Chapter XII

MacDaniels tried to swallow the contents of this stomach again as the Blackhawk flew low over sparse Mesquite trees and cholla cacti. He had been armed with a ridiculous-looking helmet and a handful of satellite and topography maps. He was clutching the bench seat between his legs with white knuckles, far too close to the open side door and the roaring rotors to relax or try to make sense of the maps. They were tucked under a leg, completely forgotten.

From his position near the front of the long helicopter, he could see out of the canopy and the swell of earth and road that marked the path up to the old mine. For the thousandth time since the Admiral had started leading him towards the two Blackhawks he wished he was at home. What place was this for a simple farmer? Feeling the chopper tilt sharply to the left, he decided it was no place at all.

Admiral Petros turned around in his seat next to the pilot and waved abruptly at MacDaniels. "We're approaching the Upper Equipment Yard for the Main Mine Entrance, "came the Admiral's voice over his helmet's speakers. "How far from here would you say the impact zone is?"

MacDaniels started to yell his reply when a soldier tapped him firmly on the shoulder. MacDaniels looked over at the armed man, and the soldier reached up to his helmet and pulled a small microphone down near his mouth. MacDaniels frowned at his own ignorance, reached up and pulled his mic down. "I'd say less than a half mile, yer honor." He pointed, "right over there."

Petros turned around and faced the pilot, his voice still clear over the headsets. "Land us in the far corner of this yard and instruct the others to do the same."

"Sir," came the pilot's confident reply. The comm system clicked quietly as the pilot changed channels. He switched back and addressed the Admiral, "Sir, Kestrel 2 reports seeing movement on the side of the mountain. Possible vehicle. He didn't get a clear look."

"We don't have time to chase farmers around in their fields. We have a situation to clean up. He lands now."

"Yes, Sir." The comm system clicked again, and the Blackhawk settled into a smooth hover as the pilot checked the landing zone and made minor adjustments.

MacDaniels had no idea what was going on, but he stared with longing at the solid ground below them. He was sure he'd rather walk back down the mountain than fly there. Finally, the ground began to slowly rise up beneath their chopper and with a slight bump, they were down. Harnesses unsnapped around the cabin and soldiers

spilled out of the chopper in an organized pattern, leaving MacDaniels, Petros, and the pilot.

The Admiral pulled his helmet off and placed it on his seat as he climbed out, and then turned to the pilot and said, "If he tries to leave this helicopter, shoot him."

MacDaniels half rose out of his seat, but stopped as pilot raised his sidearm in his direction, "Admiral! Wait! What in Sam Hill's goin' on?"

Petros was already walking away, but he paused and half turned. "Your job is done, Mr. MacDaniels. I suggest you make yourself comfortable."

The old farmer sat back in his seat, rubbing his forehead in consternation. What had just happened? he wondered earnestly.

--

/\\/\

--

Petros glared balefully at the impact site. It was all wrong! There was no alien spaceship. Just a twisted and hallow mass of steel struts and aluminum rods and panels. Space junk. Debris from dead satellites, lost or rejected material from NASA missions, and likely parts of the Russian Space Station. Absolutely nothing to warrant this excursion into the dead center of nowhere. His thoughts returned to his briefing.

The National Security Agency had intercepted a coded message intended for the Chinese Military from their version of Space Command. Originally flagged and filed as mis-information, the message was dug up once the object entered US airspace.

/\\/\

The message contained a grainy 29.73 minute long video shot from one of the Chinese High Orbit Ghost Satellites. It showed a sleek dark craft, framed against Earth, moving slowly among a glittering field of debris. The powerful camera followed the unknown craft as it closed in on a large Russian satellite with massive solar panels collecting energy. The UFO came within 50 meters of the huge satellite, clearly inspecting it. Suddenly, long white plumes of compressed gas shot out of the satellite, turning it towards the smaller craft. It nimbly spun and began to race through the debris field, but the satellite's targeting software was made for much smaller objects moving much faster, much farther away. A brilliant green string joined the satellite to the UFO, raking a deep black line across the hull before it ran out of power. The craft shuddered from the impact and swung lazily in a wide arch, clearly out of control as it slammed into a small weather satellite and spun slowly towards the planet. The Ghost Satellite continued to watch the ship drift closer to Earth, gathering more debris as it went, until it passed beyond the horizon.

/\\/\

According to telemetry experts and a number of radar stations nationwide, the object had fallen out of orbit and crashed somewhere near Bitterwell. To find the crash site without the UFO was supremely disappointing. The Admiral was not used to disappointment.

He strode over to his top subordinate in the field, Commander Jack Butler. "Jack, where is my spaceship?"

The Commander turned around and met the Admiral's glare. "Sir, we have found no trace of an extra-solar vehicle. That mass there appears to be completely terrestrial in origin."

"I can see that, Jack. Tell me your men have found something of value."

"Well, Sir, we've found what might be evidence of tampering."

"Tampering? What kind of tampering?"

"Well, Sir, the men are still looking into this, but we've found heavy tire tracks near the site during our perimeter sweep, and some of the loose pieces of metal appear to have been cut off. The men think a welder was used."

Petros leaned down into the Commander's face and ground out between gritted teeth, "Do you mean to say that one of these leftover cowboys STOLE OUR UFO??"

"Sir! It would appear that way, Sir,"

"Commander, Team 1 is coming with me. Continue to gather information here with Team 2, and for God's sake, find me that spacecraft!"

Petros turned on his heel and stormed back up the trail to the Blackhawks, Team 1 rapidly following. When he reached the chopper, he climbed in beside a slightly trembling MacDaniels and said, "Now, Mr. MacDaniels, tell me everything you know about the residents of Bitterwell."

--

/\\/\

--

Bright morning sunlight spilled into a dozen different colors through the Stained Glass windows of the small sanctuary and onto the red carpeted floor. The peaceful chaos of color filled the room, rendering the yellowed lights above redundant. White walls and dark wood beams curved over the silent room as everyone stared in shock at Gershwin. Rosemary had started to say how "cute" the alien was before her mother's 

hand was firmly clamped over her mouth. Even muted as she was, she managed a little wave at the silent creature standing next to Evelyn on the podium.

David stepped back up onto the stage, past a dumbstruck Charlie. Once he was behind the short gray alien, he faced the townsfolk. "People of Bitterwell, I would like for you to meet Gershwin. It needs our help. We all know if we turn it over to those troops outside, they'll do terrible things to it in the name of science and National Security."

David paused as Emily Johnson got up and ran out of the back of the room, her hands over her face. The Pastor got up and apologized, "Sorry everyone, I'll be right back. Er, Gershwin, nice to meet you," and he followed his wife out of the room.

David looked at the other members of the town. They looked scared. Shocked. Almost ready to bolt out of the door like Emily. He knew a demonstration would be needed to calm their fears. Slowly, David sat down on the stage next to Gershwin, feet hanging over the edge. He tried to radiate a relaxed attitude, utterly comfortable next to the stoic alien. Where he sat, he was less than a foot away from Gershwin, who had turned and was staring at him with those bottomless black eyes. David looked into the face of each member of the congregation carefully, being sure to make good eye contact. He drew a deep breath to address them again, when the back door slowly opened and Pastor Johnson and Emily sheepishly walked back into the room, choosing a seat further back from the stage. David smiled encouragingly at Emily, but she kept her eyes locked on the floor.

"Look, I don't know anything more than any of you at this point. I know nothing about our visitor, where it comes from, or where it was going. But I do know this, Gershwin has gone out of its way to be cooperative and non-threatening." David's voice finally betrayed his frustration. "It's not here to hurt us, take us over, or scramble our brains! It's just like any other person passing through. They get lost, get a flat; we help them out. Why is this any different?"

"Fer one, you can't even refer to it as 'Him' or 'Her,'" came Bill's voice. "I mean, no offence Gershwin, but we don't know anything about anything at this point!"

Charlie stepped in front of his Deputy, face set in a determined line. "That's about enough, Bill. Sure we got a lot of questions about Gershwin here. But it is not in me to turn away someone needing help just because I don't know anything about them. In my opinion, our willingness to help others is the sole reason this town is still alive." He let that sink in for a moment, taking note of Jorge, Lupe, and Pastor Johnson nodding slightly in agreement.

Next to the Pastor, Emily piped up, "but it's an alien!"

Her husband turned to her, "So are we, in essence. We no longer belong to the world, but to our God, the creator of the Universe. The God who knows this creature as well as He knows us." The Pastor smiled gently, "Besides, to Gershwin we are the aliens."

Her face softened at the idea that the stocky alien might be as scared of them as they were of it.

"Thanks for your insight, Pastor." Charlie rumbled. "Now it's not my place to make decisions for the town. I've had to do that a few times in the past 24 hours, and I apologize." He paused and looked over the townsfolk before continuing, "The people of Bitterwell have a choice to make. Do we help our guest as best we can, or do we turn it over to the soldiers outside? I'll ask for a vote in ten minutes." Charlie turned and sat back down on the front pew.

--

/\\/\

--

"We are sorry, but the number you are trying to reach is disconnected, or no longer in service. Please check the number, and -"

Alex snapped her cell phone shut in frustration. She had half an hour before her morning classes began, and she couldn't get through to anyone in Bitterwell. She had started with her Mother's house, then tried the Sheriff's Station, and finally called the Church. No matter what number she dialed, the disconnect notice played. She quickly dialed another number.

After 5 rings, a groggy voice picked up. "You'd better be dying Alex, or you're dead."

"Sorry Sarah, I had to see if my phone is working."

"Do you have any idea what time it is!?" A rummaging sound came over the phone as Sarah scrambled around to find her alarm clock. "It's 6:15! A.M.! I just went to bed 2 hours ago!"

"Not my fault. Look, I-"

"Not your fault? You're the one calling me at the crack of dawn!"

"Dawn cracked an hour ago," Alex grumbled, tired of her roommate's theatrics.

"Whatever," came the terse reply.

"Look, I just called because I can't get through to my mom. The phone says the number's been disconnected. I tried a few other numbers there, and none of the phones are working. I called you to make sure it wasn't my phone."

"A Gila monster probably bit the phone line into town or something. They're always biting stuff, right?"

Alex scowled. "Sure, they like to climb telephone poles too."

"Really?"

Alex was shocked silent for a moment, trying to gauge the earnestness of her roommate's reply. She decided she really didn't want to know. "Go back to bed, Sarah. I'll talk to you later."

"Yes mom."

Alex flipped her phone shut and ran a hand through her still-damp hair. She grabbed her book bag and came to a decision. If she couldn't get through to her Mom by lunch, she was driving to Bitterwell.