Alien Agenda: Why They Came, Why They Stayed Page 11

  Baker knew he was a man because not only did he receive his own shotgun a year ago, he was now allowed to go out and hunt alone. His father had told him it was a man’s responsibility. He shook off the childish feelings of columns in a magic court and fairies dancing in the light beams. He had business to attend to, responsibilities to shoulder; he needed to find Champ, their best hunting dog.

  Champ didn’t come home for dinner last night, and was absent still when the family sat down for their breakfast of biscuits, grits, and bacon. Randy’s father didn’t appear the least worried, but instead of going straight into work, he said he would drive some of the roads and make sure Champ wasn’t roadkill. He asked Randy and his two brothers to divide up and search the areas north, east, and south of their farm.

  It was midday when Randy reached Cooter Pond in the woods east of his house. He sat down on the soft pine needles by the edge of the pond and watched the tadpoles wiggle their way along the shore, eating whatever tadpoles ate.

  He bet his brothers had been back at home for two hours, watching Saturday television and eating leftover biscuits. Randy was the oldest and it was time for him to grow up and pull his weight. He was going to find Champ and make his father proud.

  As he moved through the woods, he frequently whistled and called the dog’s name, but without reward. He even allowed himself to play Indian scout and examine animal poop he found here and there as he made his way through the forest. Squirrel, deer, and rabbit pellets were in evidence, but no trace of Champ.

  An unseen cloud drifted above, and the sun found another window in the pine canopy. A new beam of light shone on the pond a few feet from Randy. He stood up and went to examine the revealed clue: paw prints in the pond’s bank. They could be Champ’s.

  Randy called Champ’s name several times, loud and with as much authority as he could muster. No answer. He whistled loudly as he could. No answer. He stood over the paw prints trying to decide what to do. If he headed home now it would be suppertime when he arrived. He didn’t want to give up if Champ was close. Maybe Champ wasn’t coming because he couldn’t. Maybe Champ was hurt.

  Randy heard rather than felt a fresh breeze from the north rustling the tops of the trees so far above his head. The patterns of light on the floor shifted as the trees settled, then he felt the breeze again.

  Randy heard something in the woods farther to the east. Thinking it was Champ but taking no chances, he moved toward it slowly, shotgun ready.

  He heard it again, like something rubbing pine bark.

  He came around a large pine and there was Champ. Lying on his side, a sick foam coming out of his mouth with each panting breath.

  Before Randy could kneel to take a closer look, Champ was on his feet, crouched, baring teeth, growling like nothing Randy had ever seen.

  Randy decided he was not quite a man yet, and nearly tripped as he half-jumped and walked away from the frightening creature that two days before was their favorite, most-loved pet.

  “It’s me Champ,” Randy said, trying to make his voice soothing.

  The dog answered by roughly shaking its head, throwing strings of infected foam. It lowered itself in a crouch and took a step forward with a menacing growl.

  The better part of valor took command, and though it made no sense, Randy ran for home as fast as he could. He would finish becoming a man tomorrow.

  He could hear the dog chasing him with growls and barks. It was gaining on him. Randy had never seen it before, but he knew Champ had rabies. He had heard about it. He had also heard that if he was bit and didn’t receive forty-two shots in his stomach with a nine-inch needle, he would die.

  The dog was close now. He could almost feel its gasping breath. He thought maybe some of the flying foam hit his sock.

  He didn’t even think about it. He ran and leapt into Cooter Pond. The water near the shore was almost chest deep, and he tried his best to keep his gun dry.

  The snarling dog that had been Champ paced left, then right, seeking a way to reach its prey.

  Randy stood, chest heaving, trying to think. He had his gun, but the thought of shooting Champ sickened him worse than the fear. A man would shoot the rabid dog, he thought. Then he realized if that is the mark of a man, he would never be one. He could never hurt something he had loved. He started to cry.

  By the time the sun went down, Randy was cold, and in the quickly darkening woods he imagined snapping turtles and water moccasins beginning to cruise the pond for fresh meat. Cooter Pond received its name from a three-foot-long snapping turtle his grandfather caught here.

  The dog had been lying on its side for some time. Its breath was ragged, and the foam seemed to have thickened and trailed from its mouth like slime.

  Soon it would be dark. Randy thought about slowly making his way to the west side of the pond and quietly escaping.

  As if reading his mind, the dog jumped up and snarled at him, took a couple of steps, then sniffed and looked beyond Randy.

  Randy turned to look behind, half expecting to see some horrific pond monster hulking over him, but instead he saw hope.

  In the distance he thought he saw flashlight beams darting. He couldn’t hear anything other than the low growls of the dog, which had now moved toward the approaching lights.

  He watched for several minutes, making sure the lights were real. They shifted and jostled like someone walking with a flashlight, walking fast and sweeping the lights from side to side as they moved.

  Then he heard his name being called. Barely perceptible, it sounded like a tiny angel coming to rescue him.

  The dog growled again and took up a position between the boy and the oncoming territorial invaders. It coughed and allowed itself to sit while it waited.

  “Dad! Dad! I’m at Cooter Pond. Cooter Pond. Cooter Pond.” Randy yelled as loud as he could.

  The relief swept over him. “I’m coming, son.” His father was coming to save him. With every passing second the lights came closer, moving faster than before. They jostled but no longer swept in an arc; instead they were focused on the path to the pond.

  As Randy’s relief settled and he began to realize how cold and tired and hungry he was, a new fear struck him. What would his dad think of him? He had his gun; he could have killed Champ and saved himself. He knew Champ would eventually die from the rabies, and it probably wouldn’t be that long. His dad was going to be disappointed.

  So as the lights drew closer, he moved closer to the opposite edge, away from the dog.

  When Randy’s father appeared at the trees surrounding the pond, the dog stood with a whimper then growled. It took a step forward on shaky back legs and snarled.

  The shotgun blast was instant, loud, and final. The dog collapsed away from the impact, the top of its head gone from the eyes back.

  “You okay, son?” Randy’s dad said, holding the light on the boy in the pond.

  “I couldn’t do it, Dad. I couldn’t kill Champ. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Randy sobbed.

  “Of course you couldn’t. Champ was a good dog. We loved him and he loved us. You couldn’t kill him ‘cause he was threatening only you. I had to kill him to protect you. Now get out of that pond and let’s go home.” Randy’s dad was at the edge of the pond, extending his hand to his son.

  That had been one of the worst and best days of Randy Baker’s life. He never forgot the details of it. He found himself wondering why he was thinking about it. He heard his call sign on the patrol car’s radio. He clicked the microphone on his collarbone. “This is Baker, say again.”

  “There’s a jackknifed chicken truck over near Guntersville Dam. I need you to get over to the north side of the dam road and keep traffic from crossing.”

  “10-4,” Baker said as he looked around. He was parked on the side of the road, his car running. He couldn’t remember stopping. He noticed his clipboard and the book he was reading on the floor. He reached down to pick them up and noticed the author’s photo. There was really something familiar about t
hat face.

  He pulled onto the highway and headed toward the dam.

  The next day a review of the patrol car’s video revealed seventeen missing minutes. It stopped while the patrol car moved along the highway. After seventeen minutes of static, it started with the car parked on the shoulder as cars drove by.

  Baker had no recollection of the missing seventeen minutes. It was as if the video file and his memory had been erased.

  The records of Baker’s computer search showed a license plate inquiry for a Mercedes SUV belonging to Nathan Twining who resided in Roswell, New Mexico. So far no physical record of Twining had been found, and while the license plate number somehow was in the national database, it appeared to be bogus.

  Baker didn’t know what to make of the missing time. It was possible he fell asleep. He just didn’t know what happened in those seventeen minutes.

  ***

  There was a grasshopper on the rolled-up window. Jim Sees sat in the patrol car’s backseat, hands bound behind his back. Mr. Blue was to his immediate left and Sister Fran beyond him. The Alabama Highway Patrolman was walking back toward the Mercedes.

  Jim wondered if everything inside the car was being recorded, then realized it didn’t make any difference. They were busted, Leavenworth bound—if they were lucky.

  Mr. Blue was fidgeting, bumping into Jim. Sister Fran was doing what she had been told, praying.

  Jim saw Sergeant Baker pause as Melanie exited the car, the ever-present pillow in her hand. Baker took four more steps and reached for his shotgun, which leaned against the car. Melanie raised her arms in an invitation to be picked up.

  Then the world became very still, soundless. At first everything seemed frozen, the grasshopper suspended in mid leap two inches off the window. Baker became a contemporary statue stooping to pick up the shotgun. Only Melanie retained mobility as she walked toward the officer, arms in the air.

  Then the world changed. Something shifted. The grasshopper became a flash of light of every spectrum. It did not explode and create the light; it became the light. Faster than a flashbulb, everything returned to normal. The grasshopper was flying toward the roadside grass and Baker was moving again, but he was turning back toward the cruiser, shotgun over his shoulder. When he reached the front passenger door, he stopped and looked around, then called out, “Champ! Come Champ! Here boy!”

  Sergeant Baker used his key to unlock the cruiser’s doors. He opened the front door and returned the shotgun to its rack. He next backed out of the car and opened the back door. Baker stepped back and motioned Jim to exit the car, then to turn around.

  When Jim complied he felt his handcuffs being unlocked. Baker patted him on the shoulder and motioned him toward the Mercedes. Jim walked a few paces in that direction then turned to see what happened next.

  When Baker had Mr. Blue outside the car, he removed a pocket knife from his belt and cut the nylon strap. Mr. Blue’s amazed face stared at Jim. When Baker patted him on the back and sent him to the Mercedes, Mr. Blue grinned, shrugged and winked at Jim. Mr. Blue, not one to allow an opportunity to slip by, moved toward the Mercedes’s driver’s door.

  Jim remained as Sister Fran slid across the seat and was freed. Baker then closed the passenger side doors, walked around Jim on his way to the driver’s door, climbed in, placed his hands on the steering wheel in the ten and two positions, and proceeded to sit motionless, staring at nothing.

  By the time Jim turned around, Blue had the car started. He climbed into the front passenger seat and sat speechless as the Mercedes accelerated onto the highway.

  After a full three minutes of dead silence in the car, Jim turned to look at Sister Fran and asked, “What the hell was that?”

  The nun gave him a coy smile and replied, “Why Mr.Braveheart, don’t you believe in miracles?”

  Jim searched her smiling eyes and said, “I do now.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: Charles Winston Merit

  There is a saying, “Choose your friends carefully.” The things I learned as a scribe creating executive summaries demonstrate how the people who run governments allow, often encourage, horrors among people—often even their own. The lack of interest in doing the right thing, and lack of compassion among the megalomaniacs behind government action or inaction, convinced my subconscious to exit the grid long before the idea manifested in my consciousness. By the time I fully understood what had to be done, I realized that some dark, secret part of my mind had been planning how best to provide my personal safety while removing the cloak from the worst sins of the world’s ever-changing cast of egomaniac power brokers.

  To apply leverage against megalomaniacs requires others of the same ilk who disagree with those in power. Volatility, expedience, and danger underlie the core qualities that make this type driven, charming, savvy, and cunning. In short, to befriend these people without a point of reference in their future plans is futile—unless you offer them something they can’t refuse.

  So, several years before skedaddling out of Washington, the land of pork and schemes, I did what I am good at: researched the richest and most powerful people in the country who did not agree with the direction the country was taking. No matter which direction the government took, there are always powerful people who feel disenfranchised, cheated, or lied to.

  Enter one of the most famous ‘bootstrap’ billionaires of the twentieth century, Charles Merit. There is no doubt he made himself a millionaire on his own, but his billions had a helping hand—from an unknown civil servant: me, Jim Tate.

  Charles Merit had grown up poor. Not lower-middle class: dirt poor. His father owned a four-hundred-acre farm in northern Alabama seven dirt-road miles off Highway 90 near Piedmont, Alabama. Charles was barefoot until he started school. He wore hand-me-down shoes and everything else until he graduated from high school and met an Army recruiter in Gadsden.

  Charles thought the US Army wonderful compared to life working the family farm. They slept late and didn’t do any work before breakfast. The army had great food—all the time—and he could eat as much as he wanted, including meat. At first they went to school to learn army things, like finding your way with a compass or by stars at night, or how to shoot. He already knew most of it just from growing up in the country. They walked a fair amount, but not much more than he did going back and forth to the school building near Piedmont. He completed basic infantry training as Highly Qualified, which gave him a leg-up when it came time to become a private first class. He stayed at Ft. Benning, Georgia for another six weeks and completed Advanced Infantry Combat Training and won his private first class stripes along with every other guy in the unit.

  He was better friends with everyone in his squad then he had been with anyone back home.

  Flying Tiger Airlines was a commercial cargo aviation company that was rooted back in the original Flying Tigers in World War II. About the time the number of troops travelling between the US and Vietnam massively increased, a huge block of shares was purchased by an unknown investment group. Those who wanted more trouble than most could handle could follow the stock ownership as it wound from one shell company to another in places like the Isle of Mann, Zurich, Hong Kong, and Nassau. Eventually the trail stopped at the door of Lucy and Linda Johnson, the US president’s daughters. Fortunately, both the risk the Johnson sisters took in buying such a large stake in it, and the risk Flying Tigers took by purchasing new Boeing 707s, paid off as they became the US government’s airline of choice to shuttle thousands of our soldiers back and forth every day.

  Charles Merit knew none of this when his platoon boarded The Flying Tiger 707 at Sea-Tac airport. It refueled in Japan and emptied the newly trained soldiers onto the frantic-paced activity of cargo, ammunitions, and soldiers (alive and dead) on the airstrip at Da Nang on the coast of the Quang Nam Province. From there his platoon was trucked to Hue and then deployed into the jungles. For thirteen months Charles Merit fought the heat, bugs, snakes, diseases, monsoons, and finally the official enemy, the
North Vietnamese soldiers. Truth be told, his platoon rarely engaged troops actually from North Vietnam: the ones they chased, were chased by, attacked, and were attacked by were the Viet Cong, Victor Charles. The VC was a hybrid force of volunteers and forced levies from South Vietnam commanded by NCOs and officers from the North Vietnam regulars. Whatever they were, they were enough for Charles Merit. When his tour of duty ended, he sat in the back of the Flying Tiger 707, which was remarkably silent compared to his flight over. He spent the time remembering each of the thirty-three dead or wounded comrades from his platoon, his best friends.

  He finished his enlistment washing officer’s cars at Ft. Hood, and returned to visit his parents for the first time since he joined up.

  Arriving home, he instantly recognized his home and family for what they were. Good people, but resolved to a life of burden and poverty. They were not the least upset they had lived on this small farm for four generations without—other than electricity and indoor plumbing—any significant improvements. They still worked from dawn to dusk laboring to afford themselves necessities like canned vegetables, repaired clothing, and chopped and hauled wood for heat and cooking.

  Charles realized the army and Vietnam had changed all this for him. Had he never left, he might have remained like them: ignorant but content with their lot. But he was changed, and even if he was the only one in his family to rise from this trap of poverty, he would do what he could to bring the rest of them out of this hole.

  The GI Bill paid for Charles to earn his degree in electrical engineering. He knew two people who owned electrical contract firms, and they were both, by his standards, rich. After graduation he joined a firm outside of Birmingham, but soon was at odds with the owners, who didn’t like a freshly graduated student telling them how to improve their quality. They had secretly abandoned the idea of quality ten years after becoming successful. They were in the business for money. Quality cost money, so the bottom line was: college kid was right and made them remember their own lofty dreams, which was a bad thing because now they were hooked on money. College kid had to go.