The Omega Seed Read online

  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, Ophthalmol
ogy, 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 priso
ners 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.