Whitley Strieber: The Grays

“I lied. And you will, too, many times. It will be a big part of your job.”

“If I’d said no—despite Dad, absolutely and finally no—what then?”

Crew said, “We would have had to say something dramatic, like the survival of the human race might depend on you.”

The words hung in the air. Unbelievable. Crazy, even. She didn’t know whether she should be scared or what. Finally, the whole idea just seemed so overblown that she burst out laughing—and it was the only sound in the room, and it stayed the only sound in the room. She looked from one deadly serious face to the other. They actually were not in any way kidding.

But she was a girl, she was twenty-two, and, while she liked being both things, neither suggested that she had any sort of amazing mission in life. “This is too weird,” she said slowly. “I mean, are you telling me I’m some kind of outrageous, like, freak?”

Langford cleared his throat. “You know nothing about your father’s work?”

She shook her head.

“You’re what we call an empath. You can hear thought and you can transmit it to others who can hear it.”

“Yeah, Dad used to say that. He read science fiction, too. Arthur C. Clarke kind of thing.”

Crew handed her a yellow pad. “Write down the first thing that comes to mind.”

She took the pad, thought for a moment, then scrawled the first word that came to mind. “The name of my dad’s barber,” she said. “Adam.”

Now Langford pulled an envelope out of his pocket. “The person you will be working with cannot speak. His brain is so entirely different that, without a person like you, we can only exchange the most rudimentary ideas. At present he is terribly upset, but we have succeeded in getting him to transmit the name we call him to you.”

He handed her the envelope.

In it was a note scrawled on a piece of paper that smelled oddly of what she thought might be Lysol. The single word written there was “Adam.”

She looked at it. She looked back up at the two men. “Who… who is this guy, anyway?”

“That’s part of what we’ve been trying to understand, Lieutenant Glass. What your father spent his career working on.”

“His name is Adam but you don’t understand… what?”

“They don’t have a naming convention in their culture. Adam and Bob are really just our labels.”

“Bob?”

“Died.”

Another death. She noted that. But who in the world would communicate via thought and not use names?

“Our next step will be to send you to meet the head of your part of the project. He operates a very small unit and runs a very, very tight ship,” Colonel Langford said. “You have to understand, you are never to speak to him about your background, about your meeting with us, about anything that you do not absolutely need to talk to him about in order to do your work. Do you understand that?”

This was sounding crazier and crazier. “So I just walk up to the guy—my commanding officer—and I say—what?”

The colonel handed her an envelope. “You don’t say anything. You give him this. He’ll take it from there.”

She recognized the envelope, of course: it carried orders. She started to open it.

“No.”

“No? I don’t open my own orders?” She shook her head. “Why am I not surprised?”

He gave her a card with an address in Indianapolis on it. “You’ll drive to your new assignment. Colonel Michael Wilkes will be expecting you. You saw Mike at the funeral. You will receive further orders from him verbally.” He paused for a moment. “Lauren,” he continued, “I want you to understand that there is an extremely good reason for all this secrecy. In time, you’ll come to know this reason, and you will find yourself in the same position we are—it’s a secret that you won’t hesitate to defend with your life.”

She found herself walking toward the parking lot with this weird verbal order to report to an address in University Heights in Indianapolis, and to be there by six this evening. Not impossible, given that it was a little over a hundred miles and she had five hours. Typical of the Air Force, though, she’d been sitting in procurement for two years and then, with barely time to go back to the apartment and grab her toothbrush, she was on the move to, of all places, Indianapolis, and not even a USAF facility as far as she could tell.

“You just get your belongings out of your billet and go,” Langford had said. “No good-byes, no e-mails, no cell calls.”

She had friends, a life, at least something of a life. No, hell, there was Molly at the office who was going to wonder, there was Charlie Fellowes who was getting to be more than just a friend, but he was out on a refueling mission and wouldn’t be back for forty-eight hours—so he was just going to find her apartment empty, her cell phone disconnected, and her e-mail bouncing everything back.

She worried that she’d run into a familiar face on her way home, but all was quiet. She knew the Air Force: her current commanding officer, General Winters, would have been duly informed of her transfer, etc., but nothing would run smoothly. Undoubtedly, the next thing she’d get from her current unit would be a notice that she was AWOL.

She spent three quarters of an hour packing. At the last, she put their small photo album in a suitcase. Her and Dad through the years. She staggered down to the parking lot under her bags, and got the Focus pretty much stuffed to the roof liner.

Then she was gone, outta here, no looking back.

It was not until she was sailing west on 70 and WTUE was rocking into her past that she began to think again about Dad’s dreams.

As a little girl, she’d covered her head with her pillow and begged God to help him. Later, she’d gone into his bedroom to try to provide him with whatever support a daughter could. She would find him with his eyes wide open, screaming and shaking his head from side to side, and you could not wake him up.

He’d said it was ’Nam coming back to haunt him. He’d flown Hueys in ’Nam, and he had two Hearts for his trouble. Also a scar down his back where he’d been wounded. His story was that a lot of guys had burned alive in a hospital tent that had been torched by the V.C. Helpless guys, guys with no faces, guys with no legs. He’d had a broken arm and a bad infection, but he could run, at least.

There was, of course, a problem with this. It was that, as she knew, her father had not served in Vietnam. She’d seen his duty book, and he just had never served there.

In fact, her father had served at White Sands, then at an army base in Arizona called Fort Huachuca. Her earliest memories were of the wonderful rocks around Fort Huachuca. After that, they’d come to Wright-Pat, where he’d been connected with the Air Materiel Command. She knew that because his unit was attached to the Behavioral Research Directorate, which was a division of AMC. She knew that behavioral research was about understanding things like pilot alertness and endurance. Also, muddier stuff, nonlethal weapons and such.

It was a nice drive, once you got out of Dayton traffic—which was, truth be told, pretty minor.

Farms, midsummer corn, a different way of life out here. She’d like to run tractors and combines and things. She liked big machines.

She’d been around the Midwest for a while now, so Indy was no stranger to her. Back before Mom moved home to Glasgow, they’d gone to the 500 here practically every year. Mom was into fast cars—or rather, the drivers, the mechanics, and just about anybody connected with racing. Actually, just about anybody else at all, as long as it wasn’t Dad.

She was expecting an office building at least, or maybe some kind of lab facility tucked away next to the university. But this was pure residential around here. Wide streets, big old houses, quiet in the late afternoon.