Sleeper Seven (18 page)

The pilots talked casually throughout the journey, but nothing useful was revealed about the gentleman or the circumstances surrounding his capture and return. It seemed these guys were no more than space-faring taxi drivers.

"Twenty-two minutes out," Thatcher announced. "Camo enabled, day mode."

Soon they were over land again — North America, she assumed — and continued on across the continent at a slower pace for another hour. Taking the scenic route, they flew low over forests and open plains, but mostly followed the waterways. If they were minimizing encounters with the populace, she figured, then they were fairly successful. Of the few people she did glimpse below — a lone backpacker, a woman on a horse, and later a group of river kayakers — none showed any sign of having seen them, even though the shadow of the ship speeding along the ground was clearly visible. They zipped by so fast, though, that by the time anyone could turn their head to look, the ship would have been gone.

"Slow to six hundred and drop the mast," the Captain suddenly ordered.

"What's up Captain?" Thatcher queried.

"We're gonna make a call."

"Slowing to six...and...deployed, sir."

"Hail Bender Mountain."

~ 39 ~

T
hatcher smiled wryly.

"Bubble check?"

"Bubble check," the Captain confirmed. Grinning surreptitiously at each other, the pilots busied themselves again at their consoles.

"Bender Mountain, this is Red One," radioed Finn.

"Bender Mountain, go ahead Red One," came the reply within seconds.

"Do you require a bubble check," the Captain interjected.

"Yes sir, we are in need of a bubble check, please provide ETA," replied the voice on the other end. They could hear whoops and howls in the background before the transmission cut out.

"We are ten minutes out, approaching from the northwest. Please verify no cabling or other obstructions between the bubble and the barracks," Finn radioed.

"Standby Red One...confirmed, bubble to barracks is clear."

"Please verify status of air traffic and...oversight."

"Optimal conditions here, sir," came the reply.

"Six minutes. Over and out."

"Retract the mast and change course for Bender as appropriate, gentlemen," the Captain ordered.

"Yes, sir," they replied in unison.

Soon they encountered foothills which led into more mountainous terrain, the ship tracking closely to the rising ground and plateauing out upon reaching the peaks. Jess figured they must be in the Rockies somewhere.

"Twenty-four miles out and locked, ETA two minutes," Thatcher announced. Their consoles displayed the snow-covered peak of a lone mountain in the distance, adorned with a large geodesic dome, and a small barracks on a nearby ridgeline. It looked to Jess like some sort of military radar installation.

"Yup, here they come to see the show," Thatcher announced, as their screens displayed a half-dozen tiny figures running out from the barracks and lying down, taking up positions on the snow-covered ridge.

Another minute went by with nervous anticipation. "Six miles out, still locked," Thatcher reported. "Wait, what the fuck? Captain, they didn't say anything about an initiate."

Jess looked closer on the screen to see a single figure standing in front of the group lying in the snow, with one arm raised, as if flagging them down.

"Shit," the Captain said, "Franti, blow out the envelope, two miles at least, or this asshole is toast."

"No time to spin it up for the push, sir, we're almost on top of 'em."

"OK, then. Stutter run fellas."

"But Sir...the wash..." Finn asked nervously.

"So we give 'em all some temporary hearing loss. Or would you rather we take that man's arm clean off, Lieutenant?"

"No, sir," he replied obediently.

"Well then. Thatch, you got him?"

"Yes sir, looks about six-one with two-foot extension."

"Clear him, then book. Jackasses think we can do no wrong in these things."

"Isn't that true Captain?" Franti asked jokingly, as the Captain reclined back in his seat with a sigh.

~ 40 ~

P
rivate Grainger looked behind him at the rest of his crew dug into the snow.

"What now, a-holes?"

"Eyes forward, Private!" one man barked.

He turned back around, but still saw nothing. He hadn't been able to get his socks on, and the snow was creeping into one of his boots, freezing his ankle. His arm, too, began to ache, but there was no way he was lowering it now. Although it was all more than just a little unnerving: his buddies dug in like that, and him out here like the Statue of Liberty. Now his legs started shaking. He told himself — and the others later — that it was just because of the cold.

"Direct, eleven!" a voice called out. Grainger turned to the north and saw it: a dark speck on the horizon. It spread outwards quickly — too quickly — as if it were manifesting in front of him instead of traveling towards him. And it was big. This wasn't the F-15 he was expecting, or even an F-22. This thing was a warehouse, and it was coming straight for him. He knew if he kept his eyes open, he would reflexively flinch, so he closed them, expecting it all to be over in a moment.

But it wasn't over in a moment. Off in the distance, a sound like rolling thunder shook the sky, growing in volume and power until the successive blasts washed over him, pummelling his torso and abdomen like a prize fighter. As abruptly as they began, they ended, followed by the ripping sound of the echoes reverberating amongst the neighboring peaks. The sound dissipated, only to be replaced by a deep, bone-shaking hum that vibrated Grainger to his core, followed by a warm breeze that rose and swirled around him. He suddenly felt as though he were inside a subwoofer.

Opening his eyes, he was confronted with the enormity of the ship as it inched towards him, the leading edge mere feet from his still-upraised arm. As it passed over him, he reached up, the tip of his middle finger just brushing the textured, dark gray surface as it slid by. The hum felt like it held him; like it kept him safe. He trusted this thing as much as he trusted anything in his life, which was not so much a choice, as an autonomic reaction, in the face of such power and beauty overwhelming.

The leading plasma engine darkened just before reaching his exposed hand, and he felt no residual heat as the concave area that housed it passed overhead. As the circular opening ended and his finger began to trace the underside again, he felt the ground soften beneath his aching feet. At the ship's mid-point, he found he could effortlessly balance his entire body weight onto one pointed boot, and stretching upwards, he palmed the ship's warm surface.

As the ship continued past him, he found himself involuntarily leaning backwards, and then being slowly dragged along, suspended in some sort of flux, as his boots created small furrows the snow. He never bothered to look down, even when he felt two strong hands from each side grab onto his ankles, holding him in place until he was safely beyond the ship's influence.

As the weight sunk back into his boots, his palm separated from the ship, yet he continued to trail his finger over the ridges of the bumpy tiles, marveling at this magnificent beast — this
dragon
— that had come down with such fierce gentleness, to allow him this.

As his finger finally left the surface, he turned to gaze at the ship with a silly grin as it drifted beyond the ridge. Finally looking down at his crewmates still lying prone in the snow, he found that they, too, were watching in awe, but with hands held tightly to the sides of their heads and teeth gritted. He wondered why.

Thirty feet out, the forward engine sparked back to life, and as the plasma bubble grew to fill the cavity, the humming rose an octave. Sensing its imminent departure, the Private held his palm up in a farewell gesture, as his buddies looked away, covering their heads with both arms and burying their faces in the snow. Just as before, the ship seemed not to leave, exactly, but condense, or shrink, back into the same black dot, like an old tube television turning off.

Less than a second later the thunderclap hit him.

It was like the hammer of Thor had descended upon his head. His next memory was of seeing blue sky, as he discovered he was lying flat-assed in the snow. Several frequencies of loud tones rang simultaneously in his ears, and he raised his head to see his crew mates approaching from thirty feet away, laughing and smiling. One of them was yelling at him.

"What?" he screamed, shocked that he barely heard his own voice over the internal din. The crewman approached, got down into the snow and yelled directly into his ear.

"
Like hearing a whisper from God, huh!
"

~ 41 ~

"H
ow'd the bubble look. Anyone catch it?" the Captain queried. The pilots looked at each other warily until one of them finally spoke up.

"Bubble good sir!" Franti replied.

"Fine then, fine. Drop the mast and let 'em know, whydontcha?"

"Yes sir," Finn replied, dialing up the station.

"Bender Mountain, Red One. Your bubble checks out."

"...Bender Mountain. Thank you Red One, and God speed to you," came the reply. Though the message was serious, they could hear more laughter in the background.

"Sounds like they got a little juiced from our visit," the Captain commented. "Wellm, I believe our work here is done. Set a course for the garage, Thatch."

"Sir, request permission for a CE2 prior to return to base," Franti asked quickly, before Thatcher could reply.

There was a pause before the captain answered. "Jesus. Really? You're like a buncha damned kids. It's been a long day. And haven't we reached our quota already?"

"No, sir, we have three left in the bank."

The captain looked at his watch. "Well, we do have daylight overflight clearance, and we got some time to kill before curfew. Where now?"

"Manchester, Vermont," Franti replied, "I have an uncle who's a bit of a...skeptic," he said, as the others chuckled.

"We can schedule for 2010 local and be tucked in by 2045," Thatcher offered helpfully.

"That's within our profile. Go ahead and punch it up," the captain replied. "But Finn, please remember to enable camo when we get close. And
night mode
this time, OK?" They all laughed at this in-joke and turned to look at Finn, who, blushing, stared down at his console while giving them two middle fingers, the Captain excepted.

The sun hung low in the sky when they finally reached the east coast an hour later.

"Camo
night-mode
enabled," Finn announced, and they all laughed again.

"How about a little mood music?" Franti asked, and dialing up a song on his iPod, Richard Hawley's
Tonight the Streets are Ours
filled the cabin.

The ship angled down until they were silently gliding just a few feet above the treetops.

"He'll be out on his deck smoking a cigar after watching the sunset. Creature of habit. Navy man of course," Thatcher explained, cracking them all up again. "Three miles out."

As they came to a hover above a desolate logging road, Jess maneuvered closer to Thatcher to observe what he was so intently viewing on his console. A fuzzy green-screen video image of trees and houses shot left, then right, as he searched using a long range night-vision camera. Finding his target, the white siding of a house, he gently guided it to the left to reveal a portly man, clad only in boxers, leaning back in a white plastic lawn chair, his feet propped on the railing of a wooden backyard deck. Indeed, he was smoking a cigar. And scratching himself. Franti and Finn burst out in peals of laughter; apparently they had pulled up the same camera view on their consoles also.

"Got him."

"Disable camo and hit the brights," ordered the Captain.

"Camo down, lights up."

"Standard approach, keep a watch for tourists."

Below them, she could see the reflection of their lights on the grassy hills as they began moving slowly towards their target.

"He acquired us yet?" the Captain queried after a minute of slow movement.

"Believe so, but can't be sure yet. He's got to at this point...Yup, there he goes."

She watched the man slowly place his cigar in an ashtray on the deck, rise out of his chair, and lean forward on the deck railing. He was staring intently, directly at them.

"Hold position," the captain ordered.

As they hovered, the man backed himself up to a pair of French doors, and never averting his gaze, turned his head to call out to someone inside. Sure enough, a woman in a bathrobe came rushing out to join him at the railing.

"And we have Aunt Sarah come to join the party. She's a believer — there'll be '
I told you so's
' all night after this," Thatcher asserted, spurring a round of chuckles.

A golden retriever, tail wagging, bounded through the open door after the woman. Joining them at the railing, he raised his front paws onto it, and pulling his head up, perked his ears while staring intently at them as well. Unlike his owners, however, he didn't stay long. His wagging tail stilled, then dropped, as his ears flattened against his head. Lowering himself from the railing, he slowly backed up a few paces, before twirling his body and shooting back inside the house.

"Wait for intent," the captain reminded them cautiously.

Aunt Sarah pulled a small flashlight from the pocket of her robe and passed it to her husband. He pointed it at them and began to strobe it on and off.

"Established," the captain said. "No stopping, kids. Just a drive by tonight."

As they approached, Jess expected the couple to get all excited and run around looking for a camera, but they did none of that. They just stood and stared. Thatcher slowly panned the camera down to keep them in view as they advanced, until Jess could see them through the floor panels directly below. They were still staring up at them, wide-eyed and unmoving.

"Here we are," Thatcher sang out softly, "go tell your friends and neighbors."

As they passed over the roof, the couple suddenly hustled back inside, only to reappear at the front stoop, resuming their fixed stare as the ship drifted slowly and silently over their street.