Area 51_Invasion Read online

  -EDOM is the erasure of memory from consciousness through the blockage of synaptic transmission in certain areas of the brain. By jamming the brain's synapses through a surfeit of acetocholine, neural transmission along selected pathways can be effectively stilled. The long-term memory will never be laid down.

  -The term first appeared in a 1969 book, Were We Controlled? written by a former FBI agent turned journalist. A comparison of this work with our MKULTRA files indicate a strong possibility that the writer had 'inside' sources.

  -Strong recommendation that author be terminated.

  -Remote RHIC in action: It is the ultra-sophisticated application of post-hypnotic suggestion triggered at will by radio transmission. It is a recurring state, re-induced automatically at intervals by the same radio control. An individual is brought under hypnosis. This can be done either with his knowledge — or without it — by use of narco-hypnosis, which can be brought into play under many guises. He is then programmed to perform certain actions and maintain certain attitudes upon radio signal.

  -This is useful for long-term manipulation of susceptible subjects to enhance their lack of credibility. False memories can be elicited, causing them to appear delusional.

  -These radio signals are directed to certain parts of the brain. When a part of the brain receives a tiny electrical impulse from outside sources, such as vision, hearing, etc., an emotion is produced — anger at the sight of a gang of boys beating an old woman, for example. The same emotion of anger can be created by artificial radio signals sent to the brain by a controller. The target could instantly feel the same white hot anger without any apparent reason. The possibilities for this are intriguing and must be further researched.

  -Our public stance must be that there is no evidence that RHIC-EDOM is real.

  -For additional cover we need to plant disinformation that the technique originated in the military and that it was deemed impractical and all research terminated.

  There was more, technical stuff, but Turcotte understood the gist.

  He felt the back of his head. The pulsing was real. There was nothing in here about an implant.

  This wasn’t military. It wasn’t CIA. It was Majestic. At Dulce. Staffed with Nazi scientists who’d experimented on prisoners in the death camps to try to master mind control: the ultimate weapon. Had they mastered it?

  Where had they gotten the idea? Early in World War II the Nazis had gone after the Airlia nuclear weapon secreted underneath the Great Pyramid of Giza. What else had the Nazis uncovered from the Airlia?

  Turcotte knew that once people had access to Airlia technology, whether via the mothership or one of the many locations around the planet where the Airlia had established a footprint the research in various fields had advanced by leaps and bounds.

  Was his implant something put in by Lisa Duncan or had it been done by Majestic, even earlier? Before he was brought in by Duncan? She hadn’t been able to remember. Had she even been in her right mind? Could he account for all of his time before leaving his last unit and reporting to Area 51 to become part of Nightscape?

  He laughed out loud. He was trying to remember if his memory had been altered. The epitome of irony and futility.

  Turcotte desperately began opening the other drawers, searching for more. For information on Duncan. On him. On EDOM. On the Nazis. On the implant.

  EARTH ORBIT

  The scout ships returned from the reconnaissance in force. 861 had been lost during this reconnaissance. A negligible loss.

  No attempt was made to recover the individual Swarm who survived the crashes.

  There was more information from the recon line than just intelligence about Scale. The planet had been surveyed and mapped in detail. Land masses, types of terrain, hydrography, ocean depths, and more. Some of the scouts had powerful ground penetrating radar. They were focused on what was below what could be visually seen, mapping the constitution of the planet itself. The data was being analyzed.

  The warships were loaded with the results of the Metamorphosis. But two more orbits were dictated according to reaping protocol. The Core moved to a latitude north of the Tropic of Cancer. It descended, dropping from 20,000 miles to 15,000.

  Every place one of the attacking Scale aircraft had landed was in the targeting matrix. Along with every trace of radioactivity indicating a lurking nuclear weapon. Particle beams blasted the remnants of the world’s air forces, abruptly ending their premature celebrations.

  As the Core moved eastward, some planes, refueled and re-armed, managed to scramble, but most were at makeshift airbases, inadequately supplied. The Swarm made up for the lost scouts and more.

  Across North America, the launch control crews that had sweated out the first orbits, following General Clark’s order to hold back, never had a chance to turn their keys. They died instantly, pulverized, along with their missiles.

  The Core was also destroying every satellite still functioning. Many had been wiped out simply by the Core’s first several orbits, smashing into the surface of the massive spaceship, like gnats on a windshield.

  The Core did the northern hemisphere, then shifted south to the Tropic of Capricorn. South America, Africa, the Middle East, the subcontinent and Australia suffered the same attack from space.

  These two orbits completed the First Day.

  ON THE SECOND DAY: INITIAL DROP

  AREA 51

  Turcotte briefly regained consciousness with an awareness of something wet on the back his neck and the pulsing pain from the implant.

  He reached back then brought his hands in front of his eyes. It was smeared with blood. He looked down and saw his knife. He couldn’t remember trying to dig the implant out, but the evidence was there.

  “Stupid,” he muttered, then passed out again.

  EARTH ORBIT

  The defeat of the air forces and missiles was significant to the Swarm, but the most important part of the reconnaissance in force was the tally of Scale and determination of density.

  The total was over 7.6 billion SCALE, despite the loss of tens of millions in recent warfare.

  WORLD POPULATION DENSITY

  The density in detail called for some slight adjustments to the Drop and subsequent reaping. The losses in the Asian subcontinent, as well as factoring in the number of living Scale that were tainted by radiation and to be disregarded, was also computed.

  Warships launched in a heavy sprinkle as the Swarm Core once more began to orbit the Earth. The density of their spacing corresponded to the population underneath along with maintaining worldwide line of sight at altitude. Like black rain, warships, two miles in diameter, with eight, evenly spaced quarter mile long weapons/portal arms, dropped Earthward.

  PRIVATE ISLAND, PUGET SOUND

  Nekhbet was startled out of an uneasy slumber. “What was that?”

  Nosferatu, who had not been asleep, had also felt it. “I don’t know. A surge of power. But it’s gone now.”

  They had settled into a spoon, Nosferatu behind Nekhbet, his arms around her.

  Nekhbet was confused. “What power? Where are we?”

  “We are safe,” Nosferatu said.

  “You are with me.”

  “I am with you.”

  “I was afraid I was dreaming,” Nekhbet whispered. “So many dreams for so many years. All alone. So many nightmares. I can’t tell any more, my dear. I can’t tell what is real. What is sleep? What is awake?”

  “This is real. I am with you.”

  “Are you really here? I used to imagine you being with me, but then you wouldn’t be.”

  “I am really here.”

  “When is this? I don’t remember.”

  “It is now,” Nosferatu said.

  “Where? This isn’t my tube. The one I spent millennia in.”

  Nosferatu held her tighter. “Listen, my love. Let me tell you a story.”

  “Oh, no, not one of your history lessons,” Nekhbet protested but feebly, invitingly.

  “In
a way, but different,” Nosferatu said. “It’s an epic story.” His breath was on her neck, behind her ear as he recited:

  “’In Xanadu did Kubla Khan;

  A stately pleasure-dome decree:

  Where Alph, the sacred river, ran

  Through caverns measureless to man

  Down to a sunless sea . . . . ‘”

  MARFA, TEXAS

  “Bobby, don’t.” Normally Darlene would have allowed Bobby his foible of shooting the sky, but with the trailer gone all they had was the ammo on his vest. She had a splitting headache from lack of nicotine and his stupidity was wearing thin.

  One of the large spaceships that had descended from orbit was off to the north about two miles. There was another to the south they could barely see. These big ones were definitely spread wider than the small ships had been. These didn’t look like they were going to allow themselves to be shot down. They also had the appearance of holding something inside and Darlene really didn’t want to see whatever that was. The arms most likely held weapons of some sort.

  Her words didn’t stop Bobby, but the roar of jet engine did. A plane came racing from the north toward the warship.

  “Wonder where the rest are?” Bobby said.

  Darlene didn’t remind him of the distant explosions they’d heard late last night. She cocked her head. “Helicopter inbound too.”

  “What?” Bobby was focused on the jet.

  Darlene saw the chopper, dark black, with no markings that she could discern at this distance, far to the northwest, in the vicinity of Marfa.

  “It’s looking for something,” Darlene said, more to herself than Bobby. “On the ground.”

  The jet was climbing toward the closest warship, preparing to engage. The sound of the jet’s engine sputtered and then it went quiet. The chopper was silent also.

  The plane arced over and began to drop.

  A wave of power hit Darlene and Bobby, as if they’d touched a live wire for a moment.

  Darlene was focused on the helicopter which began to auto-rotate down. It disappeared over the horizon as the jet crashed into the mountains, producing a ball of fire.

  “What the hell?” Bobby muttered.

  “Look at my phone,” Darlene said. She held it out. “Deader than your daddy’s dick. And that thing has stopped.”

  The warship had indeed halted, at an altitude of 20,000 feet above ground level. Every warship in the initial drop was stopped at exactly the same altitude.

  “Fuck!” Bobby screamed and he emptied another magazine of 5.56 at the warship.

  “It’s not close enough,” Darlene murmured. “But whatever is in it, is gonna be on the ground sooner than we want.” She was looking to the northwest. The helicopter had gone down pretty close to town. “I’m going into town to get some smokes.”

  “Darlene?” Bobby’s voice held a tremor of fear.

  “Guard the trailer, Bobby.”

  “But there aint no trailer, Darlene!”

  “No shit, Sherlock.”

  FORT HOOD, TEXAS

  Donovan was using a hammer and a crowbar to conduct a crude autopsy of the Swarm. They’d loaded the body in the back of the Bradley and brought it to the lager, then rolled it onto the ground. Several members of the company were gathered.

  Donovan noted that the 7.62 mm ammo he’d fired from the co-ax machinegun had not penetrated the exoskeleton. The larger, uranium cored rounds from the Bradley’s main gun had done the killing.

  He’d cracked open the exoskeleton with great difficulty. The interior was divided into four parts, each containing what appeared to be brain matter. Some rudimentary digestive and breathing organs like lungs. The heart was in the very center, inside another skeletal framework.

  So much for a heart shot.

  “That thing is fucked up, Top,” one of the platoon sergeants noted. “Don’t look like it’s very effective to attack someone though with those snaky arms. And none of those ships fired back.”

  There were no officers left. Just two platoon sergeants. He’d elevated a squad leader to platoon leader. Several more men had slipped off and one Bradley had raced away. There was no radio communication and he’d sent one track off to try to make contact with adjoining units, although he couldn’t see what kind of defense they could plan given they had no clue how and when the Swarm would attack.

  If at all.

  “It was a recon,” Donovan said. “They were testing us. Gauging our strength. Our capabilities.”

  Someone called out. “Top! We got more company coming down.”

  Donovan looked up. Several much larger alien craft were high up, slowly descending.

  “I think these will fight back,” Donovan said. “We’ll—“ he paused as the sound of helicopters cut through the air. Several Apaches, much less in number than the previous time, flew overhead, circling. The warships halted, just above the helicopters’ ceiling.

  “What are the aliens doing?” one of the men asked. “Why have they stopped?”

  “I got no idea,” Donovan said. “But we—“

  He paused as everyone felt a pulse of power wash over them.

  The first thing Donovan noted was silence. The helicopters’ engines were dead. They began to drop, the pilots conducting emergency procedures to conduct autorotation. This required them to disengage the rotors from the engine, allowing the blades to turn freely, in effect becoming wings and providing a degree of lift.

  This was an emergency procedure and the pilots reacted with varying degrees of skill. Some came down safely, others crashed.

  First Sergeant Donovan immediately organized rescue parties, only to discover that all their radios were fried. Not just the radios, but all the electronics, including the targeting computers for the cannons. Checking the TOW missiles, they were all worthless.

  Donovan moved from vehicles to vehicle, directing each one to a specific crash site. He also sent three Bradleys to find other units and try to get some consolidation.

  As his subordinate tracks moved out, he looked up at the looming warships.

  What were they waiting for?

  SURVIVAL SILO, KANSAS

  Tremble stood in the back of the movie theater. Most of the clients were here, seated in plush chairs. The latest comic-based action adventure movie was playing.

  Everyone seemed content, although there was some pestering about news from the outside world. Tremble had had to placate more than one anxious client that being cut off from the world was a good thing at the moment. Some were demanding stock market news.

  So far he’d managed to fend off all the queries, but he knew it would get worse. He’d prepared for as many possible scenarios as possible, but this was unprecedented so he knew he had to expect unprecedented reactions. In the advertising he’d listed a top of the line communications center with on-site Internet sub-site access and he realized that had been a mistake.

  But who would buy a place if they couldn’t have their Internet?

  Each full floor condo, 2,000 square feet, in the silo cost nine million. A half floor apartment was six. He’d sold all of them within three months of going public. He had two more silos in the midst of renovations with a waiting list of applicants, but—

  Tremble put that out of his mind.

  The silo had 100,000 gallons of potable water in holding tanks. It had a water recycling system that would accrue only a 1.2% loss per week of water used. They were sealed from the outside world with an NBC—nuclear, biological and chemical—over-pressure air filtration system. To get to the sniper nest required going through an airlock connecting to the top floor elevator.

  There was enough food to feed everyone for five years. In addition, there were hydroponic and aquaculture food production facilities on one of the lower levels that could extend that indefinitely, which reminded Tremble that he ought to get that started. He hesitated, though, because it might send the wrong signal to the clients. Best to let it go for a little while. Maybe this would all just blow over. Pe
rhaps the aliens would leave?

  There was plenty in the silo to keep people occupied. There was this state of the art IMAX movie theater, an indoor pool and spa, a custom bar and lounge, a library, classroom for the children, and every amenity he’d imagined a rich person could want. Of course, not being rich himself, at least when he’d started this, he was learning they wanted more than a regular person could imagine. Most importantly, they wanted to know what was going on. Tremble found that odd, because he, himself, was not very keen to learn what was happening. As long as they stayed safe.

  The silo had originally been designed to hold the Atlas missile and hardened for a nearby nuclear strike. This was back in the days before GPS and precision inertial guidance systems. In the good old days the joke was that close only counted in horseshoes and nuclear blasts. Nowadays a tactical nuke could be put through a window, so there was no practical protection against a direct strike. The walls were nine feet of reinforced concrete. The dome he’d put over the blast doors was designed to take a wind in excess of 200 miles per hour.

  There was a state-of-the-art medical center that was capable of most surgery. Which reminded him. Tremble slipped out of the theater and crossed over to the surgery. He opened the heavy door. Doc was a former Special Forces medic with four combat tours who’d gone back to school and become an MD. He’d served in an emergency room in Chicago for two years. He’d been the best candidate Tremble was able to find to take this vital post.

  Doc was leaning over an eight-year-old boy lying on his examining table. He didn’t ever look over his shoulder as he spoke.

  “Mask and gloves.”

  Tremble grabbed them from the dispensers next to the door. He was surprised to see Jack in here, masked and gloved.

  “How is he?” Tremble asked.

  “You’re fine, Michael,” Doc said to the boy. “Or do you go by Mike?”

  “Mike, sir,” the boy said.