Authors: Philip Chen
Mike remained silent.
The moving Navajo ceremony had a cathartic effect on Mike. Just as Johnny Thapaha's spirit was finally freed from its earthly bonds to fly with the hawks, Mike felt a rush of emotion freeing him from the bonds that had tied his own soul for so many years.
Much later that night, Mike sat in his motel room with Johnny Thapaha's packet on the desk. Hesitantly, he opened the dusty packet. As he did, pieces of rotted cloth fell away. Finally, Mike was able to examine the contents of the packet. The contents were quite ordinary. Some eagle feathers, some bones of avian origin, a dried salamander, dried peyote buds, and a small cloth packet.
As Mike unwrapped the small cloth packet, he immediately noticed the sparkle of the object's metallic surface. He picked up the strange thin, chrome-like plate and looked at it, turning it over and over again, wondering how something like this had come into Johnny Thapaha's possession. The size of a credit card, the thin metallic plate had a luminous quality. There was, however, no writing or other marks to distinguish the plate.
Mike couldn't see the significance of the metallic plate. It must have been some piece of metal that Johnny Thapaha found in the desert, maybe out in the glide path of the jets landing at Holloman Air Base. He thought that it was funny that Johnny Thapaha had never mentioned this to him, even after the old man had begun to trust the Chinese-American.
Mike experimented holding the plate in a variety of positions, the shiny plate of metal was simply just that -- a shiny metallic plate. No matter how Mike held the plate, he could see nothing. Mike wondered what Johnny Thapaha saw in it.
Mike was about to put the curiosity away when he held the plate to the table lamp in a fashion so that the lamp's light skipped over the surface of the plate like the rays of the rising sun. Out of its shiny metallic surface, an amazingly clear holographic image arose.
"Holy shit," said Mike.
1800 Hours: Sunday, June 27, 1993: Andrews Air Force Base, Maryland
The white T-38 Talon taxied off the active runway and on to the special operations staging area. The screaming of its jet turbine engines abruptly died as the T-38 came to a stop inside the hangar. The hangar was guarded by two platoons of Marines in full combat gear, Kevlar helmets and vests. In their hands were AR-15 assault rifles with laser scopes.
The early evening night was punctured by the brilliant Klieg lighting inside the hangar, beacons piercing the night sky, and the red pencil thin beams of the laser scopes of Marines patrolling the hangar and its surroundings.
A Patriot missile launcher sat on the tarmac, its radar actively searching the sky for any hostile attack.
Overhead, the two flights of F-15Cs that had accompanied the T-38 from Holloman Air Force Base, New Mexico, made one final fly over of Andrews Air Force Base and screamed into the night.
The pilot of the T-38 popped open the two canopies of the airplane and Mike climbed out of the second seat.
Mike took off his flight helmet and saw six dark gray Suburbans waiting in the hangar just outside the glaring ring of light from the Klieg lights beamed at the T-38.
Chief Warrant Officer David Lee stepped up to the T-38, saluted and said, "Welcome back to Maryland, Commander Liu."
"Thank you, Mr. Lee," said Mike. "I see you've recovered."
"Yes, sir."
Mike looked beyond Lee at the six Suburbans lined up in the hangar.
Lee noticed the look. "Those just brought us here, Mr. Liu. The President has put CSAC on Priority One, Red, which as you know is tantamount to war status. We're to transport you to the National Security Agency by helicopter."
As Lee finished his comment, Mike could hear the thumping sounds of helicopters landing just outside the hangar. As Mike, with a briefcase handcuffed to his left wrist, walked toward the Bell Sea Ranger, Model 205, TH-57, he looked up into the sky to see six other helicopters, including four Sikorsky HH-53H Super Jolly Green Giants, floating in the air. Each of the Sikorsky's was armed with General Electric GAU-2B/A 7.62 millimeter miniguns.
"Holy fuck," said Mike. “It’s the Apocalypse.”
"We didn't want anything to go wrong," said Lieutenant Albert Twoomey, as he joined Mike and Lee.
"In addition, the Air Force has a Boeing E-3C Sentry circling the sky over Washington, D.C. We don't want anyone sneaking up on us. A flight of F-15 Eagles are also in the air. Another flight of A-10 Warthogs are regularly patrolling the route of our flight. All civilian and service aircraft in the Washington, Maryland and Virginia areas have been diverted. The best part is, if anything strays on to the radar screen, we get to shoot it down."
"Won't this make the Russkies a tad interested?" suggested Mike.
"But they can't do anything about it," said Twoomey, dead serious. "Let's go. The old man is waiting for us at NSA."
2100 Hours: Sunday, June 27, 1993: National Security Agency, Laurel, Maryland
The Bell Sea Ranger floated a few feet off the helipad on top of the security building. A platoon of Marines in full combat gear encircled the landing zone, AR-15 assault rifles at the ready, laser sights fully activated. As seen from the helicopter, the red lasers painted a surreal image. Laser beams danced about the heliport as guards scanned the area. The pilot of the helicopter set his machine down on the hard surface of the landing pad with the softest of jolts.
Overhead, the other helicopters guarded the helipad like so many fireflies floating in a summer night. Mike had stopped trying to count the number of aircraft that had been deployed for this brief trip. This time, Mike knew why the commotion. The information he had in the briefcase warranted the extra attention.
Mike was dressed in the same casual clothes that he had worn to New Mexico. His casual appearance belied the seriousness of the situation. He was unarmed, the Walther stowed in his duffel bag. Twoomey was dressed in the short sleeved summer tan uniform of the United States Navy with a holstered .40 caliber Glock 22 pistol on a khaki webbed belt.
Both Mike and Twoomey jumped from the Sea Ranger and ran for the entrance way on the rooftop helipad at the National Security Agency headquarters in Laurel, Maryland. As they left the helicopter, they were immediately surrounded by combat ready Marine guards carrying AR-15 assault rifles. The group made the short distance to the entrance way in a few seconds. Inside the entranceway, Master Chief Petty Officer Margaret Marston was waiting. She was there to assure that proper security procedures would be adhered to, despite the excitement.
"Hello, Commander," said Margaret.
"Hi, Margaret," said Mike, grinning. "We've got to stop meeting this way."
With a thin smile, Margaret unlocked Mike's handcuffs and took the briefcase from his wrist. Mike rubbed the wrist to smooth the raw feeling of wearing the nickel-plated cuff for the last twelve hours. Margaret and a troop of Marine guards disappeared into the bowels of NSA with the briefcase.
A Marine guard came forward. "Commander, Admiral McHugh is downstairs and requests that you join him immediately."
Mike and Twoomey followed the Marine down the stairs into the antiseptic world of NSA. The atmosphere was one of bare, flat walls, bright fluorescent lighting, surveillance cameras constantly sweeping the office areas, and Marine guards at strategic points throughout the building.
The Admiral was in a conference room in the interior of the secured building. The room was most unremarkable in its appearance, a typical blend of plastic chairs and Formica-topped tables. In one corner stood a cornstalk plant. McHugh was sitting with two men in their late fifties. From the cut of their clothes and their demeanor, Mike decided they were probably career NSA operatives.
"Hi, Mike. Come in," said McHugh. "Mike, this is Robert Telson and James Taylor of the National Security Agency's Special Action Group."
"James Taylor, huh?" noted Mike.
"Yeah, but I was James Taylor a long time before James Taylor was James Taylor," said Taylor wearily.
"What's up, Admiral?" said Mike.
"These fellows wanted to meet you and find out how you obtained the plate. From your description of the metallic plate, I think we may be on to something."
"Admiral, what level are these two?"
"They have the highest classification available and are specifically cleared for CSAC, Level One. In addition, I've given them Socorro clearance."
The code word stated, Mike understood that he could now talk about the fourth alien, a subject heretofore taboo to anyone except Robert McHugh.
"Okay. What I surmise is that Johnny Thapaha was given the metallic plate by the alien he tried to nurse back to health. Johnny Thapaha didn't know the significance of the plate, but he knew that if the object were held up to the rays of light at sunrise, an image would rise from the surface of the plate. This had mystical importance for the medicine man as the hologram showed the four points of the compass. The number four carries religious significance in the Navajo community. The hieroglyphics, of course, were indecipherable. However, Johnny Thapaha was probably fascinated by the images the hologram formed as you adjust the way light plays on its surface.
"When I examined the plate after it was turned over to me, I was amazed to find that holding the plate at an angle where light can skip over the surface, five to ten degrees off of horizontal; the hieroglyphics interchange with Greek symbols."
"Holy motherfuck," said Taylor. "The Rosetta Stone."
"You got it. I called Admiral McHugh immediately and told him in general terms what I had. The Admiral arranged for a jet to bring me from Holloman field in New Mexico to NSA. Here I am." He sat down.
"You must be pretty tired," said McHugh.
"I could use some shuteye, Admiral."
"Why don't you find some place to grab some sleep? We'll talk more later."
1993: War
1200 Hours: Monday, June 28, 1993: Watch Station Three, Near Santa Catalina Island, California
"Damage Control!" said Captain Carlton Messinger. He had been caught by surprise. The explosion that shook the Watch Station was unlike anything he had experienced before.
"Captain, we had an implosion in the stores module. Automatic isolation procedure of the module took place and the rest of the station is okay for now. We did, however, lose the ELF system, so we have no direct link with command headquarters," said the engineering officer, Navy Lieutenant Ray Diaz.
"Any casualties?"
"The two crewmen manning the stores module, sir," responded Diaz.
"Damn."
Messinger, a career naval officer, was one of the select. Being chosen to command a Watch Station as a brand new Captain made Messinger the youngest of all the Watch Station commanders in CSAC. A Naval Academy graduate, he had a mercurial rise in the nuclear Navy and a resume that had caught the attention of the old man. After the Academy, nuclear training, and a brief tour on a boomer, Messinger had gone to Stanford University in California, where he earned a doctorate in nuclear engineering in less than three years.
His initial work in the nuclear Navy had resulted in the development of a nuclear reactor that literally could fit into the trunk of a car, but which could supply enough energy to run that car continuously for twenty-five years at a constant 55 miles per hour speed, assuming of course that the mechanical structure of the car could stay intact that long. Although limited in civilian applications for obvious reasons, including the shielding necessary for safe operation, the relatively lightweight reactor was an instant success for such applications as powering Benthic Rangers, the principal submersibles in the CSAC fleet. The design of the Benthic Ranger could accommodate the weight of the shielding necessary for the small reactor.
The Mess-I reactor, as it was called, was installed in the new series of Benthic Rangers. The first two were assigned to Watch Station Three as the main and auxiliary vehicles for the station. The Benthic Ranger Model III-NR was the most exotic of all the Benthic Rangers. For example, each of the two Benthic Rangers had been outfitted with the new blue-green laser cannon, capable of firing bursts of energy at enemy targets. Though experimental, the blue-green laser had proven its capabilities in secret underwater tests.
"Any theories, Mr. Diaz?" said Messinger.
"The passive sonar went crazy a split second before the leak detector sounded. The poor bastards in the stores module didn't have a chance, everything happened so quickly."
Normally, the alarm would sound and any personnel in the area could vacate before the automatic isolation mechanisms went into effect.
Messinger winced at the news. "Sounds like an attack."
"I agree."
"Better sound battle stations, Mr. Diaz," said Messinger.
"Battle stations, aye, aye, sir," responded Diaz.
Diaz pushed the large red button on the instrument console. Immediately, the distinctive alarms blasted throughout the Watch Station.
"Battle stations sounded, sir," reported Diaz.
Crewmen on the Gold Team scrambled to their assigned stations, normal duties dropped in mid-task. Interrupted from a deep sleep, the members of the Blue Team bolted out of their beds and hurriedly pulled on their blue coverall uniforms. The crews of the Benthic Rangers raced to the transfer module and to the crew module and strapped themselves into the pilot and co-pilot seats and awaited orders.
"Mr. Diaz, deploy the transponder buoy," said Messinger.
"Deploy transponder buoy, aye, aye, sir," responded Diaz.
Diaz lifted the yellow and black striped metal cover and pressed the green button underneath. Once the button was pushed, a cylindrical canister was ejected from the command module. Upon leaving its storage tube, the end of the canister snapped open, releasing a rubberized balloon which immediately began expanding from nitrogen gas stored in the canister. The balloon and canister began a rapid ascent to the surface of the ocean.