Catching Ultrawoman

by Laer Carroll

  Table of Contents

  Title, Books by Author

  Credits, Disclaimer, Copyright

  Start of Story

  Catching Ultrawoman

  Laer Carroll

  The Eons-Lost Orphan

  The Orphan in Near-Space

  (forthcoming)

  The Once-Dead Girl

  The Super Olympian: Bloodhound

  The Super Olympian: Mystic Warrior

  Sea Monster's Revenge

  Shapechanger's Birth

  Shapechanger's Progress

  Shapechanger's Destiny

  (forthcoming)

  Disclaimer, Credits, Copyright

  Disclaimer: This story is from an alternate universe similar to ours but about ten years in the future. This universe is imaginary and should not be taken to represent any actual persons, places, things, or events.

  Credits: The background in the cover image is from the web site pxhere.com. It contains a huge number of photos in the public domain.

  The flying red auto in the foreground is a 3D image I purchased on DAZ3D.com. I rendered it on DAZ's Digital Studio, a free app which is used to display and process 3D objects in various ways. Those objects are where DAZ makes their money. They include many hundreds of photorealistic human, animal, and other 3D models. You can combine them to construct scenes from imaginary contemporary, historical, fantasy, and sci-fi universes.

  Copyright © 2019 by L. E. Carroll

  Catching Ultrawoman

  Sergeant Rory Hannegan and Corporal Steve Gonzales sat in a New Mexico State Police car west of Albuquerque. In the afternoon mid-week traffic was not heavy. A stand of trees shielded them from the worst of the heat, so they had the windows open onto the dry heat of early spring.

  Gonzales said, "Why would they put us this far out, Sarge?"

  Rory Hannegan in the driver's seat just stared out the windshield across the highway, his mind far away from the rookie's words.

  "God, I wish SOMETHING would happen." He glanced left and right. No traffic. Except--a red dot on the eastern stretch of highway.

  He sat up. The red dot was coming fast.

  He looked down at the speed readout in the dash that connected to the radar antenna on the roof.

  Hannegan said, "We got something?"

  Gonzales said, "Yeah. It's at 93. Uh, 111. Damn! It's still accelerating!"

  WHAM! The speeder's bow wave hit the patrol car and the heavy auto shivered. A red sports-car-sized streak passed them by, followed by a loud W-O-O-Ooooosh!

  There was no sound of a screaming engine. Almost as if the engine was totally silent.

  Hannegan started their car, hit the window-close and air-conditioning and siren buttons in one quick arpeggio, and pulled onto the highway. Low-slung Car 491 had the wide tough tires and the new jet turbine engines of a chase car. Its engines revved quickly from a grumble toward a whine, accelerating the car so hard both officers sank back into their ergo seats. Hot dry air scouring their faces was replaced by cool humidity-balanced air.

  The disappearing red streak resolved into a red sports car through their windshields. Gonzales was reporting on the speed he read off the monitor. "It's up to 145 and still accel-- Wait, it's slowing."

  Through their windshields they could see the red vehicle. And an old pickup a good ways up ahead coming in from a side road, leaving a fat expanding tail of dust behind.

  Hannegan said, "He's either got a good eye or some kind of wide-angle radar. And he's paying attention. So it's probably not kids on a high or some drunken cowboy."

  The red car was down into the nineties when the pickup reached the highway and pulled into it, turning toward them. The red car passed the truck, then began to accelerate again. The patrol car imitated it: slowing then accelerating as the old truck passed them going in the opposite direction.

  Gonzales sounded excited. But then he was a rookie.

  "I can't believe this. He's up to 140 and still climbing already. Jesus! He just broke 170. This is impossible. He's past 200. He broke 250! What the Hell is that?"

  Hannegan might be excited too, but his voice didn't show it. He spoke just loudly enough to activate the communicator.

  "Albuquerque Control! This is Car 491. Get a chopper up now and west of us. A red Ferrari, it looks like, is way breaking the speed limit. He's going to kill somebody if we don't catch him. And get a medevac chopper warmed up in case we need it."

  Hannegan kept both hands on the steering wheel as he spoke. He had a firm but not heavy grip, feeling the road and the car wheels through the wheel and steering almost delicately despite the heavy arms on the big blond.

  He kept their speed at 150, the maximum sustained speed on a good public surface for these new chase vehicles, which could break 200 in a sprint. But THAT was on especially flat surfaces under controlled conditions. Here he was risking an expensive new vehicle and the lives of both of them. But the situation seemed to call for it.

  It helped that this stretch of road had recently been refurbished and was straight and little-traveled at this time of day. But none of those conditions would last long.

  "Maybe," Hannegan said, "it's an experimental car. And someone stole it. But they're crazy to speed if they stole a car."

  Ahead gently rolling hills began to build in height and the road to twist and turn slightly.

  Gonzales said, "He's got to slow for the traffic at Mesita. And the Laguna Indian Rez area gets twisty."

  A helicopter zoomed over them toward their quarry up ahead. It gently waggled its body to one side then the other to acknowledge the officers.

  "Albuquerque Control, the chopper just passed us."

  "Acknowledged, Car 491. You have the chase, Chopper 32."

  "Control, Car 491, Chopper 32. We have the chase."

  Hannegan began to slow down and their engine whined down toward its bass register as they dropped to 140, 130, 115, then leveled off at 100. Still dangerous, but Hannegan knew this stretch well.

  Off to their right they could see old Route 66 and homes and small business clusters on the arid land. Traffic here on I40 was not as heavy as it might be. A lot of the local traffic stayed on 66.

  Hannegan dropped into the low 90s as the highway curved a bit to their right and north. Off to their left they could see the spectacular high hills on the Acoma Indian reservation.

  The highway straightened out and they picked up speed again.

  "Car 491. This is chopper 32. We don't see any red sports cars. A few red pickups and vans but they're all barely tooling along or parked."

  "No wrecks? No trails of dust that disappear under trees? Or barns or overhangs?"

  "We're up to 5000 feet and going higher. Wait! We see something. Yeah, it looks like your car. Maybe he stopped in Bluewater for a piss or something."

  "Chopper 32, Control. Let's keep our language professional, please."

  "Car 491, we see your guy. He's already up to a hundred and-- Damn! Now we're pacing him--at 200-plus!"

  Thoreau, New Mexico, is a low highway-side town, no edifice including antennas taller than two or three stories. Maybe a hundred feet up a red streak WHOOOOSHed past. To eyes on the ground it resolved into a Ferrari sports car disappearing rapidly west in the air over I40.

  The chopper pilot on the radio was screaming "He's in the air. He's in the air! We're chasing a God-damned UFO!"

  Steve Gonzales said, "Is he high on something? Are we high on something?" His voice dropped to a quiet tone. "Should we just stop?"

  Hannegan was grim as he accelerated again. "No. And we're going to catch whoever this is. If they don't go back to the goddamned mother ship or whatever."

  The chopper pilot came back on the radio, voice now calm and professional.

/>   "Control, 491, we've got to break off. There's a school bus accident."

  "Chopper 32, 491. Is our UFO involved?"

  "Negative. The site of the accident is further up ahead, near Church Rock at the edge of that old military reservation this side of Gallup."

  "Chopper 32, Car 491, this is the UFO. I'm proceeding toward the accident site. I'm a medical doctor and I have the equivalent of your Jaws of Life if that's needed. Now, I'm going supersonic straight up, so brace for a bit of turbulence."

  The two highway patrolmen glanced at each other. "Is someone putting us on?" Gonzales said.

  Just then a supersonic whip crack hit them.

  "Guess not," said Hannegan, then shut up to slow down as he passed through Thoreau, sirens blaring.

  "Chopper 32, Car 491, UFO 1, I'm going subsonic and coming in to land."

  "UFO 1, roger that. How will we recognize you?"

  "Chopper 32, 491, I appear to be a teenaged girl wearing a red tee shirt, blue jean shorts, and red tennis shoes. Now, I'm down. UFO 1, out."

  Ten minutes later Car 491 arrived at the accident site. Slowing to a halt, the officers could see perhaps a hundred yards ahead a filling station/restaurant combination and people hurrying from it toward them. Nearer was a big yellow school bus so close to a telephone pole that it might have struck it. Further on was a grey SUV on its side. Gasoline had wet the ground all around it.

  Several vehicles were parked some distance away from the accident, including the helicopter, its blades turning slowly as they wound down.

  The two highway patrol officers got hurriedly out of their car. They walked quickly to the popped-open trunk and pulled out a large first aid kit and some blankets. Almost running, but pacing themselves as they knew they must in an emergency, they went to the bus. On the way Hannegan pointed off to the side. A red Ferrari sports car was parked with the other vehicles of would-be helpers.

  Two adults, an Indian man and a Caucasian woman, were carefully lifting a girl in a white blouse and two-tone grey plaid dress out of the bus. Several other children had already been removed and were resting on blankets and people's jackets and such.

  The woman said, "Here! Let me have the kit. I'm a nurse."

  Hannegan unfolded a blanket off his short stack of blankets and kneeled to place it on the ground in a flat sandy area. The man and woman carefully laid the unconscious young girl on the blanket. Hannegan set the remaining blankets on the ground nearby. Gonzales handed the first aid kit to the woman. She knelt, opened it, and began expertly to remove and use items from it.

  Hannegan nodded toward the SUV and the two of them walked quickly toward it. At the vehicle one person was lying on the wet ground despite the gasoline. Closer up the officers could see why. There was a long bloody slash in the woman's side which was bleeding heavily.

  Or had been. Kneeling beside her was a beautiful black-haired teen-aged girl in a red blouse and blue jean shorts and red high-top tennis shoes. She had opened the blouse the injured woman was wearing and was pressing her hands on the bloody wound.

  As they watch the wound was slowly closing up, even though the black-haired woman seemed only to be staring into the distance.

  She looked up and saw the two officers, then looked back at the three people helping her. Two of them wore the flight gear of NMSP air crew, the other a postal worker. "Get her some place well away from this gasoline. Get fluids in her as quickly as you can. A sugary soft drink is best but water will do. But don't hurry her."

  Her helpers began to lift the blanket on which the woman lay, a man to each side at hip level and one at the head of the make-shift stretcher. The injured woman was pale but peacefully drowsing and seemed to be in no pain.

  Not so the man in the driver's side of the SUV, which lay driver's side down on the ground. He was pinned to his seat by something inside the vehicle. His head was moving from side to side, side to side. Low sounds of pain came from him.

  Two people were bending and reaching through the upper windows and an open door trying to support him or keep him from injuring himself. A third wearing an NMSP helo flight suit was sprawled awkwardly on the side of the SUV near the engine with his upper body stuck partway through a sun roof. He was looking at how the man was pinned and trying to bend or break something.

  The girl in the red blouse and jeans said, "Here. I'm a doctor. Let me at him."

  The flight-suited man backed away. The girl took his place. The two patrol officers took up the support of the injured man and the two people they had relieved breathed sighs of relief and moved away.

  Over the girl's shoulders the officers could see that a long rod of metal, which apparently had been interior cargo, had stabbed the man in a thigh and rammed into the engine compartment. The piece of metal was rusting at its halfway point as they looked on. Then the rust turned to brown dust and the part of the rod extending from the engine compartment sagged.

  The girl had grabbed the part stabbing the man before it could move. She gently pulled at the piece of metal. The injured man did not react; he had gone drowsily calm as if morphined. Slowly the rod came out, but no blood flowed from the wound. The girl's hand was pressed over it and it was closing.

  The girl looked down briefly at the gasoline-drenched concrete. Hannegan and Gonzales looked down also. The gasoline was disappearing as if her glance had triggered an invisible vacuum cleaner.

  "Now, you two can let go of him."

  Something soft tickled the backs of their hands. A white substance halfway between foam and gauze was cradling the man's head and shoulders as if about to cement him to the driver's seat. They eased their hands away from him and the foam suddenly took on solidity and a dull creamy sheen.

  "Now back up. I'm going to set this thing up on its wheels. Don't panic when it tilts. It's going to go over slowly and smoothly. It is NOT going to crash down."

  She backed out of the hole in the SUV's roof and positioned herself at the midpoint of the SUV, just behind the driver's seat. She squatted down and placed the palms of her hands on the metal just above the passenger side of the vehicle. Then she slowly unfolded her knees.

  With great creaking and an occasional popping sound the SUV majestically tilted toward the upright as if handled by a giant invisible hand.

  "Now quit that," the girl said over her shoulder to them. "I said not to worry about the car crashing down after the halfway point. Quit holding your breath. My friend up there is doing all the work." She nodded upward.

  The officers looked up. Directly over them floated something visible only because of a slight distortion in the air at the very edges of its surface. It looked like an icicle the size of a large fighter or small passenger jet.

  Steve Gonzales whispered, "The mother ship."

  The girl still had her hands on the car but lightly, as if her touch was only guiding its still-moving rotation into its normal position. She turned a smile on them.

  "No. THAT is far away. This is a daughter ship."

  The SUV continued tilting and finally settled gently onto its wheels.

  The girl took her hands from the vehicle and moved forward to the driver's side door. There she grasped the handle of the crumpled driver's side door and ripped it open with loud crunching and shrieking noises. Yet she showed no signs of effort.

  She released the door handle and moved to the inside, standing next to the now-unconscious driver. She reached in and lifted him from his seat as easily as if he was a child, even though he was big, overweight, and a (near) dead weight. The white support matter dissolved into the air.

  "Let's get him to a place where he can stretch out."

  Leading the way she walked over to the place in the dirt beside the road near the bus where an impromptu ER area had been created. Someone had thought to lay the blankets down in somewhat regular rows with a fair amount of space in between them. The girl gently laid the man down onto a blanket hastily placed by the Indian man the officers had met earlier. She straightened his body and head
and gently stroked his hair into some order. A touch on the wound seemed to finish its closure if not healing.

  She glanced up at them. "I'm leaving him a scar as a reminder of what happened here. My guess is that the accident is partly his fault, but whatever the situation he and the police and the insurance investigators need the evidence."

  "YOU worried about evidence?" Hannegan was coming back to his normal skeptical police persona.

  She smiled at him and looked around at the other patients on their blankets. Several of them were sitting up. None of the patients or the seemingly knowledgeable and responsible adults caring for them seemed alarmed. She turned away and walked over to the bus. It was empty now.

  On the side near the telephone pole was a long scrape decorated by black creosote from the pole. Only a shallow depression near the scrape otherwise marred the bus. A walk-around, the girl followed by the two officers, revealed an impact mark from the SUV's front bumper near the rear of the bus.

  The girl spoke. "One of the drivers wasn't paying attention, probably both."

  She walked back to the improvised ER and spoke up so that everyone could hear her.

  "I'm a doctor. Does anyone else here have medical training?" The girl--woman--might appear to be in her late teens but she spoke with such assurance and authority that no one seemed to doubt her right to ask the question.

  The two highway patrolmen and the three helicopter crew, who had come up and shaken hands with the patrolmen, raised their hands. So did the Indian man. The white woman who had been with him called out "I'm a Registered Nurse. He's an orderly."

  Anna lifted a hand. As if by magic something appeared in it but no one seemed to notice that the something had appeared out of nothingness.

  The purported medical doctor walked along the rows of hurt people. At each one she smiled and asked some variation of "How are you?" As each patient talked the "MD" checked the patient's pulse, or pretended to, and gave encouraging sounds to the often-rambling answers.

  At each person she also felt the bones of their forehead and behind their ears. This relaxed each of them, so much so that an older woman, perhaps a teacher who had been in the school bus said, "Your hands are so cool; they just made my headache go right away!"