Hybrid - Forced Vengeance Read online

  “We won’t have to,” Ross answered calmly. “You’ll see to that won’t you, Mr. Sparks?” It was time to cut through the bullshit. “Your instructions in this matter are quite clear: Get Knight the hell out of the country! We’ll handle the rest without your help.” The colonel headed toward his adjoining office and opened the door, indicating Sparks was to leave. “Good day, Mr. Sparks. I expect to be notified when your task is complete.”

  * * * *

  Sparks was beaten and he knew it. Ross had, somehow, finagled clearance for this black project. He swore that before Erik Knight left the country, Sparks would know how it happened. That knowledge would be an ace up his sleeve. He knew if Erik Knight ever discovered what was going on, the rogue operative would kill everyone involved. Someone over Ross was giving the orders and pulling the strings. A two or three star general level someone, perhaps? The type of black ops contained within the brief he’d read were the substance of poor science fiction movies in which the government was motivated by evil.

  Michael Sparks smiled as he walked to his car. The writers of those B Grade movies had no idea how close to the real truth they actually were. Somehow, deep down, that fact bothered him. In his mind he traveled back to his first year or two with the OSA, remembering how enthusiastic he was about serving his country. After three short years, he had become skeptical and disillusioned about how things really operated inside the beltway of Washington. After thirty-five years with the OSA, he felt as if he no longer had a soul. Individual rights meant nothing; immoral and unethical conduct could be justified as easily as blowing the snot out of his nose.

  Sparks headed back to his office. Several calls had to be made and informants shaken down. Somebody high up in the food chain was pulling Ross’s strings. He would find out who it was – and more importantly, why.

  Chapter 3: Gestation Day 11

  A long time jailed

  Staff Sergeant Phelps served for nearly eleven years in the Air Force at the Groom Lake facility and he still could not get used to the idea of working on extra terrestrial projects. A science fiction fan, he knew every episode of Star Trek by heart, but even after seven years of black ops at Area 51, he never got used to the fact: ‘We are not alone.’

  The phrase was proven daily in his latest assignment; care and comfort of Specimen 4 – the only remaining survivor from the military’s first successful attempt to down an unidentified flying object using a Sentinel Battle Satellite prototype.

  The Sentinel Battle Satellite was the product of billions of dollars of black ops funding combined with the minute amount of alien technology the military was able to glean from the Roswell incident of the mid–twentieth century. NASA engineers duplicated the alien ‘radar’ at a base level, and adapted the most sophisticated human tracking devices to operate at inhuman wavelengths. The military could now track incoming UFOs to some limited degree and potentially they could also blast the invaders from the sky.

  Five months after its deployment, Sentinel reported an incoming vector. As the UFO passed within 1000 kilometers of Sentinel, the satellite unleashed its firepower on the unsuspecting ship. The bright blue lance of energy pierced the alien hull and devastated the craft’s instruments.

  The alien ship fell from orbit, burning through reentry to crash into the Pacific Ocean. The United States had captured its first flying saucer and established a successful Star Wars defense platform.

  Two of four alien pilots had died upon impact, while two donned space suits that protected them from the cold water and pressures of the deep sea. After only one week, one of the aliens expired, but Specimen 4 had survived and was now held in captivity.

  During its time in captivity the military had learned that the alien was telepathic and could put thoughts into men’s heads. An electromagnetic canopy was placed around the cell to scramble telepathic transmissions. An herbivore, Specimen 4 was found to have the most unusual dietary requirements. Alkaloid compounds and starch were essential to its body chemistry. Specimen 4 dined on a variety of poisonous plants and had a special fondness for poison ivy and bananas.

  * * * *

  Specimen 4 was watching with intense curiosity as the cell directly across from its own was carefully prepared. Several instruments were set up along with a bed and other amenities humans liked. Afterwards, Sergeant Phelps remained to see that everything was ready for the new occupant.

  Why are you preparing that cell, Arthur?

  Phelps turned around to face the alien prisoner.

  Hi, Gray. You’re getting a roommate in a few days. The sergeant focused his will through the electromagnetic curtain that surrounded Specimen 4’s detention cell.

  Arthur Phelps was a telepath, only he hadn’t become aware of his ability until he started tending Specimen 4. Although the electromagnetic curtain effectively dampened the alien’s ability to transmit images and thought, a willing, sensitive recipient could establish limited close-range communication. At first Phelps felt he should report his initial contact with the creature, but then, after several telepathic discussions, a deep pity and empathy for his charge surfaced. The ability to use his gift was stimulating and he wanted to exercise it as much as possible.

  It didn’t take long for alien and human to become friendly. Phelps had no real family and was an oddball among his peers, and the alien seemed to enjoy his company.

  Have you captured another Observer? Specimen 4, nicknamed Gray, wanted his human keeper to share information with him.

  Phelps forced his thoughts through the electronic barrier. No, a human – but from what little I’ve been told a very special human. I never get the full story. I’m too far down the chain of command. I just do what I’m told.

  Gray smiled. May I attempt to communicate with this human?

  The human will be comatose, in a kind of deep sleep inside a stasis field like yours so I don’t know if communication will be possible. I don’t even know if the person has any telepathic potential but they’ve gone to great lengths to install another shield so I’d have to assume it likely. I’m sure your cell mate will welcome the company although you may take a bit of getting used to. Phelps returned Gray’s smile.

  You have said that I am gifted in the art of conversation and intellectual discussion. I am confident this human will find me no different.

  The sergeant laughed at the almost innocent arrogance in Gray’s answer and he raised his hands in a surrendering motion. That you are, Gray. Do you need anything before I knock off for the evening? More ivy? How about a few bananas?

  Thank you, no. I am well fed. Sleep well, Arthur.

  Sergeant Arthur Phelps winked at his friend and closed the heavy titanium door behind him. “You, too.” He whispered the words to himself, adding, “If this new subject becomes a top priority you’ve just become expendable. Nothing good happens to yesterday’s news around here.”

  Phelps hustled through the cavernous facility and headed toward his quarters at the other end of Groom Lake.

  Chapter 4: Gestation Day 29

  This mission, if you choose to accept….

  Erik Knight slumped over the barstool, nursing his drink while his mind drifted … to other places and other thoughts. Going to DJ’s bar in Milford became a way to avoid his apartment where Shanda’s scent still lingered in every corner; no matter how thoroughly he cleaned, his ultra sensitive nose could detect even the slightest trace of her clinging to some pillow.

  A disturbance from across the bar snapped him out of his melancholy. The bikers that had been frequenting DJ’s for the past week had a knack for causing trouble.

  The bartender moaned. “Every damn night.” He shook he head as the grotesque, fat bearded men harassed the young female clientele.

  Erik glanced at the commotion then at the bartender. “Allow me.” Grabbing the cue-ball from the nearest pool table, he approached the six men.

  “Gentlemen,” Erik began, “your behavior in this establishment is unacceptable and furthermore it’s disturbi
ng my peace and quiet.”

  One of the bikers groping a blonde, tossed her into a booth and met him half way across the room. “And just what do you propose to do about it, asshole?”

  Erik smirked, held up the cue ball and crushed it to powder, letting fragments and dust fall onto the carpet. Popping each knuckle in his right hand, he added, “Gentlemen, I’m in a particularly foul humor this evening and welcome the opportunity to take my frustrations out on all of you.” He reached toward a pool table and grabbed the nearest ball. Again, he casually crushed the ball to powder. “That’s just so you don’t think the first time was a fluke.”

  The biker’s jaw dropped as he watched the residual powder float gently down in the stale air. Then the biker raised his head and looked into the eyes of the terror standing in front of them.

  His pupils were gone, replaced by two embers of pale blue fire. “Now get the hell out of here before I do the same thing to your skulls,” Erik commanded the bikers.

  The stunned bikers gathered their belongings and timidly made their way to the parking lot.

  Erik went back to his barstool. “Sam,” he said as he gestured toward his empty glass, “one more time.”

  “Since when did you start hitting the bottle?” a familiar voice asked from the shadows. Erik turned, his enhanced eyes instantly compensating for the darkness.

  “You, of all people, should know that you can’t hide from me. in the dark.” He addressed the silhouette lurking in the shadows as the bartender brought over a fresh drink. Erik took a deep swig and sighed with satisfaction. He gestured the man in the shadows toward a vacant barstool. “Well, come on, pull up a chair, Counselor Denton; the first round is on me.” Erik looked toward the bartender. “Sam, the same for my friend, please.”

  The bartender nodded as Martin Denton sat. The ‘suit’ that always accompanied Denton stood watch by the doorway, constantly scanning the room for any signs of a threat.

  * * * *

  Martin Denton studied his friend. Erik sported bags under his eyes, and a two-week growth of wiry stubble covered his lower face and neck. He also spotted the tribal band tattoo that now adorned his friend’s right upper arm. “When did you get that?” he asked, nodding at the tattoo just as the bartender brought his drink.

  “Shanda was always after me to get one. I had made the appointment and was going to surprise her with it. It was something she really wanted me to have.” He gulped from his drink again and cocked a brow at his friend’s concern.

  “How many have you had, son?”

  Erik picked up the glass, stirring the ice with a subtle twist of his wrist. “This is my third, but they always need to put a lot of ice in it because I like ‘em real cold.”

  “What are we drinking?” Denton eyed the dark concoction.

  “RC Cola with a shot of lime juice.” Erik drained the contents from his glass and placed it on the counter. “DJ’s is the only place in town that carries this brand. Shanda got me hooked on it. God, Martin, I miss her so much.”

  “That’s perfectly normal, Erik. You’ll always have a place for her in your heart.”

  “That’s the problem; we were linked telepathically, bonded together in a way you couldn’t understand. Now all I have is a shattered hole in my mind where her essence used to be. There are times late at night, when I’m alone, that I can somehow still feel a small spark of her inside of me where there was once a roaring fire. When I try to focus on that spark, I lose it.” The detective’s eyes began to tear.

  Martin put a gentle hand on his friend’s shoulder. “The pain will ease. You’ll never forget her, and there will always be an empty place in your heart that only she could fill, but as time passes, the ache will lessen and only the fond memories will remain. That’s how it was when my Helen passed on. We had thirty-eight wonderful years – not bonded telepathically, but after almost four decades she knew what I was thinking and how I felt, almost before I did at times.” He sipped his ice-cold beverage and raised an eyebrow as the cola slid down his throat. “Shanda was onto something.” He smiled. “This isn’t half bad.”

  Erik returned the smile with a grin, then he swallowed the dregs and set the empty glass back on the coaster. “I assume this isn’t simply a social call?”

  “I wish I could lie to you and say that it was, but I’m afraid we have a situation and the Pentagon requested a certain agent embark on an extended field assignment.”

  “That’s not the nature of our mutual understanding. I’ve got four other cases I’m dealing with right now, though none of them have gotten their just due in some time. I need to get back to work, get my mind occupied. I really don’t want a long-term op. I did a month with the Saudi’s, and I don’t think the Saudi Prince or the rest of the royal family will ever recover from it.”

  “I understand your reluctance, but this is a level 1 Alpha priority.”

  “Skip the CIA jargon. They fucked something up big time and need me to go in and cleanup. That seems to be the bulk of my operations lately, damage control.” Erik’s sour tone filled his ears but he didn’t care, it was the truth as far as Erik was concerned.

  “I won’t argue that,” the elder attorney conceded, “but I also won’t underplay the importance of this particular assignment. We have a legitimate situation that I’d rather not explain here. Tomorrow at your office. I’ll even buy lunch, provided Jeff is cooking.” Denton gave a curt nod as if it was a done deal.

  “Jeff is always cooking,” Erik said with a pointed look. Jeff owned and operated Madame’s Restaurant, and during the whole time Erik had lived and worked there, the man never went a day without fussing over something in the kitchen. “My booth, around 11:30?”

  “Agreed,” Denton replied as he removed his suit jacket. “And now my young friend, I’m going to kick your ass in the manly game of eight ball.” He sauntered toward the rack of cue sticks.

  “Not in this life.” Erik laid four crisp twenties on the bar. “Sam?” Once he had the attention of the bartender he added, “See that big suit over in the corner,” he pointed directly at Martin’s bodyguard. “Anything he wants; put it on my tab.” Erik looked over at the suit and nodded curtly. The suit nodded back and smiled as a young waitress walked over to take his order.

  * * * *

  The next morning, Erik sat in his booth nursing a cup of coffee and waiting for Denton to arrive. The clock behind the cash register read 11:29 and Denton was a man who never, ever was tardy for an appointment. As if on cue, the old man and his ever-present body guard walked in the doorway. Denton sat in the detective’s booth while the suit seated himself directly across at a table set for two people.

  “Good morning, counselor.” Erik raised his coffee cup in greeting.

  “And to you, Erik. What’s good on the menu? I’m famished.” Denton picked up a menu.

  “Brunch will be out shortly,” Erik gestured toward a waitress.

  “You’ve taken the liberty of ordering?” Denton asked.

  “Jeff took it upon himself to prepare some of his specialty dishes.”

  “Excellent!” Denton beamed. “I rarely get to eat a decent meal.”

  Erik snickered. Martin Denton had running tabs in several of Boston’s finer dining establishments.

  “Why don’t we cut right to the chase and you tell me exactly what I need to do, and how long I’m going to be out of the country.”

  Denton reached for the coffee carafe, poured himself a cup of coffee and stirred in two packets of sugar, clinking the sides of the mug with the spoon. “Six to eight months,” he whispered.

  Erik blinked in disbelief. “What the hell will I be doing that’s going to take six to eight months?” he said, louder than he had intended.

  Several faces turned toward the booth. Erik could sense the counselor’s discomfort as they drew more attention.

  “Let’s continue this in my office,” Erik suggested, barely keeping a grip on his growing anger. His arrangement with Denton, Marques and Priscoli was
for short-term ops, usually a month or less. Eight months undercover was bordering on foolhardy. In this age of hi-tech information gathering, even the most disorganized terrorist and criminal groups could identify a plant within a month. Three months was a death sentence, and six months was sheer stupidity.

  Both men stood up and headed for his office in the back of Madame’s Restaurant, followed closely by Denton’s suit.

  “We’ll be dining in my office,” Erik informed the waitress as they entered the narrow hallway that led to his place of business.

  * * * *

  Denton seated himself on a large sofa directly across from Erik who sat behind his desk with his feet up. Denton’s bodyguard silently stood guard by the doorway, his eyes hidden by dark sunglasses.

  “Okay, Martin, out with it,” Erik said as, between his fingers he deftly maneuvered the silver dollar he kept in his desk.

  Denton cleared his throat and began. “First let me state that I was against this, and fought it as hard as I could. The importance attached to this mission is Alpha One Prime, directly from the White House chief of staff. Right now the United States and Europe are on shaky diplomatic ground. The Arabs hate us, the French have bailed on us more than occasion and even Canada is giving us a hard time diplomatically.”

  “I know that.” Erik let out a sigh of frustration. “Anyone who reads a paper knows that. The war didn’t make us many friends, but that doesn’t mean we should have sat on our asses and let some third world bureaucrats dictate our national policy. I can speak to the Arab’s sentiments firsthand.”