Alien Agenda
Why They Came
Why They Stayed
By Steve Peek
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
Genetics was a fairly new science in 1952. Truman knew almost nothing compared to what we know today. Part of what we know today is because Truman understood so little.
Earlier I said this book is not about quantum physics. It is not about genetics either. My assignment to the Roswell Incident and subsequent documents is the only reason I know anything about these topics at all.
A basic understanding of genetic mutations is essential to grasping the ramifications of Truman’s treaty.
Between 1856 and 1863, Father Gregor Mendel grew peas, Pisum sativum to be exact. Born into a poor Austrian family, he was lucky enough to have attended and excelled in a local school. He could not afford university, so a teacher suggested he join the Augustine monks, who would pay for continued education. After graduating, he moved into a monastery and taught science and math to local students and neophytes.
Soon after settling into a monk’s life, he obtained permission to use a portion of the monastery’s garden and began growing peas—lots of peas. Over the next seven years he planted, spliced, pollinated, cross-pollinated, and cataloged details for about 29,000 pea plants. After seven years he became the abbot and was too busy to grow peas.
By 1865 Mendel had organized his work into a paper that primarily focused on hybridization, not heredity. It was viewed as having little impact and was cited only three times by academics over the next thirty-five years. In all three cases it was criticized. Today it is considered a seminal work in genetics, and Father Gregor is called the “Father of Genetics,” which no matter how you cut it is better than being known as Pea Pa.
Mendel’s work demonstrated and proved the existence of recessive and dominant aspects of genes.
Allele (pronounced ah-leel) is short for the Greek word allelomorph, which means ‘other form.’ An allele is one of two or more forms of a DNA sequence of a specific gene. Each side of the chromosome double helix is marked with sets of allele. Depending upon how the allele are located and match their counter set on the strand of the other helix, they make a trait dominant or recessive.
Mendel’s peas provide a clear explanation of what this means.
His study showed that one in four pea plants had purebred, recessive alleles, two out of four were hybrid, and one out of four were purebred dominant.His experiments led him to make two generalizations, the Law of Segregation and the Law of Independent Assortment, which later became known as Mendel's Laws of Inheritance.
Mendel crossed two pea plants. The first has dominant allele that create a short vine and recessive allele that produce white pea shells. The other possesses recessive allele for long vines and dominate allele for green pea shells. The generation of this combination produces four plants that are all short vined with green pea shells. These four pollinate to produce sixteen plants that break down as:
9 plants with short vines and green peas
3 plants with long vines and green peas
3 plants with short vines and white peas
1 plant with long vines and white peas
Mendel’s ratio of the appearance of recessive genes in future generations is 9:3:3:1. One in sixteen of the third generation will exhibit the traits of both recessive allele sets.
If it happens in peas that the long-vine, white-pea variety bears more fruit, then farmers breed to fill their fields with this type of plant. The same is true for cotton, corn, and cows.
Most credible scientists today believe evolution is about one thing—the explanation for the changes of allele over millions of years.
The aliens have grown peas a very long time.
CHAPTER TWELVE:
Norfolk, VA, Previous March
Jim Sees stared blankly at the screen. Too many Irish whiskeys down the hatch for another night. He was about to go to bed when the chat box filled with words.
“Are you the author of Otherworld?” is sent by someone named 07- 1947.
Written ten years ago, it was one of four books he had published that cursed him with just enough financial security to drink too much night after night. Although not his best work, it was the one of which he was most proud. Jim Sees, his real as well as his online name, was occasionally recognized by someone on one of the conspiracy websites he trolled trying to catch ideas for his next book, the one he planned to start writing next week— every week.
He had been fishing for five years. Too many whiskeys down the hatch for him to come up with his own ideas.
It was time for bed. He was drunk, again. “Goodnight,” he typed and closed his web browser.
The next afternoon 07-1947 sent him a message in a different conspiracy chat room. It said, “Are you?”
Somewhat surprised, he thought about answering. He had some notoriety from speaking on the UFO and New Age circuits, but he had never been stalked.
What the hell, he thought and typed, “Yes.”
Almost instantly the words snapped onto the screen, “Can we go to private chat?”
“Why?” Jim Sees typed, wondering why he responded at all.
“I need your help,” appeared on his screen.
Jim thought about his next move. The guy on the other end was probably a total wack job.
“How did you find me today?” Jim typed.
“I have been reading what you say online,” 07-1947 answered.
Wack job confirmed, thought Jim. It was time to end this.
“Don’t log off. I’m not a stalker. I’m not even a fan of your writing. I am a fan of what you wrote. You are right and we are in trouble,” appeared on the screen, and now Jim was torn. He was not interested in chatting with a high-strung UFO-ologist who believed crop circles are the results of aliens mining for breakfast cereals. He did enjoy the notion that 07-1947 thought he was right.
“About what?” he typed.
“Stonehenge was a stone hinge,” came the reply.
Well, at least he read the book, Jim thought. I guess it can’t hurt to hear what he has to say.
Jim Sees clicked the box by 07-1947’s name and a private chat window opened.
“I know things. I am selling you your next novel, your first blockbuster.” There was a pause; Jim thought about clicking off then he saw that 07-1947 was typing a message.
“You won’t believe me at first. You will freak out. So I will start slow to keep you with me.”
Jim typed, “What do you mean, selling me my next novel?”
“Just that.” The reply was almost too quick, as if 07-1947 had already typed it and hit the send button. The next line flowed across the chat-box window. “I am going to trade you information for a guaranteed best seller.”
Jim poured his first drink of the day, early even by his standards. This guy was a fucking kook. He probably had some tired idea about the Loch Ness monster, Yetis, or aliens invading birthday parties in Mexico City.
The psychological effect of Jim’s first two sips of whiskey steadied his hand and calmed his instinct to unplug and change his screen name before going back to any more websites. What the hell, he thought, then typed, “I’m sure you are going to want your money up front, before you give me the idea.”
“No, nothing like that,” came the reply. “I need your help; I don’t need money.”
“Sounding better all the time,” Jim typed and added a smiley face.
“In fact, if things go as planned, I’ll be giving you money.” Jim studied this line from 7-1947.
“Like I said, sounding better all the time,” Jim typed.
“This is the easiest part,” appeared on Jim’s screen followed by, “convincing you I am not another nut.”
“Convince away,” Jim entered.
“I’ve followed you in chat rooms. Some of what you say hint you know things you should not. I’ve researched you and feel you can be trusted enough to begin this process. I want you to write a book to make the public aware of the truth—a truth that no one even suspects. I will give you everything you need.”
Jim sighed, thinking, A total wack job. He typed, “I think I’ll pass. But thanks just the same.”
“I assure you, in a few days you will want to know more.”
Jim held off shutting down the connection. Whoever this was, he or she had a genuine gift for intrigue. Even if he was a nutcase, maybe there was something to be gained and used in the next book Jim was about to start next week, or the week after at the very latest.
Jim thought then typed, “You sound practiced. I get the feeling I am not the first you have approached.”
Jim waited and then his chat box read, “You are the first recruited to write the story.”
“Why should I believe any of this?” Jim wrote.
“Finally,” 07-1947 replied, “you want proof. It took you long enough.”
“If, and that’s a big if,” Jim answered, “I decide to work with you, there has to be a certain level of credibility and eventually trust.”
“Fair enough,” 07-1947 replied then added, “I’ll email you a PDF. Read it, research it on your own, then I’ll meet up with you next week in a chat room.”
“Great. My email is jimsees21@...,” Jim stopped typing as an e-mail arrived in his Outlook and 07-1947 signed off the chat room.
Jim thought, “This guy is scary—scary but good.”
Jim opened the PDF and started reading. He could not stop.
“Have you read it?” 07-1947’s message opened in a speech bubble on the website Jim Sees was absently poking around in. It had been two days since he read the file.
Jim’s reaction to the file was one of disbelief and curiosity. He had gone in and out of every related website he could think of, trying to verify the story. No one on the Internet knew about this. The odds were pretty good it was invented by 07-1947 to hook him into some mad scheme. Yet there was something about it. It was so straightforward and authoritative. Essentially, the document was about a computer virus that was disrupting the nuclear centrifuges at Iran’s nonexistent nuclear-enrichment facility. The virus eroded their ability to enrich plutonium for the rocket warheads they weren’t making to fall on Israel. The only details that could be confirmed were the names of some companies that were contracted as part of Iran’s nuclear effort. Jim had to admit, true or not, it was a hell of a story executed by a cyber James Bond.
“I read it,” Sees typed. “Great yarn, wish it were true.”
07-1947 replied, “The truth will out. What matters is that you know that I know things that people outside of spooky agencies shouldn’t.”
“Maybe,” Jim typed, “but why would you know secret stuff?”
“Because I am freshly out of one of those spooky agencies,” flashed the reply.
Jim thought then typed, “In the movies, they kill people like that.”
07-1947’s message shot back, “In real life too.”
“Then how come you are alive and talking to a stranger who might turn you in?” Jim replied smugly.
“Because I need your help and in return I will help you,” 07-1947 typed.
Jim thought a moment then replied, “If what you say is true, what can you offer me that would make me risk getting involved with a fugitive?”
“Two things: Go to the chat room at your favorite alien abduction website. I’ll open a private chat and invite you when you are logged in.” 07- 1947 signed off.
Jim wondered why he was doing this. At best this guy was only a clever nut job. At worst he was a fugitive from the CIA or some other agency. Against his better judgment, he logged on to the website, received the invitation to private chat, and typed, “So, what are the two things?”
07-1947’s message appeared, “I already told you one. You are going to write a book about this. You don’t believe me yet, but you will be famous, a top-selling author. The big break you have been waiting for.”
Jim poured his second whiskey of the day then responded, “I don’t buy that for a minute, but even if I did, what’s the second reason?”
“I can help you get your family back.” O7-1947’s words made Jim lean back from the screen, as if he had been slapped.
How did this guy know about his family? What did he know? More importantly, why did he know?
Maybe Jim had underestimated the danger in toying with 07-1947.
Maybe Jim was being set up to be coerced into something very wrong. He thought about logging off, unplugging his computer then resurfacing with a new cyber identity in a week.
So that is what he did.
CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
Now the part I hate. This is where the government needs for you to stop reading rubbish about aliens coming into people’s homes. People who talk about being abducted are obviously emotionally deficient, psychologically defective neurotics who need attention to feed their egos in their otherwise drab existences. That is, unless they are talking to a roomful of emotionally deficient, psychologically defective….
The definition of alien abduction found on Wikipedia is:
The terms alien abduction or abduction phenomenon describe "subjectively real memories of being taken secretly against one’s will by apparently nonhuman entities and subjected to complex physical and psychological procedures." People claiming to have been abducted are usually called "abductees" or "experiencers." Typical claims involve being subjected to a forced medical examination that emphasizes their reproductive system. Abductees sometimes claim to have been warned against environmental abuse and the dangers of nuclear weapons.
This begs the question: are any of these experiences objective?
The short answer is yes. There is truth (and perverted wisdom) in blaming our herding instinct for impacting the psychologically needy and falsely increasing the number of events that are purely subjective memories. Saying all alien abductions are manifest fantasies is simply another giant lie in the avalanche of disinformation pouring down Mt. Washington, DC.
The next question is: if some occurrences are real, how many have there been?
Again, the short answer is no one really knows, except maybe the aliens. Authors, and TV and movie writers, have claimed up to 5 percent of the world’s population has been abducted. That’s just crazy. A more conservative number, according to the heirs of the Roswell Incident, is that between 1953 and 2010 approximately 300,000 Americans experienced real encounters with representatives of Husbands of Commerce Utility. The number of people claiming to have had encounters could be fifty times greater.
It is believed the HCU began their studies in earnest in 1953, a few months after the Truman Treaty was in place. The physical examinations are part of the studies we know as alien abductions. In 1953 there were between one and two thousand abductions/examinations. The number has increased each year until the current annual estimate is around 40,000 in the United States. Many of the 40,000 visits include follow-up house calls to previously examined patients. The best guess is that about 35,000 new humans are taken and examined each year.
The physical reality of abductions is hotly debated—but not here. It is imperative to the government that even the idea of little gray men entering a home, kidnapping a sleeping victim, then taking them to another location to stick things up their nose and butt remains absurd to the general population. If too many people believed, there would be panic in the streets and citizens demanding protection and explanations, not to mention a run on petroleum lubricants. There are dozens of books on the subject. You can draw your own conclusion. For the moment, suspend disbelief and go along for the ride, if for no other reason than to see what all this has to do with James Forrestal, the Philadelphia Experiment, and your not-so-distant future.
A number of psychological studies have been conducted on people claiming to be abductees. Over a period of years, each study examined (often using hypnosis to obtain details) between 200 and 800 individuals who were prescreened to weed out those who might have created a false memory of a fictitious event for psychological reasons.
The people in the studies defy pigeon-holing. They are from every ethnic, educational, and economic background. The fabric of their recollections share common threads as outlined below.
Abduction: The subject is taken from their current environment. Most often they are taken from bedrooms while sleeping, but there are cases when they were taken from offices, parking lots, cars, and boats.
Examination: The subjects frequently undergo invasive physical procedures that include examination, stimulation, and implantation of the sex organs and orifices. Several older abductees (over 40 years old) have been rejected for physical reasons, including past, surgically caused infertility.
Conference: The hosts communicate with the subjects. This takes several forms. The host may communicate telepathically and ask the subject to answer questions that are psychologically revealing. The subject may be shown ‘projected’ images (sometimes hallucinations) and required to interact and role-play with these events. Some are required to answer questions. Others are tested with visual stimulation similar to parts of an IQ test. After having passed previous tests, the subject may be placed in front of a complicated-looking machine and told to operate it. The host stands back or leaves (maybe symbolizing withdrawing from the subject’s mind) and the subject ‘plays’ with the device until they gradually become aware they do know how to work the machine.
Tour: Whether the host intends to provide a tour or if the subject is simply being moved from area to area within the facility, the subject is under the impression he is being given a tour.
Loss of Memory: Subjects usually quickly forget the details of their experience, and most don’t remember it even happened at all until some time later when a random event triggers a memory. Return: The subjects are returned to their Earthly environment. Most are placed back exactly where they were when the misadventure began, but sometimes, for unknown reasons, the hosts place them in a different physical location.
Loss of Time: Most subjects experience a block of lost time between what they last recall doing and the moment awareness returns.
Theophany: Subjects may have a feeling of a connection to God or their higher power. They feel a connection, oneness with the Universe. This feeling is usually not explored by the subject at the time.
Aftermath: This occurs if and after the subject remembers events of the abduction and spends time and energy dealing with the psychology of abduction events.
A broad overview of the stories of hundreds of people who were included in previous studies present something very clear: every event is highly orchestrated. Every action is predetermined. There is no sitting in a waiting room. The beings conducting the studies are task-oriented and focused on completing their portions of the study as efficiently as possible. They seem to function in units of three. Sometimes taller beings are present acting as supervisors, monitors, or specialists.
The majority of abductees are adults, but since the mid 1970s many children began reporting abductions. In some cases, one of their parents previously reported abduction.
One last element of an abduction scenario that is not standard but reported often enough to justify inclusion is the child presentation. As the name conjures, this involves the aliens showing an infant to the subject. The infant appears to be a hybrid of humans and the Grays.
Because of the Truman Treaty, every US president knows abduction/examinations of humans and animal mutilations take place on a large scale. It was easy for them to turn a blind eye because of the steady stream of benefits we received from the treaty.
Tucked away at research facilities and universities all over the world are groups of scientists and engineers working on miracle breakthroughs that will provide critical pieces to the assembly of everything from new propulsion techniques, free energy (it won’t be free to us), antigravity, mind control, and every other imaginable scientific topic. These groups are funded and often fed key information to hurry along their progress. Most are compartmented and the researchers are not aware their breakthroughs create falling dominoes in the creation of larger projects.
The ever-changing guard of the Roswell illuminati knew about the abductions of humans. They knew about the increasing numbers of people being abducted. They knew the examinations were invasive and psychologically damaging. Most damning, they knew the ultimate goal was to genetically alter specific human candidates.
It was not until the 1990s when the alien’s lines of falling dominoes began to spell a word—one with horrifying implications.
In July 2002, two Roswell illuminati, President George Bush and Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld, retraced Truman’s trip into the high desert to renew the Truman Treaty. The HCU stood them up. The treaty expired at midnight and we stopped receiving beneficial contacts from the party of the second part.
By then we knew the goal of the abductions, but were addicted to the technology and willing to renegotiate. The HCU no longer needed our permission or cooperation. The number of genetically altered humans approached critical mass, and we no longer had the ability to stop them.
It turns out the HCU is a patient bunch. Unlike us, their goals are long term. Not long-term like five, fifty, or even a hundred years.
Had it not been for an epidemic during the 1990s, we still might not know what the HCU was up to.
Now hear this.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN:
White Ford Van
“Reservoir Dogs,” Jim said to the driver. Neither of them had spoken since the ‘less we know’ conversation.
“What?” The man’s grip on the wheel tightened when Jim spoke. The man’s arms were large, with defined muscles.
“The movie,” Jim responded. “All the characters had made-up names, like Mr. Green. Mr. White. I was just thinking that since we will be together at least until Huntsville, we need to be able to communicate.”
The driver gave Jim a quick glance and a brief grin. “Good idea. I’ll be Mr. Blue. Sister Fran and Melanie have names, unfortunately. Who do you want to be?”
Jim thought about it a moment. He kept thinking about how a drink would be good about now. He really needed a drink. Or at least he thought he did. Drinking had ruined his life and now, crazy as it was, 07-1947 had provided him a chance to get it back. It was the second thing helping 07- 1947 could do for him.
“Mr. Anon,” Jim said. “You know, like anonymous. So, Mr. Blue, why are you driving a rented panel van to Huntsville, Alabama?” Jim asked, rolling the stiffness out of his neck.
“The less we know, remember.” The driver seemed as fresh as when they had started.
“Can we at least talk about sports or something? I’m really nervous and talking helps,” Jim said.
“What sport do you want to talk about?” the driver asked.
“None, really. I don’t care much for sports.” Jim laughed softly then added, “How about 07-1947? What do you know about him?”
“Who?” Mr. Blue asked before he realized Jim was talking about the man he knew as Heaven’s Gate. Then he added, “Oh, you mean the man we are helping.”
“Yeah, if helping is what you want to call going on the run with a Secret Service, government-nanny nun and a kidnapped, autistic, ten-year-old girl,” Jim said. “Yeah, what do you know about that guy?”
“Nothing,” Mr. Blue lied. “All I know is someone saved my life in Afghanistan. I don’t know who it was, but your 07 does and he is calling in the chip I owe.”
“Wow. He’s saving my life too, in a different way. He’s…”
Another disposable cell phone rang in the box between their seats. Mr. Blue answered the phone that was lit and buzzing.
“Wait a minute. There’s a sign coming up. It says Christiansburg 14 miles.” Mr. Blue stopped talking and listened. Jim could only tell the voice on the other end was soft and calm.”
“Got it,” Mr. Blue said. The phone call ended and he began dismantling it so he could discard pieces along the roadside.
“Litterer,” Jim said as he threw the first piece out the window. “Change of plans?”
“No. We are swapping cars at a truck stop on highway 460, not far up the road,” Mr. Blue answered.
“Will we have time to pee?” It was Sister Fran. “Melanie will need to go as soon as she wakes up. It won’t do to let her wet the bed. It took years to get her to stop.”
“Sure, Sister,” Mr. Blue said. “We can get something to eat too.”
“Melanie and I will use the outdoor facilities. Park where we won’t be noticed. By now our photos and some bogus, kidnap Amber Alert is everywhere. The two of us can’t be seen. Get us some orange juice and ham sandwiches; they are Melanie’s favorites,” Sister Fran said, rising to her knees so she could see between the front seats.
Jim wondered if somehow his photo was, as they say on the reality TV shows, ‘on the wire.” He wondered what Annie, his ex-wife, would think of seeing his photo on America’s Most Wanted. He didn’t even want to think about that. It would end all chances of reconciling with her and the kids. So far everything 07 said had come true, and he told Jim if he followed the plan he and Annie will end up back together.
Mr. Blue pulled up to the front of the store portion of the truck stop and said, “I’m changing your name. You are now Mr. Braveheart. Mr. Anonymous is too negative. It creates low self-esteem. You go in, get me a large coffee, black, the stuff Sister Fran wants, and whatever you want.” He poked five twenty-dollar bills at Jim and continued, “Oh yeah, get another six-pack of water for the cooler, some toilet paper, and anything else you think we might need. I’ll be back here in a silver Mercedes SUV in ten minutes.”
Jim replied in the affirmative and noticed Melanie was awake and rubbing her eyes as he left the van. In the store, he went to the bathroom then bought the things on his mental list and, as an afterthought, picked up an LED reading light to use for the map and a dark-chocolate Dove bar.
He left the store and the silver SUV pulled up. The windows were as darkly tinted as any he had ever seen. Inside he handed the bags to Sister Fran between the front seats, snapped his seat belt, and let the acceleration push him back as Mr. Blue pulled out of the truck-stop parking lot.
“Can I turn on the overhead light?” Sister Fran asked. “Melanie wants her marbles.”
Jim had not heard a word from Melanie. Mr. Blue said, “Better not, someone might see in.”
“How about this?” Jim offered up the LED reading light.
“That will work if you keep it low,” Mr. Blue said as Jim handed it back to Sister Fran, who was setting up so Melanie could see her marbles on the floor mat.
Jim thought buying the reading lamp was a stroke of luck. It wasn’t luck at all.
As Jim prepared to take his first bite of the Dove bar, he felt Sister Fran’s hand on his shoulder. “She wants some,” Sister Fran said, smiling that annoying little smile.
Melanie was focused on her nine marbles, seemingly oblivious to the conversation. Jim handed Sister Fran the stick end of the ice cream bar. She took it and instantly, without looking up, Melanie reached for it. She took it from Sister Fran, took a small bite, and then handed it back.
“Does she want any more?” Jim asked kindly. “I don’t really need it.”
“Thank you, Mr. Braveheart. That was all she wanted. She says thank you.” Sister Fran sat back, opening a bottle of water.
“I didn’t hear her say anything. Is she psychic or something?” Jim said, looking at Melanie as if for the first time.
“Something,” Sister Fran answered and took a drink of water.
The driver pulled into a rest stop and asked Jim, “You seem wide awake. Can you drive for a while so I can get some sleep?”
They switched seats. Jim looked at the route to Huntsville and pulled back onto the freeway.
The overcast sky and the rhythm of the highway allowed Jim to relax a little, and his mind went back to how he came to be a candidate for America’s Most Wanted.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN:
Fairfax Drive, Arlington, VA
“Yes sir,” the middle-aged woman in the perfectly pressed, gray pantsuit said into the phone. Her face flushed. She hated anything that smelled of failure, and right now it was being inferred she reeked of it. The guy doing the inferring was Lance Swaggert, a thirty-something regional campaign manager whose only expertise since graduating from Princeton was helping re-elect politicians. He had parlayed this into an under secretary post at Homeland Security. Kate called Lance Swaggert ‘TLS’: the little shit. “Sir,” she emphasized the word a little too much, “we are sharing everything we know or think we know with your office, the FBI, the CIA, and the NSA.”
There was a pause while she listened, the expression on her face annoyed as her skin darkened a shade. “No sir, we have not sent anyone anything in the last half hour because we don’t have anything new.” Only those who had worked with her for years could detect the taste of anger in her voice.
The voice on the phone grew louder, and she held the receiver from her ear, rolling her eyes, wanting this to be over. The others in the room heard the voice coming out of the phone almost as a WHA-WHA-WHA-WHAWHA-WHA-BLAH-BLAH, then very distinctly, “DO YOU UNDERSTAND?”
“Clearly, sir. Good-bye.” She placed the receiver down before TLS could add any other unnecessary threats or urgings.
She said to the others in the room, “I’m going out for a smoke. Come get me if you get anything.” What she really wanted was to go out for a drink, but there would be none of that until the girl was found and safely back in the care of Uncle Sam.
Tom Cray looked up from his array of computer screens and watched his boss walk out of the room. She doesn’t deserve this, he thought, and decided to take a break himself. They had been on their version of DEFCON 1 for more than fifteen hours, and he had not been to the bathroom in the last six or seven. The coffee in his bladder demanded attention.
Tom had been with this unit longer than anyone currently working. He was transferred from another covert government computer unit after September 11, 2001. He’d been here nearly ten years, and still missed the camaraderie of the old team. They had dubbed themselves the Original Geeks, and they were proud of their uncanny programming prowess.
When he was transferred to the newly formed Department of Homeland Security’s Interception Department, he felt it was the patriotic thing to do. Sure he would miss his old team, but he would help build a new team.
Wrong.
He was twenty years senior to everyone else at Team Intercept. His first boss, a twenty-something, political appointee who didn’t know shit from shinola about anything other than running political campaigns, didn’t like him from the start. Tom was worried the asshole might start appreciating his skill and keep him. If the boss wanted him transferred, he would most likely go back to his beloved Geeks. There weren’t too many other places they could put him because of how much he knew.
Bad luck struck again. Tom’s new boss was so inept even the government couldn’t overlook his lack of skills and ability to get things done. After a little more than a year, he was promoted and replaced with Katherine Hollister. Kate, as she introduced herself, didn’t know shit from shinola about things high tech. What she knew about was managing an FBI field team in the heat of battle. She was also smart—scary smart. When it came to fitting tiny clues—things others didn’t even recognize as clues—into the puzzle, it was as if she were psychic. She wasn’t always fast about it. Sometimes it took a day or two, even a week before she came back saying, “Bring up the file you showed me last week on such-and-such.” She would stare at it for a few minutes, then share her eureka moment with the rest of the team. She was almost always right when this happened, and the other members of the unit came to trust her sparks of brilliance.
Tom and Kate understood each other. She knew who he was and what he could do. She also bridged the age gap between Tom and the others in the unit.
She didn’t deserve the treatment she was receiving from whatever under assistant secretary of Homeland Security who was unlucky enough to be there this week.
How did Tom know she didn’t deserve it? Because he knew who was behind the missing girl. He had met him a couple of times at Geek Happy Hour. The boss of the Geeks, Bob Cleburne, had known James Tate a long time. They had worked together, gone fishing together, and could be friends because both were equally trusted by the keepers of the SUVs. Tom didn’t know James Tate that well himself, primarily from stories Bob Cleburne had related. But he knew this: Tate had skipped out on his government retirement three years ago and vanished from the grid. Everything at the government’s intelligence disposal was at one time or another focused on finding him.
But Tate was good. Tom suspected Tate had planned this for years. Every now and then a clue would pop up—usually from the Internet—that hinted Tate was within reach, or at least on the planet, but most of the time the clue led to a dead end. If half of what Bob Cleburne said about Tate was true, catching him would be a full-time job for the US government.
So now, for the last fifteen hours, Team Intercept had been evaluating computer-filtered fragments of cell phone calls, text messages, e-mails, chat rooms, and instant messages looking for anything that would lead to the missing girl and her teacher—a nun for Christ’s sake—or to Tate, who was suspected of organizing the kidnapping. [then that makes Tate 07-1947 as well as the author...CHAPTER ONE My name is James Sanford Tate. DC]
Tom Cray was back at his desk and wondering for the fiftieth time who this little girl, Melanie, was and why the entire dark side of the American government was full throttle after her.
Kate smelled of cigarettes as she passed his desk.
Tom’s primary function here was to continuously create code that made it easier to eliminate messages from the filtering system. Often innocent message fragments slipped past the computer filters and triggered human attention. Tom kept himself busy cutting down the number of messages that passed all his digital checkpoints. Since he started programming for Intercept, Tom had reduced the number of filtered messages getting through to the team from thousands a day to hundreds a day.
The hundreds each had to be investigated and cleared in this office. The remaining thousands were sent to lower-priority check points. They were still investigated, but not as quickly or intensely.
In the current crisis, Tom was investigating fragments with the rest of the team.
Tom put on his headset and returned to his displays. Six large monitors hung from ceiling mounts, and numerous small, specialized displays crowded the table. They displayed everything from satellite images, to GPS positions on road maps, to cell phone conversations, to Internet traffic. All the information came from a legendary supercomputer somewhere in America. Tom always wondered how many more Team Intercepts there were double and triple-checking. If he ran things there would be plenty, but the way the government worked there might not be any.
Four other men had similar electronic arrays in the room.
Fifteen hours ago Team Intercept received word of the abduction.
His boss, Special Agent Kate Hollister, paced between the tables. On the phone again, she spoke softly into a headset. It appeared as if TLS had tattled to his boss.
“Mr. Secretary, we are doing everything possible. You know this takes time; we will get her back.” She paused to listen again, then continued, “No sir, 07 has not surfaced since Madrid.” What she wanted to say was, “Fuck-off, asshole. You will be lucky to find a job after the next election so leave the hunting to those who are here for the long haul.” What she said was, “Yes, sir. I know that was a long time ago. Apparently the mishandling of Bamberg and Madrid were enough to chase him deeper into the thicket.”
She stopped to listen, exasperation shaping her face. She rolled her eyes, wondering why cabinet members always thought they knew best. “Yes sir. We know he’s key. We will get him,” she concluded, then finished the sentence to herself, “eventually, if we keep at it long enough, hard enough and are lucky enough.”
Cray stopped eavesdropping and checked a monitor, which displayed a photo of a woman and a girl exiting a Mercedes SUV at a gas station. Next to the grainy image of the vehicle was an ID photo of a woman along with DARPA credentials. Beneath the photo was the flashing message: Priority Match. The facial recognition software had sharpened the focus of an older woman’s face.
It was the nun, Sister Fran, and the girl.
“Kate,” Cray said softly, “we got something.”
Cray knew that the nun could not have pulled this off without help, but other than strong suspicions that Tate had masterminded the operation, there were no other suspects, so facial recognition had no photos to filter among the millions of images it accessed hourly.
Kate leaned over his shoulder, looking at Cray’s screen. The others in the room left their stations and moved toward Cray’s desk.
“Shell Station security camera off I-31 near Cleveland, Tennessee. The image was taken at 3:13 PM.” Tom typed some keys and highlighted the part of the vehicle that was visible in the photo. A few seconds later a window opened that said, “2005 Mercedes SUV. 93 percent probability.”
Kate stood straight. “Send what you have to the Little Shit at Homeland and the usual crowd.” She picked up her phone, pulled up contacts on her computer, and dialed the FBI field office in Chattanooga, Tennessee.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN:
Silver Mercedes SUV
Jim Sees exited the freeway and stopped in front of the pumps at a Shell station a little after 3:00 PM. Next to the station was a cedar-shake-covered structure with a hand-painted sign reading: Martha’s Café & Rock Shop. Mr. Blue woke when the Mercedes decelerated, looked at his watch, then rubbed his eyes and said, “I need a pee break.”
“Us too,” came from Sister Fran in the back seat.
“Sister,” Jim said, “there’s not much cover at the station. Do you want me to find some woods or a side road?”
“It is probably better to be safe....” The nun stopped when she heard the cell phone buzz in the box in the front seat.
Mr. Blue answered the phone. He listened, occasionally responding with a ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ He looked at his watch then said, “We should be in Huntsville in three hours.”
Mr. Blue listened again, saying, “Yes, sir,” several times.
Everyone was quiet except Melanie. She moaned softly and rocked in her seat with her hands between her thighs.
“She needs to go,” said Sister Fran opening the door and helping Melanie out of her seat belt.
Mr. Blue ended the call and said, “You fill the tank, I’ll get some water and some dinner to go. We need to get moving.” He shoved the cell phone in his pocket as he went into Martha’s Café and Rock Shop.
Jim went inside and handed the clerk four twenty-dollar bills then went back to the pump. He topped off the tank as Fran and Melanie returned to the Mercedes. Mr. Blue came out with a shopping bag, sat it on the front seat, and stretched his muscular frame.
Jim went inside, peed, picked up a Dove bar, retrieved his change, and went back to the SUV. Mr. Blue was in the passenger seat, so Jim sat behind the wheel.
They pulled back on to the highway with about three hours before they reached Huntsville and whatever awaited them there.
“What is it, honey? You hungry?” Sister Fran asked, pulling a paper wrapped hamburger out of the bag Mr. Blue had given her.
Melanie took the burger but continued to stare at the nun. “What do you want, child?” Sister Fran asked of no one in particular.
Mr. Blue said, “Weird. Sister, feel around in the bottom of the bag. I got something for her and she must know it is there.”
Sister Fran came up with a small object wrapped in white tissue paper and Melanie immediately held out her hand.
It was a quartz-crystal sphere, about the diameter of a quarter. It was bigger than any of Melanie’s marbles, but Mr. Blue thought she would like it.
She did. Melanie took the crystal ball, pulled eight marbles out of her bag, and laid them out on the carpeted floor mat in her usual three-by-three pattern, but this time the crystal sphere took the center spot. She began to hover her finger over first one then another marble.
As the sunset and shadows filled the car, Jim Sees twice thought he saw a glow coming from the marbles, but when he turned to look there was none.
Jim, adrenalin rush long gone and replaced by sharp anxiety and visions of dire consequences, said, “Less than three hours we will be in Huntsville and hopefully this will all be over.”
Mr. Blue responded, “For us. It will never be over for them,” nodding to the back seat. Mr. Blue added, “We are actually just passing through Huntsville. The new destination is the Texaco Station in Meridianville about ten miles north of Huntsville.”
“What happens there?” Jim Sees’ fear of being captured was making him less and less secure with having no control over the situation.
“We stay on the loop around the Texaco station until we see a white Suburban with a Kolb Real Estate sign. We let it get in front of us and follow it.”
“The mystery is wearing thin. I would like to speak to 07, or whatever nom du plume he currently employs to ask some questions.” Jim Sees was clearly aggravated.
Mr. Blue cast a side glance and said, “Easy, pardner. I have a feeling we’re coming to the end of the trail.”84s
Chapter 17
Alabama State Patrol
“Fuck,” Jim Sees said under his breath from the driver’s seat when the flashing blue and white lights appeared in the rearview mirror.
“Steady,” Mr. Blue said studying the image in the side mirror. “Don’t panic. You are not speeding. He may pull around us.”
The flashing lights moved in a little closer and paced the Mercedes SUV.
“What should I do?” Jim’s heart raced, his stomach battled instant nausea. His imagination already had him in a bus with barred windows on his way to federal prison.
“Pull over,” Mr. Blue said, taking two items from the glove compartment. He held out the first item for Jim to take and put the other, a short barreled .357 Bulldog revolver, in the thigh pocket of his cargo pants.
“What can I do?” Sister Fran asked from the backseat.
Jim had the car stopped and was looking at the clear plastic pouch Blue had handed him. It contained a driver’s license, vehicle registration, and a State Farm insurance card. All were in the name of Nathan Twining of 1947 July Road in Roswell, New Mexico. The license contained a photo of Jim and his real birthdate. He put the car in park and rolled down the window.
Mr. Blue looked in the backseat where Melanie sat, hands cupped, studying the crystal ball. “At this point, Sister, just say a prayer.”
“That’s something I am good at,” she replied putting an arm around Melanie’s shoulders.
Jim’s heart hammered as the state policeman approached in the Mercedes’s side mirror. He was a big man, bigger than Mr. Blue. He wore his holstered gun on his left hip. He had removed what Jim thought looked like standard-issue police sunglasses and held them in his right hand. His approach was slow, careful, practiced. He studied the car, caught Jim watching him in the mirror, and loosened the strap on his pistol.
Having seen enough episodes of Cops on television, Jim kept both hands on the steering wheel.
The officer bent down and peered in the window. Beneath the broad brimmed trooper hat, Jim saw a weathered face bearing old acne scars and ice-blue eyes that darted at the car’s occupants and contents in an instant. His polished name tag read ‘BAKER.’
Trying to appear calm and unconcerned, Jim said, “Officer Baker, was I speeding?”
Baker replied, “License and registration please,” as he glanced at each person in the car a second time.
Jim offered him the plastic pouch.
“Please remove the license from the envelope,” Baker said, hardly glancing at the item in Jim’s hand. Baker sized up the man in the passenger seat as the only possible physical threat of the group. The woman and child in the backseat seemed unconcerned while the driver, like most people he stopped, tried to appear unconcerned, innocent.
The woman in the backseat might be the little girl’s grandmother, though they looked nothing alike. In fact, the little girl looked ill or something.
“Please turn your engine off,” Baker said, taking the paperwork and looking at the license then back at Jim. “Mr. Twining, I stopped you because your left rear tire is very low. You may have picked up a nail. I can help you change it, or there’s a Union 76 at the next exit that will do it for you.”
Jim let out the air he had unknowingly held in his lungs. “Thank you, Officer Baker. How far is the gas station? I would rather go there and fill up the tank as well.”
Baker was bothered. Something niggled him. Instead of handing the papers back to the driver he said, “Let me take a quick look at the tire. Please wait here.”
Baker took three steps and squatted down to look at the tire. He rose and slid into the black and silver Ford Crown Victoria patrol car. He typed the Mercedes’s plate number into the onboard notebook computer.
He hated niggles. He also prided himself in remembering faces. He could swear he knew Nathan Twining from somewhere, but he could not quite place him—not yet anyway.
Alabama State Patrol Sergeant Randy Baker regretted only one thing in his eighteen years of policing highways. It happened five years ago. It would never happen again.
The license plate number came back clean. Registered to Nathan Twining of Roswell, New Mexico.
He tapped some more keys with his oversized index finger and the National Amber Alert website appeared.
Something was too familiar about Twining’s face. He must have seen it on some bulletin. He also knew there was a current Amber Alert for a girl and a woman. Five years ago he stopped a Toyota pickup with a man who smelled of cigarettes and a little boy sleeping with his head on the man’s thigh. He had a niggle then but he wrote it off and did not check. A week later the cadaver dogs found the kidnapped little boy in a shallow grave. The truck was still there but the owner had gone missing. DNA identified a male, but so far no matches had turned up in the system.
As he moved closer to the computer screen, a book and clipboard slid off the seat and onto the floor. The book was titled Otherworld and it landed facedown, exposing the author’s photo: Jim Sees, a.k.a. Nathan Twining.
Baker didn’t see it. He was too busy looking at photos of Melanie and Sister Fran.
Jim’s relief at discovering they had been stopped because of low tire pressure returned to a thinly veiled panic as the state trooper sat back in his car. Jim knew he would be checking databases. Sister Fran had said she and Melanie were undoubtedly listed on the Amber Alert and every other missing person’s electronic list that existed.
“What do we do now?” Jim asked Mr. Blue.
Blue looked up from the road map, gave him a wink, and said, “We wait.”
Melanie seemed antsy and moved to shrug Sister Fran’s arm off her. Her expression did not change, but something was making her uncomfortable. She held the crystal marble in a tightly clenched little fist. She started rocking forward and backwards. Then she started humming, a soft, unrecognizable, but not unpleasant tune.
Sister Fran seemed surprised by the behavior. “This is new,” she said, taking her hands off Melanie and giving her room.
Jim nearly shit his pants when Baker exited the car, twelve-gauge pump shotgun in one hand and the patrol car’s microphone in the other.
“Everyone lower the windows and put your hands where I can see them.” Baker shouldered the gun from behind his opened front door, the barrel resting on the top of the door. With his right hand he clicked the microphone to the loudspeaker system again and spoke. “At my command, I want you to exit the vehicle one at a time. Mr. Twining, you first, exit the car slowly, keep your hands where I can see them at all times.” Baker had the look of a man who was less afraid of an internal investigation than of letting bad guys escape.
Jim got out of the car. He was shaky and pale as a ghost. He didn’t think his legs would support him.
“Please walk to the back of your vehicle and place yourself facedown on the road.” Baker’s eyes were trying to keep an eye on the passenger behind the tinted windows.
Jim Sees sickly complied. He was prone, facedown, holding his head off the road’s shoulder.
“Clasp your hands behind your head,” Baker said more softly.
Almost as soon as his hands met, he felt the cold metal and heard the firm click of handcuffs. His neck was already tiring, and he let his face sink gently to the pebbly asphalt, which smelled vaguely of oil, gasoline, and the end of the road.
Baker moved across the front of the patrol car to a vantage point on the Mercedes’s passenger door. He held the gun with both hands now. Without the aid of the speaker system, he said loudly, “Man in the front seat, pull your left hand inside of the car and open the door, then show me both hands.”
Mr. Blue was pretty sure he could take out the man with the shotgun. The officer was close enough to take an accurate shot from the short-barreled revolver. The .357’s impact would allow him time for a second shot if the first one didn’t do the job.
Blue opened the door, calculating his next step.
“Don’t do anything rash, Mr. Blue.” Sister Fran’s voice was calm. “We don’t want anything happening to Melanie.”
Blue pushed the gun off his lap and used his heel to kick it under the seat then extended his left hand out the opened door.
“Now step out slowly, turn your back to me, and place your hands behind your back,” Baker said. When the vehicle passenger obeyed, he shifted the shotgun to his right hand and drew his automatic pistol. Next he leaned the shotgun against the side of the Mercedes and pulled a set of plastic ready-cuffs from his utility belt.
After both men were in the backseat of the locked cruiser, he went back to the Mercedes and conducted the same set of instructions with Sister Fran. After Baker led her back to the patrol car and squeezed her into the backseat with the two men, he closed the door, made sure the auto lock was engaged, and turned back toward the Mercedes to complete his rescue of the little girl: Melanie was her name according to the Amber Report.
Baker had gone two steps when the little girl emerged from the SUV holding a Hello Kitty pillow in her left hand and something clenched tightly in her right. Her expression seemed one of confusion. Baker noticed the shotgun still leaned against the Mercedes. He didn’t really think the odd looking girl would do anything, but it was cocked and the safety off. Baker had been around guns enough to know that accidents happened.
He took the four strides to reach the shotgun. As he stooped to pick it up, he noticed the little girl raise her arms, not in surrender but in a ‘pick me up’ gesture.
“I’ll get you, honey,” Baker said as his hand touched the shotgun’s pump handle.
Baker froze. Something niggled him, something that seemed out of place, something peaceful.
Baker held the shotgun by its grip, resting it on his shoulder. The rusty pine needles formed a soft carpet on the forest floor that kept ground plants to a minimum. The tall, straight pines made the forest magical, columns in a fairy court. Here and there narrow columns of sunlight spotlighted patches of the brown carpet as dust danced in the bright beams that filtered through the tops of the tall trees. It had been a magical place for Randy Baker since he was a child, but now he was a man and men didn’t believe in magic.
Baker knew he was a man because not only did he receive his own shotgun a year ago, he was now allowed to go out and hunt alone. His father had told him it was a man’s responsibility. He shook off the childish feelings of columns in a magic court and fairies dancing in the light beams. He had business to attend to, responsibilities to shoulder; he needed to find Champ, their best hunting dog.
Champ didn’t come home for dinner last night, and was absent still when the family sat down for their breakfast of biscuits, grits, and bacon. Randy’s father didn’t appear the least worried, but instead of going straight into work, he said he would drive some of the roads and make sure Champ wasn’t roadkill. He asked Randy and his two brothers to divide up and search the areas north, east, and south of their farm.[I was asking the same thing right about here.you will understand shortly DC]
It was midday when Randy reached Cooter Pond in the woods east of his house. He sat down on the soft pine needles by the edge of the pond and watched the tadpoles wiggle their way along the shore, eating whatever tadpoles ate.
He bet his brothers had been back at home for two hours, watching Saturday television and eating leftover biscuits. Randy was the oldest and it was time for him to grow up and pull his weight. He was going to find Champ and make his father proud.
As he moved through the woods, he frequently whistled and called the dog’s name, but without reward. He even allowed himself to play Indian scout and examine animal poop he found here and there as he made his way through the forest. Squirrel, deer, and rabbit pellets were in evidence, but no trace of Champ.
An unseen cloud drifted above, and the sun found another window in the pine canopy. A new beam of light shone on the pond a few feet from Randy. He stood up and went to examine the revealed clue: paw prints in the pond’s bank. They could be Champ’s.
Randy called Champ’s name several times, loud and with as much authority as he could muster. No answer. He whistled loudly as he could. No answer. He stood over the paw prints trying to decide what to do. If he headed home now it would be suppertime when he arrived. He didn’t want to give up if Champ was close. Maybe Champ wasn’t coming because he couldn’t. Maybe Champ was hurt.
Randy heard rather than felt a fresh breeze from the north rustling the tops of the trees so far above his head. The patterns of light on the floor shifted as the trees settled, then he felt the breeze again.
Randy heard something in the woods farther to the east. Thinking it was Champ but taking no chances, he moved toward it slowly, shotgun ready.
He heard it again, like something rubbing pine bark.
He came around a large pine and there was Champ. Lying on his side, a sick foam coming out of his mouth with each panting breath.
Before Randy could kneel to take a closer look, Champ was on his feet, crouched, baring teeth, growling like nothing Randy had ever seen.
Randy decided he was not quite a man yet, and nearly tripped as he half jumped and walked away from the frightening creature that two days before was their favorite, most-loved pet.
“It’s me Champ,” Randy said, trying to make his voice soothing.
The dog answered by roughly shaking its head, throwing strings of infected foam. It lowered itself in a crouch and took a step forward with a menacing growl.
The better part of valor took command, and though it made no sense, Randy ran for home as fast as he could. He would finish becoming a man tomorrow.
He could hear the dog chasing him with growls and barks. It was gaining on him. Randy had never seen it before, but he knew Champ had rabies. He had heard about it. He had also heard that if he was bit and didn’t receive forty-two shots in his stomach with a nine-inch needle, he would die.
The dog was close now. He could almost feel its gasping breath. He thought maybe some of the flying foam hit his sock.
He didn’t even think about it. He ran and leapt into Cooter Pond. The water near the shore was almost chest deep, and he tried his best to keep his gun dry.
The snarling dog that had been Champ paced left, then right, seeking a way to reach its prey.
Randy stood, chest heaving, trying to think. He had his gun, but the thought of shooting Champ sickened him worse than the fear. A man would shoot the rabid dog, he thought. Then he realized if that is the mark of a man, he would never be one. He could never hurt something he had loved. He started to cry.
By the time the sun went down, Randy was cold, and in the quickly darkening woods he imagined snapping turtles and water moccasins beginning to cruise the pond for fresh meat. Cooter Pond received its name from a three-foot-long snapping turtle his grandfather caught here.
The dog had been lying on its side for some time. Its breath was ragged, and the foam seemed to have thickened and trailed from its mouth like slime.
Soon it would be dark. Randy thought about slowly making his way to the west side of the pond and quietly escaping.
As if reading his mind, the dog jumped up and snarled at him, took a couple of steps, then sniffed and looked beyond Randy.
Randy turned to look behind, half expecting to see some horrific pond monster hulking over him, but instead he saw hope. In the distance he thought he saw flashlight beams darting. He couldn’t hear anything other than the low growls of the dog, which had now moved toward the approaching lights.
He watched for several minutes, making sure the lights were real. They shifted and jostled like someone walking with a flashlight, walking fast and sweeping the lights from side to side as they moved.
Then he heard his name being called. Barely perceptible, it sounded like a tiny angel coming to rescue him.
The dog growled again and took up a position between the boy and the oncoming territorial invaders. It coughed and allowed itself to sit while it waited.
“Dad! Dad! I’m at Cooter Pond. Cooter Pond. Cooter Pond.” Randy yelled as loud as he could.
The relief swept over him. “I’m coming, son.” His father was coming to save him. With every passing second the lights came closer, moving faster than before. They jostled but no longer swept in an arc; instead they were focused on the path to the pond.
As Randy’s relief settled and he began to realize how cold and tired and hungry he was, a new fear struck him. What would his dad think of him? He had his gun; he could have killed Champ and saved himself. He knew Champ would eventually die from the rabies, and it probably wouldn’t be that long. His dad was going to be disappointed.
So as the lights drew closer, he moved closer to the opposite edge, away from the dog.
When Randy’s father appeared at the trees surrounding the pond, the dog stood with a whimper then growled. It took a step forward on shaky back legs and snarled.
The shotgun blast was instant, loud, and final. The dog collapsed away from the impact, the top of its head gone from the eyes back.
“You okay, son?” Randy’s dad said, holding the light on the boy in the pond.
“I couldn’t do it, Dad. I couldn’t kill Champ. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Randy sobbed.
“Of course you couldn’t. Champ was a good dog. We loved him and he loved us. You couldn’t kill him ‘cause he was threatening only you. I had to kill him to protect you. Now get out of that pond and let’s go home.” Randy’s dad was at the edge of the pond, extending his hand to his son.
That had been one of the worst and best days of Randy Baker’s life. He never forgot the details of it. He found himself wondering why he was thinking about it. He heard his call sign on the patrol car’s radio. He clicked the microphone on his collarbone. “This is Baker, say again.”
“There’s a jackknifed chicken truck over near Guntersville Dam. I need you to get over to the north side of the dam road and keep traffic from crossing.”
“10-4,” Baker said as he looked around. He was parked on the side of the road, his car running. He couldn’t remember stopping. He noticed his clipboard and the book he was reading on the floor. He reached down to pick them up and noticed the author’s photo. There was really something familiar about that face.
He pulled onto the highway and headed toward the dam.
The next day a review of the patrol car’s video revealed seventeen missing minutes. It stopped while the patrol car moved along the highway. After seventeen minutes of static, it started with the car parked on the shoulder as cars drove by.
Baker had no recollection of the missing seventeen minutes. It was as if the video file and his memory had been erased.
The records of Baker’s computer search showed a license plate inquiry for a Mercedes SUV belonging to Nathan Twining who resided in Roswell, New Mexico. So far no physical record of Twining had been found, and while the license plate number somehow was in the national database, it appeared to be bogus.
Baker didn’t know what to make of the missing time. It was possible he fell asleep. He just didn’t know what happened in those seventeen minutes.
👽👧👽
There was a grasshopper on the rolled-up window. Jim Sees sat in the patrol car’s backseat, hands bound behind his back. Mr. Blue was to his immediate left and Sister Fran beyond him. The Alabama Highway Patrolman was walking back toward the Mercedes.
Jim wondered if everything inside the car was being recorded, then realized it didn’t make any difference. They were busted, Leavenworth bound—if they were lucky.
Mr. Blue was fidgeting, bumping into Jim. Sister Fran was doing what she had been told, praying.
Jim saw Sergeant Baker pause as Melanie exited the car, the ever-present pillow in her hand. Baker took four more steps and reached for his shotgun, which leaned against the car. Melanie raised her arms in an invitation to be picked up.
Then the world became very still, soundless. At first everything seemed frozen, the grasshopper suspended in mid leap two inches off the window. Baker became a contemporary statue stooping to pick up the shotgun. Only Melanie retained mobility as she walked toward the officer, arms in the air.
Then the world changed. Something shifted. The grasshopper became a flash of light of every spectrum. It did not explode and create the light; it became the light. Faster than a flashbulb, everything returned to normal. The grasshopper was flying toward the roadside grass and Baker was moving again, but he was turning back toward the cruiser, shotgun over his shoulder. When he reached the front passenger door, he stopped and looked around, then called out, “Champ! Come Champ! Here boy!”
Sergeant Baker used his key to unlock the cruiser’s doors. He opened the front door and returned the shotgun to its rack. He next backed out of the car and opened the back door. Baker stepped back and motioned Jim to exit the car, then to turn around.
When Jim complied he felt his handcuffs being unlocked. Baker patted him on the shoulder and motioned him toward the Mercedes. Jim walked a few paces in that direction then turned to see what happened next.
When Baker had Mr. Blue outside the car, he removed a pocket knife from his belt and cut the nylon strap. Mr. Blue’s amazed face stared at Jim. When Baker patted him on the back and sent him to the Mercedes, Mr. Blue grinned, shrugged and winked at Jim. Mr. Blue, not one to allow an opportunity to slip by, moved toward the Mercedes’s driver’s door.
Jim remained as Sister Fran slid across the seat and was freed. Baker then closed the passenger side doors, walked around Jim on his way to the driver’s door, climbed in, placed his hands on the steering wheel in the ten and two positions, and proceeded to sit motionless, staring at nothing.
By the time Jim turned around, Blue had the car started. He climbed into the front passenger seat and sat speechless as the Mercedes accelerated onto the highway.
After a full three minutes of dead silence in the car, Jim turned to look at Sister Fran and asked, “What the hell was that?”
The nun gave him a coy smile and replied, “Why Mr. Braveheart, don’t you believe in miracles?”
Jim searched her smiling eyes and said, “I do now.”
next
PART 4
https://exploringrealhistory.blogspot.com/2021/01/part-4-alien-agenda-why-they-came-why.html
: Charles Winston Merit
94s
1 comment:
Thanks for sharing thiis
Post a Comment