Alien Agenda: Why They Came, Why They Stayed Read online

  Most of the day she sits on a Hello Kitty pillow in the middle of a muted hooked rug, aligning then realigning cat’s-eye marbles. She has a pink, draw-string bag containing about one hundred marbles, but she always chooses nine to play with. Not always the same nine, but never more or less.

  Though Melanie does not speak, she is not mute. Music plays softly in her room. She is calmer when music plays. It doesn’t matter if it is rock-and-roll, salsa, classics, or marching bands so long as it is not loud. On rare, random occasions she hums a tune in perfect pitch exactly as she heard it. If the tune is played again and a single note is changed, her humming catches and duplicates the changed note. Play a long piece of music, change ten, twenty notes, it does not matter. Melanie never misses a beat. She does this while aligning marbles.

  “School” for Melanie is two ‘classes’ a day. Each may last ten minutes or several hours depending upon her engagement. She usually sits studying and realigning her marbles and seems not to notice the stimuli used to tempt her participation. No one knows what might trigger her interest. The teachers and caretakers try everything: visual, sound, motion, objects, images, smells, tactile contact, music, film, TV, other kids, other adults, the list is virtually endless. On rare occasion she will engage. Her first response to a stimulus was humming to music. When she was encouraged to hum to music she showed no interest whatsoever, but now and then, something clicks and she hums her perfect tunes in her little-girl voice.

  Once she reacted at the end of a National Geographic documentary. Her caretaker felt she wanted a pencil and paper pad. The caretaker placed them on the floor next to the marbles. Melanie pivoted on her pillow, picked up the pencil, and began doodling disembodied shapes and shadows at what appeared to be random places on the paper. Three hours later she went to the bathroom.

  Returning, she plopped down on Hello Kitty and started replacing the nine marbles that were out with nine from the bag. The sketch pad contained elements from the TV documentary, drawn perfectly and in amazing detail. The Eiffel Tower, pyramids at Giza, Empire State building, Statue of Liberty, the Mayan pyramid at Chichen Itza, Great Wall of China, and a dozen other famous things from the National Geographic TV show. These were the main elements, and each stood out from a background of indigenous people, animals, houses, and plants. The drawing filled an 11” x 17” sheet from edge to edge, and was a stunning, almost photographic rendering of what she had seen. The most incredible thing about it was that when a map of the world as seen from orbit was projected on it, each major element was placed geographically correctly.

  Melanie was the straw that broke this camel’s back.

  I have never met her. I have seen three photos of her taken at various ages. Her copper-colored hair is cut short and oddly thin. Melanie’s head is a little too large, too round, making her chin look more pointed than it is. Her trunk and limbs seem too long and thin. Her small nose and mouth make her large eyes look bigger and farther apart than they are. Other than that she has a sweet, kindhearted look. It is hard not to like her.

  She actually looks more like an anime character than someone with Down’s syndrome. Because of my involvement in all of this, I knew the instant I glanced at the first photo of Melanie. She is a hybrid.

  How she came to be is the last straw for me. Now hear this.

  Melanie’s mother and father were stationed at Travis Air Force Base north of San Francisco Bay in 1998, the year Melanie was born. In her third month, Mom tells the doctor about strange dreams where little people come in the night and examine her. She tells the doctor the little men don’t talk to her but she knows they want to make sure the baby is alright. The doctor laughs and accuses her of eating too many pickles at bedtime and tells her not to worry about it. A nurse in the room hears the story and retells it to a friend at the officer’s club over cosmos. The friend tells it to someone in her office who is into reading about abductions and he e-mails friends about it.

  It didn’t have to be an e-mail. It could have been a text message or a conversation on a cell phone. Do you know about the government program to intercept terrorist communications? I will tell you a little.

  The system appears simple. In a small office in a government building in Kansas City, Missouri a man works with a keyboard and a monitor. The walls are lined with shelves containing various numbers of every component necessary to build a computer like the two in the center of the room.

  Each one is about the same size as a Maytag washing machine. The two computers are linked to each other so they each know what the other is doing but only one, Prime, works at a time. The backup only works when Prime has a problem.

  The man has two functions: monitor the internal performance of Prime and keep it functional. Occasionally, when a part has to be upgraded or replaced, the man transfers operations and the second computer becomes Prime until the work is completed.

  Cables run from the computers into the conduit in the wall then down to below street level and emerge from another wall more than one thousand miles away. A wireless, secure, satellite-transmission system exists in the Kansas City facility, but is only used in emergencies.

  This is the heart of a system that monitors every cell-phone call, text message, and e-mail sent anywhere in the world.

  I do not know where the cables emerge from the second wall, but I have an idea of what happens there.

  Voice-recognition software is used everyday. Every time you call a service and the automated voice ask you to say ‘yes’ or ‘back to main menu’, you are using the technology. Well, a rudimentary version of it.

  Someone operating the Prime computer provides it a list of words or phrases to find and report. Prime translates that list into about 100 languages and then listens to cell-phone calls and reads text and e-mails. Nothing is safe.

  As incoming messages trigger key words, Prime assigns priority codes. The number of trigger words in a message, the language in which the message was communicated, and the locations of the sender and receiver all figure into the priority.

  The prioritized messages are read, cross-referenced with previous communication, and reported to the CIA, FBI, and the Pentagon, again, using secure hard lines.

  At the Pentagon the list is subdivided by type and distributed to a number of departments.

  What the FBI, CIA, and Pentagon don’t know is there is a fourth place that receives messages with a special set of keywords. This is the place that received the e-mail about Melanie’s mom’s dreams. This instigated an initial investigation, which led to the assignment of the special doctor and nurse who are engaged in a secret government program to create psychic warriors for the future. None of the babies they steal are really intended to be psychic warriors. They are currency in the negotiations with the HUC.

  By the time Melanie’s mom is at six months, her doctor is transferred to Afghanistan and the nurse that handles the sonogram has already been replaced. The new doctor is young, a graduate of John Hopkins, and Mom feels good about the change.

  The delivery is unusual. Melanie’s mom is having problems, and it is all she can do to hang on. She has little inclination to focus on her surroundings. The only people she would have recognized in the delivery room are the young doctor and Nurse Sonogram.

  She comes out of the anesthesia. Her husband is red-eyed, sitting by her bed. The doctor tells her what the husband already knows. Her baby died at birth. Later, after she recovers, the doctor explains how sometimes these things happen. Later still, she is allowed to see a dead baby. The funeral is tragic: the tiny coffin, the canned service by a base chaplain. Melanie’s mom went home wondering about all the things she did wrong in her life to cause this.

  Melanie is alive and well. She, the young doctor, and nurse were choppered to an unknown location, which is Melanie’s new world.

  It is bad enough to have placed all this on Mom’s shoulders. Worse still, someone else’s baby was murdered so Mom would have a body to bury.

  I am too old. Twenty years ago, r
eading the reports and typing the summary, I would have been annoyed at the arrogance of the people who could do this. Now, it makes me angry—angry enough to do something about it.

  It turns out Melanie is a very special little girl. She is the trillion-dollar jackpot on the alien slot machine. Rolled into one small, Hello Kitty-loving, ten year old is a being with the potential to fill all three seats necessary to navigate craft safely between dimensions.

  Melanie is the only one of her kind so far. Statistically, she is the winning ticket in a cosmic lottery where it requires a half page of zeros to show the odds. With the HUC improving their genetics program the odds are in freefall. At some point the HUC’s medical teams may better target humans having genetic tendencies and improve their manipulations to where one out of ten efforts produces a winner. At that point, human economics will center on raising and training the winning numbers.

  For the present, the HUC seems content to produce a child competent to fill one of the three seats. Melanie is the triple-crown winner.

  But what are they winning?

  The HUC needs, for lack of a better phrase, flight crews: entities with incredible focus and memories. Each crew consists of a person on Harmony, another on Photography, and finally, a Detailer.

  Using HUC craft that move with dimensional portal fluctuations (doorways), the flight crews are plugged into machinery. Literally, they are plugged in. In addition to recycling and oxygenating their blood, providing nourishment and providing waster, their brains are plugged into portal translation devices that allow them to see, feel, smell, virtually touch the ever-morphing fabric of quantum nothingness between dimensions.

  Portal is a misnomer. This area of various forms of radiation and energy fields can connect to millions of dimensions. The connection ranges from a powerful singularity that nearly pulls other dimensions into itself to frail, weak, and fragile signs that only whispers hints of a doorway. For now, we will stick with portal.

  Portals to discovered dimensions are recorded. Their Harmonics, light fluctuations, radiation, and fields are played into the flight crew’s minds. Using their senses and talents, each crew member searches the ever-shifting portal to find the one set of criteria that matches what in on the recording. Once the crew member has it, they lock on and determine at what point the portal’s rhythm will exactly match the recording. When all three crew members coordinate synchronization, the craft projects electromagnetic plasma that stabilizes the portal between two specific dimensions. Viewed from either dimension, the doorway appears to open and close in a blink. In reality, the HUC craft freezes time in that bit of space long enough for other craft to pop through.

  Pop is not an oversimplification of what happens. The craft traversing dimensions ‘pops’ out of one and into another. Now you see it, now you don’t. Now someone somewhere else sees it.

  All craft are designed with navigational devices that direct their ‘pop-ins’ to previously known points. This usually results in the craft appearing in orbit around a specific planet or plasma cloud or wherever the craft is going to trade, mine, or conquer. Sometimes things go wrong and the craft appears in space beneath a planet’s surface, or under a sea. This can result in the pop being followed by a ‘snap, crackle, crunch.’

  It’s quite possible the UFO downed at Roswell was popping in or out when the Rainbow Projector disrupted the navigation device and they popped into the ground.

  So creating the humans and other life forms that can find and open portals is essential to the HUC’s economy. The good news is they have become quite good at doing this.

  The bad news is that, for reasons unknown to us, we believe the flight crews have relatively short lifespans once they began manipulating portals. The HUC accepts this as a cost of doing business. It’s likely they have genetic or some other mutating operations taking place on anywhere from thousands to millions of planets in every parallel universe where life has been discovered.

  While Melanie would be the champion Portal Crew member of all time, that’s not the reason she is so valuable. If they were able to clone her genetics, they might improve their mutation programs to a success rate that tripled the number of flight crew members available from the same quantity of genetic farming.

  At least the illuminati in our government believe this, and have sequestered Melanie as the prize chip in any future negotiations.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: N. Fairfax Drive, Arlington, VA

  “Missing aircraft,” one of the younger Team Intercept members called out, leaning back and rubbing his eyes.

  As Kate approached, he continued, “N321DC. Flight plan from Huntsville to Miami. It dropped off Pensacola radar over the Gulf. That was about three hours ago.”

  “Good job,” Kate said, patting his shoulder and leaning closer to see the screen.

  She stood erect and said to the young woman to her right, “Heather, find out who we have in Huntsville, get ‘em on the phone and patch them to my headset.”

  Turning back toward the display nearest her she said, “Okay, what do we know about that….?”

  Tom Cray cut her off from his worktable. “N321DC is registered to the Merit Electronics Corporation.”

  “… plane,” she finished her sentence then added, “Shit. Double shit, shit, shit. That old fuck has half of Congress at his troughs.” She paused, thinking, then added, “Why would Charles Merit have anything to do with this?”

  Tom hit his enter button and said under his breath, “Something goes missing that causes the greatest manhunt in recorded history and the same day a multibillionaire’s plane drops off the radar and vanishes. Coincidence? I think not.”

  Kate’s headset buzzed. “Heather, please get me what we have on Mr. Merit,” she said, before turning her attention to the FBI agent in Huntsville, Alabama.

  Before she hung up the phone, Tom started talking, “N321DC, it’s a Falcon 900. It can cruise at 600 miles per hour, give or take, and has a range of 5,000 miles with internal and can be extended another 2,000 with external tanks. Which means there are a lot of places they can pop up.”

  Kate gave a great sigh and dialed TLS. This was not going to be fun. Before he finished saying ‘Hello,’ Kate waded in, filling in the details and ending with the suggestion Homeland Security engage Interpol to monitor all aircraft landings within a 7,000 mile radius of Mobile, Alabama.

  Then, just like clockwork, TLS began a barrage of questions to which Kate had no answers or she would have already told him. Once he understood she did not have the answers, his next ploy was to ask for her best guess to a particular question, then Kate would tell him speculation usually leads to wasted time and money and he would raise his voice two levels thinking that this time it might impact Kate. It never did.

  Tom had pulled up some data on Merit. He had to admit if Merit was involved in this and James Tate was behind it, then Tate kept powerful company. He wondered what Tate could have possibly offered Merit that would make him risk imprisonment.

  “Guys,” Kate announced, “I’m leaving normal duties with the FBI center for the time being. I want all of you to go home, get some rest, then be back here in eight hours.” She looked at each of them, “We are going to be in for the duration once that plane lands.”

  As they stood up to leave, Kate opened the file on her desktop. The PDF document was so sensitive it had been put together by one of the government’s scribes, maybe even Tate himself. A red stamp across the top of the first page read, ‘Congressional Influence,’ another stamp, this one purple just below the red one read, “Presidential Influence.”

  The title of the paper was Charles Winston Merit.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWENTY-SIX: Aboard N321DC

  Jim Sees had fallen asleep as the three-engine jet slashed through the air over the Gulf of Mexico. When he woke, he stood up to use the toilet and noticed the other passengers were all asleep except for Merit, who was engrossed in a thick book titled The Arms of Krupp.

  When he came out of the toilet, Char
les Merit was looking at him. The white-haired man smiled and winked then went back to his book.

  Sees sat, raised the shade on his window, and looked down. Thirty thousand feet below him clouds appeared as white islands on a sea of green. Ten thousand feet below the clouds was an endless, green carpet covering everything to the Earth’s curved horizon. As he studied the piece he saw through his small porthole, Jim made out occasional rivers and tiny clearings that might have been towns or villages.

  “The world is different from up here,” Charles Merit said softly, his northern Alabama accent sounding the last work as ‘he-ah’. He did not allow Jim the opportunity to respond, “It almost makes me believe in God.”

  Jim looked at him, trying to decide what, if anything, he wanted to say.

  Merit locked eyes with Jim and offered his annoying little smile that made him look wise and smug at the same time. “If I was God, this is where I would be when I wanted to look at my garden.” Merit pointed a finger at the view beyond the window. “When you get too close you see all the bugs eating your creation.”

  “And we are the bugs?” Jim asked, leaning toward the side of the plane to put a little distance between himself and this man who would be God.

  “On no, Mr. Sees. We aren’t that big in the scheme of God’s garden.” He looked at Jim to see if he seemed interested in hearing more. He didn’t, so Merit rose and turned to go back to his seat.

  “What are we then?” Jim Sees surprised himself when that question tumbled out of his mouth.

  Merit bent back down and said, “Why, Mr. Sees, we are cells in the bugs’ bloodstreams. Civilizations are the bugs.”

  The cockpit door opened and the pilot approached Merit. They were landing in an hour. Merit nodded and returned to his seat.