of place in the small valley.

  There was movement inside the metallic box, slow at first. Then suddenly the huge object rocked onto its side, knocking what remained of the cylinders free. The cylinders rolled away and finally came to rest against a large rock. The liquid spread out as it covered the rock, and slowly the five-pound stone started to disintegrate, finally oozing into the sand with barely a trace left of it.

  The metal box was still once again, then suddenly something from inside hit the container so hard that it bulged outward, wrinkling the metal like ripples in a calm lake.

  The activity was being watched. Eyes as black as obsidian were opened wide in terror as the crate continued to rock. Gasps of breath escaped the hole the visitor had dug for itself under one of the larger boulders that sat on the edge of the debris field. It was hunched so low, every time it breathed it shot up tiny puffs of fine dirt. The small being knew it had to quiet all of its involuntary muscle spasms from its damaged body. The beast in the cage was capable of sensing the smallest movement through the ground, so the survivor pushed itself as far back into the depression as the rock would allow and waited, mentally ordering its battered body to shut down, save for the smallest of breaths.

  Upon gaining consciousness, it had screamed and screamed for the others of its kind. When no answer came, it had crawled and stumbled around the wreckage until it came upon the metal container. Its eyes had widened as it had spied the damaged cylinders and the fractal acid that was leaking into the soil instead of being injected into the cage. It had panicked and crawled away as fast as possible to the safety of the big rock it now hid under. The fail-safe system, because of the damage, was unable to initiate the killing, and the Destroyer was awake, awake and wanting freedom from its enclosure.

  Another bulge appeared, in the top of the cage this time. The animal was now testing the strength of its prison and was finding it sorely lacking. Suddenly, the entire side rippled as the creature inside pummeled the interior again and again.

  The Visitor couldn't help it. It tried desperately not to scream and did well to keep most of it inside its head, unknowingly attracting the attention of an old prospector down the mountainside.

  The container, weakened from damage, screeched as three claws pierced through the metal walls of the box. They raked downward, then to the side, slicing through as if encountering nothing more than tinfoil. Once it had made the first hole, the prisoner started slicing and tearing at the enclosure until there was little left to block out the night sky. Then the remains of the cage were shaken free as easily as if it were nothing but paper.

  As the moon passed behind the mountain, the Visitor saw nothing but the vague outline of the beast and closed its eyes to shut out what little it could see. Without warning, the roar of the animal filled the air and reverberated through the valley, bouncing off rock walls, then returning. The small being almost moved to cover its own ears, doing anything to drown out the horrible sound of the creature, but it caught itself before it could give away its position and lay as motionless as it could.

  In a small alcove of granite, a survivor of the second craft watched. The debris field of this saucer was scattered on a higher level of the mountain, and most was buried upon impact. The wounds the crewman had suffered hadn't impaired its scramble to a high plac
e when it heard the rumblings emanating from the metal cage. It had also seen the sudden panic in the eyes of the Green as it too heard the wakening of the beast It had watched the terrified way in which it too had sought safety. The second visitor had momentarily been tempted to risk its own life by seeking a fast way to reach the Green and kill it. But it knew the beast would be free before it could drag its wounded body to the small one's hiding place. It would have to wait.

  The being under the boulder wanted so badly to look around after silence once again filled the crash site, but it knew that the beast was still there. It had seen this animal in its natural environment and knew it to be the best hunter in the known universe. Its instincts for survival were unparalleled.

  Suddenly the animal roared again, unfolding the layered armor-plated appendages from its neck and making them stand out from its body like a rooster before a fight. The horrible scream was directed at the setting moon of this new world. The animal shook its massive head violently at the falling, yellow orb. Then it calmed and surveyed the area around it. It was slowly regaining its senses from a long hibernation, and gaining strength as well. The creature hunched its muscled shoulders and lowered its giant body toward the debris-strewn ground as it started creating invisible waves of high-pitched sound from deep within its throat that hit the sand and rock surrounding its monstrous form. The sound was too high for any to hear, but it was strong enough that it changed the very dynamic of the strange soil on which the beast found itself. The floor of the small valley for a radius of fifteen feet surrounding the animal rippled like the surface of a lake, the base elements and molecular structure of the dirt and rock having been changed through that invisible sound wave. The beast sprang into the air, closing the armored headdress around its muscled neck, and dove into the liquefied ground. A fountain of earth erupted in a cloudlike geyser as the Destroyer swam deeply beneath the surface.

  After an hour of running, Buck stopped and turned. His forelegs came up into the air and he brayed. The large mule kicked at the air, confused by the feeling of being stalked, then quickly turned and bolted once again into the desert. The pack strapped to his back made clanging noises as pots and pans, picks and shovels, were jumbled.

  Ten minutes later Buck was still running away from the mountain when the ground suddenly and without warning opened up, and Buck ran right into an ever-widening crevasse. He almost made the jump across to the opposite end of the hole, but his hind legs came up just short, first gaining purchase, then sliding off the crumbling edge. As his large chest and belly hit, his legs furiously kicked at now empty space. The animal struggled and kicked up the side of the depression until he started to make headway. Buck had almost extricated himself when something sharp pierced his right hind leg just to the right of his swishing tail. The mule began screaming in shock and pain as the huge claws sank deeper, gaining a better purchase with more of the animal's flesh. Buck's eyes widened in panic as he screamed and brayed and desperately kicked out, tearing huge chunks of his flesh away for the effort. Another set of claws reached up from the desert and grabbed Buck's left shank, snapping it in two as the mule was dragged backward into the ever-widening hole until only the mule's forelegs and head were still above ground. It frantically clawed at the dirt and sand as it tried pulling itself from the hole. Buck fell heavily on his side with his forelegs still furiously scratching at the expanding sides of the hole. Then suddenly the mule vanished.

  A long and powerful roar of animal triumph never before heard echoed against the nearby mountains; then another deep and horrendous bestial scream rent the night air, Then as suddenly as the night had been covered in terror, all was eerily quiet once again. Only the sound of collapsing sand and dirt could be heard as a large wave moved off into the desert.

  Gus held his ears again as a roar like that of a great animal rolled through the valley. After a minute the echoes of the scream died away, as silence swept the desert once again.

  He turned away from the mountain and was about to call out to Buck when the roar was repeated. This time, before he had a chance to react to it, the sound stopped abruptly.

  In the eerie silence that followed, he became aware of another sound, not like the first, the screaming, but softer. He shook his head in doubt because he thought it might be an after-echo from the horrible noise of a moment before. But this was distant, like someone, a child maybe, speaking in low tones.

  The old man looked at the mountain and knew without thinking exactly where the crying was coming from, and then before he realized what he was doing, Gus Tilly started walking.

  USS Carl Vinson, Four Hundred Miles off the Coast of Mexico

  21.55 Hours

  Lieutenant JG Jason Ryan had been through hell the last few hours. After he had been checked out by the flight surgeon, he had been grilled by his wing commander, squadron CO, and the special board that had been convened to look into the "accident." The film from his gun cameras that were encased in a hunk of aluminum that used to be his Tomcat was sitting at the bottom of the Pacific. He had nothing to corroborate his fantastic story. The Alert One fighters that had arrived on the scene only in time to see the two chutes hit the water reported nothing in the skies around the area and had never at any time had any hostiles on their air-search radars.

  As he walked down the companionway, sailors would step aside and allow him to pass, becoming silent on his approach. The word was out that somehow the hotdogging lieutenant had caused an accident. Oh, the board of inquiry hadn't come right out and said it, but Vampire knew his story was just too unbelievable, even with Commander Harris backing him in his report from his division that something out of the ordinary had indeed happened that morning.

  Ryan was just about to enter his cabin when a signalman intercepted him.

  "Sir, you have a message from CAG, he wants to see you ASAP in his office."

  Ryan nodded and walked a hundred feet down the companionway. This is it, he thought, this was his grounding and the beginning of the end of his career. He paused a moment before knocking.

  "It's open," the deep voice of his CAG boomed.

  He quickly opened the door and stepped into the air group commander's office.

  "Lieutenant Ryan reporting, sir," he said, standing straight as a board.

  His commander was writing something and didn't bother to look up.

  "Mr. Ryan, you have orders to report to NAS Miramar. Have your person and navy issue on board the COD at 1055 hours tonight. You are hereby summoned there on National Command Authority, that means the president of the United States, Lieutenant, clear?"

  Ryan didn't miss a beat. "No, sir, I'm not clear on this. I'm now a Jonah on board my own ship. I would like to stay and get this cleared up." In his anger, he moved toward the commander's desk.

  Finally the commander looked up. Ryan could see in his eyes he was still burning up about losing Derry.

  "You are at attention, Mr. Ryan," he said, pointing his pen at a spot in front of the desk. "Evidently the powers that be, and they are the real power here, mister, want to hear your story, so someone pulled strings and had you transferred. But make no mistake, young Mr. Ryan, we will get to the bottom of this incident. Lieutenant Commander Derry was a close friend, he thought you were the best pilot in the squadron. Therefore, Mr. Ryan, I believe you when you say what you saw out there, but without evidence other than two lost aircraft and three dead men, there's not a whole lot I can do. Your shipmates will always judge you harsher than even yourself. Dismissed."

  Ryan deflated. He caught himself and stood up straight and saluted, then turned and left the office.

  Once the door was closed, he stood there in quiet and stunned shock. In fifteen minutes he was going to be catapulted off the Vinson in a C-2 Greyhound, or the COD, carrier onboard delivery, or in this instance, garbage jettison.

  As Ryan started for his cabin to quickly pack, he knew his days aboard the USS Carl Vinson were at an end.

  Las Vegas, Nevada

  J
uly 7, 2350 Hours

  The Ivory Coast Lounge was a gentlemen's club in the loosest sense of the word. The interior was made up in a gaudy African motif, complete with cheap imitation ivory tusks and actual bamboo huts covering the darkened and filthy vinyl-covered booths, giving customers a false sense of anonymity. Ugly plaster ceremonial masks covered the walls, along with shadowy cutouts of native women in erotic poses.

  The dancers plying their trade at this dive were there because they couldn't find work at one of the finer clubs on the Strip; they were either too old or too young for the legitimate establishments to hire. This was the kind of place that the city fathers were trying to ban from Las Vegas. If they'd known the small club dealt in more than just the exhibition of flesh, they would have moved to close it down even faster.

  The Frenchman had been sitting in the basement of the club for the past twenty minutes. He had arrived at least two hours before the Black Team was due. Every once in a while he would look up from the newspaper he was reading and glance at the closed-circuit television monitor on the desk a few feet away. He was reading a nice little article on a new advance in the software field by Microsoft when the manager of this little piece of Americana cleared his throat, asking for attention.

  "What is it?" he asked without looking up from his article.

  "What should I say to this man? Do I pay him or what?" the club manager asked. "He's been waiting a long time and is real pissed."

  Farbeaux slowly looked up, seemingly showing little interest. He carefully folded The Los Angeles Times he had been reading and placed it on the table. He watched the red-head on the monitor a moment and wondered what information he had that interested the big shot in New York or, more to the point, made him so nervous as to want to eliminate a most valuable contact as this man.