Robert Doherty - Area 51 - The Reply

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"NSA AND STAAR, THIS IS DSCC 10. WE'VE GOT A TRANSMISSION."

Brillon grumbled something but he sat down at his computer. "Numbers are

verified," he announced. "Whatever is transmitting is along that line." He

cleared his screen and brought up a computer display of the solar system. "And

I'll bet my paycheck it's coming from a spaceship heading into our solar system

on that trajectory. We've got to contact the university!" he said. "Professor

Klint will be—"

"We can't contact anyone," Compton said. She was speaking from memory, seeing

the pale, blond-haired man in her mind. "This data and this facility are now

both classified and closed by National Security Directive Forty-nine dash

twenty-seven dash alpha."

"Bullshit," Brillon said, reaching for the phone. He turned to her when he

couldn't get a dial tone. "What did you do?"

"We're sealed off to the outside world except for NSA and STAAR Skywatch," she

said.

Compton turned back to her computer and pulled up Brillon's display. An

electronic green line reached out from the small dot representing Earth. It

speared through space and intersected dead-on with a red circle.

"Goddamn," Compton muttered. She looked up at Brillon. "Besides owing me your

life, you also owe me your paycheck. The message isn't coming from a spaceship.

It's coming from Mars!"

ROBERT DOHERTY

AREA 51

THE REPLY

Prologue

RAPA NUI (Easter Island)

It felt the power come in like a shot of adrenaline. For the first time in

over five thousand years it was able to bring all systems on-line. Immediately

it put into effect the last program it had been loaded with in case of full

power-up.

It reached out and linked with sensors pointed outward from the planet. Then

it began transmitting, back in the direction it had come from over ten millennia

ago, calling out. "Come. Come and get us."

And there were other machines out there and they were listening.

Chapter 1

He watched the seven spacecraft lift out of the top of the palace, the rays of

the rising sun absorbed by the black metal of their lean shapes. He looked down,

trying to orient his sudden awareness. His hands were gripping the wooden

railing of a three-masted ship. All the sails were set but there was little

wind. In the belly of the ship he could hear the beat of drums as rowers pulled

in unison, straining against long oars.

He felt out of place, out of himself. The contrast between the seven

spacecraft that were now nothing more than rapidly fading dots high above and

the technology of the sailing ship only added to the strange feeling.

The hairs on the back of his neck rose and a shiver ran down his spine. He

looked over his shoulder and his eyes widened at what he saw. Even the rowers

paused as they saw it. He felt the displacement of the air as the massive

mothership passed by overhead. The rowers went back to work, pulling even more

furiously on their oars. He watched as the

mothership stopped and hovered over the island the ship had left from, blocking

out the sun.

It was all laid out before him in perfect detail. He was amazed how he could

see the entire island, yet also focus on individuals who were many miles

distant. Concentric rings of land and water surrounded the capital city in the

center of the island. Rising up, on the central hill, was the palace where the

rulers had governed from. A golden palace, over a mile wide at the base and

stretching over three thousand feet into the sky, it was a magnificent

spectacle, but one that was all too easily overshadowed by the dark craft that

was now centered above it.

Outside the palace, the streets in the city of the humans were choked with

people fleeing toward the sea, to their sailing ships. He could look to the

ocean around him and see other sails here and there on the blue water, some

already going over the horizon.

Gazing back at the city, he saw that there were those who had fallen to their

knees in the shadow of the ship, heads bowed, hands raised in supplication,

praying that new rulers might replace the old. His gaze knew no bounds, going

through walls and seeing inside houses, where others huddled in fear, mothers

clutching their children close, men holding useless metal swords and spears,

knowing that there was nothing they could do against the power from the sky.

He looked up at the ship. The air crackled. Those others who also dared to

look saw a bright golden light race along the black skin of the mothership in

long lines from one end to the other. The light pulsed off the ship downward

into the palace in a thick beam, a half mile thick.

He flinched, even though he was many miles away. But nothing happened. Those

on their knees prayed harder. Those fleeing ran faster. Every muscle in his body

tensed as he waited.

Again the light pulsed. And again. Ten times the golden light hit the center

of the island and passed through.

He staggered back as the Earth itself exploded. Tens of thousands died in an

instant as the core of the island blew upward, the very essence of the planet

beneath blasting through. Hot molten magma sprayed miles into the sky, mixed in

with rock and dirt and remains of the palace. The scale of the explosion stunned

him.

But it was the people that drew his attention. On the main jetty a mother

covered her daughter as the magma came down, searing the skin from their bones

in a flash. A warrior turned his shield upward in a futile gesture and

disappeared under tons of rock. Docked ships burst into flame, the roofs of

outlying buildings collapsed under the impact, crushing those hidden inside.

The entire island buckled, then imploded inward and downward. The surrounding

sea had spasmed from the power of the blast, rushing outward in a massive wave

that enveloped those who had not left soon enough. He felt the wave lift his

ship up, teetering it precariously, then pass by. He fell against the railing,

his knuckles white from clutching the wood.

Then the sea surged back, racing in where the island had been. Water met

magma, and steam roared into the air, but the water won as the island

disappeared into the depths. A boiling cauldron of water was all that was left

of the mighty kingdom.

Again, he looked up. The mothership was slowly

moving. Toward his location. Golden light began racing along the length of the

ship.

Nabinger staggered back, as if hit in the chest by a powerful blow. He felt

hands grab him and prevent him from hitting the rock floor of the cavern. He

shook his head, trying to clear it of the images that the guardian had just

shown him. He opened his eyes and returned to his time and the place he had

fought so hard to find, deep under an extinct volcano on Easter Island.

The guardian, a golden pyramid twenty feet high, lay before him, the surface

rippling with the strange effect he had been under the spell of. Nabinger shook

off the helping hands of the scientists and stared at the machine. His mind

could still see the faces of the mother and the daughter as they were burned

alive on the quay.

"What happened?" a UN representative asked, but Nabinger ignored them. He

stepped forward, hands open, palms forward, and placed them on the skin of the

guardian, waiting for the mental contact. Nothing.

He did it again.

Nothing.

After the third attempt he knew that there would be no more contact. Beyond

the images of the people who had died, though, another vision was very clear in

his mind's eye: the sails that had been over the horizon; the ones who had

escaped.

Mike Turcotte stared out the window of the BOQ room. Through the gates of Fort

Meyers he

could make out the very top of the Marine Corps Memorial and beyond that the

Capitol dome.

He didn't turn when there was a knock on the door to his room. "Come in," he

called out.

The door opened and Lisa Duncan walked in. With a deep sigh she dropped down

into one of the hard chairs the military had furnished the room with. Turcotte

half turned toward her and smiled. "Long day on the Hill?"

Duncan barely topped five feet in height and Turcotte very much doubted her

weight made three digits. She had dark hair cut short and a slender face that

was now drawn with exhaustion.

"I hate telling the same story five times," Duncan said, "and answering stupid

questions."

"The American public is not happy it was deceived by its own government for

decades," Turcotte said, assuming a southern drawl. "At least that's what the

senator who questioned me this morning said. Add in some kidnappings made to

look like abductions, cattle mutilations, disinformation campaigns—"

"Let's not forget the crop circles," Duncan added. "There's a congressman from

Nebraska who is trying to get legislation through to get all those farmers

reimbursed for the circles Majestic burned in their field."

"Jesus," Turcotte said. He took off his Class A green uniform jacket and threw

it on the bed. He paused by the small brown refrigerator. "Want a beer?"

"All right."

Turcotte grabbed two cans and popped the top on one, handing it to her.

"They've got the

mothership, the bouncer, the guardian on Easter Island. What more do they want?"

Duncan took a sip. "A scapegoat."

"They've got General Gullick dead. They've got the surviving members of

Majestic being held in the federal pen," Turcotte said. He opened his can and

took a long, deep drag. "The list of charges against those guys is thicker than

the phone book."

"Yeah, but people can't believe it didn't go higher than that."

"It did go higher than that," Turcotte said. "But that was fifty years ago.

Seems like there's more important stuff going on right now."

"Speaking of what's going on," Duncan said, "I just found out that the

guardian's ceased contact with Nabinger."

That was the first interesting thing Turcotte had heard in the past two days,

since arriving in Washington from Easter Island. "Any idea why?"

"Nobody knows."

Turcotte rubbed his chin, feeling the stubble there. It felt strange to be in

uniform after working classified assignments for so long. His jump boots, spit-

shined this morning for his congressional testimony, now wore a layer of dust.

His battered green beret was tucked into the back of his belt. He pulled it out

and threw it next to his jacket as he sat down across from Duncan, next to the

window.

A cannon barked a sharp report, followed by the faint strains of "Taps" as the

post flag was lowered. Turcotte had heard that sound on many different posts

around the world during his time in the army, but it never failed to touch him

and

make him think of comrades lost. Turcotte looked out at the bronze figures

representing the Marines who'd raised the flag on Mount Suribachi.

Duncan shifted her seat slightly and followed his gaze. "Ahh, glory and

honor," she said.

Turcotte tried to figure out if she was being sarcastic or serious. "They knew

what they were doing," he said.

"Still looking for the bad guy wearing the black hat?"

"I don't feel particularly proud about what I've done," Turcotte said. "We met

the enemy and they was us."

"Not all of us," she said.

Turcotte finished the rest of his beer. "No, not all of us."

"And General Gullick and the others were being controlled."

"Uh-huh." He crushed the empty can with one large fist. "I don't like it

here."

"That's good," Duncan said, "because something else has come up. That's why

I'm here."

"Oh?" Turcotte walked over to the bed and threw the can into a small garbage

can. He picked up his dress green jacket and held it in his hand as she walked

to the other side of the bed.

"We've received some information on a possible Airlia artifact site." She

pulled a sheet of paper out of the small briefcase she'd had with her. "Here's

the data. We'll be going soon to check it out."

"We?"

"We make a good team," Duncan said.

"Uh-huh." Turcotte took the paper but didn't look at it.

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"NSAANDSTAAR,THISISDSCC10.WE'VEGOTATRANSMISSION."Brillongrumbledsomethingbuthesatdownathiscomputer."Numbersa\reverified,"heannounced."Whateveristransmittingisalongthatline."\Heclearedhisscreenandbroughtupacomputerdisplayofthesolarsystem\."AndI'llbetmypaycheckit'scomingfromaspaceshipheadingintooursol...

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Robert Doherty - Area 51 - The Reply

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