The unmarked military trucks raced through the starry night as if chased by all the demons of Hell. Huge off-road tyres churned the dusty trackway into a hurricane of debris as they tore through tumbleweed and over the mummified remains of ancient cacti. But on this crisp desert evening these trucks werent the quarry in some devilish game of cat and mouse they were the hunters. In fact, if their trackers were correct, their prey lay smouldering just over the next rise.
In the back of the lead vehicle Captain Cyrus Freemantle, US Special Forces, briefed his elite team of Air Force Black Berets. OK men, I want a nice clean dispersal, just like we practised. This is not a drill. We have ourselves a Case Red situation so trespassers will not be prosecuted if you do your jobs they wont live long enough to get to a court of law. Do I make myself clear?
The curt nods from his squad told him all he needed to know. These men were hand-picked veterans, fanatically loyal to him personally; the sort who would, if it were in the countrys interest, gladly shoot their grandmothers and enjoy it.
As one they removed safety catches from their machine pistols and lowered NBC warfare gas-masks not strictly necessary but they scared the shit out of your enemy.
With a screech of brakes the trucks skidded to a halt atop the first ridgeline. Freemantle lifted the canvas awning and focused his image-intensifying goggles on the dried streambed beneath. The gully was clearly visible as a dark slash across his green, phosphorescent field of view. Within seconds, hed located the target: a beacon of white heat amidst the encroaching darkness.
He tutted to himself. For super-intelligent beings they seem real fond of crashing.
With a resigned shake of his head, Freemantle refocused his night scope. Against all the odds, one of the little bug-eyed incompetents had survived the carnage. It had clambered out of the wreckage and was now jerking around like some inbred at a hoe-down. In doing so it was in no way aided by the large satchel it cradled in its fragile arms. The trail of faintly glowing green blood it left as it stumbled from cactus to cactus hinted that perhaps all was not as it should be. The creature might not have been as dead as its hapless co-pilots but it was pretty close.
Looks like weve got ourselves a live one, people. Move! But before Freemantle could turn back to his men he felt the blood freeze in his veins. Something else was moving in the valley, and moving fast. Instantly, the scope homed in on the intruder.
There was no denying he was human, a realization which for a fraction of a second made Freemantle panic. Then, almost instantaneously, professionalism kicked in and he started shouting again.
WE HAVE A HOSTILE WITHIN THE PERIMETER! Terminate with extreeeeeme prejudice! I want this bastard rattling like maracas when we slap him on the slab. Where the hell are the choppers? Johnson, get me Control on comms now!
As his troops sprang into action, Freemantle stayed glued to the viewfinder. Down in the gully some hippie freeloader was attempting to piss on the Captains parade, and Freemantle intended to pre-emptively yank shut his zipper.
But for now he had to content himself with watching proceedings as if on some sickly green video game. If their uninvited guest was allowed to escape, Freemantle was under no illusions as to the reality of the consequences. Tantalizingly beyond his reach the contest unfolded at breath-taking speed.
Adroitly, the troopers raced to take firing positions, as a hundred yards away the newcomer continued his headlong charge towards the UFO. Showing an unnerving talent for tactical movement he made full use of every twig of available cover, as if it were second nature to him. Finally, his way clear, he hurdled a line of low scrub and threw himself at their target. Freemantles gritty jawline hung open as he watched the stranger tackle the alien with the full weight of one wiry shoulder. No sooner had they gone down, they were off again, the survivor hefted upright in a firemans lift.
Momentarily, the kidnapper regained his breath; his hot face standing out clearly against the cool desert landscape. It was now that Freemantle got his second nasty shock of the evening with a startled gasp the Captain recognized him.
The intruder seemed to pause for a second, spotting something else on the ground for the first time. Bending at the knee he lifted the large satchel the creature had been carrying and was off again, running a jinking course as the first bullets impacted around him. Diving for the dried streambed, he disappeared from view as a hail of fire flew over him.
Cut him off. Hes getting away! But by this stage it was far too late. In the confused darkness his troops set about riddling anything that moved with bullets. As most of the moving was being done by a platoon of overdrilled psychopaths attempting not to get shot, the results were depressingly familiar.
One by one empty magazines slipped from lifeless fingers until only a few of his men were left standing. Calmly, the communications technician informed Freemantle that air support was on its way, and that his boss was riding in the lead chopper. Silently, Freemantle reflected that today was turning into a very bad. They all started off as a less than satisfactory, because thats how life went. You dont expect miracles, youre not disappointed when they unmiraculously fail to turn up. Occasionally, a day would rise to the dizzying heights of an OK, but dont get too excited. Usually they stayed stable, and thats how Cyrus liked it. But today was a very bad and heading for an Im not going to talk about it which was worst of all.
Whats going on? came the Colonels gruff voice from the radio. Thought we heard shooting. Hope you aint using coyotes for target practice again.
Freemantle took a deep breath. Sir, we have a security breach at the incident site. Request an immediate thermal scan of the terrain beyond our position. Whoevers out there wont get far.
When it came, the Colonels reply was full of suppressed menace. Better not, son, for your sake. Well get the infra-red scope on the sucker in no time flat.
As Freemantle silently crossed all of his available fingers and toes, the helicopters thundered overhead.
Half a mile down-range the kidnapper halted. He had no time to reflect on his monumental good fortune. As hed discovered in the jungles of South East Asia and the deserts of the Persian Gulf, you made your own luck in this business. The best way to manufacture such a slippery commodity was through lavish amounts of patience, meticulous planning and armaments. With regard to the first of those virtues hed spent months awaiting an opportunity like this camped out in this alternately scorching and freezing desert, with nothing but his binoculars and service rucksack for company as he scanned the vast empty skies. With regard to the second, he quickly dropped his unnatural load and peeled off his rucksack. Stuffed just inside the camouflaged canvas sack was twenty metres of catering grade aluminium Bacofoil. Working quickly, he swathed the semiconscious alien in the stuff. With regard to the third, well, he was fond of explosives and would use them if necessary. But for the moment he contented himself with a swift kick to the aliens head, saying: Hows this for a turnaround, you sneaky grey bastard? One of us abducting one of you for a change?
Then he hastily stuffed the creature under a nearby thorn-bush and turned his attention to his own survival. Now came the tricky part. In practice hed got it down to thirty seconds flat, but whether it was the excitement of doing it for real, or the thought of his former colleagues bearing down on him like a pack of hounds, he now managed it in half that time.
Soon the deserts diverse fauna had a new addition: a six-foot silver caterpillar wriggling its way under a convenient tangle of tumbleweed. Until the first wave had passed him by all he could do was wait, lying perfectly still, his ears straining to count the number of rotor blades theyd sent to find him.
Twenty minutes later, aboard the unmarked Black-Ops helicopter gunship that hovered overhead like some diabolical nocturnal insect, Freemantles superior was in a state one step beyond apoplexy and immediately adjacent to an embolism. After failing to find so much as a hot-dog over the sort of distance even the fastest man could cover on foot, he had proceeded to administer to Captain Freemantle the sort of ear-bashing normally reserved for British heavyweight boxers.
As he listened, crippled by embarrassment and shame, Freemantle silently made himself a solemn oath. It was the sort of oath best made in deserted crypts at midnight, with candles made from boiled-down choir-boys and pentagrams of virgins blood daubed on the floor in case of misfire. He knew exactly who had got him into this career-threatening mess, he knew just how the renegades burnt-out fried egg of a brain worked, and as far as he was concerned this knowledge gave him a crucial edge. As the Colonel ranted on, Freemantle began to marinade in the vitriol of his planned revenge.
Youre gonna have to answer to some very influential people over this, Freemantle, do you hear me? Very influential. When it gets out youve mislaid a visitor, security agencies you aint even heard of are gonna be queuing up to mince your manhood! Freemantle, you there? Freemaaaaantle!
But the Captain had already embarked on a personal blitzkrieg all his own. Brandishing his combat knife, he went charging off into the gloom shrieking like a banshee with toothache.
A hundred metres to his rear, weighed down by a cargo never meant to walk this Earth, and discarding tinfoil like a born-again Christmas turkey, Frank was too busy running for his life in the opposite direction to care.
3. Invasion
Present day, somewhere far above North America
The vast alien mother ship slid silently through the interstellar void. Round about it the de rigueur invincible space armada jostled for position as it plunged towards the small defenceless disc of Earth.
Or perhaps not. From behind an insignificant, and conveniently placed, asteroid a handful of single-seat fighters swooped to the rescue. Crewed by pilots representing the full ethnic and sexual diversity of their home planet, this brave band of warriors charged to almost certain death. Sportingly, the aliens held back the myriad of wonder-weapons their ancient civilization was no doubt able to deploy, instead launching swarms of their own tiny fighters. These craft, bearing an uncanny resemblance to various Earth insects, were piloted by the most clumsy and ham-tentacled of their species. Those that made it out of the vast hangar doors without crashing engaged the Earthlings in a swarming battle of instant death. Even so, due to the sheer numbers of alien craft, the humans faced an uphill struggle. Today was no day to be without their hotshot ace pilot.
Aboard the alien Emperors personal star-barge Captain Troy Meteor, Hero of the Earth Defence Force and Olympic Low-G Fencing Champion, stood tied to an over-endowed and scantily clad cheerleader. It had been a tough break getting captured the way he had. Odds of 90001 were not usually a problem, but then Troy knew all about tough breaks, just like he knew all about War is hell, Officers Club banter and YMCA gymnasium showers.
The alien commander squatted in a vat of bubbling indigo goo atop an unholy dais. So you see, our plans are quite simple, it croaked like a multi-hued perversion of a tobacco companys research-lab beagle. Even though our two races developed light-years apart, changes in the radiation signature of our sun mean we can obtain sustenance from one source and one source only.
But why are you telling me all this? muttered Meteor darkly, trying hard to make it look like he was attempting to free his hands, but all the while touching-up the cheerleaders bottom. If I escape Ill know every detail of your conniving scheme.
Bringing forth his ceremonial gorging straw the Emperor cackled. It matters not, my simian-based friend, for very soon, via your nasal cavity, I shall have sucked out what passes for your brain!
Half way down aisle C, Dave yanked the lightweight plastic headphones from his aching ears and shook his head in stupefied disbelief. How was his fledgling science ever to be taken seriously when they continued to churn out this Troy Meteor shit? It was enough to make him weep. Beckoning a glassy-eyed stewardess, Dave ordered himself a stiff drink and made yet another effort to read the in-flight magazine.
But it was no use. The text that made up the thirty pages of glossy advertising copy was completely unreadable for anyone with a mental age higher than their shoe size. The words seemed to slip under Daves conscious brain only to be sucked into the subconscious box marked forget forever. With a weary sigh, he settled back in his economy seat and did what he always did at times like this. He thought of Kate.
He had asked her to come with him, but he had done it with that same air of hopeless, optimistic resignation that he asked her to do anything go to a movie, share a curry, or on those rare occasions when copious amounts of lager got the better of his natural timidity, let him get inside her knickers. The answer to the last of these, as always, was no. A movie and curry were OK, but hot gusset action wasnt the sort of thing best friends did.
But what if I meet a stunning Californian babe and we fall madly in love what will you do then? hed asked her.
Then Ill look forward to the wedding and pray you name your first trans-Atlantic toddler after me. But if thats the biggest risk Im running letting you go on your own, fine. Its not even a proper holiday. If you expect a girl to put up with two weeks of emotional blackmail, the least you can do is throw in a beach and a gallon of pina colada. Then shed paused, looked at him searchingly, sadly maybe, and said: Does everything you ever do have to be tied in with that ridiculous magazine?
Hed been hurt, as he always was. The ridiculous magazine, as Kate insisted on calling it, was Daves pride and joy: none other than the internationally renowned ScUFODIN Monthly the official journal of the Scientific UFO Discovery and Information Network. And the international renown bit was no idle boast, either; only last month Dave had received an enthusiastic letter from Belgium.
Kate steadfastly refused to acknowledge the journalistic worth of the magazine Dave edited. Its written by cranks, for cranks, she said.
And where does that leave me?
Lovable but misguided? Your letters page reads like the visitors book of a care-in-the-community drop-in centre.