The sun was dropping lower in the lateafternoon sky. Night would soon follow. It was best at night. Sometimes they would come out in the daytime, but at night the show was always better.
At times there would be a single ship. Flying high above the endless desert. At other times there would be multiple craft. These occasionally would fly in formation above the desert watchers, multicolored running lights blinking cheerfully at the planet inhabitants below. The lights would break formation all at once, darting up into the heavens.
Ford had never seen any of the smaller, grouped spacecraft. He had seen many of the larger ones in his life. He even used to report them years before, but the sinister forces in the United States government were always one step ahead of him. Their stooges always got to the local police or airport or FBI or civil-defense offices first, passing out the old "landing airplane" cover story. Ford was so upset at the blatant cover-up that he was nearly ready to stop calling anyway when the cease-and-desist order was issued.
This was part of the reason he had been so anxious to follow the G-man from the airport. If the guy wasn't a ufologist, then he was the enemy. Especially dressed like that. Arthur Ford might have been able to expose the whole conspiracy if he'd been able to tail the guy.
Too bad for Ford. Everyone knew the government was always involved in all sorts of coverups. He would have been a hero if he'd been able to expose the mother of them all-the great Roswell UFO conspiracy.
One thing was sure-if he had exposed the truth, his family would finally stop snickering whenever his name was mentioned. Except for his mother. She'd stop crying.
Though he had tried since losing the G-man's car outside of Roswell, as Ford drove through the ATV furrows and around clumps of desert scrub, he could not help but think of the opportunity that had slipped through his fingers. Tonight, dammit, the universe owed him a spaceship.
He steered his jeep down into a well-worn trail that led down into a dried-out riverbed. He followed the contours of the old river for fifty yards, driving up the angled path that led up the far side. Bouncing, the jeep crested the hill.
It was as he was leveling the jouncing vehicle off for the short trip down the rocky incline at the far side of the old riverbank that Arthur Ford saw the spaceship.
It was directly ahead of him in the gathering redness of the afternoon desert sky. A tiny black dot moving swiftly toward him.
Ford was so shocked it took him a moment to realize he'd slammed on the brakes. A cloud of dust kicked up from beneath the skidding wheels.
"Shazbot!" Ford complained as the cloud crept swiftly forward, enveloping the jeep and blocking his view.
He tossed his water bottle onto the floor, quickly gathering up his camera from the passenger's seat. Hopping down from the jeep, he ran out beyond the thin periphery of the cloud.
He saw the ship instantly. It was closer than it had been, zooming in from the west.
The brilliance of the sun in the western sky was too great to distinguish the craft clearly. Hands shaking with excitement, Ford brought the expensive camera up to his eye.
Desert vista flew by as he swept the horizon for the enlarging dot. He found it quickly.
As he adjusted the lens focus, the thrill of discovery collapsed into deep disappointment.
It was not an intergalactic spacecraft at all; it was a helicopter. A single, stupid, common U.S. Army helicopter.
No. Check that. Two stupid Army helicopters. The other was much farther back and could only be seen through his magnifying camera lens. It, too, was flying this way.
Ford trudged bitterly back to his jeep. He tossed the camera onto a rear seat as he climbed behind the wheel.
Another disappointment in a day of disappointments. He had started the engine and was ready to drive on when he noticed the dark shape of another jeep in the desert below.
Probably another UFO watcher.
As Ford watched, a figure stepped from the jeep. A tiny speck from this distance, he could see the stranger walk around to the front of his vehicle.
The first helicopter was much closer now, flying fast. It seemed as if it had noticed the lone man standing in the desert, for it made a beeline for him.
Ford's heart thrilled. Quickly he gathered up his camera once more, thinking he had stumbled on some clandestine government meeting.
The telephoto lens instantly enlarged the man to the point where the back of his head and shoulders were clearly visible. His hair was whitish-blond. The visible skin of his neck pale. His head was upturned as he faced the incoming helicopters.
For some reason Ford didn't understand, the man had raised his hands as if in supplication. Probably some kind of code.
Excited, Ford began snapping pictures as the chopper raced toward the lone figure in the desert. It was difficult to judge from his angle at the edge of the dead river, but it appeared to Arthur Ford as if the helicopter was nearly atop the distant jeep. Dust swirled up from the force of the rotor blades as the aircraft settled into a cautious hover above the man. The lone figure had yet to lower his arms.
Ford took another picture. Click, advance. Click, advance. He didn't know exactly what was going to happen, but if it was anything like-
There was a sudden blinding flash.
Shocked, Ford blinked sharply, tipping the camera away from his eye.
Some intense, unexpected burst of brightness in the desert below had shocked his eyes. Wild streaks of blue danced across his field of vision.
He blinked again, trying to force away the strange ghostly afterimage. Still it persisted.
It was only when he allowed his eyes to focus once more on the helicopter before him that he realized the flash that had blinded him was still occurring.
The constant image was easier to endure. The electrical arc from the hands of the man in the desert slammed into the belly of the big helicopter. The sparking blue charge enveloped the metal fuselage, racing down the long length of the tail and up to the stabilizing fin blades. Sparks flew hotly off the tail blades, crackling audibly.
Ford watched, stunned, as the surge of electricity raced up the main rotor assembly and out across the multispar stainless-steel blades.
As the dark figure shot more juice up into the helpless helicopter, the snap of the current was overpowered by the hum of the rotors slowing down. They became plainly visible, cutting at the air more and more slowly until lift could no longer be sustained. At this point, the helicopter simply dropped out of the sky.
Crash-resistant features meant nothing under these battlefield conditions.
Deadweight now, the chopper thundered to its belly in a shower of bluish sparks. As soon as it hit the desert, the Hellfire missiles aboard the craft detonated, engulfing the helicopter in an enormous ball of brilliant flame.
A thick curl of black smoke rose like an angry cobra into the pastel-painted sky.
The other helicopter was visible now. It had flown in behind the first, hugging the ground.
As fast as the first chopper had moved in, this one came faster. It had none of the curious hesitancy of the first. Unlike the helicopter that lay shattered and burning on the desert floor, this one appeared ready for combat.
Standing back, away from the action, Ford was in shock. He could not believe what he was seeing. A real live humanity-versus-alien battle was going on under his very nose. It was everything he had ever dreamed of. And if Arthur Ford had anything to say about it, he was going to be in the thick of things.
Flinging his camera into the jeep, he jumped behind the wheel. Leaving a huge plume of dust in his wake, Ford peeled off, bouncing crazily down toward the arena of intergalactic combat below.
ELIZU ROOTE WATCHED the second Apache tear across the desert toward him.
He had guessed correctly. Although he wasn't possessed with a great military mind, he still had an advantage. He knew Ironbutt Chesterfield was no great thinker, either. Obviously he knew the general all too well.
Chesterfield knew Root
e's last location was near the Last Chance Saloon beyond Lincoln National Forest. He would concentrate all his forces in that direction, not even considering the possibility that Roote might have gone south before turning toward the eastern perimeter of the base.
Roote had driven through miles of empty desert with no interruption.
Until the Apaches showed up.
The first chopper lay twisted in the sand before him. Sparks from the wreckage had set off a few minor brush fires around the crash site. Those parts of the rotor blades that hadn't sheared off at the chopper's impact with the unforgiving ground spun lazy circles above the flaming aircraft.
The Apaches were being used for reconnaissance, blindly sweeping the lonely miles of desert in search of a single man. It was obvious that the chopper crews hadn't been told what that lone man was capable of. If they had, the first chopper would never have stopped the way it had. And the second wouldn't be racing to its doom.
Roote could tell they were going to open fire on him. The nose of the trailing helicopter was tilted down slightly, the 30mm Hughes chain gun beneath the cockpit directed at the spot before the stolen Army jeep where Elizu Roote stood waiting.
Roote wasn't interested in prolonging this contest. As the chopper soared toward him, the fiberoptic relays that connected his optic nerve to the targeting processor in his brain locked on the big gun beneath the aircraft. He raised one hand toward the helicopter, fingers cupped to maximize the strength of the stream.
Roote fired.
At a command from his brain, conductive fibers along his skeletal system sucked power from the backup capacitor sites buried in his torso. Electricity collected at his five metal finger pads, congealing into a single blue arc that surged through the air in the direction of the incoming helicopter. The bolt never reached the Apache.
Roote knew all too well that electricity would naturally seek the shortest, fastest, most conductive route to the ground. Velocity compensators at his primary capacitor sites gave the extra boost his targeting systems needed to fire a controlled bolt at a given target. But he had drained those capacitors in his assault on the first Apache. Adrenaline had fooled his biological system into thinking that his mechanical system was at a higher operating level than it actually was.
As he watched in growing alarm, the heavy blue bolt of electricity turned a magnificent arc in the air, missing the Apache by dozens of yards. It blasted into the slowly revolving rotor assembly of the already downed helicopter.
Roote cut the power, staggering backward.
He felt the depletion all at once. His power was all but gone.
The helicopter continued to close.
Frantically, swaying wildly, Roote turned around.
He popped the hood on the jeep. As the aircraft rumbled inexorably toward him, Elizu Roote was certain that it would open fire any second. He visualized bullet holes erupting in his back, his body crumpling, bleeding, to the ground.
Fumbling, he grabbed hold of the top of the vehicle's battery. The wind at his back grew great. The roar of the chopper filled the desert around him.
He was almost dead. There would be no third chance.
Roote spun around. Sand from the downdraft ripped against his pale cheeks.
It was there. Fat and dark, hovering like some vision from the Apocalypse in the air before him.
They had not fired. They seemed content to watch him, unsure how to proceed.
Roote had no such hesitation.
He instantly channeled the power from the jeep battery directly up one arm and out the other. The blue arc exploded from his cupped fingertips, guided by his ocular systems to the slender angled gun barrel extending from the chopper's undercarriage.
The blue surge moved swiftly down the boron armor of the Apache. Random bolts were flung to the ground as the helicopter fought to stay aloft. There was a shriek of protest followed by a massive explosion as the ordnance aboard the aircraft detonated.
Roote barely had time to cut the power and scurry beneath the belly of his jeep before the big Apache crashed dramatically to the ground.
A few smaller explosions ripped through the air as the mortally wounded helicopter settled near the first in a plume of vicious dust.
Drained of nearly all power now, Roote could do nothing but cover his head with his arms. He crawled on his belly, away from the metal fragments thrown out from the chopper.
As he lay there, panting in fear and fatigue, he became aware of a new engine sound. It grew in intensity even as the roar of flames from the helicopter began to die.
A jeep. Almost as soon as he heard it, he saw it.
Tires slowed and stopped with a squeak. Roote saw them from the shade beneath his own jeep. Feet appeared. They ran to a point before his own jeep, scuffing to a stop in the dust. They were aimed toward the nearest flaming helicopter. "Wow."
The voice wasn't shocked. It was almost enthusiastic.
The boots changed direction. They ran over to the front of the jeep. Whoever it was dropped to his knees. An eager, sunburned face appeared in the square of light beneath the jeep's grille.
Roote's power was almost gone. He retreated from the newcomer, scurrying only a few inches back.
The stranger shook his head. He smiled.
"I am friend," Arthur Ford announced in loud, stilted English. He rapped his chest. "Me friend. Help you."
Flames crackled in the scrub around him. His capacitors were virtually empty. Elizu Roote hadn't much of a choice.
He extended a hand to Ford. The UFO enthusiast dragged one of the most dangerous men in the world from his hiding place beneath the jeep of the MPs he had murdered.
"Army bad. Government bad." Arthur nodded, as if indulging a dim foreigner. "I will take you to safe place." A thought suddenly occurred to him. "Do you want to phone home?" he offered cheerily.
"Shut up," Elizu Roote drawled weakly.
The words startled Ford. His alien had mastered Earthling vernacular already! Probably from watching television broadcasts while in orbit. This was obviously a creature of superior intelligence.
Thrilled that his alien spoke English and unmindful of the fact that the extraterrestrial's first suggestion had been rather on the rude side, Arthur Ford hustled the creature away from the flaming helicopter wreckage and to his waiting jeep.
Chapter 10
Remo was sitting up in bed, a steaming bowl of yellowish liquid cupped in both hands.
Although he was still pale, thanks to the Master of Sinanju's ministrations, much of his strength had returned. Blowing away some of the steam, he raised the bowl carefully to his lips and sipped a tiny portion of the liquid.
His expression instantly soured.
"Bleah," Remo said, a disgusted look on his face. He pushed his tongue around, feeling the thick tang of the unpleasant flavor on the roof of his mouth.
At his bedside Chiun stood, almond-shaped eyes narrowed expectantly like an actor awaiting a career-making review. He was clearly not pleased with Remo's assessment.
"Bleah?" Chiun bristled, insulted. "I toil for hours to restore you to health, I scour this encampment of cheap amateur killers for the necessary ingredients for this admixture, and one of the first grunts of language that passes your blubbery white lips is 'bleah'?"
"So shoot me," Remo said. "It tastes horrible."
"Would you rather it taste like fudge-cake-ripple-marshmallow-flavored ice cream?" Chiun mocked.
"Yeah, actually," Remo replied. "Even mud would be an improvement."
Chiun crossed his arms imperiously. "Too bad. It tastes as it tastes. Drink."
Remo took another reluctant sip. His face puckered once more. "Bleah. It tastes like goat piss," he complained.
Chiun's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Who has told you the secret ingredient?" he asked.
Remo shot a look at the old Korean. There was a hint of buried mirth in his teacher's eyes. Still, Remo wasn't certain if he himself was the joke. Steeling himself, he tossed back the bo
wl, drinking all of the liquid in one wretched gulp. He shivered afterward, handing the cup back to Chiun.
"Happy?" Remo asked, a deeply unpleasant expression on his pale features.
Chiun inspected the bowl for a single drop of liquid. Finding none, he nodded crisply, placing the bowl on the nightstand beside the bed. He settled, legs folded beneath him, into the lone seat next to Remo's hospital bed, the better to see his pupil.
Remo's gaze wandered to the half-open blinds on the nearest window. From this area of the infirmary, only a portion of the parade grounds was visible. Still, the view was such that many of the soldiers preparing for combat in front of Chesterfield's headquarters were plainly evident.
Remo's face took on a worried cast. "They're going after him," he commented softly.
"Who?" Chiun asked blandly.
"You know who," Remo said.
"Ah, yes." Chiun nodded. "The evil demon who shoots electricity from his fingers. Perhaps after they have slain the villain, they will concentrate their efforts on the wicked boogerman and Frankenpoop's monster."
Remo settled back in his pillow. "You're not really helping matters," he muttered, voice distant.
"No, of course not," Chiun replied tartly. "You were only unconscious and near death when I arrived. Your heart was bouncing like a drunken grasshopper around your chest, and any fool with a boomstick could have killed you with but a single shot, yet I am not helping. Forgive me, Remo. The next time you are about to die I will allow you to, thereby ingratiating myself to you for all eternity."
"Sarcasm doesn't help, either," Remo sighed, eyes closed.
"No," the Master of Sinanju admitted, bored, "but at least it gives me something to do while you sprawl like a calving bison in that Western bed." He fussed with the hems of his kimono. After coming around an hour before, Remo had told Chiun about Elizu Roote and his apparently remarkable abilities. The Master of Sinanju had been more than a little skeptical.
Secretly, Chiun hoped that Remo was lying to cover the embarrassment he felt for allowing his body to somehow become exposed to a near lethal dose of electricity. However, he knew that this was not like his pupil. Even if he were embarrassed, Remo wouldn't lie. Not to Chiun.
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