Invasion: Alaska (14 page)

“What do you want, boy?” Mack Higgins slurred. “Can’t you see I’m busy?”

“I’m sorry to interrupt you, sir.”

“I have to warn the people,” Mack said, as he unsteadily raised one of his arms, indicating the tract homes.

“Is this about the space aliens?” asked Stan.

Mack squinted and he lowered his head to peer more closely at Stan. “Who told you that?”

Stan licked his lips. Lying was wrong, and lying to your dad was even worse. He also hated helping his dad believe his fantasies, but arguing wasn’t going to work today. The cops were sure to show up soon, and the two of them had to be out of here by then. In this frame of mind, his dad might take a swing at one of the cops.

“Uh…I got a phone call,” Stan said, temporizing his lie with some truth.

Mack blinked his unfocused eyes, making him seem lost and confused. Lines appeared on his forehead. It helped highlight the dent in his skull, the one that sank into his hairline. “Oh,” he finally grunted. “Someone here phoned you. Good. The word is spreading. You take the other side of the street. We don’t have much time before the aliens invade.”

Stan took a deep breath. “…Dad, I think the aliens have allies.”

The lines in the broad forehead deepened. Slowly, Mack Higgins nodded. “Benedict Arnolds, huh? I should have known. The aliens are cunning, but they’re never going to conquer America. We’re red, white and blue, son, especially in Alaska.”

“The aliens want you in jail, sir. They want to slow you down.”

The bleary-eyed squint narrowed. “How did you come to learn this?”

Stan noticed his dad’s big hands tightening into fists. He had to be careful how he worded this. His dad had told him before that the aliens were shape-shifters, able to take on human appearances. Stan had seen this look before. It meant Mack Higgins was getting ready to fight. They had to scram fast, or the cops would pull their tasers on the big man and shock him into submission.

“Colonel Higgins, sir, I believe the aliens have compromised the police department.”

His dad snarled a curse. “I’ve taken that as a given from the beginning. What you’re saying is something else, isn’t it?”

“Ah…yes.”

“Right,” his dad said. “You’re telling me the police are willing to move openly now against the citizenry. It’s time to arm ourselves and fight back.”

“Hold on!” said Stan, alarmed.

Mack Higgins took a menacing step closer, the knuckles of his fists whitening because he clenched his fingers so tightly.

As his dad did that, a police cruiser turned onto the street. Stan glanced at the approaching squad car, and with growing despair, he spotted Sergeant Jackson behind the wheel. Sensing more than seeing his dad, Stan turned back in time as the old colonel swung at him. It was a slow punch, and Stan evaded by stepping back. It made his dad stagger, and then bump against him. The reek of alcohol and his dad’s unwashed body was strong. Stan dearly wished he could bring his dad back to normality. Colonel Higgins had been a strong man, a good man and one full of insights. It was painful seeing his dad in this condition.

The police cruiser’s siren made a loud, piercing noise before the sound quit. Then the cruiser was pulling up along the curb.

Mack cursed under his breath, adding, “You brought reinforcements, huh?”

“Don’t you understand?” Stan asked. “I’m your son, damnit.”

“My son’s a churchgoer,” said Mack, “he doesn’t swear. Now let me go!” His dad grappled with him, slow motion using some of the judo-holds he’d taught him as a kid. Despite his dad’s age and drunkenness, Stan barely kept himself from being flipped onto the snow. Mack Higgins weighed an easy two-eighty and was still strong.

A car door slammed.

Stan looked up as Sergeant Jackson approached. Jackson was a big man, although not quite as big as Colonel Higgins, but with more gut. The officer wore a flak-vest underneath his jacket, had a thick black belt with cuffs, gun and a dangling nightstick. Jackson’s belt creaked like a horse saddle. One hand rested on the sleeve of his holster. The other was on the rubber-grip of his nightstick.

Jackson asked, “You causing trouble, old man?”

“No trouble, officer,” Stan said. He tried to remember that his dad had once thrown his own crap onto Jackson in jail.

Mack Higgins slowly glanced from Jackson to Stan. “I get it,” he slurred. “You’re playing clean cop, stinky cop.”

“You’re coming with me,” Jackson said.

Stan almost slipped on the icy sidewalk as he stepped in front of his dad. “I’ll take him home, officer.”

“Not today you won’t,” Jackson said.

“Out of my way,” Mack said, taking Stan by the shoulders and trying to shove him aside.

Stan twisted and grappled with his dad. “Back off,” he whispered. “Let me deal with this. Please, Dad, I’m begging you.”

“You’re one of them,” Mack whispered, blowing fumes into Stan’s face.

“Don’t you know your own son?”

Mack Higgins frowned, and for a moment, his unfocused eyes focused. “Stan?” he asked.

“Go sit in my rover, would you, please?” Stan asked.

His dad nodded slowly as his grip slackened.

“Put your hands behind your back,” Jackson said.

Mack started to turn to face Jackson.

Stan gripped his dad’s arms. “Ignore him,” he whispered. “Let me talk to the man.”

“He’s a Benedict Arnold,” Mack whispered.

“Do it for me,” Stan said, “and I’ll take you to supper later. You have to be hungry.”

“I am,” Mack said, sounding surprised. “You’ll buy me roast beef?”

“Gladly,” Stan said.

Ex-Colonel Higgins released his son and headed for the Land Rover, never looking back as Sergeant Jackson shouted at him.

Stan stepped toward the policeman with his arms hanging down and hands open, palms forward. “Can I have a word with you, officer?”

Jackson unsnapped his holster.

“He’s going to sit in my jeep,” Stan said.

Jackson’s grabbed the butt of his gun. “I order you to halt!” he shouted at Mack.

Mack Higgins opened the passenger-side door and squeezed into the vehicle, slamming the door shut behind him.

“Sergeant, can we make a deal?” Stan asked.

Jackson glanced at Stan. “Does your
deal
mean you’re offering me money?”

Stan shook his head.

“Do your dad a favor,” Jackson said. “Tell him to step out of the car. He’s about to be arrested.”

“Look at my dad. He’s sitting quietly in my vehicle. The problem is solved—if there ever was a problem to begin with.”

“Your dad has been hammering on doors, telling people space aliens are coming.”

“Is that a crime?”

“It is when you refuse to leave the premises and make threats to the homeowners.”

“My dad has left.”

Jackson stared at Stan. “Do I have to pull your dad out of the car?”

“You’re missing your chance. Do you know that?”

“Meaning what?” Jackson asked.

“That if you arrest my father on some minor charge like knocking on doors about space aliens, you’re risking the judge throwing it out of court because it’s too funny. That would make it easier for me to press harassment charges.”

Jackson kept staring.

“Why not wait and try to catch my dad on something serious?” Stan asked. “Why not let the threat of your doing that trouble me.”

“Why are you saying this?”

“I think I can change my dad before you find something really serious to charge him with.”

“He’ll never change,” Jackson said.

No, because you beat the old man on the head with a baton
, Stan thought to himself.
You flipped a switch in there and broke it, and now my dad will never be normal again
.

“Go ahead then,” said Stan. “Arrest him, and we’ll start the review process. I’m sure it will go in your favor this time.”

Jackson glanced at Mack Higgins, who sat quietly in the Land Rover. Jackson looked at the watching people. Many had left already, going inside. The nearest were making jokes at Mack’s expense and they were laughing good-naturedly.

Jackson snapped his holster shut. He shrugged. “I’ll give you this one. Space aliens. First I need to warn him, though.” Jackson headed toward the rover.

Stan followed, deciding he’d have to bring his dad home with him tonight. Then he’d have to figure out a way to keep his dad off the streets. Susan would be upset. But what choice did he have?

Before Stan could worry about it, Mack opened his door. The old man grinned crazily, with the .44 Magnum in his grip and aimed at Sergeant Jackson.

“Dad,” whispered Stan.

Mack Higgins stood and used his thumb to click the hammer all the way back. That rotated the cylinder and showed the visible bullets in each chamber.

Jackson had halted. The police officer moved his lips, but no sounds issued.

“Benedict Arnolds are filth under my feet,” Mack declared. “The aliens will never capture Earth. Never, do you hear me?”

“Dad, stop,” Stan said. “Put the gun down.”

Mack glanced at him, and the .44 barrel was now aimed at him.

It made Stan queasy. He was a finger-twitch away from lying on the snow dead. Why had he forgotten to put the gun away? It shouldn’t have been in the glove compartment in the first place.

“Dad,” Stan whispered. “It’s me, your son.”

Mack cocked his head.

“I’m ordering you—” Jackson managed to say.

Mack aimed the .44 at the police officer again, stopping the flow of words.

Stan knew it was crazy, but he started walking toward his dad. Colonel Higgins had killed his share of enemy combatants in Afghanistan. The old man was more than capable of killing Sergeant Jackson.

“Dad, don’t shoot. It will be murder. Set down the gun, okay?”

“You alien-loving traitor,” Mack told Jackson.

“No!” Stan shouted, and he rushed his dad.

Mack aimed at Stan, the trigger-finger seemed to squeeze, and then something entered those drunken eyes. Was it a moment of normality? Whatever it was, Mack hurled the .44 away. The big revolver hit the snowy ground and discharged with a thunderous boom.

People screamed. The bullet smashed into a nearby pine and half-naked Mack Higgins stared dully at Sergeant Jackson. There were two prongs in Mack’s chest, taser prongs, with wires trailing back to Jackson’s taser. As the old man chucked the gun, Jackson madly clawed out his taser and fired. Suddenly, Mack bellowed in pain, and he crumpled onto the snow, thrashing.

A second later, a pale Jackson took his thumb off the switch.

Stan’s shoulders slumped as Jackson took out his handcuffs. Now his dad had gone and done it. What made it worse was his dad peering up at him from the snow, forlorn and confused. There had to be something Stan could do to help his dad, but Stan had no idea what it was.

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Anna Chen headed the China Desk for the Third Assistant to the National Security Advisor for President Clark. At the moment, she was in her cubicle in the West Wing of the White House. She cradled a phone against her shoulder as she spoke with a friend in the NSA, the National Security Agency. The agency had nothing to do with the National Security Advisor, Colin Green. Green advised the President, the NSA was an intelligence gathering organization.

While she was on the phone, Anna jotted notes, puzzled by her friend’s tone and that he hadn’t yet told her something she didn’t already know. In other words, why had he called?

“How about lunch, Anna?” asked Alfredo Diaz.

Anna frowned thoughtfully. She was a petite Chinese-American. She had luxuriously dark hair, which she wore up in a severe librarian’s bun. In high school, at her mother’s insistence, Anna had reluctantly entered a teenage beauty contest. She had won it, moved up to the finals and then eventually found herself the teenage beauty queen of Iowa back in 2013. Soon thereafter, she had been the third runner-up in the Teenage Miss America Pageant and had never been able to live it down.

Her mother still worried about such things. Florence Chen called at least three times a week, telling her about yet another bachelor to meet. Anna had lost count of the number of computer dating services her mother had enrolled her in. The official swimsuit photo of her Teenage Miss America Pageant always ensured her countless email proposals and endless texts.

At thirty-six, Anna was still slender and a stunning beauty. Because of her position and for a variety of reasons she never admitted to herself, Anna wore fake glasses, kept her hair up in an unflattering style and dressed ultra-conservatively. Anna liked men, but she had a terrible fault. She was smart to an intimidating degree and more than anything else, she hated acting dumb. In Harvard, she had been president of the chess club and had majored in Chinese History. She’d always won the highest marks not only in each class but also in every paper and in every test that she took. During her four years at Harvard and afterward as well, she had forever been picking up new skills. One year it was piano playing. The next she studied body kinetics and body language. After that, it had been stargazing. She could name eighty-three stars by memory, pointing each one out in the night sky.