Book II, Gamadin: Mons

* * *

Also by Tom Kirkbride

Gamadin Book Series

Book I: Gamadin: Word of Honor

Book II: Gamandin: Mons

Book III: Gamadin: Distant Suns

Book IV: Gamadin: Gazz

Book V: Gamadin: CORE

Book VI, Gamadin: The Wild Strain

Short Stories

Stinky’s Island

Surfing Roots

Apollos’ Flags

Copyright Notice

Notice: This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Published by Wigton Publishing Company

32857 Fox Lane, Cottage Grove, OR 97424

Phone: (541) 246-4135

1st Digital Copyright ©2010 by Tom Kirkbride

2nd Digital Copyright ©2018 by Tom Kirkbride

Gamadin, Harlowe Pylott, characters, names, and related indicia are trademarks of ©Tom Kirkbride.

All rights reserved under all copyright conventions.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher.

For Speacial permissions, ordering information, or discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Wigton Publishing Company

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Phone: (541) 246-4135

Ebook Design, composition, and Illustrations by Tom Kirkbride

Kirkbride, Tom (Thomas K.)

Gamadin. Book II, Mons / Tom Kirkbride. -- 2nd Digital Edition.

ISBN: 978-0-9883633-5-9

1. Extraterrestrial beings--Fiction. 2. Space warfare--Fiction. 3. Surfers-- California--Fiction. 4. Science fiction. 5. Fantasy fiction. I. Title.

2nd Digital Edition

* * *

For my cousins

Joe Powers (1951-76)

and

Kenn Cutter (1944-2006)

Whose lives were a great influence on me

and the Gamadin series

* * *

Isn’t that what life is about?

The stuff we didn’t sign up for . . .

– Dr. Laura Schlessinger

Radio show, February 25, 2005

* * *

The most terrifying words in the English language are: I’m from the government and I’m here to help.

– Ronald Reagan

White House Briefing, October 29, 1987

Who were the Gamadin?

Many, many thousands of years ago, when the galactic trading centers of Hitt and Gibb were the cultural elite centers of the Omni quadrant, the Gamadin ruled the cosmos—not in an authoritarian way, but as a protective force against the spreading Death of evil empires and their acts of conquest and domination. A wise and very ancient group of planets from the galactic core formed an alliance to create the most powerful police force the galaxy had ever seen. This police force would be independent of any one state or planet. They were called Gamadin.

Translated from the ancient scrolls of Amerloi, Gamadin means: From the center, for all that is good. The sole mission of the Gamadin was to protect the freedom and happiness of peaceful planets everywhere, regardless of origin or wealth. It was said that a single Gamadin ship was so powerful, it could destroy an empire.

Unfortunately, after many centuries of peace, the Gamadin had performed their job too well. Few saw reason for such a powerful presence in their own backyard when the Death of war and the aggressive empire building were remnants of an ancient past. So what was left of the brave Gamadin simply withered away and was lost, never to be heard from again.

However, the ancient scrolls of Amerloi foretold of their resurrection:

For it is written that one day the coming Death will lift its evil head and awaken the fearsome Gamadin of the galactic core. And the wrath of the Gamadin will be felt again throughout the stars, and lo, while some people trembled in despair, still more rejoiced; for the wrath of the Gamadin will cleanse the stars for all; and return peace to the heavens . . . .

PART I

Conscription

1

No Waves

DUDE! WHERE ARE WE? Matt Riverstone cried out.

Harlowe Pylott stopped shoving the makeshift sled with the slammed body of his friend, Ian Wizzixs, to look up. Harlowe’s bruised, swollen eyes were painful slits as he struggled to see anything past his nose. Any waves? he asked.

Riverstone searched in vain for anything wet. Nada, brah. He pointed an angry finger at his best friend’s face. Next time you go promising to save worlds, make sure the contract states clearly that it has an ocean with hot babes first, mophead. Unlike his short, spiked hair, Riverstone often made fun of Harlowe’s brown headful of thick, sun-bleached ends that stuck out in all directions, like someone had detonated a cherry bomb inside his skull.

Maybe there was no sandy beach, but the view from the top of the escarpment where the battle-damaged Gamadin ship, Millawanda, had landed was awesome! There was no telling how high they were above the lifeless flatlands below. Miles high would be the logical guess; high enough to where the pale sky and the salmon-colored wasteland seemed to stretch out forever in all directions. So high, in fact, they could see the slight curvature of the planet on the horizon. In the distance, breaking up the infinite plain were three cone-shaped mountains rising out of the ground. The cones stood side by side directly in front of them, like soldiers guarding a gate. They seemed close, but in reality, because of their size and because the air was so clear and still, they were perhaps a hundred miles away, or more.

I will . . . next time, Harlowe replied, sucking up what little strength he had left to move the sled the last few feet toward the cliff edge.

Harlowe feared Ian was near death. He couldn’t leave his pard behind, in case . . . well, he wouldn’t no matter what. He and Riverstone had been pushing the sheet of metal with Ian’s shattered body in it for over an hour. Ian was too weak to walk on his own, and they didn’t have the strength to carry him. They had improvised the sled from a damaged section of the Ship they had found at the bottom of the rampway. It appeared to have detached from the hull during the hard landing. Even with their broken bodies in a world of hurt from their recent rumble with the Dak battle cruisers, they had to see for themselves where they had ended up on the barren planet. From what they could tell, Millawanda had set herself down at the edge of a giant rock. But giant hardly described this super-massive perch. As big as Her saucer-shaped body was over five football fields wide, nearly a mile in circumference, with the mass of six Nimitz-class aircraft carriers—She seemed like a dinner plate teetering on the edge of this giant rock table.

The sight from the cliff edge sent chills of dread down their broken bones. Everywhere they looked was a vast wasteland—no trees, no shrubs, no animals, no birds or buzzing flies—not even tiny bugs crawling between the jagged rocks. So much stillness. So much nothing. They seemed to be the only ones alive on a planet that had no oceans!

After one more shove, Riverstone collapsed beside the sled, too exhausted to go any further. That’s it! I’m done, brah, not one more inch.

The sled, however, continued down the slight incline without them. Harlowe tried to stop it, but his broken body was too weak to catch the moving sled. All he and Riverstone could do was watch helplessly as the sled with Ian continued on its way to oblivion. Amazingly, two feet past the edge of the drop-off, the sled suddenly stopped on its own. Harlowe and Riverstone traded grateful breaths and then said together, That’s awkward.

Harlowe hurriedly crawled to Ian’s side to make sure he was okay. Finding him no worse than before and the sled inexplicably solidly stuck where it was, Harlowe jammed a couple of stones under the sled, just to be safe.

What happened? Ian asked.

Harlowe peered over the cliff edge. It gave his stomach butterflies to look down. He turned back to Ian and wiped some blood-tainted drool from his friend’s mouth with his own bloodstained, blue Gamadin shirt. You slid a little.

Ian squinted toward the vastness, but his vision was far worse than Harlowe’s. He was unaware that he was inches away from a 15,000-foot Xtreme ride his friends had nearly given him. Without his thick Coke-bottle glasses, he was officially blind. The only pair he had was broken, like his insides were, when he had sucked face with the control console during their recent battle with the Daks.

Harlowe gazed up at Millawanda’s undersides as he tried to catch his breath. Deep black cuts in Her once-beautiful golden skin crisscrossed Her massive body. Large sections of hull plating were peeled back as if someone had used a can opener to open Her up, exposing Her insides while dangling thick cables discharged bright arcs of hot electrical charges.

Harlowe kept turning over and over in his mind the apparent impossibility of how they had survived the one-sided battle. The fact that Riverstone had destroyed the Dak ships with the ancient Gamadin rifle still boggled his mind. Riverstone had never been a marksman! As many times as Harlowe and his dad had taken him to the shooting range, Riverstone never became a good shot. He had trouble hitting still targets on his Wii, so how could he hit anything like a Dak starcruiser with one good eye and an infinitely more complicated Gamadin weapon that he was now using for a crutch? I got lucky, was Riverstone’s pathetic answer.

Four shots, four kills? No way, butthead!

Only a fool would believe that, yet here they were. Not quite dead, but almost. They were all damaged goods. The robobs did what they could to patch them up, but it wasn’t their usual fix-it job. Harlowe figured Millie was so low on power after the battle that She couldn’t do any more for them until She repaired Herself first. Before the robobs went dark, they were given some awesome painkillers; otherwise they would never have made it out the center hatchway.

Their injuries were a laundry list of traumas. Riverstone’s leg was broken in several places. His left eye was his only functioning one. Without his Gamadin rifle for support, he would have been the second passenger in the sled. Harlowe’s right arm was broken, too, his shoulder was dislocated, and his knee only worked if he kept it straight. The whole left side of his face was beaten up and swollen. Both eyes were puffy slits. He looked like he had gone ten rounds with Hellboy.

The gelatin wraps that covered their broken parts worked like duct tape to keep them from falling apart. Ian was the worst, with several broken ribs. He breathed with a wheeze and spat up blood when he coughed. Harlowe feared Ian had internal bleeding and a concussion after checking the gash above his left eye. It would have been better to leave him inside the control room until the robobs were awake again, but Ian wasn’t going for it. During his more lucid moments, he insisted that if he was going to die, he wanted to see where they had landed first and where he was going to be buried. Harlowe didn’t argue, knowing he would have wanted the same break.

Harlowe wiped a tear from his eye and promised Millie if they made it out of this jam alive, he would never allow Her to suffer like this again. Figuring Her fate was out of his hands and there was nothing else he could do for the ancient ship, his attention focused back to their own immediate problem—surviving beyond the next minute. He rested against the unseen wall and tried to glimpse a little bit of the view Riverstone saw.

Do you know where we are, Wiz? Harlowe asked Ian.

Ian coughed up more blood and spat it on a rock. Besides themselves, it was the first thing that moved on the planet. Tell me what you see, he gutted out.

Nada, brah, Riverstone said, disgusted. It’s all whack, dude. What do you see, Harlowe? Ian asked again, ignoring the noise.

Harlowe tried to pry his eye slits wide enough to make out the horizon. Riverstone’s right. The view’s sick but there’s nothing out there. Millie’s landed at the edge of a big cliff, and below the cliff there’s nothing but a few mountains.

Ian found a clue in his answer. Mountains? What do they look like?

Gunnels, was Riverstone’s insightful description.

Small or large?

Riverstone’s type, Harlowe said.

Ian nodded approval. Sweet. How many?

Harlowe strained to count the number of cones, but wasn’t quite sure if he was seeing double or triple. Riverstone helped him out. Three, he volunteered. He could see a doe’s anatomical parts at great distances, even with one good eye.

In a line?

Right out in front of us, brah, Riverstone replied.

Ian’s eyes closed. With his better arm, Harlowe shook Ian awake. He needed an answer. Where, Wiz? he asked again.

Ian coughed up another live one. It was deep red and shiny in the low, setting sun. Mars, he answered, weak and fading fast.

Riverstone dropped his crutch. Fortunately for them, the juice in the ancient Gamadin weapon had been expended hours ago when it blasted the Dak ships out of the heavens. If it hadn’t, he might have blown his foot off, along with a section of cliff like they had done back at the gorge in Utah. Now the rifle was as useless as his leg. The only thing that kept him from tumbling down the side of the escarpment was the invisible wall.

Mars? he cried out, almost choking on his words. He pushed himself away from the wall and pointed at his Seiko watch. We only left Earth a few hours ago. It takes months to fly a zillion miles. Even a foo like me learned that much from Farnducky’s science class, Gomer.

Ian tried to force an all-knowing grin.

Riverstone wasn’t laughing.

You think that’s where we are then? Harlowe asked calmly. Ian nodded. Count on it.

It was a known fact that Ian was the final authority on all things science. Still, Riverstone needed more convincing.

So why aren’t we dead? Mars is supposed to be cold, right? I mean, really cold, dude. Like, we’re standing here in our shirt sleeves and we’re not dead. So how can that be, Brainiac? Tell me it’s a dream, and when we click our heels, we’ll be back at the Lakewood In-N-Out on Carson, sucking down animal double-double cheeseburgers, hot crispy fries, and thick chocolate shakes.

Ian reached out and knocked on the unseen wall. It made no sound. The barrier is protecting us, pard.

Harlowe thought that was cool, but Riverstone didn’t care. He wanted to vent by kicking the barrier with his one good leg. Problem was, he couldn’t figure out how to do it without causing excruciating pain to his body, so he slammed a fist against the wispy clear wall instead. When he did, a slight blue shimmer radiated away from the impact zone, followed by a string of four-letter descriptions over their predicament.

Harlowe turned back to Ian. Any bad news?

He looked at Harlowe with his deep brown eyes that could barely make out his face from a few inches away. The pain was incredible, but Ian gutted out, "Yeah, we’re at the edge of the solar system’s largest volcano . . . Olympus Mons."

Volcano? Riverstone cried out. He turned, looking worriedly up the massive incline of the caldera. What if it blows?

Ian tried to laugh, but all he could do was cough up more pink dribble. No way, stupid. It’s been extinct, like your brain, for billions of years.

Harlowe was about to keel over as he asked, No waves, huh?

Not a single drop of water anywhere on the planet. It hasn’t rained here since the Mons erupted. We’re three miles up on the low side of a cliff that surrounds the entire volcano. There’s no way off this pile of rock but to fly, pard.

Harlowe tried to moisten his cracked lips, as off in the distance, a school parking lot-sized section of hull came crashing down with a loud, teeth-gnashing crunch. Millie wasn’t flying anywhere. With a twisted, things-couldn’t-get-much-worse smirk, Harlowe peered over the cliff edge, the vastness, the land with no oceans, no creatures or plants, no In-N-Outs, and faced his deepest fear. Ian was right. No escape. They were stuck at the edge of lifeless rock with no way off the planet. Sweet . . .

2

Caesar

By Presidential order, the Long Beach/Daugherty Field Airport in California was closed to all air traffic at 1:32 a.m. to allow a lone, unmarked, government-grey Gulfstream G550 jet to land undisturbed. No other vehicles, not even airport authorities, were allowed within a mile of the runway, except for one black Ford Expedition that bore government license plates.

Coming to a full stop, the Gulfstream turned and taxied back to the start of the runway. The twin Rolls Royce turbines whined as it made a tight circle and stopped again. It wasn’t staying long.

Agent Quentin Cribbs, NSA, waited patiently for the main entrance door to open. His round, bulbous face squinted into the wind kicked up by the turbines, and he tried in vain to keep his pasty, dyed black hair from scattering in twenty different directions. Two clearly lethal military guards, dressed in full, black body-armor uniforms and kevlar helmets, leaped out of the hatchway, waving their full-auto HK MP5s back and forth, and checked the surrounding area for any signs of danger. When all was clear, they double-timed it over to Cribbs’s vehicle. While one of the guards checked out his car, the other checked him and asked to see his NSA identification. He reached into his coat lapel pocket and handed his I.D. to the waiting guard, who quickly scanned his credentials with a bright zeon flashlight.

Cribbs wore a dark grey suit with a black overcoat. He had nothing to hide. He carried no weapons or briefcase, no loose change or pens. Except for his I.D., credit cards, and small bills, he had nothing on him.

After a thorough patdown, the soldier returned the I.D. to Cribbs and asked with a cold stare, Keys in the car? He was still holding his snub-nosed MP5 steady across his chest. None of the protocols were a surprise to Cribbs. This was a standard security check. It was expected.

They’re in it, Cribbs replied.

Sound system good? the soldier asked.

Yeah, sure, Cribbs answered, skeptical of the questioning.

Got a good country station?

Cribbs didn’t know. He didn’t listen to the radio.

XM?

Sirius, Cribbs countered. He did know that much. Starbucks?

Cribbs pointed toward a wide, well-lit street running parallel to the airport. Take that south. There’s an all-night drive-thru two miles on the right.

The soldier waved him by with a nod. Thanks. You’re good to go, Agent Cribbs.

As Cribbs stepped smartly toward the jet, a tall and quite beautiful, sandy blond woman in her late twenties stood at the entry hatch with a welcoming smile. Stepping through the hatchway, Cribbs took a moment to gaze in awe at the Gulfstream’s richly appointed interior. This was no ordinary government issue, he thought. The inlaid black walnut, mahogany and rosewood paneling, brass and gold fixtures, and deep-pile, dark blue carpet were all first cabin. The government had spared no expense for this transport. He wondered who it belonged to.

The grey-suited, leggy hostess guided him toward the rear of the aircraft. At the small galley, she asked politely, May I get you a cup of coffee, sir?

Yes, thank you.

Cream and sugar?

Black.

Are you hungry? We have a variety of sandwiches and mixed nuts. I could warm them if you’d like.

Just coffee, thanks.

The hostess pointed to a wood-paneled door. Step through here, please. The Secretary is waiting, sir, she told him. I’ll bring your coffee momentarily.

Cribbs wasn’t informed about whom he was meeting. He was ordered to be at the airport no later than 1:00 a.m. and to wait for an unmarked government jet at the south end of the runway. No one was to know of the rendezvous, not even his fellow agents in Long Beach.

The instant he stepped into the small office area, he recognized Peter Lawless, the middle-aged but youthful-looking Secretary of Homeland Security. The Secretary was standing behind a black granite-topped desk, looking out of one of the portside windows when Cribbs entered. I love those Expeditions, he said to Cribbs, without making eye contact with him. Lots of room. I’ve heard the sound system is excellent. XM Radio?

Sirius, Mr. Secretary, Cribbs replied respectfully.

The Secretary stood up and faced him. I have mine hooked up to my iPod. Do you have an iPod, Agent Cribbs?

No, sir. I—

The Secretary extended his hand across the desk, cutting Cribbs’s reply short. Peter Lawless. Nice to meet you, Agent Cribbs. You should think about getting one. They are a marvelous piece of American ingenuity.

Yes, sir, I will. He didn’t have time for frivolous tech toys.

I’ve heard a lot of good things about you, Agent Cribbs, the Secretary said.

Thank you, Mr. Secretary, Cribbs replied, a little mystified by the cordial remark as they shook hands.

May I call you Quentin? the Secretary asked, as his keen hazel- grey eyes studied Cribbs. Peter Lawless was one of those presidential appointees who had been with President John Sanborne during the early days, when Sanborne was a first-term U.S. Congressman from the south side of Chicago. The Secretary was fifty-two years old and a good head taller than Cribbs. His hair was thick and sandy brown with streaks of blond, combed straight back, and parted on his right side. Always perfect. Unlike Cribbs’s wind-blown hair, not a follicle was out of place on the Secretary’s head.

Of course, Mr. Secretary, Cribbs replied with a slight, businesslike grin.

Lawless pointed to one of the three overstuffed brown leather chairs in front of his desk. Please take a seat, Quentin. Is Heather getting you something?

Coffee, sir, Cribbs replied, going to the center chair and sitting down.

At that moment, as if right on cue, the hostess entered the cabin with Cribbs’s coffee.

Here she is now, Lawless announced, smiling appreciatively at the hostess. Thank you, Heather.

May I get you something, Mr. Secretary?

He winked at her. A little later, maybe.

From the way the two traded familiar glances, Cribbs wondered if maybe there was a little more interplay going on behind the scenes that extended beyond business.

Yes, Mr. Secretary, Heather replied warmly.

Lawless watched her hips sway until she shut the door behind her. He heaved a slight sigh before he sat down in his own chair behind the desk and pressed an intercom button within easy reach. OK, Mike. We’re ready.

Yes, Mr. Secretary, came the quick reply.

Lawless found the buckles around his chair and snapped them together. Please, prepare yourself for takeoff, Quentin.

Cribbs’s eyes flared. He hated flying. Takeoff, sir?

Security.

Oh, of course, sir. Cribbs located his buckles and clicked them into place as ordered. He hadn’t expected to leave Long Beach on a jet. The reason for the soldier wanting his keys, he figured.

The twin turbines revved to a high pitch and the Gulfstream lurched forward. Within seconds it was racing loudly down the runway and was airborne. It tilted up at a steep angle and headed speedily to a low-level cruising altitude.

We’re just going for a little ride along the coast and back, the Secretary said. You can’t be too careful these days. I read somewhere just the other day about how the bad guys can put a laser on your window from a mile away and hear every word inside the room.

We have ones with a five-mile range, Mr. Secretary, Cribbs stated coolly.

Lawless cocked his head straight in surprise. No kidding! Does the Secret Service know about that?

I’m sure they do, Mr. Secretary. They are very professional.

Yes, they are. Then, even before the flaps were tucked inside the wings, Lawless’s face suddenly turned deadly serious. I assume you’ve read the preliminary brief on the two high school kids, Pylott and Riverstone?

Yes, sir, I’m up to speed. Cribbs nodded confidently. They stole classified government property and we want it back. If they’re on the planet, we’ll find them, Mr. Secretary.

Lawless’s lips pressed tightly. If they’re on the planet?

A figure of speech, Mr. Secretary. Of course, they’re on the planet. I don’t think they were too far away from Long Beach. I mean, they were last seen traveling in an old Volkswagen bug. California, Nevada, maybe even Arizona, but that’s it. They couldn’t have gone much further than that, sir.

The Secretary turned and removed a file from a cabinet drawer behind him. Across the dark red cover were the words, Extreme Top Secret, Level 7. It had been a while since he had seen the highest level of Top Secret designation on a file. The Secretary then pulled out an eight-by-ten color photo of a scorched car and handed it to Cribbs. Cribbs recognized the background in the distance. It was taken somewhere in the high desert canyons of Utah. He was on assignment last year in the area, tracking down a professor and his wife on a camping trip in the canyons. The professor was the last link in the Becky case. Someone high up in the government didn’t like loose ends.

That’s Pylott’s bug, Lawless said.

Was he in it, sir? Cribb asked, studying the photo.

No, he’s very much alive.

Lawless placed another photo in front of Cribbs of a young man speaking to a square-shouldered military type dressed in tan desert camouflage. This is a telephoto taken last week, three days after the photo of the car was taken. That’s Pylott talking to Brigadier- General Gunn.

Why didn’t the military take him then, sir? Cribbs asked.

They couldn’t. Lawless ran his finger along a wispy blue area of the photo. See this? It’s a barrier. The military failed at every attempt to penetrate it. Not even a uranium-tipped shell from an Abrams tank could pierce it. The shell hit the barrier and just fell to the ground, like it hit soft clay.

Cribbs looked up and was met by Lawless’s icy stare.

I’m not joking.

The Secretary’s cold gaze quickly wiped the doubt from Cribbs’s face. How is that possible, sir?

Lawless leaned back in his chair. Are you current with Areas 51 and 7?

Are you speaking of the Alien Artifacts Division, sir? I believe most of the research and artifacts have been transferred north to Area 4 in Montana, Cribbs explained.

The Secretary nodded with surprised satisfaction. Well . . . I am impressed, Cribbs. You are current.

Yes, sir. I was assigned to the R-2 unit my first year at NSA.

R-2s, huh? Lawless grinned. Didn’t they call you guys the R-2, D-2s?

Cribbs returned the smile. Yes, sir, with loving affection. We got the job done.

Your boys put a lid on those thieves who broke into Area 7 and stole the body of that alien the Air Force recovered near Roswell in 1947. The President was about ready to call out an entire Third Army on that one.

So I was told. We got her back within twenty-four hours. Confiscated all the photos and notebooks before they got to Drudge. Becky was back in her holding tank before she had time to deteriorate.

Nice work. Yeah, the President was mighty relieved about that. He’s got a tough campaign coming up next year, and we’re already twenty points down in the polls. He didn’t want alien bodies escaping on his watch. Inside job, wasn’t it?

Yes, sir.

Were the perps erased?

The last one was apprehended last month, Mr. Secretary, Cribbs answered heartlessly. Near the area where this photo was taken. They believe he was on his way to meet his backers.

Any leads on the sponsors?

No, sir, but we’ll find them soon.

Good, make it a priority. We believe the kids and the sponsors are connected.

Understood, sir.

From the same file drawer, Lawless removed another folder. This will help your search. The file was stark white with the big, dark blue letters CAESAR across the top. Underneath CAESAR were the words boldly printed in red, Extreme Top Secret again, only this was no Level 7 file. It was for approved Security Level 9 only.

Cribbs had never seen a Level 9 Top Secret document in his entire career. He had only heard about them. His security level wouldn’t allow it.

I’m only a Level 7, Mr. Secretary, Cribbs informed the Secretary.

Secretary Lawless grinned. By executive order you now have Level 9 clearance, Quentin. He then opened the folder and went on: Go ahead. Take a moment and read the first few pages. You may need a stiff drink before you’re through.

After being involved with the R-2s and recovering Becky, Cribbs had no doubt about the existence of extraterrestrial life. He didn’t believe reading anything more about alien life forms could shock him . . . until now. He was literally shaking inside before he had finished the first page. By the time he got to the second page, his heart skipped beats. Caesar was far beyond anything Top Secret security-level government bureaucrats could think up. Caesar would change the future course of human events on a scale that would make the atomic bomb seem minuscule. An alien spaceship this massive and powerful, surrounded by an impenetrable barrier, that traveled at Mach 6 speed while defying the laws of inertial physics was no ordinary craft, alien or otherwise. On top of that, its estimated age exceeded 150 centuries. And she still worked, escaping Earth’s gravitational pull at 50,124 miles per second! Its last known contact was 203,221 nautical miles past the moon. He superficially read over other statistical physical flight dynamics. They made no sense to him, but the attached photographs in Appendix B were stunning. He had never seen a machine so flawlessly beautiful and massive. The Abrams A1 tank at the bottom of the second photograph looked like a MatchBox toy in comparison. When Cribbs finally looked up from the file, his face was nearly as white as the paper the photo was printed on.

This is what those boys stole? Cribbs asked incredulously.

Yes, and we want it back, the Secretary added, with deadly seriousness.

Cribbs leaned forward, laying down the photo of the alien ship. You believe these two boys are in possession of Caesar right now?

It’s not a belief, Cribbs, it’s a fact. Those two and three others that we are aware of are in possession of the craft. They’re in the file— another school friend of the Pylott kid, Ian Wizzixs, and a B-movie actor by the name of Simon Bolt. Have you seen his movies?

Never heard of him, Cribbs admitted, though he never watched very much TV or went to movies.

Unless you’re into bad sci-fi, you wouldn’t know him.

That’s four. Who’s the fifth, sir?

Bolt’s bodyguard. Monday Platter. He DOR’d out of the SEALS after the second week. It seems he was afraid of heights. Lawless chuckled. Must have thought the SEALS were a circus act or something.

What’s their connection? Cribbs asked.

We’re not sure. Lawless had a second red folder, and opened it. In it was a photo of a flaxen-haired bombshell. Maybe her.

Cribbs eyes widened. Isn’t that . . .

Lawless nodded with cool affirmation. That’s right, the socialite Leucadia Mars. Hot by a factor of 12, wouldn’t you say?

Her family’s connected.

God came to her father when he needed a loan.

I remember now. Pylott was her boyfriend. I thought it ended, Cribbs said.

They made up.

Her parents were killed a few days ago in a hotel fire, Cribbs pointed out.

Yes, at Harry’s Casino. It’s all in the file.

And the girl? You’re sure she’s not with Pylott, sir?

I’m sure. Lawless reached into the pile and removed another large photo. The slightly blurred black-and-white, 8-by-10 photo showed a young woman with long blond hair driving a wheelless car with some type of odd-looking, large-eared pet in the seat next to her. Behind her in the vehicle were two mechanical, stick-like beings sitting stoically in the back seats. She was photographed leaving the alien craft in this vehicle the night before the Ship left the planet.

No one tried to stop her? Cribbs asked.

Lawless explained. According to reports, the troops never saw her coming. This photograph was taken with a high-speed camera set with an automatic shutter, in case someone pierced through the barrier unannounced. The reason this picture is blurred is because the vehicle was clocked in excess of 300 miles per hour by the time it passed through the barrier. Our hardware didn’t have enough time to lock on to something going that fast. She was out of the saddle and gone within seconds.

Cribbs let out a small whistle. She didn’t return before the Ship took off?

No, she disappeared, too, but you can bet those two won’t be separated for long. With a babe like that waiting, he’ll return. Count on it.

Cribbs expended a slow, hot breath, as he stared at the next photo of Leucadia Mars in a bikini, standing with a short, good-looking young man. Yes, he won’t let that go for too long. He then asked, When was this taken?

Last spring on the south coast of France. The small guy next to her is Simon Bolt, the movie star, Lawless pointed out.

They all look bigger in the movies. He then looked up from the photo. With money like hers, she could be a tough find.

Listen, someone will make her. She’s too well-known to hide for long. She makes the Hilton girl seem like street trash.

Returning to Caesar, Cribbs pointed out, Something that size can’t be on Earth, sir. Satellites would have picked it up by now.

That’s correct. Lawless flipped his wrist toward the heavens. It’s still out there somewhere.

In space?

Best guess is that it’s parked somewhere. Maybe the dark side of the moon for all we know.

And my job, Mr. Secretary?

Lawless leaned forward, making eye contact. To put the squeeze on the families. These boys don’t come from broken homes. An oddity in this day and age, I know, but beneficial to us. If they haven’t already done so, they’ll be making contact with their families soon, and when they do . . . well, we’ll be there to take it from them this time, or their family members will start ending up on the short list, if you know what I mean, Quentin.

Cribbs had no problem reading between the lines. I do, sir.

I don’t have to tell you that Caesar is the biggest security risk our country has ever faced—the world, for that matter. The President is down in the polls. There’s a chance he may not be re-elected. We don’t want that to happen. POTUS likes his job and doesn’t want to give it up . . . ever! Are we on the same page, Quentin? Lawless’s expression was hard and lacked any sense of kindness.

Yes, sir.

The Secretary went on: With Caesar in our possession, we could all be around for a very, very long time, Quentin, and the 22nd Amendment is bye-bye. He smiled greedily, nodding toward the door. You could even have a jet of your own with a dozen Heathers to get you coffee whenever you want it.

Cribbs returned the smile. He was a straight, by-the-book, agency man all the way. My authority, Mr. Secretary—how far does it go?

Lawless replied. As an NSA agent you have the full backing of the Office of the President of the United States. You have unlimited resources on this one, with full authority to do what needs to be done without oversight. I’m counting on you to keep these families in check, Quentin. No screw-ups. The moment any of them sneezes one of those boys’ names, I want to hear about it.

Yes, sir.

Lawless stared out the small portside window. There was nothing to see but blackness. It was a long moment before he turned to Cribbs. This meeting did not take place, Quentin.

Of course, Mr. Secretary.

Your record is impeccable. I’m counting on you to keep it that way. Lawless then pushed all the files over to Cribbs.

Cribbs began to reach for the files, but Lawless put his hand on them. It will be another thirty minutes before we land. I want you to commit this entire dossier to memory by the time we touch down in Long Beach.

Yes, Mr. Secretary, that’s plenty of time, Cribbs replied confidently.

Good. Lawless went to the intercom and pressed the talk button. Heather, he called into the speaker.

The hostess’s sultry voice answered right away. Yes, Mr. Secretary?

Would you be a doll and bring me a ham on rye and some cashews? Lawless requested.

Would you like your nuts warmed, Mr. Secretary?

Lawless grinned, pulling his finger away from the talk button. Remember the perks, Quentin. Cribbs forced a grin as he nodded in agreement. The Secretary pressed the button again. Yes, Heather. Thank you.

Right away, Mr. Secretary.

Lawless stood up and yawned. Well, it’s been a long day, Quentin. I think I’ll leave you now to your homework. You know the way out. He made his way to a rear door that led to another section of the aircraft. He opened the door and before he stepped through, turned back to Cribbs and added, And Quentin?

Yes sir, Mr. Secretary.

No trails.

Cribbs understood that, too. By executive order, the NSA was exempt from all laws that did not specify the name of the NSA in that law. That empowered him to run a covert operation anywhere in the world with impunity. As a member of that completely lawless organization, the Constitution did not apply to him. Where the money goes, he chuckled inside, the power resides . . .

Yes, Mr. Secretary. No trails.

3

Where Is Everyone?

A gut-wrenching scream awakened Simon Bolt out of a deep, dreamless sleep. He jerked upright in his bed, swinging his arms around wildly in an effort to protect himself against the black beasts. Don’t eat me! he shouted. Finally awake, he gasped for air as he gazed around the stark, dimly lit room, wide-eyed with confusion.

Oh my God, no beasts!

Looking up, he concentrated on the pale blue ceiling as a deep dread filled his stomach. He didn’t want to think about that possibility. He forced himself into a luxury Las Vegas suite at Harry’s Casino, where he usually stayed. It eased his shakes. Room service was just a phone call away. He instinctively reached for the bedside phone and found nothing. A quick search revealed no phones or night tables in the entire room.

What’s up with that?

The room was rather small and plain by his standards, but it was squeaky clean. The decor lacked the fluffy gold-laced bedspreads his personal suite at Harry’s had, but the silky blue sheets were cool. It smelled nice, though, like he had just stepped into a flower shop. The bed was comfortable, as good as anything he had ever slept in, come to think of it.

So where am I?

This couldn’t be Harry’s, he thought. Even the cheaper rooms at Harry’s Casino had phones. Maybe he was in a hospital. He looked around anxiously for the hotel crest or hospital inscription on an ashtray, robe, or towel—anything that would tell him where he was. There were none of those things in the room, either.

His mind was an empty suit. He couldn’t for the life of him figure out where he was or how he had ended up in the room. He looked up at the blue ceiling again and saw a small, pink sun glaring down at him through an oval skylight. Obviously daytime, he thought. He twisted around to get out of bed, and the instant he did—

Snap!

His memory kicked in. Every neuron in his brain suddenly became supercharged, connecting at light speed.

Dream? This is worse than a dream. This is a nightmare!

He remembered it all now. He remembered the mesa, the black beasts, and how he was nearly eaten! His day-old Aston-Martin Vantage had been blown up and totaled by the Dak killers. Oh my God, we exploded out of that tomb in an alien ship piloted by that idiot Harlowe!

He checked himself over for any injuries and found himself amazingly okay. He was still alive. A miracle, he thought. He had to have died a thousand deaths on the flight over the desert, landing somewhere north of Las Vegas . . .

No, no, no!

He slammed his eyes shut, his memories colliding with his stomach, giving him the shakes. After a few more deep breaths to calm his nerves, he managed to push the terror of the weekend far enough back in his head to get a grip on himself. Harlowe had tortured him all the way back from the Ship’s perimeter, where he had been trying to dig himself free from inside the barrier.

That stupid Harlowe! The seething hate he had for the surfer kid who saved him from a drowning sea a year ago had never really gone away. It tore at his insides. Maybe he should have been more grateful, but stealing his girlfriend was unforgivable. He wanted Leucadia back. She belonged with him, a movie star, someone her equal with fame and money, not some stupid beach rat!

He kicked and slammed his fist against the bulkhead a half dozen times, punishing the wall like he would Harlowe’s face the next time he saw him. After rubbing the sting from his knuckles, he stared at his surroundings in disbelief. Now he knew for certain where he was.

I’m still on the Ship!

Now it all made sense. Of course, there were no phones. Spaceships didn’t have cellphones, cable connections, or fiber optics. They don’t communicate that way. They communicate by—

I don’t know how they communicate. I just know there isn’t a phone on the whole stupid ship!

His mouth contorted with hate as he screamed a long string of death wishes, promising that Harlowe’s life would be worthless as sand after his lawyers were finished with him. If it took every last dollar he made on his Distant Galaxy sequel, he would ensure that Harlowe and his dumb friends, Riverstone and Wizzixs, were penniless street bums for the rest of their bottom-feeding lives!

He glanced at his platinum, diamond-studded Cartier watch. The second hand glided along with perfect precision as he read precisely: 12:12, while the magnified date read: 7.

The next day, huh? That’s weird.

He didn’t think he was out that long. He took another look at the ceiling portal. The soft light outside the window was dim and pink like late evening or early morning, not high noon. He shook his wrist. His watch seemed off by several hours.

Wow! And it’s the seventh!

The date was important. He would have some explaining to do to his agent, Saul. If he didn’t call him by 2:00 p.m. today, there would be big problems. Saul had done some incredible arm-twisting to get him a starring role opposite Phoebe Marleigh for his next movie. If his agent could pull it off, that would put him in the write-your-ownticket class. Your days of being a two-bit sci-fi actor are history, bro, he told himself. He saw his star power skyrocketing to new heights. Playing the role of Captain Julian Starr, the most decorated captain in the history of the Triadian intergalactic fleet, would be a role of the past. He had read the script Saul had given him, My Father, My Son—definitely Oscar material! He’d be with Cruise and Pitt, demanding $30 million a pop, plus residuals if he got that lead!

So how would he explain to Saul that he was stuck inside an alien ship and couldn’t get out? Another abduction story. How far would that fly? He’d have to think of something. No way would Saul believe he’d been abducted by aliens.

Oh, man, who would?

Thinking he’d better find his bodyguard quick, he scooted his body off of the bed onto the blue-carpeted floor that felt soft and opulent between his bare toes. It was much like the carpet in his Hollywood bedroom. He continued across the sizable room toward a door with no knobs. He knew from previous experience the door was the way out and would swish open as soon as he was within a few feet of its opening. There were two other doors on the opposite side of the room. If they were like the other rooms he had been in, they would take him to a bathroom and a closet where he could find a new set of clothes. As if it was a given, he was right on all counts. That disturbed him a little. Knowing the Ship this well meant he’d been abducted way too long. He needed to get back to civilization, but first he needed to find a phone and contact Saul. After that, he could get back to thinking about finding someone to help him get over this tormented weekend.

Monday should be back from Vegas by now, and he’d have a phone with him for sure!

There was hope in his step as he bounced through the bathroom archway.

* * *

After relieving himself and washing his face in the bathroom sink, he ordered up an acceptable set of new blue clothes and shoes from the closet and quickly got dressed. They weren’t his style; the threads were all too disciplined for his taste. He’d had enough of that on the set of Distant Galaxy, but they were a perfect fit and better than a sheet, he figured. He would complain later. He had more important matters to contend with, like finding Leucadia for starters.

That dumb Harlowe couldn’t be far. They’re holding me here against my will. That’s kidnapping!

So with his plan intact and hoping to avoid Harlowe and his friends, he headed for the exit doorway. Two steps before the door, as predicted, the door suddenly swished open.

Whoa! he cried out.

The corridor was crowded with robobs. Dozens of mechanical stickmen were clickity-clacking up and down the corridor, carrying what looked like charred pieces of twisted metal in one direction and brand new satiny gold sheets in the opposite direction. They were quite large, nearly touching the high corridor ceiling.

What’s going on? he wondered out loud.

He stepped out into the middle of the highway as the door swiftly closed behind him. When a robob clacked up to him, Simon didn’t try to get out of the way. He just stood arrogantly in the middle of the road like it was his right. The robobs were undeterred. They simply went around him like he was an inanimate post.

Using his familiarity with the Ship, he understood right away that he was standing somewhere in the middle of one of the main corridors. Which corridor, he didn’t know. It was a big ship. If he could find the center foyer, he knew the way out from there.

Hey, stick dude! he called out to one of the robobs holding a piece of blackened metal. Which way to the ramp?

The stickman ignored him and clicked on by. He