Star Maps

By J.S. Frankel

Carl Thornton, seventeen-year-old stargazer and total nerd, resides in Rachel, Nevada, and lives for watching the night sky. His dream—discover a UFO. His mantra—“Seeing is believing.”

He meets Grace Paxton, and finds out through a series of circumstances, that she, her family and friends, aren’t exactly from around here.

As well, he learns the reason why Area 51 exists, the secrets it holds, and the danger in finding out those secrets. Carl also falls for Grace, but realizes that he has to find a way to get her and her people home—even if it costs him his life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: eXtasy Books Inc
• Release date: Apr 28, 2017
• ISBN: 9781487412951

Book preview

Although seeing is believing, sometimes what you feel is more important.

Carl Thornton, seventeen-year-old stargazer and total nerd, resides in Rachel, Nevada, and lives for watching the night sky. His dream—discover a UFO. His mantra—Seeing is believing.

He meets Grace Paxton, and finds out through a series of circumstances, that she, her family and friends, aren’t exactly from around here.

As well, he learns the reason why Area 51 exists, the secrets it holds, and the danger in finding out those secrets. Carl also falls for Grace, but realizes that he has to find a way to get her and her people home—even if it costs him his life.

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Star Maps

Copyright © 2017 J.S. Frankel

ISBN: 978-1-4874-1295-1

Cover art by Martine Jardin

All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

Published by eXtasy Books Inc or

Devine Destinies, an imprint of eXtasy Books Inc

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Smashwords Edition

Star Maps

By

J.S. Frankel

Dedication

As always, to my wife, Akiko, and to my children, Kai and Ray, for making every day of my life a grand adventure. To my sister, Nancy, for always supporting my efforts, and to my friends Sara, Emily, Beth, and too many more to count, I thank you all.

Prologue: Just Tell Me What You Know.

December twenty-sixth, late at night... probably.

Just tell me what you know.

The voice—it belonged to a man—was harsh and demanding, and it cut through the haze of pain clouding my mind. Part of me wanted to get up, and the other part wanted to sleep. My inner-self voted for sleep. Too bad the voice had to come again and guess which part it kicked out?

Hey, I’m talking to you! it said. Get up!

Reality just had to intrude. Groaning, I quickly sat up. Mistake number one—never do anything fast after getting the crap kicked out of you and after almost getting killed in an avalanche. Both of those events had occurred earlier on in rapid succession, and they gave me a new perspective on what the word agony meant. As to how much time had passed since living through the above, I didn’t have a clue.

Dizziness forced me to lie down again. Where am I? I croaked out.

You’re below.

Whoever spoke sounded like a person who was used to being in command. Every word came out hard and clipped like he was giving an order. You’ve been here for the past three hours, he said. My name is General Waterston.

Okay, so I was right about the command thing. He continued to speak, his voice maintaining its controlling aspect. You’ve been treated for superficial wounds. Our doctor gave you a shot to ease the pain. You won’t die, but you will have to answer some questions. This can be done the easy way or the hard way. You decide.

Now I had a name to go on. Silence ruled again, and my brain settled down enough for me to sit up—slowly this time—and check out my surroundings. I was in a jail cell. Maybe eight by ten feet, everything smelled musty as if the air hadn’t circulated properly for a long time. Musty air—I’d been here before. This is a mineshaft, isn’t it? I asked.

It is, the person named General Waterston said.

Needle for the pain or no, my head still hurt as did my ribs. The head-hurting part came because someone had pistol-whipped me. The injuries to my ribs had come from the same person who held the pistol. He’d kicked my side a couple of times before the avalanche had started. As for my wounds being superficial, my immediate thought was, yeah, you get the living daylights beaten out of you and see how you feel.

Between the agony dance going on in my head and my side, not to mention feeling terribly depressed, my stomach started to rebel. The cot didn’t help things, either. Lumpy and smelling of odours that were truly revolting, it jabbed and poked my butt. Could this be considered another form of torture? Yes, it could, but try telling Mr. General that. Doubtful he’d listen, anyway.

In addition, everything was dirty. A single flickering light bulb overhead dimly illuminated the cell and sent a sickly yellow light that showed bloodstains on the floor along with bits of what looked like hair. An old, stained and cracked toilet sat in the far corner. It had no seat. An even older looking sink was next to it, and I wondered if the water actually worked. It really wasn’t worth asking, so I simply hung my head and tried not to think about how much I hurt.

Just tell me what you know, Waterston repeated. Right, say it again, as if it was going to make more of an impact. The ratcheting feeling of stabbing knives in my cranium connected to the pit of my stomach and caused it to flip-flop. From that point on I knew it was going to be a losing battle to keep the contents in. If this guy asked me to tell him what I knew one more time, the floor was going to get some more stains.

Naturally, he had to ask me again, and sure enough, I hurled. After retching up everything in my stomach, I sat forward on the cot, head between my legs, and picked it up long enough to blearily focus on my captor.

General Waterston, a tall, rail-thin man who looked to be in his mid-fifties, took off his cap, scratched a head of sparse white hair and gazed at me impassively. Are you feeling better now? he asked.

Not really, but why bother telling him? I’ll make it.

Get cleaned up, he ordered.

Groaning, I dragged my butt off the cot and staggered over to the sink. Turning the handle, it squeaked, and a stream of rusty brown water poured out. It soon cleared, and I washed out the foul taste from my mouth and then tossed more water on my face and all over my head. Job done, it was back to the cot where I wearily plopped down again. What do you want?

A sigh came my way, and the tone of his voice went from commanding to world-weary. Perhaps the responsibility of being in command of one of the most super-secret places on Earth was getting to him.

Let me throw some facts your way, he stated. Your name is Carl Thornton. You used to live in Chicago. We know your parents are dead and that you’ve lived in Nevada about two years with your uncle. We know you’re a junior at Pahranget High School. We know who your friends at school are.

In a sudden shift, the tone of command resurfaced. That’s all on the surface, he continued. "So now it’s not a case of us anymore. It’s me. What I want are the details on your other friends. I’m asking you, to be honest."

He’d mentioned my other friends. What he wanted was to know all about them, who they were and more importantly, what they were. He could ask all he wanted, but no way was he getting any information.

Suppose I don’t tell you. My answer came out defiantly, but really, this seemed like a case of cat versus mouse in a very small room with no escape holes—and I was the mouse. He had me right where he wanted me.

Waterston snorted as if not taking my threat very seriously. Well, why should he? If anyone had the authority to erase my sorry butt, it was him. Me, I had nothing. If you call being a high school junior with no money or pull being special, fine. Reality check—I couldn’t do a damn thing.

Suit yourself, Carl, but you don’t have a whole lot of leeway here, he said and then began ticking off the facts on his fingers. You’re seventeen. Now that may not make you an adult, but this is a matter of national security. The United States Army is an entity you do not want to fool with. Then there’s the central government’s position to consider. You’ve broken the law in a number of ways, you have no legal recourse, and no one can help you. You know that, don’t you?

The idea of the entire weight of the US Army plus the government coming down on my butt should have shocked me, but then again, it didn’t. I knew this would happen once things with my friends started. I’d done what I’d done willingly, for at the time it had been the right thing to do. I still felt the same way.

There’s nothing to say, I told him. My voice sounded hoarse and my throat, along with my body, throbbed with pain. They’re gone. Simmons and Walters got buried, and it wasn’t my fault.

The men I’d just mentioned, General Simmons and Lieutenant Walters, had also known about my friends. Simmons hadn’t been a totally bad dude, but Walters? Only describing him as something out of a nightmare would do.

Waterston grunted. The sound reminded me of Uncle Phil, my legal guardian. He grunted more often than he spoke, which worked against forming a decent relationship. Let him grunt away. Primal sounds were his thing, though, not mine.

We’ll see what our medical examiner has to say, the general continued. He’s looking at the bodies as we speak and checking them over. He won’t be finished for a while, so right now I’d say you’re in a lot of trouble. If you think we’re not serious, think again. For starters, we could charge you with treason, conspiracy and even sedition. That means jail time. Underage or no, you won’t get out until you’re very old.

Try and prove it. Big man speech over, wearily I leaned back against the cool, damp stone wall. The very roughness of it gave me a sense of solidity, something my life had lacked the past couple of years. Glancing at the general, he had an expression on his face as if he expected all the facts to be laid down in front of him, one, two, three, and there it is, folks, news at eleven.

Not quite. Since the people the general had referred to had already gone, and since there were no real witnesses, I had three options.

One, say nothing, and probably sit here for the rest of my life. If the cot didn’t kill me, then the smell would.

Two, tell a pack of lies and hope Waterston would believe me. Considering he knew my name, my address, and whom I’d been hanging with, that wasn’t the best or smartest option.

Finally, I came to option number three—own up. My late father once told me, If you mess up, ‘fess up. At the time, it didn’t make much of an impression, but now it all came rushing back.

Okay, you want to hear it? I asked him. Hunching forward, my brain whirled as I tried to sort out the facts. It wasn’t easy. Telling the whole story verged on the unbelievable, and when your life crossed into that realm, well, good luck trying to explain it properly.

He crossed his arms over his chest and gave a barely detectable nod. The nod said you know what you’re up against, you can’t escape, you can’t win, and I hold all the cards. His voice came out mildly enough, though. I’m prepared to listen, he said. There’s no camera here, no tape recorder, nothing, just you and me and the truth.

Well, he was right about the part when he said you and me. He may have been on the level about this whole thing not being filmed or our voices being recorded. As for the truth, I doubted even the tabloids would have printed it.

But I told him, anyway.

Chapter One: Fact Finding

December first, late afternoon

The cold, harsh wind whipped through the streets as I walked along and it cut into my body like a series of tiny, frigid knives. Alamo, located in Nevada, wasn’t the biggest place around and since it was the cold and flu season, you’d think that most people would stay indoors.

Wrong on that count, as a lot of people were walking around at this time of day, but at least they’d been smart enough to wear heavy clothes. Me, I’d been in a hurry to leave home that morning and grabbed whatever was lying on the floor, which happened to be a windbreaker. Only after riding my bike from home down the two-mile road and chaining my bike to a post at the bus stop did I realize what an idiot I’d been for not thinking things through.

Checking my watch, it showed three forty-five in the afternoon, and the sun was already beginning to sink over the horizon. It seemed to move in slow motion, but I knew it would get dark pretty soon this time of year, the dusk magically creeping in from parts unknown.

Still, the concept of an early dusk didn’t stop the tourists from strolling through the area wide-eyed, doing the snappy-snappy thing with their cameras and pointing with a manic sense of we-have-to-see-this-now at the various shops. Look here, one housewife-type said to her house-type husband in a gee-golly-whiz kind of voice. They got aliens!

Her comment sort of summed the existence of this place up as there wasn’t much else to recommend it. The scenery consisted of desert, a number of stores sitting on the edge of the desert, and even more desert land, but to the visitors, it must have seemed like something out of a fairy-tale.

Every face had this is Nevada written on it, and when they looked around, they didn’t just look. They stared, expressions of awe painting every line and crack and crevice in their faces. This is where the aliens are, where the government hides everything, and where we have to be, the expressions told me. This is our moment.

Good for them. My moment consisted of hunching over and trying to escape the harsh winter wind. Man up, I repeatedly muttered, rubbing my arms and chest. The store’s close, it’ll be warm inside.

Along the way, I kept an eye on the time. The bus would leave at precisely four o’clock to take me back along the highway to Rachel, a city on the edge of nowhere. If I were late, the bus driver would leave without me. Good luck in scoring a ride back if that happened. I lived over sixty miles away, and hitching was not an option. You never knew what kind of psycho was walking around, even if you did live on the edge of never.

Preoccupied, I bumped into someone. Oh, uh, I’m sorry, I said.

Time stood still as we locked gazes. With an abrupt motion, the man I’d banged into spun around and strode off, leaving me to gape at him with my jaw somewhere around my knees. He looked just like my American History and homeroom teacher, Mr. Ramsey, except he had blond hair and a mustache. Mr. Ramsey had grey hair and didn’t have a mustache.

Part of me wanted to go after him and ask him who he was. The other part said no, let it go. Caught in that quantum state between action and inaction, I hesitated. The sound of the bus’s horn decided things for me. Mr. Collins, the aged driver, yelled out, Carl, I’m leaving!

Pivoting around, I raced back to the now-in-motion bus and jumped in. As we rolled along the highway, I thought about my day, just another day in Alamo. The morning had started off well enough, but then there was the look-alike, the new girl I’d met, and the hope I’d be able to talk to her tomorrow.

Earlier that day, just after nine A.M.

These are your assignments, intoned Mr. Ramsey as he waved a piece of paper in the air. I’ll expect excellent work from you, as always.

Class number one in a long day of lessons had just begun, and everyone greeted his statement with a mixture of groans and silent whispers of, Not again.

Me, I passed the time by doodling. To a trained artist, the pictures might have resembled crude drawings of alien spacecraft—and they were. They happened to be my conception of what an alien spaceship would look like. Imagination had to count for something, and who said aliens had to come there in flying saucers with portholes?

As for the math, it consisted of calculations from Planet Earth to wherever. Today I focused on Mars, and it lay thirty-five million miles away at its closest point to there. If one went at Mach 20, how long would it take to get there?

And these assignments will count as a big chunk of your final grade, Mr. Ramsey continued, jerking me back to reality.

How big is big? asked one student. The rest of the class laughed nervously.

I looked up long enough to see my teacher direct a laser-like glance at the student, which made him wilt. Big enough, he said. For now, all you have to know is that you’re all going to be doing a lot of work during your vacation.

More groans arose, louder that time. Mr. Ramsey was talking about our upcoming Christmas vacation. Laugh out loud, as the urban saying went. Our freedom to celebrate wouldn’t start for another three weeks. Homework assignment or not, I just wanted the class to finish. Unfortunately, the big hand on the clock seemed to be stuck at nine-twelve.

A quick glance around the classroom told me everyone I knew seemed to be just as disinterested in studying as me. Mike Rogers, star linebacker and captain of the Pahranget Cheetahs football team, the only real friend I had, was also checking the clock. He and his crew always ran a few plays during lunch just to keep sharp.

Julie Morton, class beauty queen, clicked off a selfie with her cellphone behind her textbook and quickly touched up her makeup. She just had to look perfect for every occasion. It didn’t matter if it was school assembly or going to the little girls’ room, every hair on her head had to be in place, and every eyelash had to flare out perfectly.

The other kids were disinterestedly reading or passing notes to each other. Three of them had their heads on their desks strategically positioned behind their texts. A faint snore wafted through the air.

My eyes wandered back to the clock that hung on the far wall, and it moved with glacial slowness. Keep ticking, keep ticking...

And I’ll be expecting those reports to be done and ready for my inspection on the day of your return next year. This essay will be worth forty percent of your year’s total, said Mr. Ramsey, interrupting my moment of introspection.

Tall, slender and middle-aged, grey-haired and serious, he started in on the list and went through the class alphabetically. The topics ranged from the Colonial Period to the New Deal. They all sounded easy enough.

When my turn came, though, all life on Earth ceased. Mr. Thornton, your case is The Warren Commission Report. If you are not familiar with that, perhaps the case of a famous President being killed in the early nineteen-sixties may give you a clue.

Hold on a moment. I had to find out