A Triple Thriller Fest (63 page)

The need for continued monitoring of the four objects did not result from scientific curiosity.  The implication of four objects apparently guarding the waters of the United States was staggering.  Theories ran from super secret surveillance installations of foreign governments intent on spying on the United States to even more mind-boggling scenarios.

Over the years, the objects remained mysteriously silent despite the immense attention that the United States government paid them.  The enigmatic silence of the objects caused some officials in the government to question the vast expenditure of funds necessary to maintain surveillance.  However, it was a cost that was grudgingly given each year because not to do so was unspeakable.  The most puzzling aspect of the four objects was their mute presence.  They just sat there, giving no indication of any activity except for the anomalous magnetic signature that had first occasioned their discovery.

The secret was well-kept and the Morrow Affair eventually became old news.  The vast population of people, in and out of government, never had a clue why so much of the nation’s gross national product was spent year to year on such research.  In fact, the sensitivity of the objects was such that, as far as the public was concerned, governmental funds intended for oceanographic research simply disappeared overnight.

The operational phase of monitoring these objects was eventually taken over by CSAC, an acronym whose meaning remains classified to this day.  A multi-agency operation created in the early days of the Cold War, CSAC was the most secretive of all such agencies and continued to sponsor missions that other agencies could not or would not do.

In 1972, Mike Liu left active duty; eventually moving on to other things.  However, Bob McHugh kept him on his personal radar screen.  Occasionally, Mike would be called back to take care of short-term matters, whenever Bob McHugh felt he could add to the solution of some matter.  Some of Mike’s assignments did not have to do with the objects, but he was not in a position to refuse any request made by Bob McHugh, his superior in the agency.  Once an agent of CSAC, you simply could not resign.

1993: The Silence Ends

0630 Hours: Wednesday, June 9, 1993: Watch Station One

With an explosive roar, multiple alarms wrenched the attendant from his routine-induced stupor.  Red, orange and white lights flooded the dimly lit compartment in a psychedelic wash.

“Damn!” said the suddenly energized sonar mate.

Dropping the spy novel his wife had sent to him in the last mail pouch; forgetting to mark his place, John Lawrence immediately switched on the backup sequence and began the checkout procedure.  As a last step, Lawrence switched on the digital recorder.

“Transfer module,” Lawrence said breathlessly into the microphone on the desk.  “I gotta speak to the Captain.”  He could barely contain himself.  The only sound in the now-quiet compartment was the steady drumming of Lawrence’s fingers on the Formica counter.  He waited anxiously for a response.

“What’s up, John?” said the disembodied voice coming from the tiny speaker on the countertop.  It was the deep bass voice of the Watch Station commander, William O’Shannon, a Captain in the United States Navy.  O’Shannon had been in the transfer module discussing a training sequence with other crewmembers.

“Captain, the control panel just lit up like the Fourth of July.”

“I’ll be right there.  Have you initiated backup?”

“Aye, sir.  I also started the checkout procedure.”

“Good.”

In what seemed an eternity to Lawrence, O’Shannon walked the short distance from the transfer module to the command module.  Lawrence turned from his intense scrutiny of the control panel when he heard the pressure door being unlatched with a metallic clang.  Curiously, he felt a sudden wash of relief knowing that O’Shannon was with him.

“Okay, John, what do we have?”

“Nothing like I’ve ever seen before, Captain.  Here, take a look.”

“You’re right.  It sure doesn’t look like background,” said O’Shannon calmly.  He silently watched the rapid amplitude changes and frequency shifts on the magnetometer.  “Have you checked the seismometer?”

“Aye, sir.  Absolutely nothing — nothing at all.  Everything is quiet, real quiet.  One thing, Captain.  The signal seems to repeat itself over and over.”  John pointed to the regularity of the spikes and valleys on the green-hued screen.

O’Shannon was puzzled.  He studied the screen trying to see a pattern in the greenish trace on the screen, some sense of order.  He finally looked up at Lawrence.

“You’re right.  Did you start the recording sequence?”

“Aye, sir.”

“Get the DCO up here,” said O’Shannon into the intercom.

Rubbing his eyes after the rude awakening, the Deputy Commanding Officer, Lieutenant Joshua Wong, entered the command module.  “Yes, Captain.”

“Mr. Wong, we have a verified signal.”

Wong snapped fully awake.  “I’ll start the encoding process immediately.”

“Good idea.  Who gets to carry the message?”

“Machinist Mate George Waterson is scheduled for rotation on the next supply vehicle.  He has clearance.”

“Good.  Alert Newport News.”

“Aye, sir.”

Wong took leave of O’Shannon and Lawrence, who continued to observe the rapidly shifting trace on the screens.  There would be much to do in the coming days.

1993: Awakening

0730 Hours: Wednesday, June 9, 1993: Sutton Place, New York, New York

Mike Liu woke with a start.  He had forgotten to set the alarm and had overslept by a half-hour.  That is, if you could call it sleep.  Mike had tossed about all night.  It was that recurring dream — that something had been left undone.  He hadn’t had that dream in a longtime and it was disturbing.  What had wakened Mike was someone calling his name.

This wasn’t like some of his dreams, the ones about the life he had once hoped to share with Corrine Ryan, a student at Mary Baldwin College in Staunton, Virginia.  Mike had met Corrine through fraternity brothers at the University and the pair had dated throughout his fourth year.  Corrine had suffered from a degenerative retinal disease at a young age and had quickly lost her vision.  Maybe it was her blindness that allowed her to see the young Mike in a light so different from other people.  Mike had never met any other girl who was as accepting as Corrine.

After college, Mike was commissioned as an Ensign in the Navy and sent to Stanford.  Corrine went to graduate school at Columbia University to study linguistics.  After graduate school, Corrine went into government service.  Mike would write Corrine often, but her responses seemed less enthusiastic over time.  Writing letters were difficult for Corrine, as she had to use a Braille typewriter.

In one letter, Corrine mentioned that her room mates thought he looked Mediterranean, not Chinese, in his photo.

Eventually, time and distance proved too great; the letters became fewer and farther in between.  Then one day, Mike received a long letter from Corrine saying that things had changed and she could not write him anymore.

Mike never married after losing Corrine.  He learned through friends that Corrine dated and married another researcher at the government linguistics laboratory where she worked.  But the dream was not about Corrine; it was the other dream; about dark shadows and enormity the likes that the world had never seen.

Mike jumped out of bed and went into the bathroom.  He had a busy day planned with the SystemGraphon deal stalled as it was; last night had dragged into the early morning hours.    As Mike dressed for work, he glanced quickly at the clock.  Damn, he thought.  I should’ve set the alarm.

0530 Hours: Wednesday, June 9, 1993: Navajo Indian Reservation, New Mexico

The power that compels men does so inexplicably.  The affected do not understand or even, for that matter, begin to comprehend the power.  Such was the case of the lonely figure kneeling on the hard dirt of the barren, windswept mesa, his curved back contrasting dramatically with the sharp edged geometry of the rocky ledge.

“O Bearer of Light, Creator of Day.  Give me a sign to chase the darkness away,” he cried.

The early morning sky was a rich royal blue.  Thin wisps of dark gray clouds traced with white spotted the dark blue sky.  In the distance, the cold, desert sky had begun to lighten.  There, the deep rich blue of night started to give way to the softer pastel blue of the day. 

As the first golden light peeked over the horizon, a lone hawk floated over the plains searching for early morning thermals; hunting for his daily meal.

In the darkness of the valley below, the soft, haunting tones of a Native American flute floated languidly into the waking sky.

The old man knelt toward the beckoning dawn, resting on the heels of his naked feet.  His arms rested easily on the rough cloth of his trousers.  His wrinkled hands lay on his knees — palms up as if in supplication.  He had welcomed the morning at this place and in this manner numerous times over the ninety-plus seasons he had walked the Earth.  It was not just a fascination with ceremony that called him to this place; it was his solemn duty as the medicine man, the Shaman, to understand the earth and its place in the cosmos.  The constellations in the rich darkness would guide his people through the many dangers that faced them on earth.

Like the hawk floating effortlessly in the sky, the old man sought sustenance from the life-giving rays.  The urgency of this particular morning gave even more purpose to his entreaties.  It was the certainty of this date — a certainty known only to Johnny Thapaha.

Johnny Thapaha’s white hair fell gently to his shoulders and was kept off his wrinkled face by a red bandanna tied around the crown of his head.  Around his neck was a turquoise bead necklace that ended in a silver and turquoise breastplate in the shape of an eagle with outstretched wings.

His shirt was made from the flaxen cloth favored by older members of his tribe and was loosely gathered at his waist by a leather belt, with an intricate buckle of hammered silver.  On the third finger of each hand was a silver ring in the shape of an eagle about to strike.

The chill of the early morning did not deter him from the duty which he had done every morning for many years.

The carefully opened sacred bundle, the symbol of his faith and his position, lay on his lap.  His ceremonial pipe rested next to his right knee.  Before him, traced in the hard soil of the mesa, was a circle displaying the four points of the compass, the four cardinal directions.

Johnny Thapaha faced the rising sun, encroaching warmth he could only feel but could not see because cataracts had taken away his sight a long time ago.  He yearned to know and to understand what had been and what would surely be.  Johnny Thapaha’s blindness served to intensify his mental capabilities on the painful images.  Lasting images that had been given to him by the traveler so many years ago.

Even at his advanced age and on this lonely windswept mesa, his head was held high and straight.  His eyes remained fixed to some distant point only they could see.

Suddenly, Johnny Thapaha’s face tightened.  His aged chin lifted toward the rising sun.  His sightless eyes focused.  His arms rose outstretched as if in welcome.  Over the horizon came the long awaited sign.  A single shaft of golden light.  It was disturbing.

“Cha-le-gai!” bellowed the old man into the solitary ray of rising sun.  The sound of his voice reverberated through the hard-surfaced mesas and the canyon below.

The old man’s face sagged in exhaustion.  His arms dropped limply to his legs.

A tear formed in the corner of the old man’s right eye, coursed over his weathered-bronzed cheek, hung on the hard edge of his jaw, and finally fell onto the breast of his shirt.  The aged head dropped forward, avoiding the rising sun — the giver of life, the messenger of things to come.

The quiet voice of a child came from the shadows just below the crest of the mesa.  “Grampa, it’s cold and it’s getting late.”

“Yes, Little Dove, it is getting late.  We must prepare to leave.”

Only his grandfather called ten-year-old Jimmy MacLaren by his Navajo name.  Jimmy’s Navajo heritage was evident in his brown skin, his straight black hair, and his deep-set, dark eyes that seemed to glow in the morning light.  Shivering in his nylon parka, jeans, and running shoes, Jimmy could have been any kid in any neighborhood in America, but he was here on this bleak mesa participating in a ceremony that was as old as his people.

The old man rose slowly.  He stretched out his left hand to search for the secret place while clutching the sacred bundle and ceremonial pipe to his breast.

His efforts to locate the secret place were at best struggled and guided only by instinct.  Jimmy studiously avoided looking at his grandfather.  Even at this young age, Jimmy knew that only the medicine man can know the sacred place.  With some effort, the practiced hand found the familiar rock and Johnny Thapaha started to return the sacred bundle to its resting-place.

He hesitated and, in a furtive move, placed the sacred bundle inside the loose folds of his shirt.

“Little Dove, please take my hand.”

Slipping the gnarled, callused hand of his grandfather into his own smooth hand, Jimmy started down the worn path to the ground below and the warmth of his grandfather’s hogan.  Johnny Thapaha followed with a labored gait, his back bent by the weight of too many seasons.

The hawk caught the first rising thermals caused by the warming air and soared higher and higher.  This would surely be a good hunting day.

1993: The Coffee Shop