Asher gave Ralston an olive drab shoulder bag that
contained three pounds of C4 explosive wired to a delayed
fuse and a friction igniter. Ralston's total instruction on
the use of the satchel charge was pull the ring, toss the
bag, in five seconds it goes boom. He then gave Ralston an
M-16 rifle, .38 pistol, and ammunition for both. Ralston
didn't appreciate having to be a remedial education
instructor, but if Brad was to survive, someone would have
to show him how to use the weapons.
Instructing Brad in the van during the hour long drive
to the drop-off point was no easy task, because Brad was
constantly being distracted by Melanie. More correctly,
Brad was distracted by Baker, who had convinced Asher he was
fully competent with his assigned weaponry as he had several
revolvers and assault rifles of his own. Since he didn't
need a refresher course, he managed to slip into the
passenger seat as Melanie drove.
Brad was only able to pick bits and pieces of their
conversation above the roar of the unsoundproofed van and
Ralston's continued instruction on the weapon, but what he
did hear was not good. At first Baker and Melanie discussed
psychic phenomena, astral projection, and meditation, then
the conversation shifted toward business. As it turned out,
Baker was quite knowledgeable in both the field of ESP and
marketing. Melanie was impressed by Baker's methods of
rifle marketing through intelligence gathering, and had
commented on how a thesis she was writing for her Master's
touched on the subject from a psychic point-of-view.
She hadn't told Brad that she was working on her
Master's, and he hadn't asked.
They arrived at the drop point none too soon for Brad,
because Baker and Melanie had begun to debate the question
of whether Hawaii or St. Croix had the best beaches. Brad
was certain that if Baker had the chance, he'd offer Melanie
a job or the chance to explore those beaches with him.
Considering Baker's wealth, highly toned athletic build, and
the fact that Brad was no better looking than he, Brad was
sure which one of them she'd choose.
Melanie stopped the truck a few miles short of where
she'd dropped Asher and Brad on the recon, because Asher
felt it would cut several miles off the march in. He
checked everyone's equipment one more time, looked at his
watch and compass, and told the others to follow. Baker
held back for a moment and Brad sulked after Ralston and
Asher. Before he had taken more than three steps, Melanie
called to him.
Brad turned and started toward her. As he walked past
Baker, he threw him a threatening glare. Melanie walked to
the truck and opened the driver's door.
"Excuse me if I'm out of line, Brad," she said softly,
"But I sense that you're uneasy." Brad didn't speak and was
embarrassed that she could tell. "Don't be..."
Melanie placed her hands on Brad's cheeks and kissed
him lightly on the lips. She leaned back and looked into
Brad's eyes. He understood what she had done, but had no
idea why. She had gone out of her way to kiss Brad, simply
to let Baker know where he stood. To Brad it didn't make
sense.
"Does this mean I've got a better aura than Baker?"
asked Brad, jokingly.
Melanie looked at the ground. "Yes."
Brad took her hand, and gave it a light squeeze.
Melanie watched as he turned and jogged to catch up with the
others. She didn't tell him that Baker's aura had
disappeared thirty minutes ago.
When Brad reached the others, Ralston fell back to stay
with him (at Asher's orders). For the first several miles,
Ralston continued to quiz Brad on how to release the safety,
clear a jam, and reload the rifle. He asked him about
movement techniques, how to carry the rifle, and who to
salute. Ralston did everything in his power to help Brad,
until Brad began to show signs of slowing down.
Brad had dreaded this moment more than any he'd
encountered or expected to encounter. When he insisted on
accompanying Asher on the recon, he had no concept that
soldiering required such levels of endurance. He had been
wooed by Hollywood's view of the soldier as a muscle man
with throbbing biceps with which to kill all that stood in
their way. He had thought that since he was not going to
kill, it wouldn't matter that he didn't have said 'throbbing
biceps.' What he found, instead, was that soldiering
required determination, an iron will, and a desire to not
merely survive, but to win.
Brad wanted to win, more than anything in the world,
but something was missing inside him that kept him from
pushing his body beyond the pain that surged through his
feet, legs, and lungs. He struggled to keep up the pace.
He told himself that each step brought him closer to his
objective. He cried to himself that the world was depending
on him, that America's freedom hinged on reaching the
compound, that he had to make it... or he'd loose the story
that would make him rich and famous.
Within an another hour, Ralston was carrying Brad's M-
16 and his gear. He walked behind him prodding him every
time he slowed his pace, forcing him not to give up. The
miles slid agonizingly beneath his feet, the minutes became
blurs of time that meant nothing to Brad's mind. He wanted
so much to stop, but he begged himself to go on.
Then, they were there.
Brad could hardly believe his weak and weary eyes when
Asher pointed to the shadow that lay in valley below. A
little over a mile, that was all... Brad could make it, He
knew he could. He was almost there!
Ralston returned his rifle and gear, and Brad followed
Asher and Baker with a renewed sense of mission and
strength. Unfortunately, it only lasted five minutes. His
body was tapped out, he told Ralston. Would he please carry
his rifle?
No, he would not.
Brad pushed on, but he was broken. Tears formed in his
eyes-- he had to make it. Just another quarter mile. What?
What did Asher say?
They'd have to crawl the last five hundred yards?
Brad lay on the ground, placed the rifle on the backs
of his palms, and hooked his hands through the sling like
Ralston had shone him. He started to crawl after them. It
was worse than the walking. The sand pasted to the sweat on
his skin, the rocks cut into his ribs. He had to make it.
Two streaks of mud formed at his eyes and ran down either
side of his nose. Just one hundred yards. He had to make
it...
Baker stopped crawling in front of Brad and laid his
face flat to the sand. Brad looked to the left: inside the
wire fence was one of the two Air Police guards. Brad
pressed against the ground and wished he was somewhere else.
He half expected the guard to open fire, killing Brad just
short of his goal after enduring such pain.
But the guard marched on.
Asher waited for the guard to move another thirty feet
ahead of them, then lifted his head and chest. He signaled
Baker to wait, lifted himself to a low crouch, and ran to
the fence. The sky was too dark to see the detail of
Asher's movement, but Brad knew Asher had withdrawn the bolt
cutters from his radio pack, and was cutting a hole in the
chain link fence.
Brad missed the signal, as he had nearly fallen asleep
while waiting, but Baker did not. He rose to his feet and
sprinted to the fence. He slipped through the hole, and
entered the compound. Ralston slapped Brad on the leg, and
Brad jogged to where Asher was waiting.
Asher pulled back the wire. "Baker's under that
building. Don't say anything," he whispered, as Brad passed
by.
Brad moved toward the building, but couldn't see Baker.
Baker reached out and grabbed Brad's leg, nearly dragging
him under the raised foundation. Brad rubbed a bumped elbow
and watched Ralston run to the fence, pause with Asher for a
moment, then run to the south corner of the same building
they were hiding beneath. Asher placed several ties that
Melanie had saved from her loaves of bread to the fence to
prevent it from falling open, walked to the north of the
building and rolled into position at his corner.
Sweat formed on Brad's brow, and he slowly crawled
backward, farther from the foundation's edge. The guard was
returning on his rounds. Brad tried not to breath. He
heard sounds, maybe voices, from inside the building above
him. It was nearly midnight-- why weren't they asleep?
The guard walked past, the sand and gravel crunching
between his feet and gritting on Brad's frayed nerves.
Another moment passed.
Asher rolled and dashed backwards to Brad and Baker,
keeping his eyes on the guard. He stopped and pointed to
his wristwatch. He flashed five fingers at them. He
pointed at the ground. Meet here in five minutes. Baker
gave him the thumbs up and pulled Brad out from under the
building by his collar.
"I'll look in the windows and try the doors, you cover
me. Stand around the corner from me so they can't see both
of us," he whispered. "If there's trouble, just hiss
softly, don't call out." Brad knew this... He wasn't an
idiot. Both Asher and Ralston had told him that.
Baker slung his rifle over his shoulder and walked
erect as he moved to the inside of the compound. Brad
followed, his rifle at his hip, hands trembling, knees weak
to the point he that he stood nine inches shorter than
usual. He copied Baker's steps and tried to look around him
for signs of sentries or cameras.
Baker continually waved Brad away, as he was always
closing the gap between them. They moved from building to
building; Baker peering through door slits and razor thin
gaps between the windows and their frames. Brad was shaking
and hyperventilating. His desire for success and fame was
slowly being replaced by a singular thought. What in the
hell am I doing here?
Brad stood next to one of the Quonset huts, and faced
the inside of the compound, while Baker checked the back.
Brad heard a movement... He looked to the north... He saw
a figure.
Oh shit, it was a man. What was he suppose to do? He
was paralyzed with fear. The man looked at him. What was
he suppose to do?
"Airman, safe that weapon," announced the shadow as it
continued to move ten yards ahead of Brad.
Was he talking to me? Of course he was, but what did
he say? Safe the weapon? It is on safe.
"Airman, didn't you hear me? Sling that weapon before
you hurt someone." The figure stopped.
Sling the weapon? Where was Baker? What was he
suppose to do? Baker! Brad started to backstep toward the
corner, his weapon still leveled at the man. Baker, where
are you?
"What in the hell are you doing? Who are you?"
insisted the shadow as he started toward Brad.
Brad didn't know what to do. He was mentally and
physically exhausted. He couldn't think. The man was
walking toward him, Brad was backing away. The man uttered
another word. What did he say? Jesus? He was reaching for
his hip. He had a gun!
Fear and adrenalin overcame common sense and in the
passing of a second, Brad flipped the selector switch two
clicks to AUTO and squeezed the trigger. The weapon's
report echoed between the steel walls of the opposing
quonset huts, then died in the desert night, as several
bullets struck the man's chest. His body fell to the
ground, and the pistol bounced from his hand. Brad stood
shaking.
Baker rounded the corner and saw Brad standing
motionless, and the body laying lifeless. "Dartmouth-- You
stupid shit!"
Ralston heard the shots and voices yelling from all
sides of the compound. The cat was out of the bag; someone
had blown their cool. He swore to himself, took the satchel
charge in his left hand, and started toward the helicopter.
Asher heard what sounded like a phone ring inside the
communications trailer, and figured someone was warning the
radio man to call for help. He moved to the door of the
trailer, pulled the ripcord on his charge, let the fuse
cook-off for two seconds. With his left hand still
clutching the bag of explosives, he yanked the door open,
and saw the radio operator with his back to the door.
"Mayday. Mayday. HARBINGER calling..."
"Hey Sergeant!" called Asher.
The radio sergeant dropped the mike and reached for his
nine millimeter automatic. Asher fired a four round burst,
hitting the man in the abdomen. The sergeant fell to the
floor. Asher threw the charge at the man and paused long
enough to see the expression on the Sergeant's face when he
realized what was in the bag.
"Surprise," teased Asher before running back into the
compound. The trailer exploded with a white flash that lit
the desert valley. The ground rumbled beneath Asher's feet,
but he nimbly kept his balance, and continued to run.
Ralston didn't stop as he passed the helicopter, but
simply pulled the cord, tossed the charge, and counted to
himself. Asher's charge went off about the time Ralston
counted two, causing him to quicken his pace away from the
aircraft. As he moved away something caught his eye to the
right: two men sprinted out the door of one of the barracks.
He had expected them to come after him, but they did
not. They were intent upon something else. They were
running like they had a purpose, yet Ralston couldn't
imagine what. He examined the men as they ran: they weren't
dressed in desert camo. They were carrying some type of
helmets.
They're wearing flight suits, thought Ralston. They're
running to the helicopter!
There was no time to think, so Ralston simply reacted.
He yelled at the top of his lungs and charged the pilot and
copilot with both arms extended. The sight of Ralston
moving at full steam was sufficient to stop the copilot in
his tracks. Ralston dove and hit the pilot, full force in
the stomach. The man fell to the ground with such force as
to throw a cloud of dust into the air. Ralston immediately
rolled off the pilot, and into the copilot's feet. He, too,
hit the ground.
Ralston tried to jump to his feet, but realized that
the charge must be nearing detonation. The pilot lifted
himself to his hands and knees, only to have Ralston jump on
top of him and the copilot once again. The charge went off
and the helicopter exploded into a thousand pieces of flying
debris. An orange and yellow fireball continued to grow
from the airframe, and for a moment, Ralston and the two men
forgot about fighting.
With the blast still ringing his ears, Ralston rolled
off the men, and rose to his feet. The copilot jumped up,
took two steps, and pulled a snubnosed 38 from his shoulder
holster. Ralston kicked the man's wrist, then followed the
move by slamming his fist into his face. He fell to the
ground, unconscious.
The pilot tried to scramble to his feet, but Ralston
grabbed his uniform and dragged him back. He placed the man
in a choke hold and applied pressure to his throat. "I'm
sorry about this Captain," he whispered in his ear as he
constricted the man's neck. "They said in and out, no
shooting. I'm sorry." The pilot's body went limp, and
Ralston lowered him to the ground. He removed the revolver
from his holster, and checked his pulse. The pilot was
still alive.
Ralston emptied the pistol, and threw it across the
compound. He grabbed the copilot's weapon as he ran, and
emptied the cartridges from it, too. He dropped the weapon,
and started to search for the others.
The explosions seemed to shake Brad into reality.
Baker pushed him forward. "Dartmouth! Reload your rifle.
We've got to get out of here."
Brad pressed the button and let the magazine fall to
the ground. Ralston told him a dozen times to recover his
spent magazines, as they'd have his finger prints on them,
but Brad didn't remember. He was making a fumbling attempt
at loading the weapon when they rounded the corner of the
quonset hut, and stopped. Neither could move... They
couldn't believe what they saw.
There it stood.
It stood four feet tall, was dressed in a dark
jumpsuit, and had an oversized, hairless head. The skin
seemed to glow with a pale, gray, iridescent light that made
the large black eyes appear as if they were not even there.
Baker knew at once that he'd been right-- aliens did exist.
The stories were true! Brad was too stunned to realize that
the government had been lying; just as he had expected.
A yell broke their trance from behind: "Hold it!"
Baker spun and leveled his rifle at the AP who stood
ten yards behind them. The airman saw the rifle and double-
tapped his automatic at the instant Baker fired. The AP's
first round was low, and struck Baker on the hip. Baker's
rounds were on the mark, and cut the man across his chest.
Brad turned in time to see the AP's second round blast
through Baker's heart.
Baker fell to the ground, with a geyser of blood
gushing from his chest. Brad looked at the alien. He
looked at Baker. He had to do something!
Brad grabbed Baker under the armpits and started
dragging him. It was time to take a gamble. He had one
chance, but which one was this: Roger or Wilco?
"Roger! Roger!" yelled Brad to the alien, as he
struggled to spin Baker's body around. "Roger, they're
terrorists! They've come to kill you and Wilco. We've got
to get you out!"
The alien didn't move. Its head cocked to one side,
and it blinked curiously. "Listen to me! We've got a
chopper coming in to fly you out, but you've got to follow
me. You've got to come with me, Roger!"
The alien took a step forward, then another. As Brad
dragged Baker... the alien followed.
Ralston spotted the figure of a man dragging a wounded
comrade, and ran to investigate. As he approached, he felt
it must be Baker and Dartmouth, but was unable to determine
which was down. He could only hope. "Baker?"
"No, it's Dartmouth," screamed Brad. "Help Roger to
the helicopter!"
"What?"
"Roger!" repeated Brad pointing at the alien. "Help
Roger to the helicopter!"
Ralston hadn't seen the alien before, but when their
eyes met, he nearly broke into tears. Brad was still
struggling with Baker's dead body when Ralston approached
the alien. Slowly, at first. He walked to within two
yards, and looked down on the ridiculously small creature.
Without a word, he reached for the alien, and seized a hand
full of the cloth from its uniform. For a moment it
attempted to pull away, but was no more of a match against
Ralston's strength than was the typical human. Ralston
grabbed the creature and ran toward Brad.
"Leave him, Dartmouth!"
"I can't!" cried the reporter.
"He's dead, damn you! Leave him."
Ralston ran toward the fence with the confused alien
slung over his shoulder. Brad watched as best he could, as
the alien twisted its body and swung skinny arms against
Ralston's back. Ralston stopped fifteen yards short of the
fence, and dropped to one knee. Brad could hear the distant
sound of a helicopter approaching, and for the first time
knew exactly what to do. He ran to the fence and pulled
against the flimsy twist ties that held the mesh. The
chainlink parted and Brad held it open for Ralston.
Ralston had to push the alien through the opening
before he could squeeze through. Brad grabbed the
creature's arm and was nearly pulled to the ground when it
tried to break free and run from his hold. The alien
grabbed at Brad's face with its free hand, but Brad fell
away and maintained his hold. Once clear of the fence,
Ralston scooped the alien away from Brad, pulled its light
body close to his chest, and ran for the helicopter.
Wilson set the chopper down fifty yards from the wire,
and held the engine at three-fourths speed. Sporadic
shooting continued from inside the compound, as Asher ran
the Air Force-- just for fun. Ralston pinned the alien into
one of the passenger seats in the back of the helicopter,
and Brad jumped in after him. Asher follower, mere seconds
behind.
"I count three!" yelled Wilson over the tornado wind of
the helicopter's rotors.
"Baker's dead," responded Ralston.
Wilson nodded and watched, his hands tense on the
control sticks, waiting for the last man to make the flight.
Asher dove into the chopper and landed on top of Brad.
Wilson pulled the collective, the helicopter rose, and he
slammed the cyclic stick forward. He placed the craft in a
sharp, climbing turn, and headed east.
Asher stood: "What happened?"
"Baker panicked," offered Brad. "He shot some guy."
"Bullshit!" hollered Asher. "Where is he?"
"He's dead," stated Ralston, releasing the alien and
sitting up in his seat.
Asher's eyes fell onto the alien for the first time and
widened to the size of golf balls. "What the fuck is that!"
"That's Roger. That's who we came to rescue!"
A scream emanated from Asher that sounded as if it had
come from the devil himself, and Asher grabbed for the
revolver on his hip. "Dartmouth, you lying mother fucker!
I'm going to kill you!"
Brad scurried into the corner and Ralston grabbed the
gun. Asher growled fiercely and struggled against Ralston's
grip to point the weapon at Dartmouth. "Asher! Wait!"
screamed Ralston. "Wait until we land to kill him!"
"Asher, do not discharge that weapon in my ship!"
yelled Wilson over his shoulder.
"Wait until we land," begged Ralston.
Asher relaxed slightly, but Ralston maintained his grip
out of fear that it was a trick. At this point Ralston
didn't care if Asher killed the reporter-- they'd warned
Dartmouth not to lie to the mercenary. Ralston's only
concern was the thought that the bullet might ricochet and
and hit the chopper's engine. Ralston did not want to
crash.
"I hate to interrupt your dance lessons, gentlemen,"
called Wilson, "But we got company." Ralston let Asher go
to look out the crew door. Behind them and closing fast was
another helicopter. "Asher, you're going to have to do
something about them!"
Before Asher could grab his M-16 off the seat, a string
of tracers flashed by them. "They're firing warning shots
at us!" screamed Brad.
"Those aren't warning shots, asshole," spat Asher, as
he began to return fire.
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