Saucer (20 page)

“That close to the rocket exhaust, their eardrums may have burst,” Egg muttered.

“Have a nice day,” Egg said to the first one as he walked by, going around the house toward the cars parked in the drive.

“Hope the damage is permanent,” Rip told the last one, who didn’t even look at him.

C
HAPTER
T
WELVE

First Lieutenant Raymond Stockert never forgot that morning. For the remainder of his life he would marvel at the combination of luck and fate that put him over central Missouri in an F-16 at the precise moment that a flying saucer came rocketing up from beneath him, missing his plane by a scant hundred yards.

It had been one of those mornings. The military had gone to Defense Condition One, DEFCON ONE—war alert—during the wee hours. Raymond had been awakened at home and ordered to report to his National Guard squadron ready to fly.

The evening before he had been watching the great saucer scare on television, along with every other sentient creature on the North American continent, but he didn’t connect this alert to the scare until he got to the squadron.

The skipper was in a rare mood. “Okay, guys. Here is how it is: Washington has ordered all the planes armed. Each of you will be assigned a sector to patrol. You will take off, patrol your sector until fuel requires you to return or you are relieved on station.”

“And?” someone asked incredulously. None of the pilots believed this spiel. This was a gag, of course, but what a gag! For this they had forfeited a night’s sleep?

“And,” said the skipper, “if you see a flying saucer, shoot it down.”

His pilots gaped at the colonel as if he had lost his mind.

“Honestly, those are the orders. Shoot flying saucers on sight. That said, I don’t want any of you clowns shooting at anything but flying saucers. Anyone who shoots at an airliner had better not come back.”

So instead of counting pills behind the pharmacy counter of the supermarket where he labored five days a week, fifty weeks a year, this morning Raymond Stockert was in the cockpit of an F-16 over central Missouri, ready to fire the first shot in the war of the worlds. This was his second patrol this morning. And, by all that’s holy, here directly in front of him going straight up like a giant bottle rocket was a real, genuine, honest-to-God flying saucer.

Raymond flipped on the master armament switch as he pulled the nose of his fighter into the vertical and slammed the throttle forward into afterburner. Amazingly—the luck of some people!—the saucer was only ten degrees or so off the axis of the airplane. He used both hands on the stick to wrestle the nose toward it.

Sure enough, the first wingtip Sidewinder locked on the saucer’s exhaust plume and Raymond heard a tone in his ears.

He squeezed off the heat seeker. The missile shot forward in a gout of fire and smoke. The second Sidewinder locked on too, and Raymond thought, In for a nickel, in for a dollar, and fired it.

With both missiles chasing the saucer into the morning sky, Raymond Stockert sat watching until his fighter ran out of airspeed. He was going through forty-two thousand feet at that time, so he rolled onto his left wing and let the nose come down.

When he last saw the saucer, it was merely a brilliant spot of light in the heavens, going off toward the east.

Raymond had no idea what happened to the missiles he had fired.

• • •

Charley Pine didn’t see the F16, but she saw the first Sidewinder, which for some reason failed to guide on the exhaust plume. As it flashed by the canopy she recognized it for what it was.

She didn’t see the second missile, which fortunately ran out of fuel just seconds before it would have intercepted the saucer. It passed harmlessly through the saucer’s exhaust several hundred yards below it.

Charley Pine had been toying with the thought of hovering the saucer over a ship at sea and jumping through the hatch, leaving Hedrick and Rigby to their own devices, but the missile instantly clarified her thinking. Australia suddenly seemed like a solid idea.

She kept the juice full on, accelerating at about four G’s. The computer profile led her upward with a gradual tilt of the nose eastward. She flew the saucer manually: She didn’t want Hedrick to discover that the computer would fly the saucer on whatever profile the pilot wished.

Hedrick and Rigby stayed glued to the aft bulkhead, pinned there by the G. The blue of the sky gradually grew darker as the saucer roared out of the earth’s atmosphere.

Checking the health of the systems, flipping back and forth between computer presentations—merely by thinking about it—Charley flew into space.

The ride into orbit took a bit more than fifteen minutes. When orbital velocity was obtained, Charley shut down the rocket engines.

Hedrick and Rigby floated up from the bulkhead.

Hedrick laughed, a loud, happy laugh. Rigby pushed himself toward Charley, snarling, “You slut! I’m going to make you pay—”

“That’s enough, Rigby,” Hedrick declared.

“Yeah,” said Charley Pine. “Cork it, asshole.”

“Please, Ms. Pine, let’s not beard the lion.” And Hedrick laughed again. He pushed off with his feet and shot across the cabin, all the while roaring his delight.

Through the canopy she could see the eastern seaboard of the United States pass below, although a cloud cover obscured much of the Atlantic. Through occasional rifts one caught glimpses of ocean, a deep blue hue, almost black.

She turned the saucer so that the sun shone full upon her. She was excited, as she always was when she flew the saucer. She took a deep breath, let it out slowly.

Hedrick was beside her now, looking through the canopy. Rigby had retreated to a seat, where he strapped himself in.

“An experience of a lifetime,” Hedrick said. “I’m so glad I lived to see this.”

What the heck. Charley rotated the saucer so he could see the earth passing below, then got busy with the computer plotting reentry.

“About twenty minutes,” she told him. “Then we start the reentry burn. Better find a seat before then.”

“Couldn’t we do a complete orbit?”

“The scenery is fantastic but the company leaves a lot to be desired. We’re going to Australia when we hit the reentry window. I am guessing on the time. The computer isn’t programmed with our minutes and seconds.”

“Okay, Ms. Pine,” Hedrick said reluctantly and pushed off for a seat. “You’re the pilot.”

• • •

After Hedrick’s thugs drove away, Rip and Egg sat on the porch without speaking, each occupied with his own thoughts.

Finally, Rip took out his wallet and counted the cash it contained. “Uncle Egg, could you lend me three thousand dollars?”

“Going somewhere?”

“Australia.”

“We’ll have to go into town. I’ll write a check at the bank.”

Rip stood and dusted off the seat of his jeans. Then he wiped his eyes. “I’m ready now,” he muttered.

“Saw an article about Hedrick in one of those investment magazines down at my dentist’s, maybe two or three weeks ago. He has a place west of Sydney, if I remember correctly. Lots of stone and glass and shapely young women. I specifically remember the women.”

“Maybe we can stop by the dentist’s. I’d like to have that article.”

“Sure. And I better lock up the house. No telling who heard that thing climbing out of here.”

After he retrieved his passport and new clothes from his bedroom, Rip strolled out to the pickup while Egg went through the house locking doors and turning off lights. He was standing there when a pickup roared in and slid to a halt with a spray of gravel.

“Did you see that thing?” the man at the wheel shouted. He pointed at the sky in the general direction in which the saucer had disappeared. “One of them flyin’ saucers?”

“Yeah.” Rip turned to point. “Went right down that runway there and then…” He made a gesture skyward with his right hand. “Went swooping up, clean out of sight. Darndest thing I ever saw.”

“Say, I haven’t seen you around here before, have I?”

The man at the wheel was wearing bib overalls and a T-shirt. On his head was a cap bearing a John Deere logo.

“I’m Egg’s nephew. Name’s Rip.”

The man eyed him suspiciously. “The TV says maybe those saucers are dumping aliens around, like in the movies. Maybe they’re gonna try to take over. How do I know you’re who you say?”

Egg heard that remark. As he strode up carrying a suitcase, he called, “Lemuel, haven’t I told you a dozen times to stay the hell off my property? I don’t want you over here sniffing around.”

“I seen that saucer, Cantrell, and—”

“Aliens! You fool. If I had a couple I’d sic ’em on you. Turn that thing around and get out of here before I call the law.”

As Lemuel was turning his truck, Egg called, “And fix that hole in the fence that your bull comes through, you skinflint. I think you’re running that animal over here on purpose to eat my grass.”

Lemuel got his pickup underway in another shower of gravel.

“Let’s go,” Egg told Rip, jerking his head toward his own pickup. “We’ll lock the gate on the way out.”

• • •

“General De Laurio, Space Command reports that a vehicle just went into orbit from a location in central Missouri. Liftoff was about twenty minutes ago. It is in orbit now, engines secured. Preliminary reports on the wire services seem to indicate the vehicle was extremely loud and saucer-shaped.”

De Laurio was back in the West Wing of the White House. He had sent home for a clean uniform and a toothbrush. Two hours ago he went over to the Pentagon for a short nap. P.J. O’Reilly gave him a cold stare as he left. He felt as if he were abandoning the women and children aboard the Titanic while he rowed away in the only lifeboat, but he had to get a little sleep.

“It’s in orbit now?” Bombing Joe asked the Pentagon duty officer.

“Yes, sir. Achieved a sustainable orbit about five minutes ago. And General, apparently a National Guard F-16 on patrol over Missouri fired two Sidewinder missiles at it.”

“What? Say that again.”

The duty officer did so.

“Who ordered armed patrols?”

“I believe that order came from the White House, sir.”

“Who gave permission to open fire?”

“Sir, that came from the White House.”

“Cancel it,” De Laurio shouted. “Keep all those trigger-happy morons on the ground. What if they shoot down a United jet?”

“Well, sir, I think the White House understood that risk when—”

“You don’t know these people. No one over there would take an iota of responsibility for an accident like that. Get all those airplanes on the ground and keep them there. That’s a direct order. I’ll take the responsibility.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll pass the Missouri launch stuff on to the president. How are we doing on springing that UFO team in Libya?”

“State has people talking to them now. We’ll know more in about a half hour.”

“Call me back.”

“Yes, sir.”

Bombing Joe found O’Reilly in his office. “A National Guard F-16 over Missouri just fired two Sidewinders at something,” he told the president’s man. “Apparently some damned fool gave orders for squadrons of fighters all over the country to fly armed patrols.”

“Watch your mouth, General. That ‘damned fool’ was the president. He felt he had to do something dramatic.”

“Why didn’t he consult me? I don’t even charge for professional opinions.”

“You were asleep at the Pentagon. We couldn’t wait.”

“If some used-car salesman in a jet fighter shoots down an airliner full of voters, that will really be something dramatic, all right. Are you out of your little mind? Get a grip, O’Reilly.”

“Shut up, De Laurio!” O’Reilly was on his feet, his face red. “You uniformed popinjays don’t seem to realize that the fate of Western civilization is on the line.”

Before Bombing Joe could deck O’Reilly, the president darted into the room. He had just completed a press conference in which he had tried to look presidential. Never in his life had he had a day like this, not even when his mistress held a press conference in New York City to tell all. His face was ashen and his hands were shaking.

“Damned flying saucers,” he exclaimed as he plopped into a stuffed chair. “Why in hell didn’t these things plague the last administration? Why me?” He tugged at the knot in his tie.

“Because you deserve it,” Bombing Joe De Laurio muttered under his breath. If anyone heard that remark he gave no indication.

The general took a deep breath, silently counted to ten, then said loudly, “Mr. President.” When he had the elected one’s attention he told him about the report from Space Command.

“A saucer went into orbit from central Missouri?” O’Reilly asked incredulously.

“Apparently so, sir,” Bombing Joe said. “And an F-16 fired two Sidewinders at it. Results unknown.”

“I don’t believe a word of it,” the president said firmly and leaned back in the padded chair. “I don’t believe any of this horseshit.” He dabbed at his brow with a handkerchief, careful that he didn’t swab off any makeup. “The Washington Post wanted to know what this administration’s position will be when aliens come to negotiate.”

“They really asked that?” O’Reilly seemed stunned.

“The college professors say it’s time to acknowledge the presence of other life-forms in the universe. The religious types are going nuts. There’s a mob of a thousand or so across the street in Lafayette Park waving signs and making speeches, talking about the imminent arrival of the Antichrist.”

“It’s that bad?”

“It’s that bad.” The president’s face contorted in a grimace. “I sacrificed everything for a career in politics. Now I’m the one who has to stand out there and welcome the aliens.”

“This is another right-wing conspiracy,” P.J. O’Reilly declared.

The telephone rang. General De Laurio grabbed it. He grunted a time or two, listened for about a minute, then carefully placed the receiver back on the hook.

He shook his head, rubbed his eyes. “Okay. Finally we get the real story.” Both the president and chief of staff stared at him with their mouths hanging open.

“There is only one flying saucer,” Bombing Joe explained. “A seismic survey crew dug it out of a sandstone ledge in the Sahara Desert. The thing was in the stone since Noah was mucking stables on the Ark. It is now being flown by a former Air Force test pilot and one of the survey workers.”