Copyright © 2009 Allan Burd
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 0-9705588-4-8
ISBN-13: 9780970558848
eBook ISBN: 978-1-61550-151-9
Visit www.booksurge.com to order additional copies.
For Roberta, Bert, Michele, Dylan, and Tyler
My beginning, middle, and end…
“I’ve loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night.”
GALILEO GALILEI
“Government is not reason; it is not eloquent; it is force.”
GEORGE WASHINGTON
CONTENTS
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT PAGE
PROLOGUE
IT BEGINS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CONTACT
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
ALIEN GROUND
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
INVASIONS
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
CHAPTER 57
CHAPTER 58
CHAPTER 59
ENTITIES UNKNOWN
CHAPTER 60
CHAPTER 61
CHAPTER 62
CHAPTER 63
CHAPTER 64
CHAPTER 65
CHAPTER 66
CHAPTER 67
CHAPTER 68
END GAME
CHAPTER 69
CHAPTER 70
CHAPTER 71
CHAPTER 72
CHAPTER 73
CHAPTER 74
CHAPTER 75
CHAPTER 76
CHAPTER 77
CHAPTER 78
CHAPTER 79
CHAPTER 80
CHAPTER 81
CHAPTER 82
EPILOGUES
CHAPTER 83
CHAPTER 84
CHAPTER 85
CHAPTER 86
CHAPTER 87
CHAPTER 88
WORD FROM THE AUTHOR
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PROLOGUE
NOVEMBER 9, 2009
COLORADO
Airman Charlie Faber gently applied pressure to the brake of his Ford Explorer, slowing his approach to the heavily guarded gates of the U.S. Space Command’s Space Surveillance Center. He glanced over to the clock on the center of the dashboard. It read 1:30 A.M., just like it always did, he thought to himself with a sigh. Another dull evening to be spent doing the usual routine. He’d park the car by 1:35 A.M.; get to the coffee pot for a quick pick-me-up, cream with a teaspoon of sugar, by 1:45 A.M.; then be stationed at his post in Box Nine from 2:00 A.M. to 10:00 A.M. for eight boring hours of observation. Then he sighed again, knowing all too well how easy it had been to become accustomed to this position he was assigned to six months ago.
He leaned his finger against the button that rolled down the window of his car and showed the MP his badge. “Good morning, Marty.”
“Morning, Chuck. Just like clockwork,” replied the MP as he pressed the button lifting the gate.
“Yeah, every night—same bat time, same bat channel. Maybe I’ll get lucky and within the next six months they’ll transfer me to a real post—or at least first or second shift.”
“You and me both,” responded the MP.
Charlie nodded good-bye and drove his car into the nearby parking lot. Two minutes later he and twenty others on night shift detail boarded the military shuttle bus that would take them inside Cheyenne Mountain. This was a military installation the locals referred to as Crystal Palace because at certain times of the year, particularly in the winter, the snowcapped mountain would reflect the sun making it appear like a giant crystal. That image, combined with the incredible technology housed within, led to the nickname.
The bus rumbled along the two-way road, stopping momentarily as it approached the large, gray, thick metal blast-doors which guarded the entrance. Charlie anxiously watched the doors open sluggishly, then close menacingly behind him as the bus made its way inside. He always felt as if he were being sealed into a tomb he couldn’t escape from for the next eight hours. And he was.
The bus left Charlie at a bank of elevators. He took one to the third floor, wondering to himself about the contradictory nature of the space surveillance center. The facility, even though brightly lit, always appeared dull. The temperature was high due to the man-made climate, but still, it always felt cold. Even the mood, which hung thick in the air, smacked of apathy though the entire facility was built out of an ever present sense of paranoia. All in all, Charlie thought, it was not the most pleasant place to work. At least he hadn’t acquired that pasty, sallow complexion that most of the first shifters had. He couldn’t imagine being locked inside from 10:00 A.M. to 6:00 P.M. every day, hardly seeing sunlight. Hmmm, he thought to himself, perhaps third shift isn’t that bad after all.
After a cup of coffee he quickly made his way to his station in Box Nine, where orbital traffic was closely monitored by the government. The room was a lot smaller than one would expect. Six orbital analysts, known as knob turners, and a commander were stationed within. With the exception of Commander Stromfeld, Charlie at thirty-one was the oldest of the seven officers on duty.
Charlie took control of the console while exchanging a few pleasantries with his second shift counterpart. Maps were displayed across his computer console showing various locations across the globe. The blips on the map showed any air or space traffic above those locations. The buttons and dials on his console allowed him full access to SPADATS, the Space Detection And Tracking System, so he could isolate specific locations if it became necessary. If there was any activity in space, Charlie would know about it.
He sat behind his console and briefly scanned the status report from the previous shift. It read—No unusual air activity. He looked over to his friend, Airman Mark Jones, who was sitting at the console next to his, and nodded hello. Charlie raised his eyebrows and shrugged, silently indicating he was ready for another eight boring hours of observation. Mark rolled his eyes and nodded his agreement.
For the first one hour and thirty-five minutes of his shift Charlie kept watch on his designated zones. Nothing unusual was happening. All “blips” were flying in their recognizable flight or orbital patterns and were easily identified.
Until now! Unexpectedly a new flashing red light scurried onto Charlie’s display. He quickly flipped through his manifest, making sure that he hadn’t missed something which wo
uld correspond to the blip. Nothing did.
“What the…” Charlie muttered to himself. “Commander, I got a new bogey that just tripped the fence over the Mid-Atlantic—apogee reading at eighty miles and heading down.”
Crew chief, Commander Ray Stromfeld, lowered the reports he was reading and looked toward Charlie. An unidentified bogey wasn’t all that uncommon. It could have been an enemy satellite changing course for a new spying route or a dead satellite with a decaying orbit about to reenter the atmosphere. More likely though, it was a meteoroid. According to the astronomical reports, a meteor shower was scheduled for tonight. “Flight Pattern?” questioned the Commander.
“Coming straight down at free fall velocity, sir,” replied Charlie without looking away from his monitor.
“Check the inventory log for any dead satellites or other known objects that should have been orbiting in that sector.”
“Nothing on the list, sir.”
“What’s your estimate on size?” asked Stromfeld.
“Judging from the blip, size is approximately fifty yards in diameter.” Being a big Denver Bronco fan, Charlie always thought in terms of yardage, not meters. “Should we bother NORAD with this, sir?”
“Let’s wait a few minutes. In the meantime, Jones, get the TIP team on line. One hundred fifty feet is downright big. I’m not sure it will burn off in the atmosphere. Whatever it is, if it does make it through, I want to know where and when it’s gonna hit.”
“Yes sir, Commander,” answered Airman Jones. He was young and eager to please.
Stromfeld made his way to Charlie’s post. They hoped it was just a meteor that would die in the atmosphere and nothing more sinister. As much as Charlie hated the boredom, he knew the excitement had the potential to be much worse. Two minutes passed as they watched the object continue to fall.
“Jones, what’s the TIP team’s analysis?” asked Stromfeld.
Airman Jones ripped the hard copy from the printer and quickly read it to his commander. “If it makes it sir, they estimate six minutes to impact in the Mid-Atlantic. It’s impossible to give an exact estimate due to the fluctuating density of the atmosphere, but it will land in the water. No danger to civilians, sir.”
Commander Stromfeld grabbed the printout to see for himself. “Let’s hope we have no nuclear subs in that vicinity.” He turned back to Charlie. “Status?”
“Sir, bogey is now at fifty miles heading into the mesosphere and still descending on its current trajectory—no loss of size noted.” Ablation, the process where the friction generated by speeding through the atmosphere would burn off a meteor’s outer layers, either reducing its size or turning it to dust, should have begun by now.
“Damn.” Commander Stromfeld raced back to his desk and reached for the gold phone. “This is Commander Ray Stromfeld at the Space Surveillance Center. Flash alert for CINC-NORAD. We mark an unidentified bogey, approximately 150 feet in diameter, descending fast into the Atlantic Ocean. ETI six minutes, point of impact longitude 74 degrees, latitude 48 degrees, radius of error three miles.”
The blip was at forty miles altitude when something startling happened.
“Holy … Object just changed course, sir.” Charlie was stunned.
Stromfeld hadn’t known Charlie for a long time, but what he did know was that he was a damn good airman. About five months ago when Charlie was first starting, he successfully identified an ELINT—an Electronic Intelligence Satellite—that was confusing everyone else on post. Since then, the Commander developed a respect for Charlie’s abilities. If Charlie said the object just impossibly changed course, then he was sure it had. Still, he had to see for himself. “Huh, hold on.” Stromfeld put the phone on his desk and walked over to Charlie’s console. “New flight pattern?” he asked.
“It’s still descending, only at a different angle and much slower. It now appears to be in an orbital spiral over the northern hemisphere.” Orbital spiral meant the object was circling the earth as it was falling.
“Any ideas?”
“It’s definitely not a meteor,” said Charlie stating the obvious.
“Unknown satellite?” suggested Stromfeld.
“No. The speed’s not right. Plus I’ve never seen a satellite execute a maneuver like that one. That course change was almost ninety degrees.”
“Jones?” snarled Stromfeld. Jones was already working. He ripped the new Trajectory Impact Projection estimate from the printout and handed it to Commander Stromfeld.
“Damn.” Commander Stromfeld raced back to the phone. The boys at the Pentagon are going to love this, he thought. “Modify previous Flash Alert. Bogey changed course. New point of impact, Ellesmere Island, Northern Canada, longitude 85 degrees 30 minutes, latitude 75 degrees 45 minutes. Radius of error one mile. ETI in twelve minutes … that’s 3:51 A.M. our time. Requesting Priority One Action message to Commander in Chief of North American Aerospace Defense Command for full use of all available networks of the SPADATS. Also requesting Priority One use on the computer-linked telescopic system along bogey’s current trajectory. We need a picture of this thing and we need it fast.”
The computer-linked telescopic system was based in Malabar, Florida. It would take about four minutes for it to receive the coordinates, process them, align itself with the bogey, and transmit a real-time picture back to the Space Surveillance Center at Cheyenne Mountain. On an ordinary day this feat of computer technology would seem extraordinary.
Today it wasn’t near fast enough.
The room began to fill with more men, most with a command rank on their uniform. The tension grew palpable, but not directly because of concern over the bogey. Most of the analysts were not used to being around so many high ranks. They were afraid to say the wrong thing for fear of looking stupid in the eyes of their superiors. A higher ranking commander asked Charlie for the status.
“Bogey is still on current descent trajectory. Speed also remains constant, sir.”
Time moved in slow motion. No one knew what it was, but speculation filled the room. However, no matter which hypothesis seemed at the moment to be correct, it was shortly cut down by some inconsistency which soon led to a new hypothesis. The cycle continued, but everyone knew the chatter was meaningless. Until they received the real-time pictures from Malabar, they would not have the answers.
“Commander, two bogeys are approaching on an intercept course,” Charlie said. “Probably Canadian RAF, sir.”
“How much longer until those pictures come in?” Jones whispered.
“About a minute for pictures, one more for impact,” answered Charlie.
“It’s going to be a long minute,” mumbled Jones.
Thirty seconds more passed when suddenly the unthinkable happened. The occupants of Box Nine stared with disbelief.
“God dammit!” shouted Commander Stromfeld.
It became official when Charlie spoke the words. “I don’t understand it, sir. The bogey disappeared from the screen.” Charlie fooled with some knobs and dials but to no avail. The blip would not reappear.
One senior commander, seemingly unfazed by this unfortunate event, took control. “No need to panic yet, gentlemen. We’ll be receiving visuals in about ten seconds.”
All eyes focused on the screen in front of them. The first picture finally flashed on and there was—nothing. If the object had exploded they would have at least seen some debris, but there was nothing there. Commander Stromfeld was furious. All of the billions of dollars in high tech equipment had resulted in nothing. Except that Charlie was right, the object heading to earth was definitely not a meteor. Other than that, they knew nothing at all and that didn’t sit well with Commander Stromfeld.
He quickly reached for the gold phone ordering a priority one Teal-Amber search of the northern sky. The telescope would survey the night sky at an exact counter rate to the earth’s rotation. This would, in effect, freeze the stars in place and highlight any unusual object in the sky. The search would last for five more hours
but ultimately it would find nothing. All members on the third shift in Box Nine would be fully debriefed. No mention of this incident would be made to anyone else, including family and other officers. Not even to the other analysts on first and second shift. If anyone asked, tonight was routine, as it always was.
At 10:00 A.M. Charlie’s replacement would arrive. His name was Airman Jack Henning. He was only twenty-two, but already he had developed that sallow complexion from being deprived of sunlight for most of the day. He would exchange the usual pleasantries with Charlie as he took control of the console. He’d put down his cup of coffee and begin his shift by reading Charlie’s report. It would read—No unusual air activity. Charlie Faber, Nov. 9th, 2009.
IT
BEGINS
1
NOVEMBER 9, 2:50 A.M. (PACIFIC STANDARD TIME)
PRINCE RUPERT, BRITISH COLUMBIA, CANADA
Stacy Michaels gazed out over the wooden railing surrounding her deck, the cold breeze reminding her of the change of seasons about to take place. The moon shone down like a beacon of silver light, highlighting the cascading mountains in the distance. Thousands of stars illuminated an otherwise dark sky. Every once in a while a sliver of orange light from the Aurora Borealis would glance over the horizon. Without any city lights to interfere, Stacy admired all the beauty of the heavens.
Until a storm system from the west picked up speed and splashed cloud formations across the awesome celestial backdrop—as if Mother Nature herself was experiencing a mood swing. But even as the night brooded, Stacy remained out on her deck. She couldn’t sleep and she much preferred the open outdoors to the confines of home, even in the cold and even though her home was spacious enough. She poured herself a glass of wine, wrapped herself in a black down blanket, and lowered herself into a lounge.
She took a sip of White Zinfandel, her favorite, and began to think of an idea for her next children’s book. “OK Princess,” she said to herself as she grabbed a pencil and pad from the nearby table. “What perils will your kingdom face for your eighth adventure?” She tapped her pencil unconsciously on the pad as she gazed through the sliding glass doors into her own kingdom, an old country-style chalet filled with all the modern appliances this century had to offer.