David Golemon - Event

"This man just walked up the mountain, sir. Right to where we were hiding and said he wanted to speak with the man in charge," one of the men said. "We would have just sent him on his way, but he said he wanted to talk to the fella that was in charge of the saucer crash. It's like he knew we were there, sir."

Collins stepped up to the taller, much older man. He looked him over, then held out his hand. "I'm Major Jack Collins, U.S. Army, and you are...?"

The man looked from Collins to the crash area around them and then at the huge tents that had been erected overnight.

"Gus Tilly. I prospect this part of the mountain." He didn't take the major's hand right away, instead eyeing the strange black Nomex uniform a moment. "Don't look like what I wore in Korea."

"U.S. Army, sir, that's what and who we are," Collins said, gesturing to the men and women around him. He was still holding his hand out, but with his other he reached over and pulled down a Velero patch on his right shoulder and revealed a small American flag underneath.

The old man looked relieved, then took Jack's hand and shook quickly.

"Now, why do you think this is a flying saucer? We can't tell what it is."

The man turned and shaded his eyes against the sun. Then the old gray eyes fixed on Jack. "You're not gonna tell me it's a plane crash or some horseshit like that, because I'll call you a liar, sir."

"Whoa, take it easy there, Mr. Tilly. All we're saying is we're not sure what it is. Now, why do you think it's a flying saucer?" Jack asked.

"Because, youngster, I have the guy... er, uh, pilot or whatever it is that flew the goddamn spaceship thing here," Gus said, looking from Collins to Colonel Fielding. "And I'll add one more thing, fellas. You better listen to what he has to say, because we have a whole lot of trouble on our hands."

The rocky valley had turned into an armed camp above and a civilian holding pen on the highways below. News crews from as far away as Los Angeles had picked up the rumors of the mutilated cattle and the two missing state policemen, and now even a story that maybe a rogue motorcycle gang had been responsible.

The element of the 101st herded them together one news crew at a time as they came into the small town of Chato's Crawl, ignoring the shouts and curses that they had rights. As soon as the army had shown up and corralled his news crew, Ken Kashihara knew this wasn't about a rogue biker gang. He was worried because three full busloads of reporters and conspiracy nuts had already been moved out of town. He didn't believe for a second the cattle-disease story; his gut was telling him something else was going on and it was big.

Ken grabbed his cameraman and walked to the rear of the roped-off area. He at least wanted to be one of the last reporters removed from the area.

Sarah went through the logistics line collecting her field gear. She had collected a set of ambient-light (night-vision) goggles, web belt, and canteen, a portable VDF, which she had trained on extensively for use in locating underground rivers, and a black set of Nomex BDUs. Then she was surprised by receiving a weapon that she had only fired once in her time here; it was still experimental, she thought. The Event Group quartermaster handed her an XM8, the newest assault rifle developed for the U.S. Army. It came with an SMG/PDW package. That meant it was configured with butt plate slid in and had a short barrel, excellent for Sarah's line of work, in tunnels or other tight spaces. The quartermaster issued her three hundred rounds of 5.56 mm armor-piercing ammunition in thirty-round magazines.

"Jesus, where in the hell are we going to deserve these kind of weapons?" asked Steve Hanson.

"The weapons are courtesy of Major Collins. I don't know how he did it, but he pulled some strings and we got a hundred of these just an hour ago."

Sarah accepted her weapon and signed for it. She couldn't help but wonder where they were going and just what in the hell was out there that they needed these.

"Sarge--"

"Before you ask, you'll be briefed on-site, young lady. Now get to the transport level," the gruff quartermaster ordered.

"Well, you wanted your field mission, Sarah, I hope you're happy," Steve said as they gathered their gear.

"Yeah, and now I'm a little worried," she said as she raced him down to the cargo elevators to be one of the first on the helicopter.

The four jet engines of the giant C-5A Galaxy whined a sleep-inducing lullaby for the one hundred soldiers in her cavernous belly. They sat in canvas seating strapped along the side and center of the aircraft, instead of the more comfortable airline seats on regular military charters.

Thirty of the U.S. Army's elite and highly secret Delta unit, sometimes known as Blue-light, watched the more boisterous elements of the seventy-man team derived from both Companies B and C of the Third U.S. Ranger Battalion (Enforced) as they talked about home and girls. The Delta teams checked their weapons and conversed in soft whispers. They removed their black helmets and readjusted their chin straps before placing them back on their heads. Before leaving Fort Bragg, where they had been training for the last few months with these very Rangers for a mission in Africa, a mission that had suddenly been scrubbed, they had been issued small oxygen cylinders and new night-vision goggles. They also received the new multi-use vibration-direction finders, or VDFs, the kind geologists used to detect minute tremors and anomalies and the direction they came from.

"What the hell is up with these things?" a young Ranger PFC asked.

"Who the hell knows? Maybe they're lowering us into volcanoes now," his sergeant whispered, as he checked the loads in a magazine of 5.56-millimeter rounds.

"Did you hear the latest?" the PFC shouted over the engine whine, succeeding in getting the attention of the rest of the Deltas and Rangers. "I heard that we're going after something in a desert somewhere."

"What? Here in the States?"

"That's what I heard, probably some more training for Libya or something."

"Well," the sergeant said, patting the stock of the special-order Barrett fifty-caliber rifle, "whatever it is, I hope it doesn't like breathing."

Farbeaux watched his men and was pleased with the way they were preparing. All former French Army commandos, they had experience ranging from assaults in Africa to clandestine actions in South America.

They were arranged around the hydraulic lift in Phil's Texaco. The station was closed, and Phil, Farbeaux guessed, was out with the rest of the town's people, wondering what was happening. Farbeaux had indeed lucked out when the tracer he had placed on Mendenhall's hand had led him straight here. He and his men had dodged a search team twice as they searched the town for stragglers that they could hustle off to that bar and grill and detain. He and his men had come inside one of the now quarantined helicopters shortly after the arrival of the first American C-130 this morning.

Farbeaux was dressed casually and was waiting for his phone to ring, which he knew it would, and this time he decided he would answer. He only had to wait another minute. He looked down at the incoming number, then placed the cell phone in the portable scrambler.

"Legion" was all he said.

"May I be so bold as to ask what it is you are doing?"

This was the man the Frenchman was hoping for, Hendrix himself.