As much as he appreciated the successful end to a mission, Tomlin didn’t much like doing black ops. That wasn’t what he’d signed up for, but he also saw the benefits of being “loaned out” to the CIA and other groups. The Reapers did good work—productive, beneficial work—and they got to learn more about being a cohesive operation. As a bonus, they stopped a few bastards from selling shit in the US. He had a little brother and two sisters. If he could make sure they stayed away from that sort of crap, all the better.
“I’m just sayin’ I wish we’d find someone who makes us work up a sweat,” Hill said without a hint of irony, “and do what we’re supposed to be doing.”
“Same here.” Tomlin nodded. Several of the others did the same.
The weather outside was getting rougher, and their transport lurched, then dropped a few hundred feet. Those who were strapped in just relaxed and enjoyed it. Those who weren’t grabbed for the nearest handhold and rode it out. There were a couple of grunts, but no one showed any real concern.
They approached southern Georgia, where the countryside around them was flat and wet, and steaming hot. According to the app on his phone the temperature was ninety-eight degrees Fahrenheit with one hundred percent humidity. The app said it felt like a hundred and ten—normal for the end of summer. Compared to where they’d just been, it was nice and cool.
The base lay just ahead, adjacent to a hydroelectric dam far from a major population center, and not many people would have recognized it as a base. The perfect location for a unit that didn’t exist.
“We’re home, boys,” Tomlin said.
Jermaine Hyde looked his way and nodded. The man said nothing, but he smiled for a moment. Hyde had a great smile that he almost never used. Some things just weren’t meant to be seen by the world at large.
It was almost eight hundred hours. The day was just beginning.
2
Woodhurst looked at his reflection and found everything in order. His uniform was crisp, his hair was in place. None of the rest mattered.
However, the latest trip to DC hadn’t gone the way he wanted and despite his best efforts he couldn’t make his jaw unclench.
When he left his quarters, Pappy was waiting for him.
Roger Elliott wasn’t a military man—not any more. He hadn’t been for a long time, but Woodhurst got along just fine with him. The man was dressed in black slacks and a black t-shirt. His hair was too long and he hadn’t shaved in a few days. Despite that, the two men had enough in common to guarantee they worked together well.
Woodhurst’s charge was to locate and, if possible, capture an alien. A creature not born of this planet. He had a special team of men to help with that. The Reapers were among the best-trained men in the world, capable of striking hard and fast. They could go into unknown territory, set up a base of operations, locate and extract their target—all inside of a couple of hours. He knew this for a fact, because they’d been dropped into several different countries and had proven themselves. Computer simulations just confirmed the facts.
As much as he would have loved to take the credit for their skills, Woodhurst wasn’t responsible, not really. He oversaw everything, yes, but it was the CIA man who took care of the actual training. Pappy Elliott was old enough that he should seriously consider retirement, but that wasn’t likely to happen in this lifetime. Woodhurst could call himself a driven man and mean it. Sometimes he thought Elliott made him look like a slacker.
And Elliott was laser focused on a single objective. More than anything in life, he wanted an alien found, captured, and interrogated or cut apart and studied. He wanted it the way carnivores wanted fresh meat— because unlike everyone else on the Stargazer base, he’d actually fought a creature from another planet.
According to the reports, Pappy Elliott had faced an extraterrestrial when he was in Southeast Asia. The details were technically “need to know,” but Woodhurst had the need and had studied the files. Whatever Elliott and his men had come up against during the Vietnam War, it had been larger than a man, possessed advanced stealth technology, and it murdered most of his men before vanishing.
There were three very grainy photos of a ship, including one that showed several human bodies in different stages of dismemberment. They’d been “skinned and prepared like deer in hunting season,” according to Elliott, and his words were accurate enough. Whatever other evidence might exist, Woodhurst did not know, but the accounts he had heard on many an occasion left him with little doubt.
Elliott remained uncertain as to why he had been allowed to live. It haunted him the way living through a massacre always haunts the survivors. Pappy had been doing covert ops in Vietnam, and despite a small contingent that had shoved aside his claims, Elliott had continued on with the CIA and was still technically a part of the Agency. These days he was on permanent loan to Woodhurst and Project Stargazer.
His obsession over what he had experienced, his desire to know everything there was to know about alien contact, and his skills in wetwork and black ops over the years had guaranteed that he would be an asset.
So far he had never let Woodhurst down.
Elliott nodded when the door opened. Woodhurst nodded back and started walking, and his friend moved into step with him.
“You’re not looking happy.”
“There’s nothing to be happy about,” Woodhurst replied.
“Did they cut the budget again?”
Woodhurst snorted. “They cut any further and they’re going to find bone.”
Elliott nodded. “We need proof.”
“It’s hard to get proof without some sort of actual encounter, isn’t it?” Woodhurst said. “The only physical evidence we’ve ever had is decades old, and the bean counters have decided it’s not ‘compelling.’ It’s been years, and we’re still waiting.”
“Nothing new since LA.”
Woodhurst nodded. It was all he could offer. “Plenty of rumors, but it’s the same old song and dance. If there are aliens out there, they’re not letting us know, and we need to produce some sort of evidence, or those assholes will find better ways to spend the money.”
Elliott made a face. “The evidence they have should be enough.”
“Politicians have very short memories, and see what they want to see to further their own agendas,” Woodhurst said. “They say it’s been decades. All the rumors in the world mean nothing without it.” He shrugged. “They’ve got a point. Twenty-odd years without any new evidence makes it look as if we had a chance encounter, if that. Anything that happened before the official records might as well not exist.”
“Maybe we can keep getting extra funding from the Agency. When we loaned out the Reapers, Stargazer got paid for the services rendered.”
“That’s the only reason they haven’t cut us off yet.” Woodhurst growled and shook his head. “We’re actually proving to be beneficial, but if things don’t change soon, they’re going to take the Reapers away from us and kill the program.”
“Back in the day, when this was the ‘Other Worldly Life Forms Program,’ the funding was always easy.” Elliott shook his head. “Damned politics. I hate this shit.”
“We all do. Problem is, these days there are too many subcommittees and too many watchdog groups. Sliding this sort of project through the microscope and calling it ‘research and development’ isn’t as easy. If we didn’t need a special facility and a few transports, it would be easier.”
“Fact of the matter is, the Agency isn’t making it any easier.” The other man rolled his shoulders and shook his head. “I mean, it’s good when we can deploy the boys and have them help out—that’s a nice mark on our side— but it isn’t enough, and the guys in charge aren’t the same ones any more. No one wants to play nice together.”
Woodhurst nodded. “The current administration doesn’t like it when people play nicely together. Distraction and confusion are the name of the game. The better to keep your enemies off balance.”
That was
being kind, and they both knew it. From the Executive branch and through all the varying offshoots, the name of the game was obfuscation. If anyone in the really high echelons had known of the existence of Project Stargazer, they’d have likely moved to shut it down immediately.
Elliott must have been reading his mind again.
“Traeger thinks he has a way around that,” he said.
“Yeah? How so?”
“If we can get a little more funding, and maybe make a few small concessions—the sort that don’t affect national security, of course—he thinks we could get a lifeline from the private sector.”
Woodhurst stopped and stared at the other man.
“Excuse me?”
Elliott held up a hand to ward off his ire.
“Look, I’m not saying I agree with him, I’m just saying it’s a consideration,” he responded. “If the current administration wants to get into bed with big business and stay there, and we can assume that they do, then the privatization of Stargazer might be the way to go. At least some of it.”
Woodhurst frowned.
“We’re working with state-of-the-art materials here, Pappy, you know that,” he said. “I’m not comfortable with the idea that military technology might get handed out to the rest of the world through some weapons dealers who have the right political clout.”
“No one is.” Elliott shook his head. “That’s not what Will’s talking about. He thinks, if we work it the right way, that some of the tech we’ve got, and anything we discover, could go to medical companies.” He sighed. “We’re talking an upgrade on how to stitch skin here, not offering new stealth technology to the Chinese.”
Woodhurst continued to frown, but he considered the possibilities. New medical technology was an acceptable alternative, in his eyes. There was always room for mending broken bodies. Yet there were other considerations, like data compression. Before OWLF had released some of what they’d uncovered, there hadn’t been CDs or DVDs. He didn’t understand the technical details, but he’d heard rumors—and only rumors—that the transmissions sent from the aliens had been tagged and identified on long-distance radio signals.
It wasn’t until a group at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology had been brought in that they realized how the information was compressed, and discovered methods for mimicking the process. Those were civilians, students, without the clearances necessary for such potentially volatile data.
Woodhurst shook his head. No proof. Just rumors. That was part of the reason he didn’t much care for the notion of privatizing any part of their work. If the wrong tech got to the wrong people, in the wrong countries, it could be mayhem.
“I’m not so sure about that idea, Pappy.”
“It’s the CDs and DVDs thing again, isn’t it?”
“I know, they said they made the discoveries on their own,” he answered, “but I still don’t like it. What if someone other than us got their hands on a propulsion system taken from a captured vessel? What if someone other than us managed to retrofit a vehicle for space travel?”
“What if Lockheed Martin got a contract to work on military jets with VTOL that were capable of leaving the atmosphere and dropping back into territories over China and Russia? And what if no one else had access to the jets but us?” Elliott shrugged. “It’s all just speculation until we get there, but Will might be on to something. I think it’s worth considering, if nothing else is going the right way and—let’s be honest here, General—nothing’s going our way right now.”
Woodhurst was still unconvinced.
“Nothing gets past the subcommittees faster than the possibility of a profit,” Elliott persisted. “You know it, I know it, and pretty much all of Washington knows it.”
Woodhurst nodded, much as he didn’t want to. “I’ll think about it.” He looked at his friend. “Try to schedule something for Traeger and me if you have a chance, before I head back north.”
“Will do,” Elliott said. “Been a hot season. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
The general knew exactly what he meant. According to the limited research they had in their possession, the aliens seemed to prefer hot weather. He didn’t know if it was a necessity based on their physiology, or if they simply preferred the warmer climates, but if his data was accurate, the weather outside was nearly perfect.
“It’s one of the hottest summers we’ve ever experienced, here and everywhere else,” he said. “Still, I wouldn’t hold my breath. It’s not like they’re snowbirds, who show up whenever the weather turns.”
Elliott shook his head. “No, but I think we’re due for a break.” That earned him a small snort of laughter and an amused look.
“You send that memo to God for me, will you?”
“You got it.”
Woodhurst looked at his watch. “Listen, this is a short break for me. The bean counters decided they need a long weekend, so they sent me home to come up with statistics and keep the song and dance going. We’d better get busy, and I might need you coming with me to DC this time.”
Elliott frowned. “Might not be the best time, General. The Reapers just got back from Central America, and it’s time for a debriefing.” He got a quick smile on his face, and quelled it. “Maybe Traeger can come with you?”
The general nodded. It wasn’t a perfect option, but it might have to do. Traeger was a good bureaucrat, capable, shrewd. That said, Woodhurst had never liked the man very much. He was just a little too slick.
Still, it would be a chance to discuss the notion of outside help.
“He’s good at talking people up,” Woodhurst admitted. “I just want to make sure he knows what’s on the line here, Pappy. You need to make it clear to him.”
“As good as done.” Elliott looked away from him then, and Woodhurst resisted the urge to nod his head. He knew the problem, of course. Pappy had himself under control. He knew his limits, but there were a few people in Washington who felt relieved to have him away from the Agency, because he had a history.
It was a simple fact—the man had encountered an alien and lived to talk about it, but he had lost a lot of men in the encounter, and had been scarred by it. There were a couple of other survivors who had been just as affected. The difference was, they weren’t around.
Woodhurst had never met an alien. He hoped to, at some point, but he wanted it to be under the right conditions. Elliott hadn’t been that lucky. The creature he’d described was more than seven feet in height, and physically capable of ripping a man in half. It had killed a dozen people in the middle of a war zone, and it had done the job so spectacularly that the witnesses were never the same afterward.
Good men haunted by what they’d seen, and yet an oversight committee looked at the evidence and saw nothing but numbers. That was the problem Woodhurst was facing. Thinking about it made him want to reach for a few hundred antacids, or maybe a good pistol. Instead he focused on his friend.
“You look stressed, Pappy,” he said. “What’s happening?”
“Same old, same old.” The man turned his way and shrugged. He looked into Woodhurst’s eyes. “It’s the weather, you know. Affects my nerves. It always makes me antsy.” The general nodded, and they started walking again. Deep abiding heat and heavy humidity seemed to be part of the way these things played out, and for Pappy they would always be a reminder.
Every account they’d found, going back for a long stretch of time, said things hunted people in weather like this. Most of them were old rumors, or tales passed down through family lines, but Elliott and others had done a great deal of research into the matter. There were a few reports that were newer, that were—frankly—more concrete. Reports from men in the military, in the CIA, and on the streets of Los Angeles. Solid reports.
Evidence, if not in physical form.
Of course, that was the problem. They needed something solid, something that could be used by the military, for military purposes. Lacking that, they were losing the impetus to keep the cash flowing as was nece
ssary to run the operations.
Even one piece of evidence—one solid, tangible, recognizable object—would make a difference. Yet whatever the things were that came in the hot seasons, and hunted human beings as if they were game on a preserve, they were careful not to leave evidence. Careful enough that in at least one incident they had devastated an area as large as half of Manhattan, just to clean up after themselves.
At least according to the reports.
Just how often do the fuckers come here? Woodhurst wondered.
“Well, we can hope that this time around your nerves get us a blip on the radar,” he said with a wry smile. “Anything at all would be better than nothing, if you get my meaning.”
“I do.” Elliott nodded his head. “I keep hoping.”
“We have the team. Now we just need a target.” Woodhurst stopped in front of his office door. “Not that I don’t appreciate all that you’ve done, but it would be nice if we could stop loaning our boys out to your bosses. Sooner or later someone might get lucky and put one of them out of commission, and I don’t much like that idea.”
“Are you going to be there for the debriefing?”
“Yeah. I’ll be there. I just need to gather some of my paperwork first. No rest for the wicked.” Woodhurst smiled, and this time it was a genuine expression of warmth. He liked Elliott. The man was a solid asset and good company, too. He played a mean game of chess.
“I’ll get ’em set up for you, General.”
“Much obliged.”
3
The sun was up. The clouds obscured the light a bit, but took nothing away from the heat of the day. A dozen different insects buzzed around him, but they were not a concern. As a part of his standard regimen, he’d inoculated himself against any possible microbial infections they might carry.
THE PREDATOR HUNTERS AND HUNTED Page 2