Alien Deception (44 page)

"Go ahead, I'm listening."

The sound of his fax machine as a piece of paper slid into the output tray caused him to jump with nervousness, as did the sudden dial tone in his ear. He wiped his brow clear of the beads of sweat that had accumulated there and hung up the phone.

Chapter Seventeen

“When we accept a position of authority, we immediately give up ourselves to the greater good of the organization. When we can no longer do that, it is time to step aside and let change take its course.”

Greg Carlson

Greg stood in the marshy area underneath the blazing glare of a moon so bright it blotted out the bluish tint he had observed on his earlier visit.
Back again,
he thought.

He squinted and stared at the moon, hoping to see in its face that almost-understood message he had seen before, but now there was nothing. Nor was there any sound; none at all. Only silence accompanied him on this trip to this place in his dreams—or was it his nightmares? He wasn't sure how to classify it any longer.

Suddenly, the ground shook and a wave of nausea wracked him, doubling him over. He thought he might vomit, but he didn't. Then, as suddenly as it had assaulted his senses, the feeling was gone and he felt all right. He looked up, and to his surprise found himself in a desert, standing atop a dune that was one of many spreading out as far as his eyes could see. His bare feet did not feel the texture of the sand. The sky above him blazed with stars that filled every inch of blackness with startling clarity, but there was not one moon in the sky.

This is not the same place.. But where am I now? What is happening to me?

A circular cluster of bright stars caught his attention as he struggled to identify the constellations. A moment later he called out, but there was no answer from the desert. There was no sound at all.

Again the ground shook and the nausea returned; however, the upsetting feeling was less then the previous occurrence. This time he did not double over and maintained his field of vision. The dunes blurred, as if they were water flowing across the vastness of the land in front of him. When his vision cleared, the sand had actually become water. He was now standing atop a yellow-orange ocean that stretched from horizon to horizon under a bright daytime sky with a crimson moon about midway to zenith.

He was standing on the water, yet his feet were not wet and he did not sink. A sense of brief amusement arose in him as the astonishing nature of his position settled into his mind. It was quickly replaced, however, with anxiety.

What is happening? It makes no sense.

Again the sense of movement, but this time there was no accompanying physical discomfort. The image blurred and he was back where he had started, staring up at the familiar bright moon that filled the sky. Hearing had returned. Someone or something was approaching as he stared at the moon in the sky he was confident held the secret to all that was happening. The sound was so clear that whoever or whatever it was had to be very close now. He knew he should look toward where it was coming from, but he could not take his eyes from the moon that hung ominously in the sky above him.

The sight began to fade, and he first imagined the strange transfer was happening again, transporting him somewhere else.

No…No…not yet!
he screamed in his mind.
I have to see what's there!

Before the words fell silent in his mind, he opened his eyes and found himself in his own familiar quarters, lying on his bed and staring up at the ceiling. Not the strange sky of another world where oceans or sand covered its surface, or where a moon in the sky foretold of a coming of some unknown destiny. It was just his ceiling in his quarters on the planet Earth. He got up, feeling extremely tired and weak but happy for the reassuring hardness of the cool floor against his feet.

"At least I'm in a real place again," he said. "Or is it? I'm beginning to wonder what's real anymore and what isn't. But if it's all real, where have I been?" he asked the vacant room.

"Computer," he said and then described what he could recall from the two new places he had seen. The mental images in his mind were amazingly clear and easy for him to recall as he fed the information to the computer. "Correlate data from descriptions for identification of the planets."

As the computer worked, Greg wondered if he was not chasing mental ghosts or even if perhaps his own mental faculties were not collapsing around him. Could all of the alterations he had undergone in his mind have caused a failure in his reality conceptualizations? Was he going…insane?

The thought frightened him, but he dismissed it quickly, not sure whether it was out of fear of the idea or the realization it might be true. The computer's voice thankfully ended his confused reverie with its findings.

"The planet with the yellow-orange ocean has a ninety-eight percent probability of being the planet Deloria. The planet with the sand dunes has a ninety-seven percent probability of being the planet Arcturia."

"Interesting," Greg mused aloud. "The ambassadors in my dream, the ones that fell to pieces at my touch, were from Deloria, and the ambassadors from Arcturia managed to let us know Acuba is somehow involved in all this mess when their vessel was destroyed."

He walked to the window as he thought about the information. "Why are these images, these places being shown to me? What does it all mean?"

He sat down in frustration, his weariness showing as his shoulders sagged and his eyes burned. "What does it all mean?" he repeated, his voice frustrated.

::Because you need to see,::
a voice answered in his mind, jolting him as if an intense electrical charge had been run through him. Greg was suddenly wide-awake and very scared.

* * * *

Ray Schume casually strolled into the White House press conference room. Most reporters were already seated and anxiously awaiting the arrival of Robert Monroe, the press secretary. Schume carried a notebook in his hand that he was reading very intently, between watching where he was going and looking at other pieces of paper. Eyes watched him and his fellow reporters talked about him with the image of the earlier press conference and his vicious attack on the president and Sarah McClendon still fresh in their minds.

Outside of some kind of disaster or threat to national defense, press conferences were usually not short-notice events. The fact this one had been hastily called and the events of the past twenty-four to forty-eight hours had piqued the curiosity of the media. They were anxious to begin, and when Robert Monroe emerged from behind the curtains and urged them to take their seats so the conference could begin, they did so quickly and quietly. Edward and Sarah appeared and took their positions at the podium.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the president began, "there has been an unusual chain of events over the past several days. Although somewhat bizarre, these events are not related to anything in which this administration is involved." A flurry of whispers and camera shutters followed the remark. "Let us look at them with open minds so we can dispel the rumors they've caused together.

"First, as you may recall, Ms. McClendon and I made the announcement of the early completion of the space-drive platform." He kept his voice under perfect control, even and calm and fraught with honesty. "There are those who might want to detract from such a momentous event by making an announcement of such a proportion as to draw us away from this heroic achievement and dump us into a quagmire of innuendos."

"But, Mr. President," one man began, drawing a look of admonition from the press secretary and his fellow reporters.

"Please, let me finish," the president said. "There's no proof of this alleged alien cover-up beyond the word of one man, a member of the media. As you all are aware, the explosion at the facility where the body was being examined completely destroyed all evidence of the supposed alien. This event, I suspect, was an attempt to keep us from finding out, not about a cover-up here at the White House, but a ploy by a person or group of persons who were about to be caught committing fraud against the American people by their fabrication of this unbelievable and bizarre story."

He paused and carefully phrased his final words. "Ladies and gentlemen, I submit to you that this was part of a plan to deceive the American people by those who would seek to draw attention away from our goal of achieving space flight. This is because of their antiquated and outdated beliefs that cooperation among countries means the downfall of the democratic system we all believe in so strongly."

The air was still and the room was silent. Once again Edward's talent for speechmaking had soothed the crowd, at least for the moment. It was time to move on to the harder part now—the questions. "Are there any questions?"

"Mr. President," a fresh-faced reporter from one of the wire services jumped in first. "What about the type of explosive used in the bombing at the hospital? Has there been a determination as to what type it is?"

"The CIA and FBI are still trying to determine that, but it appears to be of a type we have not seen before. We suspect it's a new design used specifically to discredit our efforts in the areas I mentioned earlier."

"Is it a group or individual?"

"We have no substantiated information at this time."

"Why haven't we heard about this person or group before? How long have they been under investigation?"

"We had no prior warning of any attack. Neither has anyone stepped forward to claim responsibility."

"Do the FBI and CIA have any leads? Where are they looking?"

"Nothing conclusive yet. We're coordinating our efforts with local authorities and other agencies, including our foreign allies."

"How soon do you expect to have information about this group? Have the military been alerted?"

"We hope to have more information soon. The military has been briefed, but no further action has been taken. Until we know what the threat is or who the threat is from, we will not create panic by speculation."

"What kinds of security precautions are being taken?"

"Until we know whether there is an actual, credible threat of more incursions or if this was an isolated event, I would advise caution at this point. As soon as we have more information, we'll make a decision about heightened security measures."

"Mr. President, I have a question for Ms. McClendon, if I may?"

"Of course, Mr. Schume," the president said as he made way for her to step up to the podium. As she passed him he whispered, "Watch out for him. He's too anxious."

She smiled and nodded as she took his place and stared at Mr. Schume with what she hoped was well-hidden trepidation.

"Ms. McClendon," Schume said. "How do you respond to the statement there's an alien organization on this planet and that this administration is conspiring with them to enslave the people of Earth?"

"Normally I would not respond to such an absurd question, Mr. Schume, but in your case I'll make an exception in the interests of dispelling the rumor
you
have conveniently started," she replied.

"Thank you."

"There is no alien organization I am aware of that's planning to enslave the people of Earth." She turned away from him. "Are there any more—"

"You don't see any possibility there may be even the slightest amount of truth in the allegations I've made?"

"As I said, no, I do not. This bizarre story goes beyond the realms of logic." She wondered where he was going with this repetitious line of questioning.

"Ms. McClendon, I would think a woman of your…background would give a little more leeway to a theory such as mine. I mean, stranger things have happened that contained as little or less chance of being true," he said as he scanned his notes.

"What does my background have to do—"

"Your own past contains a pretty incredible incident that defied logic. Yet you won't budge a bit on my theory?"

"I don't follow what you mean, Mr. Schume." She was worried now as she began to suspect where he was leading. The question was how far was he going and how much did he know? A moment later, she learned the answer to both questions.

"Why don't you tell us all about your experience two years ago when you supposedly died, but then miraculously returned to life? Wouldn't you call
that
a little strange, Ms. McClendon?"

"It was a mistake…a misdiagnosis by the hospital," Sarah said as she composed her words cautiously. "There was an error in the diagnosis, but fortunately, everything turned out all right. It is an event that caused me much personal and emotional stress. I don't like to talk about, Mr. Schume." She hoped he might be steered away.

"That was one heck of a mistake," he commented, unaffected by Sarah's statement. Rather, he appeared to relish the opportunity it presented like a wild animal that has gotten the scent of blood. "Yes, a rather bizarre incident; yet you still will not concede there is the possibility of truth in what I'm claiming."

"That was something totally different. Much more explainable than what you're claiming. Really, Mr. Schume, alien conspiracies and governmental cover-ups?" She said it with an air of confidence, hoping to throw the focus back on him by suggesting how ridiculous his claims were. "Now, if you don't mind, let's keep the questions to the subject you brought up originally and not my personal life."

His savage expression faded as the crowd of reporters saw her confidence. Schume and Sarah stared at each other as she waited for the next attack. Schume made no indication of continuing. Instead, he remained quiet and returned his gaze to his notes. President Samuel stepped back up to the podium.

"Ladies and gentlemen, as you can see, we have supplied explanations to all of the relevant events that have occurred. I hope we've put to rest the questions of alleged alien plots and, for some of the American people, the fear that venturing out into space will destroy our identity as a country if it's achieved through the cooperation of many nations together. Are there any other questions?"