The Omega Seed Page 6

  Chapter Five

  Where are you, little star?

  World Security Council

  New York City, U.S.A.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  The Space Telescope Science Institute, Baltimore, Maryland

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

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

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

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

  "Good work, send it to the lab."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "Uh, pardon me, sir?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "They have printouts recording size and velocity."

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

  "But the ships were..."

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

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

  "Is that so? I am amazed."

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

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

  "Yes, sir."

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

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

  "Whose ground stations? Theirs or ours?"

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

  "Okay... then what happened?"

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

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

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

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

  "What?" asked Taylor.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "What's that, Admiral?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Kessler Air Force Base, Biloxi, Mississippi

  'Crack!'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "At ease, Tony, it's routine when dealing with top secret information and I'm not just pulling rank on you. I had to sign the same form, many years ago."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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