Xeno

by D.F. Jones

Genres: Science Fiction; Sci-fi Action & Adventure; Cyberpunk

Synopsis

Alien horror becomes a living nightmare as the Xenos, meaning "strangers", inflict mayhem on earth. International distress alerts are sent out when planes first seem to disappear, disturbing concepts of space and time and leaving a trail of death and disillusionment. This bizarre series of "cosmic skyjackings" is shrouded in secrecy by a baffled and frightened military. Intense surveillance fails to reveal the cause of a seemingly hostile yet invisible enemy. Aircraft continue to disappear, plucked out of the sky without warning, only to reappear months later, thousands of miles off course. National and global security is under threat and the ICARUS committee is formed to investigate. Military officials, the government and the FBI work alongside physician Mark Freedman and Soviet scientists to uncover the supernatural mystery that lies behind these unexplainable events. Earth has been found by a horde of creatures that not even the wildest imagination could invent - sinister parasitic creatures that took to their human hosts with deadly speed and bloodthirsty precision. The terror that unfolds has terrifying consequences for all involved, and the invasion reveals something much more frightening and final than ever suspected.

Release date: March 19, 2019

Publisher: Gateway

Print pages: 236

Sample

Even when it began cannot be known. The chronology is virtually meaningless, but it is improbable that anything could have happened earlier than 1916. Beyond question the largest concentration of Events occurred in the 1970s — the largest so far, that is. The first Event, well documented and attested, occurred in 1974.

On April 12, at 0800 Pacific Standard Time, a USAF F-4, crewed by a pilot and an observer, took off from a California air base on a test flight. It climbed to forty thousand meters and, after various checks and tests, was cleared to climb another seven thousand meters and head seaward for two Mach 1 plus runs. At 0825 the ground control radar lost the aircraft’s blip. Urgent calls 0826 thru 0835 produced no answer from the plane. Consequently, full emergency procedure was initiated at 0837. At 0841 two more F-4’s screamed into the air, followed ten minutes later by specialized search aircraft.

The Combined Services Search and Rescue organization is very impressive, the net it spreads fine mesh. Lives cannot always be saved, but seldom does the SAR fail to come up with an answer. This was one such occasion.

After seventy-two hours of intensive effort, SAR headquarters reluctantly reported the F-4 lost at sea without a trace, cause unknown.

One of the few areas of genuine international cooperation is the distress communications set-up for ships and aircraft. Code words, procedures, and frequencies are the same worldwide. For aircraft there are two radio links, one HF, one VHF; both are monitored continuously by ground stations around the globe. Rarely does an aircraft in trouble go unheard.

At 1403 (local) on August 7, 1974, a radio man at the USAF base in Guam intercepted a Mayday distress call on VHF. He took a bearing and reported it to the station command post, where it was tied in with an unidentified radar contact that, noted at 1401, had already puzzled the duty officer enough for him to call the station commander.

While the chances of the unidentified airplane being hostile were minimal, no officer stuck with the responsibility dared treat this sort of situation lightly — not after Pearl Harbor. In this case, too many details were wrong: the plane’s radar was not transmitting the distress pattern, and when interrogated by ground radar the pilot gave a USAF-type response — but the wrong one. That was enough. The duty officer had automatically brought the base to yellow alert at 1401; at 1405 the sirens wailed for condition red. One minute later three fighters took off under full afterburner thrust and vectored to intercept the stranger, now six hundred kilometers out. At the same time the point defense SAM sites went fully operational. In case it was a genuine distress call, two Grumman HU-6 amphibians were rolling from their hangars before the howling of the sirens had died.

Events moved equally fast in the underground command post. The station commander, Colonel Marvin L. Buckner, a veteran of Korea and Vietnam, arrived on the run. A call had been put out to the stranger and an unintelligible answer heard; a second radar challenge evoked the correct response, the distress mode. The time was 1409.

By then Buckner had a microphone in his hand, buttoned to a transmitter on the distress frequency. He spared fifteen seconds to take in the radar plot: the intruder was five-fifty kilometers distant, tracking south at two thousand meters, estimated speed five hundred knots. On that course he’d never make the base. Buckner thought quickly, only dimly aware of the duty officer talking quietly into another mike, vectoring the fighters.

If this was a suicide mission, maybe the pilot was crazy enough to assume the USAF would oblige and home him onto his target! On the other hand, if the guy was in real trouble, that plane had to be turned in the right direction fast. The fighters would not be up with him for another two or three minutes. That could be a long, long time …

Buckner called the intruder, demanding identification, beginning a sequence of events he would never forget.

Again the answer was slow in coming, the distant, lonely voice slurred, unsure; listening, Buckner had time to read a teletype thrust before him.

NO REPEAT NO USAF MISSION A/B THIS TIME WITHIN ONE THOUSAND KM YOUR LOCATION

“This — this is Mission AF 2419 — uh, no … Correction, Mission 2194. What’s going on? The sun’s all wrong — all wrong!” The voice climbed hysterically. “I’m lost! For Chrissake, help me!”

“Check that number,” snapped Buckner in a swift and unnecessary aside; his master sergeant was already pounding the Intercommand teletype. “Cool it, man!” The commander said sharply to the distant plane. “Report type of aircraft, nature of distress, and fuel state. Over.”

What the hell did he mean, the sun’s wrong? The basic aim of military discipline is not heel-clicking and salutes; it is to give a soldier the inner strength to obey when his whole being, his instincts, tell him to run like hell. It is no disgrace for a fighting man to foul his trousers so long as he obeys; and this is true of all armed forces, whatever their political color.

The tough discipline of the USAF got through to the pilot’s whirling, chaotic mind: For him the world was standing on its head, but the cold voice in his headset cut through the confusion.

“I’m riding an F-4, sir — fuel state, sixty percent remaining … My distress is …” There he broke. “The sun’s gone haywire! My gyro’s crazy!”

Everyone in the command post froze, staring dumbly at Colonel Buckner. No less staggered than his staff, Buckner gazed unseeingly at the radar scan for several seconds, then slowly depressed the transmit button.

“Say again type of aircraft. Over.”

They heard a half-strangled sob. Silence. Then the pilot spoke, his voice high-pitched, teetering on hysteria. “This is an F-4 … Christ! Foxtrot figure four! One, two, three, four! You read me!” The man was screaming.

Buckner’s mind reeled. In his time he’d hit some sticky problems, but nothing like this. Without inflight refueling, no F-4 could be that far from land, and certainly no USAF tanker was airborne.

The anguished voice returned. “For Chrissake gimme a heading!”

“Wait! Out.” Now another voice, calm and business-like, came in on the fighter channel.

“This is Bantam One. Target held. Closing.”

Buckner switched microphones. “Roger, Bantam One. Ed, this is Marvin. Watch your step. Hold your section off at strike range, close, and identify the target yourself. Be careful — suspect the pilot has blown. Out.” He switched mikes again. “Mission 2194. Take it easy, don’t panic. We hold you and your fuel state’s good. Assistance will be with you in two minutes. Maintain present speed, height, and heading.”

“Sure glad to hear that, sir!” The lost pilot’s relief was obvious. “I can’t figure — ” he broke off. “Hey — I see a ship!” Again the voice climbed dangerously, “Great — oh, God! What a beautiful sight — ”

The colonel cut in sharply. “Mission 2194! Maintain circuit discipline — ” The master sergeant, his face pallid, thrust another flimsy before him.

IMMEDIATE. NO MISSION 2194 CURRENT THIS THEATER. NUMBER LAST USED FOR F-4 TEST FLIGHT EX CALIF AIRBASE EVALUATED LOST AT SEA APRIL 12. PD VERIFY MISSION NUMBER AND REPORT PD

Before Buckner had time to fully absorb this incredible news, Ed’s voice filled the room.

“Base, this is Bantam One.” The speaker struggled to retain his professional calm. “I’m alongside the plane.” He hesitated, then threw away his official voice. “You’re not gonna believe this, Marvin, but it is an F-4! I’m not seeing things: here are details …” He gave tail number and squadron markings, ending with, “ … aircraft has no, repeat no, external weapon pack.”

Although outwardly calm, Buckner had to give himself five seconds to get his mind in gear. “Okay Ed, I’ve got that. Will instruct the stranger to take station two kilometers astern and one thousand meters below you — ” The utter impossibility of it all overwhelmed him. “Ed — you sure this is an F-4?”

“Marvin, I know how ya feel. I’m staring at the bastard right now, and I don’t believe it! But it’s still an F-4!”

“Okay, Ed. Keep your section back at engagement range — you copy that Bantam Two and Three? — If the guy even coughs, take him. Otherwise, come down to four hundred knots and bring him in. His reported fuel state is good. Will keep him on distress channel until he chops to approach control. Right now he needs things nice and simple. Acknowledge.”

As Bantam One answered, Buckner called the stranger. In short, clipped sentences he passed along his instructions, adding, … and report name, rank, and number.” He glanced meaningfully at the duty officer, pencil poised over his clipboard.

In seconds the Intercommand teletype was chattering with the F-4’s answer. Sweating, Buckner spoke as casually as he could, trying to ease the tense atmosphere. “If that dope fits, coronaries will be two-a-penny in Omaha!”

The swift reply wiped out his weak attempt at humor. FLASH. ALL DETAILS MATCH PROFILE OF MISSING AIRCRAFT. IMPOUND PLANE AND CREW IN MAXIMUM SECURITY PENDING FULL INVESTIGATION BY TEAM FROM THIS COMMAND. TAKE ALL PRECAUTIONS.

As he read the last sentence, his face twisted in a sour grin: that put the weight firmly on his back. He concentrated on the first part, still trying to comprehend this incredible string of events. Suppose — somehow — the plane and crew had been captured and brainwashed? Instinctively he rejected that — the pilot was as much a Texan as he was. Suppose it had a nuclear device aboard and was hell-bent on a latter-day Kamikazi attack? What could he do? Again he rejected the notion; maybe the pilot was the best actor since Barrymore, but he didn’t believe that, either. Only one thing was certain — the man was terrified, lost; and again, why that weird bit about the sun being wrong?

He looked quickly at the radar plot; time was racing past, the formation barely a hundred kilometers out. He turned to the duty officer. “Chop 2194 to Channel Ten for final approach, Bantam One to cover him until he stops rolling. I want fire trucks and an armed guard to meet the plane, and once he’s in the circuit recall the HU-16’s.” He reached for his cap; this was one visitor he’d meet personally.

He never made it to the door. The duty officer chopped the plane to Channel Ten on loudspeaker. On the fighter channel Bantam One confirmed that the stranger was following orders. The duty officer cued the control tower.

“Mission 2194, this is Guam Control. QNH setting one zero zero six; reduce speed to two zero zero knots at one zero zero zero meters. You are cleared for runway two six, wind two four zero, ten knots, visibility unlimited. Approaching outer marker now. Over.”

They heard a series of clicks, a microphone cutting in, then out again, as if the pilot had trouble switching from intercom to radio. He spoke slowly, incoherently, his breathing heavy, irregular. He sounded drunk. “You … you say Guam?”

“That is affirmative. Check your speed — ”

It was more than the pilot could take; fifteen seconds earlier he might have had time to react, to absorb the shock. “Guam! That’s impossible!”

They were his last words.

The tower held the aircraft visually; it was over the inner marker, on the runway threshold, but not descending. It was too high, too slow.

“Abort!” screamed the controller. “Go round again — boost — ” The rest died in his throat. Nothing could be done.

The fighter seemed to hesitate, the port wing dropped as it stalled disastrously. The watchers in the tower hunched instinctively, each man mentally in the plane. Sunlight glinted on its upper surfaces, then the wing touched the ground; the plane cartwheeled, belching orange flame and black smoke as it careened down the runway: a wheel of fire spinning furiously, trailing black streamers, fragments arching upwards, sharply etched against the sun.

Four months late and five thousand miles off course, Mission 2194 had reached earth and died, its orisons the haunting wail of fire trucks and useless ambulances.

When the investigation team arrived twenty hours later, preliminary inquiries had been completed.

The sad, obscene mess of torn and burned flesh had undergone postmortem examination by the station doctors. Faced with such appalling evidence, there was little they could say except that the man had died instantaneously at impact. Physical identification was impossible — he was identified by his dog tag.

After extensive aerial and ground photography, the wreckage had been moved to a hangar. Airframe and engine numbers were recovered, and a fuel sample taken from a tank which had, fantastically, survived.

At the same time, statements were taken from all duty personnel and from anyone who had witnessed the accident. The taped records of radio links were impounded and sealed, and the film that had been shot from the control tower was processed.

The investigation team consisted of a brigadier general, a full colonel, and a major. Brigadier Hal Kelly, USAF — “Bull” to a few close friends — a large, balding man with a slab of ribbons on his chest, wasted no time. Hardly out of his plane, he was firing questions at Colonel Buckner, checking arrangements, steno services, waving aside the suggestion that he might care to shower or eat. No, the investigation would begin right now; coffee and sandwiches in the office would be fine.

In any crash, the investigators have to determine what happened and who was responsible. Marvin Buckner’s conscience was clear, but he appreciated that his command’s part in the tragedy would be worked over in every detail. It occurred to him that the brigadier might be leaning on him, flexing his muscles. Twenty hours back Bull Kelly had been doing something else in Washington, D.C. Since then he’d gotten his team together and flown eight thousand miles, and he still wouldn’t take time out to change his shirt before starting in on the job.

By the time he had the team in its temporary office, Marvin Buckner had concluded two things: Someone a lot higher up was leaning on Kelly, and this case looked as incredible from the top as it did from his restricted viewpoint.

Even before he unlocked his bulky dispatch case, Kelly fired off another order: All personnel who had been involved were to muster as soon as convenient — like now. Kelly had never been sweet tempered, and being dragged off a vital investigation into fatigue failure in an experimental plane had done nothing to soften him.

Fifteen minutes later Bull Kelly was on his feet, addressing a crowded room.

“Gentlemen,” he said in a rasping voice, “I was an aviator for fifteen years, and I’ve had seven years in accident investigation. I have to tell you that in all my time there’s never been a case like this one.” He paused, staring at his audience. “Never. And that goes for Air Force records, too.

“You may wonder why I’m telling you this. I’ll tell you. You know there’s something mighty strange about this accident. You’ll want to talk about it; you’ll have your chance in this room — and nowhere else!” He let that sink in, his hard gaze resting briefly on the young faces in front of him. “This matter, on orders from the Pentagon, is classified Top Secret, and before we go any further, I’ll spell out what that means.” He did so, and ten minutes later he had a watertight document with all their signatures on it to prove the fact.

“Right,” he continued, “you’ll all be interviewed — some of you several times. Until you get my permission, all personnel remain at five minutes notice to report to this room, day or night!” He looked at Buckner, “Okay, Colonel.”

“Dismiss!” said Buckner, his face impassive, but he was still chewing on that “day or night” remark. He considered it good luck that in a long career he’d never met Kelly before, but he knew his reputation. The man did not kid.

When the room cleared and the stenographer sent for coffee and sandwiches, Kelly relaxed, running a beefy hand across his face. “Joe, how’s the documentation look?”

Colonel Joe Grauber was a slightly built man whose nondescript features concealed a sharp analytical brain, wide experience, and the ability to sense when a witness was dodging the truth.

“From my angle, first class.” He looked inquiringly at the major.

Franklin Arcasso was at first sight no gift to Air Force public relations. He was a lousy dresser, and at thirty-five he had a weight problem. Even in his cadet days he had been unable to achieve a smart, soldierly appearance. He was one of those men who could look badly dressed in swimtrunks. But there were other features. More than one senior officer, meeting him for the first time, had held back harsh comment on his appearance after viewing his ribbons: Although rumpled and crooked, they were of an exceedingly high grade. And an examination of his personnel file revealed more. He had majored in aerospace engineering at the Academy and become a combat pilot of outstanding ability and courage. He’d somehow found time to take a master’s degree in his specialty, and moved on to test flying. He was in this assignment now because his left arm was artificial, a souvenir of his last flight as a pilot. One of his better ribbons was also a memento of that flight: He had brought back an experimental ship under impossible conditions and landed it safely after ignoring repeated orders to bail out. He later claimed a radio malfunction.

“The technical data looks good, General, very good.” A cigar ash fell on his slacks. “The guy who put this documentation together knew his stuff.”

For half an hour the men worked, reading the reports, making notes, eating and drinking. Kelly nodded the stenographer out of the room. As the door closed, he spoke.

“This looks like a pretty fair statement to me.”

“Comment?”

“Agreed,” said Grauber, “but …” He left it there.

“Nothing jumps out and bites me, General — apart from the whole goddam business. Of course, we have to be stone-cold certain this is the same aircraft reported lost off California.”

“You have doubts, Major?”

“No sir. Dog tags, airframe and engine numbers, tail number and squadron markings all match, but this is such a crazy case I have to see them with my own eyes. This whole thing’s fantastic. I’m not inclined to take anything on trust.”

Kelly nodded and sighed, letting his thoughts wander. “Fantastic,” he said at last, softly. “You have the right approach, Frank, but this is the same plane, let’s not kid ourselves.” He leaned back, belched. “As I see it, we have two different problems. The first is to decide — if we can — what happened to the F-4 between 0825 on April twelfth and 1401 August seventh. The second is to establish the reason or reasons for the crash. For my money the second’s easiest. We’ll take that first.”

They worked for seven hours, reading, inspecting the wreckage, interviewing witnesses, listening to tapes, and wearing out two stenographers on the side. The verdict was unanimous: pilot error, due to fatigue, shock, and unknown circumstances.

Hal Kelly slammed his file shut, glanced at his watch, then at his colleagues, his eyes red-rimmed. “For local consumption, I’m telling the station commander he may let it be known that the F-4 was on an experimental flight, missed its rendezvous with a tanker due to a faulty compass, and ended up here.” He glared at his audience. “So it’s thin — but can you do better? At least it’ll satisfy most people around this base — okay, I know, not the operations team or the aviators — but they don’t worry me. They’ll keep their mouths shut.

“That’s all, gentlemen. We start on the really tough questions in precisely eight hours.”

For three eighteen-hour days they stuck at it; for much of three nights they lay awake in restless thought. On the fourth morning Brigadier Kelly began the session without preamble.

“Before we go over the possibilities one more time, I’ve just received a dispatch from Washington which will save time. Based on a full fuel load-more than the plane could have had at the time it disappeared — Washington allowed a generous ferry range of two thousand miles. Within that range, every airfield with a runway even remotely long enough to handle an F-4 has been checked out. They’re satisfied the plane didn’t land anyplace from Alaska down to and including Mexico. Nor did it land in the Hawaiian Islands, or cross the Aleutian chain to Soviet Siberia — just supposing it had a lot of luck and a hundred knot tail wind all the way, which the met boys rule out. And finally — ” he paused, anticipating their reaction “ — the analysis of the fuel sample is in. It was one hundred percent honest-to-God USAF standard mix.”

Frank Arcasso’s metal fist crashed on the table. He knew, as they all did, that trace elements were added to Air Force fuel to deter thieves.

“Exactly, Major.”

Grauber spoke. “That news, General, also goes a long way toward discrediting the enemy seduction theory. I fail to believe that someone could have provided a tanker aircraft at the right spot at the right time and with the right fuel. And even if I could swallow that, I can’t accept that the F-4 crew had already been subverted, and took the plane to a secret RV with the tanker, and then, after all that, took . . .