

### THE OMEGA SEED

J. E. MOORE

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2014 J. E. Moore

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ISBN 9781310736995

Table of Contents

 Introduction

 Dedication and acknowledgement

 Prologue

 Chapter One: In the Beginning

 Chapter Two: You should know

 Chapter Three: Look who's coming to dinner

 Chapter Four: Things get messy

 Chapter Five: Where are you, little star?

 Chapter Six: Out of the frying pan and into the fire

 Chapter Seven: The truth hurts

 Chapter Eight: Let's play hardball

 Chapter Nine: Redwood mind games

 Chapter Ten: Murphy's Law

 Chapter Eleven: This is the pits

 Chapter Twelve: The End?

 Epilogue

 Introduction

My science fiction story is directed at the young at heart, who relish experiencing excitement through imagination and wondrous marvels seen perhaps in dreams but alas, unattainable. The Omega Seed is written to illustrate reading is still vibrant and not a dying art, crushed by the onslaught of multimedia graphics/animations. I have endeavored to tell a tale in the finest tradition of our legendary fabulist: believable, _technically_ sound, making the reader feel these events could jump out of tomorrow's newspaper, smack them in the face and alter their lives. Intertwined, it is a drama/love story within an alien invasion.

Journey with me, read my words, find the messages between the lines, pretend you are there and ultimately wish you were.

 Dedication and acknowledgement

"I think I can do this."

"You can do anything you want," she agreed.

This book is dedicated to Joyce, my wife and soul mate who has loved and supported me in all my endeavors.

This is what she does.

We shall share this victory together.

And... a special thanks to my friend, Gary Chapman for his proof reading and insight.

 Prologue

For thousands of years mankind has recorded intrusions of unidentified flying objects into our world. From the cave man's primitive wall drawings to today's sophisticated high speed cameras and telescopes, sightings have persisted - increasingly so it seems. While the truth remains hidden out there in deep space, age-old, haunting questions continue in burn in hearts and minds of people here on Earth. Does intelligent life exist outside our small, violent sphere? If so, will these elusive beings ever intentionally expose themselves? And, when that fate-full day comes, what will be their motive?

In the last forty years modern medicine has proven humans will never be capable of traveling to the distant stars. Why even the closest is many thousands of light years away in our own Milky Way Galaxy! Perhaps someday we'll take a jaunt around the neighborhood to Venus or Mars, no big deal - they're in our celestial backyard. Even this short hop will require regenerative life support and propulsion systems far beyond our current technology. The stars, where other earth-class oxygen/nitrogen plants await are unattainable in our present life form. Mankind's longevity and biological functions make the venture a physical impossibility. A deep-seated change would be necessary. An evolution to a higher level? Or, perhaps a step back in time.

Genesis 6:4

The Nephilim proved to be in the earth in those days, and also after that... they were the mighty ones, who were of old, the men of frame.

# Chapter One

### In the Beginning

July 1917 - Earth calendar

The silver starcruiser burst through the portal of a time/space continuum connecting two distant solar systems. It was nearing the end of a three month journey on a mission to the planet humans call Earth. The massive, perfectly round spaceship, a half-mile wide in diameter, reversed its inverter thrusters to drop below the speed of light. Pluto, a gaseous icy chunk smaller than most moons, flashed by as the silent craft streaked through space's airless vacuum. The crew was busy charting a course to bisect eight other crisscrossing planetary orbits to reach its final destination on the far side of the system. The sphere shined bright as it raced between Mercury and the Sun. The scorching rays had no effect; they bounced off the vessel's flowing liquid-silicon hull. Likewise, the craft's antimagnetic fluxers neutralized the burning star's gravitational pull. Flying at a snail's pace in comparison with the speed of the previous tunnel warp, the ship whipped around Earth's solitary moon and lined up toward the bluish-white, cloud-covered world. The shell glowed white hot as the craft plummeted through the heaviest atmospheric stratum - a fiery spark silhouetted against the dark side of this small oxygen/nitrogen breathing planetoid. After clearing the burn-zone the falling globe brought on line its non-reflective, defensive force field.

Even though thirty Earth years had passed since the last Test and Correction Mission, any new weapons developed by the inhabitant's still-primitive technology would present no threat. The vessel's fuzzy-black, absorbing dampers were activated making it invisible to electronic detection as well as near impossible to be seen by the naked eye. It dropped quickly and leveled off ten miles above the North American Continent. Cruising within the northeast quadrant at a thousand mph, it crossed Lake Superior as its programmed life-form scanners swept the target area below.

Blip! Blip! The two selected earthlings had been pinpointed!

The command came immediately, "Close and apprehend."

Thunder Bay, Ontario, Canada

His father's midnight-blue, Model T Ford was parked on the side of the country dirt road running parallel to Lake Superior's rock strewn shoreline which connected Thunder Bay, their home, with the village of Nipigon to the northeast. Night was falling; the daytime breeze had cooled, lowering the temperature to a pleasant 18 degrees Celsius. An endless line of forest-green pine trees served as a backdrop for the woodland clearing covered with seasonal soft grass. Rumor had it, on a clear winter's night from this isolated point of land, Mariner's Lookout which jutted southward into the lake, the lights of Isle Royale's fishing camps could be seen more than thirty miles to the south. Although both were natives, neither André LeBlanc nor Michelle DeBlois had ever beheld this unusual occurrence. Their justified concern was that no prudent or cautious person should be interested in viewing some hazy flickers across the black watery expanse this close to winter. Why even in the late fall if a bit of bad luck befell or an unseasonal Artic blast swept in they could freeze to death in short order. They had been taught to be ever vigilant of the clouds and sudden temperature drops. And here on The Lookout one should also be wary of, The Legend of the Dancing Lights, which had allegedly spirited away many a hapless soul in the past - some never to be seen again. The pair were youthful, romantic and sometimes foolhardy but not enough so to challenge the perilous, unpredictable subzero temperatures or the Supernatural.

Besides, these were serious times with no room for such nonsense. A terrible war raged in Europe; Germany and her lackeys were giving the good guys a thrashing. Newspapers and wire services were calling it a World War and André's father concurred saying, "Half of civilization is embroiled in the conflict." He also surmised, "When the end finally comes and the forces of Good prevail over Evil as they always do, the historians will refer to it as, The War to End all Wars, never to occur again \- thank God." But alas, his Dad had no idea when it would cease and the battles had already been raging for three long years.

Both André and Michelle, childhood sweethearts, spoke fluent French as did most of their countrymen. In some provinces such as Alberta, still considered to be a frontier, it was the primary language. It didn't seem long ago they had picnicked on this very same spot and fantasized about using their second tongue in Paris on their future honeymoon. But the war had pushed the lover's dreams aside and even worse, in addition to their nuptial disappointment they now were forced to accept the almost certainty of André soon being deployed to France as a soldier. For two weeks ago, he had received orders to report to the Royal Canadian Army boot camp within this upcoming fortnight. The young man, who recently turned eighteen and graduated from high school, had enlisted along with several of his buddies. These young patriots expected nothing less than to be sent 'over there' and remained steadfast regarding doing their duty to set those dirty Jerries straight - for God and country!

Michelle sat with arms folded across her raised knees on a homemade, quilted blanket spread upon the flat, grassy swale between the distant road and the water's edge fifty yards away. Her legs were demurely covered by her stylish long-sleeved, cream colored, ankle-length dress. She brushed back a strand of auburn hair, "What time is it, André? You know we have to be home by nine." It was easy to lose track of time in this beautiful, serene surrounding. The strawberry sun had set an hour earlier with the twilight surrendering to an infinite starry canopy harboring a bright white half-moon reflecting off the endless sea.

He plucked his pocket watch from his vest, tilted it toward the small campfire's aromatic, crackling, yellow flames, "It's eight o'clock; we have twenty more minutes. That'll get you home with time to spare." A crooked grin, "We don't want to worry our folks... hé, mon chéri?"

She cast a sorrowful glance at her handsome fiancé's strong back while thinking, "I'm sure they'll have plenty of time for worry later, all of us will every day and especially I \- each waking moment until you return." The grim face of war had so far spared the small community of Thunder Bay: none of the town's confident, cocky young men had yet returned in pine caskets.

Bending over, he unfolded the newspaper bought on the way to pick up his betrothed. He spread it on the ground, "Michelle, did you hear the latest developments?" Reading aloud from the front page lead column, "French and British infantry forces suffered many casualties in heavy fighting outside Lyon today. The American relief column coming to their aid has been cut off in the Saint Etienne Valley forty miles to the southwest by a German armored division. Yank commanders, reinforced by heavy artillery predict a breakthrough sometime early tomorrow. Let us pray it is not too late for our brave lads trapped within the Devil's claw."

"Awful," she whispered.

"Yes, I'm afraid it is," agreed the future soldier and continued, "In Milan, Italian partisans liberated..."

Michelle was only half-listening; her heart felt heavy with the proximity of his departure and didn't want to hear any more news about the conflict, except it was finished.

Suddenly, her attention became distracted by an internal, silent alarm. She tuned out André's voice in order to identify its source. Reflexively she sat up, placing her hands straight-armed on the blanket. Ever since she was a child she had possessed the ability to detect an unseen presence. Someone or something was lingering in the darkness. André had this ability also but had not as yet noticed the intruder. Absorbed in reading the paper by the campfire's dim glow, he remained unaware. She concentrated. "It doesn't feel like a human being," she thought. "Could it be a large animal confusing me, perhaps a bear or a moose? No, that's not right - it's something _other_ and much larger... a group scattered about?"

She perceived several immediate environmental changes: the air had become still - not a single blade of grass moved. The crickets were silent, no longer chirping and the light was much dimmer than just moments before. Unsettled, she directed her attention from side to side. A nervous chill ran down her spine and raised tiny goose bumps on her arms. Using her acute night vision, Michelle peered deep into the encircling countryside, the trees, foliage, road - all seemed normal. André droned on to himself, oblivious of her dilemma when a second and clearer subliminal message jolted her. She thought she heard, "We're above you." The ghost story of The Dancing Lights flashed to mind and the child in her became afraid of what she may see if she looked up.

Michelle began arguing with herself, "Above? That's impossible! I'm being silly. There can't be anything over us."

The invisible pressure intensified. Finally challenging the fear, she tossed her head back with her pupils enlarged like a cat's and scanned the heavens for the source of her alarm. She immediately discerned the beautiful half-moon which had been shining continuously during this cloudless evening, was missing. Craning her neck, eyes circling, she was baffled. "No moon? Less stars? How could it be? Is it an eclipse?"

She quickly ruled that out: André would have known about it - he loves to read the Almanac and would have told me so we could view it together. Her mind was confused, her nerves began to fray, she was being pushed by the undefined presence toward an abyss of hidden terrors and she didn't understand why or how. Michelle made a last ditch effort to temper her alarm and reason with herself as she stared into a vast void, empting of stars and a missing moon. Blinking, disbelieving of what she thought she saw, she called softly to André using a voice pleading to be heard yet fearful of drawing attention to herself. Running her eyes around the outside perimeter of the black void she saw a surrounding halo of stars, but the dark circle in the center was growing larger! The realization hit her like a thunderbolt: the blackness above was moving down towards them! Huge, blocking the sky, it descended on the two, tiny figures. In a flash she understood the warning, _This_ is the intruder! Her brain shrieked, "It's alive and coming after us!" Dark, gigantic, sinister, unknown, the fright roared in full force. Tearing her eyes away and flinging herself in his direction, she screamed, "André!!!"

The newspaper went flying; he spun around on his knees, the pitch of her voice shocking him. The young man reacted instinctively: springing to his feet, he crouched. Blazing eyes darted from side to side - ready to leap and defend his love from danger. André's extrasensory powers surged and were now synchronized to the threat Michelle was feeling. Her head pressed against his chest as she pointed toward the invader. Following her direction, he jerked his chin upward, "What the...?" and together they beheld the massive, floating starcruiser. Stunned by its magnitude, the pair were momentarily transfixed by the looming entity. A low pulsing bass drone from the ship's outer surface muffled all other sound, 'Humm, Humm, Humm'. The campfire was snuffed out and darkness immediately swallowed the terrified couple. André cried out, "It's falling!" and snatched her arm. "Run or we'll be crushed!"

A deep, indigo-blue shaft of light flashed from the bottom of the impenetrable sphere before they could take a single step. Dense, surreal, it trapped the pair within a tight circular, force-field. They were unable to move or speak, frozen motionless in place. Their eyelids began to droop and their bodies to sag as if sleep were overtaking them. They fell in slow motion, collapsing like rag dolls on the soft tundra, unhurt and unconscious. Sparkling silver specks materialized in the thick, luminescent light tunnel and began whirling faster and faster. The captured humans began to rise slowly inside the spaceship's antigravity transporter beam - floating up akin to bubbles rising in a thick liquid. With Mother Earth three hundred yards below, the two _subjects_ traversed the span from ground to ship in two short minutes and were absorbed through the craft's hull. The droning from the gigantic ball ceased; the beam extinguished and the spaceship with its quarry aboard retreated skyward to avoid detection.

Two hours later...

André and Michelle were back at the campsite. The fire burned anew - casting its light on the pair lying side by side, feet pointed south, hands folded across their chests and laid out as neatly as corpses in caskets at a funeral viewing. Another silent signal interrupted their slumber and the teenagers awakened, tired but unafraid. Now relaxed, the couple again viewed the hovering black, alien spaceship which had spirited them a hundred miles above and later returned them to their original location. Neither of the two had any recollection of the time passed or of what had transpired aboard the vessel.

As before, the countryside lay still, serene... every living creature's attention was directed to the visitor from beyond. The ship's surface began turning lighter colors: charcoal, grey, slate - until it resembled a giant stainless steel ball suspended a quarter of a mile directly above the prone, frail humans. The intergalactic traveller slowly backed away toward the spacious night sky, leaving them unharmed, but not unchanged...

Strangely, André and Michelle felt a personal closeness - a kinship with the retreating sphere. Their raised their left hands in a friendly gesture of farewell and whispered, "Au revoir." Then, almost as an instinctive movement they placed their right hand over their appendix and rubbed with a gentle motion. Deep inside it felt different, an unusual coolness. The spacecraft paused, bobbed in acknowledgment then streaked upward, blending into the starry firmament. The young man and woman lay at peace, their thoughts joined.

"Michelle? André? Are you all right?" Two concerned fathers suddenly appeared out of nowhere. Neither of the young people had heard a car approach and park behind theirs.

The couple's surreal state was broken. Rising quickly at the waist the young man asked, "What's the matter?"

His dad answered, "It's after ten o'clock; we thought you had automobile trouble and came to look for you."

"Oh, my gosh!" Checking his pocket watch, the young man saw it had stopped at 8:04 p.m. Puzzled, "We must have fallen asleep. We're alright; so sorry to worry you."

"Did you see it?" cooed Michelle as she leaned on one elbow, her face radiating contentment as she gazed dreamy-eyed at the sky.

"See what?" questioned her father, following the girl's line of sight.

A tranquil smile on her face, "The space..."

"Shush!" interrupted André. Leaning close to her face, as their eyes met an unspoken message passed, "Best not to say anything. They wouldn't understand."

Mister DeBlois repeated, "See what, Michelle?" as both parents scanned the heavens.

"The stars, Papa," she stammered. "They are so beautiful; they look like tiny diamonds."

Her father scowled, "Stars? Swell," in a disappointed tone - annoyed by her apparent lackadaisical attitude. He wondered, "Eighteen... is this girl _ever_ going to grow up?" He forced his irritation aside, "It's late; we're glad to find you two all right. Figured you would be... However, your mothers are a tad upset, if you know what I mean and I can't say I'm too pleased myself."

The two fathers conferred and agreed not to reprimand them too harshly. A few chosen but kind words after returning home would suffice. After all, the boy would soon be away at war and they were confident their children's conduct had been quite proper.

Mister Leblanc patted his son's shoulder, "Douse the fire, André. Let's be on our way; Mama's waiting."

Obedient, with more apologies for losing track of time, the young people got into their parent's respective automobiles while contemplating all the things they would have to talk about tomorrow, in private. Each suspected they had been altered internally in some way. Indeed, this was true. André and Michelle had become the newest members of a very select group: Earthlings who have been abducted and _repaired_ during the last hundred years.

October 1948

The olive-drab bus with U.S. Army printed under a white star on either side of the vehicle, closed its folding front door with a 'Thud' of finality. A military policeman sat in each front seat behind the driver on both sides of the center aisle. "Secure," one MP reported to the private first class behind the wheel while the second MP kept close watch on the twenty-three passengers. The pfc (private first class) driver flashed his headlights as a signal to two more military policemen in the jeep ahead that they were ready to leave. A few minutes after 7 a.m. the small convoy with a second jeep in the rear, rolled out of the main gate of Fort Ord, California. A sentry saluted as they passed, then logged the time of their departure.

The apprehensive and quiet passengers consisting of nineteen adults and four children were not there by choice. It would be a stress filled, two-hour nonstop trip to their destination: Camp Redwood Detention and Processing Center. All had been snatched away from their homes within the last four days under the government's pretense of a contagious disease/medical alert which required further evaluation in a fictitious research laboratory. It had not taken long for the first so-called patients to become vocal about the situation, especially after observing no one appeared ill in any degree. As individuals, they had concluded they must be victims of some hoax, mistake or conspiracy. Their complaints fell on deaf ears and stony faces, and as the group grew with several additional pickups of newcomers who also had distinguishing characteristics similar to their own - subtle but different from the general public's, the abductees wondered to themselves, "Have I been singled out because my eyes appear strange in the dark? Or is it for the other things? My secret abilities, the ones I can't talk about? How much does the Government know about me and what's going to happen to us?" Stolen glances at one another only served to heighten their private fears.

The convoy turned south on US 101 at a point connecting the long, sparsely populated stretch between the towns of Salinas and Soledad. After five miles they changed directions again, this time to the left onto an unmarked access road, the only one which led to and entered Camp Redwood, encircled by foothills and located twenty miles to the east.

An hour later at the camp headquarters, "Excuse me, sirs. The front gate is on the radio; the first contingent is arriving."

"Thank you, Corporal. Advise the Officer-of-the-Day to have the troops assembled in ten minutes," then returned the enlisted man's salute.

"Yes sir, right away, Captain," as he turned heel and hustled out the open office doorway to perform his orders.

The officer's superior, a visiting one star general, standing and smoking a Lucky Strike cigarette while gazing out the window at nothing in particular remarked: "First group... time to begin indoctrination." Then reflected silently to himself, "My God, it's the Japanese-American citizens war-time scenario happening all over again!"

Ten minutes passed before the three vehicle convoy entered the compound's main staging area, turned counterclockwise in the courtyard's large circular driveway and stopped parallel to the assembly on their right. The Headquarters building stood behind the rows of soldiers at attention. From left to right, the General, the Captain, the OOD (a Lieutenant), the First platoon's Staff Sergeant and eight infantry soldiers positioned to their rear armed with M1 rifles. In addition, a buck sergeant with a trained, attack Doberman Pinscher was stationed thirty yards to the formation's left.

The passengers surveyed the isolated camp layout with trepidation as the two MPs and driver dismounted to make official their arrival to the OOD who had taken a step forward for recognition. The newcomers could see four dingy, faded white barracks in a row, flanking both sides of the Headquarters building, plus three more to its rear. All the structures with their interconnecting narrow dirt paths were in disrepair due to their classification as temporary housing. Another single barracks behind each group of these comprised the living quarters for the First, Second and Third platoons - the guards posted to this compound. A few smaller structures scattered about far in the distance completed their initial view of the bleak, desolate twenty-five square mile holding facility.

The unhappy travelers were herded out of the vehicle and formed into a single straight line facing their captors. The adults held the children's hands to comfort them. Of the twenty-nine now, none were blood-related although they all felt a common bond in an undefined way.

The sergeant's dog, Geronimo snarled and pulled taut on his short, three-foot long choker leash. The Doberman was sick; he had thrown up earlier and was extremely agitated by all these strangers and commotion. The sergeant trying to control him belatedly reasoned, "I should have brought the other dog. This animal needs to see a vet. He's acting erratic. Maybe it's because he's overdue for his distemper and rabies shot?" The handler was unaware a diseased prairie dog had bitten Geronimo three weeks earlier.

When the MP's check-in procedures were completed the commanding officer addressed the anxious civilians, "I am the United States Army general in charge of this facility. Welcome to Camp Redwood. I know you must be wondering why you have been brought here, admittedly against your will, but unfortunately I am not at liberty to divulge that information at this time." The new _detainee's_ reaction was immediate and sharp which erupted into a loud stream of protests and complaints. These peaceful, law-abiding people had their fill of these unexplained and unwarranted arrests. They were demanding an explanation!

The K-9 sergeant, listening to the confrontation, didn't notice his dog had become wild-eyed and was now foaming at the mouth. The General using his megaphone, raised his voice over their objections, "I can tell you this much! This is a temporary measure! More of your kind will be joining you on a daily basis and all or you will processed for relocation in the near future." His words generated a fresh wave of objections.

"Relocation! Why? Where?" cried out the angered citizens. "What _is_ this garbage?" "What about the medical problem?" "We have rights." "What are you trying to pull?"

The harried officer held both hands aloft, "I told you I cannot give you those answers at this time..."

Geronimo, spurred on by the shouting, tugged hard. The well-worn leash snapped. The sergeant, feeling the brute animal's break shouted, "Heel!" The Doberman stopped short and paced excitedly in a circle with his tongue out, panting. The detainee's attention switched immediately to the agitated, twitching creature. His handler, recognizing the dog was about to take off again, reached into his pocket for his whistle to recall the animal, then seize its collar. He yanked it out quickly - too quickly. He watched in alarm as it slipped through his nervous fingers and went flying through the air into the dirt a dozen feet away. The feverish canine not having restraints, physical or otherwise, lathered itself into a frenzy and turned toward the line of civilians. A last second desperate verbal command of "Geronimo, sit!" had no effect. It was too late! Teeth bared, growling, he crouched - readying to pounce on the closest human to him - a little girl at the end of the line. The monster's hunched shoulders were nearly level with her little head. His rippling muscles hardened, tiny red veins in the corners of his eyes accentuated his fury.

Realizing the military attack dog had set his sights on her, the child's eyes first widened in terror then she slid into a trance and stood motionless as a stone pillar. Mechanically, with nary a word spoken, all the bus passengers turned their bodies in unison as would a precision drill team in order to concentrate on the enraged canine poised to kill. The Doberman began his attack. Head lowering, his nape hairs bristled like a wire brush as his strong hind claws ripped into the packed dirt. His eyes blazed with rage, he would sprint the short distance to the child in a heartbeat.

The twenty-nine remained firm, unwavering as they collectively focused on the charging beast. Forty feet and closing - a black blur. The soldiers were startled, helpless spectators. The Doberman's jaws opened wide to seize and rip its prey's flesh. Suddenly he yelped and snapped his head back as if something invisible had wacked him in the face! He skidded to a dead stop, a cloud of dust formed at the ankles of the stationary child who had never even blinked. The dog was trembling; he whined. The girl, with confidence, slowly reached out her tiny hand. The adults made no attempt to stop her. Geronimo's saliva dripped on the ground, his wet nose glistened, then the momentarily tamed animal licked the child's offered hand!

The dog backed away, confused and disoriented - knowing _these_ visitors were not the source of his torment. He began paced up and down the assembled bus line, not daring to meet the people's unremitting stare. Finally, he shook his head, howled, threw himself on the ground, rolled over and sprung up snarling at the eight soldiers in front of the HQ building. His anger had renewed itself and his diseased mind was again filled with a consuming blood lust.

The General, reacted this time and shouted, "Shoot him! Now! That's an order!"

The two MP's who rode on the bus sprang from behind the civilian line, whipped out their forty-five, semiautomatic pistols and fired twice apiece into the tormented canine. The spinning, end-over-end, lead slugs ripped through the animal's body. The one hundred and twenty-pound war dog flipped over sideways in the air from the force of the impact and landed stone-dead with a heavy, sickening, 'Thump'.

The base Commander, incensed by this ghastly interruption bellowed, "Get these people inside! Process and show them to their quarters, Captain. On the double! And put the canine sergeant on report!"

"Yes sir!" Orders were relayed down the chain of command which ended with four infantry soldiers in the rear systematically sorting the people into male and female groups and began escorting them inside.

As the buck sergeant dragged his dead dog away the brass conferred. The General directed, "I'll address the second contingent arriving from Camp Pendleton this afternoon and afterwards relinquish the base command to you. This evening I'll be returning to San Diego to direct the national operation." Casting a steely eye on the subordinate, "You will still be under my immediate command and mark my words. I had better not receive a report of another incident like this one. Understood?"

"Yes, General. It won't happen again, sir."

"And one more item, Captain. Get rid of the other guard dog." Jerking a thumb toward the two columns of shuffling, dejected citizens, "Apparently, the animals are a danger to _us_ , not them."

Later that evening at the base mess hall, two soldiers, a private and another pfc, who had been present at the reception fiasco were chowing down their evening meal. The Company's Administration corporal carried over his food tray and took a seat on the wooden bench with them, "I heard it got a little hairy out there this morning fellas."

The private, a good olde boy, answered in his southern drawl, "Hairy ain't the word, Corp. It was downright spooky."

His buddy, the pfc interjected, "I'm not so sure spooky is the proper word. I suspect our boy here got a little... how should we say, _overly_ concerned." He grinned and shook his head, "Lordy, Lordy, I woulda never guessed a little doggie woulda bothered a farm boy. I _am_ surprised."

The private, who was regarded as a country bumpkin, took immediate offense. Ears reddening, he fired back, "What you talkin' about? That Doberman? Forgit that stupid dawg; he weren't nothin'. Din't you see what those people done when the mutt went after the lil' girl?"

His friend was caught off guard by the unexpected rebuttal, "The civilians? Uh, no. I was watching the Dobie. Did I miss something?"

The big man became excited, "They stared him down, Boy! Those people stopped the dawg dead in his tracks right when he was chargin'... just by lookin' at em'." Now challenging his friend and antagonist, "You missed seeing thar eyes, Dummy. They got all black! The color part of their eyes turned black as coal."

"Their eyeballs turned black?" chided the pfc. "Who are you trying to kid?"

"Wha... who... kid?" stammered the big man. His voice rose, "You weren't paying atten'shun, as usual." Other soldiers in the mess hall started turning in their direction. He pointed at his own iris, "I _said_ the colored part; they looked like two big black holes."

"Are you sure?" downplayed his buddy. "I was there too; I didn't see that. Besides, they all have big eyes." Laughing, "Bigger than ours. They look like damn comic book characters."

The country boy conceded that specific point but countered, "They sure enough do. But that ain't the all of it. Thar's a whole lot more!" He snickered to himself, "Appears Mister Smarty Pants here missed the important stuff."

"Like what?" followed the corporal.

The private waved his fork at his antagonist, "Do you remember when the General was talkin' at em' and said, "more of your kind?" Didn't it strike you as being a bit peculiar?"

"Yeah, yeah... I think I do remember those words as a matter of fact."

"Well then I started watching those folks real close-like. I wanted to see what he was talkin' about and I did. Yes, indeedy," as he nodded importantly and took another mouthful.

His friend and the corporal both smirked then the pfc ragged him some more, "I heard moonshine over a long period of time will permanently affect your vision and make you afraid of animals."

The big man got the barb and he'd had enough. With brows knit and eyes narrowed, he spat out, "Let's git somethin' straight right now! That hound didn't scare me none. I coulda spit on em' and killed his sorry butt. We got a lot meaner dawgs back home in Alabama than that mangy mutt."

His friend, not realizing he had crossed the line kept hammering, "Okay... if it wasn't the dog it musta been a vision problem. Have you been having headaches or sipping _licker_?"

The country boy's face turned crimson. He pounded the table with a heavy, calloused hand, "I warned you; don't you mess with me!" Half rising from the bench, "I'm gonna bust yer face open right now!"

Truly surprised, "Whoa, partner; take it easy." The pfc wrapped his arm across the big man's shoulders and gently pulled him back down to the bench.

The soldiers, and especially his friend, finally realized they had pushed him too far and made profuse apologies. After they were sure he had calmed down, one of them made a peace offering. "Tell us what else you saw... the important stuff... please."

The big man gulped a drink of water, wiped his face with his sleeve and stared hard at the pair to make sure they weren't still messing with him. When he was satisfied he had suitable respect, he nodded, "Well then, after the dawg got shot two of them people turned and looked straight at me." He paused to find the correct words. "It... it felt like somebody punched me right in the forehead. They was lookin' clean inside my haid and I could hear words bouncin' around in my brain." His voice rose, "But they wasn't speaking _to_ me. I watched their lips but they weren't moving. When I started see'n' pictures flash before my eyes I almost dropped my rifle and took offa runnin'."

His listeners grew quiet; they were skeptical but afraid to anger him again. The corporal asked innocently, "What kind of pictures did you see, buddy?"

"Cain't say, they din't make no sense," as he cut a piece of his creamed chipped beef on toast.

"Do you think anyone else saw what you did?"

"Maybe. The Chief mighta. The Injun was standin' next to me." The private took a quick scan around the mess hall and easily spotted Daniel Nashota, a young Navajo code talker, due to his long, shiny black hair. (a government concession granted only to native Americans) "Hey, Chief, looky over here," to the man sitting alone with his back to them one table away. The Indian responded to the hailing with a turn of the shoulder. "You heard what we've been talkin' about?" Nashota nodded, "Yes", he rarely spoke to anyone unless directed to do so by a superior. "Did you see what I saw? Tell these boys if'n so."

"The private speaks the truth," he answered. The Navajo then returned to his solitude and pondered anew the significance of the bizarre event and the strange new people. Daniel had already made a mental note to discuss the experience with his grandfather. He, as the tribal historian, a Seeker of Signs and being knowledgeable regarding visions and portents, perhaps the elder could make an interpretation.

"See thar; the Injun bears me out." The country boy gave an exaggerated shiver, "Tell you one thing fellas; I'm stayin' away from _them_ people. Yes sir-ree, far away."

After a moment of meditation, his friend spoke in a serious tone, "I wonder who they are? Where are they from?"

The company corporal answered, "They're from all over the country, everywhere. I heard the General talking in the Captain's office. The door was open; I wasn't spying." Hanging onto his every word, they waited for him to continue. "As I said, they're from all over the United States. The government has hundreds of them rounded up. They're being held in all the biggest military bases; Army, Navy, Air Force even the Marine Corps. The military police are transporting all of them here."

"What for?"

"Dunno, I didn't hear that part."

"So, do these people have a name?" asked the pfc.

The corporal paused trying to recall the exact words the General used. Finally remembering, a satisfied smile crossed his face, "Oh yeah, it comes to mind now. The General called them the _Omega_ people. Yep, that was it. The Omega people."

"Omega?" echoed the private. "Sounds mysterious or _foreign_ to me."

"It should, it's Greek," informed the corporal. "I remember it from high school. It's the last letter in their alphabet. It means: The End."

# Chapter Two

### You should know

The Present

"My name is Mason Armstrong and I believe I alone possess all the details of this incredible story which I will now pass on to you before we leave for Ventura.

To begin, I'm thirty-two years old, single, reside in Alexandria, Virginia and am employed by the United States Government as a courier in the Diplomatic Service. I was born and raised in Portsmouth, Virginia which is geographically located at the mouth of the Chesapeake Bay in the southeast corner of the state.

I lived most of my school-age years in a typical southern-style house built in the early nineteen hundreds in the conservative community of Prentis Park. It was what you would call a good neighborhood with ample homes occupied by established, financially secure, blue-collared families who tended their own lawns with visible pride. Our grey-trimmed, white two-storied wooden residence sat inside a vine covered wire fence draped with fragrant Morning Glory and Honeysuckle painted in soft pastels of pink and cream. Scarlet annuals in overflowing, green flower boxes balanced atop the veranda's railings added to the kaleidoscope of color cascading down our home's side walls - halting at a separate five-foot high picket fence to the rear.

Although not much larger than the landscaped area in the front, this was the back yard: Dad's domain and filled with his handiwork and plantings. Scattered about were rows of seasonal vegetables and tucked in the farthest corner sat a homemade chicken coop which housed eight bantam hens and one noisy, reddish-brown, bad tempered rooster. My father's intention was to save family grocery money for poultry by raising his own. As often happens, the birds became pets - very messy pets as a result of our infamous chicken debacle.

Right after Dad deemed his livestock production system to be operational he decided to slaughter the largest hen, de-feather and have Mom cook it... without consulting her beforehand. I, the helper, watched him crawl inside the glass-paned coop, remove the trusting victim and lay her down with one wing pinned against our red brick walkway. We didn't have a chopping block. My job was to hold her legs at the ankles with one hand and press with the other with my fingers spread wide on her slick, warm, topside wing to control her struggling body while he took aim with his short ax. My father gripped her throat just below the tiny head. The hen blinked repeatedly, incredulous she was being handled in this manner. After a minute of stillness she became calm, closing her eyes with the lids rising upward to await an unknown fate. The pitted blade rested against the bird's skinny neck. Dad drew the ax back slow, being careful not to spook her and lifted it to the height of his right ear. Then in a blur, 'Hack! Hack'! Her tiny eyes bulged; her body went rigid. A silent shriek whistled from her gaping beak and tore into my brain. The ax thudded twice more but was too dull to cut through the rubbery, gristle neck tendons. "Hold er' still," my father ordered, "while I go to the garage for the hedge clippers." I nodded, unable to speak. An opaque eye filled with pain and terror stared up at me and I prayed for Dad to hurry. Mortal fear, as tangible as the sweat on my brow, oozed from the helpless creature. The pungent scent of imminent death mixed with the fowl's natural musky odor filled my nostrils. In a desperate flurry of contortions the hen wrenched free of my sweaty, trembling hands. Flailing wings beat my face as she bolted away, her dangling head flopped from side to side. My father rocketed from the garage with his shears in hand and stopped short to observe the bird running amok through his vegetable garden - bouncing off the ground stakes then careening anew in a different direction. I remained kneeling in place, feeling queasy and guilty for letting the chicken escape, but most of all - sad. Dad finally recaptured her after she smashed into the garage wall and collapsed exhausted in the dirt. Ignoring the tears in my eyes - his son had lessons to learn, my father snipped her head off with the clippers.

Mom came to the backdoor to see what all the commotion was about. Instantly, she became horrified which quickly turned to unbridled anger. Her jugular veins stood out. I thought she was going to snatch the tool away from Dad and whack him over the head with it. I cowered frightened and vomited on the bloody bricks. Mom didn't say a word, none were necessary: the message was clear.

That evening she cooked the bird and set it on my father's dinner plate - to emphasize a point I was sure she had made sternly in private. He didn't take a bite or try to defend his actions. Instead, he offered restitution with apologies, promises and volunteered to bury the uneaten carcass first thing in the morning. Mom accepted the tragedy as the product of an acute failure in communications and fashioned a popsicle cross for a grave marker. Peace, although a bit strained, was restored.

As for me, the episode seared an indelible scar on my fragile, adolescent psyche which later became instrumental in steering me toward my present vocation of being a bearer of clear communications and good tidings. I also attributed my distaste for meat to this particular episode. Later, I learned there were other - stronger reasons for being a vegetarian...

One last pertinent item about the family: my father labored as a journeyman ironworker before he married my mother. He appeared to be much older than she and at first I attributed this to the long hours and grueling labors of his earlier years. I had it backwards; it was Mom and Grandma who belied their true ages. I realized later their youthful appearance was one of the side effects/bonuses of being a member of a worldwide subculture, sometimes hidden even unto one's own self. And another, yet quite different, non-visible attribute enabled its members to share a closeness which defied description - an intangible mental link. Mom said we had inherited it from Grandma Michelle (DeBlois/LeBlanc) and Dad did not possess the gift. I felt traces of this mysterious connection with Grandma also, but she passed away before it had fully developed.

Dad told me when I was old enough to understand, Michelle was Canadian and had lost her husband, André in the First World War. They were married while he was home on Army Leave in Thunder Bay. He returned to the fighting in France and died on a battlefield close to Paris. Some months later Michelle gave birth to my mother, like me an only child and she never remarried.

I learned many years later of Grandma's incredible foresight and personal sacrifice in attempting to save our lives but that's further into the story."

Five days earlier, Alexandria, Va.

Commenting to himself as most bachelors do, Mason examined the contents of the water jug. "Oops, almost empty." He removed the one-gallon plastic container and assessed, "Just enough for half a glass." Setting it aside on the kitchen counter, he checked the freezer, "Looks good here." It was full of freeze-dried vegetables plus a large bag of ice in case the building lost commercial power for an extended period of time before the emergency generator came on line. The middle shelves were nearly bare - thus the life of a dedicated vegetarian. Last check: the bottom produce bins - usually full, showed empty. "Good, wouldn't want anything to spoil while I'm gone." Opening the pantry, "I'll put another water in the frig so it'll get good and cold," but found only three more empty jugs on the floor. "Drat." He finished off what little was left, dried the glass and checked the time. With an hour to go before his pick-up, he decided to hop over to the 7-11 to buy another gallon for his return.

Mason retrieved his dark-blue suit jacket lying across the back of the recliner alongside the living room door and gave the place the once-over before heading out. He adjusted his tie and tugged on his sleeves while waiting for the elevator to arrive at the second floor, the lowest level available for rental. The Ground Level was lobby and Administration, vehicle parking was on Sub One.

Exiting the large, double foyer glass doors he bade a, "Good morning," to the maintenance man trimming a bush.

"And a, Good morning to you too, Mister Armstead. I see you're all decked-out in your travelling clothes. Are you leaving us now?"

"Not just yet, within the hour. I'm going to buy water across the street."

The sixtyish, black man grinned in reply. "I knows how you likes your water. Are you being picked up?"

"Yes. It'll be a G.S.A. (Government Services Administration) driver. He'll come up."

"G.S.A, yes sir," adding, "You sure are a lucky man Mister Armstead. I wish I could go to some of those fine places you do."

"Yes, I have to admit, I have visited many interesting locales. We'll get together when I return and I'll tell you all about it."

Mason waved back as he strolled down to the public sidewalk crossing in front of Kennedy Towers where he'd been a tenant for the last three years. He was in an exceptionally good mood because he was about to begin a new assignment and exchanged pleasant greetings with a lady walking her dachshund. The women's outward affection for her dog caused him to consider that maybe next year he'd buy a pet for himself. But then he had second thoughts as he mulled over a mental checklist of the pros and cons of his lifestyle. His road trips generally entailed four to five excursions a month out of the country which lasted anywhere from two to six days apiece, making it near impossible to properly care for a pet. And regarding women, it would be rather difficult if he were in a serious personal relationship; even a short-term involvement would be tough to sustain. Most women want their beau nearby. "I can't blame them. Perhaps it's just as well I haven't found my special lady yet - someone who will cause me to make a career change so I can stay close to home. When I find her, I'll know it... and we'll raise the pet together!"

A new, unexpected thought came to mind, "Whoa... and what about children? And, just why not? I'm still a young man and have plenty of time to put down roots. Someday I may look back and miss this action because I have to admit, most assignments are interesting and sometimes exciting." He mulled it over a tad more, "Ha! Who am I kidding? Love versus a job? A welcome trade-off indeed!"

He observed a homeless man shuffling across the street; the fellow didn't seem to care about the traffic whizzing by him or its possible consequences. "Poor soul. I am so fortunate not to have to walk in his shoes or worry about losing my job like so many good people have suffered. I enjoy a rare safety in today's brutal job market because no matter how far technology develops, the Heads of foreign governments always insist on having an original, hand written signature on an important document. Yes sir, the U.S. State Department stays very busy."

He waited for the crosswalk light to change. The weekday morning-hour traffic was heavy; a Metro city bus passed by spewing noxious fumes, "Ugh." Complaining to another pedestrian, "How come pollution control devices are required on all vehicles but not enforced on municipal ones? They're the worse. I should drop a line to Sixty Minutes."

The convenience store was situated on the opposite corner; he started across several seconds after the white crosswalk signal flashed - so all the cars running the red lights could clear the intersection. "Hm'm, it's a little cool even for seven-thirty, maybe it'll warm up later. I should be long gone by then, somewhere," - his office had not advised him of the destination as usual. Smiling to himself he mused, "Another secret mission? Pretty funny considering my career advisor at the University of Virginia mentioned employment with the State Department as a passing joke. Is that why I pursued it? If I dropped in to let her know how this political science major turned out would she remember me? Probably not; I'm just another nameless face in a mass of thousands."

Still daydreaming of yesteryear, Mason approached the small convenience store. Within and to the side of the store's parking lot sat a fellow in an older, small, blue Chevy. The driver's window was open, exposing a man wearing a Baltimore Orioles baseball cap pulled low, sunglasses and who appeared to be conversing on a cellphone. The driver whispered into the handset, "Yes, I'm at a good vantage point. I have a clear view of the Tower's driveway. I'll call you back as soon as the chauffeur picks him up... Uh-oh, trouble. The subject's out of the building and walking in my direction."

The voice at the other end of the line became alarmed. "What! Ted, has he seen you? How did he know?" The man in the sunglasses turned his head away from the advancing Mason Armstead. Huddled over the phone, he stopped talking, cupped his hand over the receiver and stole a glance to the side.

Mason strolled by and reached for the store's door handle. He hesitated for a moment to scrutinize the phone user and then with a puzzled look on his face, continued inside.

"What's happening?" from the speaker at the far end.

"I don't know, Vic. He gave me the once-over and kept going. Oh... I can see him in my rear-view mirror. He's buying water. I'll sit tight until he leaves."

Mason paid the Pakistani cashier an amount double the regular grocery store price and proceeded to leave with his index finger hooked through the neck loop of the jug. This time before passing the booth he stopped to address the man with a, "Hello, sir." The fellow ignored him but he continued, "Please excuse me. Do I know you? Have we met somewhere before?"

The driver gave a quick jerk of his head and a curt, "No, you are mistaken," and turned away.

"Sorry," Mason dropped the inquiry. He knew better than to pester a stranger in a large, metropolitan area as this. You could end up bleeding on the sidewalk or have the guy follow you home seeking a sexual liaison.

"Is there a problem?" from Vic.

"No," as he watched Mason return to his building. "Armstead tried to pull me into a conversation. I snubbed him and he left."

Victor reasoned, "He must have been too physically close and inadvertently sensed you. Did he act suspicious?"

"No, your assessment was correct. He avoids confrontation. Everything's still on schedule. I'll call your cell phone when his car leaves."

"Good, meet me at the Lufthansa Information Desk. Do you have the key to the briefcase?"

"It's in my pocket. See you there," and hung up.

Back in his apartment, Mason brushed through his neatly trimmed black hair and dabbed a touch of Clearasil on a sweat blemish caused by running. He tried to exercise on a regular basis, preferably by jogging, even overseas - weather and snipers permitting. The mirror reflected a fit, 170 pound, 5'10" man who had somewhat heavy eyebrows with a faint scar from a rugby injury running though his right one. His cheekbones were prominent, his brown eyes were deep-set and his nose had a fashionable Tom Cruise bend - _that_ was a hell of a tackle! Even with the rugged souvenirs of his college intermural sports days, he occasionally got I.D.'d at night clubs. Mason wasn't offended; it was amusing and remained cool - keeping a low profile to these minor challenges was the best course of action. After-all, a youthful appearance ran in the family. At the office his colleagues found him to be friendly and well spoken. He wasn't an attention grabbing show-off and preferred to blend in rather than stand out. His co-workers appreciated his non-actions; there were far too many super-ambitious, Go-Getters in Washington D. C. for sure. Armstead brushed his perfect, never-had-a cavity teeth, gargled with Lavoris mouthwash and was ready to roll.

Carrying his suitcase from the bedroom he called out, "C'mon in; it's open!"

The chauffeur stepped in, "How did you know I was there, Mister Armstead? I didn't have a chance to ring the bell." The driver surreptitiously checked the door's peephole. The lens was blocked - it had been accidentally painted over last week during a building renovation project.

"A lucky guess. I must have heard the elevator."

The chauffeur didn't buy it. This apartment was the seventh from the far end of the hallway. Gloved hands at his side, "Not the first time you've made _guesses_ like that, Mister Armstead," letting the inference fade away. He spied the ready suitcase, "Let me get that for you." Hefting up the baggage he commented, "Looks like you're gonna be gone for a while. You usually just take an overnight bag."

"I really don't know. The office said to take some warm clothing so I packed extra. If it's pleasant, I may spend a few extra days and do some sight-seeing... after I complete my assignment, of course," as he locked the apartment's deadbolt.

"You should get that peephole fixed, Mister Armstead."

"You are so right. I'll call Maintenance as soon as I return... and thank you, sir."

A few minutes later as they were crossing the Potomac River via the Theodore Roosevelt Bridge, he silently admonished himself, "I've got to be more careful; it makes some people uneasy. Of course I knew he was there; he's driven for me before and I'm familiar with his..." searching for the correct word and concluded he didn't know exactly what to call it. "His aura? His vibes? Is there a suitable definition? Proximity detection pretty well describes it. It's something I've had since childhood. Mother had it too; I'm not sure about Grandma." Mason frowned, " _Mom_ , there's a painful subject I don't want to dredge up again - her mysterious disappearance eleven years ago." He sighed, "It doesn't do any good to rehash it over and over. She's gone and I'll probably never see her again. It haunts me that in all these years I haven't been able to come up with any new leads which would help locate her and I fear the counterfeit expectations spurred on by another fruitless investigation would only serve to pour salt in old wounds. I must let it go, pray for the best and move on." The ache in his heart caused even more reminiscences to flare: that special bond, the invisible connection we had. "Is it the same for all mothers and their children? I hope so." An old, blue Chevy followed at a safe distance.

They were nearing the State Department Building when out of nowhere the face of the man in dark glasses at the 7-11 flashed before his inner-vision: Mason, for no apparent reason thought, "I sensed a familiarity of him also - but so much different from George's and the many other people I know well. The fellow said we had never met and I believe him. And yet, I felt subliminal transmissions which made me feel as if I had known this guy all my life. I don't understand; he was a perfect stranger. It's a crazy world."

The driver interrupted his thoughts, "Here we are, Mister Armstead. I'll check your suitcase into the diplomat's personal effects room."

"Thank you, kind sir." Then Mason marched up the granite steps to receive his new assignment from the Director, Chad Parkerson.

"Hi, Sweetheart, nice to see you again," greeted his executive secretary.

"Good morning," returned Mason to the dumpy, forty-something, mother of five, typing at her desk. He leaned over, gave her a shoulder hug and a peck on the cheek.

She cooed, "Oooh, nice, I thought you were avoiding me." Blinking in a seductive manner, "It's been so long, Sugar, did you lose my cell phone number?"

He grinned broadly, "Never had it, as you well know. Besides it's not my fault we never get to talk; you're the one who got promoted and moved out of our cozy little section. But weren't you expecting me? The office sent me up here; they said I'd get my assignment from the Man himself. What's the scoop?"

She glanced at the Director's closed office door, wiggled her pinky for him to lean over again and put her face close to his ear, "Love your cologne; what is it?"

"Ecstasy."

"Yes, it would be."

"You know better..."

Resigned, she whispered, "Berlin."

"Really? Not too shabby, could be worse."

"Uh-huh," she agreed. "You be careful, Mason. Don't let one of those blond, blue-eyed fräuleins steal you away from me."

"Not a chance," and playfully feigned mild distress. "You know I'm just _waiting_ for your hubby to give you up so I can claim you for myself."

She pouted, "He won't; I make more money than he does. But he might agree to share me on alternate weekends, for a price. He's such a penny pincher."

"No thanks. I think I'll pass."

"Fraidy cat, where's your spirit of adventure?"

"It's hiding right behind my spirit of survival. I've met your ex-professional football player husband, remember?"

"Humph, since you're going to let a little thing such as life and death stifle a torrid love affair then I'm feeding you to the lions," and pressed the intercom buzzer. "Mister Armstead is waiting sir."

"Send him in, please."

Mason started to reach for the handle. Suddenly serious, the woman touched his arm. "Watch yourself, Sugar. This assignment could get dicey." Armstead raised an eyebrow. "Parkerson's got a spook with him, and _that_ usually means trouble."

"C.I.A.?"

She shrugged her shoulders, "Could be any one of a half dozen covert groups. But then, I'm not supposed to know about such things being a lowly clerk and all." Flipping her wrist, "The truth is, Honeybun, it doesn't take much to spot the orange in the apple barrel. All the spooks look the same - kinda sleazy, like they'd rather slink than walk. Oh, and Mason, I suggest you take that winsome smile off your face before you enter. The Man is in one of his _official_ moods. Good Luck."

"Right, Mister All-Business, that's me," while giving the lady a good natured wink.

Parkerson performed a brief introduction. "Mister Armstead, meet Mister Doan."

"Pleased to meet you, sir." As Mason offered his hand he thought, "Dolly was right on; he is obviously an agent. He looks just like someone who stepped right out of a grade B flick: sunglasses indoors, cheap suit, a tie so tasteless you couldn't give it away to a street person and a face I doubt could remember when it last laughed."

"Mister Doan is with the National Security Council. He'll accompany you on this assignment," stated the Director. "You'll be delivering this briefcase," gesturing to the black leather attaché sitting on his mahogany desktop, "to the U.S. Embassy in Berlin." Adding, "As you probably no doubt have already been informed by my secretary."

Mason, his hands innocently folded in front, cracked an embarrassed grin at Doan, who remained stoic and rocked slightly on his heels while clearing his throat in disapproval.

Parkerson raised his hand, "I understand the past loyalties. I'll deal with her later. Now, getting down to _our_ business, this is not a routine delivery." Turning the briefcase toward him and sliding it across, "As you can see this case has an external lock and it also requires a six digit, security code to open it. Inside, there is an envelope with a wax seal. The recipient, our German ambassador, Mister Rhinemann, has the lock's, specially-fitted key. As for the other mechanism, Mister Doan has a chip in his forearm which contains the access code and will be scanned at the appropriate time. The chip implant is a brand new security device and should slow down the case's being opened if thieves should secure it. Of course it can still be unlocked by extraordinary measures but that could prove to be counterproductive. Enough of the technology angles, here is your portfolio," as he handed Mason a manila packet. "Your office informs me you have not had an assignment of this nature before. Welcome to the club." He turned to the silent escort, "Mister Doan, if you please."

The NSC agent produced a set of dull-gray steel handcuffs, opened one side and locked it onto the carrying case handle, then extended the other cuff for Armstead's left wrist.

Mason was caught off guard, "Oh, my, a bit of cloak and dagger have we? I've heard of such things." His humor, clearly wasted on _Agent_ Doan, seized his forearm with firmness and attached the second cuff.

"And that completes this aspect, so be on your way. You have a flight to catch, Armstead." Parkerson noted the less than comfortable look on Mason's face and added, "Don't be overly concerned; you'll be quite pleased with your itinerary. It's first class all the way and Mister Doan will take good care of you. Good day, gentlemen."

With his escort on his heels, Mason exited the administrator's office and rolled his eyes upward when he saw his ex-coworker checking out his manacles.

She chirped, "Have a nice day, Mister Armstead," and nothing to Doan.

Wearing a plastic smile of false bravado, "Thank you, madam. I'm sure it will be peachy keen and quite memorable."

The Director punched the intercom, "Get me Rhinemann in Berlin please." Chad Parkerson opened a locked drawer in his desk, removed a personnel file and spread out several sheets while awaiting a buzz back from his executive secretary.

"The German ambassador is on the line, sir."

"Thank you," as he picked up the secure, scrambled telephone. "Good afternoon, Otto. Parkerson here."

"Hello, and a good morning to you, Chad. How is it coming along? Are we proceeding as scheduled?"

"Affirmative, Otto. The package is on the way. You may expect delivery at five p.m. Tuesday, Berlin time at your office. The courier is Mason Armstead and his escort is Wayne Doan of the N.S.C."

"Tuesday? Tomorrow evening? Why so late?"

"We're not sending them on military; they're going commercial."

"Unusual... May I inquire as to why?"

"We have a problem at this end: a leak or possibly a mole. We're taking counter measures. Part of the plan is to make Armstead appear accessible to a hit and run team. Not to worry, he has an umbrella. We want to catch an enemy operative for interrogation."

"Bait for a trap? Hmm... intriguing. Is the courier aware?"

"No. Due to his lack of experience in this type of venture, the Secretary felt he would act more natural if he remained uniformed."

"I agree with that particular aspect, but what if something unforeseen occurs and they capture the document?"

"Rather unlikely. They would have to resort to extreme prejudice which they've never used before. These people are inherently nonviolent, to a fault, fortunate for us."

"Very well, it's your show. Who did you say the courier is? I didn't recognize his name."

"Mason Armstead. He's been with the department a number of years performing non-critical assignments. A good man according to his record, but I don't know him personally. Our top two couriers have unexpectedly become unavailable. We had to call up the reserves, so to speak. Our best man, the one most proficient with handguns, came down with a virus a few days ago - quite severe. He's been hospitalized. The second in line, a martial arts expert, is vacationing in Puerto Rico and we haven't been able to contact him."

"Sounds a bit odd. Shouldn't the second fellow be on-call?"

"Yes, that's correct. He'll have some explaining to do when he checks in. So, in regards to Armstead, if the _interested parties_ do something unheard of in an attempt to steal the document such as contracting out the job to professional hit-men and the courier becomes a casualty, it won't be a significant loss. He's a nice enough fellow, but as far as the business goes, expendable."

"Pity, but then aren't we all, Chad?"

"Yes, I guess when you get down to the brass tacks, that's true." He examined the 8x10 glossy of Mason. The date on the bottom had been stamped five months earlier. There was a hint of a smile in the corner of Armstead's mouth, complemented by large compassionate eyes. Mason's picture radiated a person filled with confidence in pursuit of realistic goals, a happy man. The courier reminded Parkerson of a young, eager seminary graduate he had served with who had enlisted in the Army at the end of the Vietnam War. He was a medic and died during a night patrol ambush.

"I'll be faxing a dossier with an up-to-date photo immediately after this conversation."

"Very well, I hope he arrives in one piece."

"As I said, there's no need for concern; he's being covered by a crew of our best," assured the Director.

"Good... and Chad, one more thing while I've got you on the line if I may. Off the record, just between you and I, do you have any idea what the President's personal views are regarding, The Plan? Just being curious. I'll understand if you decline to comment."

This change in the flavor of the conversation transformed Parkerson's friendly tone to one of stiff formality. "Ambassador Rhinemann, you placing me in a difficult position. Such a disclosure would be a breach of governmental policy."

"Sorry, Chad. Please forget I mentioned it. I'll advise you of when I have the document."

"Thank you sir, I'll be awaiting your report."

An uncomfortable silence ensued, neither said, Goodbye. Parkerson cleared his throat twice. He was having second thoughts about how he responded to his niece's godfather at the far end of the line. As a close friend of the family for over twenty years and Chad's confidant, the ambassador's discretion was beyond question. "Otto, er, wait. You're aware I'm not officially authorized to divulge this information?"

"Of course. I hope it's not necessary to say you can trust me."

Parkerson paced back and forth behind his desk, looked out the window at the White House a few blocks to the east and muttered, "With liberty and justice for all."

"Pardon?"

"Sorry, Otto, that's what I would call an ironic commentary on what's transpiring." Continuing, "In regard to your question, the President is very upset and diametrically opposed to the World Security Council's decision. He believes they are dead wrong."

"Which tells me he voted against the proposal," surmised Rhinemann. "Do you think he'll veto or take an independent course of action?"

"No. It was a secret ballot by the two hundred and fifteen countries represented in the WSC. Each has an equal vote, regardless of their population and there are no vetoes. The President is a team player; he will abide by the Council's decision. Besides, how can the United States as the bulwark of democracy, refuse? Personally, I'm willing to bet he called in every marker he had to fight it. Apparently to no avail. It's unknown how each country voted. My guess is the nonnuclear members carried the tide."

"Sounds logical, Chad."

"Otto, I fear this is destined to become our country's deepest and darkest secret sin. I personally believe the United States can keep the lid on it for a long time. We've done it before as with Columbia, and are still doing it with some of our older skeletons in the closet. It's the third-worlders I'm worried about. They've let the proverbial cat out of the bag too many times in the past. They'll have a coup and the new leaders will invariably start blowing their horns to impress their countrymen like Venezuela and Cuba did: making allegations and pointing their fingers at the rest of us." He sighed, "I must confess old friend, I hope I'm long gone before this one's blown. It's so volatile it could possibly lead to global revolution. I'm glad I didn't have to cast a ballot."

"Me too," agreed the Ambassador. "Do you think the decision could change?"

"No, it's too late. It took the better part of a year with all the bickering and posturing to get the representatives to the U.N. table. The die is cast. The preparations are nearing completion. The wheels of self-destruction are in motion."

"God save us all."

"Amen."

# Chapter Three

### Look who's coming to dinner

Arlington, Virginia

Riding in the same G.S.A, four-door Plymouth sedan, Armstead tried to strike up a conversation with his traveling companion, "Have you been to Berlin before, Mister Doan?"

"Yes," he answered as they both surveyed the Pentagon, a half-mile distance to the left on their way to Washington National Airport.

Mason nonplussed, still strove to be friendly, "Massive, isn't it? Did you know there are two subterranean levels and a series of interconnecting tunnels to adjacent buildings? It's the largest office building in the world, square footage-wise.

"Yes, I am familiar with the layout."

Another curt reply. Armstead had become annoyed at the agent's rudeness, but tried again, "Since we'll be rather close for the next day or two, may I use your first name?"

"Yes."

He waited, the escort offered nothing more.

"What _is_ your first name, Mister Doan? The Director didn't tell me."

"Wayne."

"Mine is Mason."

"I know."

Armstead concluded it was pointless to continue and decided the man is a frozen dud or in a heck-of-a bad mood. "Maybe he'll be better later. So, it looks like I'll have a good chance to finish the book I've been reading on and off for the last month."

The driver stopped in the Air France embarking zone and deposited Mason's suitcase. A porter checked it in after reviewing their tickets. Doan carried his own overnight bag. There was the normal departure crowd entering the terminal and about a dozen exiting people walking quickly against the flow - toward them from inside: several flights had recently landed and there was a rush for ground transportation with many trying not having to wait in the long debarking line for taxi's.

Mason was passing through the right-side swinging glass door when a departing passenger, obviously in a major hurry scurried to Armstead's side and tried to squeeze in behind him. The quarters were too close and the traveller accidentally bumped the courier hard, which knocked both of them off balance. The fellow's shoulder inadvertently slammed the door shut leaving Wayne on the other side trying to push inward, and even worse - the businessman's foot had wedged and prevented the door from opening. As Mason staggered, the harried commuter reached out to steady him and then all hell broke loose. In a flash, Doan with a gun in one hand waved frantically with his other. From a nearby inside waiting area another agent wearing a vintage trench coat literally came flying through the air and tackled the passenger chest high, slamming his head against the glass door's frame. Wayne, now joined by a third agent, forced the door ajar and pushed the dazed businessman and grappling second agent backwards. The pair burst inside. Doan swung and cracked his gun barrel over the head of the commuter who crumpled to his knees and fell on his side. The inside NSC man wrestled him over and jabbed a pistol under his jawbone as two more agents who appeared from nowhere stood guard with guns raised as they visually searched the crowd for additional assailants. Doan whipped out his cell phone with his free hand and pressed a single number, "We have an incident at the Washington National, Air France terminal entrance." The semiconscious, glassy-eyed passenger was dragged from the walkway, handcuffed and pushed face down with his nose shoved between the floor and lobby wall-crack. Doan positioned himself between Armstead and the gawking spectators to await a transport crew.

Two airport security patrolmen arrived on a dead run at the same instant as a black Chrysler SUV squealed to a stop. Wayne identified himself to the local guards as four black-clad newcomers from the vehicle rushed inside to snatch the bleeding man and hustle him to the car into which he was tossed like a sack of potatoes. Next, as fast as an Indy pit crew, the same four transporters piled in and roared away with their tires smoking. The startled airport guards were more than happy to let the government handle the problem and moved on to establish calm and order amongst the terminal transients.

Another man also wearing shades, not a government agent, was studying the encounter from the Information Desk a hundred feet away. After the commotion died down he sauntered over to a flight schedule TV monitor and took a position behind a gentleman pretending to read it. "Who was that, Victor? Is someone else after the document?"

"I don't know, Ted; he's certainly not one of ours." Victor had assessed the NSC's manpower, "This severely complicates the operation; we'll have to alter our strategy. Call our Paris operatives and instruct them to implement Plan C."

"Paris? Plan C as in Charlie?" verifying the instructions. "Vic, are you certain?" Ted checked over his shoulder and stepped next to his associate.

"I know what you're thinking," as he returned his imploring stare. "We have no other options now, Ted. The French airport will be even more protected by the addition of Interpol. I'm sorry."

Ted separated from his group leader and shuffled wearily to the public pay phones as he shouldered the heavy burden of the fateful change in plans. He fingered the small, specially-made briefcase key in his pocket they weren't now able to use and inserted his credit card into the slot, "Operator, connect me with Paris, please." Head bowed, he sighed as he reviewed the situation. "Are we sinking to their level? Must we resort to the unthinkable?"

Ten minutes later, Armstead and Doan were settling into their first-class, Air France Star Chaser seats - his bodyguard took the aisle for security. Mason, still disturbed by the way the terminal incident was handled said, "I appreciate your efforts and respect your position, Mister Doan but don't you think this was an overreaction? Excessive use of force? The brutish behavior displayed is the kind of antics I would associate with old KGB thugs."

Doan's hackles rose. His professionalism had been challenged. He roared back, "I know my job! I'm the responsible party here, not you and I'll take whatever action I deem necessary. And for your edification, _Mister_ Armstead there's not a lot of difference between _any_ world security agency and our own organizations in handling vital, national matters. Security is a never-ending battle."

An uncomfortable silence ensued; Mason knew in his heart, Doan was correct. "Sorry, I didn't mean to ruffle your feathers, sir. I've never been in a position like that before. I apologize; I have no right or foundation to question your judgment."

The veteran secret agent, somewhat mollified, tapped his fingers on the armrest and composed himself. "Very well, you're excused. I'll attribute it to your lack of training and experience. Apparently, you and I have started off on the wrong foot and perhaps I've been a bit too short... an annoying tendency of mine when on assignment with an unseasoned... person. I expected a _very different_ type of courier when I was selected for such a critical task. Oh, and before I forget, in regard to the alleged assailant, the agency will smooth it out if he's innocent. Trust me."

"I'll take your word on that... and I thank you, Wayne. I hope the man is physically all right if it turns out to be just a mix-up." Mason felt better regarding the unsettling fracas and changed the subject, "Am I correct in thinking our flying to Paris instead of direct to Berlin is some more of this cloak and dagger routine? Or, please don't tell me someone in the Travel Arrangements Department got a deal on a Air and Rail package to save the State Department twenty bucks."

"I have no idea," Doan lied, "but I wouldn't be surprised."

Satisfied that a truce had been established, the courier's attention turned to the aircraft support vehicles retreating to their respective terminal garages. They left behind a cordon of soldiers with machine guns standing guard until the jet taxied out. His brow creased in concern, then pulled down the plastic window shade and began aimless fidgeting.

"Afraid of flying?" queried the escort.

"Heights. I had a disturbing experience as a child. Take-offs and landings unsettle me. Once I'm high enough in the clouds and can't see the ground, I'm alright. Silly, huh?"

No response. Wayne was busy scrutinizing the passenger manifest he obtained at check-in and wasn't interested in the least about Armstead's personal hang-ups, only the mission.

As the aircraft began to move away from the terminal, Mason closed his eyes and his memory flashed back to a boyhood day on the Empire State building's observation deck during a summer sightseeing vacation with his parents. He was warily peeking over the safety rail at the tiny cars and ant-sized people below when a freak, violent gust of wind blasted the mammoth skyscraper - swaying it thirty foot out of line. Scores of articles: hats, sunglasses and paper items were instantly blown away. Even the migrating birds roosting in the radio antennae superstructure were dislodged, flung and spun awkwardly in free fall, creating a shower of dancing, fluttering feathers. The startled, ruffled, squawking pigeons plummeted two stories before recovering safely to lower levels by using their long graceful glides. On the other side of the deck an elderly Courtesy Attendant leaving the inside snack bar lost her footing, grabbed a door frame, stumbled into the observation area and was struck on the shoulder by a falling egg, thereby generating many unladylike profanities describing avian genealogy.

As for me, the wind's raw power lifted my lightweight, tiptoeing body cleanly up onto the railing - leaving me balanced on my stomach. I expected - no, knew for certain, that the next blast was going to pry lose my small fingers and send me somersaulting over the side. Too terrified to call out, fearing the slightest movement would send me plunging, I stared down the narrowing side wall at the sharp ledges of layered building sections. My fear magnified; I visualized plummeting down, down, down in slow motion, striking each protruding edge, ripping my skin off on the telescoping walls, spinning head over heels - all the while remaining fully conscious so as to feel the searing pain and the ultimate impact transforming my young body into an unrecognizable bloody pulp on the sidewalk. In the blink of an eye, my Dad's strong hand shot out and jerked me back by seat of my pants from a threshold of hideous death - to safety. Bewildered and weak-kneed from my narrow escape, I felt too shocked to even shed tears.

All of this happened within ten seconds, but it felt as if time had stood still. My parents with their loving concern downplayed the episode in hope I wouldn't suffer emotional trauma or problems later. I put on the brave face for them, holding within any display of anxiety - striving to be 'a man'. But inside the boy, the fear remained and developed into my present fairly well-controlled acrophobia.

Returning to present matters, Mason thought to himself, "I enjoy my job and I feel privileged. Fortunately, and knock on wood, I've never been forced to ride in a helicopter. I don't think I could do it. I'd be a basket case!"

Doan's interruption of Mason's morose remembrance was timely, "You have no idea of what you're carrying do you?"

"No, I assume all my deliverances are confidential and of the utmost importance. If not, they would send via another mode," answered the courier.

"Yes, that's logical. I don't know what the contents are either, but I have been alerted an interception attempt is possible. Apparently our intelligence is accurate. That's another reason for the harsh reaction in the terminal; we had a security net where we anticipated a probable attack."

"Interception? An attack?"

"Yes, that's the term we use for a hit and run on a target. The briefcase is the target."

Mason ingenuous, returned, "It's locked on my wrist and you're here. It can't be stolen."

His escort smiled, shook his head in amused wonder and handed him a blanket, "Here, wear this over your arm even when you go to the restroom. It'll draw less attention."

Armstead reflected to himself, "The restroom? That part shouldn't be necessary; my digestive system is so efficient I only go to the bathroom once a month." Later I learned the physiological why and wherefore reasons.

Doan continued, "We shouldn't have a problem on this plane but after we arrive in Paris...," as he shrugged his shoulders.

Mason jiggled the handcuffs.

"Very well, Mister Armstead since you persist," responded the bodyguard. "You are so naive it's almost humorous. That steel bracelet you're dangling in my face will slow down a professional snatch team all of about fifteen seconds, no more. They'll have either our custom-made handcuff key to unlock it, heavy bolt cutters for the chain or the worst case scenario, a cable cutter."

"A cable cutter?"

Wayne, exasperated by the ceaseless prodding, spat out, "Yes! It's a tool they slip around your wrist, then Chop your hand off! Are you happy now?"

"Oh," as Mason reflexively rubbed his wrist.

Two hundred and fifty miles above the Earth aboard the International space station

"Yuri, come see this," beckoned Grigori to his fellow cosmonaut. "Hurry!"

Yuri, the senior officer (a Russian Air Force colonel) and mission Commander, pushed off a grey metal bulkhead and floated from his instrument panel to the Operating Systems Engineer's observation cubicle. He scanned his comrade's electronic indicators, "What's wrong?"

"Not the instruments, the telescope!" Grigori pointed to the form-fitted, eyeglasses-shaped protruding tube, "Look in there, quick!"

The team leader, instantly concerned about the possibility of a piece of space flotsam striking the platform and causing a skin breach, inserted his face in the viewing cone and searched the immediate area around the space station. "Is an object drifting into us? I don't see anything; give me a vector." He criticized Captain Grigori's choice of equipment, "This is a long range surveillance instrument; it is not practical for inspecting the perimeter. You should be using a deck periscope for clarity."

"I know! I know!" his excited comrade returned. "Not the immediate area, the moon. Look at the moon!"

Yuri pulled his head back, adjusted the focus and nestled his face again into the soft padding, "Very well, _now_ what am I looking for?"

The engineer could hardly contain himself, "Locate and observe the tiny black dots in front of the Sea of Tranquility."

Yuri concentrated on that area and quickly discerned them, "Yes, I see the dots; there are three. Are those what you are referring to?"

"Da, da, the three!" Grigori bubbled. " _Those_ dots are all flying in our direction - toward the Earth!"

"Impossible!" asserted the commander. "There are no rockets or satellites on the far side of us and a meteor shower cannot slide around the moon into a tangent directed toward Earth. The moon's gravitational field would pull the asteroids into itself or spin them off at acute angles." The senior officer made a mental note to begin an evaluation of Girgori's fitness. "Has the prolonged weightlessness affected his sight or reasoning?" he considered.

"Watch them closely."

Yuri did as requested and in a few moments he confirmed the engineer's assessment. "Amazing, they _are_ headed toward us. I'd better call Konstantin to join us for additional confirmation."

"It will be too late. As soon as they lose the moon's silhouette, we won't be able to see them."

"Can you aim a platform camera at them?"

"Not in time. The controls are on level one."

The unidentified flying objects passed beyond the moon's chalky background into the infinite blackness. Having lost visual contact, Yuri hit the intercom, "Konstantin!"

The third and last crew member bolted upright in his seat, "Da, Commander?"

"Perform a radar sweep thirty degrees off starboard immediately."

"Yes, Colonel. Any particular target, sir?"

"Da, there are three asteroids headed earthward from the moon at an incredible rate of speed."

Grigori gave a rough estimate, "They must be travelling almost 1,000 kps (kilometers per second)."

The leader rebuked him again, "Don't be ridiculous! We must be at an odd angle, not even Halley's comet travels that fast, comrade." The Colonel punched in his I.D. code into the Earth-Comm network panel to check his hourly status messages: there was no mention of random asteroids. "I don't recall any earlier bulletins forecasting meteor activity for this sector, do you?"

"Nyet," answered Grigori.

"I'll contact Roskosmos (the Russian Space Agency) for an update and alert them to the asteroids. Stay in contact with Konstantin," ordered the station commander as he pushed toward the transom ladder leading to the lower deck and the central communications room. I'll return in a few minutes. Check if he's located them yet."

The OSE signaled the lower deck, "Konstantin, what is your progress?"

The junior member was busy setting switches to activate the station's outside port and bow dishes. He surmised, "Another readiness drill... and a waste of time. This surly must be some kind of proficiency test; there _can't_ be anything incoming from moonside!" Four green 'ready' lights flickered on. He punched in the coordinates, swept the quadrant with both detectors and quickly located the speeding objects. The Telemetry Technician (an enlisted man) made a few adjustments enabling the dishes to form a radar vector cross-point. His voice was in awe. "Sirs, I have located the UFO's in vector A-12! I am locked and tracking." His computer calculated and displayed the flight data on its video display terminal screen and stored the data in a disk file. "They are large for asteroids, very large - eight hundred meters in diameter and... That's odd; they are perfectly spaced at one hundred kilometers (65 mi.) apart. And wait, even stranger, they're flying in a parallel formation... a straight horizontal line! What an unbelievable coincidence."

"Speed?"

Konstantin read the printout and muttered to himself, "This can not be correct. 92.64 thousand kps?"

"Speed, Konstantin?" repeated Grigori.

"One moment please, I have a malfunction. I will re-measure." The technician ran a flash diagnostic, reinitialized the digilinks and requested a new printout. It answered with the same data, except the speed had diminished to 85.15 kps - insignificant. Feeling foolish and acutely aware he will be ordered to tear down the entire telemeter network later - amid insinuations he had not been performing his required routine maintenance and tests, thus avoiding these operating problems. Konstantin read aloud the printout and awaited the expected rebuttal.

Instead he received, "That's what I estimated."

Yuri, the senior officer broke in, "Roskosmos has no information on the three asteroids. They are going to crosscheck with the American NASA."

Konstantin watched his screen and reviewed the printout, "Amazing! Comrades, at the rate they're travelling those rocks will be igniting in our atmosphere in no time at all. I recommend you advise Ground Control to get their 'eyes' up fast or they're going to miss the fireworks."

Yuri thought to himself, "Forget about getting your eyes up; get your butts underground! If those asteroids have any density at all, they'll strike with a force of a hundred atomic bombs exploding simultaneously! They'll blast the planet back into the Ice Age or more probable, blow Earth into pieces and create a nova. All of mankind, including us could be fried in a few minutes!"

His morbid evaluation was interrupted by the Comm printer spitting out the second, No Info report. "Our Mission Control says NASA is unaware of their presence also. But wait, this just came in: Roskosmos advises ground stations in Romania and Siberia are tracking and there is a ninety second ETA to the burn zone." Yuri theorized, "They must have flown in on a hidden tangent behind the moon and whipped around it in a cluster like three river stones in a slingshot."

"I agree," voiced Grigori. "That's the only plausible explanation, Commander."

Konstantin marveled, "Can you imagine flying from the moon to Earth in less than ten minutes?"

Yuri stated, "I can not deny our observations; however I shall refrain from reporting the time frame and speed. If I transmit Konstantin's readings to Mission Control they will think we are all hallucinating. No, let the Center's laboratory tech's calculate the velocity for themselves. They are linked and I will concur with whatever they say," thus putting aside the dread of having to justify himself to the ground-bound State bureaucrats later. "You did fine work in detecting the asteroids, Grigori. Well done. I'm going to enter a commendation in your personnel file with the understanding the State may challenge and remove it later. You understand, Da?"

"Of course... Committee prerogative always. Thank you, sir!"

The cameras were recording as the three men anxiously watched earthward from separate portholes to observe the meteorites transform themselves into long, flaming orange streaks. One minute passed, two, then three.

"I didn't see anything, did you?" asked Yuri.

"I thought I saw a tiny, silver streak... I'm not sure... It could have been a reflection off my window." conceded Grigori.

"Negative here also," reported Konstantin. "My instruments indicated the three asteroids slowed down, almost to a stop, right before they entered the outer atmosphere."

"Impossible, you have a malfunction this time for certain. Run a diagnostic immediately," ordered the leader.

"Yes, sir." Konstantin reasoned, " _This_ , most assuredly has to be a telemetry failure. Solid objects can not decelerate and disappear from the screen."

"Yuri."

"Da, Grigori."

"Roskosmos reports the same. The UFO's reduced their speed, then vanished."

The commander pondered this phenomenon and offered, "They must have been made of some unknown 'super-soft' composition which was absorbed into our atmosphere - thus producing a slow-down appearance without the large, visual burn resulting in sending false echoes. In short, it fooled our instruments to indicate a deceleration. Perhaps, they were similar to giant, cosmic dust-balls. Very strange."

"Perfectly logical," agreed the OSE. "I hope a few fragments are recovered; our astro-geophysicists would love to have a sample of _those_ rocks."

# Chapter Four

### Things get messy

France's flight 132 from the Washington National Airport to the Paris, Charles de Gaulle proved uneventful which was just fine with Armstead; the Nation's Capital airport had provided more than enough excitement. The first-class service had lived up to its billing with exemplary European cuisine and service. Since he ate sparingly when traveling, he selected a fruit plate complemented by a chilled bottle of Perrier. Wayne opened up a bit more in conversation without actually revealing anything of importance or personal. Mason attributed it to the man's NSC training then reconsidered, "This may be as laid back as Doan gets," and reasoned he had exactly the kind of disposition preferred by an espionage agency. "Either way, at least his company is tolerable for the time being." Mason had read a few chapters, watched a French movie with English subtitles and took a fifteen-minute cat-nap. Requiring only four hours of sleep daily, he was in the plus column and felt great when they disembarked the sleek, newly- remodeled, needle-nosed SST aircraft.

"Security's tighter than usual," Doan remarked, taking note of the mix of terminal guards and French soldiers.

"Your doings?" questioned Armstead.

"No, the French government received another bomb threat this morning from Turkish provincial rebels." Observing the soldiers with an air of approval, he commented, "Good, makes our passage safer. No one will attempt anything here, unless their secondary objective is a massive loss of life, in which this would be an ideal target."

The courier was puzzled. "Safer? Massive loss? What's comforting about being blown to bits by terrorists?" He concluded Wayne's perspective must be a bit warped by his profession. Two long lines had formed at the security door exits; manual baggage checks were being supplemented with explosive sniffing dogs.

Doan signaled to an airport security guard stationed in front of an entrance marked, Authorized Personnel Only in five languages. This fellow led them through a maze of interconnecting offices and suddenly they were outside in the employee parking lot facing a limo, its motor running, with a pair of plain clothes men standing by.

"Take us to the de Gaulle Hilton," Wayne ordered the smallish, dapper gentleman sporting a pencil-thin mustache and smelling of English Leather cologne, who deftly opened the rear door while cocking his head and tipping his hat in the prototype British chauffeur manner.

The night passed without incident. The room service food according to Doan tasted only fair, Mason did not partake. He read instead and later watched several BBC shows on the living room couch, much like a normal human being.

The next morning at the InterRail train station, Wayne acted stiff, uncommunicative and on edge; his eyes darted from side to side. Henry Hollyfield, yesterday's driver, who accompanied the pair, also acted tense in his capacity as a rear guard while real undercover agents who were dispersed in the crowd, monitored their every move. The terminal loomed large and fast-paced with hundreds of harried travelers scooting about and no soldiers evident. Armstead surmised Wayne must believe this could be another probable location for a hit and run attempt. It was easy to see why Doan appeared antsy and conceded, "All these people rushing at you is unsettling; it's like running a football gauntlet with a blindfold on. I wonder if he considered calling in a phony bomb threat so he could have the military deployed here also? I wouldn't put it past him; he impresses me as being one cool and calculating hombre who'll do whatever's necessary to complete his mission! Then, on the other hand, knowing the French, they might have simply counter-reacted with, "Assez!" and closed down the whole country's blasted rail system rather than bothering to protect it. Is that what held Wayne back? Geez," He wondered, "Am I beginning to think like a spook also?"

They left the main terminal area. Ahead lay a long platform with a passenger train on either side - their track was on the left. A seedy, street person, noting the well-dressed foreigners, stepped in Doan's path with a plastic cup in hand and rattled his few coins inside, "Monsieur?" Wayne's hand disappeared into his jacket. Mason cringed, expecting the poor man to be pommeled or worse - shot. Doan, the bodyguard-extraordinaire, sized up the beggar and backhanded him aside while never losing a step. Mason exhaled a breath of relief as he passed the man who had already switched his sights to another mark and whispered to himself, "You don't know how lucky you were my friend," as they arrived at their car.

The three travelers boarded together after Doan and Henry gave the conductor a suspicious once-over, prompting the railway employee to respond in the typical French fashion of raising his nose in disdain of the repugnant Americans. Mason, ever cordial, offered "Bonjour, merci," and received for his efforts an indifferent shrug expressing contempt for his association with the other two cretins.

Their rail car consisted exclusively of private compartments, all on the right side with a single unisex restroom at the front. The travelers felt a degree of relief as they reached their assigned units. Doan entered first to check it out as Hollyfield watched the hallway. Armstead stepped inside on his all-clear signal as Henry tipped his brown derby a la Charlie Chaplin and stepped into another unit two doors away.

An unexpected jolt and the floor slid a tad under foot as the massive diesel pulled the slack out of the connections of a dozen cars stretched down the track. Mason, grateful to get started, took a seat facing Wayne and plopped the attaché at his side. A large, picture-framed window displayed another train on the next track pulling away from the loading platform which produced the optical illusion of their own train leaving instead. Doan lowered the beige, vinyl shade, "I'll raise it later after we have cleared the station," he stated.

The cabin was small and aged but the soft, lightly scuffed, red leather seats were comfortable. The seven-hour trek to Berlin would pass easily. "At least we can stretch our legs."

"In the cabin, not outside," directed Doan.

Armstead rattled his bracelet in annoyance, "Sorry, I forgot again," and made a mental assumption, "I'm sure I won't be selected again for another assignment like this. The usual top two hard-nosed couriers were unavailable and I'm sorta' like the third string quarterback being thrown into the game unprepared. Hey guys, this is what you get when you scrape the bottom of the barrel." He opened the complimentary route schedule the conductor handed him upon boarding - printed in French, "An intentional little joke, I'm sure." The natives always enjoyed slipping in little subtle digs to the uppity, single-language Americans whenever they could.

A thought revisited and he asked, "Wayne, did you really have no idea why we didn't fly military? Even I, think we could have avoided a lot of this exposure."

Again, Doan's demeanor turned cool, distant and formal - he'd known since the plan's inception Mason served as bait for a trap, "No, I never question the arrangements. There are always more factors than meets the eye, Mister Armstead. I suggest you keep that in mind and give it a rest. Leave the details to us." The agent reached over a second time to verify the cabin door had been locked then adjusted his tie clip, a horizontal bar shaped like a golf club with a miniature ball attached. Wayne had never been a golfer; the clip served as a two-way radio. He next leaned down and extracted a 9 millimeter, Glock pistol from his overnight bag and offered it to Mason. "Do you want to carry this? I have another holster also."

Mason scrutinized the black steel weapon and raised his hand, palm outward, "No thanks, I'd rather not if I don't have to." He purposely omitted he didn't feel he could shoot anyone, even in self-defense. "Does this mean I'm in even more immediate danger here?" A questioning look, "Why the gun now and not earlier?"

Wayne returned the pistol to his bag, "We're given more leeway regarding firearms while traveling in Europe on sanctioned business; it's a diplomatic concession. Besides, you seem uneasy and some people feel more reassured when they're armed."

"Thanks for your consideration." Mason remembered last evening at the hotel, how he thought everyone was watching him, waiting to jump and rip the briefcase away - by any means necessary. He shuddered, "Doan's right, I can't afford to become paranoid about this! I know there's protection all around me, like that man entering the hotel room across from us last night. Even _I_ became suspicious. I can just imagine what would have happened if the guy hadn't been one of their own and made a false move. Europeans don't waste their time smoothing over government mistakes; he'd be just another entry in the missing person's file. Unloading this briefcase on the Ambassador and returning stateside can't happen soon enough. Yep, it's time to investigate other job opportunities; I don't think I'm cut out for this James Bond stuff."

Wayne raised the window shade, "We've gone far enough."

Mason surveyed the French countryside as small vineyards flowed by and commented, "I wonder if we could have gotten a bullet train," then added sarcastically, "Oh, yeah, I forgot we're not in a hurry." Cracking open his book, he read the title aloud, "The Time Machine, by H.G. Wells. It's an old science fiction classic."

"I know," returned the NSC agent. "I've seen two versions of the movie."

The InterRail train pulled slowly away from a suburban Paris auxiliary rail-yard where it had picked up two more cars: a double decker and a diner. They had one more stop on their journey, Leipzig in an hour and then the final stretch to Berlin. "I very well may take the first train out tomorrow," voiced Mason. "Did you know the InterRail makes a big loop? It leaves Berlin for Vienna, then proceeds to Rome and Madrid before returning to Paris. It takes three days to complete the circuit, six trains run continuously, maintaining twelve hour separations. You can get on and off anywhere you want when traveling coach, just like a San Francisco trolley."

"Did you read that in the schedule the conductor gave you? I didn't know you could read French." Then Doan slipped up, "That isn't in your file..."

Mason immediately discerned the agent's error, smiled and answered, "I don't read French. I've used the system before, Wayne. Is my confidential file out of date?"

Slightly embarrassed, Doan mumbled, "I see, I've been caught." Then in his defense, "So what of it, everyone has a file, Armstead. You know that. As for the train tour, that's nice to know. If I ever get a vacation I'll consider it," and tapped twice with his fingernail on his tie clip. He quickly received the expected answer back of three taps from the other end through a small, flesh-colored device concealed behind his left ear.

The exchange had not gone unnoticed by Armstead, who initially thought how odd it was an agent wearing a hearing aid! - but later realized it had to be a radio receiver. Changing the subject, "Interesting little man, the chauffeur, Hollyfield. He acts British. Is that some kind of agreement the Agency has with the English cabbie union?"

In the compartment two doors to the north of Armstead and Doan, were a pair of his cohorts, the aforementioned Henry and a young man in his mid-twenties. Hollyfield, wearing a headset and transmitter with the battery pack resting on his checkered vest, thumbed through a culinary magazine and munched on a sandwich he had brought in a plastic baggie from his Paris flat. The cut-off button had been activated so he couldn't be heard, "I'm dining at the Reichland restaurant this evening, wiener schnitzel is their specialty." Continuing to his associate, "Would you care to join me?"

"No thanks, I'm going over to what you old fogies call the red light district and pick me out a big, fun-loving fraulein."

"Oh?" Henry peeked up from the periodical with raised eyebrows.

"Don't give me any funny looks, Pops. Party girls are legal in Berlin and the state enforces the health regulations. I'm a single, young stud, unlike yourself. I can play with the ladies if I want to."

"Quite so, just don't forget we have a flight a 9 a.m. sharp."

"Don't worry 'bout me." He snorted, "I'll have my tired, but happy body at the terminal in plenty of time." He lit up a cigarette, "Say, whatta you think of our package? He looks kinda nerdy to me. I thought they woulda sent a bigger guy with some muscles to deliver somethin' this important."

"Would you be referring to Mister Armstead?" returned the veteran. "He's all right, I guess. However, I confess I've never met the chap before yesterday. To me he's just another cover assignment."

His associate took a drag of his unfiltered Marlboro, "Heard they had an incident back in the states, what's the skinny?"

"Didn't hear of it myself." Henry assumed a stiff attitude, "I assure you, whatever may have transpired in the colonies, has no bearing on our assignment."

"Good, hate to think it screws up our chances of planting one of these dudes."

"Planting? Oh my, are you inferring termination?" A glance at the crooked grin on the kid's face said it all. "A word of caution young man, I know you're new and as the Americans say, ready for action, but don't ever be too anxious to get into a firefight. The good guys get shot and killed just as often as the bad. Which reminds me, our orders are to take them alive if possible."

"Yeah, yeah, why bother?" scoffed his temporary partner.

"Good grief! What do you mean, Why bother? Didn't you learn anything in I & T? The capture is elemental. It is essential for the extraction of information, of course."

The young man flicked his ashes on the floor, "Sorry dude, it slipped my mind." Gesturing at his Casio wristwatch, "Time for me to listen, gimmie the two-way, Pops."

Henry passed his the radio equipment with a scowl on his narrow face, "The ashtray's on your right side, sir."

The young man paused to blow a smoke ring as he fiddled with the apparatus.

The NSC agent asked, "May I inquire, who acted as your instructor in Indoctrination and Training?"

"Indoctri..., oh yeah, I get it; I & T... wondered what you meant." Adjusting the headset, "I kinda skipped that part."

The middle-aged agent with twenty years of service returned, "Pardon?"

"I'm freelance. Can you dig it: hire for fire, soldier of fortune. Comprende, old chap?"

"You're a contract employee?"

The young man proudly smirked, "Yep."

The veteran closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead while thinking, "Are we that thin? Why wasn't I informed beforehand? This fellow is another damn _liability_."

"Don't worry, Gramps," as he patted the large pistol under his jacket, "I can hold my own and then some." He released the microphone cut-off switch, "Doan, we've had a change-over; the A team's up to bat now. Do you read?" An acknowledgement tap returned. "See, Pops, a piece of cake."

From their compartment in the next car to the south, two different travelers heard the 'woosh' of the exterior interconnecting door opening, immediately followed by the roar of the wind, clanks of couplers and the clicky-click of track passing underneath. 'Whump,' slammed the door. "Leipzig, Leipzig," the conductor announced.

Both occupants rose and one opened the cabin door before the conductor passed by. He leaned out, "S'il vous plait, monsieur, we need assistance. Would you look at this?" and stepped back from the entranceway. The second man, standing with his back against the drawn window beckoned, "Inside please."

"Qui?" The red and black uniformed InterRail employee entered and the door slid closed. He turned to see why. A tap on his chest returned his attention to the man in front of the window pointing a machine-pistol at his chin. The surprised conductor's jaw dropped. He started to take a step backward and came up against another gun jammed in the small of his back. Reflexively, he raised his hands, "Je n'ai pas d'argent!"

The first gunman placed a finger to his lips, "Shusshh, do you speak English?"

The frightened rail worker's head bobbed up and down, Yes.

"Bien, we are not going to hurt you; we have to put you to sleep for a little while."

The conductor pleaded in English, "No money. I said I don't have any money."

"I know; we don't want your money. You may put your hands down," and motioned for him to take a seat. The conductor, even though alarmed, remained cautious - not panicking and did as ordered. The man by the door opened a jar of chloroform and soaked a rag while the other kept his gun trained on the captive. "This will not harm you," stated his captors. "It will put you to sleep. Do you understand? Do not struggle; we don't want to hurt you," as the cloth was pressed over the man's mouth and nose. The conductor stiffened and gasped instinctively to resist but with a muzzle pressed to his forehead, he soon became still and his eyes rolled back. The gunman closed his lids and propped him in a corner to prevent an injury caused by the swaying of the train. They laid their guns on the opposite seat, searched the sleeping man and removed the key marked in French: Master Key, from his vest pocket. Neither of the men would have shot the rail worker; their weapons were just for show as far as _he_ was concerned. The next phase of the plan was a different matter. The chloroform and damp rag were stashed on the floor under the seat - they shouldn't be needed again.

The first man placed a duffle bag on the bench cushion, unzipped it and handed his partner a women's cosmetic case. Inside, wrapped delicately, nestled two sets of specially-made contact lenses and a tiny bottle of application solution. The gunmen stored their ubiquitous sunglasses in their jacket pockets and carefully inserted the lenses which made their eyes appear normal. Their over-sized irises had now become disguised. The train reduced speed - denoting the long, gradual approach to the Leipzig station.

They attached Silencers on their gun barrels. The time had come; the train would be stopping - exchanging passengers and cargo in less than ten minutes. The last item was removed from the tennis bag. It was heavy. One of the men tucked his machine pistol under his jacket and pocketed the master key while checking the hallway. "All clear," he advised.

His associate also concealed his automatic weapon and in addition, a heavy-duty, wide-mouthed, steel cable cutter which hung vertically down his leg. Armed and equipped, the two Omega tiptoed down the hallway toward the diplomatic courier's rail car: determined to do whatever necessary to retrieve the contents of his attaché case.

The master key turned in the lock of the cabin door without a sound. Although he had heard nothing, Mason glanced up from his book, strongly sensing the presence of someone standing outside. Confusing signals again! He analyzed his perceptions, "It's not the driver, I know him, yet it feels like someone familiar..." Armstead said, "Who...?" as the door slid open.

The Omega gave the courier a quick once over. He didn't know who would be sitting where and Mason was the first person who came into view. The attacker assessed Armstead was not a threat and switched his attention to Doan. The NSC man's reflexes were lightning swift: Wayne had already begun reaching for his pistol. The intruder swung his gun toward the agent. In a flash Doan's hand was on his gun-butt. With fire in his eye and teeth clenched, he ripped it free from the leather holster.

The Omega shouted, "Don't!" his automatic's gun-sight was trained on the bodyguard's waist.

Wayne twisted sideways to evade the attacker's line of fire. His own weapon rose - all he needed was a mere half second more to dead-bang the assailant.

'Burp-Burp-Burp-Burp,' the staccato of machine pistol bullets traced a crimson line from Doan's abdomen to his left shoulder. Wayne jolted backward in his seat, his head smacked the wall and the pistol dropped harmless from the fatally wounded man to the floor. Doan hissed, amid bloody bubbles erupting from a punctured lung, "Sonnava..." as his eyes clouded over.

The second intruder peered over the shooter's shoulder, "You had no choice."

"I know. I tried to stop him... a tragic waste."

The pair lifted the dead man's feet up onto the seat to have more room to move. Armstead, terrified, backed into the corner and desperately clutched the briefcase to his chest. The first attacker, aimed his weapon at Mason and requested his partner, "Give me the cutters."

Mason, remembering Doan's graphic description of cable cutter usage, stammered, "What are you going _to do_?"

One Omega passed the heavy, metal tool to the other and motioned his crony to keep watch who then took a step back into the walkway to post guard.

Gesturing to Mason. "Hold out your wrist."

Armstead violently shook his head, No! and clenched the case tighter, then crossed his arms to his chest.

"Look, Mason, I can kill you and take it if I have to. That's not the way we want do things; _you_ should understand."

The Omega set his machine pistol on the floor with the barrel pointed away from the door and grasped the cutting tool by its two plastic, insulated handles. The powerful, sharp jaws yawned wide. "I'm going to pop the locks. Hold the case out. We must have that document!"

"No way! I've been warned; you're going to cut my hand off!"

"No, no! I just told you; we want the document not your stupid hand. Stick it out, Mason; we're running out of time!" He again appealed to the courier, "In your heart you know I can be trusted. Can't you _sense_ it?"

Mason became confused and debated to himself, "What can these killers be talking about?" He tried to read their faces and beheld only sincerity, familiarity and purpose \- no hostility. His eyes darted back and forth to Doan's motionless corpse and the men hovering about him. The cold realization swept in that he had no choice, comply or die and placed the case on the seat. Eight-inch wide pincher jaws slid over and under the left lock. A little squeeze, 'Spong'! and the one on the right side followed suit.

Sweat trickled down Armstead's temple, "Should I scream? Would it matter... they'd kill me for certain then."

"See, I told you it would work." The Omega set the tool down, flipped open the lid and extracted the manila envelope. "Got it."

Mason, relieved his hand hadn't been hacked off and more than glad he'd survived so far, now faced a new threat, that of being executed so he couldn't identify them later. "I surly can't trust an assassin's word, no matter how sincere he may seem!"

"You'd better read it," advised his partner. "Make sure it's not a decoy or a blank piece of paper. Armstead may have the genuine document concealed on himself."

"No! I have nothing," Mason blurted in his defense.

They both knew he spoke the truth and was incapable of hiding his emotional transmissions. The killer broke the waxed seal of the envelope and extracted a single sheet folded in half and declared, "There's nothing else inside."

A blast from the whistle signaled the approach to the station and the train slowed to a walk pace. Mason could not see the writing, nor did he attempt to - containing his own rising panic weighed foremost in his mind. "Surely they'll kill me before leaving; I can pick them out in a police line-up." The assassin opened the page and read it to himself, then a part aloud to his cohort, "September thirteen, zero six hundred Zulu and all of the locations are listed. The document appears genuine."

The young soldier of fortune working as a backup two compartments away took off the headset and gave it a couple of shakes.

"What's wrong?" inquired his NSC companion, Henry Hollyfield.

"I don't know," as he pried open the portable carrying pack and checked the battery alignment. I heard a couple of words, I think. I'm not real sure... then this buzzing came on."

"Did Doan summon us?"

"Nah."

"May I have it please?" and the set exchanged hands.

"I'm not too good with electronics, Pops. You check it out."

Henry inspected the device then spoke into the microphone, "Wayne? Check, Wayne, testing one-two-three." No response - one of the assailant's bullets had severed the transmit wire underneath Doan's shirt. "We'd better advise him of this equipment malfunction. Time to stretch our legs." The whistle blew, "Leipzig, a quaint little village," commented Henry.

His associate muttered, "Another pothole in the road. Can't wait til we get to Berlin, my kinda town," as he stepped into the hallway. He took two short steps and halted dead in his tracks. Thirty-foot ahead, positioned in front of Armstead's cabin, stood an unidentified man. His eyes were instantly drawn to the machine pistol. The pack of cigarettes he had just drawn out of his shirt pocket slipped through his fingertips, "Oh crap!"

Hearing the young man's exclamation, the Omega in the hallway swiveled his head in that direction. For what seemed an eternal moment they both stood in a Mexican standoff, neither man moving, both frozen like a deer caught in headlights.

The young man broke the spell and fumbled for his gun. The Omega countered, whirled and raised his weapon as the for-hire agent struggled to get his 44 Magnum pistol free of his hip holster.

"Stop!" yelled the Omega.

Neil ignored the command, wriggled the 6" barrel loose and started to assume the television standard's two-handed, crouched, open stance shooting position. He moved far too slow. The machine pistol burped out a series of shots and the high velocity projectiles knocked him off his feet. He landed flat on his back with a painful grunt. His oversized pistol was sent flying and nearly hit the ceiling before falling to the thin carpet with a heavy 'Thud'.

The attentions of Armstead and the first Omega, switched to the action in the passageway. Answering their silent question, "He must have been a backup. I'll check him," and started toward the fallen young man.

Henry, the veteran, heard the unheeded warning and the all-too-recognizable cough of the deadly silencer as he observed the soldier of fortune - his associate, being slammed by the impact of the bullets. Silently, he un-holstered his Walter PPK with the barrel pointed up and slipped close to the open doorway. A train passing in the opposite direction allowed a reflection of the shooter's image in the darkened window. While estimating the range and number of targets, Henry also heard the killer say he was going to check the fallen man. "Obviously he's not alone and will be at the doorway with his automatic aimed and ready to shoot within a few short seconds," assessed Hollyfield. Henry knew full well his Walther was no match against the attacker's superior firepower and that the element of surprise was his only chance. He tensed: his mouth turned to cotton, every muscle tightened, his own heartbeat pounded in his ears. No amount of training or experience completely eliminated the fear of a violent death. He felt pumped, ready to make his move. For once, he was damn glad he had been born left handed - today, it gave less body exposure. Henry's head and gun hand popped around the corner. The Omega instantly sensed the motion and his automatic weapon countered in his direction. The NSC agent was no stranger to combat situations and ripped off two quick, smooth shots which struck the approaching man in the cheek and throat. The Omega's head snapped back in a reflexive action, his clenched trigger finger fired a hail of bullets which spattered the ceiling and shattered two windows to his right then crumpled to his knees and fell face down. Henry raced up the hallway, through the wispy gun smoke, the nitrate fumes stinging his nostrils, with his eyes and weapon targeted on Doan's doorway. Inside, the other assailant tossed the envelope aside, pawed at his automatic lying halfway under Wayne's seat and accidentally knocked it further away. Henry was at the doorway in an instant but by mistake pointed his PPK at Mason, the first body in view.

Armstead howled, "No!"

The Omega, realizing he couldn't grab his weapon and turn fast enough, decided to spring at Henry. The wily, veteran agent read the man's body language and back-stepped to adjust his aim and maintain distance.

'Blam! Blam!'

Before the killer's launch could get airborne, hot lead punched his chest and abdomen. He staggered on his feet, weaving in the same spot, mortally wounded. Henry, seeing no other assailants inside, paused with his head jerking from side to side, anticipating the rush of more enemy personnel coming to their comrade's aid from other concealment. No noise or movement ensued. He waited, for an eternity while fearing the sounds of his own rasping, hot breath would cloak their sneaking up on him. Finally, he felt satisfied these two were the only immediate threat and jumped into the grisly compartment and pushed the swaying Omega roughly in the chest with his right hand. The man careened off the window and slid down to a sitting position. Henry turned about and scanned the hallway again - still clear, then quickly checked Doan's vital signs, "He's dead... a pity, poor chap."

Armstead murmured, "I know."

With Henry's back to him, the dying Omega, dazed and bleeding profusely, unexpectedly reached up and seized Mason's bicep. Summoning a final muster of strength, he pulled the shaken courier towards himself. Armstead tried to wiggle free but the man's iron grip refused to yield. The assassin craned his neck toward the alarmed messenger, his trembling lips tried to speak. Mason ceased resisting and reflexively leaned over, warily tilted his head and listened.

The killer's speech was raspy, strained and low, yet intelligible, "Your mother misses you."

Mason's brows furrowed, "My _mother_?"

The man then grabbed Armstead behind his neck - forcing him to look at his face. His eyes penetrated so deep into Mason's mind that it felt as if their very souls had meshed. He coughed, blood trickled down the corner of his mouth, "Irene," was his last word as his chin came to rest on his now still chest.

Henry remained positioned at the doorway using his cell phone to call for reinforcements as the last whistle blew and the train ground to a stop at the Leipzig station. A few timid passengers chanced a peek out of their cracked-open compartment doorways, this being their stop, but quickly slammed the doors shut upon viewing the carnage. Mason, trying to gather his wits, stuffed the document back in the manila envelope without reading it. He didn't need to - he had heard the dead man distinctly state, "September thirteen, zero six hundred Zulu." Besides, he wasn't _supposed_ to read it and he could still in all honesty answer he had not done so if questioned, thereby technically splitting the proverbial legal hair. He returned the envelope to the attaché case and the closed the lid. Pressing down, the two locks clicked secure. "Finally, I get a break."

Henry turned his attention to the fallen young man, who had no visible wounds. Was the lad bright enough to wear a bullet-proof vest? He shook him, "Are you all right, sir!"

The downed man's eyes fluttered open. He stammered, "My gun... I... I didn't chicken out. My gun got stuck."

"Take it easy, lad. Help will arrive forthwith. Lie still and you'll be just peachy." Next, Henry went knocking door to door announcing, "Police, Policia, everything is all right now. You may come out," as he coaxed and herded the shaken, ogling passengers to the closest exit and secured the car. A baggage handler entered the hallway. Henry hastily demanded his assistance and instructed the shocked rail worker to locate and send the train's medical personnel to help the drugged conductor and to tell the train's engineer not to leave the station on the grounds of national security. As they waited Hollyfield inquired of Mason, "And just what was that little pow-wow about?"

"What do you mean?" returned Mason.

"The fellow, the bloke who whispered in your ear."

"Oh, you saw him? I didn't understand what he tried to say."

"That happens," commented Henry. "People shot or dying sometimes become irrational or incoherent and divulge all sorts of tripe. It's the same as being doped up prior to surgery. Do you know what I mean?"

"Not really, I've never had an operation." Armstead omitted mentioning he had never been sick a day in his life either.

Soon a number of loud voices were heard approaching - the sounds of authority: the local police, who were accompanied by an Agency 'clean-up' crew.

Armstead and Henry were relocated for the remainder of the journey and joined by another NSC agent with two more posted outside their cabin. One of the newcomers, a supervisor, addressed Hollyfield, "Close one, hey?"

"Quite so."

"Who was the man with you that got popped?"

"Which one are you referring to, sir? The gentleman in the cabin is...was... is, Wayne Doan, an NSC agent. I regret the poor man's ticket has been punched, as they say. The lad in the walkway is a freelancer. I'm sorry, I didn't catch his name. He'll be dandy in a day or two, just had the wind knocked out of him and suffered a few impact bruises."

"A _freelancer_ , not one of ours?"

"Afraid not, I wish I'd been advised of such beforehand," answered Henry.

"Yeah, I know what you mean. You don't know how these part-timers are going to react under fire unless they're ex-military. I've seen a couple of them take off running and seen some others shoot everything in sight, including our people."

"There was a bit of an odd twist regarding the temporary. He said his Momma made him wear the vest. Turns out, it saved his life," relayed Hollyfield.

"That _is_ strange. I wonder why in the hell Agent Doan didn't wear one." Then he gave a friendly nod toward Mason, "How'd our special guest hold up?"

"Fine and dandy. He stayed out of the way. However, I don't believe he'll be applying for admission to the Agency's Academy anytime soon," assessed Henry.

"Good that he didn't get hurt and I see the package didn't get compromised."

Armstead's mind drifted away from their shop talk; he was remembering the dying man pulling him close to his face and saying, "Your mother misses you... then, Irene." "Why would he say that? How did he know her name? And when he looked at me..., I... I believed him! It seemed as if he were incapable of telling a lie. What _is_ going on?"

Mason felt as if the very Earth had shifted under his feet. He leaned back and tried to recall the story his father had told him. It was at the close of his senior year at the university when the National Health Service came and took Mama from their home. They said it was for tests; they suspected she had become a carrier of some rare, exotic disease and if the results were positive, it would take about six months of treatment to be cured. We could visit her in thirty days and they would keep us informed of every development, not to worry. Dad was frantic but he had no recourse. After all, this was an official U.S. Government medical alert. He had been assured he would be advised of the initial tests results shortly and if they were negative, she would be home within a week. We never heard from them again.

Dad called the police, the FBI and everyone else he could think of. Especially and often, the National Health Service. They disavowed involvement or any knowledge of who it could have been. He had been completely stymied, devastated, nearing his wit's end and resorted to hiring private investigators, who in turn got nowhere as well. Mom and the men in white uniforms with their Civil Defense medical van had vanished.

When Mason graduated three months later and returned home, his father set off to track her down by himself. He begged to go along but Dad vetoed it: he needed him to take care of the house, stay by the phone and check the mail, just in case. Dad called every day for three weeks while on the road to give him a progress report and reassurance. His last two calls were from Saint Louis and he implied there was something amiss. He didn't know what it was yet and didn't want to discuss possible false leads. He said he was heading west to check out some rumors and en route was killed in an automobile accident on a wide open stretch in Nevada. It felt inexplicable; it just didn't _sit_ right since there were no other vehicles involved and his father would never get behind a wheel if he were too tired or incapacitated. Mason took up the search anew, covering all the same ground his father had without really knowing what he was looking for; he was only twenty-one and didn't have any investigative training.

Mason also went to Saint Louis to find the parties he thought his father must have contacted. They had vanished and all his inquires had ended in an abrupt dead end. He had to let it go and get a job; lay it to rest and get on with his life. Until _this_ bump in the road! Surely, what the dead man said must have been a mistake.

'Ring, Ring,' Henry's cell phone rang. "Hollyfield here," then listened to Director Parkerson's new instructions. "Yes, sir, I have a knife. Doan? Yes... I understand and I'll keep a good eye on him, sir. Cheerio," then returned to his previous conversation with the other agent. "Appears I have a rather nasty little task to perform then I'm to be Doan's replacement for Armstead."

The phone's ringing jolted Mason back to the present in time to catch the end of the two men's discussion.

"Speaking of twists," remarked his associate, "it's always something isn't it? So, as you were saying, the assailants weren't who you were expecting?"

"Appears not, their eyes were normal," answered Henry."

"They must have contracted an independent team to steal it for them."

"I guess so, although I'm rather surprised by that."

"Why?"

"I didn't think they would trust an outsider. Then again, they've never been involved in anything of this nature before," stated Henry.

"Meaning?"

"No violence, they are total Pacifists... or rather we _thought_ they were."

"Well," said the other agent, "judging in retrospect, it's best it wasn't them personally. You terminated both suspects and the Agency wanted a prisoner. Your fanny could have been on the griddle." Smiling, "And it would have soiled your squeaky clean perception of the Omega to boot."

Henry nodded, adding, "Believe me, old chap, when your back's to the wall anything can happen, it seems now even with those people also."

Mason's ears perked up, he was tempted to ask, "Who are the Omega?" but held his tongue. He reasoned, "I don't want to appear ignorant, or perhaps they slipped up and I wasn't supposed to hear that name. They may be referring to one of those secret terrorist groups. One thing for sure, this'll be my last mission which requires an armed escort. I'm going to speak to Mister Parkerson about a transfer as soon as I return. _Omega_... that's all I need."

# Chapter Five

### Where are you, little star?

World Security Council

New York City, U.S.A.

The Deputy Chairman of the WSC, General Francisco Guevara hung up the telephone, wearily rested his elbows on the desk top and massaged his temples with stubby thumbs. He had served as a career military man with thirty-one years of service in the Argentinian army, principally in counterintelligence and espionage operations. Guevara had been one of the few ranking officers who had survived his country's numerous administrative changes in the last three turbulent decades. Argentina, a democracy now, hadn't always existed as such, and many of the constituents he rose up with through the military hierarchy were gone, some never to be seen again. No doubt buried in unmarked graves deep within the lush, steaming jungles where wild animals, enemy guerillas and hostile Indians lurk with their poisoned-tipped arrows. As far as Guevara was concerned, those three groups could fight it out amongst themselves and let the best - man or beast - have the stinking rain forests. Just leave the cities alone.

Guevara now enjoyed being the third most powerful person in his entire country (not counting the cartel drug lords), ranking only below his immediate superior, the Commander of all Armed Forces and of course, El Presidente. His friends and supporters wanted him to retire from the service and challenge for the nation's highest office in the next election, two years hence. They said El Presidente was too old to serve another term and at seventy-three wasn't expected to run for re-election; the office would become: up for grabs. The number two man in charge, the Commander, maintained he had never been interested - leaving unsaid he had too many enemies and if he lost the bid for the office he'd be out of a job. No matter what the outcome may be, Francisco couldn't foresee the Commander going broke or losing influence, knowing of his many connections to the cartels. Guevera suspected if _he_ were elected the Commander may become the biggest thorn in his side, depending on how much pressure the United States exerted in their useless, never-ending, war on drugs. "Ah well, that's politics; there's always someone sticking it to you!"

"Speaking of problems," he mused. "Here I sit, a supposed, powerful man and I can't even control my wife, a mere woman. I am ashamed." That last caller was little mama on the phone, informing him of her returning to Buenos Aires tomorrow.

They had come to New York together a year ago for his two-year appointment as a WSC Deputy Chairman. Living in a luxury apartment in downtown Manhattan had worked out well for the first six months. She loved the glitz, night life and most of all, shopping. However, the congestion and being subjected to a broad daylight mugging/purse snatching with an apathetic crowd looking away had killed those pleasures and generated a tirade of arguments. These culminated with his woman screaming, "No más! I will not tolerate this insanity any longer; I am going home, Francisco," leaving him to suffer the ultimate humiliation for a Latino male: spouse desertion. Within his social circle, a real man must have total control of his wife... or face disgrace.

He picked up the Guidelines for: Implementation of Operation Omega. It was almost over; in another three weeks he could sneak away. He had it all figured out. "I'll say I have pressing matters at home which can no longer be postponed and place my assistant in charge to oversee the Operation's clean-up stage. The council will of course, know I'm lying and embarrassment will befall me either way, but it is by far the lesser of evils."

Returning to his own personal dilemma, his anger flared anew as he belatedly reasoned, "I should have beaten that woman right after we were married... asserted my dominance and control. Then, I wouldn't be in this fix. But if I begin now what I should have done long ago, my adversaries will charge I can't handle the job pressures or my marriage due to advancing age. That would be career and political suicide. What a mess!"

He was interrupted with a buzz from his secretary on the intercom. "General, a fax from Germany just arrived."

"Bring it, please." She entered, put it in his pudgy hand and left. He sighed, "Ah, if only my wife was as obedient as she... and had her figure, too..." He licked his lips.

He scanned the transmission, voicing the important items, "Hm'm, an attempt to intercept the courier. Parkerson had been correct... they _did_ try. One NSC agent and two assailants were killed. Not Omega? Are they sure? Did they perform a blood test or eye examination?"

He signaled his front office, "Two items, please. First, get Senor Chad Parkerson in Washington on the line. Then request Major Yamoto to join me." He awaited her return, thinking, "Ito Yamoto, there's a man truly suited for the task at hand. The Asians are renowned for their dedication to duty and efficiency, or would infamous for their hardness and brutality be closer to the mark? I'm sure the gruesome post-on-site inspections won't upset _him_."

The Japanese officer: neat, trim and fit, entered and stood at attention. Guevara beckoned for him to take a seat. The American Operations Director was on the line from Washington; Yamoto listened to the New York side of the conversation.

"Mister Parkerson, General Guevara here. ... Yes, fine, thank you, sir. A couple of quick questions, please. I received a fax a few minutes ago pertaining to the attempted interception in Germany. It states the assailants were not Omega. Are they certain? Have blood tests or eye examinations been performed? ... No? Then do so, please. ... Yes, I am aware of their nonviolent history. ... Their eyes were normal? It may have been a disguise. ... However, a blood test will be conclusive. Yes, I know. Thank you. I'll be waiting for the results."

Guevara handed his assistant the fax. Yamoto read and returned it without comment.

"It appears the Omega are onto us; they're beginning to fight back. It's time to implement the final troop rotation; that'll squash anything those misfits could cook up. Would you see to it?"

A slight bow, "Yes General, immediately," and Ito returned to his office to carry out his orders. Which happened to be the very same suggestion he had given Guevara three months ago, he noted with satisfaction.

Francisco sourly mused, "I'll bet _his_ wife doesn't give him any problems. He'd probably chop her head off with a Samurai sword... and never be held accountable! Asians."

He burped the jalapeno peppers from this morning's omelet. His wife had always been an excellent cook but unfortunately, food was the only thing they agreed upon anymore. He used to call her "mi pequeño querida" - my little darling - but no more, today she resembles a burrito grande and has the disposition to match a real burro(ito). Crossing his arms over his ample belly, he asked himself, "What to do? What to do?" The general checked the calendar, "Not much time left." Evaluating the options, he considered that the Operation's aftermath could be quite uncomfortable for whoever is occupying this office in the months to come. "Yes, indeed! The world has a very poor opinion of genocide nowadays... leftover sour grapes from Hitler, I suppose. There's a big difference between holding citizens indefinitely incommunicado and slaughtering them wholesale! Definitely, two animals of a different color. After the news leaks out, and it will, it's too big to be kept secret for long and then the people will howl for an explanation, maybe even a scapegoat. What would be plausible? Stating it was necessary to avert an invisible alien invasion? I don't believe that will be acceptable to the relatives and friends of the deceased detainees or the bleeding heart liberals. No. They'll scream for some kind of justice and who will their governments offer up? The World Security Council, that's who! This branch and everyone in it will be charged with crimes against humanity. On the other hand if we're extremely lucky, we may just succeed in selling it to the people - anything's possible. Self-interest and fear are powerful motivators, as history has shown. Why, on the positive side, we could even emerge as the Saviors of Mankind! In that case... assuming the plan is successful, my office will receive much praise: recognition which I richly deserve!"

He suddenly felt empowered with the new possibilities and a light went on inside his head, "Of course, the perfect solution!" He popped out of his chair and paced around the desk. His excitement rose to near overwhelming. He opened the drawer where he had relegated his wife's picture and returned it to the desktop. His good humor had been restored. "Ah, my big biscuit, life will be so good again. I shall abdicate my position today and leave tomorrow with you."

He rapidly extemporized, "I'll announce earlier than I had originally planned to the Council an emergency situation at home demands my personal attention... then I'll have Yamoto assume control immediately. The _Major_ will have to complete the final stage on his own and face the consequences if anything goes wrong. I'll be in Argentina stoking the campaign fires. Perfecto! And, if the operation is a success, I'll receive the credit. And again, if it fails, I'll proclaim I was in opposition and left in protest. Yamoto would not dare challenge me; he's a lowly major and I am a great general. Besides, if the fingers start pointing and heads start rolling, he'll have more to worry about than my opinion - the firing squad for starters. The foolish Orientals, always ready to fall on their sword, their own preservation is never considered." Guevara's mis-rationalizations had now progressed to a new level of self-deception: he believed his own lies.

"Genocide is such an ugly word," he thought to himself. "Although I personally have never seen an Omega, I've heard they are no longer human, so we can't consider our actions are indeed genocide. Magnífico, _that's_ how the WSC can justify its deeds if the operation is ever seriously challenged or condemned - by maintaining the Omega had degenerated into a mutant, hostile and dangerous subspecies. Who could contest it without substantiated physical evidence? And... after the final stage is complete, what's left of their bodies won't be accessible, recognizable or in a genetic state which can be tested." The General basked in his brilliance and his own praise of his astute analysis and decided that he definitely deserved to be El Presidente, the Chairman of the WSC and the Secretary General of the United Nations, inclusive. Let the good times roll!

He buzzed his assistant. "Major Yamoto, report to my office, pronto."

An hour later he had finished the briefing, "The program is now in your capable hands, Major. Tell me off the record," Guevara lied. "What are your feelings regarding the action about to be taken?"

Yamoto sat up very straight, measured his words carefully (Guevara may be using a recording device). He knew this fat, incompetent fool was hedging his bets by running off to hide in Argentina; however he, Ito, had his own moves held in reserve and decided to go along with this clown's charade. "Most esteemed General, it is a privilege to assume responsibility for the operation on which you have labored so long with great diligence," he acknowledged slyly. "I am in complete agreement with all phases of the plan you have so brilliantly devised and will do my utmost to carry it to the successful conclusion you have envisioned. Your departure grieves me deeply; I know you had no other choice. I will keep you posted and constantly strive to be worthy of the endeavor you have so graciously entrusted to me," as he bowed.

The General for a brief moment wondered whether or not Yamoto was really being sincere, but quickly discarded the doubt. After all, Francisco had always been a sucker for flattery.

Major Yamoto returned to his office to gather up his records and personal items to transfer to Guevara's spacious office. "Excellent, the pig is leaving. I will be initiating changes before the inflated windbag and his sow waddle off their plane. Step one starts with surveillance. As it stands under his stupid plan, any enemy could assemble a fleet of a thousand warships right under our noses - completely undetected. _That_ bit of idiocy will be corrected before the sun rises again!"

Major Ito Yamoto, of the Japanese Defense Ministry swelled with pride. "My assignment - no, my obligation to mankind, is to rid civilization of the despicable Omega, thereby saving the world from the inhuman, loathsome aliens. And when I have successfully completed this mission, I will undoubtedly be raised on most high and honored as a hero for all eternity." Squinting and gritting his teeth, "I vow to devote every drop of my life-blood to accomplish this sacred duty. This, I solemnly swear to my ancestors!" while pricking his palm with knife-letter opener to symbolize his devotion and commitment.

During the next week, no one came to realize this rabid and self-proselytizing major was becoming the single most powerful military leader in the entire world. Every country's resources and weapons would soon be commandeered by the World Security Council: into the hands of Ito Yamoto.

The Space Telescope Science Institute, Baltimore, Maryland

Three white-clad technicians were seated before a large console with four, twenty-foot circular maps of the world, side by side, covering the wall and facing them. The two left maps resembled a standard geometry book configuration with the countries showing dotted separations within their respective continents. The second pair being digital, were as seen from four hundred miles out in space: a planet with white streaks of clouds above dull blue water and brown continents - an enlarged replica of the famous, Blue Marble. The four map functions were identical: the tracking of all satellites, civilian and military, with their orbital paths represented by strings of green or red dots. The green designated stable or fixed routes while the red were units in a degraded state. These latter would lose attitude, reenter the atmosphere and disintegrate within a year. An adjacent blue bar with two identifying codes for name and country depicted the satellite's national origin.

The technicians were performing the final adjustments to alter the course, orbit and mirror angle of Hub Four/ USA. "Trajectory correction complete; initiating mirror realignment," one tech reported as he typed in the new vector coordinates. "Reconfiguration completed."

From above and behind the console, in a glass-fronted observation room came the directive, "Fire a ten pack, guys; let's see what we have."

"Yes sir, loading ten pack." A green light displayed, "Load complete; beginning firing sequence... now." The satellite's communication control unit received the encoded digital bit stream instructions from earth, initiated ten shots in one-minute separate intervals then beamed the images earthward to a receiving dish, which acknowledged, Ten pack received.

"Good work, send it to the lab."

"When will they be ready for review, Mister Taylor?"

Paul Taylor, the coordinator for All-Hubbles Control answered, "Well, er, it should be approximately thirty minutes before they'll be available to us, Admiral." Taylor's hesitancy in speech belied his expertise. He, being the foremost established expert in his field was the main reason he had been chosen to direct the prestigious All-Hubbles program. Moving to a conference table, "Uh, I have some other two by two's here of a different sector if you'd like to see how they'll basically appear." He offered several for Admiral Wysocki's inspection, "These are similar midrange photos of another constellation."

The Vice Admiral examined three 2'x2' black and white photographs, turning them upside down and sideways, trying to compare one against the other. "Sorry, I'm not up on my astronomy; I can't tell one from the other."

"Oh, that's to be expected, Admiral, neither can I most of the time. Only a computer can be accurate in discerning the minute variances. Time frame overlap is one of the steps in development and analysis, which is in process now."

"Computers, computers... don't you have astronomers looking into telescopes anymore?"

"Uh, yes we do in a few isolated, mountain-top observatories, but they have access to the main frame also. I'm afraid the Hubbles have made those scientists nearly obsolete in regards to long-range surveillance. We now employ more analysts than astronomers. Don't worry, Admiral, there's plenty to keep the old guys busy with the other eight or nine planets in our own backyard. And every once in a blue moon, oh... a blue moon. Ah-ha-ha, a little in-house joke there. Uh, as I was saying, the elders still get a chance to knock the dust off the old magnifying glass and study the star charts as of olde occasionally."

Ignoring his blue moon pun, "You said, nine other planets?"

"Um, yes; data gathered within the last thirteen months bears out what we've suspected for quite a while, since Galileo actually, that's there's a tenth: a little magnetic ice ball beyond Pluto we haven't pin-pointed yet. Heck, there could even be an eleventh or twelfth!"

"And why can't you determine these things quickly? Are you dragging your feet to make extra money off the Government? With all this technology and multiple Hubbles you should be able to find _anything_ ," challenged Wysocki.

"Are you implying achieving fast results? Wishful thinking for us but not always attained in a practical application, sir. For _this_ particular puzzle before us the data shows that our calculations of the elusive object's mass appears to be less than one thousandth the size of our moon and there's still a remote possibility it may not really exist at all."

"But, you said the computer...," interrupted the Admiral.

"Ah, yes, the almighty, all-seeing computer. Confusing isn't it? What's throwing us a curve is an undefined source of a strong anti-gravitational push, a flux being projected far beyond Pluto. Planets, as a rule, create gravitational pulls not repellency. This mystery planet, if that's the true definition of this rock, has the attribute of being able to generate a high-density force field similar to a positive pole on a magnet. Or, it could be a super-packed smaller chunk of who-knows-what of other elements than we estimated. Hopefully, it's not black antimatter. We would be completely lost."

"Humph, you implied a distance. How far might that be?"

"Humm, unknown. Let's try to keep it simple. See this chart, Admiral? Note the distance between Mercury and the Sun, then Venus, Earth, Mars and the rest of the planets as we proceed outward? The farther we move away from the Sun, the greater the distance between the respective planets. This frozen, super-charged rock with undetermined properties we're hunting could be as far from Pluto as Pluto is from the Sun. And that's a long, long way to see with an earthbound telescope, even computer aided. As I said, we will eventually find it with one of the Hubbles. It's on the: Hope to do list. You must keep in mind, here at the control center we are not running the show. We merely point the mirrors where and when as instructed by NASA."

"Instructed? To do list? As the person-in-charge of this facility, you don't have any input on targeting? Strange, I am under the impression the Hubbles were a private enterprise."

"Ah, it is... er, was. We have been temporarily nationalized under the Defense Security Act by the W.S.C. As for me, I have no input; I'm merely a high paid work scheduler at the moment. Before the military took control, our astronomers were focusing on establishing the origin of the Universe. This weird, maybe planet and its complexities to us are a much lower priority."

"Whatever, that's fine with me, Mister Taylor. You can retain control of your Hubbles and continue your list of: Things to look at for fun, after the Pentagon is finished with _my_ particular project." A disgusted pause, "I wouldn't want to hinder the Universe from developing." Taking a breath for the both of them, "Returning to our particular business... based on what you've shown me, what do our beloved computer analysts expect to determine with the pictures taken a little while ago?"

"That ten-pack was a test series to verify all systems are functional and the mirrors are aimed correctly for your project, sir."

Rocking from heel to toe, "Yes, _my_ project is exactly what, Mister Taylor?"

The Coordinator noted confusion and anger on Wysocki's face. "Why, er, the surveillance of the Orion constellation, the Orion Nebula at coordinate M42, to be precise." Taylor picked up a pointer and moved to a northern hemisphere star chart displayed on the back wall. "See this, Admiral?" as he touched the tip to an area illustrating three bright white stars in a row. "This is the belt of Orion, the hunter of Greek mythology; the nebula is the fuzzy smudge just below the belt. Hubble Four is centered on that point, which is sixteen hundred light years away. The pictures will encompass this entire sector," as he swept a small circle. "Some names you may be familiar with: Rigel, a star fifty times larger than our sun, nine hundred light years away or Betetgeuse, a red giant at five hundred and twenty. Both are clearly seen unaided in our night sky."

"No, I'm not familiar with either of those."

Paul raised his eyes in mock surprise, "I thought all Navy men knew star patterns."

"Not any more, Taylor; we gave up using sextants and the North Star when we entered the Atomic Age. It's all satellites and damn computers now." Admiral Wysocki turned away from the chart, rubbed his hands briskly together and watched the technicians below scurry about with their clipboards as they performed their duties. "It's cool in here."

Taylor started to explain, "It's to keep the equip..."

"I know why it's cold, Taylor. I have a fairly good understanding of electronic circuitry thermo-parameters." He extracted a pair of bifocals from a breast pocket, inspected the lens against the light and commented, "All interesting to a degree, Mister Taylor, but the point eludes me. Why does this require my presence, other than to report directly to the Joint Chiefs of Staff a Hubble has been redirected as instructed by NASA?"

"Uh, pardon me, sir?"

"I've been ordered here on the double to oversee a new project, which you have just informed me is the aiming of _one_ Hubble at Orion. Am I missing something?"

The Coordinator, caught off guard stuttered, "Oh, oh, I... I think someone has made a large omission. There's a lot more involved than just the telescope. You may want to take a seat, sir."

The Admiral, a thirty-year veteran, appeared irritated, "No thank you, I prefer to stand. I'm weary of this General Science course and cat and mouse routine. Now sound off, Mister. What in the hell _are_ we looking for?"

Paul glanced about the facility, wishing for someone to magically materialize and take over this uncomfortable detail for him. He wondered, "How did I get stuck with _this_ part? What happened to his staff? Wysocki is clearly losing his patience. He demanding an explanation and he'll probably blow a cork when he hears it."

"Ah-hem," clearing his drying throat. "Well, sir, as far as NASA and its Russian counterpart can determine with their limited data, Orion is where the alien spaceships originated."

The Vice Admiral's head snapped up, "Alien spaceships... are you trying to tell me our planet's been invaded by little green men? Men from Mars?" His voice rising, "Bull, is this some kind of joke?" His face turned an angry pink, "I don't have time for this crap!" Balling his fists, "I was shipping out to take command of the Sixth Fleet in the Mediterranean tomorrow and... and _you_ ," he sputtered at a loss for words.

Taylor's color matched Wysocki's, except his from embarrassment. "Not Mars, Admiral. Orion, perhaps."

"Orion!" he exploded. "What are you yahoos doing here! Explain yourself asap, Mister or I'll shut down this farce... this glorified toy factory, right now!"

The administrator squirmed in the hot seat, "Um, I thought you were aware of the discovery."

"I am Not aware, and I guarantee you somebody's fanny's going to be on the burner for my not being briefed. Spit out the rest of it Mister and it better be good."

Paul cleared his throat again, "The Hubbles' realignment stems from the International Space Station sighting two days ago."

"The Russians!" he roared. "What kind of trick are they pulling this time?"

"Please, sir, if I may. You, er, asked."

The Admiral scowled and shook his head, but motioned for him to continue.

"Two of their cosmonauts got a visual on three UFOs silhouetted against the moon, and a third cosmonaut tracked them on radar."

"Is that so? Sounds to me the Cossacks have been tipping the vodka bottle again. What makes those eggheads think they are _flying saucers_? There's garbage flying at the Earth all the time. Even _I_ know that!"

"They have printouts recording size and velocity."

"So what? Give me a typewriter and copier and I'll give you all the printouts you want of Humpty Dumpty climbing the New World Trade Center."

"But the ships were..."

Sternly pointing a finger at Taylor, "And another thing, don't call that space flotsam ships, Mister Coordinator! The _Navy_ has ships; they sail the seven seas and they're not made of rock, either."

Taylor selected a different word, "The three projectiles had exactly the same physical dimensions: half-mile spheres traveling in a perfect straight line and spaced one hundred kilometers apart, er that's sixty five miles."

"Is that so? I _am_ amazed."

"Ah, yes, sir. It's quite startling."

"I'm amazed we fell for such baloney! I'm going on record right now; I'm not supporting this asinine fantasy. The Russians are up to some razzle-dazzle again. Where's the phone? I'm calling the Joint Chiefs of Staff and informing them everyone here is a Section Eight. Start packing your sea bags, Taylor. Your tour of duty is up." Striding toward the door, he sarcastically challenged, "Did anyone _else_ see these invaders from Orion?"

"Yes, sir."

"The Admiral stopped in mid-step, turned heel, nose to nose, searched the man's face for deception and found none. "Damn." Weary of this useless banter he decided to listen to the whole story. Besides, he'd have to justify why he pulled the plug so he took a seat at the head of the conference table, rhythmically drumming his fingers on the top, "Who else?"

"The Russians radioed us and everyone else for assistance and as a result several ground stations were able to lock on to the projectiles as they approached our outer atmosphere."

"Whose ground stations? Theirs or ours?"

"Both, sir, Norway and Zurich on our side. In addition, the British caught the UFOs on a satellite star tracker and London has confirmed the Russian report."

"Okay... then what happened?"

"Why, er, the projectiles entered the atmosphere and disappeared."

"So what's the big deal? They burned up! You're got nothing but smoke and ashes. Any magician could have created that illusion."

"Well, not exactly. There was no evidence of a burn. They became invisible."

The Admiral rocked back in his chair with his arms folded across five rows of multicolored ribbon bars as he evaluated the possibility of this extraordinary tale being true. Wheels turned in Wysocki's head, "Invisible, you say?" Shaking his head, "Oh, crap!"

"What?" asked Taylor.

"If what you allege has in actuality been confirmed, and you can be certain I'll check this scuttlebutt out for myself, then there's only one plausible explanation. This has become a horse of a very different color. They can cloak themselves."

"Pardon me, sir. Did you say cloak?"

"Yes, similar to our Stealth bombers. They became invisible to radar, possibly to sight as well. Who knows? If a civilization is actually capable of crossing galaxies, then developing a cloaking device would be child's play." He slapped his knees, "All right, maybe they do exist, and _maybe_ they slipped in. So, do we know where they set down, and what's being done about it?"

"Not we, neither NASA, nor any other agency has any more data than I've told you, Admiral. I'm not withholding information. My directive is to observe and determine their flight corridor and origination point. It's my understanding the World Security Council is handling the overall operations."

"Those morons?" Groaning, "Yes, I reckon this falls under their jurisdiction." Wysocki bounded from his chair, "Wait just a darn minute! Why aren't we on full alert, the entire planet for that matter?"

"Ah, I think I can answer that one, Admiral. How about panic and chaos? How do you think people would react if they thought an invasion or mass destruction from a fleet of invisible, alien warships were hovering overhead?"

The military man concluded, "It would be global hysteria... that is if we permitted it to get out of control." Dropping to one knee, he extracted a soft cotton cloth from his dark, navy blue uniform trousers, spit on a clean corner and proceeded to buff a scuff on the highly polished mirrored surface of his black shoes. "But a fleet? That's a bit much; I'm certain we could defend ourselves against three invading warships. After all, we do have nuclear weapons."

"Could we, sir? Suppose, er, their weapons were as advanced as their propulsion systems? And, as for three, see those four publications (each the size of a phone book) lying on the corner table, Admiral? I recommend you review them at your earliest convenience. Also, for the sake of argument, sir, how many attack vessels would be required to conquer an entire planet expeditiously? A hundred, five hundred, ten thousand? Those books are documentations of sightings our government has gathered during the last fifty years. Just our government, no other! Could they have been hiding and massing all this time?"

"You've made your point, Taylor." He grumbled, "And I thought the Air Force's Operation Blue Book had been retired, a dead issue: millions of dollars wasted chasing mythical bogeymen back in the fifties and sixties."

"Uh, apparently we were mistaken; the bogies were real. This, plus what's recorded in countless history books all over the world, illustrates they've been visiting Earth for a very long time, perhaps thousands of years."

"Thousands of years!" Wysocki blustered. "What are they waiting for? Why don't they show themselves? Do they consider us to be some kind of zoo to fly by and take pictures for their friends back home?" Smacking his fist into his palm, "Curse them to damnation!" For nearly five minutes the Admiral paced back and forth in front of the observation window, hands clasped behind his back, studying the console technicians, satellite tracking maps and the collection of UFO documentation. He watched with interest as an office clerk tore off a bundle of printouts from three teletype machines, folded them and handed the packet to a smartly dressed Oriental man in a dark-blue suit. Wysocki, accented his words gravely, "One thing's painfully clear, Mister Taylor."

"What's that, Admiral?"

"Based on what you've shown me today, we better pray the aliens flying those spaceships are some far removed, distant ancestors of ours instead of a bunch of green, slimy bugs. Mankind could end up on the short end of a badly damaged stick before it's all over."

"Uh, yes... I hope not, sir." He motioned toward a closed connecting door, "And while we're waiting for the test results, let me show you around, please. In here you have direct lines to all the satellite control centers, space stations and observatories in the world. Their data flows to those three printers you see below. There are one hundred and seven eyes in the sky in all, reporting every hour on the hour. In addition, this center will be coordinating the joint American, Russian and Sino moon orbiting venture."

"Moon orbiting? I thought moon shot projects were terminated."

"Er, yes, they, we - we're reviving the program with a different type of mission this time. Observation only, no landings. Each country's team will alternate orbiting for one month, incorporating a flight plan ninety degrees different from the previous capsule. This will create 'X' patterns, crisscrossing the dark side of the moon which will enable us to determine if the aliens have a base there."

They were interrupted by three polite raps at the stairwell door leading to the control room. The Oriental man seen below glided into the room with his printouts in hand.

"Ah, how nice you were able to join us in person, sir," greeted Taylor. "Admiral Wysocki, may I introduce you to Major Yamoto, the acting Deputy Chairman of the World Security Council. General Guevara had to step down for personal reasons and the Major, his aide, assumed his responsibilities. He is now in charge of Operation Omega and, in essence is the man we all report to."

"Is that so?" snorted the Navy man. "An admiral reporting to a major? I think not! And, what the hell is Operation Omega?"

Yamoto let the reference to his being a lowly major pass without challenge; he'd deal with _that_ insult later - via the American Joint Chiefs of Staff. He savored in contemplation, "Then we'll see who reports to whom, _Admiral_ Wysocki!"

Kessler Air Force Base, Biloxi, Mississippi

'Crack!'

"Good drive, Bob. You're sure putting the pressure on me today." Then, the speaker, Lieutenant Colonel Anthony Fairchild, physician, stepped up to take his turn on the eighteenth tee. His once-a-month golf buddy, Brigadier General Robert Crawford, waited by the beige, Cushman golf cart and filed the role of a spotter for Tony's ball. Fairchild's soft grey eyes peered down the fairway under the brim of a sky-blue USAF cap with his shock of premature grey hair bushing out on the sides. Tony noted his opponent's ball lying two hundred yards out and well positioned. Bob had a nice drive on this hole but overall had been playing erratically. The doctor felt he had an actual chance to win today - the first time in four months. His long-time friend acted distracted and unfocused on the game, but hadn't volunteered to discuss just what in particular bothered him - it could be a ca-zillion things, after-all he was a damn _General._ Fairchild decided not to push. "I'm a good listener," he told himself, "Bob's valued my opinion in the past; perhaps I'll pry him gently later if he doesn't open up soon. I hate to see my friend this way..."

Teeing up his yellow Titleist golf ball, he took a stance with his six-foot, four-inch frame looming over the ball. Delivering a mighty swing, the yellow dot whizzed away, fading, fading... a hundred and fifty yards into the right rough. "Blast it! I swung too hard and lost control."

The two former college roommates drove on the grey asphalt cart path of the four hundred yard long hole, veered off and found the ball in a good lie, but blocked to the green by a trio of pine trees. "I'm going to have to chip out. Knowing my luck, if I try to punch it between the trees, it'll sound like a covey of woodpeckers trapped in there." Tony made a good stroke and the ball came to rest two hundred and fifty yards out from the green in the left-side fairway.

General Crawford, the chief administrator of the United States' largest military medical facility, selected his club, a three wood, took a swing and blew a golden opportunity by topping his ball. It trickled up parallel to Fairchild's. Tony laughed as Bob grunted and uttered a few choice obscenities. Crawford glared in defiance at the white dimpled orb as if it were the cause of his vexations. Of course, it wasn't; he would be very happy if a little plastic ball were his only irritant. The General silently chastised himself again for delaying the pending dreadful discussion and brooded while he stood aside for Tony's third shot. He pacified himself with, "The match is almost over; I'll wait until we're back in the club house. It'll be more relaxed there. No need to ruin the game; Doc is enjoying himself," while fully aware he was merely dilly-dallying and delaying the inevitable confrontation.

"If you weren't such a big shot, Bob, we'd be thrown off the course because we're so bad. I think I've lost five balls and worn-out two pencils keeping score today."

"Heal thy own game, physician! I'm not out of it yet," returned his playing partner.

The two hackers finally finished the match with a pair of sevens on the last hole, resulting in a tie of a lousy hundred and thirteen apiece.

Crawford ribbed his friend, "You're a disgrace to the medical profession, Fairchild. Doctors are supposed to be good golfers. What happened to you? Couldn't get a seat in Golf 101?"

"Doctors, good golfers? I believe you have me confused with civilian practitioners. Besides, my problem is more basic: an overall lack of coordination in motor functions."

"That must come in real handy in the operating room."

"Nah, I only operate on cadavers and they don't complain much when I make a mistake."

Lt. Colonel Fairchild, a military pathologist for twenty-two years, was considered to be the best in his field of all the military branches combined. A 1990 graduate of the University of Miami's medical school, he served a tour at Walter Reed Hospital as well as numerous bases all over the world. His specialty, internal medicine/pathology, had been called upon in many battlefields to analyze the effects of enemy weaponry. In addition to wartime assignments, the good doctor had assisted in many foreign countries and most recent as last year, served as a Thai government consultant in determining the long-range effects of specific chemicals employed by U.S. forces during the Vietnam War.

General Crawford, who had taken charge of the base facility nine months earlier, requested Fairchild be transferred from Anchorage, Alaska where he had been testing a new treatment for acute hypothermia based his examinations of people who had died from overexposure. This unexpected reassignment forced Tony to cancel an eagerly anticipated fact-finding expedition to a remote frontier village located on the far-side of an eighty mile stretch of frozen tundra. A local fishing guide had confirmed the rumor an old Inuit shaman still resided there. Fairchild had hoped an interview with him would provide further support of his theory there once existed a central point other than Mesopotamia; the accepted 'cradle of civilization', a.k.a. the Garden of Eden from which all of mankind's many cultures originated - a hobby he had joyfully pursued during his worldly travels... and a waste of valuable time in the General's opinion.

The pair, having showered and donned casual clothing, were on their way to the clubhouse lounge. There, Bob finally took the bit in the mouth to say he required a few minute's of Tony's time - they selected a quiet booth in the corner. The General shooed away several well-wishing subordinates. He didn't have time to play the kiss my butt game now; he wanted to get down to serious business. Bob tapped his fingers on the table's smooth polyurethane surface as he waited for the server to put down a scotch and water for himself and an iced tea for the doctor.

Tony studied his golf buddy seated opposite, anticipating the personal struggle he had suspected was soon to come to fore. The physician/counselor part of him wondered if it were a domestic problem, perhaps a death in the family or a health issue, but surely not with his adoring wife, and how he may help.

"I appreciate you playing with me today, Tony," Bob began. "I know it wasn't our regularly scheduled weekend and I hope I didn't disrupt any plans you had at home."

Relieved that Bob is finally getting around to what's bothering him, Tony smiled and replied, "No problem; June said she had some shopping to do. Besides, it's not often I get an extra crack at someone almost as bad as I myself." Adding, "Besides, no one else will ask me to play, unless they want medical advice. Even then they become a bit leery after learning my field." While stirring in a sweetener, it occurred to him Bob may need an opening, "You were a little off today... got something on your mind?"

Crawford nodded, thinking, "Tony's read me... I might as well get on with it." He extracted a packet of papers from a folder which had been stashed in his locker. "You're going to have to put your golf game on hold for a while," he stated as he placed a set of transfer orders in front of the Lt. Colonel.

Tony's eyes locked on the place of reporting: Camp Redwood Detention and Processing Center in California? Never heard of it; is it new?"

"No, it was established in 1948 for a specialized operation. However, you won't find it on the geo-map or in the Armed Forces installations guide."

Tony surmised, "A reopening? Now there's a hecka switch. I thought Congress was Hell-bent on closing as many bases as possible."

The General wrapped both hands around his sweating glass, leaned forward and whispered, "Not so loud, it's been active since its inception."

Fairchild checked around for eavesdroppers, Crawford already had. "A secret base? That's hard to believe."

"Yes, I agree and very secret," omitting mention of the fact he hadn't known it existed either until yesterday afternoon. "I've been informed it had a small detachment of regular Army soldiers of less than fifty which has just been replaced by a first-strike battalion of crack Airborne troopers. For your information: this entire operation is being covered under the National Secrecy Act. Of which you are required to maintain by signing this pledge - now," handing the form to his subordinate.

Fairchild reviewed the affidavit, scribbled his signature and nonchalantly passed it back. Crawford detailed as he witnessed it, "There is no fixed time period specified for declassification. Violation of this oath by disclosure will be grounds for court-martial with penalties ranging in severity of incarceration up to life, or death by the firing squad." The Colonel stiffened; this edit surprised him which the General noted and in consolation offered, "Sorry to be so hard-ass, Tony. It's mandatory I advise you of such."

Deciding he should speak in a similar manner since the General had become by-the-book formal, Fairchild responded in a clipped tone, "Understood, sir. Being in the medical service, I haven't been exposed to this aspect before."

"At ease, Tony, it's routine when dealing with top secret information and I'm _not_ just pulling rank on you. I had to sign the same form, many years ago."

The pathologist returned his attention to the transfer orders and read the fine print. There were three glaring items staring him in the face. "I see the code indicating no dependents are permitted. Is that an error? Camp Redwood is on U.S. soil."

Crawford frowned and again he acted the superior officer, "Not an error, there are no dependents allowed. Your family is not to know your whereabouts. As far as they are concerned, you are out of the country touring Asia. All of your communications, voice and mail, will be routed via Seoul, South Korea." He raised a restraining palm to ward off the forthcoming objection. "Don't ask why, it'll become clear later. Trust me."

The doctor's ears began to grow warm. This is a warning signal - every time he'd been told, "Trust me," he'd gotten the royal shaft. Tony forced the ominous thought aside, Bob wouldn't give him a raw deal and moved on to the next item. "The report date is in two days?" His commanding officer nodded affirmation again. Next, the doctor noted the person authorizing the transfer was none other than the Surgeon General herself. He reflected he'd never heard of this either; no point in mentioning it.

"I know it's short notice, Tony. You don't have much time to tie up loose ends at home. The Adjutant General's Office will assist in any legal affairs which may possibly arise during your absence. Your wife, June will be given a name and contact number. She shall remain in your base housing; you won't return to find her living on the street." He gave a reassuring smile, "If there are any problems, she can call me direct and I _will_ take care of it. Okay? Don't make a big deal out of this."

"I wasn't worried, Bob; I know the Air Force takes care of its own. I'll be able to visit home periodically, won't I?"

"No, it won't be necessary, Doc. Your assignment will be completed within four months, guaranteed. At Redwood, you'll join a medical team already assembled and operational; they'll bring you up to speed."

"Guaranteed". Another red flag word! Warning bells were ringing. He agreed, "Four months is not bad." In an effort to add levity, ease the tension and mask his building anxiety, "My golf game won't suffer at all. I promise you."

"That's the spirit, partner," as Bob closed the folder. "One additional bit of trivial information: the Army's never assigned a family man to Redwood before."

The doctor, puzzled by this off-the-wall added tidbit, just shrugged his shoulders and thought, "That's peculiar, but at least I won't unknowingly walk into a den a raving schizophrenics. Or will I? Too many illogical elements here, something's amiss. And I should know..." He brought to mind the times he'd been dispatched to hell holes of the dying, walking dead, the broken bodies stacked in piles and the inescapable acid stench of putrefying flesh burning in his nostrils twenty-four hours a day. "Strange," he thought, "the Brass usually tells me straight up before sending me into a cesspool or a violent situation. No, something is very odd here. I suspect Bob is withholding information, vital... perhaps what he's omitting is of a personal nature. I hope not. Or, am I completely off track because I think I know him so well... and really don't? Could the whole thing be another epidemic caused by our own germ warfare chemicals and he's been ordered to keep non-disclosure? I really have no idea of what's going on and can't push him too far; although he's an old friend, he still has flare-ups of the, I'm a General syndrome.

"I better get home and tell June I'm shipping out again." He paused, knitted his brow and posed a final question, "So, why a pathologist, Bob?" The server approached to check their drinks; Bob signaled for a second, Tony declined. He watched his friend closely, convinced his commanding officer was lying on many levels.

"Someone in Personnel picked your name out of a hat. Even though your field is pathology, you are first and foremost an MD and Redwood needs a sawbones fast, that's all."

As Fairchild left though the pro shop, he mulled over Crawford's last answer and thought, "That doesn't wash clean in any way, shape or form. How can it be the entire US Army doesn't have a plain-old MD to deploy to one of their own bases and has to ask the Air Force for assistance? How demeaning. Even if it were a joint command facility, I'd find that tale rather difficult to swallow. Oh well, I'd better just stash it for now and wait and see later what the Hell's Bob's _not_ talking about. It goes to show you _everyone_ is sometimes kept in the dark in the military. This must be some of that need to know stuff. And here I thought being the best in my field would keep me in the medical loop and exempt me from these nickel and dime side trips. Silly me."

Disguising his true feelings from Tony had proved more arduous than he anticipated. Crawford thought he was going to choke on his lying tongue when Tony asked, "Why a pathologist?" Distressed by performing his official duty, he struggled with the age-old rhetorical questions: "What is this country coming to? What _is_ my duty? Hell, beyond that, what is this blasted _world_ coming to, sending a friend into an emotional meat-grinder like Redwood? This isn't a conflict for God's sake, there's no excuse for it. I don't give a damn how the World Security Council voted. They are wrong! These are American citizens for crying out loud. The Government's purpose is to protect the people, not propagate a horror like Nazi Germany. Doesn't history teach us anything? I can't believe this is the solution those idiot politicians arrived at. God save us all. The only way I can maintain my own stability is to remember above all else, I am a soldier and I must obey orders."

Bdg. General Crawford sat alone with his morose thoughts as he stirred the ice cubes with his finger. A Captain at the bar watched Tony depart and decided to join the superior officer - a prime opportunity to rub elbows with the upper echelon and score some points. He took two steps toward the corner booth. The General, anticipating the officer's intention, gave the man a stare icy enough to frost his beer mug anew. The subordinate quickly veered away, waved weakly and sauntered out the lounge in an attempt to save face by giving the impression he was headed that way to begin with.

Crawford decided he's had enough of this place, tossed a ten-spot on the table and headed for the parking lot door. Better to get sloshed at home than in public, that would be a career-ender. He started his unmarked staff car; the drinks had made him misty-eyed. "I can handle it, but this'll crush Tony's spirit... he's such a compassionate man. I know he'll call me after he sees the big picture... and it will be unbearable."

# Chapter Six

### Out of the frying pan and into the fire

Berlin, Germany

Motioning to the handcuff on his wrist, "I'll sure be glad to get rid of this," Mason remarked to Henry, who was now his new NSC escort. They were leaving the Hotel Berliner after freshening up from their fateful train ride. Armstead had a five p.m. appointment with Ambassador Otto Rhinemann at the American Embassy to deliver the troublesome briefcase.

Hollyfield nodded, "We're almost home free, sir. Once we get behind the gates with your Marine guards, you should be quite safe."

"It can't happen soon enough. I'm tired of being a bull's eye on a cloak and dagger shooting range."

The agent patted the courier on the back as they entered the waiting sedan, "You're doing jolly well, lad." Giving further reassurance, "And look, we have a lead and trail vehicle for extra protection."

Mason scoped them out. Feeling better, he took a seat in the rear with Henry sliding in next to him, "It would take a bloody rocket attack to stop us now, old chap."

Their sedan and the two suv's formed a tight line then joined in the moderate flowing traffic. "Has that ever happened?"

"Pardon?"

"A rocket attack."

"Well er, yes, but not often... and never in Europe... so far."

"Swell," which prompted Mason to begin scanning the passing rooftops for hooded figures carrying long tubes on their shoulders - like he'd seen in the movies.

The Berlin police were providing traffic control and had barricaded a four block stretch; only official vehicles were permitted approach to the embassy complex. Armstead's mini-convoy soon joined a line of diplomatic limos waiting to enter the grounds. The procession was slow; the sentries were being extremely thorough. "There must be VIP's of considerable importance already inside," he reasoned and indeed there were. First and foremost, the President of the German Republic was in attendance.

American ambassador Otto Rhinemann and German President Hans Mitzelfeld observed the cavalcade from their red brick balcony window. "Things are proceeding well," commended the President. "It appears we'll be able to start on time, at seven p.m."

"Yes, thanks to a little trick I learned many years ago when dealing with one of my own family members," explained Rhinemann. "My younger sister always arrived late for the family functions; no matter how much advance notice I gave her, invariably she would arrive thirty to sixty minutes after the appointed time. So I started telling _her_ to come one hour ahead of the time I told the rest of our family - the same principle being applied here."

The President smiled, "I'll have to remember that one for my next Cabinet meeting; there's one or two knot-heads who are always tardy. Ah, I see the courier's coach entering the gate."

Rhinemann checked his watch, "Four forty-five. Excellent! We'll have two hours to translate the document into the respective languages of the representatives."

"Have all the representatives confirmed attendance?" questioned Mitzelfeld.

"Yes, all twenty-six in our sector responded. Who would want to be left out?"

The Honorable Sven Johansen of the World Security Council, who would chair the meeting, entered the room, "I've been advised the courier has arrived gentlemen. Do you have his dossier and photo?"

"Yes, your Honor." Rhinemann opened a manila envelope and laid Mason's picture on the table. An office secretary escorted in Armstead, Hollyfield and a Marine sergeant who carried a locked, wooden box which contained a digital scanner. Introductions were made and Mason verified the ambassador's identity with a photo from his own itinerary packet. With protocol security procedures being satisfied, Rhinemann said, "I believe you have something for us Mister Armstead," as he extracted a small, odd-shaped key from his own pocket."

"Yes sir, do I ever," Mason stated fervently as he set the attaché case on the table. "May I please be first, if you gentlemen would be so kind to relieve me of the handcuffs."

"Certainly," as the ambassador smiled.

Mitzelfeld, standing to the side, had a concerned look on his face as he observed Mason relinquish the case.

Hollyfield unlocked the handcuff and it dropped free. Mason rubbed his wrist and breathed a, "Thank you". Next, Henry produced the microchip he had cut out of Doan's forearm and the sergeant scanned the chip then showed the six numbers to Rhinemann who inputted the code after the Marine had left the premises. As the Ambassador leaned over to insert his special key, he noticed the marks made by the cable cutters, which Mitzelfeld had spotted right away. He stopped and declared, "The case has been damaged! Have we been compromised?" He quickly inserted his key to see if the locks were still operable, the levers popped up smoothly. Still, he looked about for an explanation.

Mason stated, "There was an attempt to steal the document on the train and the case has been opened."

"The devil... what the?" muttered the Ambassador and looked to the WSC representative for clarification.

Johansen responded, "I'm aware of the attempted interception, Mister Ambassador. The two Omega operatives involved were neutralized and the contents of the case remained intact. Am I correct, Mister Armstead?"

Mason snapped to attention, "Yes sir, it _was_ forced open. The envelope was removed and its seal broken, but the document inside never left my sight."

Johansen fixed his gaze on Mason. "Did you read the document, Mister Armstead?"

Mason paused; the group watched him intently. He suddenly knew with certainty and sure instinct he must not reveal the complete truth... and at the same time he must answer without lying, "No, I placed it back into the envelope and its case, then relocked it after Henry killed the second O...," he caught himself, " _neutralized_ the second operative." Rhinemann and Johansen seemed satisfied, Mitzelfeld still appeared troubled.

"Is there a problem, Mister President?" from Otto.

"No, no, please continue."

"Very well, then. Mister Armstead, you may be excused. Thank you for a job well done, very well done. It is regrettable you had to go through such a harrowing experience. I hope you'll remain in our fair city a few days to enjoy our hospitality and recuperate."

"You're most welcome, sir and thank you for your consideration but I think I'll be getting back to the States first thing in the morning. I had planned to take the three-day InterRail tour, but I've had my fill of trains for a while, if you know what I mean."

"I understand completely," and they all shook his hand with Mitzelfeld being the last. The German held it a moment longer than usual while staring deep into Mason's eyes. The courier bade them all a goodbye and left.

Again, Rhinemann asked Mitzelfeld, "Are you sure there's no problem, Mister President?"

The State bureaucrat looked from one man to the other and in a low, urgent tone, dropped the proverbial bombshell. "Armstead's one of them. He's an Omega."

"What?" scoffed the American ambassador. "That's utterly preposterous! I've read his personnel file; Armstead's been with the Department for over ten years. There's no way he could have slipped through our intense pre-employment screening. Especially, and in addition to... why we even have mandatory blood testing every year! The United States State Department prides itself with being through, sir"

Johansen shook off his initial shock and the American's refute, "Sorry, I must agree with Otto; this sounds a bit too far-fetched. Even so, what makes you think he's an Omega, Hans?"

Mitzelfeld rubbed his chin, "A number of things gentlemen. Little things, added together, apart from your pathetic and extremely lax screening which is overloaded with testing for recreational drugs and STD's while ignoring other categories."

Ignoring the German's caustic criticism of U.S. policies, Johansen politely asked, "Please, sir, explain further. This accusation is alarming, especially in light of our conference.

"Number one, his handshake. Did you notice his hand felt cool?" answered Mitzelfeld.

"Not in particular, after all, it's cold outside."

"Even so, his hand _still_ felt cool when he left," countered the German president."

"Meaning?" challenged Rhineman.

"The Omega have a body temperature of ninety-five degrees."

"Is that true, Johansen?" The WSC man nodded assent.

The American ambassador challenged, "That's it? A cold hand?"

"Also, his eyes. They were oversized."

Otto protested, "I've met numerous big-eyed people, especially women. They weren't Omega either." Becoming annoyed, "Anything else, sir?"

"His manner... what you Americans call vibes... I can't put it into exact words."

"So, is this what you base your conclusions on? A gut feeling? You are condemning a man to being an Omega based on vibes?"

"Plus a little more; I've been with them." The German President then waited for his words to sink into his tight little audience.

"The Omega? You've actually met an Omega's in person?" marveled Rhinemann.

"Yes, I've toured our camp here in Germany several times, out of curiosity nothing more." Taking the offensive now, "You _are_ aware of all the differences between them and normal people aren't you, Otto?"

"Uh, no... sorry to admit, no"

"We all should be, particularly in light of these proceedings and I regret that I can't go into all the details at the moment, time won't permit. However, I strongly recommend _you_ have an expert brief you as soon as possible. What I'm alluding to is that there are more factors involved other than the known physical attributes. In addition to the visual, they possess a mental aura coupled with diverse abilities, resulting in a sort of _intuitive power._ Are you familiar with what I'm referring to, your Honor?"

"Not first hand. I've read the reports but never had any direct contact as yourself."

Rhinemann paced as he spoke, "Disturbing, your accusation, but this won't have any bearing on our conference or course of action. Gentlemen, you can rest assured I shall investigate this matter fully and forthwith," then signaled for his receptionist to join them. "Frankly, I still don't see how it's possible." She entered, "Get Chad Parkerson on the line; find him no matter where he is. State it is an emergency."

"Yes, Mister Ambassador."

"We'll get to the bottom of this in short order," as he opened the envelope and laid the paper on the table for all to read.

September 13, 0600 Zulu.

A similar scenario was in progress at five other locations throughout the world: Hong Kong, Tehran, Sao Paulo, Dakar and Washington D.C. for the delivery of the letter and a conference of their sector's representatives, advising them of the designated date and time. The World Security Council was coordinating the operation; the couriers were unaware of the magnitude of the plan or of each other's participation.

Tehran, Iran: the Russian embassy

Mehrdad Iravani poured cool water into the sparkling crystal goblets then quickly retreated to the far wall to await further bidding. The Minister of Defense signaled for him to depart the premises and the embassy majordomo servant glided out on silent feet with his head respectfully bowed.

Here too, there were three men in attendance discussing the pending conference to convene in thirty minutes. The courier had already made his delivery; there had not been an interception attempt made on him or the other messengers, only Mason Armstead. Twenty-three thin folders with the information transcribed into the representatives' native languages lay in front of the WSC overseeing administrator. As he placed them in alphabetical order, he accidentally bumped his glass. It teetered and fell to the marble floor. The Minister pulled a tasseled cord which summoned a black-bearded servant who instantly appeared in the doorway, noted the shattered pieces and disappeared to summon Mehrdad. The Russian ambassador stood in respect as he addressed the Ayatollah Khorramani, "Your Eminence, as I explained earlier to your esteemed Minister, my government does not expect any problems with security. I'm confident the Iranian and Iraqi armies will be able to maintain order if there is any dissent. However, if you should require assistance, the sovereign state of Russia, your friend and ally, is more than happy to aid you in any way possible."

Seeing Mehrad enter with a dustpan, broom and towel, the World Security Council agent scooted away from the table and took a seat on the opposite side. Mehrdad lifted the velvet cushioned chair and placed it out of the way so he could get down on his hands and knees to clean up the accident.

The Ayatollah grunted in response to the Russian's offer: the Shiite Moslem leader commanded a smattering of Russian as well as five other foreign languages. The Defense Minister, having been an exchange student to Moscow in his younger years, spoke fluent enough to translate if a misunderstanding arose. Speaking in his native tongue, Farsi, the Ayatollah, the highest authority in Iran, berated the Russian ambassador, who didn't understand a word. "How long will they continue to send these infidels of no respect? Did not our banishment of the great Satan, America, teach them a lesson? The fool knows neither our language nor customs; he speaks of the contemptible Iraqi as if they were our friends. Yet, my heart is heavy that our blood-brothers in Islam still stand divided and against us - now due to the new Western-controlled, war mongering, self-serving council to our west. Is there no end to their ignorance and our suffering? I have prayed for the day their souls return to the true fold. Let us remain humble and thankful it is drawing nigh. Praise, Allah."

Iravani finished his cleaning task and hurried back to the kitchen for a new goblet. His face radiated pride at having the ultimate honor of being permitted presence in the same room with the nation's most prominent religious leader. Mehrdad quickly returned with the pitcher and a new glass, his face and eyes were always cast down in awed respect.

The Ayatollah was still venting his displeasure as the ignorant Russian sat quietly, pleased with himself, believing the Iranians were discussing his country's generosity. "And does not this heathen infidel know that when the Devil's demons in their warships descend from the heavens our salvation is at hand? The murderous invaders from the stars who will render Allah's wrath on evil mankind are the tools of our deliverance as foretold in the Koran. Praise Allah; our Day of Atonement and liberation from this sinful existence is almost upon us. Praise Allah, may it begin! Let the sharia (law) be fulfilled and the jihad (holy war) commence. Muslim brothers worldwide shall rise to the bosom of Abraham and leave the unbelievers to the cleansing fires of destruction. Our beloved Prophet's words shall ring true to all; his spirit is present to lead us to Allah's enlightenment. Our redemption is nigh!" His eyes rolled back in his head as he flung his arms upward, "Praise Allah!"

The Minister kicked his chair aside, dropped prone on the floor, arms outstretched, facing Mecca, the Holy City as the birthplace of Mohammed and chanted, "Praise Allah" three times. Mehrdad followed suit lying lengthways next to him. He trembled at joining them in prayer.

After the ritual, Iravani completed his tasks and backed out of the room bent even lower at the waist. His hands shook with excitement in the realization that _he_ , in person, had heard the irrefutable truth spoken direct from the mouth of Islam's most esteemed Ayatollah! Mehrdad's mind bubbled with the joyous news. "The end is near and I, his most humble servant, have been chosen to hear the message first, before my brethren, that the prophet Mohammed is soon to return. He shall descend in a cloud of glory to take his children to Paradise!"

He observed the cluster of multinational representatives arrayed in their distinctive costumes and apparel. "Of course! That's why the nations are assembled here today: For the Master to teach them the path to redemption and salvation! It is so clear. But wait, blessed judgment could befall us any day, surely within a week at the most. I must go and prepare!"

Berlin

Hollyfield was driving Mason to the Hotel Berliner, traveling an indirect route, using the Autobahn, the first European freeway without speed limits. Despite their speedometer reading 120 kph, cars were passing them on the left side as if their BMW were dragging a four-pronged grappling hook. Mason refrained from asking Henry what was going on - the answer was etched on his face. Fantastic as it seemed, this is how the man subdued his demons and cleansed the blood-letting from his soul: by emptying his mind of all but the fleeting images on the other side of the tempered glass. For certain, it was not Armstead's method of rebounding from stress, especially perched in the front passenger seat watching the needle creep up to 130 kph. Henry's eyes crinkled in delight, an ever so slight devil-may-care smile curved the corner of his mouth. He had become totally absorbed in playing the Sterling Moss role and reminded Mason of a teenager setting record scores at a video arcade. He checked his seatbelt for the third time while wishing he really was at an arcade or on a go-cart track, waving safely from a side rail. There... a large green sign stretched across the road a half a mile ahead - Whoosh! and it was gone! Mason recalled reading that all the signs on the Autobahn were oversized because the traffic traveled so fast the drivers required extra reaction time - as the German Department of Transportation belatedly discovered after the superhighway had first opened. Scores of motorists lost control negotiating the turnoffs; fortunately, back then most autos were built like tanks, unlike today's plastic and lightweight cracker-boxes. The signs were quickly updated.

Hollyfield expertly feathered the brakes and turned onto an extra-long off-ramp. He appeared petulant, akin to a child realizing the end of a carnival ride loomed imminent and Daddy had run out of tokens. He deftly blended in with the usual parkway commuter, rush-hour traffic leading back toward their hotel which he had intentionally overshot by ten miles.

"Exhilarating, eh, old chap?" Henry caressed the steering wheel as it slid through his custom-made driving gloves.

Mason noted the twinkle in his eye and uplifted mood, "The Autobahn? Exhilarating is a _pleasant_ word." There was no need to mention the lump in his throat and that his eyes were glued shut after he had seen the speedometer hit 140. "So, whatta you do for relaxation at home in England, Henry? Bungee jumping, sky diving, Russian roulette?"

"Ha, well put, lad. You're making light of my driving, I see. Hope I didn't alarm you too badly; I apologize and all that. Back in the day when I was a young man, I drove in the English stock car circuit a few years... that was before I met me wifey, of course. Seems there's still a bit of the old spark left in the tank, eh?"

Armstead assured Henry it was no big deal but underneath, his old nemesis, the demon of self-doubt and fear had reared its ugly head again. He wondered how this diminutive and somewhat foppish man could stand so tall and possess such courage. "Was Henry ever afraid, hesitant or haunted by past failures?"

"Back to your question, Mason, bungee jumping and falling out of an aeroplane are a bit too risky for a bloke as myself at this point in my life now, 'sides the Missus wouldn't permit it. Again, many a year ago, when I was a young lad as you, I did develop an interest in sky diving and signed up for a jump school. Mumsy, me wife, discovered my intended venture, via the school's confirmation letter and promptly set her foot down. She's a good-old girl, concerned for my safety and whatnot. In the meantime, I lost my bloody deposit, another row ensued and I learned most emphatically not to attempt such foolishness again, without her approval first. Yes, indeed, that I did! Now, I engage in more docile pastimes: parasailing and scuba diving. Mumsy enjoys riding in the boat."

Satisfied with his story telling, Henry then changed the subject, "I say, old man, I'm dining at the Reichland Restaurant this evening. They have excellent German fare, of course. Would you care to join me? I extended an invitation to our freelance, contract employee prior to his little mishap but he declined. He said he was going to find himself a little tart... no, a _big_ tart and Par-tay, whatever that is."

Mason accepted Henry's offer but made a mental note to be sure to keep his wrists on the table in plain sight this evening in case a late, ill-informed snatch and run team was checking him out; they'd see the case had already been delivered. Besides, having Hollyfield in close proximity was a good insurance policy in itself. The man's small stature and dandified demeanor hid the killing machine hidden within so an assailant would discard the possibility he would be a security escort - a second reason to believe the attaché case had been passed on.

"Jolly good, I'll rap on your post at eight bells sharp. I've an exciting fish tale to tell you, one which I can't impart to the Missus; it involves a dicey affair with a bit of bugger: Mister Shark." Henry parked in the underground garage, donned his derby and bade Armstead a chipper, "Cherrio, mate"

Hollyfield's chosen eatery proved delightful in every respect as touted and the evening progressed most famously. Henry proved to be a most pleasant companion, a confortable conversationalist and Mason in return found himself recounting his two disturbing childhood experiences to him. Describing the chicken incident, he went on to say he felt it had led him to his current vocation, a peacemaker in a broad interpretation. Henry asked, "Why not an arbitrator or negotiator?" Mason explained such efforts weighed too heavy on his conscience because to gain a truce or settlement, sometimes deception or a shading of the truth may be required. As for the Empire State building incident and his fear of heights, he admitted not much progress had been made on that issue.

The NSC agent didn't belittle his perceived weaknesses, but instead listened with respect and patience, drawing out fuller explanations and offering parallels in his own life. He said, "All men experience fear, it's instinctive, logical; higher reasoning and determination are the implements of control. Not everyone is a blood and guts Comic book Super-Hero, Mason. Certainly not I. Real people have faults and fears. If you're not happy with a particular aspect of your life, then _work_ on it until it changes." Henry let the suggestion sink in for moment then added, "Chin up, lad. You took the first step when you identified the problem; congratulations, you're half-way home." Hollyfield continued, relating stories of his own personal setbacks: school yard bullies taunting the pipsqueak, too small for sports, not an exceptional student, rejected by the military and so on. Then he expounded on the victories made possible by perseverance and the valuable lessons he had learned in the field.

Mason was inspired and grateful but not exactly anxious to put himself into a position where he must seriously challenge his dreads by enduring a real test of fire. He wondered, "All these years, will it take a man like Henry to show me the way? I hope so." In the past, Armstead had dismissed professional psychiatric therapy as a viable option. Mason reasoned these vexations were small hang-ups in the grand plan of life. There were several people he'd known who had enlisted such services and ended up with so many mental crutches they became incapable of organized or intelligent thought, and more often than not, were worse off than before they began.

They exchanged their good-byes on the elevator, Armstead exited to the second floor - the lowest level, and Henry on the sixth. Mason took Hollyfield's London telephone number and promised he would ring him and the Missus whenever he got over his way again - and it that shouldn't be too far off since he passed through Heathrow Airport often.

It was eleven p.m., he had returned to his suite an hour ago and was folding his clothes, making ready for his departure tomorrow morning when there came a knock at the door. "I'm not expecting anyone, perhaps room service has made an error," he speculated. He peered with one eye through the peephole. "It's Henry. A nightcap? It can't be; he knows I don't drink." Mason unlatched the door, swung it wide and with a questioning smile on his face, "Henry, what can I...," stopping short. Two strange men were flanking Hollyfield, one on either side - they had been out of view of the peephole. Was this intentional?

One fellow was short, thin and carried a black, leather medicine bag while his associate was large, brutish and donned brown leather gloves. Both were clad in gray trench coats with black felt hats pulled low - the big man reminded Mason of a 1930's Chicago mobster, deadpan and hostile. Henry appeared ill-at-ease, his clothes were disheveled as if he'd thrown them on in a hurry and rushed here. Always the gentleman, he mumbled, "Sorry to disturb you at this hour, Mason..." His apology was cut short by his two companions, who each grabbed one of Armstead's arms and dragged him back into the center of the room, his bare heels burning on the nylon carpet.

"Hey! Ow, that hurts." His eyes darted to Henry standing shamefaced outside the doorway and wondered, "Why doesn't he do anything to help me? There must be a third person in the hallway holding a gun on him. I'll bet these fellows still think I have the case!"

"Stop please, I don't have it! You're making a mistake; I delivered it to the American Ambassador,"... and then to Henry, "Tell them!"

Hollyfield gave a deaf ear to Mason's outburst as he turned to check the corridor in both directions. A hotel maintenance man fifty feet away working on the elevator button control panel appeared to be too absorbed to notice anything amiss. When Henry stepped inside and quietly latched the door Armstead realized the British NSC agent was actually a party to whatever was happening - or at least permitting it - there was no gun pointed at _him_.

"Henry, who _are_ these people? What is going on?"

The big thug, who smelled as if he had spent the night in trash dumpster, kicked the coffee table aside and pushed Mason down into the center of the couch. Dropping with an "Oof!" but with his arms now free, he started to rise and make a verbal challenge to this unruly treatment only to be met with a smack to his forehead by a beefy palm which sent him bounding back into the cushions.

"Hey! You could break a man's neck doing that!" he protested. The bully sneered and flashed two rows of jagged, uneven capped teeth. It seemed quite clear he didn't care one way or another. Mason decided to stay put.

Henry remained silent, blocking the door to his back, hands clasped in front. The smaller thug set the black bag on the askew table while the big fellow planted himself menacing above Armstead. Unzipping the bag, "Roll up your sleeve," Mason was ordered by a sharp, nasal voice.

"What? My sleeve?"

The brute leaned over, "You heard him, want _me_ to do it for you?"

"No, no, I'll do it. Whatever you say." He watched the thin man remove a paper packet, rip it open and extract a syringe and needle. After connecting the two, he placed it on the table then took out a capped vial containing a clear, syrupy liquid, held it up to the light, swished it around and set it next to the syringe and mumbled, "It doesn't look right."

Mason ventured a guess, "Truth serum? You don't need that. Ask me whatever you want, I've nothing to hide." He assumed, "They must know I no longer have the document, but are trying to find out what it contained." In an effort to conceal his knowledge he babbled on, "I didn't read it. Honest. Ask Henry."

Holding the needle straight up in the air and poised to make the injection, the small thug hissed, "Armstead, shut up. I don't give a damn about your lousy document. I want a blood sample."

"A blood sample? Whatever for?"

The brute grabbed his left forearm, pulled it forward and squeezed. His prominent elbow joint vein popped out. "Keep still you sniveling, whiney butt or I'll take it the way I like, by slicing off a piece of your arm." The thin man leaned over, exhaling tobacco halitosis through his beak-shaped nose. Mason turned his head aside in repulsion. The hollowed needle point found the vein and his dark red blood seeped into the syringe. Five c.c.'s were drawn. The thin man then deposited six drops of Mason's blood into the vial's fluid and held it up to the light a second time - to observe the reaction.

Mason rubbed his arm, " _Now_ , may I ask what this is about?" Receiving no response, he redirected his question to his supposed friend, Hollyfield, "Henry, can _you_ please tell me?"

"He's watching to see if the test solution turns blue, Mason"

"Blue. Are you kidding?" Using a far reaching nervous attempt at joking, "Will it mean I'm pregnant?" Armstead quickly became serious again and glanced from one person to another, "Did you know that I take a mandatory urinalysis every six months and a yearly blood test as part of my required comprehensive medical package. This doesn't make any sense. You don't need these strong-arm tactics."

The liquid in the vial changed to pale blue. The big thug's eyes widened in delight, "Aw right! Our first one." He reached into his back pocket, retrieved a large pearl-handled knife and pressed the release button. 'Swit' - a six inch stainless steel switchblade sprang out. "You maggot; I'm gonna do you good!"

Mason cringed and held his arms up in defense. "Henry, help me!"

Hollyfield sadly shook his head, then stared at the floor, "I'm truly sorry, old man... it's out of my hands."

"Hold up a minute," ordered the small thug. "There's something wrong here. The color's too light. It should be darker, a much darker blue. This may be a false test, or the vial has been contaminated. I'll have to test it again... we only get paid for doing it right" The bully, visibly disappointed, obediently stepped back still holding his blade at the ready as his partner searched his black bag for fresh supplies.

"Damn, I have another syringe kit, but no testing solution. Wait... not a problem. There's another vial in the trunk. Let's take him down to the car where I can retest him."

"You bought a _little_ more time, dead man," as the big man lovingly stroked the chrome blade. "I saw a nice, dark alley nearby too." He roughly yanked Mason to his feet, "Let's go, maggot. We're taking a little walk. Hey, whatta they say in the movies? Dead man walkin'," and then howled at his own joke as Mason paled.

Henry unlocked the door and peeked out. The same workman, still at the elevator, had now been joined by a second fellow with a pushcart. "Most odd," Hollyfield thought to himself, "I don't think it should take so long to fix a control button panel unless of course, he was waiting for a replacement part."

The two men half-turned as the door opened; both were wearing sunglasses. The NSC agent recognized the scenario immediately: two men, at night, indoors after ten p.m., wearing sunglasses. Henry couldn't see their hands but he assumed they were either holding or had easy access to machine pistols and appeared to be waiting. "But why are they here?" his mind raced. "To free Mason, of course! Everyone on the ruddy planet must know by now all of the documents have been delivered. It all makes sense - these two thugs banging on the door in the middle of the night, relaying orders for me to assist them in the capture and blood testing of Armstead. These fake maintenance workers, more Omegas no doubt, must have been told some people were coming to make the test.

"And as for Mason himself, the silly sod, he probably has no idea he's an Omega, not a clue. What a mess! The testing solution problem has slowed these two clods down a tad; the chemicals must have been diluted or too old. But after Armstead retests a hundred percent dark blue, these blokes will drag him into an alleyway and gut him like a fish. They said the World Security Council has ceased with their apprehending and incarcerations (the big one liked that). Instead, they are executing the Omega on the spot and making it look like a street crime! The current WSC Deputy Chairman Yamoto has ordered four terminations in the last two days... I wonder if he's aware of the heinous methods being employed? Or, does he even give a damn for that matter?"

Evaluating his tactical position: "The soft lighting and dark carpet decreases my visibility; the so-called, repairmen will wait until we're almost upon them before firing. I could be caught in a crossfire from front and behind. It'll be a bloodbath - mine and these two thugs... and possibly even Mason's! My handgun against their automatic weapons and no place to hide, a very bad scenario indeed. Perhaps we could hole-up in our suite and call for reinforcements, but I don't believe that's what these two buggers behind me would agree to. They'll kill Armstead for sure, then high-tail it out the window and leave me to fend for myself while the two Omega attempt to break in to free an already dead man. Bloody bastards, these contract employees! They have no loyalties. Besides, Armstead doesn't deserve this roll of the dice; he's a decent sort of chap. E' wouldn't hurt a church mouse, not he."

Henry's decision had been made. "Let me have him up front with me, fellows. If he gets any fancy notions I'll cut him down with my pistol."

Mason was aghast, "Henry?" The two temporary NSC hired hands pushed him forward and lined up to file out, the big thug was last.

Hollyfield whispered, "Run to the elevator when I make my move," and to the other two, "Ready lads, lets step lively now." He then he flung himself backward into the thin man carrying the medical bag, knocking him sideways to the floor. "Armstead pushed me!" declared Henry. "I'll stop him," and fumbled for his Walther as Mason scrambled down the hallway. The two workers straightened up and reached under the cloth cover lying on top of the push cart.

The big man squeezed past Hollyfield, waving his knife in the air, "You idiot!"

Henry located his pistol and accidentally (on purpose) dropped it on the floor, "Oops." He leaned over to retrieve it and kicked it with his foot, "Oh my, clumsy me!" He was betting his life the Omega would not open fire, unless threatened.

The big thug, with rage in his eye started to chase Mason, but in short order he encountered the two workmen pointing machine pistols at him. He stopped on a dime, raised both arms and dropped the switchblade.

The thin man rushed out, barely brushing Henry, who theatrically sprawled on the carpet as if he had been hit by a NFL linebacker. He prayed the gunmen didn't misinterpret his intentional theatrics.

The Omega watching this comedy of errors, held their fire (of rubber bullets) and waited for Mason. "Hurry, Armstead!" one of them called and pointed at the blocked open elevator compartment. All three of them dove inside.

Henry spied out of the corner of his eye that Mason had joined the others in temporary safety and jumped up shouting, "After them, men." He trotted toward the elevator cautiously, "Careful, lads, it may be a trap. They may be waiting inside to blast us." The two contract men stepped aside, letting the real NSC agent assume command... after all, he was the high-paid professional. "Look men, the panel indicates they exited on the fourth floor. You two take the stairway. I'll wait ten seconds before taking the elevator and meet you there. We'll hit them from both sides. And above all, be careful. Don't shoot _me_ when I pop out!" then the pair scurried to the stairwell, cursing every step of the way. Henry pressed the button, the car arrived and he casually walked inside, thinking, "That gives them plenty of time to make their getaway." He had to laugh to himself, being aware that transposing the numbers in the display panel was certainly one of the oldest tricks in the books.

# Chapter Seven

### The truth hurts

Natural Bridge,

Navajo, First American's Reservation, Arizona

Joshua Nashota stood with his head tilted back, eyes closed, arms folded across his chest and swayed in rhythm to the chant of his own voice. Deep and low he recited an ageless story from the folklore of his people - the Diné. It was one of thirty-seven his father, Daniel, had taught him during the sixty-three years of his life. This particular tribal tale, alleged to have originated thousands of years ago, depicted the scattered nomadic, Navajo people who had gathered at the summons of the First Shaman to hear and obey his words. As with the Israelites who chose Moses to lead them, the Diné had selected their first chieftain and spiritual leader, and it was he, who over the years, recorded the tribe's significant historic events by painting pictures and symbols on animal skins, as the written word was not known. These treasured scrolls had been wrapped in sacred blankets, carefully stored and passed down from one generation to the next into the hands of the firstborn son of the current ranking shaman. As time passed the portable illustrations chronicling their history deteriorated and became indecipherable, eventually crumbling into bits of dried leather and wisps of hair - thus initiating the art of storytelling by song.

At the zenith of the Navajo nation's prominence, the Chief's main functions had primarily evolved to leadership and coordination. In this dual task he was assisted by a council of advisors, each member with a specialized area of responsibility: medicine, religion, food procurement, defense and history - the latter now being Joshua's contribution under the direction of his father who had become the tribe's current shaman due to his seeing two separate ( holy ) signs many years ago when he was in his late forties. Now, in his eighties, his physical limitations prevented him from performing his services outside the immediate communal complex. His son, Joshua, did the traveling and acted in his stead with his father's authority and blessing. Soon, the elder would volunteer to abdicate his position to his son since Joshua had already observed the required two signs himself and was a thoroughly trained believer.

Every new moon Joshua made the sacred trek, via jeep, from his home in Moenkopi, a trip of thirty miles, to the place where legend said the First Shaman received his teachings directly from the Great Spirit. Here, beneath the stone archway, Joshua chanted every song his father had taught him, opening his eyes only at each conclusion - perchance to behold a portent associated with that particular story. First, he would search the heavens, since most portents were said to appear above, if nothing showed there, he then turned full circle and surveyed the countryside. Only when no vision appeared did he continue the ritual with the succeeding canto.

Joshua, as his father's custodian of the ritual by lineage, insisted his two sons join him twice a year to practice the tradition. The middle-aged men, with families of their own, resided in nearby Flagstaff, not on the reservation as their father and grandfather chose to do. The sons had transcribed and recorded the words and rhythms rather than memorizing and singing the songs themselves. His children leaned more toward today's modern culture and didn't take the old customs too seriously. As far as they were concerned the sole value of this part of their heritage served their interest as a conversation piece at social functions - no more. After all, they reasoned they had been participating for thirty years to appease their father and had never observed anything out of the ordinary other than his antics. The elder sadly admonished them many times, saying: "Your hearts lack faith. Therefore, when I pass on my spirit will have to return to give you the strength to find the truth." They did not accompany him on this occasion.

Joshua, now in his mid-sixties, had seen during his lifetime only two distinct signs alone, both of which occurred many moons ago. His father had experienced seven and stated his great, great grandfather said he often spoke _directly_ to the spirit messengers. In his heart, Joshua feared he may become the last Navajo storyteller and grieved when he heard rumors of the other tribal Nations were suffering the same fate. He wondered, "Who will be left among our people to carry on the sacred traditions?"

Dancing orange flames rose from the rounded fire-pit, which had been constructed according to the lore: its dimensions were measured five hand lengths across (one for each council member) plus one additional, larger hand (for the Chief). The flickering light reflected dimly on his mud-caked, red pick-up truck fifty yards behind him. The temperature sat in the low eighties; the air smelled dusty dry, yet unspoiled and all was quiet. Nashota's well-worn, cowhide boots gritted upon the loose sand on top of the large flat shale boulder as he turned slow-motion in a circle and began a story portraying the Innocents praying for their deliverance from the Evil One. "Ha-ya, ha-ya, ha-ya". Each phrase meant, "Hear me".

Halfway through this chapter of oral history, he felt movement between his feet and a mysterious brushing on the inside of both ankles. A sudden gust of air blew through his scraggly, silver, shoulder-length hair. The wind, coming from the west, felt cool and appeared clear of dust. He slit his eyes and they began to water. Wiping them dry with his shirt sleeve, Joshua glanced down to find the cause of the pulling pressure on the outside of his boots. A full-grown King Diamondback rattlesnake, weighing at least forty pounds and as thick as his forearm, had curled into a figure eight pattern around his legs! The serpent's flatten, oblong head waved hypnotically from side to side. Its tiny, coal-black eyes were riveted on the western horizon, the ribbon of its black glossy tongue flicked, its rattled tail swayed in line behind Nashota's knees. Joshua gasped in shock and his eyes went wide in fear. He dug deep within himself to fight his panic and inborn instincts to dive to safety. He steeled himself and stood fast, entrusting his well-being to the Great Spirit's care. Shaken but determined, he tore his attention away from the venomous serpent in order to survey the western sky and perhaps receive the rest of the message.

There! Two shooting stars, long white streaks falling earthward formed an acute 'V' at the horizon before disappearing behind the distant mountain range. A low, two-toned moan, like the wind whipping through a hollowed log, resounded in Joshua's ears. Could it be the voice of his god, the Great Spirit speaking _directly_ to his faithful follower? Nashota obediently closed his eyes again, ignored the snake's steady warning rattle and continued singing the story. He felt as if the warm glow of fatherly love had descended upon him and he then understood what he must do next. When he had finished his song, he found no trace of the serpent. The Earth and the elements had returned to its previous state as if nothing had occurred. The aged historian had a strong premonition what he experienced was to be of great future importance... and for more than just the First American nations. He believed _this_ message was intended for the entire tribe of mankind!

Joshua stepped down from the natural platform of flat rock, leaving the other eleven cantos unsung and trod purposefully to the dwindling campfire. He began forming in his mind possible scenarios based on his training from his father and grandfather. To him the message was distinct and clear, the portents were unmistakable. The cold wind represented death. The snake wrapped around his ankles represented the encircling legions of evil and the shooting stars pointed to the way he must journey. His body quivered with trepidation. Another strong wind whipped up and Joshua perceived the Great Spirit whispering directly into _his_ ear - it resounded in his mind. He unmistakably heard, "Reddd... wooddd!"

Seven hundred miles to the west, beyond his horizon, Nashota's two shooting stars continued to flame earthward and converged at a point one hundred miles seaward on the route from San Francisco to Hawaii. The alien starcruisers deliberately had not activated their cloaking force field. It was time for the primitive Earthlings to receive the message: "Beware, we are coming!"

He returned to the compound as quickly as he could and immediately went to his father's abode. They discussed his incident in relation to The Lore through the night and concurred on a course of action; all of his information and their joint conclusions needed to be reviewed and hopefully, approved by the Chief and his Council in the morning.

During the night, Joshua learned that in The Lore - their history foretold someday the La-e-cih (the Others) would return to this world. It was unknown as to why. They were Gods compared to mankind but not gods in themselves: there is only one Great Spirit. "The La-e-cih _may_ possibly be acting as tools of the Father, messengers, helpers or even warriors to punish the evil ones of the earth," explained Daniel. "There will be no misunderstandings by the nations; they know every language because they were here soon after The Beginning and learned all of the tongues as they came to be. Their return will change the world as we know it. All of mankind will be touched to the bone."

"The crossed falling stars mark the location of where they are certain to return," explained Daniel. "They also could descend in a multitude of many other places at the same time. If that comes to be, it is not our concern. As for _our_ sign, the snake who bound you acted as the dual symbol of great strength and a deadly force, which by its grace is permitting you to proceed forward - to take the needed journey. Redwood, the name the wind spoke to you, I know this place. I camped there many moons ago, after the end of the White Man's second Great War. It is a dark, secret place filled with magic. The captured people living there are strange and possess great powers. The whole world is afraid of them and this is why they are being kept hidden. Be careful my son; I once by accident became _connected_ to them and it was a terrifying encounter. Who knows how hostile they may have become after many decades of enslavement? I will draw you a map of how to get there and the camp's layout. The soldiers will not welcome you; they are trying to hide their country's sins. I suspect the Army base has grown much larger and has now drawn the La-e-cih's attention. You are being sent as a representative of all the First Americans tribes to sue for peace with the ancestors from the sky. May the Great Spirit guide and protect you my son."

Early the next morning, at Daniel's urgent request to the Chief, the full tribal council had been assembled - nothing was more important than a message from the current, Talker to the Spirits. His father, who had just relinquished and transferred his official position to his beloved, trustworthy son at the beginning of this audience, sat proudly at Joshua's side. Together, the two spiritual leaders had stayed up all night evaluating his experience and agreed the revelation had been of the utmost importance - it was a true sign with a vital message for all.

It was of no surprise and warmly received by Joshua and his father, that the Chief and his Council members totally supported their report of the event and assessments. "Proceed without haste!" they directed. "Travel forth, our son. Speak to the La-e-cih in behalf of the Diné and our other brothers," bade the Chief. "Return safely, Joshua with a new hope for the tribe of all mankind."

Ten hours later at 8 p.m, Joshua was driving on Interstate 40, towing a 15-foot long covered utility trailer containing eight, long wooden poles, leather bindings and several bundles of cured animal hides, stitched together for constructing a teepee after he arrives on the outskirts of Redwood. He was weary and it had become late. He hadn't slept in thirty-plus hours, but knew he must press on in spite of his fatigue. Time was of the essence. It would require a full day, maybe more, to travel and establish a campsite, then perform the purification ritual - he'd have to take naps between tasks, as the warriors of old had done between their campaigns.

Joshua had memorized the map; his father had described it well in relaying many details from his being stationed there as an Army code-talker. The camp's name obviously hadn't changed since 1948 and he was certain there wouldn't be any road markers to make finding the hidden base in the hills any easier. His father believed, The Sign his son had seen showed that the camp's function had remained the same for all these years: The imprisonment of the Innocents and as for his son, faith and truth would reinforce him if faced with ominous difficulties.

Joshua father, like all the other men who had served there and were transferred elsewhere after their tour's completion or left the military service, believed the detainees had been later released or relocated as promised. Now, five decades later, he realized they all had been deliberately deceived. The spirits had exposed the hoax. Joshua felt certain that access to the base, or any observations points within a close proximity, would be challenged, therefore he would have to make his campsite at least a full mile from its solitary access point, the front gate. If discovered by the military, they would think he was just another foolish, old Indian wandering around in the desert searching for yesteryear.

After he had stopped driving, he unexpectedly remembered his grandfather foretelling him when he was a child his destiny would someday be interwoven with a tribe called the Omega. He had never heard that name before or since. Perplexing, his father hadn't mentioned this. "I wonder if that is what these strange, captured people are known as? I shall ask for enlightenment. Ha-ya, ha-ya, ha-ya."

Hamburg, Germany

Mason Armstead was ushered into a two-story, brownstone apartment located in an outlying suburb of the previously war-torn city, now beautifully restored, and situated one hundred and thirty miles northwest of Berlin. The journey had lasted seven hours and his pair of rescuers offered no explanations en route, merely saying all his questions and more, would be answered to his satisfaction soon after their arrival. Mason believed them. That overriding, mystifying, inherent-trusting feeling he experienced with the dying Omega on the train had resurfaced. Although two of his three encounters with these people had ended with violent confrontations, even death, his instincts were insisting a true revelation of the facts was indeed forthcoming.

"I trust you had a comfortable trip, Mister Armstead," greeted a slender man clad in a charcoal-grey suit standing in the living room. "Welcome, I'm John Smith," extending a handshake with a wry smile at the courier's reaction to the phony name. Before Mason could reply, "I understand your reluctance in accepting this name. Sorry, but I can't use my real one for matters of security. I have many relatives who could be exposed if you are recaptured. Eradication of entire families with impunity has already been reported. I'm sure you can appreciate my caution." His two escorts murmured their agreement. "Truly, the world's governments are poised on the brink of utter insanity."

"I am aware you are full of questions: the whys, wherefores and now that we have finally met face-to-face, the newest and most vexing question of all: Who _are_ these people? But I'm getting ahead of myself... first, and please excuse my deplorable manners, may I introduce your two rescuers, Enrique from Barcelona and Leland from Edinburgh?" A fourth person glided into the room carrying a tray of bread, fruit and a pitcher of distilled water. "And this vision of exquisite loveliness is Elke from Stockholm." Mason made a surprised evaluation of this Nordic goddess of five foot, eleven inches tall, straight, pure blond hair - slightly longer than shoulder length - and cobalt-blue eyes. John smiled at Armstead's reaction, "Relax, Mason, she creates the same striking effect on everyone. We all love Elke; each of us is boyishly captivated by her stunning beauty."

Armstead, admiring her delicate smooth, glowing skin and trim figure, had difficulty returning his attention to the speaker as he asked himself, "Is it possible she feels the same attraction to me? Or am I merely 'captivated by her beauty' also, as Mister Smith said?"

Mason grinned sheepishly and stammered, "Hi."

"Hi, yourself, Mister Armstead," as she offered a glass of refreshment.

Their fingers touched in the exchange and Mason received an ever-so-slight tingling on contact. His logic told him it must be the usual vexation, static electricity, while his heart wanted to say it was magical. "Thanks," her natural feminine scent wafted to him as soft perfume, further intoxicating his imagination.

"Were you able to rest on the way here, Mason?" asked John.

"Yes, I dozed off for about an hour."

"Dos... er, sorry, two," Enrique corrected himself - he didn't speak English very well.

"Yes, Enrique, two," commended John. "I wish I were as proficient in multiple languages as you are." He then addressed Armstead, "You must be well rested, being physically similar to us." Next, and speaking to all, "I'm sorry but there's been a change in our plans, we have to depart shortly. I'll brief Mason en route to the airport."

Armstead interrupted, "Wait a minute, I'm grateful for your getting me out of that nasty situation at the hotel but I'm sure it's all an unfortunate mistake. A quick phone call to Chad Parkerson at the U.S. State Department will rectify it."

"No, Mason," advised John. "It was Director Parkerson who ordered your apprehension, per Ambassador Rhinemann's inquiry." Armstead knit his brows in confusion.

"I see," Smith continued, "we'll slow down a moment here and clear up a few items... Let me ask you this, did those hard-nosed, ex-convicts give you a blood test? If so, did it turn blue?" He nodded, as if anticipating Mason's assent. "The blue results denote you are carrying a unique enzyme in your circulatory system found exclusively in the people the world governments have labeled the Omega. There is no mistake. If you tested positive then you are by blood, one of us - an Omega." He waited a moment then offered the now terminated, ex-U.S. State Department courier a snapshot.

Mason inspected the 3x5" Polaroid glossy of a middle-aged woman holding the Washington Post's front page near the camera lens - she looked very familiar and the newspaper's date appeared legible: Sept. 5, four days ago. "Where have I seen her before?" he wondered aloud. "She looks so familiar, I think I know her... but I can't quite place the face."

"That's because the lady has aged a few years since you last saw her and she has also changed her hair color and style. Her name is on the back."

Mason flipped it over - it read, Michelle LeBlanc. Turning it again, he scrutinized every detail, "Amazing, she bears an _uncanny_ resemblance to my deceased grandmother. She has the same name also. Is this a relative of mine, perhaps a distant aunt? Did my mother have a sister she didn't tell me about?"

"Logical reasoning Mason, but not the correct answer. This lady works for _us_ in the Federal Bureau of Investigation's medical records department, Washington D.C. In espionage jargon, she's what you would call a spy or a mole. Michelle data inputs medical files, including blood tests results, sent to the Bureau by public hospitals and clinics from all over the United States. By altering just one specific code as she transcribes the incoming data to the FBI's computer memory bank, she has hidden over a thousand people, effectively saving their lives - including yours. That's how you, and a handful of other Omega government employees, have thus far escaped detection. Michelle's changing an information box from a 'y' to an 'n'. I repeat, _our_ undercover agent, Missus LeBlanc, has been aiding the cause which is solely _survival_ , for over twenty years." Smith paused to let the information to sink in.

Mason's thought process was in conflict. Still unable to relinquish his mind set as the ever law-abiding, rule-following government employee, he was aghast at the admittance of private, confidential intrusions. "This is illegal! You're falsifying official government records! There must be another way to escape detection!" Then in the same breath and admitting, "All right, I don't understand. If what you say... someone's... or _our_ alleged blood type is different to some extent, so what? And, even more important, what _are_ you talking about, this saving of lives?"

John continued to explain, "Because, for the last fifty years the Omega have been sentenced to life imprisonment without a trial just for merely existing. And just recent, that long-standing edict has been altered to implement the immediate execution of any newly discovered persons. And... it gets worse. It also has been recently decided by the WSC, every person presently being held in their existing secret, illegal captivity sites - man, woman and child will be collectively exterminated on a soon-coming, designated date and time. Think of it, Mason! More than fifteen thousand lives will be snuffed out in the established concentration camps hidden worldwide from the public - effecting a simultaneous global genocide of who they believe to be a threatening race."

"And, the few Omega who are still free by having avoided detection thus-far will always have an immediate death warrant hanging over their heads," added Leland.

"Correct," continued Smith. "As for us, a hunted, make-shift resistance group, we have devised and will attempt a last-resort rescue attempt in two of the larger camps. Unfortunately, the date you were carrying in your briefcase would have informed us of how much time we have left for preparation. In our effort to obtain it beforehand, we had to make sure _you_ personally were selected to transport the document to Berlin. To achieve this, it had become necessary to take out of commission your department's top two couriers. Their proficiency with weapons and self-defense presented an extreme danger to all parties. Don't worry; neither of the other transporters were harmed. One, we infected with an innocuous virus. The second was led to wander aimlessly in a tropical rain forest with our guide who ensured his safety by carrying a hidden mobile telephone just in case a true emergency arose. Those two ventures went well, but the overall operation was carried out at a dreadful price: two of our friends failed and gave their lives attempting to obtain the information. Try to understand, Mister Armstead time is of the essence. The absolute best we can hope for is to perhaps 'break-out' two thousand people. Of that number, we estimate a minimum of at least fifteen hundred will be hunted down and killed within twenty-four hours by the pursuing militia. This would leave perhaps a mere few hundred souls alive to later find and join the other fragments who have been lucky enough so far to avoid detection. Rather a bleak picture isn't it?"

"But why?" questioned an anguished Mason. "Still, why would they pick _us_ out of all the minorities worldwide? Our _differences_ are not threatening - it doesn't make sense."

"Yes and no, Elke contributed. "Mankind has always feared - and destroyed what it doesn't understand. Over the centuries, alleged witches, seers, empathics... any person who possessed elevated abilities, they have died by the tens of thousands for being _different_. I know you also have some special abilities, we all do in varying degrees. John, here, is the most advanced, being of the third generation following a successful corrective operation."

"Operation? I've never had an operation, unless you count having a broken nose reset from a blocked soccer kick in college."

Smith continued, "Not _you_ , Mason. Michelle LeBlanc, formerly DeBlois... your grandmother - the woman in the picture."

Armstead again dumbly gazed at the photo, "This really can't be Grandma; she died when I was six years old. She...," hard, cold reality leaped out at him. Mason gasped for breath as he searched John's, Enrique's, Leland's and Elke's face for deception. Of course, there was none. It had to be true, all true, everything they'd said and it rocked him to the bone. All of a sudden he felt light-headed, "Grandma...?" Mason weakly dropped down on the couch, clasping the picture. He couldn't take his eyes off it. "She left the family to save me?"

"Yes, thanks to her dual citizenship: Canadian/ American and having an uncle in the personnel records division, she was able to obtain a job in a related department almost thirty years ago when you were a small child. We don't know how, but Michelle suspected selected individuals were being tricked or outright abducted and being taken to secret military camps worldwide. Our subsequent investigations over a period of time confirmed her fears, but this truth came too late to warn her daughter Irene and her husband - your father and mother. And, after a few additional years had passed, she took the opportunity to transfer to the position she's held to the present. Once there, she had access to old, confidential medical files and discovered the US government had in fact begun its illegal seizures and arrests back in 1948. Some of these first prisoners were not even Omega. The blood testing procedure hadn't been perfected back then, therefore hundreds of so-called, normal people over the years, who became detainees, died of natural causes, old age, sickness and 'other non-related issues' as a result of their ever on-going tests. Many simply vanished during the night, murdered and buried in unmarked graves to cover-up their experiments. The majority of the real Omega prisoners are still alive due to their exceptional life spans, like your own, which is why you appear so much younger than your age in comparison to the general populace. Being second generation by birth in the Omega bloodline you should live between one hundred and ten to twenty years. A third generation's life expectancy is one hundred and forty. Those of ten generations or more will live to the maximum of two hundred years. Barring accidents, both of your offspring will achieve one hundred and forty. Note: your mate - all Omega women, bear only two children- one of each sex and disease is not a limiting factor.

"Amazing... and the enzyme explains why I've never been sick!" declared Mason.

"Yes, plus a host of other advantageous capacities such as night vision, close proximity sensing, low body temperature, efficient food processing, to name a few gifts on a long individualized and variable list.

Mason marveled, "It's gratifying to find other people with characteristics similar to mine, but I still don't understand why I'm considered a threat. I wouldn't object to being studied for the benefit of mankind. I'd volunteer."

Smith nodded his agreement, "They know why we're different, Mason. It's due to the operation I mentioned earlier. Unfortunately, we're not looked upon as saviors of humanity - indeed, just the opposite! We've been chosen to be the sacrificial lambs and led to the slaughter. The world governments have voted to exterminate us as a show of force in a defensive ploy called Operation Omega established to resist the alien fleet gathering and hiding beneath the oceans, which ironically may not have any connection to our plight at all. But then again it may. I really don't know."

Mason's jaw dropped, "Pardon? Are you saying The Cold War is back on? Some country is threatening to start a Third World War using nuclear submarines?"

"Sorry, Mason," returned Smith, "I wish it were that simple. I said _alien_. Our intelligence network has learned there is a fleet of extraterrestrial spaceships hiding on the oceans floors all over the world. Alarming as it may sound, and it certainly is in its own right, this is not our immediate problem. We will tell you everything we know about them later."

John retrieved the photo from Mason's limp fingers, "Sorry, I have to destroy this." He lit a safety match, burned the picture and washed the ashes down the stainless steel kitchen sink. "If all goes well, you'll meet your grandmother in about a week. Possibly sooner, if you elect 'not' to join us in our rescue efforts since you know her whereabouts now. Rest assured you're free to choose. We won't coerce you to be with us or hinder your own personal pursuit - you've been warned of the dangers. However, I strongly recommend you at least accompany our party back to the States. It would be most difficult for you alone to evade the authorities here in Europe. Again, a word of caution: if you should decide to contact your grandmother, know that you are a shoot-on-sight, no trial, wanted man. So be careful how you establish a meeting - you could jeopardize Missus LeBlanc's life. Be advised, the National Security Council will eliminate you just as they did your father when he was searching for your mother. She was one of the many kidnapped under the pretense she had a contagious disease. Irene was taken to Camp Redwood Detention and Processing Center in California which is one of the bases we're planning to attack and with a bit of luck, liberate."

Mason suddenly remembered. "The gunman on the train... he said, "Your mother misses you". It didn't make sense at the time. I figured it was a dying man's ravings." Armstead felt as if the room were spinning, his whole life had turned upside down in the last twenty-four hours. He didn't know whether to laugh or cry for joy. Elke sat next to him and held his hand to calm him after his overwhelming emotional shock.

The three men conferred. "Do you think Michelle can hack into the WSC main frame to obtain the date?"

Leland acted as the spokesman for the pair of rescuers; Enrique understood but got tongue tied. "No, she only has a grade four security clearance; which limits her to low-level FBI menus and medical transcripts."

Leland inquired if there were any possible outside contacts to the various conference representatives.

"No, I'm afraid Armstead was our best chance. We'll have to pick our own date to attempt a rescue and hope we're not too late."

Enrique, engrossed in the gist of the conversation, forgot to speak in English and suggested, "Hoy en ocho... ay, perdonenme. Ah, sorry amigos, how about a week from today?"

Smith looked around the group, who were all in agreement and consented. "First of all, I have to call, Victor, our American coordinator from a safe phone."

Mason, frowning as if he were concentrating on making a connection with some half-remembered information, unexpectedly galvanized in protest, "No, no. That would be too late!"

All eyes centered on him, silently wanting... demanding an explanation for his outburst. His voice shaking as he announced, "I think I know the date... No, I'm _sure_ I know the date! I heard it on the train when Talbert opened my case and read the document aloud. September thirteeth, zero six hundred, Zulu. They're going to enact their plan on September thirteenth at six in the morning... beginning at Camp Redwood. Where my _mother_ is being held..." His voice trailed off, "A week from now would be too late..."

Leland verified his watch calendar, "In four days? Redwood is halfway around the world! What on earth can we possibly do in four short days?"

Smith answered, "Our best, Leland, even if it comes down to storming the perimeter fence with in stick of dynamite in my teeth. We must try!" The three men joined hands, placing one over the other; Elke clasped the top and bottom, "Freedom! Libertad!"

Mason remained seated, mute. These people are committing themselves to a suicide mission. He realized his life's safe foundation had shifted under his feet and placed him across an invisible line into unknown territory with new loyalties. Their plight, the _Omega_ , had now become his own.

U.S.S. Constellation, ninety miles southwest of San Francisco

Three Super Tomcat fighter jets were returning from a reconnaissance and training exercise along the coast of central California. Bird Dawg One, flown by a Navy commander, had been given clearance for the trio of front line attack aircraft to land on the nuclear carrier's flight deck. Being the flight leader and instructor, he would follow them each in and proficiency grade number's Two and Three, a lieutenant and a lieutenant jg (junior grade) - both recently assigned to Pacific Fleet Naval Operations. Their mission tonight was twofold: first to assist the Coast Guard in identifying a rust bucket freighter of undetermined nationality steaming north by performing a low-level, fly-by while utilizing their Night Owl infrared scopes and secondly, to practice night-time carrier landings and aborts. The first operation had been completed satisfactorily. In their slash-shaped (/) formation cruising at 55,000 feet, 600 air knots (700 m.p.h.) they were returning to the carrier to commence phase two. The pilots could clearly discern San Fran's hazy lights far off portside. The ocean below loomed dull black; fog had enveloped the harbor and most of the city, dissipating two miles seaward.

A radio call interrupted a verbal checklist the commander had been giving his two wingmen, "Bird Dawg One, this is Home Run. We have two bogeys in your sector. Do you read?"

"I read you, Home Run," as the leader scanned his radar screen - it displayed blank. He checked with his wingmen, "Two, Three, I'm clear, do you see any bogeys?"

"Negative," returned Two. "I have a clean screen."

"I am negative also," from Three."

The flight leader reported back, "Home Run, this is Bird Dawg One, we have negative readings on bogeys, over."

"Stand by, Dawgs," as the Flight Control began analyzing why the Tomcat's radar had no echoes. The carrier had a far greater sweep, but their instruments indicated the bogeys were less than fifty miles from the squadron - well within the fighter's scanner range. The Signal Officer determined the problem and directed the jets to get their noses up, "Bird Dawg One, bogeys are at ninety thousand, forty miles, one o' clock."

The Commander wondered, "Ninety K? What are we dealing with? High altitude spy planes?" The trio began climbing at one o'clock and when they reached twenty miles, 111,000 feet, the two blips edged onto the top of their scopes. "Home Run, we have the bogeys on screen. Going in for a look-see."

The lieutenant on his starboard side remarked, "Looks like they're coming down, sir."

"I roger that," agreed Dawg Three in his Tennessee drawl. "Real quick-like."

"Dawg squadron, use caution, we're receiving large echoes," advised Flight Control, "It could be a twin pack," referring to two tight formations of multiple aircraft.

"Roger, Home Run." Then the leader instructed, "Fan out boys. Pass wide; I'll split the middle. Get ready to break and hustle." The three supersonic fighter jets reduced speed to 500 knots, swept upward and opened a mile gap between each other as they closed on the two targets. Fifteen miles: the flight leader's eyes were locked on his screen as he reported, "Home Run, I still have a solid, twin pack with no separation."

The lieutenant jg took a quick peak up from his instruments. He gasped, then shouted, "Commander! Twelve o'clock. Break off!"

"What?" the Commander's head popped up.

Two, giant silver starcruisers, dropping like rocks, were on a collision course with the Navy interceptors.

Bird Dawg Three veered hard right, and streaked away with his wing tip pointed vertical to the ocean. Number Two pulled straight up in an eight G vertical climb - the pilot was mashed into his cockpit seat, almost losing consciousness. Bird Dawg One reacted too late. His jet was off center and couldn't split the spaceships without crashing into one of their sides. The Commander rammed the stick forward, his flaps snapped downward. He tried to dive under the right plummeting metallic ball. "Can't make it!" The starship's bulk filled his cockpit window, certain death appeared imminent. In a split second he would be smashed to bits against the alien's hull. He braced himself, gritted his teeth and uttered a primal growl, "Arrgh!" which quickly changed to silent, eye-popping amazement. Miraculously, it seemed the starcruiser slowed a fraction, just enough to allow the Navy jet to skim beneath it.

The shaken pilots quickly recovered from their initial shock and commenced to circle back. Their maneuvers resembled those of tiny fireflies buzzing twin silver neon lights. The aviators abandoned flying solely by their sophisticated instruments - they could easily discern the giant, half-mile wide spheres gleaming in the moon light. One of the spaceships continued its steady descent while the other - the Commander's near miss, came to a halt and hovered at seventy thousand feet.

The flight leader, a veteran combat pilot, quickly reacted and barked, "Home Run, this is Bird Dawg One. The bogeys are not a cluster. We have two UFO's, and these babies are each bigger than ten battleships put together! I repeat: unidentified flying objects! We have a clear, unobstructed visual. Do you read?"

"Affirmative, stand by." A few moments passed, "Bird Dog One, can you get footage?"

"Roger that. Bogey Alpha is stationary, a sitting duck and so bright I don't need infrared." He slowed his jet to its minimum speed, a hundred and forty knots, and flew straight at it from ten miles incoming, "There are no markings or protrusions; it resembles a giant steel ball bearing." Leveled and centered, "Activating camcorder, now."

The lieutenant interrupted, "Commander, the second one is still dropping."

"Roger, let's call her Beta. You pursue it. I'm lined up on Alpha. See if you can get some pix for the inquiring minds back home."

Number Two broke his circling pattern and went into a wide spiraling dive to observe and be able to take evasive action if necessary.

"Commander," hailed number Three. "Our bogey, Alpha is on the move again, it's drifting at three o'clock."

"Affirmative, stay with me, cover its six and don't get in the damn thing's way," ordered the squadron leader.

"Roger that, One," as the spaceship drifted horizontal to the west. It abruptly accelerated, achieving a speed of a thousand mph in less than five seconds.

"Holy cow! Alpha's got some horses under the hood," jabbered number Three.

"Let's go get 'er," directed Bird Dawg One and both jockeys put the petal to the metal by kicking in their super-charged afterburners. They closed within ten miles after thirty seconds, "This is close enough," declared the Commander. "Those damn things can stop on a dime and we can't."

"Home Run, we're pursuing bogey Alpha, please advise."

"Stay close, how's your fuel?"

"Less than one-quarter to the big red E, thirty seconds more on the 'afters' and we'll have to pack it in."

"Hey, check this out," blurted number Three. The starcruiser had taken a ninety degree turn to six o'clock.

"I've got him," returned number One. "Closing," as he cut off the angle and realigned his camera sight. "Watch the birdie and say cheese, big guy," as he zeroed in.

The spaceship hurdled toward the black waters below with the two Tomcats racing down in hot pursuit.

"Twelve thousand... nine thousand... six... the critter better put on the brakes purty-dang soon," assessed the Tennessee pilot.

"Roger that, Three, level out," ordered the Commander. "If she hits she'll make a two thousand foot high cannon ball splash."

"What's your status, Bird Dawg One?" requested the aircraft carrier.

"Looks like Alpha gonna Deep-six, Home Run," reported the squadron leader.

"Possible tidal wave; alert local shipping," added number Three.

The two Navy jets nosed up to circle at five thousand feet; the pilot's eyes were glued on the starcrusier, still falling at full bore toward the ocean.

"There she goes!" exclaimed number Three as the alien craft touched the surface. After an uncomfortable short period of time, "What happened? Did you see that, Commander?"

"I sure did, but I don't believe it."

"Status, Bird Dawg One," crackled the ship's radio room. "We've lost your bogey."

"Roger that, Home Run. The Bogey made a controlled crash-dive. It melted into the water like an Olympic gold medal diver. No splash, not even a ripple."

Tennessee initiated a circle down, "Goin' in for a closer look, sir."

"Roger, Three. But don't pass directly over it. She may bounce back up."

The lieutenant jg made a couple of tight circles, He reported, "Nothing happening, Boss, absolutely nothing. Can you imagine how many kilotons that puppy must have weighed?"

"No idea, maybe it was filled with air and popped like a balloon on contact."

"No way, sir. I saw the water cover it."

"Bird Dawg one, sit tight," ordered Home Run. "Relief is on the way. Verify your coordinates."

Two Hornets roared off the carrier deck toward the northwest to relieve the on-site, near empty Tomcats. An additional two more jets were revving their engines, preparing for immediate take-off to relieve Bird Dawg Two. Nearby, a Navy Seal chopper crew scrambled. Their assignment was to mark the area of the UFO splash and drop underwater reconnaissance vehicles at daybreak. A deep-water submarine was also being dispatched from San Diego.

The lieutenant, Dawg Two, had been following bogey Beta, which had descended to one thousand feet and cruised landward at 200 knots. The starcruiser halted twenty miles offshore, and projected a blue shaft of light which encircled a two-mast, schooner drifting below. There was no movement onboard; it appeared abandoned. The beam tightened, silvery flecks whirled within a deep indigo-blue luminescent tunnel. The Tomcat pilot did a double take when he saw an object ooze through the hull of the spaceship in slow motion. He made another pass, but couldn't quite identify its hazy shape. He reported his situation to Home Run and turned about for a third fly-by. Bird Dawg Two, this time, was able to distinguish the details. The figure, with no visible means of support, floating down inside the swirling, eerie beam of light, appeared to be that of a man! Within two minutes the airborne body had been gently deposited on the schooner's deck and the ray extinguished. The lieutenant continued circling and provided a running dialogue to the carrier. His Night Owl was activated and he observed the man make a gesture - it seemed to be a wave or possibly an informal salute directed toward the sphere. The two Hornets, sent in relief, bolted overhead as the spaceship began to rise. Bird Dog Two had been ordered to return. The starcruiser streaked upward with one Hornet chasing it, to no avail, the second jet stayed with the schooner. Relief Hornet One returned and the UFO moved off the Constellation's radar screen, disappearing a hundred miles up into space in less than ten seconds.

Daybreak, twenty-five miles southwest of San Francisco

The Coast Guard cutter, Dauntless and a carrier helicopter gunship were holding the American schooner in check at a thousand yards. The single, frustrated sailor aboard leaned his elbows on the wooden railing and awaited a boarding by the authorities for questioning or hazard testing - he suspected they feared radioactivity had been induced from the spaceship. Then again, he wasn't surprised by the delay in the least, having served two years in the Navy. He knew the ship's captain needed higher authorization for anything more than a routine butt scratch, and this sure enough qualified. Radio communication with the cutter proved fruitless, the USCG had ordered him to stand-fast until further notice. No other information had been offered. The mariner, waiting in a soft seaward drift for five hours, felt fatigued. The Coast Guard personnel noticed the civilian sailor on occasion massaged his right side and wondered if he'd been injured. At 0610, under orders from the World Security Council, two air-to-sea Sidewinder missiles fired from attacking Constellation Tomcats, blasted the schooner into a splintering, fiery ball.

The gauntlet had been thrown down!!!

0800: the site of bogey Alpha's splashdown.

Three sub-killer class destroyers, one nuclear sub and four frigates had not been able to locate the sunken starcruiser resting six thousand feet below on the ocean's floor. The Chief of Naval Operations rationalized the spaceship had either slid off at an angle after its submersion then powered away undersea or had hunkered down in a deep-water subterranean fault -located 10,000 feet or more below.

In contrast, the WSC believed the alien craft lay silent on the bottom, hidden where it made its dive and was operating a cloaking device. The reason the WSC had analyzed the situation differently than the Navy was based on the persuasive opinion of the newly appointed Acting Deputy Chairman, Ito Yamoto, who was also responsible for the schooner being destroyed - he had convinced them this was one of the ways the aliens were planting enemy spies in Earth's infrastructure. Although, no one in the U.S. Naval chain of command for combat operations had yet heard of Yamoto or was aware of his low rank, they obeyed the orders from 'the top'. Showing therefore, the Japanese Major had attained upper power control and subsequently commanded the U. S. Secretary of the Navy to withdraw all vessels from the UFO's entry point and establish a thirty mile, secure, circular blockade. At 1200 hours, after all commercial and pleasure craft had been escorted out of the area, and with reluctant Presidential approval, a Stealth bomber was dispatched from nearby Vandenburg Air Force Base. The coal-black, Mantra ray shaped fighter-bomber released a tactical/low yield, three megaton atomic bomb set to trigger at minus five thousand feet below sea level. It failed to detonate. The starship, detecting the threat, had neutralized its volatile core.

Subsequent Earth military actions were curtailed pending further evaluation.

# Chapter Eight

### Let's play hardball

The United Nations Building, New York City

Super adrenalin rush! Raw power surged through Yamoto's veins as he terminated his phone call to the President of the United States requesting a nuclear strike on the submerged alien starship. Ito was bursting with pride and self-importance. "This is my destiny! Supreme leadership and eternal honor shall be bestowed upon me. Yes, yes, the entire world's governance will be demanded of me! - especially after I eradicate the mutant subhuman Omega and enact my perfect plan for Earth's global defense system. Hai! Only three short days until the implementation of Phase Two: The purification of our species. I shall send a clear message to those intergalactic meddlers that _this_ planet will not tolerate their genetic experimentation. Phase One, the fifty year project of capturing and incommunicado incarceration of the despicable Omega went reasonably well. I credit my predecessors for their past efforts. After all, a great leader must acknowledge and reward good performance by his underlings occasionally. It cultivates loyalty. Regretfully, the down-side of having power is being saddled by morons like Guevara. That fat, incompetent slob deserves less than nothing, and he will receive his due. Thankfully, his weak mind and failures are behind me and now finally, the stage is set for my quick, decisive action - efficient and unyielding."

A momentary thin-lipped, self-satisfied smirk crossed his face. "I must pray again tonight, thanking my honorable ancestors for guiding me in driving the despicable Latin pig back to his sweltering Argentinian sty. Ha, the pompous General is seeking his country's presidency. What a farce! And he thought I was unaware of his desires. Stupid fool! How dare he patronize me? I'll teach him to look down his bulbous nose at a superior person. By the first of the year, he'll be driven in disgrace from that den of decadent opulence he calls home. I shall command it!"

The hour had become late. This was of no importance to Yamoto who had taken up residence within the complex. He had no time clock, working in the saddle, twenty-four/seven. His old office had been converted into sleeping quarters. A woven floor mat with a neck cushion lie centered in an austere room with barren walls. Every extraneous article had been removed except for a small wooden desk with a reading light, to jot down notes of inspired messages received while partaking of his required rest allotment.

The day had been marked with great fruition: the destruction of the schooner -why bother to transport and detain prisoners when Phase Two has become so near to activation? Clearly, a waste of time and resources. Also, his executive directive for all new Omega apprehended to be liquidated ASAP by their own NSC equivalency (after a short intense interrogation, of course) had been implemented satisfactorily. He reviewed a twice-daily update report: Seven terminations worldwide in the last forty-eight hours. "Excellent!" The last item contained an entry concerning a man being held in Langley, Virginia - Ted - no last name ascertained as yet. This is an interesting commentary: The U.S. NSC suspects this individual may know the identity of a mole who has been vexing them and the FBI for years. The Japanese major pressed the intercom and became connected to one of a pool of secretaries who now covered his office functions around the clock.

"Sir?"

"Get me the American Secretary of State, Washington." Ito had ceased wearing his uniform in order to hide his low rank and had directed his staff to stop addressing him as Major. They had been instructed to use Mister instead and respond likewise for all outside communications.

"Yes, Mister Yamoto, I'll ring you when I have him on the line, sir."

Ito felt disdainful of the Americans, with their bleeding hearts... their civil liberties activists would never allow the extraction of information expeditiously. Criminals had more rights than the citizens! I will order the U.S. Secretary to direct his operatives to commence immediate chemical injections. There is no need to be concerned about mind-altering permanent brain damage. People such as that enemy agent Ted become a person-presumed-deceased as soon as they are apprehended.

'Buzz'. "Hai?"

"Sorry to disturb you, sir. Admiral Wysocki and Coordinator Taylor are on their way here. They expect to arrive within the hour."

He barked a short, crisp, "Why?" while thinking, "Both of them?" His hand grew tight around the receiver. "They should be at their desks discharging their duties not running about. Disciplinary measures may be in order!"

She continued, "Taylor said Hubble Four has made a startling discovery. They want to present it to you first-hand."

"A discovery? Of what nature?"

"Something called a worm hole."

He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, "Inform me when the American Secretary is on the line," and slammed the phone down.

Yamoto ripped a fresh fax out of an interoffice courier's hand; snapped his head sharply in dismissal and rubbed the paper edges so roughly it burned the flesh of his thumbs. His anger flared, anew. To him, the top two administrators at the Telescope Center had abandoned their post to come and tickle his ears regarding a worthless _worm hole_! He steamed within, "Do they mock me? Do they think that I - no, _all_ Japanese people are ignorant? If this were a declared war they'd be shot!" Smacking his palm on the desk top, he fed on his agitation. "Am I the only person involved who realizes this _is_ War! And, since it is my responsibility alone to lead the defense of this planet, I must have complete allegiance and strict adherence to my orders. Nothing else is acceptable. After Phase Two, I shall have the Admiral demoted and retired. My list of incompetents to purge grows daily."

He calmed himself by reciting a traditional Japanese haikku before reading the messenger's bulletin. He reread it a second time, his tiny coal-black eyes crinkled in delight. Yamoto uncharacteristically laughed aloud, "Hai!" It stated that Japanese undercover informants living in the rural Chinese countryside reported the Red Army had rounded up everyone said to be over eighty years of age in all their outlying provinces and placed them in processing camps. Since there wasn't sufficient Omega blood testing serum available, the authorities were systematically executing thousands with a gunshot to the back of the head. "The loathsome Chinese, their solutions are always the same. Good riddance to them. We should have conquered and subjected those contemptible swine a thousand years ago. Barbarians!"

Flagship Aurora-17 taxied toward Gateway AC-Ess (Alpha Centauri - Earth solar system), eighty thousand kilometers (5200 mi) out in space and closing. The advance unmanned recon probe had performed its task successfully. After reporting its findings, it had been retrieved and reloaded in its launching tube. The probe's function was to check transport continuity, receive and verify all clear signals from the robot sweepers at the far end and then return to the original entry point. There were two sweepers located at every magnetic tunnel portal to keep the landing zones clear of flotsam which sporadically drifts across the flight paths. Spacecraft exit so fast their scanners are blind until the ship's speed is reduced below sub-light, 186,000 mps, the ultimate for navigational flash-back imaging. The greatest danger known in deep space travel was striking an object of heavier atomic weight than your own hull composition before being able to activate your ion defectors. Super dense substances/bodies, regardless of their small size, would punch a hole through a vessel before it could detect and initiate evasive action or neutralize the threat with an auto-fired, molecular disrupter.

"Magnesync, 217 negarads." The starcruiser's mass had matched the negative magnetic polarization strength of the gateway.

"Proceed."

The fleet's flagship, although five times larger than the standard cruiser class vessel, was dwarfed as it eased into the 5,046 mile wide entranceway. Each tunnel, unique unto itself, varied in circumference, length, magnetic charge and configuration. They were atomically similar to magnets with accessible hole/points at each end of its opposite polarity. Some resembled long, curly hairs, others - stubby whiskers. The shortest stretched longer than a trillion Earth miles. The ship halted dead center of the negative entrance way and ran a series of self-checks to verify all systems were Go.

"Centroidal ionized, the posicore is maxicharged and stable. All redundant emergency regenerator and capacirator cells are full."

"Leakage regulator control?"

"Primed and on-line."

The Captain of the Vessel sensed unity and readiness from his fellow eight crew members on the Bridge. A silent telepathic message from the Fleet Advisor stationed to his rear encouraged his actions. He ordered, "Engage."

The ship inched forward, using impulse power to penetrate the conical threshold of the portal. Now, situated on the tunnel drop-side, the flagship shut off auxiliary propulsion and began momentum as the magnicharge regulator controlled a slow leak of negative ions into the craft's outer force field, creating repulsion away from the negative pole of the black hole. The bridge lighting dimmed to near-total darkness, accentuating the soft multicolored glow of control panel indicators as the ship's transparent outside wall became opaque to protect the crew's eyes from the oncoming laser beams. Their irises adjusted quickly, similar to most nocturnal creatures. The Navigation Officer read the polarization readings from his pale green, radiating display screen. "Two hundred negarads," he announced as the vessel increased its thrust away from the entranceway. The steady induction of negative ions instantly forced them through the first third of the magnetic straw at an incalculable speed.

"One hundred negarads." No sensation of motion was felt as they approached the center's zero charge of the colossal hair-shaped transport tunnel where the crew now had started tapering the ion input. From this point on, the positive pole would be sucking or drawing the negative charged hull toward it, the closure responded in proportion to the diminishing gap. "Zero negarads, reducing flow." Thus, in only a matter of minutes the spacecraft had been expelled through the opposite end of the portal, covering a distance which would normally take a hundred lifetimes, even their own, travelling at light-speed.

"Tunnel warp complete, activating inverter thrusters," reported Engineering. "Thrusters on line. Reversing charge. Sublight velocity achieved."

"Activate all scanners," directed the Captain.

"SRS (short range scanners) indicated a clear field." A moment later, "LRS (long) detect no obstructions."

"Screen down," and the entire wall became transparent while the defensive force field remained intact. "Contact the fleet and obtain a status."

Pluto flashed by as the mammoth sphere streaked across the planetary orbits of this tiny solar system. "Aurora Five reports all starcruisers are deployed and on alert beneath Earth's oceans."

After a hushed conference with the Feet Advisor, the crew manning their stations heard the Captain's order, "Arm all weapons systems."

"Wysocki, Taylor!" Yamoto grated into the phone, "I have been informed you were en route here _yesterday_ and in addition to your inexcusable tardiness I have yet to receive a report from your group in over twelve hours." Cutting off any response from the far end, "And henceforth address me as _Mister_ , not Major." After more ranting, he finally listened and put his anger in check as he gave attention to the explanation for their delay. Paul presented an abbreviated version of the prior searches for the tenth planet and the newly discovered Worm hole beyond Pluto, which was generating a supercharged positive magnetic field. Ito's initial reaction was, "So what?" but he held his tongue. As they continued, the pieces fell in place: the Hubbles, Orion Nebula, a possible gateway to a space warp, the computer analysis of a speck which appeared to have passed through or travelled adjacent to the hole... And finally, another spaceship detected, much larger than the one the Russians previously observed!

This news prompted an excited outburst, "Where?"

"The new UFO is circling our moon in an exposed elliptical pattern. I suspect it is watching us or waiting for something, perhaps a go-ahead signal from an Earth-based sister ship," speculated Taylor.

Acting in uncharacteristic behavior, Yamoto dropped the phone and scurried to a window, as if he might actually see the spacecraft from his Earth-side position, but alas the moon was not visible. Disappointed, he returned and asked, "Where is the moon in relation to us now?"

"Beyond the eastern horizon," Wysocki informed.

Ito dismissed his own foolishness as his mind raced in high gear, "Thank you, _gentlemen_. Advise me personally the instant it changes position, and I mean the very instant." And then added, "However, the both of you have been negligent by withholding vital information during the last twelve hours. This is totally unacceptable! Consider this your first and last warning."

Vorkuta, Russia

National Defense Missile Base

Silo No. 6 blasted open like a portal from Hell being instantaneously revealed. An eerie orange glow bathed the countryside as a dull grey metal cone materialized within the billowing tower of smoke and burnt solid rocket fuel residue. A giant ICBM rose, ever so slow, fighting the gravitational pull of the beloved Rodina (Homeland), to keep it from leaving. The radar dishes surrounding Russia's most secure, hardened missile site buried at the foot the Ural Mountains tilted backward as they tracked a Viktur/8 monster of destruction. Yellow flames spit four hundred meters behind, illuminating a barren wasteland and exposing two other silos with their blast doors yawning wide. The other intercontinental ballistic missiles within them were also armed and ready to fly, fueled and waiting only for the touch of another button.

From the launch control command bunker an anxious crew, on combat alert for the last twenty hours, monitored their instruments and watched the dwindling fiery dot melting into the cold, black sky. The vibrations and roar subsided. All faces were etched with deep concern and burning questions. "Were we tricked into launching a first strike attack by some crazed, war-mongering despot in Moscow? Were the Americans really informed of our launch in advance? Or will they in innocence misinterpret our fully armed nuclear MIRV (multiple independently targeted reentry vehicle) equipped with eight (8), ninety-megaton warheads, as an overt act of war?"

Only the Kremlin and the Russian Premier knew that the three ICBM's had been remotely reprogramed and secretly retrofitted with auxiliary boosters, making them capable of travelling into space to discharge their payloads in an eight-hundred kilometer (520 mi) cluster pattern before detonation.

The ground crew watched, unaware of the new flight plan which could send all three missiles three hundred miles straight up instead of across the European continent, and of their warheads being programed to explode in unison to create a nightmarish wreath of fire and radiation betwixt Earth and the bright innocent moon hanging almost directly overhead.

Aboard the International Space Station (ISS)

"Missile launch!" shouted Konstantin into the station's intercom amid flashing red lights and audible interrupted bursts of ringing. His comrades, Yuri and Grigori diverted their attention from the moon they had been photographing with a long-range telescopic camera for the last twelve hours. Neither the ISS or Russian, nor any of the American space stations orbiting on the other side of Earth were equipped with military weapons. All were outfitted with radar dishes and infrared heat detectors to locate enemy actions such as large troop movements or unannounced missile launches.

"Stay with the moon UFO," ordered the Colonel. "I'll check with Konstantin."

"Yes, sir. Please hurry back if it's a false alarm," Grigori requested. "Do you remember how fast the other three were? I have a gut feeling _this_ moon bogey is about to do something soon." The man's assessment was dead-right; just as soon as Yuri had left him the flagship starcruiser broke its orbit around the moon and looped into a flight path flying directly toward Earth at 88.5 thousand kps. If it didn't deviate from its assumed route, it would pass within four hundred miles of their platform which would afford an excellent opportunity for the ISS to gather more data and up-close detailed photos before another possible repeat disappearance upon making contact with the planet's stratosphere as the first three had seemed to experience.

"Right... it's probably a false alarm," Yuri whispered to himself as he headed for the level of Konstantin's station. He arrived and glanced out a porthole. The Eurasian continent was visible and their instruments verified it wasn't a sneak attack from the United States. "Had it really been an unannounced launch?"

"Yes, sir. I checked the schedule."

"From where?"

"You're not going to believe this. Vorkuta."

"What? One of our own sites and National Defense didn't update our detector data base? Someone's going to be in hot water for this. I'll contact Mission Control." Judging it to be another routine test shot, he perfunctorily questioned, "What's the missile's trajectory?" while typing in an encoded message requesting an explanation. "We must clear this up quickly. I need to return to the forward cameras; Grigori believes the moon UFO is about to move. If so, it could be upon us within ten minutes.

"The missile's deviant direction is zero degrees from launch," informed Konstantin.

"Pardon? Repeat, please."

"Zero degrees. It's coming straight up at _us_."

The commander frowned, "I swear, a relief ship is being deployed and we weren't even notified. What's going on down there? Our communication with Control is becoming worse and worse... I wonder if the Americans suffer similar confusions?"

"I don't believe it's a relief ship, sir. The computer's vdt (video display terminal) drew an image of a Viktur ICBM."

"A Viktur? Let me see that. Wait a minute, you're right... it couldn't be a relief ship. Vorkuta doesn't have above ground launch facilities; it's a hardened first-strike site. What is going on down there?" He established contact with Roskosmos, listened attentively, contributed a few short, dis-hearted acknowledgments and signed off.

Ashen and downcast, "You were correct, it's a Viktur eight and there wasn't a data input error. They didn't have enough time to update our data base so it wouldn't set off an alarm." Pausing, "I wish they had." He pressed the intercom, "Grigori, join us please."

His subordinate answered, "Sir? The moon UFO has moved. It is almost upon us."

"Now, Grigori. The UFO's not our concern any longer."

Confused and irritated the OSE joined the pair. "Commander, I must protest. This is a unique opportunity. Why did...?"

Yuri held up a restraining hand and proceeded to relay Mission Control's message to his comrades.

Grigori listened, stunned and mute as Konstantin soon wailed, "I don't want to be a State hero and receive another worthless medal, especially posthumously! This is a research and observation station, not a military installation. What can we do? We have no weapons... not even for defense!"

"Precisely..." mumbled Grigori. "If we had rockets or lasers... maybe we could..."

"I can't believe it," whispered Konstantin.

Yuri explained, "The bottom line is we are soldiers, my friends, soldiers in the wrong place at the wrong time. Patriots trapped in Harm's Way through no fault of our own." Adding morosely, "The Kremlin says our families will be well taken care of." As a small consolation and not believing a word of it, "Isn't that what it's all about?"

Excuse me, _sirs_ ," spat the Telemetry Technician, "I'm going to my quarters. I have some vodka there."

Bring back three cups," called Yuri.

"Nyet!" growled Konstantin. "There's not enough time. I'm going to down the whole bottle in one swallow. I will feel nothing, just as Moscow feels nothing for me. You two _officers_ can remain here and fantasize about the glorious State funeral to be held in our honor. I say, Bah, to hell with those peasant cowards!" As he departed and out of earshot, he castigated the choices he had made in the past and current situation, "My former comrades, my friends, warned me not to volunteer for a mission where I'm the only enlisted man. Stupid me!"

The two remaining cosmonauts stood, dejected, facing the earth-side observation window. "So, we will be declared casualties of war," surmised Grigori. "I didn't even know we _were_ at war."

"Nor I," agreed Yuri.

A half-hearted, pleading look at the Colonel, "Do you think we have a chance? Could their calculations be in error?" questioned the Captain.

"I'm afraid not. Our orbit will carry us well within the blast zone... Eight hydrogen bombs will explode simultaneously within a hundred kilometers (62 mi.) of us. Survival is out of the question, my friend. Sorry..." Their ingrained Russian fatalistic attitude had risen within to passively accept your fate when faced with eminent death.

"So, it's our space station in exchange for an alien UFO? Our government agreed to this?"

"Da, that's exactly what Roskosmos Mission Control said. I quote: "The Premier has consented to the World Security Council's request."

Grigori sighed, "Well, I guess this is the end of the mission." He embraced his superior officer, "I'm going to my quarters. How long do we have... comrade?"

"Any minute now." His fellow crew member departed, Yuri - with typical Russian fatalism, arms folded, faced the Rodina and waited...

Two minutes, forty-five seconds later:

The Russian Viktur/8 ICBM flew at a snail's pace of 900 km/hr toward the advancing giant alien vessel speeding at a hundred times greater velocity. A series of 'Poofs', soundless in space's vacuum, appeared as the guided missile deployed its atomic warheads in a circular pattern. Yuri, a hundred miles to the left, observed the operation on his radar screen, looked up and blew a kiss to his wife and two sons in Saint Petersburg.

A blinding flash! Eight intermingled horrendous explosions formed a dazzling ring of white-hot fire for an instant before blending together and expanding outward. A perfect shot/ perfect placement! It was too late for the starcruiser to take evasive action. The flagship Aurora passed into a nova of nuclear destruction and disappeared. There was no failed to detonate this time - the invaders were to experience firsthand Earth's defensive strength!

The cosmonaut reflexively jerked his head back from the mind-numbing detonation, slapped his hands across his face, palms pressing hard against his blinded eyes. Searing pain: burnt optic nerves, "Yaaa..!" The Russian noncombatant/research space station was ripped sheds by the thermonuclear shock wave; its remains - melted slag and flaming embers were blasted into deep space before Yuri's lungs fully expelled his primal death scream.

These signs and portents in the sky did not go unobserved. They were received by some as joyous tidings and by others as evidence of the Judgment Day. In California, the Sci-Fi lunatic fringe groups were dancing on the roof-tops... in Australia the Bushmen were hunkered-down in caves. Individual sects, religious groups - indeed entire cultures - were moving as mindless automatons, impelled by their instincts and age-old teachings: reacting to the manifestations of great changes drawing nigh.

The Bakhtaran to Bagdad highway

It was hot. But then it was always hot traveling on the treeless open roads of the Middle East. Nary a cloud in sight, unrelenting, burning sun: the norm especially for this particular stretch of arid, near-desert wasteland.

Mehrdad Iravani rode in the flatbed of his uncle's twenty-two year old Ford pickup truck - actual mileage unknown, its odometer had long since expired at 178,000 miles. Four hours ago, together with his mother, father and all the rest of his clan, they crossed the dreaded Iran/Iraq border. The only so-called highway (a paved road) to their destination had become much rougher than expected. An uneven patchwork of make-shift repairs to cover the bomb and mortar craters created from so many years of fighting had taken their toll - blowing multi-scores of balding tires which resulted in even more slow-downs. Pushing the disabled vehicles to the side or off the road to perhaps await repairs and aid the flow of traffic had never entered the minds of these single-focused pilgrims.

Iravani's group consisted of three motorized conveyances, all towing overloaded provisions carts with three or four family members perched precariously atop each. Now at walk speed, the lead elements of the caravan passed two remaining flabbergasted Iraqi border guards who offered no resistance to the approaching entourage. Per the established custom, Iravani's clan had paid in advance the required bribe for their passage and flashed the secret signal as they approached. Even so, imagine the sentries' surprise when they scanned the terrain toward Iran and beheld a line of migrants as far as the eye could see. In fact, it extended further, much further - over three hundred miles, stretching clear back to Tehran - an onslaught of 400,000 faithful Muslims were snaking forward on their final pilgrimage to Mecca, Saudi Arabia... and there were millions more still making preparations to evacuate the Iranian capital and its surrounding areas. The four other border guards stationed there had already fled in a half-track to Bagdad after radioing in the situation. The last two had remained out of fascination and awe and assumed they would be safe since showing they would not be demanding further illegal payoffs. Even so, the Iraqi hiding in their mud-caked hut knew for certain this mass of frenzied pilgrims would be most happy to overrun and tear them to shreds if provoked.

Mehrdad's family had been fortunate being positioned only one mile back from the front of the line, primarily because his relatives had quickly believed his Russian Embassy incident and gathered their essentials as fast as they could. In spite of the laden carts, everyone had traveled light. It hadn't been necessary to pack everything they owned or even as much as the usual provisions carried on previous religious treks. No one anticipated needing more than what the initial trip required because they weren't planning on returning or even staying on Earth much longer. Yes, indeed! Salvation was at hand! Mohammed would descend in a cloud of glory as he foretold, to lead the Faithful to their new kingdom in Paradise. They were further assured by his uncle, Sai'd, the leader of their procession, who had confirmed the information by going to his community mosque and questioning the resident iman who knew the great Ayatollah's brother. He said, "It is true!" When the ring of fire, Mohammed's chariot, appeared in the sky (the Viktur/8 ICBM), it was the sign they had been waiting for. The local religious leader himself had been rushing to prepare his own family's journey to Mecca. The news spread like wildfire; the only significant question presented was whether or not all the Faithfull could arrive in time to observe the beloved Prophet make his descent. Of course if some were late they would be forgiven of their sins also. Mohammed had promised he would remain on earth until he had gathered all the Faithful and witnessed the jihad - the wholesale slaughter of the heathen, unrepentant infidels by God's angels. The iman implored his uncle to hurry by saying, "There is no time for delay. Paradise awaits. Allah be praised!"

Glad hearts softened the minor discomforts. In a few more hours they would be arriving in Bagdad, where hundreds of thousands more brothers were expected to bestow gifts, give sustenance and follow them in this final pilgrimage.

Suddenly, the caravan ground to a dead stop. The muttering of many voices drifting from the front roused Mehrdad from his semi-awake slumber. Sleepy, he rose to his feet and joined his older brother who stared westward from the cab bed. The lead driver, his uncle, called back to them, "Why are we stopped? I can't see around the trucks in front of me."

The three brothers strained to identify a line of approaching dots on the highway a mile away. "We can't tell; there's something moving toward us and blocking the road far ahead." Mehrdad remembered his uncle handling a pair of binoculars during packing. Did he bring them?

The answer, "Yes, they're in a duffel bag on the pull cart." The nephews shooed away the children camped on top and retrieved the old army field glasses Sai'd had used fifteen years ago during their never-ending war with Iraq. They jogged back to the truck and assumed their former positions with their uncle standing by his open cab door, hands on hips. "Tell me what you see; my eyes aren't so good anymore."

The left lens had been cracked and the focus adjustment wheel was frozen but the instrument still functioned for the right eye. The oldest used it first, grunted, then stared in alarm at Mehrdad whose turn was next as he passed it to him and the procedure was repeated to the youngest brother. No one dared answer the uncle's persistent inquires which finally evoked an irate and commanding, "Well, what _is_ going on! Someone tell me now!"

"You answer him, Mehrdad. You speak well. You work in the embassy," insisted the other two.

He shied, reluctant to meet the gaze of the impatient older man who shifted his weight from one leg to other. An old war wound had left him with shrapnel lodged in his lower back, a painful memento of a misinformed commando raid which had resulted in his unit's accidental destruction of a hospital wing and the sequential placement of _his_ name on the Iraqi's Everlasting Death list. Unknowing of the incident, Mehrdad simply responded, "Tanks... many Iraqi tanks, dear uncle."

The sun-browned man's face hidden beneath a black scraggly beard paled, "They will capture me! My name is on The List. The list is forever!" Sai'd dropped to his knees on the burning asphalt, flung his arms skyward, "Why, Allah? Why have you delivered me to mine enemy?" He covered his face and doubled over.

His three wives rushed to him, giving comfort, "Don't despair, my husband!" they intoned. "The Prophet is coming. He will reclaim your soul if the Iraqi kill you."

Glaring at them in disbelief, he jumped up, then went to each one of them and backhanded them across the mouth, shattering their lips beneath their veils and knocking two of the women into the rocky, roadside shoulder. "Stupid cows! I don't want to hang in Bagdad even if the Prophet _is_ coming. Get out of my sight you worthless swine bitches! Get away from my procession; you are no longer members of my family. Allah will soon reward me with a thousand beautiful virgins and I'll finally be free of you old hags."

One of the cousins helped the injured and wailing, rejected mothers, leading them to the rear of their family troupe. The nephews offered no assistance - it would be an affront to their uncle's authority. Their own parents agreed: "Say nothing. Sai'd will change his mind and take them back later... especially when he becomes hungry. He's done this many times before." They did not add what they were secretly thinking, "That is, he will take them back if he's not arrested, chained to the back of a tank and forced to walk or be dragged to their capital for public execution."

Mehrdad no longer needed binoculars to observe the armored corp of more than twenty Russian-made T-62 tanks break their column and establish a defensive perimeter two hundred yards in front of the pilgrim caravan's lead units. Three sand-colored, camouflaged behemoths blocked the paved surface and the rest fanned out to form a 300-hundred yard wide V-shaped spearhead, passable only by a four-wheel drive, all-terrain vehicle. Ominous, long gun turrets swung around and down from their travelling positions.

Peering from behind the car in front of him, the terrified uncle cringed, expecting the thunder of exploding tank shells at any moment. For him and thousands of other veterans in the makeshift convoy, the fighting never ends, regardless of time passed.

Beep! Beep! Beep! A covered jeep passed in a cloud of dust, driving toward the Iraqi blockade. "He must be crazy!" yelled Sai'd as he squatted on the ground, knees pulled to his chest to make himself as small as possible.

Several soldiers on foot moved to the front of the tank deployment. Mehrdad trained the binoculars on an army officer as the jeep jumped back onto the roadway and halted just ten yards short of a score of automatic weapons, cocked and aimed.

"Fascinating," mumbled the embassy servant. "Who could be in the jeep? So brave, or so foolhardy?" To his brothers, "We're fifty miles inside their border, their government hates us and these tanks could blow us to bits just like that," as he snapped his fingers.

Several minutes passed. The elite Iraqi, New Republican Guard tank commanding officer casually lit a cigarette and visually verified three T-62 fifty caliber heavy machine guns were trained on the dusty tan jeep. These soldiers were also long-time veterans, the embittered losers of the Gulf War and the subsequent control by an infidel, foreign war-mongering military regime weighed heavy on their pride. They would relish the opportunity to dish out some punishment for a change, especially upon their centuries-old adversaries, the Iranians. He and his lean, battle-hardened troops were still angry at having been thrashed by the technologically superior NATO forces who struck like cowards, always in the middle of the night, with cruise missiles and stealth bombers rather than fighting out in the open, man to man. Two MIG-28 jets screamed overhead on a low-level pass, displaying strength and intimidation as they flew to the northeast checking the highway for enemy military vehicles hiding within the rag-tag convoy. The tank commander had seen a civilian exodus before but nothing of this magnitude and had no intention of permitting this horde to inundate Bagdad; if he did so, he would be whipped and hung in the city square tomorrow morning. He decided if they didn't turn around soon he would fire a warning volley. "These vermin are invading _my_ country. The United Nations cannot save their worthless hides this time..." He nodded, "Yes, one warning salvo then I'll annihilate these filthy Iranian scum!"

Both jeep side doors swung open and his foot soldiers reacted by dropping to one knee into a shooting position. They called and mocked the trespassers their commander was about to repel, "Come out, you Iranian dogs. Show yourselves so we can kill you more easily," they taunted.

A white-suited driver and front passenger exited the jeep and quickly attended to the three rear-seat occupants wearing flowing black robes and turbans, who in turn, left the two servants behind and advanced toward the waiting Army officer.

"Tell me what is happening, Mehrdad," ordered Sai'd.

"Yes, uncle." Iravani began describing the scene. "Three men from the jeep are talking to the tank commander; they are saying many words and keep pointing to the sky. The Iraqi are listening quietly. The three have now finished speaking and are waiting... the tank commander is very agitated - he is waving his arms up and down, pacing about, perhaps asking questions... there is more talking by all four. Now the commander is saluting the three men in black robes. His men have lowered their weapons."

"What!" Sai'd jumped into the back of the crowded flatbed truck next to Mehrdad. "More! Tell me more!"

"The middle robed man is holding the commander's shoulder, as a father would console his beloved son. Wait... I think the officer is crying! All the foot soldiers have dropped their weapons. The others are standing on their tanks and watching."

Mehrdad gasped, "The Iraqi are falling to the ground... they are praying toward Mecca! The men in black are gesturing for the tank commander to rise... he does... he kisses their hands. Now the commander is shouting and waving frantically to his men... All the tanks are backing up and raising their gun turrets... The three blocking the road are pulling off to the side."

"What else? What else?" Sai's jumped up and down unable to contain his jubilation.

"Wait... wait! The soldiers are climbing out of their tanks again and all are gathering in front of the three." Iravani broke into an excited laugh, "They are cheering and throwing their rifles and pistols into the sand."

Amid a roar of happiness from the Iraqi, heard a mile down the caravan, the three figures turned heel to return to their jeep. Mehrdad pressed the lens so hard to his head it hurt his eye socket. He had to see who these people were! Swallowing to push down the rising lump in his throat, he croaked, "Uncle, the endless war is over! I recognize the man. It's his Eminence, the Ayatollah Korramini. He's leading us and our Muslim Iraqi brothers to Paradise - together!"

# Chapter Nine

### Redwood mind games

California

My life is out of control, like a reoccurring bad dream. I visualize myself as Jon Voight in the classic movie when he stood on the top of a snowbound, Alaskan runaway train, barreling into oblivion. It's all too surreal. A week ago I lounged in an Alexandria public park feeding peanuts to squirrels and today I'm riding with these four (fellow) Omega to an almost certain death.

John Smith, the leader, was driving the final leg. The group had been alternating in the seat non-stop since the trek began from Tijuana, Mexico. He alone knew where Victor, the American coordinator, had established the camp hidden in the hills and woodlands outside Redwood. The last two days had been brutal, flying from Paris to Mexico City via New York, then a commuter hop to Tijuana where they rented a car. Mason sat in the rear with Leland and Elke; Enrique was in the front serving as the road map navigator and translator if necessary.

In the short time they had been together Elke and Mason had become close in spirit and mind. Both sensed that their relationship could become deep and strong under different circumstances. But time was a precious commodity they didn't have, and the chance of survival for both of them seemed bleak. Not impossible, but so slim as to discourage discussion of long-range plans. The pair understood intrinsically that they could abandon the others in the rescue attempt with no explanations necessary - all had freedom of choice. They could run away together and attempt to evade the authorities... for the rest of their lives. At the same time, they also knew they would be haunted by the memories of those who would surely perish on September thirteenth, within two days. Individually, they pushed aside this self-serving temptation of escape. Elke, without question would stand by her vow of loyalty to her _people_. Mason, new to this situation, and although not formally verbally committed, had taken his friend Henry's words to heart. He had challenged his demons, albeit sooner than he had expected and even though frightened by his most likely short demise, had determined to face whatever came to the Omega - who were now _his_ people.

"This is all utterly and regretfully bizarre in a most distorted way!" lamented Armstead. "I can understand now why the world's governments wouldn't believe you... and even dread the Omega to some ugly, slanted degree."

"Yes, we are a bitter pill for them to swallow. They fear anything new and view us as undermining their religious doctrines, when in actuality it strengthens them," commented Leland.

"Change," added John. "Society always _opposes_ fundamental change, in spite of its eloquently professing otherwise. When it gets down to the nitty-gritty of questioning ancestry, religion or family beliefs, they will fight you to the death, your death preferably and theirs if necessary, to protect their traditions, whether right or wrong. And, to them, not only do we threaten the world's dogma: their leaders are convinced we are some kind of super-race of mind-controlling mutants determined to dominate and eradicate existing humanity. But their first and foremost argument is based mainly on religion. Their second, unspoken contention is: No one wants to be deemed an inferior species. We're reasonably sure that this very same scenario has happened before, many thousands of years ago. Our calculated premise is that the most dominate and populous human sect killed off a co-existing intelligently superior minor culture for the same reasons that we are facing now... proving that human nature hasn't changed from its primal level beginning.

"Surprising and very complicated... how were you able to piece it all together? I mean this had to of started all the way back in Mesopotamia, the historically agreed upon point of the Cradle of civilization," surmised Mason. "Am I on track here or what?"

"Yes, you certainly are. Try to stay with me, this may get tricky and please stop me if I become confusing. I sometimes get carried away and jump out of sequence with my depictions." Then John continued and went on to explain that it had taken many decades to gather information from all over the world by verified and trusted word of mouth, a painstakingly slow accumulation of data which had not been forgotten or distorted by the Collectors.

"Down through history, any person - man or woman, who had retained and exhibited any trace of _unusual_ abilities were routinely put to a horrible death as punishment for purported evil or demonic possession. Similar fates also befell most of those who dared to voice a contrary opinion. They were judged heretics, atheists or agnostics and their executions were declared proper and just by God in order to instill fear and silence their supporters. The Dark Ages of reasoning had not passed," he added. "For example, even now in _our_ so called enlightened and educated society, many places in the world people still wear blessed handkerchiefs under their headwear so demons won't steal their minds or make them physically disappear. Choosing to remain in ignorance is still prime and running rampant."

"I didn't know that. You would hope we're beyond such distorted thinking in today's modern world," contended Armstead.

" _Modern_ world?" challenged Leland. "You're not trying to equate that to _civilization_ are you? Because this coming September thirteenth exhibits nothing less than the lowest level of villainy... no, downright barbarity. The so-called _modern_ world has declared a merciless war on us, along with the alleged murdering aliens from outer space. It's mindless genocide, nothing less!"

"Leland, please try to calm down a bit, my friend," coaxed Smith. He waited a moment for the Scotsman to regain his composure. "So, Mason, this looks like as an opportune time as any to give you the full rundown on how all of this came to pass," assessed John. Armstead leaned back his head, his mind had already begun reeling under the numbing crush of information. John began: "Alien colonists, helpers from the stars, settled on Earth six thousand years ago close to the major population concentrations on every continent. Their purpose was to assist the existing, fledging, struggling human colonies make better progress in attaining their full potential. Being human themselves, many of the Aliens over time intermarried with the inhabitants and sired offspring whose Omega-like abilities became fully developed three generations later. Now, having melded into Earth's general populace, the Aliens were able to act as catalyst in many of mankind's most significant advancements. They were the driving force behind the conversion from pictorial to the written word, expanding mathematics, astronomy, music, art, the introduction of a code of ethics... which led to judiciary systems and the initial concept of democracy. In regards to physical well-being, in some areas of the world, life-spans doubled or tripled due to their influence in safety and health awareness."

"Then, the unimagined and unforeseeable occurred: two thousand years later a passing radioactive meteor contaminated the atmosphere and destroyed the original function of the Alien's vermiform appendix to produce its unique enzymes. These enzymes contained wondrous properties which created efficient food processing and the power to neutralize disease - not to mention the enhancement of a host of physiological and mental capabilities. More decades passed and since their appendix had ceased functioning, the blood-line of the star-born gradually died off at an Earthly human pace. Left behind were today's descendants, mere mortals, but mixed within them a strain of inert, recessive genes that could enable the appendix to function again with a medical correction. In essence, the meteor effectively pulled the rug out from under the accelerated development of mankind which then reverted back to progressing at a violent, slow crawl. So, in a broad interpretation, the Biblical, as well as numerous other cultural accounts, were correct in that the Nephilim, or a super-race, did exist long ago."

"More misfortune befell the struggling Earthlings: thousands of years passed before the Aliens, who live hundreds of light-years away on the other side of the galaxy, returned for a status check and were very disappointed in themselves with what they found. They felt they should have monitored the situation closer and interjected aid centuries ago. Since their rediscovery - for the last two hundred years - the star people have been visiting Earth and abducting humans, experimenting with drugs and treatment in an effort to repair the appendix's damage and stimulate it to become productive again. Progress has been snail-like; the Aliens had no experience in medicine to draw on. Having no domestic diseases to fight and being satisfied with their own longevity - they had to learn the medical research and development aspect from scratch. Only ninety years ago were the desired results achieved and again the realization that it would take at least three generations for a full recovery after the corrective procedure had been performed."

Mason pondered, "That makes sense but even so, why are Earthlings so far behind? Hasn't any experimentation been performed by today's scientists, doctors or chemists to determine the original function of the appendix? Anatomically speaking if you consider it, it's ludicrous to believe the human body would _ever_ support an organ for which it never had any use. It's so obvious and in-your-face challenging."

Enrique interrupted his thoughts, "Aquí, the next exit is State Road 180."

Bright afternoon sunshine glared off the windshield. It was 4:00 pm and the rendezvous was less than fifty miles away, they'd have plenty of daylight to locate it. Despite the accumulated weariness from two days of steady travel their spirits rose with the prospect of reaching journey's end. John took a northwest turn in the road and was immediately confronted with a roadblock a quarter mile ahead.

"Policía!" exclaimed Enrique.

"Uh oh," groaned Mason. "What should we do now?"

"Nothing," answered Smith. "We're too close to turn and run. That surely would draw their suspicion, and those high-powered patrol cars would catch us easily before we reached the Interstate."

"I'd bet a pretty penny the constables have a cut-off unit or two behind us in concealment as well," added Leland.

The apprehensive group crept up to the flashing red and blue lights mounted on top of the black and white cruisers marked California Highway Patrol, one on either side of the two-lane road with a third vehicle - a grey U.S. Marshall's sedan parked a little beyond. A sharply dressed trooper wearing a Smokey the Bear campaign hat raised his hand for them to stop. John complied. Two officers, holsters unsnapped, cautiously approached the car while two more with shotguns fanned out in the shoulder swales. Situated in close proximity were two additional men wearing warm-up suits, no weapons apparent, who had positioned themselves a short distance behind the troopers. Armstead assumed they were Federal Marshalls, off-duty or undercover, thus their casual attire \- perhaps backing up a friend or acting as advisors. Then he noticed the yellow US Government tag on the sedan - peculiar because the Marshall's use light-green license plates: therefore this created an agency mismatch.

"Is there a problem, officer?" John addressed the stone-faced patrolman peering through his open window.

"License and registration, please."

"This is a rental; I have the agreement here," passing it to him with his driver's license.

The officer inspected the documents and returned them saying, "Step out of the car, please. You other passengers remain in the vehicle with your hands visible." John did as he had been ordered while the rest hoped they weren't sweating so much as to draw attention. "Open the trunk, please," and John again followed the command to find it was empty, except for a doughnut tire and accordion jack. The trooper, satisfied, "You may close the trunk, sir." By now the two supposed Marshalls had strolled up and given the passengers the once over. The officer with John said, "We're searching for escaped felons from Fresno, sir. Thank you for your cooperation. You may proceed."

Feeling greatly relieved, especially Mason, the five continued past the blockade. Ahead lay a long straightaway and John drove ultra-cautiously away from the scene. After moving only a half-mile he noticed in the rearview mirror that the patrol cars had switched off their flashing lights and were breaking formation. He slowed to a crawl to observe their departure toward I-5 and breathed a second sigh of relief, "So much for that, thank goodness."

Camp Redwood Detention and Processing Center

"Major Easelick," a statement rather than a question.

Easelick, Camp Redwood's current base commander, had his nose immersed in a stack of monthly supply requisitions. Thinking the speaker was one of his enlisted men he returned, "Stand-by, soldier." His eyes causally drifted up to behold a U.S. Army Green Beret full colonel in a camouflage, combat uniform, black jump boots, silver wings on his chest and Airborne patches on his shoulders. Behind him, at attention, stood the colonel's Operation Officer, Captain Zellers, a Tom Cruise look-alike, dressed in similar garb, as were the battalion of three hundred- plus soldiers dismounting from troop carriers and unloading supply trucks in the courtyard.

He jumped to his feet and gave a snappy salute. "Yes, sir! Sorry, Colonel, I thought you were one of the enlisted men, sir!"

"At ease, Major." Identifying himself, "I'm Colonel Otterman, 82nd Airborne," as he returned the subordinate's salute. The Army had sent their best clean-up man; a stocky, barrel-chested, iron-haired veteran of thirty years who rose up through the ranks via OCS (officer's candidate school), with numerous decorations and promotions due to his combat leadership while serving in both enlisted and officer roles.

The front gate's report to the HQ office corporal had not given any indication of arriving VIPs. Consequently, the Major attempted to explain why there hadn't been a reception or preparations for a visiting superior officer. "I had no advance warning of your arrival, sir. Corporal, can you explain this?" questioning his own aide.

"That's the way it was intended, Major," informed Otterman. The visiting upper brass handed him a packet of orders. "You are hereby relieved of command. You and all of your personnel are to pack your gear and be on those trucks asap and not a minute longer. They will transport your group to Fort Ord for reassignment."

Surprised, Easelick looked up after a quick glance at the orders, "Uh, yes, sir. Is there a problem? My proficiency rating has always been..."

Cutting him off, "No reflection on your job performance, Major. This is a top secret, need-to-know operation, which doesn't include you." In an abbreviated apology for his abruptness he added, "Believe me, young man, you don't want to know. Just get your butts out of here and feel damn glad about it."

Two hours later, Easelick boarded the second jeep of the newly-formed departing convoy. He warned his second in command, "Lieutenant, I strongly recommend if you want to remain in this man's Army, as opposed to serving a life sentence in the Leavenworth federal penitentiary, you heed the Old Man's word and forget you ever saw Redwood or the Airborne battalion that just kicked us out."

"Yes sir, forget about it. I sure plan to."

Major Easelick's one-year tour would have been completed next month. He reflected how quiet and attractive this installation appeared: like a beautiful public park that some idiot mistakenly laced with chain-link and barbed wire for no apparent reason. Out of curiosity and to help pass idle time, he had studied the plats and layouts of the original facility, noting its growth through the decades since the initial groundwork in 1940. Despite doubling the camp land mass to fifty square miles to accommodate the steady increase of North American detainees: twenty-one hundred plus presently from the U.S, Canada and Mexico - the detachment of one platoon (45 men) had remained the same. Standard military prisons required guards at a one to twenty ratio and there was no question that Redwood was a prison, but there had never been any trouble in the installation; therefore, security wasn't increased. Model prisoners would be an understatement, to say the least. Not one incident involving an actual Omega in sixty years. He pondered, "Amazing! If it wasn't for the occasional deliveries and interments of ordinary citizens picked up in error, who became quite rowdy after realizing they were different from the permanent residents, you could have secured this entire base with a mere squad of fifteen. Which makes me wonder, whatever happened to those regular people? Were they actually released back into the civilian populace as claimed by the Relocation Committee which comes once a month? What about secrecy? How could it be maintained after their being exposed to the Omega? Maybe, I really don't want to know that either."

He stared across the main staging area toward the first barrack complex a quarter mile away housing the Mexican contingent. He reflected: "Strange operating procedures in this place - that's for sure. When Army personnel are on the grounds proper and performing a specific task the Omega are kept behind their compound fences. Other than specific work details like that the inmates have free run of the base with the troops and administrative staff withdrawn to their safe areas. Just the opposite of what you would think it to be. And then there's the separation, always keeping separation - no closer than a hundred yards... so we can't see their eyes. I wonder why. They've always seemed like normal people to me, especially the children - from a distance." Easelick then recalled a particular incident when he almost saw their eyes once in the lab when a woman's dark glasses frame cracked and fell off - "I would have seen them if the doctor hadn't yelled and jumped in front of me."

"Their eyes. The medical team has always prevented us from being close enough to look into their eyes. Which brings me back again to that nagging question the med staff refused to answer when I was first posted here. I asked why they had stitched the dead Omega's eyes shut before he was removed for burial. It seemed odd to me. I didn't consider that to be an overly intrusive question - heck, I was the base commander. They completely ignored me. I subsequently found out in no uncertain terms, that the white-coats answered only to Washington - it sure made me feel insignificant. I never got my question answered either. And another weird thing I've noticed about these people: no one seems to get sick, age or die, except that one fellow, in a whole year. Damn creepy!" The major turned in a circle. Although the furthest group was more than a mile away he knew they were all outside staring in his direction. He could feel them watching - it made his skin crawl.

"Did you turn in your bracelet, Major?" asked his lieutenant.

"Sure did. Goin' to miss that dang gadget like the proverbial hole in the head."

Everyone at Redwood had to wear an electronic tracking bracelet. Initially it had been designated for the so-called political detainees and their families but later the policy changed to encompass all personnel because every once in a while a soldier would go AWOL and head into town for little unscheduled R&R. The MP's needed a fast and sure way to track him down before he got too sloshed and spilled the beans about the installation.

"I don't see the civilian medical team, Major," remarked his driver.

"They're remaining, Lieutenant," while thinking, "There's a real bunch of fruitcakes! Always keeping to themselves, and all five of them have been stationed here for over eight years apiece. A bunch of wackos in my opinion, but I guess after that long I'd be a bit flakey too."

"Did you request the electricity be turned off the perimeter fence, sir?"

"Yep, that's the last thing I need, Lieutenant. Getting fried and being planted here to maintain some sort of Top Priority secrecy."

The Airborne colonel remained in the Administration building while the convoy was leaving. He remained busy on the radio reporting the changeover of the base command to the World Security Council. His assistant, the Captain, bade the departing soldiers farewell. "Have a good trip, men."

"Thank you. Are you sure there's nothing I can bring you up to date on?"

"Not necessary, Major Easelick. Our plans are short-ranged," as three bulldozers and backhoes rumbled off flatbeds, drowning out further conversation.

Inside the American compound...

"Mommy, what's happening? I feel bad things coming from over there," pointing through the chain-link fence in the direction of the Administration building out of sight a mile to the south.

"I don't know, Lisa. Why don't you ask Rosita and Francine?"

"I'll try, Mommy."

The majority of the nine hundred Americans assigned to this compound were outside milling around, trying to figure out why the return-to-quarters siren went off and why they were hustled inside. Then they collectively understood. Sensing an unfamiliar presence they became aware of the arrival of visitors, unannounced, judging by their regular guard's reaction. Later in the evening, if still confined, during the daily unification gathering, they would analyze the situation by collectively offering individual perceptions - to put the puzzle together. It served as a good exercise to keep their ESP abilities sharp. Half of the population were second-generation Omega, having married and sired children within the group but not in the same blood-line. All possessed a wide range of exceptional mental skills, particularly the children. The most advanced of their number was Lisa, age five, daughter of Woodard Langston and his wife Irene, formerly Missus Armstead. Telepathic and vision-sharing powers enabled Lisa to communicate with two other gifted children, one each in the Mexican and Canadian camps.

Brushing back a blond, curly lock from her forehead, Lisa faced the coarse wire fence surrounding the compound and became motionless, arms dangling at her sides. Her large blue irises turned coal-black, and after a moment she said, "Rosita and Francine are waiting for me."

"Her father dropped to one knee and leaned close to her face, "What do they see, Lisa?"

"Shhh, please, Papa, we're sharing now." Although appearing to be in a trance she remained aware of her present surroundings, but concentrated on the sharing with Rosita who had partial visibility of the base's main staging area. Even though Lisa's compound was hidden by dense foliage blocking possible direct observation, her telepathic link with her friends circumvented such barriers. She could _see_ through the other children's eyes. It appeared as a narrow, cloudy, tunnel-type of vision - not particularly sharp but sufficient to distinguish images and colors. Coupled with the mental link, it was nearly as good as being there.

"The nice soldiers are leaving, Mommy. There are new soldiers here now... lots of new soldiers and they are _not_ friendly."

Colonel Otterman exited the Admin building holding open a geographic blueprint. He checked for specific reference points and spied a line of prisoners in the distance. Scanning the long fence, "Captain, that must be the Mexican group. How many are there?"

"A little over four hundred, sir."

"The Canadians and Americans?"

"Rounding off sir, three hundred Canadian and thirteen hundred Americans. Also, seventeen individuals of undetermined origin are being held in the Evaluation and Transport building."

"Zat so? Toss those seventeen in with the Canucks; I don't have time to waste playing, 'who are you' games. Easelick should've had them sorted or moved out already." Running his eyes down the long barbed-wire holding compound he remarked, "There's more children than I expected."

"Yes, sir there are quite a few, over four hundred between the three groups, I believe."

"Humph, apparently they must not have anything better to do."

"Unexpectedly contrary, the detainees are quite innovative and a busy group, sir. They have a fine school which they built with their own hands and teach children at all grade levels English, French and Spanish, plus they have constructed extensive recreational facilities. The Army supplied the tools and materials of course. They grow their own food, make their own clothing and this landscaping - the foremost example of their creativity. It's most extraordinary in beauty. You can hardly tell this is a military installation. It looks more like a botanical garden, doesn't it, sir?"

"Yeah, all that's missing is a Snow White castle and Santa Claus." He then rolled up the blueprint, stuffed it under his arm, retrieved a cigar, bit off the tip and spat it on the ground. "Yep, it looks just spiffy, but sometimes appearances hide the evil within, as it certainly does in this case. Mind my words, in a few weeks this camp will look like anything but the Garden of Eden, I guarantee it. Hell, in three months, after the lab boys are finished slicing and dicing their selected prime specimens, looking for all the secrets hidden inside these mutants, this clod of dirt will be completely different. The Army Corp of Engineers and the Reclamation Team will arrive and level this place, perimeter fences and all. You won't be able to tell this base ever _existed_!"

Captain Zellers lit the Colonel's cigar. "Yes, sir," as he blocked his mind from the soon-to-be horrors he'd been briefed to expect.

Otterman's attention came to rest on the small cluster of a family, huddled around a little girl watching behind the barrier. "I advise you, don't be fooled and become in any way attached to these Omega. Remember _our_ mission, is a directive from the White House, and keep foremost in your mind that these creatures are _not_ human, they only appear that way. It's a disguise. They're like a pretty, but dangerous, rabid dog about to be put down for the safety of the general populace. Nothing more, nothing less, understood?"

"Yes, sir, extraterrestrials disguised in human form!"

The Colonel nodded affirmation, "Damn right," and turned his back. "Let's get over to those dozers and hoes and tell those men where to start trenching." The pair walked by a truck containing steel drums displaying a large red skull and crossbones painted on their sides. The Colonel spoke to the Crew chief, "Sergeant, you be careful now, we don't want any of our boys burning a hand off while unloading that lye."

"Yes, Colonel. Being real careful. Thank you, sir!"

"Captain, dispatch a detail to run off those squatters we saw by the south perimeter on our way in and establish a patrol to keep it secure. Also, don't forget to warn our troopers of the hot fence. Now get your butt in gear!"

Returning to the American compound...

Lisa shook her head, and her irises returned to their normal blue coloring. "Bad! Bad soldiers, Mommy. Daddy, can you send them away and bring back the nice men? They left presents and candy for us to find, and waved at us, too."

"I know, Sweetheart, they were very nice but they're gone and I can't bring them back. I would if I could," and gave her a kiss on the top of her head. "Now tell us what you saw. Why do you think they are bad?"

"They have lots of guns they carry in their hands and bigger, ugly guns on top of the jeeps. Our nice soldiers didn't have any guns like that. And lots of soldiers are working and moving big boxes. They look so mean...," she started to cry. Her father picked her up; she wrapped her tiny arms around his neck and sobbed on his chest. "Rosita and Francine are crying, too."

"Shush, it'll be all right, their mommies and daddies are with them, like we are with you, Sweetheart. The Army is changing the guard, that's all. We'll make new friends, just like you did with the old ones."

Between tears, "No, Daddy. The man... the boss man, I can hear what he's thinking. He hates us. He's come to hurt us. I'm afraid, Daddy, hold me."

Irene and Woody carried their only child to their building, comforting her along the way. Their friends cleared a path. Many had gathered around them when they sensed Lisa linking to Rosita. The mood had changed from curiosity to apprehension, then to fear, as their fellow captives read the parent's faces, absorbing the anxiety of their unspoken thoughts.

"I knew this day would come, Woody."

"We all did, Irene. We're surrounded by an angry, fearful world and fear creates hate. They have come to exact their vengeance."

A campsite outside Redwood

Lt. Colonel Anthony Fairchild, en route to reporting for duty at Camp Redwood Detention and Processing Center, had stopped and joined an unusual assembly of people encamped a mile away from the main gate. His curiosity became immediately aroused when he spied a large yellow sun painted on a First American's (previously known as Indian) teepee, which denoted the abode of a Navajo tribal historian. Over the years, he had avidly pursued his interest in anthropology wherever he had been posted. He felt more than fortunate that he had been able to pow-wow with a score a shamans, chiefs and other councilmen, but a little disappointed in that only one of them was a truly-learned historian. Tony was convinced the tribal historians - inclusive of all, held the key to the puzzle in his quest to validate his theory that there once existed a common link in all of the cultural patterns of the world - a topic he wished to pursue full time upon his military service retirement. He hoped someday to correlate his findings and be lucky enough to share them by national publication.

It was a little after noon and someone around the campsite cooking pit remarked, "Did you say, dog?" which prompted a chorus of chuckles from the odd collection of partakers.

"Sure did, friend." Followed by, "Hey, baby, do you want some of _my_ _hot_ _dog_?" teased a big dude called Hammer after drawing his 14 inch pig sticker hunting knife from its sheath to slice off a section of hindquarter hanging from the spit.

Evening Starr, her stripper stage name, shied, "Ugh, I ain't eatin' no damn _dog_. You know I'm a _lady_ ," as she checked her midriff blouse knot.

"Even so, my lady you might wanna think about chowing down just a little bit _,_ " as he made a semi-formal bow. "It may be a long time before we get some more meat to chew on. Whatever the title you want to call yourself is just fine with me, except later I don't wanna hear you whining that you're hungry," stated her tattooed, three-hundred pound, leather-clad companion. "Besides, it ain't really dog; it's coyote. Told ya that when I brung it in." His mood changed in a liquored-up blink of an eye, "Stupid woman, ya never listen to me. I don't know why I put up with you... except for... well, er."

Slightly insulted and intimidated, she took a tiny bite and chewed slowly as she watched the others' reactions. Most of them smiled and dug in. "It ain't too bad, Big Daddy... not bad at all," the group agreed. He grunted in response. Starr turned to Fairchild, "How 'bout you, Mister United States Air Force person, ever had dog or coyote before?"

"Yes, many times, Madam, and please call me Tony," he answered.

Bernard, an aging Hippie-type person from the by-gone years, considered to be one of those intellectuals and the current day leader of his family, queried, "Many times, sir? You must have toured the Far East. Consuming canine is a common practice in Asian cultures."

"Quite true," concurred Tony. "Indonesia, China, the Middle East and a few of the former Soviet satellite states - in many more countries than the majority of Americans would care to know about I'm sure, eat what we consider to be domestic pets. In fact, and I hope I don't upset anyone here, in most of those countries, they are farm raised, much in the same manner as we do with pigs or chicken.

"Food is food, it sustains the masses," stated Ulysses, a vagabond and travelling evangelist unctuously contributing his bit. Dressed in faded, thread-bare black slacks, a hole in the back pocket, and a long-sleeved shirt buttoned up to the neck, he bowed his head, "We thank you, Lord, for this fine meal you have so graciously provided." Hammer, an ex-club, bare-fist fighter and current independent motorcycle enthusiast snorted, "Do you think that maybe his running into that electrified fence and gettin' his hide fried mighta had anything to do with it, Preacherman?"

"Whatever," returned Ulysses. "God provides for his children in strange ways, my son."

"Ain't your son," retorted Hammer while giving the vagabond a hard look.

Starr interjected, "Easy, baby, he don't mean nothin'. He's just talkin' righteous."

Tony spoke up, attempting to smooth the mood, "Thank you all for inviting me to join. This is very enjoyable - I'm kind of an outdoors man myself."

"Most welcome, brother, glad to have you and may the rest of your day be blessed also," offered Ulysses.

Fairchild nodded and smiled, and, chose his words carefully, "You appear to be a rather diverse group. Did you meet here just by chance or by a previous arrangement? How about you, Hammer?"

"Me and Starr? We don't know none of these people. We rode in last night. My hog," referring to his blown-out, Harley Davidson motorcycle, "plum scared the daylights outta that snoopy coyote you're chewing on. The chief," gesturing to Joshua Nashota, "and the flower children were already here. Preacherman came this morning 'bout an hour afore you. Good thing we're eatin' now; I saw a string of a hundred people or more spread out over ten miles and all headed this way."

Joshua, as always a man of few words, corrected the large, beer-bellied speaker, "I am not a chieftain. I am a Navajo historian and the Medicine man's helper."

Ulysses jumped in, assuming the role of a diplomat and peacekeeper and changed the subject. He suspected, and rightfully so, that the big biker had a short fuse and wouldn't take kindly to being corrected even if he knew he had been wrong. It was a face and dis'ing thing. "I understand we owe Mister Nashota a word of thanks for his expertise in constructing this cooking facility and preparing our delicious meal. Thank you, kind sir!"

Several murmured acknowledgments were made, but Hammer had to have the last word, "All Injuns cook... born that way."

Tony hailed Joshua, "May I please have a few minutes of your time when we're finished? I'd like to ask you a few questions in regards to your tribe's heritage and origin." The Navajo nodded assent, pleased that _someone_ was taking an interest - his sons' lack of attention to their own history left a bitter taste.

Joshua had a strong urge to trust Fairchild — He reasoned, "Surely, this is the man - the one the Great Spirit revealed to me as I slept during the purification of this campsite. The voice in my dream said a man of virtue would come and that I must implore his aid to save the Innocents. Later, we will talk and I'll explain the sign and pass on what I know about Redwood. I can see he is a man of respect and honor - he will heed my words."

After some subsequent light conversation about the flower children's beat-up old yellow school bus, where the nine family members had come from, and a discussion regarding Ulysses' station wagon which he lives in, sprinkled with a few spacey comments from Hammer's old lady Starr, who Fairchild felt certain had cooked her brain on drugs more than once, Bernard began to wonder what drew the rest of them here.

Cleaning his wire framed eyeglasses lenses with the tail of a twenty year old Los Angeles Marathon T-shirt, he asked importantly, "Doctor Fairchild, you stated previously you're reporting for duty. Therefore, am I correct in assuming you didn't experience an unexplainable, overriding compulsion or directive to come here and join us?" Tony answered in the negative. Bernard continued searching, "Ulysses did you receive any kind of a calling?"

"Ah, well yes, I confess I did." Clearing his throat, "But first, I must clarify - being a man of the cloth, as I clearly am, I am subject to receiving directives from our Lord in a multitude of divine inspirations."

Hammer snorted, then belched. The preacher ignored him.

"Continue please, sir."

"I had a dream, a revelation, instructing me to return here."

"Return, to this place?"

"Yes, Redwood... I was a soldier posted here twenty years ago... before I received the calling."

A chill ran up Bernard's spine, "So was I - almost thirty years past."

His wife added, "We received the message from the stars - astrology and the tarot cards. Our friends who know how to read the cards told Bernie he had to return to a place of great mental power. He knew right away what it meant, where we should go."

Uncharacteristically, Joshua didn't wait his turn to be asked, "A sign. I received a portent from the Great Spirit while chanting on the First Shaman's inspiration rock. My father, Daniel, also served at Camp Redwood many, many moons ago."

All attention turned to Hammer, who sprang to his feet, "Sorry, folks; I gotta take a wiz," ignored visual contact and stomped off toward the tree-line. After he had moved out of voice range Starr explained in a hushed voice, "He don't like to talk about it. Hammer was here too, before he became a Nomad biker, roamin' and fightin'. Two days ago he said he heard voices telling him to go back. We've been riding ever since, clear from Lubbock, that's in Texas." She shifted her sitting position, "My butt's real sore; I think I bruised it, cause he wouldn't stop." Starr gave an inquisitive look at Fairchild, "Say, what kinda doctor are you? Maybe you could look at it, see if he hurt me bad or somethin'."

"I'm a pathologist."

"Huh?"

Bernard attempted to phrase it in terms she could understand, "He examines and operates on cadavers."

Another blank look from her.

"Dead people, Honey. He works on stiffs."

"Oh, creepy," Starr pulled a bit away from Tony. "Forget it, Doc. I ain't that sore." She gave a tug up on her hip-huggers, "Now, _where_ was I?"

"You said, Hammer heard voices," encouraged Ulysses.

"Oh yeah. Ya see, 'bout a year ago when he was feeling real loose - we was trippin'on some real fine weed, he told me about the people living inside," motioning with her thumb toward Redwood. "They got in his head once, shook his brain around, it scared him real bad. He quit the Army... ran off just like that," snapping her fingers, " and started club fighting to make some money to live on. He bought a Hog... got a little wild in between and became an Independent, if'n you know what I mean. But, hey I'm not saying anything bad here. Under the Tough, he's a good, God fearin' straight shooter... and a real good rider."

Silence descended as each remembered their own searing encounter with the Omega's black, penetrating, mind-wrenching eyes.

Fairchild saw they were in deep thought and began, "I don't understand..." The drone of heavy vehicles nearing from the direction of the base interrupted him.

Nashota peered over Tony's shoulder. Shimmering heat waves were rising from the hot asphalt and the rippling effect of the double chain link fences distorted the images moving toward them from a half mile afar. A lead armored Humvee followed by a ten-wheeled troop carrier and a trailing GFV (ground fighting vehicle) produced the illusion of a thick dark-green snake slithering along the road. The Humvee's windshields shone like two glassy, black eyes staring from a flat, triangular head. The troop truck - a Personnel Carrier was the long, gorged body of the reptile and the GFV's heavy machine gun swinging rhythmically in the air, replicated the deadly serpent's rattling tail.

Joshua groped for the protection of his amulet as he gasped, "In my dreams, I've been here before! The Evil One comes!"

# Chapter Ten

### Murphy's Law

Still at the campsite

"We're not encroaching on your federal reservation, this property belongs to the State of California," challenged Bernard. His family assembled behind him watched warily for the reaction of the Airborne sergeant and his squad of troopers brandishing combat assault rifles.

Emboldened, he continued, "This is inexcusable and unwarranted harassment. I'm a U.S. citizen. I may have to speak to your commanding officer regarding your conduct, sir."

Tony stepped forward to lend his support, "Master Sergeant, I'm Lieutenant Colonel Fairchild. I'm a doctor with the United States Air Force, reporting for duty, and..."

"Fairchild?" the sergeant then saluted the officer who was out of uniform. "Yes, sir, we are expecting your arrival. Step over here please," as he motioned him to an area away from the cooking pit. "The Corporal will escort you to Headquarters now, sir." Turning to the lead Humvee, "Corporal." The soldier hustled over, saluted, "Follow me, sir."

Tony assumed something important must be happening on the base. He decided to check in, receive his briefing and return this evening to meet with Nashota.

The sergeant returned his attention to the collection of civilians at the campsite, studied them one by one and their vehicles. "Your bus?" appraising the ragtag assemblage dressed in tee-shirts and ripped jeans accompanying Bernard.

"Yes?"

The sergeant raised his left arm head high, hand directed skyward, snapped his forearm straight - index finger pointed toward the bus.

Blam! Blam! Blam!... a dozen shots blasted from the GFV's mounted, heavy machine gun. High caliber steel-tipped bullets tore into the aluminum sides as the gunner raked it from back to front: windows shattered - spraying thousands of glass shards, vinyl seating and personal articles - ripped to shreds, leaving fist-sizes holes showing daylight from the other side.

Acrid gun smoke drifted away, Tony's jaw dropped. "Orders," informed the sergeant. "Step aside, sir." The tone could not be mistaken as a request.

Bernard stared dumbfounded at his riddled transport. Six-foot, three-inch Hammer crossed his massive arms and studied his boots as Starr cowered behind him.

Addressing the shocked, ex-hippie, "Your vehicle is still operational (the gunner fired high). Leave this area immediately or you will be arrested as subversives under the National Security Act," as the machine gun retrained its sights on the stunned family.

Bernard searched the other camper's faces for support, stopping with Nashota.

"Our great grandfathers sometimes retreated to survive. So can I," stated Joshua as he tossed open the teepee entrance flap to retrieve his truck keys and personal effects.

Hammer grabbed his knapsack, spat a plug of tobacco in the dirt and headed for his motorcycle. "On my way, dude." Starr, in obedience, fell in step to the rear.

Ulysses was already making quick steps to his battered, old station wagon, without offering any theological parting words of wisdom in response to this rather harsh bum's rush.

"Your escort, Colonel," motioned again the master sergeant.

Bernard removed his glasses, cleaned them for the third time, this time with nervous jerky motions as he contemplated a suitable retaliatory threat. He herded his make-shift clan toward the riddled bus and called back in a shaken voice, "My congressman will hear of this, you may rest assured. I have rights. We shall depart as you have illegally ordered. The public and the Pentagon shall be made aware of your transgressions. We'll see who has the last say in this matter, sergeant. It may be _possible_ one of my family members video'd your blatant and horrific civil rights violations. Let whoever gave you those so-called orders sleep on _that._ "

With an icy stare, the sergeant watched the retreating flower children, then turned to Tony who was still rooted in place. "Proceed, Colonel, now. The rest of our detail will return to the base after this issue has been resolved." Turning to his radio operator, "Corporal, get Colonel Otterman on the horn asap. Advise Base Comm we have a level four situation here."

Nashota exited his teepee with an old leather knapsack thrown over his shoulder and saw Fairchild being led toward the awaiting Humvee. Oh, no! He must deliver the message the Great Spirit has entrusted him!

Joshua called out, "Doctor Fairchild!"

Tony stopped and turned at the hailing, "Yes?"

The Navajo historian anxiously started toward the awaiting physician when two troopers rushed in front of him and blocked his path.

Surprised at the action, Tony looked to the sergeant and questioned, "What the...?" The platoon leader gave Nashota the once over and nodded to his men to let him pass. Tony and Joshua met and the doctor started to apologize, "Mister Nashota, I'm sorry for this treatment. I fully intend to find out what's going on when I report in. Later this evening, we'll meet and..."

Joshua shook his head, "No, I can not meet with you later. I must depart now, while I still can," as he cast a wary eye at the sergeant. Leaning forward, he said in a low, clear voice, "The Great Spirit said you must save the Innocents."

Seeing some kind of message being passed, the sergeant hurried over, stepped between the two men, seized Tony's arm and stated, "Colonel Fairchild, sir! You are needed on the base. You must leave immediately!"

Nashota lowered his eyes, turned and walked in the direction of his pick-up truck. As Tony watched the retreating figure for a moment; he considered complaining to the sergeant but could plainly see by the man's demeanor it would be a waste of time.

A few minutes later, Doctor Fairchild was being driven toward the main staging area of the camp. He had been wondering what the old Navajo meant, when the sounds of heavy machine gun and automatic rifle rounds echoing two miles behind them interrupted his train of thought. The Humvee driver didn't bat an eye or offer any comment.

During his orientation...

"Installing a new drain field or septic tanks?" asked Tony.

"Hazardous waste," answered Captain Zellers, who was giving Lt. Colonel Fairchild a tour of the base. They passed behind the Canadian compound where a bulldozer and backhoe were completing a twelve-foot deep, 10 x 300 foot-long trench, (the smallest in volume of the three, side-by-side pits under construction), a task in progress being carried out adjacent to each detainee holding facility.

"Hazardous waste? I would've thought the hole to be much deeper and further away from living quarters. You must be disposing of awfully low-grade materials. And, I've never seen buried dumps so close together... they're forming an interior triangle between the three housing developments, very strange. Sorry, even I can see this isn't by the regulations. Perhaps the Army Corp of Engineers should be involved. I'm going to speak to Colonel Otterman regarding this. We should be able to avoid possible future health hazards stemming from toxic chemical reactions and the following class action law suits easily now by relocating those pits. Just to be on the safe side and protect the government's assets."

"Be safe? Yes, sir, _safe._ " The captain reasoned it's not his place to inform the doctor of their true purpose, let the Boss or the lab boys handle this one.

"Remarkable," Tony admired the pastel-colored barracks bordered by shrubbery, flower gardens, and trimmed cherry hedges lining the walkways. "I've never seen anything like this," as he waved at a cluster of small children. They smiled and with great enthusiasm returned the gesture. "I'm looking forward to meeting these people and anxious to learn the nature of their curative quarantine."

The captain remained silent. He finally instructed Fairchild after pulling into the medical complex's parking lot, "Here's where you'll receive the answers to all your questions, sir. I'm sorry, but I'm not qualified to speak regarding this operation" (an ordered deception). Zellers assisted Doctor Fairchild with his luggage, "Your quarters are behind this main building. You'll find the medical staff is a tight little group. Good luck, sir."

"Fine and thank you." Inside, Tony read from the departmental directory: Hematology, Internal medicine, Ophthalmology, Gastroenterology, Physio-chemistry, Neurology and more which caused him to assess, "Hmm, all highly specialized, which is not unusual when trying to analyze an unidentified disease. Yet it's odd they've been working on it for so long as to construct these elaborate permanent facilities with extensive research laboratories." He reconsidered, "Foolish me. Of course, it's a secret, disease control center. That's what Bob meant! But then, what about all these people quarantined and the double perimeter fences with a hundred yard separation... and the outer one being electrified? How can there be that many infected patients interred without a public outcry? Could it be something so seriously contagious it requires isolation and extensive long-term treatment? A strain so deadly it must be hidden from public knowledge? I've never seen that condition but I've heard about such situations in anti-U.S. countries which of course denied us access to information.

The captain's voice cut across Tony's speculations. "The desk corporal will escort you to the conference room then afterwards to your quarters. The medical staff is waiting to meet you."

"Excellent, I have a lot of questions already."

Late that night and into the wee hours of the morning, Tony contemplated his bizarre situation. All of his questions had not been answered - precious few had been. Their little welcoming committee collective reminded him of a band of used car salesmen or double-talking politicians. Profuse words, no meat. The staff offered little other than a glorified, Hello and acted as if he had been previously briefed on his duties. They quickly broke up the meeting and scattered to the safety of their own laboratories when Tony politely pressed for specific clarifications. Rather than tracking them down one by one and cause more friction, he elected to dig the answers out for himself in the Medical Records Department.

His reading glasses laid next to the computer terminal, Fairchild massaged his tired eyes. He had a headache, not to mention the accompanying sour stomach resulting from endless cups of coffee. The reference room contained hundreds of medical publications, books, handwritten journals and over a thousand compact disks: data gathered over the last sixty years of research on the Omega. Tony estimated it would take at least three years for him to perform an in-depth study of this mountain of information and even then, some entire categories would elude him as being too techno-scientific. Leaving him to wonder: "Why am I here; what can _I_ add? Collaboration of past pathology test results? Not that I can see. Perhaps, to exhume some bodies and have me check out a new theory?"

Very few deaths had been recorded, and of those he could find no reference of autopsies having been performed or investigations into the suspected causes thereof. As far as he could determine, there had been only one death in years nor were there any indications of subjects being kept in cold storage for future long-term evaluation and testing. "We're far past performing examinations on the deceased of the last six decades and now at this late date the Army or politicians have changed their policy and want autopsies?" It all seemed extremely illogical to Fairchild and he finally concluded he must have overlooked those particular files and would search for them later - he sensed there were more pressing issues at hand. Even so, from what he had sorted so far with his limited records digging, he had to admit these people they have labeled, Omega, were remarkable physical and mental specimens in numerous ways. From what he had gathered so far there appeared to be an over-riding, central common factor. It being and the major difference between them and us - the normal people of the world is they possess a functional vermiform appendix which secrets a magical enzyme which so far has defied all chemical analysis. And, despite the efforts of dozens of medical research teams who had pursued seemingly countless theories, no one had been able to solve the mystifying intricacies of what it did or establish the whys or wherefores of this anomaly. More than ten thousand tests and examinations had borne no hard results, only profound evidence of the wondrous capabilities of these physiologically and mentally enhanced humans who have been locked away from the rest of mankind. "I'm so looking forward to meeting and mingling with these people! I have so many questions and personal interaction can sometimes tell you much more than hard-copy reports. I wonder how long their linage is. Do they have historians? This could be the opportunity of a lifetime! Is this why I'm here? H'mm, I doubt it. From the military's sometimes narrow viewpoint, I'm merely a special type of sawbones... a dead person sawbones."

Four-thirty a.m. Tony checked his watch and decided to take a two-hour nap then pay a visit to the camp commander, Colonel Otterman. He set his wristwatch alarm, determined to get some of his many questions answered by people who weren't afraid to speak, not books. He tried to rest but the precious sleep eluded him.

"Looks like you've been up all night, Doc," greeted Otterman. "Captain, get the man some coffee."

Tony declined, "No thanks. My bladder feels like a soccer ball in a triple overtime match."

"Suit yourself. What can I do for you, Fairchild?"

Tony recapped yesterday's afternoon and last night's activities, commenting at the end, "General Robert Crawford told me of my being thrown into the fray as a short-term general practitioner. But why? I don't understand; the staff here is more than capable. All are highly trained experts in their field. And as far as I can see, these detainees, the Omega are the healthiest people on Earth. Please don't take me the wrong way; I understand you too have recently arrived at Redwood. But if all that's required of my presence is dispensing aspirin and cough medicine to your troops, you should request a registered nurse and let me return to more important duties."

Otterman glanced at Captain Zellers who began, "I thought the medical staff briefed..."

"Apparently not so! I'll handle this, Captain. The buck stops here." Otterman studied Tony in silence, as if sorting out how to proceed. "What is under way here is a small piece of a very large, complex, worldwide campaign called Operation Omega under the direction of the World Security Council. Your role in _our_ little slice of the campaign Doctor Fairchild, is part of the final chapter. You're right on the money as far as the existing medical team is concerned. They are specialists, the best in their respective fields and their consensus is they can contribute nothing more, at this time. The staff informed Washington several months ago they had exhausted all approaches to solving the appendix enigma, and your being sent is not an oversight or error." Otterman paused to light a cigar, "It's not an illegal Cuban in case you're wondering," he stated. "Care for one, Colonel?" Tony declined. "I didn't think so, most sawbones don't smoke." Zellers fetched an ashtray. "Let me present it this way. Ever solve a maze puzzle by working it backwards? You know, start at the finish and figure the path back to the start? That's what you're supposed to do here: same principle. The appendix is our puzzle's starting point."

"Yes, Colonel. I'm familiar with the maze concept and what you're alluding to. But in respect to my field it's a moot point, I don't have any specimens to examine unless you have some stashed in a freezer somewhere."

"I'm disappointed to say there are none. It's apparent, the previous administrators of this base were derelict in that aspect. We don't have any bodies at your disposal \- at this time," advised Otterman. "We'll soon correct that omission."

Tony looked from one man to the other and broke into a cold sweat, "You don't mean..."

Colonel Otterman interrupted him and in a cutting gruff manner explained the basics of Operation Omega, then blew a cigar smoke ring. "Frankly I'm surprised I have to spell it out for you. You're a _military_ pathologist, aren't you? Even though you brazenly reported wearing your civie's as if you were strolling into to a country club, you're _in_ uniform now as you should and will always be while you're working for me, mister. And, F.Y.I. regarding any other possible future inter-service assignments, the U. S. Army doesn't accept that kind of clothing - or attitude when reporting for duty _._ Get the message, Doc?"

Fairchild disregarded the caustic verbal wrist-slap as inter-service rivalry in regard to his wearing civilian clothes, he deemed it minor in comparison to the jolt he received from the explanation of the plan's basics and the specific reference "to having specimens at his disposal shortly." His brain wanted to reject what he heard. His lips moved to contest, yet nothing came out. The Omega people's existence and their condition of imprisonment was disturbing in itself, but the gory details of the campaign being presented here were unspeakable! These people were alive and well. Has the Army decided to pick living subjects for him to dissect? It's the Third Reich's Nazi Germany medical experiments all over again!

Otterman dismissed Tony's distress, "Come on, Doc, get with the program; these Omega are dead meat! Listen, in case you didn't know, they're not even real people. They're extraterrestrial aliens disguised as humans! They probably look like slimy, damn bugs back on their home planet... wherever the hell that is."

Otterman then changed his approach before Tony could issue a challenge, "The Surgeon General recommends you perform an exhaustive necropsy of two adults, two teenagers and two children of each sex, but you have the final word on the quantity. Do you agree with those numbers? Will that be enough? The mess hall has two good-sized freezers; we can store as many as you need. Hell, you can have a dozen of each for all I care. Oh, and very important, the existing staff will remain on base to provide you with whatever support you require."

"Excuse me, sir," injected Zellers, "Don't forget the method."

"Right, Captain. We need to know what method you want to use for termination. I'm sure you want the specimens in their best possible condition. I'm guessing you'll want to use some kind of non-evasive injection." He snorted, "Machine guns do have a tendency to chew-up bodies as I'm sure you're aware."

Fairchild's armpits and brows were soaked, he felt lightheaded and nauseous.

"You look a bit peaked, Doc. Sleep on it and give me your numbers later. We'll pick them out and put 'em in the Evaluation and Transport building - or you can take a detail and select your own if that's better for you."

Tony felt as if someone was standing on his chest, and wheezed, "I've got to lie down... we'll talk again."

"Sure thing, Fairchild, but not too much later. Today's September eleventh."

"I thought you said the thirteenth for the Operation."

"Correct, Doctor, 0600 Zulu on the thirteenth translates to 2000 hours our time on the twelfth."

Tony stumbled out of the Admin building, his anguished mind churning, "I've got to call Bob (Gen. Crawford) and stop this insanity!"

Three miles west of Redwood

"Are you comfortable with the plan, Mason?" asked Smith.

"Oh, yes! I can't _wait_ to drop into the lion's den. I think I'll go disguised as a lamb chop, that'll fool them for sure."

"Indeed, the man has a sense of humor, hey, John?" remarked Leland.

"Perhaps I should have asked if he understood it instead."

The five travelers from Tijuana had made the rendezvous with Victor in an abandoned, dilapidated hunter's shack nestled in the woodlands west of Camp Redwood. Enrique peered out a dusty, cracked window at the narrow dirt road leading to SR 180 half a mile distant and stated, "És clear." Their two cars were hidden behind the shack, out of sight. If someone came, they would make their escape by hopping in and speeding around them while the visitors were busy parking.

"There's a clearing by the pond where the helicopter can land," Victor informed. "Are you sure you want to do this, Mason? I can go instead. After all, that was my original plan."

"Let me at them, partner! I always loved that show, Mission Impossible."

His flippant reply didn't fool Elke, or the others in the least. They sensed the inbred trepidation and admired his apparent new-found determination. Down deep, Armstead _was_ afraid, yet committed to challenge and conquer his two lifelong nemeses: hostile confrontation and acrophobia. Mason knew the time had come - he had to rid himself of these handicaps. Now, not in the undefined future nor in a watered-down, gradual process. It has to be today - for myself, for my new people and especially for my mother. I would sacrifice anything, including my life, to see her, hug her, to be with her for whatever time we have left before this coldhearted, demented world stamps us out. Elke could be my future - I hope so. My mother is my past and both of them are my present. I must do everything in my power to rescue her; I couldn't live with myself if I didn't try.

"I'll call Redwood and get the ball rolling," said Victor. Using a two-way, shortwave radio he hailed the base communications center, identifying himself as an operator at Vandenburg Air Force base. He advised them to expect a courier delivering a top-priority, secret document for the camp commander. The courier's name is Mason Armstead of the U.S. State Department's diplomatic corp. His arrival by helicopter would be within the hour.

Mason patted the vest pocket of his new suit to be sure his State Department credentials were intact. Thankfully they hadn't been lost or left behind during the last three harrowing days.

Victor continued, "The pilot, his name is Frank, has the bogus orders, fresh off his very own printing company's press. He's a good man. He's provided us with invaluable service over the years by laying false paper trails to relocate our friends when necessary."

"Do you have a briefcase for me?" queried Mason.

"Frank is bringing one," John interjected. "Anything else you can think of? You're the professional courier." Shaking his hand, "I hope you know how much we appreciate this, Mason. With your expertise we have a much better chance for success. Thank you."

"Yes, double from me," added Victor. "I'm afraid I would've put my foot in my mouth and blown the presentation. I'll be with you in spirit - we all will. And rest assured, Elke and I will be on the first bus to do our part," adding, "I'll radio Frank, he's waiting to receive the green light and lift off. He should be arriving here in twenty minutes."

Armstead found a discarded rag, ripped it in two, dampened one half of it in the sink, "Shoes," he explained. "The new suit and tie we bought on the way here are presentable, but my shoes have taken a beating. Couriers have polished footwear. I'll clean and buff them in the helicopter; it'll help take my mind off the flight."

"Good idea," commended John. "I suggest the rest of us get into our uniforms right after Mason's pick-up. The buses are on their way."

"Just out of curiosity," queried Armstead, "are other rescue efforts elsewhere being made?"

"Yes, in North Korea, the sole independent site which is not one of the nine, large multinational holding compounds, said they would try an escape for certain," answered John. "Nigeria and Brazil, both majors, may attempt also. Their encircling countryside has dense foliage which allows a close approach."

"North Korea? That's the last place I'd guess."

"Precisely the estimation of their government. P'Yòngyang, the capital, has discarded the possibility. Their reasoning is the compound is so isolated, there's nowhere to hide after an escape. Plus the fact the prisoners, not unlike the entire population, are in constant, abject fear of the Communist State," explained John. "We sent word of the date via Seoul. In retrospect perhaps we shouldn't have. I dread they may attempt to storm the camp by force, and if they do, most likely all will perish. You see, many prisoners have vigilant family members on the outside. Some are not Omega, a similar condition as your father's, and in their anguish for their loved ones they must surely feel there's nothing to lose."

"Such is the pitiful existence in North Korea, Mason," added John.

"I can relate to that. I've seen the harshness and despair behind their regime's façade."

Enrique distributed the grey, black-trimmed security guard costumes to the men and a white nurse's uniform to Elke. Moments later they were picking their way along a flattened pine nettle trail leading to the pond. The 'whoosh' of chopper blades drifted in over the treetops.

Mason scrutinized the six-seater Bell helicopter overhead, "Black, that's good." It appeared official, suitable for Government or clandestine usage. Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, as Frank brought her down, Armstead remarked, "I guess it's Show Time, folks."

Elke held Mason close for a brief moment and whispered, "See you soon, brother..."

Letting the engine idle, the pilot hopped down and joined the group forming a circle, holding hands, including Armstead this time. Heads bowed, they each said a fervent silent prayer. "Freedom!" they chorused. "Libertad!" added Enrique.

Speeding toward Camp Redwood in an Army staff car, Ito Yamoto sat alone in the back seat, reviewing a handful of update reports from his WSC coordinators around the world. The acting Deputy Chairman had decided to make a surprise visit to the facility and make a firsthand inspection of the imprisoned Omega before implementing his next step. Not that he was considering making any alterations or delays. No indeed! This last phase was being performed most satisfactorily as reflected by three of the faxes just received. He reread them again, this time for his personal enjoyment: the fruits of his labor.

"Ahhh, the interrogators were able to extract the mole's name, the person who has been vexing the U.S. State Department for so long. I knew drugs would work, which is exactly why I recommended them. If they had consulted me earlier, I could have saved them valuable time. Do they think the invading Aliens are concerned about Earthlings' civil rights? Idiots." His distain quickly changed to self-aggrandizement. "After all, that's what true leaders are for: direction and creating efficiency. My followers have much to learn, and I will teach them." Yamoto read further, the captured Omega known only as Ted is now a vegetable. "So what? Terminate and dispose of his worthless body - he has served your purpose. Were you planning to leave him on life-support forever? Save your taxpayers money, fools. Do I have to tell you simpletons _everything_? I am so disappointed with this continuing type of shallow reasoning. I see that I'll have to issue a stern directive when I return to my office."

The second report prompted Ito's approval, "This situation was handled well." The mole, Michelle LeBlanc, after extensive questioning produced no new tangible results, only a lame confession to altering medical forms. Unfortunately, she had not kept a list of names of those she had changed. The few individuals she had been able to remember were found upon further investigation, already incarcerated in Camp Redwood. "This is acceptable: no loose ends."

"But wait... Hm'm, this part is disturbing. I didn't notice this before! The WSC operatives on this case were the same two men who allowed Mason Armstead to escape. I thought their services had been terminated. They report after being absolutely positive LeBlanc had nothing further to offer, they forced her to stand in front of an oncoming midnight Atlantic East Coast Railroad freight train?" Remembering a bit of Russian history, "Aha, of course! That was one of the favorite methods employed by the Czars to rid themselves of those pesky, subversive peasants. I love it! So, those two idiots finally did _something_ properly. I shall continue their employment, but on a probational basis."

Last, and his favorite, was the report of an attack on the North Korean holding compound. A group of twenty-three peasants using a collection of farming tools and ancient hunting rifles attempted to storm the main gate and were subsequently mown down by a hail of returning AK 47 automatic rifle fire. No survivors." Yamoto couldn't suppress a smile. The base commandant, acting to thwart further and better armed attacks, marched a like number, twenty-three of his prisoners outside to view their fallen sympathizers, then he executed each one himself with a single gunshot to the back of the head. The single snag encountered was when a guard accidently saw a dying Omega's eyes and went amok. Fortunately, he had been safely subdued before he could injure his comrades. Post review revealed that in their haste to defuse this volatile situation they failed to take the precaution of hooding the Omega beforehand, as instructed in the Termination Procedures section.

"Even so, what a bold maneuver by the Commandant. Highly commendable! I have need of such men. I'll offer him a position... no, I'll _order_ his reassignment to my staff after this phase is complete. He will be honored to serve a man of my stature."

His cell phone rang, "Hai?"

"Who? When?" Ito consulted his watch, "Thank you, Colonel. I shall arrive shortly; the main gate is in sight."

Snapping down the phone cover, he thought back to his childhood. "So many rewards forthcoming and my future will be magnanimous. And, to imagine when I lived as a young boy it used to distress me my not being a member of the Emperor's royal blood-line! Now, I can see Japan is but a tiny place on a very large planet. And yet I, Ito Yamoto, shall soon be chosen to reign over the entire world as its Supreme Leader. The Emperor himself will bow to me!"

Ito checked the rearview mirror to be sure the driver hadn't been watching him. Reassured, he interlocked his fingers as if he were in prayer, blocking the reflection of his face to hide an ear to ear grin of triumph.

Approaching Redwood from the air

"Nice view from up here, hey?" remarked Frank, the helicopter pilot. "There seems to be a lot of activity down there on the base."

"I'll take your word for it. I'm trying not to look; I'm afraid of heights," Mason confided as he finished buffing his scuffed shoes into a reasonable appearance.

"Hang on, guy, we'll on the ground in just a few short minutes. I've been given clearance to land in the main staging area, south of the Administration building. It's the one with the twin transceiver towers. The base's radio man said the east tower was used for military comm and the west was for some kind of prisoner tracking system."

As Mason tentatively peeked over the edge of the cockpit windshield at the two latticed structures with red blinking beacons atop, concern creased his brow. A high-tech tracking system? Had John or Victor known and taken this into account? Neither had mentioned it. What method could the Army be using? If the towers are for locating signaling bracelets, we can cut them off with cable cutters on the bus as we go... he shuddered, remembering Doan and the incident on the train. But if our people have been surgically implanted with tracking devices, our goose is definitely cooked. I must identify which system it is as soon as possible and have Frank contact Victor. He'll have to relay the info without being obvious. _Blast_ it, my first obstacle and we haven't even landed yet!

Armstead forced his personal trepidation aside and surveyed the camp geography. His eyes darted from one holding compound to the next. There were rows after row of grey shingled barracks roofs. His mother lives in one of them... so close, yet so far. Where is Mom? I must find her... Simultaneous foreboding and exhilaration tore at his soul. Is she well? Am I too late? He fought the anguish with his resolve to get there in time.

Frank, concentrating on the landing, didn't share Armstead's sight of the bulldozers driving away from the massive, fresh-dug burial pits. As they began their landing, Mason's intestines did a flip-flop. The two men reassured each other and discussed strategy as the engine was cut and the rotor blades spun to a stop. Trying to help, "Pretend it's one of your regular assignments, Mason," offered Frank. "Block out the circumstances, and whatever you do, don't look at the compounds. They will distract you. You must stay focused on the plan."

"Right, stay focused on the plan. Thanks." He eased out of the chopper and strode smartly toward an officer waiting in front of the Admin building.

"Mason Armstead from the U.S. State Department," as he offered a handshake. "Are you the base commander?"

"No, I'm Captain Zellers, the Operations Officer. Colonel Otterman is in charge and he's waiting inside. Follow me, please." Armstead fell in step, resisting the temptation to steal a glance at the closest compound - afraid it would incite him to run screaming over to the fence, "Mom, are you in there!" Frank gave Mason the thumbs up sign for good luck as he passed through the doorway - an MP had been posted on either side.

The pilot examined the tracking tower as he began his wait for Mason's return - because of it, the next few minutes would mean life or death. Even if the plan worked to perfection and all escaped, he may have to sacrifice himself - his own decision. If Armstead came out and touched his wrist as if checking the time, it meant the prisoners were wearing tracking devices, but if he grabbed the back of his neck as if being bitten by an insect, it meant the Omega have implants. After reading his signal, Frank would make a routine test call on his radio to pass on the information. The insurmountable drawback presented with the implants was that even if the last bus were a hundred miles away, its occupants could still be located. The tower, judging by its height, had a 200+ mile range; it would take half a day to clear its line-of-sight detector dishes. With an approximate two thousand people to be transported in fifteen rented public buses, three round trips would be required to move all to safety - a remote, logistical low-possibility due to the amount of time required. Their odds were still pretty low. The only real chance his people had was if he accidentally crashed his helicopter on take-off into the tracking tower and destroyed it, an iffy but effective solution. At this time, Frank alone had realized the potentially fatal dilemma, but would not mention it, fearing the others would veto what he knew in his heart must be done. Then the buses could proceed without detection to the previously selected major shopping centers where the Omega would scatter to the four winds. Each family or single adult would be given a small stipend. Their brethren -the masquerading drivers, guards and nurses, had brought every dollar they could lay their hands on to provide the transportation funding and monies to be distributed at the debarkation points.

Frank lit a cigarette. He didn't smoke; no Omega did. It served as part of the guise to blend in. Nonchalantly, he faked taking a drag while keeping a nervous eye peeled sideways at the door.

"Colonel Otterman?"

The battalion leader looked up from his desk. "You must be Armstead. Hear you have an important delivery for me. Well, man, don't just stand there like a statue. Front and center, let's have it."

"Yes, _sir_ ," extracting the envelope from his briefcase.

"No waxed seal?" questioned the colonel.

Mason forced a smile, "Only on international documents. You guys get the cheap stuff, glue." Armstead felt apprehensive. This man reminded him of George C. Scott in his portrayal of General Patton. Was he as hard-nosed or smart as he presented himself?

Reading it rapidly, Otterman threw the paper down on the desk top, stood up, hands on his hips, cursing, "Damn it! Typical political horse manure. Can't anyone make a sensible decision? Spineless, worthless... Captain, look at this piece of crap!"

Zellers obeyed, then commented, "That's quite a collection of authorizing signatures: The Secretary of State, Secretary of the Army, Joint Chiefs of Staff, Deputy Chairman of the World Security Council."

"May I see the paper, please?" requested Ito Yamoto, who had been standing by, out of the way and uncharacteristically quiet.

Armstead briefly wondered who this civilian was and why these officers would permit him to review a classified document. Inwardly, Mason's uneasiness almost flew off the scale when the small, smug-looking Oriental suddenly shifted his attention to him instead of the letter. "Just stay calm," he told himself.

"A clever ruse, Armstead," bemused Yamoto. "Presenting false orders, instructing the Colonel to release his prisoners... A bus convoy to transport them to a different location for the completion of Operation Omega? Buses manned by fellow Omega, no doubt," sneered Ito. "Tricky, but not quite good enough."

"What? Falsified orders!" blustered Otterman. "What the hell's going on here, Yamoto?"

Shocked by the plan's immediate disclosure, Mason coughed, trying to buy time to recover. "Well, er... I am a mere courier and..."

Ignoring Mason's ploy, Ito explained. "It's quite simple, Colonel. Armstead's an Omega himself. He and his lackeys devised this scheme to trick you into releasing their cohorts to them. It could have been successful had I not been present." Addressing Mason, "Do you remember the roadblock? Two of my operatives were present and they alerted me of your whereabouts. From there, I knew immediately you and your fellow enemy agents would attempt some sort of rescue here at Redwood."

In an effort to steer them astray without bare-faced lying, "Er, yes, I do recall two men wearing warm-up suits at the roadblock. Are you referring to them? I was visiting with friends, between assignments and..."

"Silence, fool!" demanded Ito as he held the document for Otterman to inspect the signatures and dates. "See this? Guevara is listed as the World Security Council Deputy Chairman. _I think not_! I replaced him a month ago." Continuing with a sarcastic expression on his face, "He's back in his native Argentina attending _more_ important personal matters, or so he thinks." Then playing his trump card, "Mister Armstead, an Omega himself as I stated before, had been captured and tested positive in Berlin last week, but with the aid of his devious henchmen he escaped."

The Japanese major didn't wait any longer, "Guards!" Two Airborne MP's who were standing close by per Yamoto's earlier request, rushed from hiding in an adjacent office.

Pulling off Mason's sunglasses, Ito intoned dramatically, "Behold the Omega!"

The two officers took a defensive step backwards. "Isn't that dangerous?" Zellers quavered as Armstead, in despair bowed his head and stared at the floor.

"No. I've studied them. Only when threatened with eminent physical danger do they activate their mind control powers. Just the same, as a precaution, hood him." Checking out the window, "Oh, yes, the pilot is most likely one also. Entice him in and let's examine his eyes. You may administer a blood test later, if you feel it's still necessary."

Zellers waved at Frank, "Would you join us, please?"

Frank ground out the cigarette and headed for the Admin building - where a 45 caliber semiautomatic was jammed in the small of his back as soon as he entered. Ito ripped off the pilot's dark flying glasses to reveal oversized brown irises.

"Satisfied, gentlemen? I wouldn't waste time testing him."

"Damn!" roared Otterman. "It's a good thing you were here, Yamoto. My butt would've been kicked six ways to Sunday had they escaped."

Lt. Colonel Fairchild, just coming in and unaware of the previous events, began, "Colonel Otterman... oh," and stared as an MP placed black hoods over the heads of Frank and Mason. A second soldier, kneeling, snapped on heavy, iron leg shackles.

"Fairchild!" Otterman patted Tony's shoulder, "Meet your first two specimens!"

Tony was speechless and dead-legged tired - he had been without sleep for over forty hours. His hair smelled of stale cigarette smoke, his breath of booze - he had resorted to downing a shot of Jack Daniel's whiskey in an effort to ease his anguished mind, but it gave no relief. Repeated calls to his long-time friend, Robert Crawford, proved fruitless. After receiving a terse rebuff by the general's aide, who had been ordered to state Crawford was unavailable - indefinitely, Tony phoned Bob's wife, only to hear another negative response. He finally deduced no amount of pleading with either of those two could gain him a hearing. This made him suspect his friend had known the situation all along, after-all he is a damn general. Stone-walled in that direction, he began calling fellow colleagues and was abruptly cut off upon his first connection. Tony never got another line off base; the Communications Center operator claimed a telephone switching trouble had developed and he would ring him back when it had been corrected. Fat chance of that!

"Doc, I've seen better looking stiffs lying face-down in the dirt," joked Otterman. You should take better care of yourself. You have a lot of important work to do real soon." Zellers grinned in support.

Tony, cutting to the chase, "I can't do it; it's morally wrong. These people are no different than you or I, except for their appendix."

"Zat so?" shot back the angered base commander. "That's hogwash, Mister. Their appendix is just a means to perpetuate their human disguise!" He put his hands on his hips and spat on the floor. "I tell you what, Fairchild, you're acting like a whinny-butt pain in the ass and furthermore, for your information, there's a hell of a lot of more educated and important people than you who disagree with your erroneous evaluation. Our American President for one and _my_ immediate, superior officer for two. They say they're murdering aliens on a mission to subjugate mankind, and my orders are to complete my part of Operation Omega before they join forces with their slimy comrades from outer space. And, that is precisely what I'm gonna do, with or without your cooperation or assistance! Captain, get these stinking creatures outta here on the double."

"Yes, sir, I'll confine them to the Evaluation and Transport building." Tony had seen the facility; it had been constructed and laid out similar to the old 1920's New York City police jails: bare concrete multi-person holding cells and dingy, windowless interrogation rooms.

The colonel went on, "In addition, since our pathologist here has chosen to be derelict in his duties, we'll send our own detail to cull out the required specimens, four of each type - my decision. And you, _Doctor_ Fairchild, are confined to your quarters until further notice."

"Colonel Otterman, I really must protest. I demand to..."

The camp commander's neck reddened, "Protest? Demand? Who do you think you are, Mister? The last time I checked, a full colonel out-ranked a _lieutenant_ colonel! And furthermore, I didn't give you permission to speak! You're bordering on insubordination. Enough of this crap and I am now countermanding your previous confinement order, Fairchild."

"Captain, place the Air Force lieutenant pantie-waist, colonel in the cell with his new-found friends. Perhaps after he's spent some quality time with them he'll see the error of his ways and join us in defending the United States Constitution in a manner befitting a sworn, commissioned officer. Now get them outta my sight... damn Air Force pansies."

After the trio had been escorted away, he turned his attention to Ito. "If that so-called yellow-bellied, _doctor_ doesn't get his act together when it's his turn up to bat I'm going to line his sorry butt up against the wall for treason. You got any objections to that Mister Yamoto?"

"Not at all. I believe it would be an excellent course of action, Colonel."

An hour later, the Omega rescue team parked their fifteen rented buses in a half circle within the main staging area. To the surprise of the crew of thirty men clad as guards and five women dressed as nurses, they were confronted with an apparent abandoned camp. Confused by the absence of military personnel and of Frank or Mason, they milled about for several minutes before sending Victor and John to check Headquarters. The pair didn't get far. From concealment, a hundred Airborne troopers charged toward them with their weapons leveled at the ready. Surrounded and startled, the civilians had no recourse except to raise their hands and surrender. The soldiers quickly disarmed the bewildered Omega men, who were carrying thirty-eight caliber pistols as part of their costumes: unloaded due to the incident on the train which resulted in Doan's death. The taking of a life had never been intended under any circumstances. Hooded and chained, the intended liberators now turned into prisoners themselves were marched to the Evaluation and Transport building and divided into separate men's and women's groups to join the earlier interned members of Bernard's vagabond family. The situation had degraded from a slim outside chance of success to a down-the-tubes total loss.

Frank and Mason in a cell, heard heavy metal bolts being unlocked at the end of their corridor, soldiers barking orders and many shuffling feet as the newly captured Omega were directed into temporary holding compartments out of the trio's sight.

Tony, who sat with them had dozed off for an instant due to massive fatigue, bolted awake from a fitful nightmare. He had visualized alive, screaming children strapped down and being dissected - and _he_ was wielding the scalpel!

After the troops departed the prisoners called back and forth to ascertain what had happened and Armstead learned the women had been taken to another section where they were out of earshot. Despair hung heavy. Frank and Mason had been selected as the first autopsy victims with Tony to perform the grisly task or be shot.

Yamoto, elated by this entire turn of events, sped away from the camp headquarters in his staff car to board an Air Force supersonic fighter jet for his return to the United Nations where he would oversee the final phase from his office. His star shone bright in the heavens. And again, Ito had to hide his face from the driver's rearview mirror - it had become impossible for him to conceal his delight.

But wait, remembering one last detail, he ordered the driver to turn about and make a last stop at the Evaluation and Transport building. He yearned for a final opportunity to gloat over Armstead. Yamoto abhorred loose ends and Mason had become far more than just a loose end because of his position in the State Department; he stung - as slap-in-the-face insult.

Standing outside Armstead 's cell: when Ito informed him of the demise of the Omega called Ted there didn't appear to be much reaction, therefore he assumed Mason must have not known the particular individual. However, Frank clearly appeared disturbed - a small satisfaction. But when Ito mention the capture and method of termination of Michelle LeBlanc, the FBI mole, Armstead had an explosive reaction, flinging himself against the cell bars and weeping uncontrollably, which greatly pleased Yamoto. The news struck his enemy to the core, perhaps she was a relative. How sweet that would be. If it had not been for that weakling Fairchild's quick, compassionate support, Mason may have cracked and gone insane. Too bad!

Yes, it had been a rare and soul-satisfying confrontation. Not often does a top level administrator get to observe firsthand the mental and physical defeat of his enemies... of the world's enemies!

Two hours later more chosen male laboratory specimens were pushed into Mason's cell: an international addition which comprised of one adult, three teenagers and three small boys. There were also three of each age group added to on the women's side. Although his cellmates heard Otterman say, "first specimens", Tony was the only one present who knew what was in store for these hapless souls. He elected to remain silent regarding the ghastly plan, unwilling to share the oppressive guilt for being the pathologist sent to implement it. "One thing I am sure of," Fairchild swore to himself, "I will absolutely not be a party to this horror even if threatened with my own court martial or being executed at the pit along with the Omega. This is against everything I stand for!"

Unbeknownst to Armstead, the adult newcomer to their cell, Woody Langston, his wife and daughter were also just imprisoned in another section of the building. Could Mason have kept his wits about him if he knew this man's family encompassed his own mother, Irene, and his half-sister Lisa? Or their intended fate?

All of a sudden, Armstead experienced a strange feeling; indecipherable sensations ran rampart inside his head. Could it be from having all these other Omega transmitting peak brainwaves in such close proximity the source? Are we overlapping, tuning into each other's private thoughts and fears? Partially, I'm sure... but still, there's something else hidden beneath this mental chaos and physical restraint: a familiar, yet distant presence is prying my mind. A subliminal probe is exploring me. "What... who are you?"

"Mommy, I've linked with somebody new," said Lisa. "A man, his name is Mason. Do you know him? I see your face in his thoughts."

12:30 am

Colonel Otterman's private, temporary housing quarters. A sharp, crisp, 'Knock, Knock', at his door. "Enter."

"Sorry to disturb you at this late hour, sir," stated his captain.

The commander waved him inside. "Not a problem. I was just reviewing the latest WSC updates before turning in. What's on your mind, Zellers?"

"The Officer of the Day has informed me the number of civilian campsites on our southern perimeter has increased and there is considerable activity within them."

"Zat so?" He slowly paced about while evaluating the new intelligence. "How many sites are there?"

"Fifteen, as far as we can tell. The foliage may be obstructing our line of sight; there could be more," answered Zellers.

"That's double the figure from last night," calculated Otterman. You said _civilian_ sites. You can't assume they are all just civilians," advised his superior officer. "Although, yes, they _could_ be Civie's, or Omega... or a combination of both. Even worse, it could be a brigade of those self-righteous Militiamen. So, it may be we have up to twenty sites with varying and considerable movement." He narrowed his eyes and asked, "And just what type of movement would that be, Captain?"

"Surveillance reports indicate numerous vehicles, sir."

"Which equates to a possible twenty to forty insurgents per site. A formable fighting force if led properly." He went to his desk and chose a cigar. "I don't normally smoke this late... but I can see this night is going to be a bit of something else," as he sniped off its end. The captain offered him a light. "Humph. We're going to have to go into high gear and put an end to this situation pronto, Zellers. You've read the report describing the assault on the North Korean compound, correct?" The captain nodded affirmation. "I don't believe the _Americans_ out there are going to act in the same manner as a bunch of rice-picking, ill-equipped peasants. No way. They're amassing for an organized attack, that's quite clear. Why else would they be there. (a statement, not a question) They'll have Humvees, pick-up trucks, automatic weapons and who knows what else... not to mention a possible three to four hundred trained, ex-military personnel coming at us."

"Yes, sir. Shall we send out a patrol to disperse them? Perhaps a show of strength will send them packing," offered Zellers.

"Won't work, we'd need a tank corps and air support at this point. It's obvious the enemy is numerous, organized and committed. Sending our troops out the gate is a precarious maneuver. They could be cut-off from behind and become captured or killed. No, we'll send our two Black Hawks (helicopters) as spotters for our mortar teams in a first strike capacity. How many are ready, Captain?"

"All six. _Always_ ready, sir."

"I would expect nothing less. Our mortars are the updated, extended-range version, correct, Captain?"

"Yes, sir. Top of the line. Their range is one mile, a little further depending on the wind."

"Good, the choppers with their night-vision will direct the saturation bombardment of the front-line campsites then proceed inward using their own rockets to destroy the enemy's rear positions. Vehicles are the primary targets; ground forces are inconsequential. Without the bulk of their weapons, which will be in their transports and the loss of mobility - their backs will be broken."

"An excellent plan. When do you want me to begin implementation, sir?"

"Right now! I want those Black Hawks in the air in ten minutes and the mortar rounds in fifteen. And, in addition to establishing our defense positions, I want a full platoon on the generator station. We can't allow our power facility to be compromised. Get it crackin' soldier."

Twenty minutes later, as the distant campfires burned bright and before the so-called campers tucked it in for a good night's rest to sustain them for their next morning's activities...

Five hundred feet up, high enough so the enemy ground personnel couldn't hear the helicopters rotor blades, with no lights visible and their night vision activated - the two choppers spread out to contain the outside borders of the campsites and allow a corridor for incoming ordinance. Coordinates were conveyed: six 'whomps' generated from inside, near the base's southern perimeter fence - then another series, and another... continuing for six full volleys - three shells for each front-line target.

"Looking good," reported the lead Black Hawk pilot. "On target. Front line sites and support vehicles have been eliminated. There is no resistance and we are proceeding forward." Moments later, "A.T.G.R. away." (air to ground rockets) directed on the last level of enemy encampments which lie out of the mortars range. "Direct hits. All enemy positions and vehicles appear to be neutralized." The entire countryside for a one by two mile radius raged in flames.

"Well done, Black Hawk squadron. Return to base," directed Captain Zellers.

"Yes, well done indeed," repeated Colonel Otterman. "We eliminated an eminent threat to national security. I'm sure we have the full support of the World Security Council and the President."

"Shall I send a search and rescue party in the morning, sir?"

"Hell, no! Let those traitors bleed to death and rot in the sun. We'll need all our troops _here_ early in the morning. I'm moving our timetable forward."

The hills and woodlands were aglow as a lone figure crouched low and darted in a zig-zag pattern to evade the Army's sweeping search lights and night vision. He arrived undetected at the base's outer fence a mile northeast of the mortar teams.

# Chapter Eleven

### This is the pits

September twelfth, 0300 Zulu

Four silver transport starships, TSSs, spaced five hundred miles apart, whipped around the moon, blocked from view of the American space station on Earth's sunny far-side. The Hubbles and all long-range, ground-based observatories were focused on the Worm hole in line with the Orion Nebula and therefore the approaching spheres approached undetected. Without a silhouette for visual aid, the astronomy technicians monitoring the fourteen multinational satellites equipped with optical receivers, likewise failed to observe the alien vessels converging at four thousand miles a minute. Only after the TSSs had established orbits six hundred miles above sea level and flew equidistant apart to form a tight square revolving around the equator, did Earth's defenses realize their surveillance cordon had been breached.

Five times larger than the flagship Aurora 17, these transport starships resembled giant, bumpy blackberries. Each of the fifty 'bumps' on a TSS represented a personnel landing craft, (PLC) capable of conveying one thousand beings, and each craft was armed with molecular disruptors which could vaporize any substance known to mankind. The PLCs, like the larger ships, were protected by a buffer ionic force field consisting of a flowing liquid silicon outer shell.

When the United States activated Defcon One, the highest pre-war state of readiness, preparing to intercept and repel an imminent alien invasion - the other nations quickly followed their lead. Interceptor squadrons scrambled; submerged nuclear subs rose to launch depth; ICBM silo doors slid open. Earth prepared to defend herself.

Paradoxically, as all the world's armed forces directed their attention to the new overhead threat, the nine scattered starcruisers and the flagship rose undetected from their deep-water hiding places. Before any country could react, the spaceships were ten miles up and streaking three thousand mph coastward, sonic booms reverberated their aerial assault. After making landfall, the nine descended to a thousand feet and adjusted their speed in order to converge simultaneously on their respective targets: Earth's Omega detainee camps. Aurora 17 cruised at five thousand feet - its mission being different from the rest of the battle fleet.

The world governments froze into a stasis of dazed indecision and turned to the World Security Council for direction, where Ito Yamoto anxiously awaited to lead them.

Camp Redwood, 0310 Zulu

"It's clear the aliens are deploying a strike force," Colonel Otterman declared upon receiving the flash-report of the two hundred orbiting spaceships. "Not our concern. We already have a top priority assignment. Besides, we're not equipped to counter an aerial attack. Let NORAD deal with the incoming Bogies." He peeled off a cigar wrapper, "Captain, pass the word along we're changing the 0600 Zulu to ASAP. I don't have time to wait for those jarheads in the Pentagon to make a decision. I'll assume full responsibility." Patting the vintage forty-five on his hip, "Get those damn Omega in the pits on the double and lock down the doctor's specimens in the freezers." He took a satisfied puff, "See how easy it was to decide their method of termination? We'll just freeze their butts. No muss, no fuss."

Mason's and the women's group were blindfolded, handcuffed and marched separately toward the mess hall while the rest of the ill-fated liberators were led away to join the closest detainee camp. Armstead sensed widespread movement around him. The air hung thick with unspoken fear as one compound after another quickly emptied and its victims were led to the killing fields - the bottom of the burial pits.

Fairchild was released. The sergeant in charge, having no orders in regard to him, assumed the uniformed Air Force doctor had been conducting pre-op examinations and would be rejoining the existing medical staff shortly. Bernard and his family remained confined to their windowless cells, supposedly to be released later without having witnessed the dastardly deed or the bulldozers grisly cover-ups. The nomadic leader had become quietly passive, no longer issuing feeble threats. His family's lives hung by a thread and he knew it.

Cold. The male captives heard the metal slide-bolt being driven home by the guard posted outside the freezer. Its padlock clinked shut. Inside, the single 100-watt wire-caged bulb overhead provided adequate illumination, but no heat. Mason, hunting for body coverings for the children, found sparse provisions, due to the small number of the previous assigned camp soldiers who didn't consume very much meat and the fact the Omega grew all of the base's fresh produce which had been stored elsewhere. To their dismay, they quickly ascertained the freezer contained nothing at all to aid them fight their most pressing concern - the paralyzing cold. Frank read a wall thermometer: thirty degrees, just cold enough to maintain the freezing point. None of them knew that because of their physiological make-up, including lower body temperature and superior cell regeneration, it would require almost two hours before they finally succumbed to death's eternal sleep, twice the time of normal humans. Realizing they had no defense against the inevitable, they earnestly began seeking an avenue of escape or tools to force the door open in spite of the strong possibility the guard could still be present on the other side. They combed every inch of their new prison, again to find nothing of value. The situation became more desperate with each passing minute. Teeth began chattering. Their parental instinct rose to the fore and the men began to huddle around the children, the youngest in the center in order to contain body heat, thereby prolonging life as long as possible - sacrificing themselves as the adult Jews had done in the concentration camps during the winters of the Holocaust.

As the children were positioned, Mason wondered, "This is strange, the youngsters aren't outwardly distraught. Are their perceptive powers that much greater than ours, or are they blindly confident in our ability to protect them? I can't tell, and I hope they don't ask me any questions because I sorely suspect we've been locked in this compartment expressly to die. That word the Colonel used, specimens, has a sinister connotation as if we were frogs to be dissected later in a biology class."

0340 Zulu

"Stand fast, men. Don't be misled by the innocent appearance of the enemy before you," Colonel Otterman warned over the public address system. He, Captain Zellers and a Signal Corps gunnery sergeant, positioned on the two-storied Administration building rooftop, were surveying the three compounds a quarter of a mile distant. While scanning the area behind the barracks with their field glasses, two hundred and sixty armed soldiers, some manning tripod-mounted fifty-caliber machine guns, took their positions and established a line atop and along each of the freshly dug pits. At each site a five-ton bulldozer waited with a curved steel blade to block escape attempts by overhanging the top edge of the sloping dirt path constructed to lead the victims down into their gravesites. Portable projection lights, twelve-foot high towered over the mounds of dirt piled on the far side and two hundred, fifty-gallon barrels of lye were placed along the length of each of the pits three feet from the drop-off.

Below, in the ten-foot wide death traps, were more than two thousand Omega with their cowering and whimpering children, most of them covered with moist dirt from their running and falling down in the unexpected, declining pathway. Their little bodies struggled valiantly against the encumbering iron chains. They clung to their parents, who stroked their heads and tried to offer comfort as their hearts broke.

The P.A. blared Otterman's voice from both ends... "Men, remember these creatures below you are in reality alien spies in human form, a vanguard sent to prepare the way for their conquest of Earth. The enemy's objective is the wholesale slaughter and enslavement of our planet... I repeat, _our_ planet, enslave our country, slaughter our families." He paused a few seconds to let sink in the personal threat to each trooper. "Fear not, fellow patriots. I have the utmost confidence our collective armed forces will repel and crush these murdering, monsters. And, we of the 82nd Airborne, have been expressly honored that this battalion, under the authority of the World Security Council in the United Nations, has been entrusted with delivering the first blow for protecting freedom. We are the North American spearhead of Operation Omega!" His voice continued to rise, "Our mission is to destroy these operatives here in Camp Redwood before they can join forces with their fellow invaders from space. This is a most critical assignment! It is a show of strength! A test of resolve and individual courage... You and I, united with fellow mankind, will fight on every front and give no quarter! Men, as I said before, today we have the privilege of initiating the first strike in defense of God, country and the entire human race. Take pride and stand tall in this sacred duty. Airborne!"

"Airborne!" roared back the assembled troopers. Their final indoctrination had been successful - they were eager to kill.

A shudder of revulsion and helplessness overwhelmed Fairchild upon hearing the pep talk. His stomach rippled in a dry heave. He stumbled from the temporary confinement of the Evaluation and Transport building, inhaling large, painful gasps of air - half wishing he would pass out in order to escape the deadly gunfire sure to follow. A few minutes later with his head pounding, everything in his vision suddenly turned green and he leaned against an outside wall. It felt like a classic case of impending loss of consciousness brought on by high blood pressure. "Or could it be an aneurysm... or a stroke?" Plopping down on his buttocks to minimize falling injuries, he waited for the next symptom. The encompassing green aura dissipated as quickly as it had appeared. To his surprise he didn't faint, and as he gathered his wits about him, he became more rational and tried to analyze what had just happened. "I thought the medical manuals said red, white or yellow flashes - not green, when experiencing neurological disorders. I guess it's something else," then capped his hand over his face to steady his nerves.

Within the exact same time frame...

Otterman released the ON button of the microphone and extended the device to Zellers, "Captain, you're the Operations Officer. Give the command."

"Yes, sir! Thank you, Colonel, your message was a true inspiration," as he saluted his superior officer.

"Hey, what's that?" exclaimed the Signal Corps gunnery sergeant accompanying them.

The two officers turned their attention to follow the enlisted man's pointing hand.

A silver starcruiser, ten miles away and closing fast at a height of 2000 feet, projected a soft green, wide-band ray of light. It swept the closest pit a few seconds then switched to the other two and within thirty seconds the ray had covered the entire camp. The light extinguished and the spaceship coasted to a halt, hovering at a point equidistant above the three pits areas.

"I didn't feel anything. I'm not hurt," blurted the sergeant.

"Nor I," concurred Otterman. Adding sardonically, "So much for the enemy's so-called Death Ray."

"Geez, it's a big mother," referring to the spaceship, babbled the enlisted soldier.

"Put a lid on it, Sergeant!" The Colonel watched the motionless orb, then grabbed the transmitter, "I'll teach these alien clowns to mess with _my_ operation." Mashing the ON button, "Men, this is Colonel Otterman. Commence firing. I repeat, commence firing!"

He waited... and waited. A minute became two. He surveyed his troops' positions with the field glasses. Nothing was happening - no gunfire. Why??? "Sergeant, contact Site One. Find out what hell's going on down there."

The Signal Corps technician obeyed and reported, "The lieutenant says none of their weapons are operational. Site Two and Three report the same condition, sir."

"Zat so?" Otterman whipped out his forty-five, aimed at the spaceship and squeezed the trigger, 'Click, click, click'. The Captain followed suit and found his sidearm too, had become inoperative. "Damn. Sergeant, instruct the unit leaders to have the troopers to toss grenades into the pits. If it works we'll get more grenades and some flame-throwers too! We'll show those alien scumbags we have more than one card up our sleeve."

The same results: the grenades didn't explode. A barrage of expletives spewed from the Colonel followed by, "Sergeant, two things. Number one: radio Field Command. Advise them we're under attack and requesting immediate air support. Number two:" tossing his semi-automatic pistol to him, "Break down this weapon and see what's wrong with it."

"Yes, sir. Immediate air support, then the weapon," while eyeing the massive hovering starcruiser. A few minutes later, "Sirs, Edwards Air Force Base is directing an already in-flight air squadron to us, ETA five minutes." As the field tech listened to a barrage of radio transmissions his jaw dropped, "Sirs, Field Comm reports New York City is also under attack... and here, our site team leaders are awaiting your further orders."

Otterman seemed to have no answers. Zellers offered a suggestion, "Shall I tell them to fix bayonets?"

"No, It would take too long to gig 'em properly and clear the target zone before the air support arrives."

'Zssst' Two pencil-thin, bright red lasers flashed from the starcruiser, striking the radio and tracking towers located adjacent to the Admin building. The structures glowed an even pink and disappeared - vaporized. Not a trace of residue remained in evidence.

"Well, now. It looks like the enemy's got some nasty, high tech toys. And so does our team. Get our men outta of there, Captain, before they get toasted. We'll let the fly-boys handle this detail. And, just for good measure, when the Air Force is finished blasting that oversized ball bearing, we'll have them napalm the Omega in the pits. I'll fry them good, show 'em not to mess with Colonel Harry S. Otterman, United States Army."

"Order the men out? Do you mean retreat, sir?"

"What? Hell no, Captain! I never retreat. We're strategically redeploying our troops for the incoming air support and a new assault. Didn't you learn anything at your Military Academy? Direct the fire teams to reassemble behind the guard detail barracks and to keep their heads down... and make it fast. Who knows where or when those fly-boys will drop a load."

The Gunny reported, "I found the problem with your forty-five, sir. The mechanism is fine; it's the ammunition." Extending in the palm of his hand a bullet and shell casing split in half with his knife, "See, the powder has turned to paste. The green light must've done it. Yep, that's my guess. Pretty funny, huh?"

Otterman glowered, "Not funny at all, Sergeant."

"Er, yes, Colonel. I meant peculiar... not funny."

The Colonel waved a hand, "Okay, you alien dirt-bags, you won the first round but we're going to play hardball now. Men, for your enlightenment, jet fighter rocket warheads use a mixture of solid and liquid combustibles, not gunpowder. That pasty, green light won't save their slimy butts this time," as he focused the field glasses on the Avenger formation approaching from the east. "Gunny, can you raise Field Comm with the tower taken out?"

"Yes, sir. I have a portable LRFR (long range field radio) in the Sci-Co truck. I'll retrieve it."

"Make it on the double, Sergeant. Then advise Edwards AFB of our positions and tell 'em I said to start kicking ass." Reaching for a cigar in his top pocket, "Gentlemen, it's time to up the ante."

Nine Avenger jet fighters roared overhead, executing a low level recon pass to assess target positioning and Friendly Forces clearance. The flight leader commenced a wide loop-around and radioed home base regarding the personnel observed in the elongated trenches who would be endangered by their incoming ordinance fallout. His command advised said subjects were enemy troops and to proceed with the attack. The Avengers divided into three clusters of three apiece, each forming a pointed wedge. Their air-to-ground missiles were fully armed. The clusters were at five miles and closing, locked on target, speed - 800 knots... three miles... one. "Fire!" Eighteen Deadhead rockets, with their smoking tails burning bright yellow-orange, streaked from the cradles on the undersides of the wings as the flying purveyors of destruction pulled upward - away from the blow-back.

The trio watching on the Admin building rooftop hunkered down behind the perimeter railing wall, their eyes peering over the edge from under their steel helmets, determined to witness the impact of the missiles on the silver starcruiser. Eighteen streaking pencils of fire struck home, and eighteen dull black circles materialized on the shiny hull momentarily, then faded away. No explosions. Not the slightest scratch appeared on the starship. The Deadheads had disintegrated on contact.

"Crap!" blustered Otterman. "Gunny, get Edwards on the horn. Request the squadron napalm those pits on their next pass." Pleased with his tactic, "You see, Captain, first things first. We'll complete our mission while Air Force brass decides what next to throw at that alien piece of junk."

"Affirmative, Colonel. Edwards has ordered the hot seat on the next run."

"Damn right," patting his empty chest pocket, he found he was out of cigars and looked to Zellers who sheepishly shook his head, indicating he'd forgot to carry the boss's reserves. Otterman mumbled under his breath, "Outta cigars... war is hell."

Avenger Wings One, Two and Three approached from different directions so each could drop their HWB's (hot wet bomb's) - bursting on contact - spewing a liquid stream of flaming napalm lengthways though each designated occupied trench. Coordinated to sweep in at ten-second intervals, the Wings formed three straight lines and began their run at four o'clock and six hundred knots.

"I have a visual on the eastern group," stated Otterman.

"I see the northern Wing," added Zellers.

"Whar are... Oh, there they are. Hot dog, southern boys a-comin' home!" the Georgia-born sergeant was pleased to announce.

Before the Gunny's grin could fade, three pure white tractor beams shot out from the sphere, trapping each fighter wing in a conical spotlight. All nine aircraft simultaneously slowed down as if they'd hit an invisible air pocket of molasses and in less than a minute they glided to a complete stop, held motionless and suspended in midair, their weapons and communications systems disabled.

The demonstration wasn't over for the disbelieving soldiers. The laser which vaporized the twin towers flashed toward the mountain range ten miles westward. 'Zssst' It struck the sheer-side of a bluff and bored a hundred-yard wide, circular tunnel cleanly through the middle. A pinpoint of far-side sunlight shone through the smoking, molten opening, manifesting the power of the weapon. The message was clear. Capping off its display of technological superiority, the starcruiser gently lowered its tractor beams, depositing the Air Force aircraft on the badlands floor three miles away. Their communication systems were restored but the fighters were effectively rendered harmless. Their landing gear, retracted in flight, now were blocked by their own body weight and could not open.

"Where are the planes?" exclaimed Zellers.

"I think to spaceship grabbed them out of the sky and smashed em into the ground," answered the Gunny.

"No, they're intact, sitting on the desert floor in sand up to their arses," informed Otterman. I can see the pilots climbing out of their cockpits. They're okay. Inform Edwards of the developments, the air squadron radios may be dead. Then patch me into our Field Comm. I need some new orders. We appear to be at a stalemate."

"Should we go down into the pits and gig them now or strategically redeploy further away, Colonel?"

"Into the pits? Are you crazy? Did you see what they did to that mountain and the jets? I don't think they'll have any trouble _neutralizing_ our troopers." Otterman's bluster had disappeared, and his body showed defeat. He emitted a deep sigh, "Perhaps we'll redeploy _real_ far away before this day is over, Captain. Like to a different state... but I'll have to wait for the word from the top before abandoning my position. Besides, if given a choice, I'd prefer to stick around and see first-hand what the brass come up with."

The United Nations Building, New York City. 0350 Zulu

Every line on Ito's telephone console flashed on hold, all parties were screaming for instructions or breathlessly reporting unexpected developments. The Japanese major lived for these moments. He relished the attention and accompanying pressure, convinced that determination coupled with positive action lay inherent in men of power, such as himself. However, this particular barrage had caught him by surprise and he was acutely aware he must react with speed and decisiveness or suffer loss of face.

Ito's Operation Omega had been compromised by the fleet of alien warships floating above the prison camps in Germany, Iran, Nigeria, Brazil, Russia, India, China, Indonesia and in the U. S: Redwood. All sites were reporting the same situation: a single hovering, gigantic silver ball, except for North Korea (they had executed the rest of the prisoners yesterday, without his knowledge). All of Earth's countries had responded similarly to the invasion of their sovereign air space by retaliating with conventional weapons such as rockets, bombs, tanks and small-arms fire with no effect. Their defensive actions had left the invaders completely unscathed. So far, none of the alien craft had returned fire, although each had demonstrated frightening offensive weaponry \- indicating strong retaliatory capabilities were being held in check - for the time being.

Yamoto, basked in the limelight and analyzed the situation. To him, there was no question the enemy was still waiting to initiate a coordinated attack, but when? Soon, he felt sure. He rationalized: "All the more important why I must break their backs and crush their spirits by destroying their Earth-based subversives on schedule. Will 0600 be soon enough? Should I move the time toward and give the command now? No, that would appear as if I've become indecisive."

A secretary rushed in, "Mister Yamoto! Admiral Wysocki is on line seven, he says it's most urgent, sir!"

"Hai?" He listened intently. The four extra-large, orbiting spaceships had changed their flight paths and dispersed their bumps into vertical lines of fifty vessels per string. The Admiral's professional assessment stated the stationary warships, some of which were positioned over heavily populated areas, would attack as soon as these two hundred craft broke formation and joined them. Wysocki's positive assertion: They were support units for the larger, core ships already positioned. And, after combining their forces, would establish a defensive perimeter, fan out and begin destroying all military installations, then the surrounding civilian communities. Global assault loomed eminent.

The new world leader, Ito Yamoto, concurred. "I must act now!"

Punching his recently installed private line to the White House, Yamoto was immediately connected to the President of the United States. Ito spoke curt and to the point, "President Merriweather, this is Ito Yamoto, World Security Council. I have decided an immediate nuclear strike is our only viable line of defense. I am requesting... no, insisting you establish a conference call with the other nations who have nuclear delivery systems. You must select your respective targets. Time is of the essence... it is imperative for the survival of the human race. Do you understand!"

"Yes, Mister Deputy Chairman, but some of the spaceships are located close to major cities, tens of millions of people will die..."

Interrupting him, "Silence! No butts! This is not a negotiable issue, compliance is mandatory. Since I do not have the necessary communication links at my disposal, I authorize you to take this action on my behalf. Do you know the locations of the nine targets?"

"Nine? You mean ten don't you?"

"Ten?" Ito had been caught off guard.

"Yes, ten. The tenth one is over the United Nations building... directly over you for the last twenty minutes. Don't you watch CNN?"

"What! Hold on," throwing the receiver on the desk and racing to another room to stare out the window. Eyeballs bulging, mouth agape, he shrilled, "Ai-eee!" He quickly stiff-stepped back to his desk and got back on the phone with Merriweather. Quite unnerved, he stated the obvious, "Y-yes, you're correct. It's there."

"Shall we destroy that one also?" questioned the American president.

Ito's left cheek began to twitch, "N-no. Delay number ten, I'll advise you on its disposition later."

"I see," an icy silence followed. There came no reply, then, "Mister Yamoto, are you still on the line?"

"Yes... of course I am." Recovering sharply, almost with a vengeance, he attempted to regain control of the conversation. "What are you waiting for, Mister President? You have your orders!"

"Yes, you have made yourself quite clear on that point, _Mister_ Yamoto. I'll establish the conference call, and you can rest assured _appropriate_ action will be taken shortly. Good day, sir."

Ito directed his staff to inform all the parties on hold everything was under his personal control and he would get back to them if he further required their services.

Pleased with his masterful handling of the crisis, he returned to the window to observe the flagship, Aurora 17. Another brilliant idea formed. He ordered a secretary to summon a government staff car and a helicopter. He will move his operation to Washington, D.C. and be headquartered in the White House. After all, New York City may not exist within an hour or two and as the Commander-in-Chief of the entire world's military forces he must have the best resources and protection available. "Yes!"

Doctor Fairchild's head had begun to feel better. He struggled to his feet and looked around for other people. None were present, there was no movement; it was dead quiet. His eyes were drawn upward, his vision became filled with the image of the alien vessel. "What is that...?" Astonished, he fell back against the wall of the building, his mind too surprised to think clearly. Finally, after realizing no immediate threat existed, his scientific curiosity came to the fore and he began to scrutinize the ship's mass in earnest and appreciative wonder. A baby's cry broke his concentration. "Did I hear a baby?" Returning inside, he found Bernard's family in a different section of the cell block. Unspeaking, they stared at each other - the wandering, free-spirited, nomadic family no longer trusted men-in-uniform. Fairchild purveyed the vicinity for a key - no such luck.

"Looking for these?"

Tony turned at the hailing. "Joshua? Joshua Nashota! How did _you_ get here?"

"Ah, Colonel, you know how sneaky we _Indians_ can be," making a barb at the long-standing inference to the First American's historical stealth-like abilities.

"Very funny. But I must say it's good to see you. I was not pleased at all by the way you were run off, as were Bernard's people." Tony patted his shoulder, "I wish this reunion wasn't under these circumstances, my friend."

"Me too," as he placed the cell's keys in the colonel's hands. He explained, "They were hanging on the wall at the end of the corridor."

"Thanks," said Fairchild as he took the key ring and tried them each until he found the correct one. "So, Joshua, how did you get through the electrified fence and all those troopers?"

"Darkness had set in; the soldiers were concentrated around the mortar teams and the front gate," he explained. "They weren't expecting anyone to come at them after their attack on the campsites. I burrowed under the hot fence a mile away from them. It was not difficult."

Tony quickly released the grateful but still wary clan and warned them of what awaited above outside. They then collectively exited the building to marvel at the suspended silver starcruiser.

"Far out," exclaimed Bernard.

"Where is everyone else... the other men, women and children?" questioned his wife.

"Judging from the speech we heard over the p.a., I suspect the Army took them outside, iced them, then split," reckoned her husband. Adding, "They must have used gas or chemicals since we didn't hear gunfire."

"I disagree," injected Tony. "I didn't hear any troop carriers leaving. It would require quite a few to transport three hundred men and equipment. I believe the troopers are still here and hiding from you know what," as he jerked his thumb upward.

The soldiers are still here," informed Nashota. "They are out of sight, hiding amongst the buildings. They took cover when the Air Force jets attempted to vanquish the spaceship. The planes were not able to destroy it, as you can see. The silver orb seized their jet fighters with a beam of light and placed them on the ground, unharmed and out of commission. The Omega people are in the pits, shackled and hooded. The bulldozers have blocked their escape path."

"Wow, what a tough spot to be in," bemoaned Fairchild. "I can't see what _we_ can do, just the few of us and lacking tools. But I know one thing for sure; this stand-off is not going to last for long. The military will do something radical soon."

"Logical," Bernard concurred. "However, this puts _my_ family in a very precarious position. The soldiers may pop out at any time and shoot us for trying to escape. You, Doctor, on the other hand, would be safe because of your uniform." Herding his family back to the doorway, he continued, "The sergeant said we would be freed later. Perhaps, we should play it cool and stay inside here until then."

"I wouldn't trust them if I were you," cautioned Tony. "I sure don't," confided Fairchild. "Considering our government's track record involving covert operations, and my short exposure to Colonel Otterman, I really can't believe they would leave witnesses... or evidence."

"Oh, my God, Bernie, what should we do?" wailed his wife.

Tony immediately regretted voicing his opinion. He hadn't meant to cause them more distress. Fatigue continued to cloud his usual sound thinking... even so, a few key words burst through his dullness: ice, free, escape, cool. He eyes widened, "Oh, no, the freezer! They put the others - the so-called specimens, in the freezer. I've got to get them out!"

"Specimens?" repeated Nashota. "What are you talking about?"

Fairchild gave them all the short version as he took his bearing.

"That's down-right _inhuman_ ," exclaimed Bernard. "You're right. I can't trust my loved ones' safety to people who would commit such atrocities. I'll help you. What can I do?"

Tony was already on the move. The freezer is this way." It's not far, but we must hurry. They've been locked up for over an hour."

"Yes, we all have to go," declared Bernard. "Anyone who remains here, their lives will be in jeopardy."

"I agree," said Tony. "Listen, the mess hall is large. There should be adequate hiding places. Knowing the Army, if they come looking and don't find you, they'll assume there has been another mix-up in orders and someone else has already handled the assignment. You're low priority, for the moment."

"Let's get a move on it," returned Bernard then cautioned his family to be extra quiet.

They arrived without incident - the troops were focused on the alien spacecraft and Tony's tight little band quickly located the first freezer. Thankfully, no guard was present but the door's padlock appeared ominous. A stroke of luck: Joshua found a crowbar for opening crates leaning in a wall corner! Ramming the V-notched straight end-tip through the lock loop, Fairchild and Nashota counted to three and bore down with their shoulders on the improvised lever. The padlock bowed, then yawned open. With grim determination, Tony tossed the broken device behind him and opened the door. He anxiously peered into the misty dimness. Were they safe? Yes! Nine surprised, huddled figures turned their heads to the sweet light and warmth pouring in. The semi-frozen captives filed out of the death-container and Bernard's family quickly commenced to warm them.

Doc's exuberance was short-lived when he realized there were only women present. Angst washed over him. "Where are the men?" he blurted.

Irene, Armstead's mother, answered, "I don't know. We never saw them."

Lisa piped up, "Daddy and the man called Mason are cold."

Tony stared at the child in quick comprehension. "Of course! Otterman said two freezers."

Grabbing the crowbar, Fairchild instructed the newly freed women and Bernard's group to stay put. He deduced if there were a guard, he must be posted at the second unit, wherever that may be. He stated, "We must find the other freezer. Joshua and I can handle it."

The Omega women protested, "No, no! We're not staying here. We know where it is. We can take you and save precious time!"

It made partial sense to Tony: If there were eminent danger - the two groups would have to hide themselves while he tried to handle the situation himself. Could so many people scatter and become concealed fast enough? But... without their guidance, he would most assuredly be too late. Not many choices were there?

Following the women's directions, they slipped into a small adjacent, auxiliary building, probably used for the officers and medical staff. It contained a kitchen, pantry and storage room and the pair were again confronted with the same scenario: no soldiers and a locked freezer.

Footsteps! Boot heels reverberated on the kitchen tile floor. The leather 'clicks' stopped. Water was heard running. "Hurry, go back. Find a place to hide. I have a plan to get rid of him," ordered Tony. "Here, Joshua, take the crowbar. I'll call you when it's clear."

Fairchild smoothed his uniform as best he could. It looked as if he had slept in it, which he had, but it would have to do. An Airborne trooper strode though the kitchen doorway carrying a glass of water. "Oh, sorry, Colonel," he stopped to salute. "I was expecting the top-sergeant."

"As you were, Corporal. It's quite alright. Colonel Otterman sent me to relieve you and inspect the bodies. You may rejoin your unit. He says he needs every man on the line right now."

"Certainly, sir, but I don't know if they're all dead yet. Perhaps I should stay to assist you in case there's any trouble."

"That won't be necessary, soldier, I'm sure the subjects are in a comatose state." The young man gave Fairchild a suspicious once over and Tony knew he had to say something a whole lot more convincing to put this particular man on the defensive and get him out of here. He drew from the medical records he had read, "I'm a doctor, a pathologist, here to make a pre-mortem examination of their eyes."

"Their eyes?" repeated the corporal. The whole battalion had been forewarned to avoid viewing the Omega's eyes prior to securing the camp. The noncom, searching for and recognizing the medical insignia on the officer's collar tab, decided the good doctor could handle this detail alone. Besides, who was he, a lowly enlisted man, to question a lieutenant colonel? "Yes, sir. Very good, sir. May I show you to the other freezer?"

"Again, not necessary, I know where it is." Tony held out his hand, "The keys please."

Fairchild didn't want the soldier running back here for cover and thus discovering him freeing the captives so he added, "Before you go, are you aware of the alien spaceship overhead?"

"Yes, sir."

"And, do you know the whereabouts of your unit?"

"Yes, sir, I saw them deploying behind A barracks."

Accepting the keys, "Good. You're dismissed, soldier. Go report to your unit"

Confident the man had left and not wanting to waste critical time trying to re-contact all the others in his search party, Tony called to Joshua as he quickly unlocked the freezer door and threw it open. Another huddled mass, this time no one looked toward the light. These people had been in the killing cold thirty minutes longer than the woman's group. "Oh, no," rushing inside, he touched the nearest man - Mason.

Armstead squinted at the doctor through frosted eyelids, "I hope you brought some hot coffee. It's getting a little chilly in here."

Tony laughed in relief, "Funny guy."

Doctor Fairchild gathered up and carried one of the youngest children; Nashota, at his side, took another - the adults and teenagers shuffled out under their own power. He immediately began examining the half-frozen boys while issuing resuscitation instructions for the men who appeared to be in better condition. "Apparently the Omega metabolism is different," he surmised, "these people should be dead." Tony felt angry and muttered to himself, "The pain of the innocents. It never ends." He paused a moment in recollection, "Did I say innocents?" as he resumed treatment. "You must save the Innocents," rang in his memory. "Where did I hear...?" In a flash he remembered and stared at Nashota. "Joshua, my friend and Navajo tribal historian whispered that to me at the campsite. Did he have a vision or dream about this? Is he on a mission? How could...? We have much to discuss later, _if_ there is a later."

An adjoining door creaked open, Mason glanced up from massaging a boy's arm. He saw the woman's group being led by a strikingly familiar woman holding a little blond girl's hand. Their eyes met in instant recognition, wonder and love.

"Mother!!!"

# Chapter Twelve

### The End?

New York City

"Attention, people of Earth. We come in peace to rescue our progeny, who you call the Omega which you have condemned and persecuted out of your ignorance and hatred. Hence, as a result of your continuous callousness, even unto all of your fellow man, the Intergalactic Federation of Civilized Cultures has adjudged this planet's species as incorrigible and therefore abandons you to your eventual, contemptible, self-imposed destruction. Take heed in your corruption, your attempted passage to the stars will be denied. Your poisonous defilement _shall_ be contained."

The message reverberated in Ito's ears, as well as those of every other occupant of New York City. The transmissions of Aurora 17 and her sister ships each blanketed ten square miles, penetrating walls and subterranean concrete without producing auricular damage. Worldwide, all television and radio channels were overridden with the message and had been repeated thrice in their respective native languages. Far above in the stratosphere, two hundred personnel landing craft broke formation, leaving their core-mother ships behind to begin sweeping Earth's four quadrants. As the PLC's descended, the nine starcruisers hovering over their respective targets generated fixed, deep indigo-blue transporter beams - silver flicks swirled inside as crews were lowered to assist the trapped Omega prisoners.

"Cosmic swine," Ito seethed and muttered to himself. "Just wait until I get to Washington. I'll blast their slimy butts off the face of this planet! How dare they broadcast and dictate their doctrines to me!" He was enraged, "And just where is my transportation? I am the most important man in the world! I've been waiting fifteen minutes now. As the Commander of Earth's defenses, I should _never_ be kept waiting!"

A firm Rap! Rap! on his office door. "Enter!" he snapped. Yamoto sat tersely, a briefcase in his lap, impatiently waiting for a driver to whisk him to the Kennedy Airport Heliport and away from the enemy's annoying warship overhead.

Instead, a Secret Service agent entered with an entourage consisting of two U. S. Marshals, the Japanese to America ambassador and last, the Secretary General of the United Nations. Ito held in check his old habit of jumping to his feet and bowing to a higher authority. He casually rose, trying to appear gracious within the power of his esteemed position, "Gentlemen, thank you for coming to bid me a suitable farewell. Yes, this is an appropriate send-off indeed. However, a driver and one guard would have been adequate and more efficient."

"Greetings from the President of the United States," conveyed the S.S. agent.

"Were you leaving New York, Mister Yamoto?" asked the Secretary General.

"Why yes." Puzzled, he asked, "Aren't all of you my escort?"

"In a manner of speaking, we are, Mister Yamoto," stated the Ambassador. " _These_ two marshals will accompany you to the airport and travel with you to Tokyo."

"Tokyo?" repeated Ito. "Sorry, but you are mistaken, sir. I am going to Washington to set up my new headquarters in the White House. It has become necessary to move due to..."

The ambassador raised his hand and abruptly cut him off. "No! It is you who is mistaken." He sputtered in distaste, "Your services are no longer required, _Mister_ Yamoto. Operation Omega has been terminated and your commission of serving as a major has been withdrawn. You are no longer a representative of the Imperial Japanese military and you are being deported to Japan to face murder charges of hundreds of individuals."

"That is correct, your insidious Omega operation has ended," concurred the Secretary General. "The rest of the Governing Board and myself are most thank-full that President Merriweather and his Cabinet chose to ignore your attack orders and avoided a nuclear catastrophe which would have killed millions of innocent people."

"What!" sputtered Ito. "Let's get something straight here. First of all, those so-called, hundreds of _individuals_ you alluded to were merely worthless peons... even worst... they were undercover enemy agents. Eliminating subversive terrorists is part of my job. And secondly, Merriweather can't ignore _my_ order. I am in command here... everywhere... the entire world! Have you people gone mad?" Searching their faces, "Oh-ho, I see it now. It was the devious alien broadcast. That's the root of this stupidity isn't it? They scared you and the faint-hearted American president, didn't they? Don't you see the alien transmission was all lies! It's a conniving trick, nothing more." He screeched, "Am _I_ the only one able to fathom the enemy's villainous treachery? We must depart... no, escape New York City as soon as possible - it will soon become a primary target. We must destroy the alien invaders while they're right in the palm of our hand!" His neck reddened, he raised a clenched fist and shouted, "What's the matter with you fools?"

"Do you mean undercover enemy agents like the crew aboard the International Space Station?" refuted his ambassador.

"The I.S.S. crew?" Ito waved his hand in dismissal, "Collateral damage, nothing more." He smiled, "It happens all the time."

"Enough of this insanity, Yamoto! Cease this outrage," hissed the Ambassador. "You are beyond an embarrassment. _You_ and you alone, nearly drew the world into an interplanetary war in which the Earth could have been annihilated. Just what ever possessed you to think the visitors were hostile to begin with?" He didn't give him an opportunity to counter, "Do not answer! Be silent. Our country cannot bear your further disgrace."

"Don't tell _me_ to be quiet," shot back Ito. "This is ridiculous. The enemy cannot defeat us, if you have a strong heart and true courage. Why can't you understand this?"

The Japanese Ambassador had enough, "I told you to remain silent. I will have you gagged if necessary." Yamoto simmered and chose to decease - for the moment. The ambassador then apologized to the Secretary, "My entire country is most grateful for President Merriweather's recognizing Yamoto's perilous instability and for his wise intervention before irreparable damage occurred. The people of Japan humbly beg forgiveness for his actions." He bowed low at the waist, "We fervently hope someday you will pardon our shame."

The Secretary answered, "No apology is necessary and please bear no shame, Mister Ambassador," then quickly turned and addressed Ito. "The Governing Board of the United Nations agrees with President Merriweather's evaluation and I have been fittingly directed by said members to relieve you of your position of Acting Deputy Chairman of the World Security Council. Consider it done."

"Mister Ambassador, sir, I also convey our sincerest regrets on the behalf of my colleagues in the United Nations for the erroneous placement of this demented man in a position of such responsibility. Gentlemen, this, the most distasteful duty I have ever endured, is hereby concluded. Please, sirs, would you please remove this vile, repugnant so-called _person_ for deportation... to face his all too well- deserved prosecution?"

Ito's enormous ego had been instantly crushed and it fell around him in shreds. He mumbled as he was being led toward the door, shuffling along, "You people are in error. General Guevara, that pig... this is his fault, not mine." His face began to twitch as he remembered, "Fools, they called me a major. How dare they? I'm not a lowly _major_ ; I'm the Supreme Commander of the Earth..."

Steering a dazed Yamoto by the arm down the hallway, the agent remarked, "Supreme Commander? I haven't heard that one before. Say, Mister Supreme Commander," he quipped, "perhaps you should consider a new vocation. Humm... do you know how to make Sushi? Maybe you could be the Supreme Sushi Chef for the prison."

Mecca, Saudi Arabia

Mehrdad Iravani and his uncle Sai'd, standing shoulder to shoulder in a crush of one hundred of their kinsmen, jostled to watch a wealthy relative's portable, battery-powered TV positioned on the open, door-drop of the man's pickup truck. Iravani's clan had camped two miles from the walls of the Holy City now besieged by ten million devout pilgrims, all anxious and waiting for Mohammed to descend from heaven and carry the chosen (each of only them) to Paradise. Three times a day, at the Calling of the Faithful, the Ayatollah Khorramani appeared at the east rampart, led the masses in prayers, then returned inside the Great Mosque to await the arrival of the Blessed Prophet.

Sai'd shook his nephew roughly, "My eyes are not what they used to be child. What do you see?" The audio had been turned up full tilt but no one could hear above the heavy drone of the crowd's murmuring and curses. They were hot, tired, hungry and very vocal regarding their discomfort. Not much in the way of provisioning had been brought and even less contributed by the Iraqi in Bagdad - per the orders of their embattled Governing Assembly who had just barely allowed the thru passage to their long despised neighbor, the Iranians, and even more begrudgingly permitted their own citizens to join in the frenzied exodus.

Mehrdad reported, "A large black ball is hovering over the political prison in Tehran. The news commentator says no one can get close to the facility, a transparent barrier surrounds it. He says about twenty people have floated up within a swirling blue light and disappeared inside the floating sphere."

"Why don't the guards shoot them if they are escaping?"

"There are none, uncle, only prisoners. The television newscaster said the inmates were abandoned, left to starve in their cells. All the guards are here."

"Sounds like a just treatment for the law-breakers to me. I shall not be concerned." Sai'd then dramatically raised a hand in a moment of prophecy, "Mohammed will destroy the vile wrong-doers and their magic flying ball with a bolt of lightning when he arrives. I have spoken."

A deafening roar, millions of voices screamed in rapture. "The Prophet... Blessed son of Allah... Mohammed... He comes!" Choruses of, "Deliver me. Allah be praised! Take me, me, _me_!" as countless entreating arms and fingers excitedly pointed at the descending chariot in the sky.

A black personnel landing craft swooped down to a height of three hundred feet above ground, shot out its antigravity beam and sucked up a subject, then moved to another location. It looped and danced all over the Mecca countryside, zigzagging to and fro. The crowds cheered when it drew nigh and plucked another person from their midst then became deathly quiet when it left - without them. The Ayatollah and his aides waved frantically from his balcony for the ship to come and retrieve _them_ , to no avail. Was His Eminence to be the last delivered for a special reason? Perhaps, to give a parting blessing or advice to the wanting, abandoned sinners?

After completing over a hundred extractions, the spaceship finally positioned itself over Mehrdad's campsite. The beam flashed down again, this time encircling a beaten young woman lying prone on the ground not more than a thirty yards from Sai'd. As the woman was being drawn up, a dozen men rushed into the base of the blue light. She kept going, going, gone - passing through the bottom of the vessel. The men howled and pushed each other for better positioning, hopping up and down trying to jump on the next ride up to Mohammed's chariot. The beam extinguished and the PLC moved to another spot, leaving the men mute, frozen in place.

Finally, one exasperated pilgrim shouted, "This is wrong! I know the girl taken. She is strange, not as us. The bitch should have been stoned to death years ago like we did the other witches. She is no better than the simplest-minded _woman_. She can not be a favored one!"

Which induced rage in another man, "You say the Prophet of Allah errs? You shall speak no more, Satan worshiper!" He whipped out a scimitar knife from his waistband and slashed the speaker across the throat from ear to ear. The recipient fell, floundered in the sand and soon drowned in his own blood. There was no dissenting outcry from the crowd - the blasphemer deserved his fate. A third man in the previous circle also became loud and indignant, "I haven't been chosen either. This is wrong!" He reasoned, "There must be an infidel in our midst and Mohammed stopped taking the Faithful because he was repulsed by the man's uncleanliness!" Studying the encircling onlookers, the group spotted a person they didn't recognize, a poor soul from a different quarter of the city, not of their clan. "There! He is the one! He is the defiler! The Prophet left because of him," and the entire campsite pummeled and chopped the hapless fellow into pieces. Similar scenarios and actions occurred at every PLC retrieval site.

After a dozen more extractions the landing craft streaked straight up, out of sight - never to be seen again, leaving behind hordes of angry, un-chosen followers.

The TV blared accounts of rioting and bloodshed at almost every major religious shrine worldwide, but no one listened or cared about the authorities' pleas to desist. Here, in Mecca, the male pilgrims were nothing if not realists, it didn't take them long to deduce their beloved Mohammed did not intend to return: they would not sipping sweet wine with their beautiful, virgin brides in Paradise and instead they'd soon be starving in a hostile, foreign country while their abandoned homes were being ransacked and looted by the common street beggars they left behind to die. A riot ensued, followed by a stampede to return to whence they came.

Note: One month later, every Muslin country in the Middle East was embroiled in a violent civil war. No party honored their previous alliances or treaties, not even with their long-standing, inter-marrying clans.

Back at the mess hall

"Rosita and Francine say it's safe to come out and play now," Lisa had read their minds. "C'mon, Mommy and Daddy. C'mon, Mason," as all the children ran, laughing and giggling from the mess hall to join their friends. Doctor Fairchild and Armstead watched in alarm; Irene and Woody - surprised but permitting; they were fully aware Lisa could detect danger better than they could. She and the other two children possessed more abilities than anyone, even the older adults and the children's senses had continued to develop and sharpen from month to month in spite of their stressful incarceration.

The parents cautiously followed to behold a most wonderful sight! Mothers and children, freed from their shackles, were twirling and dancing, their faces were radiant in delight. Tony, Mason and Bernard's family gaped in wonder while the other Omega with them immediately understood the situation. A tear of happiness trickled down Irene's cheek.

An aura of soft white light radiated from the walls of an invisible force-field encompassing the three pit areas and mess hall. Outside, twilight had fallen. The Airborne troops mulled around, poked the barrier's pliable yet impenetrable surface and watched the spectacle inside with curiosity. Now unchained, the thousands of former prisoners were being led out of the pits by white-clad crew members from the starcruiser. The bulldozers had been tossed on their sides like discarded toys by the spaceship's tractor beam. Dozens of scattered attentive groups surrounded the aliens who were explaining the options and conditions of their immediate future. Jubilant families rose in the transporter beam and disappeared inside the starship. There was no hurry, no sense of urgency or uncertainty, only exuberance.

Lisa returned, bubbling with excitement. Mason scooped her up into his arms, "How's my beautiful, little sister?"

"Good, good." Hugging his neck, "I like having a big brother." Woody and Irene embraced them both, Tony looked on, apart in body but sharing the warmth of their spirit.

An eight-foot tall, middle-aged alien man and a slightly shorter woman, both with friendly, enlarged eyes greeted them with a sincere, "Welcome" and introduced themselves. Fairchild, the ex-specimens, Nashota and Bernard's clan gathered around the pair, curious and eager to learn everything they could about these mystical strangers.

Their particular spaceship originated from the planet Pollux in the Gemini triad, part of a multi-ethnicity, human fleet sent by the Intragalactic Federation of Civilized Cultures to rescue and relocate the endangered remnants of **the** **Omega** , their **seed** who landed on Earth thousands of years ago. The man told them those who wish to leave Earth would be taken to Ventura, a nitrogen/oxygen class world in the Andromeda constellation. There were at present, seven colonies flourishing in a progressive, nineteenth century lifestyle. "You, the new settlers would constitute the eighth." There were no weapons or disease and all spoke the same dialect: Comspeak, the universal tongue of the twenty-one, human worlds within the Milky Way. This new language, orientation, and much more would be implanted in their minds as they slept en route to Ventura and nothing would be erased or altered from their present memories. He added, "Further corrections of your anatomical functions will be made during the two week journey. These changes will extend your lifetime to two hundred years and permit your latent, extraordinary abilities to begin developing."

Several aliens presented, "The planet Ventura has a current population of six hundred thousand. It is beautiful, slightly larger than Earth, with half the oceans and four hundred thousand fresh-water lakes. The land mass is a pure, unspoiled wilderness, filled with non-threatening wildlife." He chuckled, "Sounds almost too good to be true doesn't it? But it is, and if at the conclusion of a one year's residency, you're not happy and you want to return to Earth, it shall be arranged. We are pleased to report not a single, relocated colonist has ever asked to be repatriated with their planet of origin."

"This," pointing overhead, "is one of our ten starcruisers gathering the fifteen thousand Omega prisoners who have been unjustly incarcerated in secret detention camps located all over your planet. Also, two hundred other ships, personnel landing craft from their four host pods are in the process of retrieving an additional sixty-four thousand families scattered-about, in hiding. The gathering and transfer will take eight days to complete. You must decide by then whether to become a pioneer of a new world or remain. If you elect to stay, we will relocate you on this planet but cannot insure your protection or a future rescue.

"What about us?" questioned Bernard. "We're not Omega, is any consideration or the invitation being extended to us too?"

"Yes, it is. In your particular situation, screening has cleared your family and you are most welcome. I must inform you, because you're not of the _original_ blood line, we can't guarantee a life span beyond a hundred and twenty years. Your bodies will begin a natural, disease-free degeneration after age one hundred. Is that acceptable?"

Her children being able to live a hundred and twenty years in a paradise, his wife was ecstatic! Bernard viewed the indigo antigravity beam with unbridled envy which slowly changed into somberness, "Sorry, I hate to put a damper on this, but are you aware we ordinary Earth people, unlike your fellow Omega, harbor all sorts of dangerous diseases? As much as I'd love to be spirited away, I wouldn't want to transport a germ and be responsible for wiping out an entire planet with an outbreak of something silly such as chicken pox."

"Thank you so much for your kind consideration, Bernard," returned the woman. "Your attitude regarding mankind's well-being weighed heavily in your approval for selection. We fortunately, have learned how to eradicate most of your illnesses during the last hundred years. Please observe the spinning silver flecks in the tunnel; those particles will purify you of every known communicable disease. Plus, once inside you will lie down and pass through a horizontal tube - similar in structure to your current m.r.i. machines, which will cure sub-dermal malignancies such as blood disorders, degenerative heart disease and cancer."

"My God," marveled his wife.

"No," responded the alien. "This is medical science; it has nothing to do with God. Belief in an Almighty is a separate issue which is accepted or denied in private by each individual within the Federation."

One of Bernie's children wearing coke-bottle sized eyeglasses scooted over to the man and tugged on his leg, "Can you fix my eyes, mister?"

The alien dropped to one knee, "Not with the transporter flecks or tube because you have a retinal defect." Smiling and rubbing the boy's head, "But we can easily repair the problem with a different painless, noninvasive procedure. You'll be able to see better than new."

Another child, "Can I be a giant like you?"

"No, but each of your generations will grow taller until you have reached your full potential, as we have.

A recently freed teenager asked, "We just heard on the radio you traveled through a Black hole to get here. Is that true?"

"No, we used what you call a Worm hole. Black holes and Worm holes utilize the same physics postulates. They are magnetic tunnels through space. Simply put, the Blacks connect galaxies; the Worms provide passage within a single galaxy, like traveling inside your own Milky Way."

"Cool," returned the teenager.

"Not really," returned the alien. "Neither type of Hole has a temperature reference point. They are positive and negative poles - temperature is not involved"

"Err, okay. Thanks," said the youngster. They were not _exactly_ on the same page - most teenagers never are.

The Pollux citizen then addressed the adults, "If you have other _immediate_ family members who you feel are worthy and would want to be a part of this extraction, please let us know by tomorrow and we'll fly you to them and back. However... be warned... they will be fully screened and they may _not_ qualify. Keep that in mind. Next... and how about _you_ , Antony Fairchild... or you, Joshua Nashota?" hailed the Pollux speaker. Would either of you consider our invitation?"

"Thank you for your most generous and gracious offer," answered Tony. "But, I choose to remain here."

Turning his direction, "Mister Nashota?"

"I, also choose to remain." He explained, "I came to help free the Innocents. The Omega and you have been part of our Native American lore for centuries. We have received many messages from dreams and visions."

"That's because there are still active Omega genes within what you call DNA, informed the woman. "As we speak, many of our PLC's are gathering such persons around the world and offering them the choice. We're sure there will be many of your natives among them."

"Also, my people, the Navajo, have instructed me to sue for peace with you."

"Joshua, your heart must surely know we came and will depart in peace. But we fear, with just cause, the people of Earth will not react with kindness to our visit and rescue. We hope when you return to your tribe you will explain the truth of our intentions... and to all Native Americans."

"I shall, and thank you." assured Nashota.

The alien pair nodded in understanding and informed the now liberated prisoners that once they have passed through the force field they could not return. Tony studied the soldiers on the other side, "And the sooner I'm on my way the better. They're going to hold and debrief me for at least a week, that's standard military procedure."

"Debrief?" Mason seized his arm and thought of water-boarding and mind penetrating drugs, "Will you be safe?"

"Yes, I'm sure of it. The proverbial cat is out of the bag. The whole world knows what's going on here." The TV news crews began arriving thirty minutes ago. "The less damage the military inflicts now, the less they have to answer for later."

Mason hoped Tony's reasoning held up, yet had a scowl on his face and fretted, "I wish I had enough time to tell you everything I've learned and experienced in the last week. I hate to see it lost. I know you would be fascinated and perhaps be able to put the information to good use.

"Lisa can help you," advised the Pollux woman. Leaning toward the child, she placed the girl's tiny hand on her own forehead. "What do you see, Lisa?"

Her big blue eyes grew wide, "I see Ventura. Mommy, Daddy, it's so pretty!"

Stepping back, "Your little girl is a Channeler, a rarity even among the existing, most highly developed telepathic species. Thanks to offspring as Rosita, Francine, Lisa and your own genetic repairs, many future generations of Venturians will enjoy near-full telepathic abilities. Tony, come here please; physical contact is necessary," and gently placed Lisa's palm on his and Armstead's forehead. "Concentrate, Mason. Open your mind to Doctor Fairchild." (from chapter two)

Armstead's irises turned black and Tony stiffened as billions of information bits in a white haze poured from Mason through Lisa to himself. In no more than a minute, Fairchild broke away - feeling saturated. He steadied himself by holding onto Woody's shoulder. "I believe I'm all right. Wow! Virtual reality video games can't match this." Shaking Mason's hand, "Thank you so much for the sharing, sir. I'll begin documentation as soon as possible. This answers so many questions which arose while I was searching for the origin of diverse languages and civilization, per se. As soon as my interrogations conclude, I'll resign my commission and take a vacation with my family. Our first stop will be London to look up your friend Henry Hollyfield. He sounds like a very interesting character," then added with a wink of the eye, "but not as interesting or exciting as Elke." Mason had unknowingly passed on his feelings for her also.

"Elke?" Mason, jolted to the fact she wasn't present. Could she still be shackled and in the pit? "Oh, no, I must find her!" He whirled around to begin a search, and there she stood a short distance away, watching and waiting quietly - wanting Mason to fully enjoy his reunion with his long-lost family. "Elke!" he exclaimed with joy and rushed to her.

She appeared slightly embarrassed and replied in a low voice, "I didn't want to distract you during your private moment."

He hugged and kissed her. " _You_ would only make it more special." With his arm around her waist, he led her back to meet the others - his mother first.

Beaming with pride, "Mom, Woody, Lisa, everyone, may I introduce Elke, my _very_ good friend." The inference was understood by all.

The male Pollux crew member accompanied Tony to the edge of the force field. The troopers on the other side backed away cautiously, not knowing what to expect and a little intimidated by the towering alien. Tony looked at him in a serious manner, "Being a healer, it breaks my heart not to be able to take some of your marvelous medical technology with me. I could save lives and alleviate so much suffering."

"I understand your concern, Doctor Fairchild, but we can't permit that. In fact, we're still rather new to Earth-type medicine even though we've made great strides in the last hundred years. Unfortunately, the problem of which you can be most assured, is that the power utilized in our instruments would soon be altered and be directed against your own mankind. Our technology would be used to create greater and more horrible weapons. Your world's end is already on the horizon... we shall not be contributory in hastening it. I hope you understand."

Tony reached for the transparent barrier which shimmered like a translucent sheet of water. His fingers passed through and an "Oops," escaped him. Turning to shake hands and say goodbye, the man from Pollux placed a folded piece of paper in his outstretched hand. "What's this?"

A soft smile, "You're a good man, Antony Fairchild... for an Earthling. Good luck," as he spun about and left.

Tony read the outside lettering: The cure for male pattern baldness. "Well, I'll be dipped." He chuckled and stuffed it in his pocket.

Assembled at the outside base of the transporter beam, Mason addressed the waiting assembly, "I feel I should say something witty or momentous about ending our dwelling here on Earth and beginning a new journey, but suitable words escape me. Instead, I ask we bow our heads for a moment of silence in respect for those who perished in our quest for freedom." Each within his own reflected - mostly in appreciation and gratitude for Michelle DeBlois-LeBlanc who sacrificed her life so many would live. At the conclusion, Mason glanced up at the silver starcruiser and observed a couple being beamed up.

He turned to Elke and proclaimed, "I am not afraid anymore." His two childhood fears had been overcome. "I'm ready to go," content he had done his best to be a peacemaker among men. Speaking to the alien pair who first welcomed them, "Would we be too heavy if we all joined hands?"

The duo gladly gave their approval, saying, "Unity and family is the foundation of true civilization."

Carrying Lisa in one arm, he kissed the child's cheek and extended his free hand, "Mom, Woody, Lisa... my family... Elke, my love, let us go into the light."

The End or the Beginning?

 Epilogue

It was the spring of 2666. The last two people on Earth had finally succumbed to the harsh, relentless hundred-year nuclear winter. A man named Mada and a woman, Olla, both nomadic foragers roaming the Euphrates and Tigris river banks where it all began, now lie crumbled beside the still waters in death's merciful sleep. Then, as if by a miracle, the sky's pink radioactive curtain dissipated. Glorious, golden-white sunshine washed the world's ravaged surface and the Earth's healing began.

Space is infinite, eternal, yet defined. Intelligent life evolves, expands, learns, progresses and even then, on some occasions - is rejected.

Thank you so much for reading my story. I hope you enjoyed it. Also available for your entertainment today is: Twisted All To Hell, an exciting short story collection of supernatural, horror, science-fiction, supernatural and paranormal. You'll be happy you read it – guaranteed! Read The Bonus.

F.Y.I: I don't write to make money - I write to entertain _you._

And... hopefully, knock on wood - to be available in late 2015 or early 2016, The Time Doctors' Chronicles. Two doctor/scientists jump back in time in an attempt to correct present day horrific living conditions caused by alterations previously made by other unknown factions in the American Revolution, the Civil War, World War Two and finally, Armageddon.

J.E. Moore (John)

joycemoore0928@comcast.net

The Bonus, a short story from Twisted All to Hell, which is also available now.

A Fowl Covenant

"It must be seven fifteen. There goes Mister Weinstein out to feed the birds again," remarked Sophie Peterson. "Every morning, just like clockwork... before he goes to work."

"Humph," returned Jack, her husband of forty years.

"He's been doing the same thing for over three years... ever since we moved in here," continued his wife. "What do you make of that, Dear?"

"Frig'n nut case is what I say," as he placed his coffee mug on the kitchen table. He glanced up from his newspaper and stated, "Birds, all the time birds. He has a dozen cages on his patio and probably twice as many more inside his house judging from my nose. I told you what happened last week didn't I?"

"Yes, Dear. Several times."

"Humph, damn moron," as he turned a sports page and continued to talk to himself - reliving the incident anew. "I went out to get the newspaper and noticed his carrier had thrown his into our yard. I picked it up and walked toward his house to toss it at his front door, being a good neighbor and all. Well, he just happened to be coming out to retrieve it at the same time. He accused me of trying to steal that rag of a paper he reads, The Herald. Can you imagine how stupid that is? Me, steal his crappy paper! I'll bet all he uses it for is to line his bird cages... to catch bird poop. Weinstein probably can't read at all!"

"The fool's front door was open when I handed it to him. The stink coming from inside smelled like the County Zoo's aviary if they hadn't cleaned the cages for a month. I said, "Geesh, Harvey, do you have any _live_ birds in there?" and pinched my nose closed. He called me a Cretin and made bird whistles at me as I returned home."

"I know, Dear. You've told me before," as she topped off his cup and handed it back to him. "What's a Cretin, Dear?"

"Never mind, Sophie. I think you've missed the point, again," and dropped the subject.

She took a last peek at her neighbor's back yard to observe Harvey sitting in his lawn chair with bits of bread and birdseed spread all about him in a twenty-foot wide circle. No birds came to sample his offerings. They kept their distance - sitting on the telephone pole wires until he went back inside his house and left for work at eight a.m.

It was the same routine year after year. The weekends were different: he would sit out in the field for an hour in the morning and the same in the evening - waiting in vain for his 'wild' friends to join him. It made Sophie often wonder why he didn't give up on the wild ones and just tender to the domestics he had and said as much to her husband.

"Because he's a nut job, that's why," retorted Jack.

"Yes, Dear."

Poor Harvey Weinstein. He cherished his own birds, but wanted more - the affection of the wild ones also. Isn't that a typical human weakness to seek after what we can't have? Sometimes even to our own detriment? For eleven years, he watched from inside his house the blue jays, brown and grey doves, black birds and a dozen other varieties enjoy his foods, water dish, handmade birdhouse and a perch he bought and assembled in the hope of luring their elusive companionship.

He lived in a small two bedroom 1970's 'starter house' located in a neighborhood consisting mostly of fifty years or older residents (primarily retirees). It certainly suited his needs, he being alone and never been married. Most of the folks around him were basically in the same situation. There were perhaps as few as three children in the entire complex of a hundred homes. Quiet, just right - nothing to scare the wildlife away. His house, in a string of seven, butted up against a nine acre lot owned by a Baptist church group who were 'temporally' having their services in an elementary school auditorium ( for the last ten years ) due to the fact they had over-extended themselves financially in buying the large piece of 'rural property'. Their hope for developing this land into a permanent church site in the near future had been hamstrung by the meager cash flow from their small congregation. However, placing their unrealized good intentions aside, the town ordinances still required them to keep the property maintained even though there was no activity other than an occasional member's picnic... thus creating a perfect 'status quo' situation for the neighborhood and especially Mister Weinstein.

But alas, for only Harvey, it seemed there was always something to screw things up his plans. One particular irritating drawback to our bird-lover's pursuit was that even if he moved his lawn chair into the middle of the most open part of the church's field, he discovered he still couldn't lure the birds in to feed. "Most strange and very wrong indeed," he reasoned and felt denied of what he rightfully deserved. He deduced the birds were afraid to come to him because of those nosy, prying busybodies next door. "They're always looking out their windows at me. The birds can sense they're being watched. At least I have enough sense to turn the lights out, put a black towel over my head and hide behind my living room couch when I watch them. Those stupid gawkers really tick me off! As a matter of fact, _all_ the gawking, damn neighbors tick me off," he fumed as he picked up his folding chair and threw it toward his house.

As expected, things again turned quite the worst for our unlucky Harvey: his weekly work schedule at the library changed to10 a.m. to 7 p.m. which now gave him only one opportunity to observe or try to entice his quarry. He argued his case to retain his current hours to his supervisor, the new guy, who laughed so hard he almost passed out. "You want to keep your current hours so you can try to feed birds which have never shown up in three years! Look, guy, I know that's _real_ tough on you but I now have to provide adequate job coverage with two less people because of those retirements last month. Birds... silly me. And to think I was told before I transferred to this department we had 'team players' working here - apparently, not all! Whatta joke on me!" and laughed some more.

His fellow co-workers had long considered the obnoxious Mister Weinstein to be many cards short of a full deck and this well-deserved embarrassment to him served as great entertainment.

Then, one typical Saturday morning as Harvey sat in his lawn chair in the middle of the field bemoaning and cursing his fate a stranger walked out of the underbrush toward him. He didn't immediately notice the tall, slender man donned in black because he was engrossed in scanning the trees as he mumbled and spat on the grass.

"Hello, partner," hailed the approaching figure.

"Shush!" rebuked Harvey. "You'll scare away my birds."

"Sorry, friend," returned the newcomer. "I've been watching and didn't see any. In fact, I've been watching you for quite a while and..."

"Quite a while?" interrupted Harvey. "Are you some kind of stalker? You better be careful, Buster. I was quite the man not too long ago and I can still put most men down."

"I'm sure you can," agreed the intruder as he viewed the fat, one hundred pound overweight couch-potato wedged into his extra-heavy duty constructed chair. "No offense, friend. I just came over to help you with that little problem you're having."

"I ain't having a problem, Mister."

"Oh, sorry again. I had the impression you wanted some up-close and personal feathery company. My mistake?"

Harvey cleared his throat as he eyed his smiling visitor's matching black cowboy hat, shirt, jeans and boots. "Oh, that... well, er." He quickly assumed his usual belligerent demeanor. "So what's it to you? Who do _you_ represent? The Audubon Society? Got some hot tips for me? You can forget it, Bub. I've read all the books. These little peckers just won't come to me." He rested his chubby chin on his chest, "I must be cursed."

"Well now that's an outright shame," asserted Mister Black. "I don't think it should be that way at all, especially for a caring man such as yourself." This perked up Harvey's ears and stoked his ego.

"Damn straight," agreed Weinstein. "I guess I could bring myself to accept a good suggestion from a fellow bird-lover if I had a mind to."

"Glad to hear, sir but let me tell you right off I'm not affiliated with any particular group as you would know it and I'm not asking for money. However, I can assure you I can definitely help you fulfill your wishes regarding these birds and many other things if you so desire." Harvey gave him a discerning scowl meaning the 'other things' had better not be sexual in nature. "Oh, no, Harv," reading his mind. "Just two friends sharing their thoughts. Trust me, nothing else. So now we've broken the ice, what in the heck do _you_ want? I mean, you're been sitting out here countless hours... months... years. Tell me. Just between the two of us." He opened both arms wide like an evangelist, "I know I can help you. Speak to me, Buddy."

Harvey, although distrusting and cantankerous as ever finally broke down and confessed, "I want birds to pet, lotsa birds... different from the usual domestic ones living in my cages. Is that so wrong? I want to be able to touch and love the outside ones also. Do you think I'm crazy? Hell, I've seen it on TV. Why not me too?"

"No, no, friend. Nothing wrong with that." He paused, "But you must understand those people you've seen on TV had to pay a price for such a privilege."

"A price? What do you mean?"

Mister Black rattled off some of the possible corporate details with, "Training, props, sponsorship, insurance and who knows what else. It's a complex presentation."

Harvey considered, "Oh, well sure," admitting it was logical for concessions and coordination being made.

The visitor smiled to himself and asked, "And you my friend, what would you be willing to concede for a short period of time in order to receive prized moments with your new-found friends? Wonderful experiences which no one else could have... only you, Harvey Weinstein."

"Concede?" caught his ear. "Do you mean to give up something?" The stranger nodded, 'Yes'. "It depends on what it is. Why would you ask such a dumb question?"

"Because I can make it happen for you."

"Sure," Harvey mocked. "You have a magic trick or some kind of bird-attracting whistle or mating scent spray?"

"No tricks or gimmicks," he laughed. "But I do have a gift... a sort of a power I'll use, for you."

Weinstein pondered this offer while thinking, "What the hell: I've got nothing to lose. Did he say I had to pay a price? I don't remember," and concern crossed his brow.

Mister Black saw him mulling over the prospect and offered, "Tell you what Harvey. I'll give you a free demonstration for a week. Say we start this coming Monday? It'll be for Monday through Saturday... not on Sunday. Then we'll talk some more... talk price. Whatta you say, Harv? A _free_ demonstration."

"Free? Well sure. Er, who do I call you, what's your name?"

"Oh, just call me Mister Black," as he pointed at his clothing. "Simple," and gave a reassuring 'thumbs up'. "Just come on out here Monday morning, do your usual routine and see what happens."

Harvey rose up, faced his house, folded up his chair and remarked, "Can you do anything about these piss-ant neighbors of mine?"

No reply. Mister Black had disappeared.

Monday morning

Harvey didn't sleep well for the last two nights due to fitful anticipation and as he finally shuffled out into the middle of the field carrying his trusty lawn chair and a plastic bag full of bread crumbs he was already in a surly, semi-depressed mood. He felt sure he was being taken for the fool. Mister Black was most likely hiding in the brush, perhaps even videotaping 'dumb-ass' Harvey Weinstein. "Those scumbags living next door undoubtedly hired him. Maybe _all_ my neighbors put this plot together to embarrass me. Bastards. I hate them all!"

He opened the chair, plopped down and aimlessly tossed about some of his bread crumbs. His spirits were in the dumps and mumbled, "Okay, you worthless turds, you've got me. I'll sit here long enough for you to get your jollies off!" He then shouted toward the houses, "But I'll never come back to this field again!" He thought, "I'll just stay on my patio where you can't see me. Maybe I'll tear down all the things I've built, chop them into pieces and throw them in your backyards in the middle of the night. Ha," he smirked. "Just try to prove it was me, you assholes." He stewed some more, "Better yet, I'll kill all my birds and throw _those_ in your yard."

All of a sudden his ears discerned a fluttering in the trees. "What the...?" He knew the sound of flapping bird wings but hadn't heard them this close before. It was in the correct place but out of place at the same time. He finished setting-up as quickly as he could and started tossing more crumbs all around in a wide circle. "I'll bet that damn Mister Black is projecting a cd sound tract at me. All to make me look even more foolish," but a spark of 'the impossible happening' fired a glimmer of hope within him. "What if?" as he sat mesmerized at the wind-driven swaying tree branches. He didn't detect any movement. Then came a bird call, 'coo'. And another call, this one distinctly different from the first, then followed by a 'cheep'. Next, a 'wheat-wheou' from behind him. "I recognize those sounds. That last one was a blue jay, a red-winged blackbird and a grey, ring-necked dove." Harvey knew his birds. Soon he heard dozens of calls from all different types. He sat very still. A blue jay swooped down from a poinsettia tree and landed ten feet in front of him. It hopped up and down in their usual manner and pecked at the bread. Then four more arrived to complete its family. They all ate the crumbs right in front of him instead of picking them up and returning to their home nesting tree as their custom. "Wow." He could almost reach down and touch them. "This is amazing!" More and more of all types came, a total of at least fifty. They arrived so fast he couldn't count them. Both Harvey's eyes and mouth were wide open when the best of all occurred: a spotted brown dove landed on each knee and began cooing at him for food. He was so shocked he couldn't move and just stared. A small blackbird landed on his right shoulder and a mockingbird on his left. They snuggled up to him, rubbed their little faces on Harvey's ears and playfully kissed him on his cheeks... he almost wet his pants. His hand trembled as he retrieved from his pocket a plastic baggie full of wild bird seed. His new found friends took turns sitting on his wrists and eating the food out of his hands. "Unbelievable," he gasped. In thirty minutes all of his provisions were depleted and yet they wouldn't leave him. They kept taking turns hopping up and kissing him then returning to the ground to sit and rest. Harvey shed a tear of happiness.

An hour and a half had passed before he noticed his watch. "Uh, oh, it's time to go to work. Drat, maybe I'll call in for a sick day, get more supplies and come back out here." He surely didn't want to leave and end this once in a lifetime experience. "But wait, didn't Mister Black say this could happen to me _every day_? I believe he did!" Enforced with the prospect and with a happy heart he gladly packed up his gear, bade 'goodbye' to all his friends and added he'd be back tomorrow. He also swore if the birds weren't here he'd go looking for Mister Black in a most unkind way. After-all, it would be a crime to show him all this happiness and then snatch it away. Harvey had become confused again as he ambled back to his house. "Did he say I could buy this? Or rent it? I don't quite remember." He then saw Sophie peeking from her kitchen window and quickly flipped her the finger. "Die, Bitch."

The next morning came ever so slowly. Harvey, ever the pessimist, dreading a heart-breaking disappointment, slogged into the field to the same spot where he had set-up the day before. He brought with him triple the amount of supplies. "Did it really happen? Was I sick, delirious on my couch and imagined yesterday? It was utterly impossible... after-all, these are _wild_ birds, not domestic pigeons." To his infinite delight, it happened again on even a grander scale - a hundred birds and more varieties. Harvey fell in love.

Almost a week passed and it seemed like a mere few minutes. Saturday came. He ran out of goodies after two hours and his friends retreated into the trees to rest as Mister Black made a reappearance. "How'd it go?" as he gave a knowing grin.

Harvey was so grateful a tear ran down his cheek again. He quickly turned away - not wanting to show a sign of weakness. "Okay... good," he croaked.

"Hey, friend, cheer up. They'll be back this early evening. Wild birds feed twice a day, morning and evening. You probably forgot since you've been working those crazy hours at the library."

Weinstein's heart did a joyous flitter and answered, "Oh, yeah, yeah. I knew that," trying to appear knowledgeable.

"Of course you did, Harv. They rest at midday and all day Sunday. Nothing on Sunday, Partner but I'm sure you knew that also. Right?"

"Oh, yeah. Everyone knows, especially me. I'm known as somewhat of an authority," he bragged.

"Yes, I know what you are," returned his benefactor. Then getting straight to the point, "Do you want this to continue?" Harvey just glared at him in response to the ridiculous question. "It's your call, Buddy. You've sampled the wares. It's time to talk turkey, or in this case, wild birds," and grinned at his play on words.

Harvey and Mister Black were an arms-length apart. The salesman gave him a few moments to reflect on his recent experience. "Are you satisfied; are you happy with my demonstration?"

Weinstein reflected in his mind, "Is this a trick question? I've never felt so wonderful, alive, vibrant... I can't even describe it." Not wanting to tip his hand and reveal his innermost feelings Harvey answered, "Yeah, yeah. You really delivered the goods. Thanks a lot." Unsaid, he reasoned, "Did you do anything at all? Or was it just a coincidence? I don't see any evidence indicating you personally lured these birds here."

"Thanks a lot. Is that all you have to say, Partner? Are you actually ready to bid a final 'goodbye' to these magnificent creatures who in turn have grown to love you?" Harvey gulped. Mister Black raised and dropped his hand. All the birds gave a resounding chorus - a blend of beautiful music to their yearning, wanting, last caretaker.

"Oh, my god," whispered Harvey.

"Well, not exactly... but close. Which brings us to the knitty-gritty. Harv, my good friend, you can have this for the rest of your life... even an extended life... for a small price," he stated as he waved a wide circle around the bird lover. "What do you say, Sport. Are you ready to deal?"

"I'm a man of little means..." began Harvey.

"No, no," raising his hand, interrupted Mister Black. "I have a different proposal; no money involved."

"I'm listening," acknowledged the ardent bird-lover. "What do you want?"

"Your soul... just for a _little_ while," while showing a slight gap between his index finger and thumb.

Harvey stood waiting for the punch line of this silly joke. Mister Black folded his arms and stared him down. Harvey finally smirked and said, "Good one, Bro." A pause. "You are kidding, right? Cause you sure don't look like the Devil and I don't think the Big Red One would be trading bird feathers for souls."

"You'd be surprised my friend at the deals made. Good deals, for people as yourself. Oh, and by the way I'm not the 'Big Red One'. Consider me to be an agent for him. A travel agent if you wish; that would be most fitting."

Harvey gave him a cynical look and returned, "Do I look like some kind of smuck? Sounds like a load of crap to me." He surveyed the surrounding area. "Am I on America's Funniest Home Video's or something?" He waved his two middle fingers at the trees. "Up yours, folks. How'd you like that, Mister Travel Agent?"

The salesman remained calm and retorted, "Yours is a typical response. We both know what you really want. You'd be surprised to learn that nearly all of our contract holders didn't desire money, fame or power either. They wanted things which were personal to them, most involved some form of love. In that regard, you're just like them. You're in the majority, Bud. The initial problem I have at the beginning is that people don't understand the conditions and details of the contract which is called a covenant. Don't worry; we'll go over everything thoroughly."

Harvey stopped making smart remarks and began to listen. "I assume you're not an overly religious person. Are you?" Weinstein indicated, 'no'. "Let me explain the highlights, the Big Picture for you, my friend. Most people, uninformed people, are afraid of being thrown into a firey pit called Hell when this life is over and burning forever. I would be too! But it doesn't work that way. I admit there are a few warm spots here and there reserved for some truly bad to the bone folks but that's not what the system's about. Here's the lowdown, Sport. Hell is not much more than a big, giant holding tank, full of souls waiting for the Resurrection. You've heard of the Judgment Day, right Harv?" He nodded a meek, 'yes'. "It's going to be a real and true happening; you can count on it. On that particular 'day', which is a figure of speech in relation to actual time, God will decide who's good or bad and send them off to their proper final destination. I'm sure the _group_ I'm affiliated with will get a few returnees to be dealt with appropriately when the time comes. But you're a 'good' man so you've got nothing to worry about. Correct?" Harvey nodded his head vigorously, 'yes' again. "I thought so." He raised his hand once more and the birds chorused in anew. "And they think so too. So, as I was saying we have all these souls just hanging around in a big staging area waiting for the Big Day. They're not being hurt or tortured, just biding their time. Here's the kicker. What I know and am willing to pass on to you to seal the deal is that the Big Day is right around the corner! Yes sir, my friend you'll end your human days here on earth and just like this," as he snapped his fingers, "it'll be your turn to be picked to go to Paradise. What a deal! It's a win-win situation which you so richly deserve."

Weinstein rocked back and forth on his heels. "Well, er, it sounds awfully good. You present a hellava... oh, sorry, a 'good' argument indeed. Can I have some time to think about it?" Again, he wanted to see first if the birds would return to him without his getting tied up with this possible con-artist.

"Of course, Harv. I'm an easy man to deal with. I'll return a day when I know you've made up your mind. But, my friend, I'll only extend this offer one more time. Remember if we go through with this, your new-found friends will be with you morning and evening six days a week. Not on Sunday. I'm leaving now; I have lots more customers waiting to make a deal." He gave Weinstein a 'thumbs up', 'win-win' sign and strode off into the foliage.

Saturday evening, twelve days later

All the nagging points had been proven and Harvey became surlier with each disappointing, passing day. No birds came, to say the least - not even a rustling or an occasional call from the trees. He couldn't even see the high-flying predators which were always visible overhead or on the horizon. His neighbors only 'thought' he had been hard to deal with before. Yesterday he kicked over their curbside garbage can when he found it a couple of inches over where he had deemed his property line to be.

Sitting in the open field with his stack of provisions he mumbled, "All right, Mister Black I agree. Let's get it done. I'm so miserable I'm just about ready to kill myself or someone else."

"I heard you, partner," called his old, bosom buddy.

"It's about time," snarled Harvey. "I've been waiting three weeks!"

"I think not but I'm sure it felt that way." Stoking Weinstein's ego, "I know a good, deserving man when I see one. This is going to be so easy you won't believe it. All you have to do is say, 'I, Harvey Weinstein, agree to the previously stated covenant,' unless you have some further questions."

"No, I'm fine. Let's get this damn thing done." Mister Black smiled. "I, Harvey Weinstein agree to the covenant."

"Okay... that was the short version but it'll work," and the two men shook hands.

"Now, bring em' on," ordered Harvey.

"Sorry, Buddy. It's too close to sundown. They'll be here first thing Monday morning."

"Monday?" Harvey furrowed his brow, "How about tomorrow?"

"Sorry again," waving a finger at him. "Not on Sunday. Remember that part of the contract?"

Harvey frowned, "Humm, I guess you're right. But I'm not happy about it."

"I understand, Buddy." He patted him on the back, "Monday'll be here before you know it and you won't be disappointed."

Harvey folded up his extra-wide, oversized for greater stability chair and said, "Better not be," to no one in sight.

He was not disappointed. There were over a hundred feathered friends who clamored to show their affection. Harvey didn't feel just being happy, he was in near ecstasy.

The months went by and he increasingly neglected his home birds. Finally, one day he declared, "I've had enough of feeding you and cleaning up your poop." He emptied his cages one by one and threw his pets outside with a harsh hand until they were all gone. "Good riddance. I've got bigger and better now." The freed birds, lost and disoriented scattered in all directions. None wished to return. High overhead and from atop the tallest trees the predators did not let this go unnoticed. (Note/Fact: Any bird shop or home pet released into the so-called freedom of the wild will be killed and eaten by a predator within forty-eight hours.) And Weinstein thought he knew all about birds. Rid of this messy, domestic encumbrance, he gleefully returned to the field for his personal doses of happiness.

This lasted about two years at which time a couple of new intruders entered his Shangri-la.

Harvey didn't remember the exact day because all of his were semi-wonderful and running together. Even with all he had he was becoming a bit jaded with his good fortune.

There lived a family of four, harmless, black garter snakes who had made a home at the base of one of the trees in the church's field. Two of them had become curious at the human's on-goings and slithered closer to his position for a better view. They knew the birds would not attack them and kept scooting nearer and nearer. Mister Weinstein spied them at thirty feet away and approaching. Although he knew right away they were harmless, black snakes, he jumped up and rushed to them. He violently stomped on them and shouted, "You're violating my sanctuary you slimy bastards!" Then grabbed them by their tails and threw them against the closest tree trunk. They weren't killed but were certainly bruised and battered. The birds retreated into the trees and went silent from viewing the rampage. He called to them, "What? Where are you going? This is my ground and you are mine to command." However, they didn't return that day or the next and Harvey became truly pissed. Three days later on Saturday, a third of them flew back but wouldn't let him touch them. Weinstein remained angry, especially at the lesser showing. "Sonnavabitch, I better have a full boat here tomorrow and get this show back to normal."

And as he should have known, none of his feathery friends returned the following day - Sunday. He cursed up one side and down the other.

The following Monday through Saturday ran as usual except for the fewer head count. Then out of the blue, it dawned on him there were many other types of birds which never came to him - he was being denied! He saw them far overhead and skirting between the trees beyond his allotted perimeter. "I've been short-changed. I've been cheated! Where are you Mister Black? You conniving shylock."

No sooner than the words had left his lips his 'travel agent' appeared. "Nice trick," attacked Harvey. "Flashing in and out of here like some kind of magician. And by the way I figured out your little scheme. How you've tricked me into getting less than what I paid for. The gig's up, _Buddy_."

"The gig? What are you talking about? What's ailing you now, my boy?"

"My boy?" contested Harvey.

"Yes, since I'm many thousands of years older than you are, I believe I'm qualified to use that particular term."

"Whatever floats your boat, _old_ man."

"Now, since we're clear on that issue would you please explain your accusations Mister Weinstein?"

"It's simple," Harvey blurted.

"You didn't give me all I bargained for." He gestured at the big birds flying overhead, the hawks on the far outside of his cordon and a few others by the waterways. "And I'm sure they are even more than those."

"Oh, I see," returned his benefactor. "Are you aware those birds you're referring to don't get along with the ones I have provided you? They're sorta in a different class. They're predators... meat eaters. Your mounting greed will endanger these more docile birds."

Harvey became angrier, "That's a load of crap! I know you can control them; you lying weasel."

Mister Black was getting a little short on patience also. "Anything _else_ , partner?"

"Since you mentioned it," Weinstein continued with a new demand. "I want Sundays too!"

Mister Black's eyebrows shot up, "What? Need I remind you again the contract excludes Sundays?"

"Of course I remember but I am hereby initiating an amendment. Get it? And stop defying me. It's my soul. You remember that!"

"I don't have the authority to make those kind of changes without approval," answered his antagonist. "I'll have to pass it on to my supervisor for a ruling."

"Yeah, another cop-out," mocked Harvey. "You sound like one of those corporate lawyer assholes."

"Well, I guess we'll both find out tomorrow won't we?" He turned to leave and warned, "You may be surprised how binding a verbal contact is."

"Up yours," heckled Weinstein. "Just get me my birds. Everyday!"

Sunday morning came and went without any type of bird making an appearance. Harvey was steaming mad. "I'll be back later this evening and they'd better be here or come Monday morning I'll bring my gun. After I shoot a few of his pansy birds he'll know I mean business. I'll show him he can't mess with Harvey Weinstein!"

Later that evening...

Harvey camped out like a soldier awaiting an enemy attack. He inspected his provisions: a massive amount of bread and seed. "Humm, this stuff may not do. I may have to check at the pet shop to see what the big un's prefer to eat."

It was 6:45 p.m. Sophie peeked out her kitchen window, "Why look at that, Honey. Mister Weinstein is in the field again... and it's Sunday. I saw him there this morning too but no birds came."

"I'm amazed," returned Jack. "I thought they were all on the same wavelength. Bird-brains. Stop watching that moron; it's almost time for Wheel of Fortune."

"Yes, Dear but it's so strange," as she closed the curtains. "I've never seen him out there on a Sunday. I'm sure he'll be in soon. You know he watches 'Wheel' also."

"He's still an idiot," commented her husband as he settled into his TV recliner.

Harvey was about to call it another uneventful day when all of a sudden he heard the flapping of wings. Big wings! Then two, twenty pound Turkey buzzards dropped down in front of him 'Swoosh' ten feet from his chair. "Good grief!" he exclaimed. "You two are a coupla big, ugly-lookin' dudes." They just blinked in response. A bald eagle and three Black vultures joined them. "At least I have one pretty one in the batch," referring to the eagle. Next, a Broad-winged hawk landed on each of his knees. "Whoa, careful, big claws here now." Ospreys and cormorants circled immediately overhead. Harvey was happy but a little wary. "Looks what I'm giving up in quantity is being replaced in poundage." A nervous laugh, then, "Got some big suckers here. This'll take some getting used to." These birds made no cooing noises nor attempts at snuggling for affection. They just glared. "Must be because I don't have the proper food. Sorry, next time guys." More arrived.

Harvey felt a tightening from his knees to ankle and from his forearm to his wrists. He stared down to his horror and found there were black garter snakes entwined around his arms and legs - binding him to his chair! He tugged against their grasp to no avail. "I thought I got rid of you vermin!" he yelled. A Red-tailed hawk landed on Harvey's head, knocking his hat off and took a stance. Harvey shook his head, "Get off me!" The bird dug his claws into his skull so he wouldn't be dislodged. Blood flowed down both sides of Harvey's head. "Arrugh! That hurts! I said, get off!" The hawk pecked the top of his head. The skin ripped; the blood flowed freely as the bird peeled it from his skull and ate. The other predators anxiously watched and decided it was 'chow time' for them also. The two hawks on his knees eyed the tasty morsel inside Harvey's open mouth as he screamed and took turns ripping his tongue out to consume it. Harvey wasn't so loud then. His nose, lips and ears (soft and tasty) came next for the trio. It was a win-win situation for the ravenous predators which hadn't eaten since the day before. The rest of the assemblage swarmed from the ground as the airborne aviaries swooped down and joined their voracious fellows. They viciously rent and tore him to shreds. The efficient, flesh-eating killers were quickly satisfied with their evening meal.

"I thought I heard a noise coming from the field outside a few minutes ago," remarked his neighbor, Sophie.

"That fat, moron probably stepped on his own foot," reasoned Jack. The Wheel of Fortune jingle was playing, then followed by, '...and Vanna White.' "She sure looks good for an old lady," as he rubbed his crotch.

Sophie caught his motion, "Jack, what _are_ you doing?"

"Huh?" as he pulled his hand away. "Just a little bit of rash, Dear. You know, caused by sweat from working in the yard. Nothing else."

She drew back her curtains just in time to see the snakes slithering away and the birds taking flight. They were finished, very finished. Sophie stared at the bloody skeleton slumped in the lawn chair. "Oh dear, I think Mister Weinstein is going to miss 'Wheel' tonight."

The Bloody End

Thanks again, John
