Dark Dragons (70 page)

“My son has only one grandfather, and that’s my husband’s
father!”

Towsley watched Caliban’s fingers wiggle, and he re-gripped
the shotgun from its loose position in his right arm.  The alien’s
intentions were slowly becoming apparent, and Towsley felt the first pinchers
of anger under his skin.  Along with a reckoning.

“Please don’t push me away.  If you want to punish me,
fine.  You want me to hurt, I am.  But please don’t let it go on
forever.  I miss you, and I want to see you again.”

He listened to his daughter cry, praying that there was at
least a sliver of hope coming, some indication that the remaining years would
not involve monthly nightmares of dying co-pilots and soul-wrenching guilt.

Crazy images of promise swam in his head:  of a tearful
embrace on a front lawn as a taxi pulled away, a shy child reluctantly hugging
an old man he did not know, a warm handshake from a mystery son-in-law, open
photo albums spread across the kitchen table . . . a daughter’s soft words of
love spoken inches from his ear.

“Don’t ever call me again,” Sarah Kline said.

There came a soft beep and a dial tone that whispered
finality into his ear.  Towsley held the phone to him just a little
longer, his collar wet with tears.  After about ten seconds of listening
to the droning dial tone, he thumbed the phone off.

You have destroyed so many children.
 Caliban
held his hand to his stomach. 
I produced twelve beloved offspring
during my stay here as your unfortunate guest.  Taken from me and butchered
in your laboratory.  Some of them enduring unspeakable horrors during your
experiments for the perfect poison.
 The nerve gas bomb moved in his
hand.
  Tell me . . . did you watch them convulse?

“You speak of children being taken from you when you invade
my world to do the same?” Towsley hissed.  The SPAS12 shook in his
hands.  He knew what was coming.  He wanted it.  Caliban wanted
it.  “I saw the images of dead children in the streets . . . after they
endured unspeakable horrors during
your
experiments for the perfect
killing machines . . . we are all destroyers of our future.  But in the
end . . . the offspring will endure . . .” Towsley sat up straighter, leveling
the shotgun  “. . . they always do.”  Sarah had saved her mother from
suicide.  Her father would not be so fortunate.

Towsley aimed his weapon directly at the VT nerve gas
canister held over the alien’s torso and fired.  A white cloud exploded,
and Caliban’s body propelled backward in a spray of blood, his arms
flailing.  The head crashed hard on the concrete and the chest heaved
once——a leg twitched.  The swirling cloud roiled out in every direction.

It enveloped him.  Towsley waited for his painful
deliverance, hyperventilating with a high-pitched squeal, wanting this, needing
it.  Past visions came to him as he waited for death——of Barbie dolls
laying everywhere among the coloring books with chocolate fingerprints, a pair
of discarded training wheels, a girl’s beginner make-up kit . . . happy
detritus of an innocent age.

The violent spasms, the drooling, the tears of blood
dripping from the eyes . . . did not come.  Towsley wondered why he was
still breathing.  His diaphragm continued to heave.  The deadly toxin
had not shut anything down.  Smoke from the shotgun blast was like the
sweet aroma of baking bread . . . he could almost taste it . . . and he knew he
was still alive.  The white cloud had already evaporated.

It took all of his strength to stand.  He nearly fell
but righted himself at the last second with the shotgun.  Slowly, he
approached Caliban’s dead body, the alien’s cold black eyes staring at the
hangar ceiling, limbs splayed like those of a dissected frog.

The 9mm Beretta was still attached to the ruptured canister,
the white gauze tape peeled back to expose large words in yellow lettering
underneath——argon.

Harmless, odorless argon gas.

“You son-of-a-bitch,” he whispered.

The APIS engineers used argon in their gas chromatographs
and mass spectrometers.  Caliban must have broken into the storage lockers
some time ago and switched out the VT canister with the bottle of compressed
argon, concealing the entire surface with gauze tape.

His entire body numb, Towsley turned and headed for the high
desert of California.  He could detect the enchanting scent of eucalyptus
on the crisp air wafting down the tunnel, leading him away from the emotional
tumultuousness behind him.  It smelled pretty damn good, he thought. 
He had worked and lived here for almost fifteen years, and in all that time he
had never really been conscious of the various scents of the clean, dry
desert.  A smile graced his lips.  His head felt like a balloon
filled with the scented air outside.

Though his entire body felt anesthetized, he detected a
faint buzzing in his left hand.  He looked down and realized he had never
let go of the smart phone.  It was vibrating.

“Hello?”

He heard a deep breath and a child’s nonsensical chattering
in the background.  “Hi dad,” came his daughter’s soft voice.  “It’s
me. . . .”

*

Around seven PM local, everyone stepped off the Andromeda
into the hot air of the high California desert bleary eyed and weak.  A
disheveled and sweaty Tony sat on the nose of his Dragonstar a few feet away,
smoking a cigarette and looking like Darren felt.

Towsley was waiting for them at the bottom of the ramp with
two Response Team guards.  Darren suddenly went into defensive mode for
some reason, even though he had been assured on the ride in that tensions had
been settled.  Two Navy corpsmen stood next to a Humvee with a red cross
on the door.  Nate’s ride to the NESSTC infirmary.

“Take it easy, bro,” Tony said, ambling over.

Nate gave a thumbs up as the two medical officers gingerly
guided him into the back seat.

When Darren introduced Vanessa to Towsley, he noticed
something different about the man’s camouflage Airman Battle Uniform that he
couldn’t place.  He nearly disregarded it until he realized what had
changed.  “Hey . . . your colonel’s eagles are gone.”  They had been
replaced with a pair of single stars glistening on both lapels.  “
Brigadier
general
. . . congratulations, sir.”

Towsley beamed.  “Thank you.  Presidential
commendation.”

“You earned it.”

“We brought your clothes for you.  We knew you were
going to need them.”

The two guards handed them four bags.

“Thanks, general,” Darren said, taking his Detroit Pistons
duffle bag. “I need to get the hell out of this thing or I’m going to scream.”

“We knew you were coming, too, Miss Vasquez,” Towsley said,
“so our female staff gathered some spare clothing for you.  Hope you don’t
mind camouflage.”

“Far out,” Vanessa said with a grin, pulling out a blue-gray
airman uniform.  “Even a bra and underwear . . . gee, I don’t know what to
say.”

Towsley cleared his throat.  “Captain Middleton radioed
ahead and gave us your approximate dimensions.”

“He did, did he?”  She gave the wily Brit a lopsided
grin.

Through a cloud of cigar smoke, Middleton shot her a wink.

Darren opened the bag and examined his blue jeans.  He
saw his wallet in the back pocket, house keys and cell phone in the front left
and his PDA in the front right.

“Everything’s where it’s supposed to be,” Towsley
said.  “We didn’t steal anything.”

“I trust you . . . finally.”  Darren put his blue jeans
back in the bag.  “I guess that leads me to my next question.  Where
are we at?  As far as us and you guys?”

“We’ve all been invited to have lunch at Camp David next
week to discuss that.  So wear your best suit and tie.  It looks like
the president and his national security team may decide to abolish the threat
tag placed on you boys, but only if you agree to a few concessions.”

“Which are. . . ?”

“One, that you maintain a low profile.  You are not to
make yourselves known to the media or the public in any manner.”

“No ticker tape parade?”

Towsley shook his head.  “The SAWDOG’s are going to have
that honor in lower Manhattan next week.  Sorry, Darren, but that’s the
way Uncle Sam wants it.”

Darren had that momentary jolt of anger of not being invited
to the party, especially since the
four of them
had saved the world . .
. but the thought of some crazy banging on his window at three in the morning
shouting “Take me to Venus, buddy, take me to Venus!” shot that down pretty
quick.  Maybe obscurity wouldn’t be so bad.

“We have no problem with that . . . I guess.”

Tony and Jorge both nodded and shrugged.

“Two, that you will not contrive and/or commit any acts
deemed hostile against the United States or her NATO allies.”

“Hmm, I’m not sure about that . . . it’s going to be
difficult for us to resist the urge in destroying the already weakened foundation
of Western civilization and——”

Towsley held a hand up.  “All right, all right.”

“Jesus, after what we just did, how could we do something
like that?  We’re patriotic Americans, general.”

“I know you are, Darren, but you need to tell them
that.  Everyone is still spooked and paranoid and not just about alien
invaders.  Our military got its ass handed to it.  The Navy and the
Air Force are all but gone, and the Army and Marines combined lost nearly
thirty percent of their fighting force when the bases on the east coast were
destroyed.  In two days, the president is going to sign an Executive Order
that will institute the military draft and begin a massive build-up to
replenish America’s war machine.  We’re talking World War II-era,
twenty-four/seven churn out of tanks, jets, aircraft carriers and fresh
troops.  It’s important that the U.S. shows the world that it still has
claws . . . and we need you boys to be the vanguard in this.  You’re not
being enlisted, but the president wants a promise that four Dragonstars will be
on call to defend the nation if needed.  So you need to go in there next
week and speak softly to the president and promise to carry a big stick for
America.  Get it?”

“Yeah, I get it,” Darren said.

“Good.  I’ll be there as your representative and to
vouch for you. After the handshakes are finished, the government will agree to
make no attempt to steal, kidnap or monitor you gentlemen or your alien
technologies.  Basically, if you leave us alone, we’ll leave you alone.”

“I think that commitment might be a stretch for Uncle Sugar,
but we’ll agree to it.”

Brigadier General Towsley offered his hand which Darren
gladly shook.

“Thank you,” Towsley said.  “All of you.”  He
shook Tony’s and Jorge’s hands.  “You guys did well.  You brought
down the righteous fist of God, and the whole universe shook.  Let the
villains out there, shall any be there more, quake from the roar of human
defiance.”  He shook his head and smiled.  “Eighteen year-old kids .
. . who would have thought?”

Towsley turned and climbed into the Humvee. “See you guys at
Camp David next week.”

*

Darren’s Dragonstar touched down in the center of Wolf Flat
into the shadows of tall gray pines and oaks, the sun setting low over the
Pacific.  Tony’s and Jorge’s fighters were already there, but they had
both gone home.  Darren knew they had to eventually find a better locale
to base their fighters and keep them away from curious and covetous eyes. 
Including those of the military.

Darren wore just his helmet.  Vanessa had suggested he
keep the suit off anyway so that she didn’t have to sit on hard, prodding
surfaces.  That was just fine with Darren.  He enjoyed the feeling of
her soft body pressed against his own, his arms wrapped around her the whole
time.  Eventually, she would rest her head on his shoulder and put her
arms over his.  Eventually, she would turn her face toward his and place
warm breath on his cheek while they flew through the clouds.  Darren took
his time going home.

Vanessa had a tearful phone conversation with her family while
she and Darren walked along the path that led to the canyon behind his
house.  The Vasquez family was staying with relatives in Santa Barbara
and, because of the snarl of traffic jams still leading out of L.A., wouldn’t
be getting home any time soon.  Darn it.

Darren had tried calling his mom but he couldn’t reach her
cell.  He tried his grandparents in Michigan, but still no luck. 
Maybe there was a lot of cell phone towers knocked out along with everything
else.  Half of the United States was supposedly without electricity.

They reached the top of Pickens Cannon which dropped down
into the dry gulch separating Darren’s back yard from the foothills.  He
looked southeast and saw tall columns of smoke and dust still rising from
downtown L.A.

“Damn,” Vanessa said.  “You guys had a hell of a
fight.”

“Yeah . . . we couldn’t help that, but . . . we won.”

“Yes, you did.”  Vanessa held his hand and led him down
the steep cannon.

“You kicked ass, too.  I saw you room-brooming my
needle pistol like you knew what you were doing.”

She huffed.  “I was scared out of my mind.”

“We all were, but you turned that fear to your advantage and
came out alive. 
Just like a real, bloody soldier gautdamn it
,” he
said with his best Middleton.

Vanessa snickered, and he put his arm over her shoulder.

The neighborhood of Sutton Cannon Drive looked abandoned
along with the rest of La Crescenta.  There were no cars in any drive-way
up or down the street.  Spooky.  One sound that Darren had grown accustomed
to since moving here was the continuous traffic drone of Interstate 210 which
the foothills naturally heightened, but that, too, was gone.

“Looks like we have the whole neighborhood to ourselves,”
Vanessa said as they climbed the gulch into Darren’s back yard.