The Omega Seed Read online

  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 eight
een 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 y
our 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!!!"