The Xeno Manifesto

By Brysen Mann

Deputy Frank Smirnov wants a peaceful life but fate has chosen a different path. He could never have imagined a course that not only gives him insight to his past but to the true origins of the human race. NSA Agent Zachariah Allmass' job is to eliminate those who know too much, and those "Beings" with powers untold that have elected to remain hidden for all these millenniums, now possess evidence he needs for his true employer, the Committee. But Allmass has an agenda of his own.
Meanwhile, Roman Petrov is a violent man who puts his retirement on temporary hiatus after being left with collateral damage that leaves him no choice but to eliminate the "thorn in his side".

When these men's worlds collide, secrets that were never meant to be exposed will shake the very foundation of mankind's existence.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brysen Mann
• Release date: Dec 7, 2017
• ISBN: 9781773703213

Brysen Mann

For Brysen Mann, it’s time. The time has come, to tell his story, regardless of the consequences.He’s tired. The only constant in his life has been change. He’s had enough. He wants to have some roots, to have someplace to call home.Fate and his Power have always looked after him. Will this continue to hold true, even after his tale has been told?

Book preview

PROLOGUE

To the Team One Leader, this is an ideal night for a hunt. They’ve had good success recently after a long dry spell. This mountainous, remote location that is scattered with groves of old growth forest is a perfect spot because of its seclusion and long history of previous activity. The conditions are picture-perfect, the night clear, the moon full.

Patience is required; it’s like fishing, put the bait on the hook and hope something bites. They’ve had the bait out, hovering over the tree lines, since 24:00 hours. He often wondered how they developed the technology for the bait but never queried his superiors; his role is not to ask questions but to follow orders.

He’s grateful they’re living in the twenty-first century and the tactical gear they have for this task. He has the eleven members on his team concealed in various elevated positions. They’ve been deployed for over three hours now and it’s been two hours since they activated the bait, with no hits yet.

A radio transmission breaks the silence. This is position six, we have a target sighted.

Equipped with night vision and infrared goggles, he sweeps to that location and verifies the sighting

This is Team One leader, engage the target.

He follows with, Team One Transport, this is Team One Leader, maintain the bait’s position.

He and his comrades leave their cover, moving down towards their target.

Their target is a large Being that has emerged into the clearing below, howling and screaming. Its arms are outstretched chasing the hovering image that is their bait.

These trained specialists, with silencer equipped automatic weapons at the ready, are not far behind it, in pursuit.

Their target spots the squad closing in and heads for a large grove a half-mile away. The Being’s pace is incredible.

Team One’s mistake is interpreting this as a futile attempt of escape.

They have become complacent in their task and will soon realize the outcome will be different this time.

In reality, it is a planned act of revenge, a time for payback…redemption for the sins of the past.

CHAPTER ONE

Francis…it’s the Nineteen-Fifties for God’s sake. We’re living the American dream, lighten up a bit, her husband Michael says.

Michael…really? If we were living the dream we wouldn’t be in this lab twenty-four seven and looking over our shoulders constantly, Francis responds.

Well…I think you’re getting paranoid and Herbert isn’t helping matters.

What if he’s right? Did you ever take the time to consider that? I don’t know where you get the idea we’re untouchable.

I am not saying we’re bullet proof, but they need us. No one else can do what we’re doing.

Finally…finally, that’s Herbert’s point…no one else can, that’s why we’re at risk.

Michael pauses. Sometimes he’s too smart for his own good and the obvious does not always sink in. It’s beginning to now.

He and his wife were specifically recruited by Doctor Herbert Halbgewicz to work on a clandestine experiment in their own dedicated laboratory facilities in Los Alamos. They are geneticists who have bucked the typical trends of the scientific community, dared to go where others have feared and that is why Herbert chose them.

Although this is a military operation, they report to him and him only.

Alright then, let’s say Herbert’s warnings are true, he says. Why would they want to shut us down? It’s not like we’re just turning ground on this, we’ve been at it for a long time now.

Men…we’ve been allowed to continue because they have no idea what we’re really doing here but, according to Herbert, their suspicions are growing and for whatever reason…it’s a direction they don’t want us to go.

Christ, Francis. Why doesn’t Herbert explain in more detail to them the reverse engineering we’re doing and its potential applications? Shit, what we’re developing can change everything…all life as we know it.

Michael…please…please, he’s already gone over this time and time again with us. The ones funding all this…for whatever - reason, don’t want this final process to happen and if they found out…I don’t even want to think about that. Her face becomes pale and there is real fear in her eyes.

Did you ever think that maybe…just maybe, he’s wrong about those other scientists that left the program? That their deaths were coincidental and nothing more? Michael asks.

You’re right…of course…it’s perfectly natural that every person that has been relocated from this project has died. What is wrong with you? Where is your head Michael?

He makes a bee line for the safe, opens it and pulls out a folder, the only thing the safe contains.

Goddamn it…if our lives are in jeopardy because of this, then let’s give it to them…all of it, get away from here, live our lives somewhere far away and forget about all this.

Francis walks over to him and gently holds his face in her hands and kisses him sweetly on the lips then wraps her arms around him.

Honey…it’s too late for that, she whispers. As she tries to hide the look of despair on her face.

Hey, you two love birds…you’re at work, a voice calls out from the lab’s entry door. It’s a secure entrance, but their uninvited guest has full access.

Jesus Christ, not now, Michael whispers as he gently breaks away from Francis’s embrace.

Keep your voice down, she whispers back, and put that file away.

I don’t give a shit if he hears me and he is the general’s son, he hisses back. We don’t need a slimy babysitter like him always coming in unannounced…the kid is friggin’ creepy.

Felix, Francis calls out with a forced smile and quickly approaches their guest, meeting him half-way to distract from what Michael is doing…placing the folder in a lower cabinet, out of view. What do we owe the pleasure of your company to?

Felix has short brown hair, a small head with a pointed nose, buck teeth, a thin torso too long for his body with short skinny arms and legs. He looks like a weasel…and weasels can be dangerous creatures.

I brought you a gift…cigars in celebration of the upcoming new arrival.

His comment catches Francis off guard and she looks back at Michael who gives a shrug of his shoulders and a shake of his head.

What do you mean? she asks.

C’mon…you can’t hide anything from me. Let me guess…you wanted it to be a surprise?

Felix, Michael interjects. I don’t know what you think you know or where you may have heard it from, but we have no idea what you are talking about.

The baby, Felix says.

I’m not pregnant, Francis quickly replies.

Felix gives them a weasel smile. Really…I heard differently…that a wondrous creation of life was on its way…I just assumed.

And where would you have heard that? Francis asks.

From Mr. H, of course, Felix replies.

They both know Felix is lying, Herbert wouldn’t disclose anything to him. In fact, Herbert had specifically warned them that Felix is an individual who should never be trusted and to always be on guard with him.

No…we don’t plan on having a family, Francis says.

Oh…how sad…and I imported these all the way from Cuba, Felix says.

Thing is…we can’t smoke in here anyway, Michael adds. Too many combustibles, but I’m sure you won’t let them go to waste. There is distaste in his mouth just from conversing with Felix and he wasn’t trying to hide it.

Oh, you’re so right; the lab can be such a dangerous place, Felix says. Are you sure you’re not keeping anything from me? he adds with a pout on his face.

Felix, Francis says. If we were expecting something, you would be the first to know, And gives him her best grin.

I know you would Francis. I’m sorry for the confusion, but I was just so excited for you two.

I’m sure you were, Michaels replies sarcastically.

Michael…I don’t know why you’ve never liked me; I’ve always had your best interest in mind.

Felix, Francis says. You shouldn’t think that way. Michael likes you. He’s just tired and a bit irritable today. She looks back at Michael and raises her eyebrows to him.

Yes, sorry Felix…no offense. As Francis said…it’s been a long few days and I apologize if I offended you.

Felix smiles, sets the cigars down on a cabinet and clasps his hands to his chest. Thank you so much for that Michael. Okay…since there’s no celebration, I have to go. You two have a wonderful day.

With that, Felix makes a bee-line for the door, enters his password on the keyboard and exits the lab as quickly as he had entered.

Christ, Michael says. He left the cigars. Let me get those to him…the last thing I want is him back in here again today.

As Michael makes his way to the cigars, Felix pops his head back in. Oh…I forgot one other gift for you, enjoy, and tosses two hand grenades into the lab.

The lab walls and ceilings are designed to be explosion proof to contain any blasts that may occur. The two of them have no time to react and Michael takes the full brunt of the fragmentation grenades as he’s the closest to the door. The detonation tears him apart and sets off a series of explosions within the lab.

Francis instinctively ducks behind a counter but does not fair much better…the initial and following detonations take their toll and she’s barely clinging to life. Besides her extensive external injuries, the heat from the flames, the smoke and the toxins released are burning away at her throat and lungs.

Somehow…she pulls her herself to the cabinet holding the folder, grabs it and crawls towards the flames, even though they are punishing her…literally melting the skin from her body. With her last ounce of strength, she tosses the documents deep into the flames before she succumbs to her injuries.

Her actions…maybe a mother’s love after all? Ensuring the continued life of a child she will never know, never see.

The papers disintegrate in the fire starting with the folder jacket. It’s titled: Familial Replication of Alien Neanderthal Cloning.

CHAPTER TWO

Frank can’t believe its July twentieth, twenty-seventeen already and another year gone by. It’s his birthday and he’s celebrating quietly by simply enjoying the views on this road this beautiful summer day.

The walls of tall fir and pine trees he’s in between makes the road look so narrow, as if they’re going to engulf him. He follows the curve and these same trees dwarf and almost disappears, overshadowed by the mountains that spring into view.

As he rounds another turn, the appearance changes again to one of a steep hillside comprised of stick-like trees on one side, the opposite side transforms into a deep gully of fir and pine blended with an array of alder, cedar, hemlock and yew. It gives him an ominous feeling, like he could slip off the edge into the valley below, never to be seen again.

He relishes the way the morning sun lights up these surroundings and this landscape. How these mountains and valleys becomes a sea of green in the summer, an endless array of speckled oranges and reds in the fall and transforms to a blanket of sterile white in the winter.

At one point this laneway through nature is this simple straight highway and then becomes this serpentine of a path that weaves an umpteen track of long slow curves and sudden sharp turns.

He likes this drive, even though he’s on it countless of times per day, per month, per year. He never tires of it.

The highway itself is also impressive. It’s well paved and engineered, the curves smooth and seamless, no potholes, no irregularities. He likes this roadway; it inspirits him. It may seem silly to be moved by it but in comparison to the dirt, gravel and pot-holed filled narrow, paved roads they call highways back home, this one sparks some excitement as he maneuvers along it. He spends so much time patrolling this roadway that he needs to take advantage of these little things to help enjoy what he’s doing.

Highway 706 in Washington State is the only main road to the Mt. Rainier National Park open year-round. It’s a busy highway, one of the busiest two-lane highways in the state, especially this time of year near the end of July. Although it’s a short route, just fourteen miles, it seems much farther.

The weekends are the craziest with the tourists flocking here in droves; a select number gawking and rubber-necking at the wondrous views. There are roadside turnouts but travelers have to be careful rounding corners as, too often, those who insist on stopping anywhere create a scenario of danger and potential disaster for the ones trying to escape into this natural haven.

That’s part of his duties, keeping the traffic flow moving, keeping the visitors safe and getting these other folks to realize their errant, unscheduled stops at random locations can be lethal. As he rounds a turn, here’s another culprit.

It’s a new Lexus LX570, metallic black. As sophisticated and expensive as these off-road vehicles are, the probability of them ever seeing a muddy trail or experience an off-road excursion in its life time are pretty much nil.

So many of these urban dwellers feel the need to have these four by four chariots to explore the wilderness, which in reality is simply touring from their condo to a five-star resort and then back home again. Their wilderness experience is absorbing the attractive, natural scenery from the comfort of an outdoor patio while dining on gourmet meals and an endless flow of cocktails.

This looks to be another one of these adventurists. Frank guesses this guy is in his seventies, with grey hair, his potbelly overflowing well past his belt. He’s leaning on the hood causing his butt to jut out on the highway enough to act as an obstacle one would have to steer around.

He’s chewing on a big stogie hanging out of his mouth, impatiently watching a heavy-set woman all dolled up with lots of flash at the nearby edge of the road peering at the valley and the mountains. She has big hair and is excitingly pointing at it all, her camera phone in hand, taking an endless stream of snapshots that she’ll most likely be constantly posting on Facebook their entire trip.

Frank pulls his white Ford Explorer over, parks behind and off centre to the Lexus. He fires up the hidden bar lights in red and blue; emitting from the windshield, front grill and rear. These new patrol vehicles blend in with the crowd and permit him to hide in plain view, so to say. He opens his door marked with the insignia for the Washington State Sherriff’s Department, puts on his issued felt campaign hat and approaches their vehicle.

Good morning. He removes his Ray Ban sunglasses and adjusts his gun belt, First time visiting the area?

Hey…Deputy Dan. The man chuckles out trying to be funny. Dam right, first time…me and the missus we’re just stopping and I’m letting her do her picture thing. It seems no matter where we go its pictures, pictures, pictures. She can’t seem to go from one spot to another without wanting to pull over a hundred times for these dam things. He growls.

Well sir, what you’re doing is dangerous, just pulling over and stopping like this. You’re parked in a blind spot for drivers coming from this direction and I need you both to get back in your vehicle and continue on. There’s a turnout a mile up the road. You can stop and get out there and take pictures without any issue.

He’s being curt and to the point, he needs them on their way.

Hell Deputy, the man becomes defensive. Just give my wife a minute or two and we’ll be out of your hair.

He gets close to him and the smell, or stench if you better want to describe it, from his cigar is nearly overwhelming. Oh yeah, the great outdoors, all right. How people smoke those things—they’re disgusting. Why his wife would even want to kiss him after he’s had one of these things hanging out of his mouth all day is beyond him.

Look sir, he snaps back. You either move your way along ASAP or I’m writing you a ticket for unsafe stopping. You make the choice.

Son of a bitch, Deputy…you know who you’re talking to? I have friends in this neck of the woods, friends that can make your job pure hell, Stogie Man barks back. We’ll get out of here when we’re good and ready, just as soon as she’s done with her…doing whatever the hell she’s doing…so keep your britches on, Son.

Stogie Man’s face is getting red and puffy, his anger causing his breath to labor.

Fine with me, as I said…it’s your choice. He draws his ticket book out, flips it open and makes his way to the rear of the Lexus for a plate number.

Whoa, whoa, whoa, Stogie Man calls out, flustered now, yanking the cigar from his mouth and throwing it on the ground as he makes his way towards him.

Frank stops, looks at Stogie Man, looks at the cigar on the ground, looks back at him and then the cigar once more.

Do I need to add littering to the list as well?

Jesus Christ, Stogie Man mutters, grabs up the cigar up and yells. Woman! We gotta go! Move it!

Stogie Man clambers into the driver’s seat, which is a struggle for his bulk. The wife waddles her way back and slides into the passenger’s side. Frank walks to the driver’s side.

Thank you for your cooperation and make sure you enjoy your stay. A slow forced smile comes to his face.

Enjoy shit. I want your name. Someone’s going to hear about this, believe me.

It’s Deputy Smirnov. Deputy Frank Smirnov and I’d appreciate you letting them know how well I treated you today. Come back soon.

He gives a bigger grin, more to antagonize Stogie Man than anything else.

The Lexus speeds off, kicking up loose gravel, splashing back on the front of his patrol vehicle. Frank has half a mind to go after the guy but it seems like it will be too much aggravation.

What a dick. I hope this isn’t a sign as to what the rest of the day is going to be like. The things he has to tolerate to chase a childhood dream and, even though the odds are remote, possibly fulfill a pact he made so many years ago.

He climbs in his vehicle, switches off his bar lights and gets back on the highway. He notices that at the next turnout, the Lexus is nowhere to be seen, guess they changed their minds about taking in the sights after all.

CHAPTER THREE

Frank Smirnov. He used to hate his name. Over the years, he’s heard every take on it since it sounds like a popular brand of vodka. He’s learned to accept it even if it really isn’t his; his last name anyway. When his surrogate grandparents passed on he thought about changing it, but that seemed too drastic a measure.

He was adopted at a young age, a toddler. He was too young to remember much but can recount the face of a woman, his real mother’s he likes to think. His adoptive parents, the Zellers, didn’t make it long in this world either. They were killed in a car accident a month after his adoption; he has a slight recollection of them but nothing more.

He ended up being raised on a small one hundred and sixty farm in the Midwest by a great aunt and uncle on his adoptive mother’s side, Ivan and Dasha Smirnov. They were a Russian couple that had immigrated to the states, there was no other family. They didn’t adopt him but gave him their last name. What his birthright name was, he’s never known.

Money was tight in the household. There was a small income and what savings the Smirnov’s had left after they bought their farm; buildings and house included, when they migrated here.

There was a large garden with its traditional scarecrow on guard; to the back of the property was a penned coop with a few chickens and a corralled small red barn with a loft for the single cow kept for milk, cream and butter.

A flatbed trailer hitched to a John Deere Ninety tractor for hauling straw and hay was parked beside a paint bare, lean-to garage/workshop that was equipped with all the necessities for home and auto repair and provided shelter to a mint condition, sky blue 1943 Ford F1 pick-up; Ivan’s pride and joy.

The home was a 1920s, two story abode with yellow, peeling wood clad siding and a black asphalt shingle roof. The front door was painted red with an awning over railed wood steps, but it was never used. The back door was covered by a screened porch that housed the cream separator, served as a mud room and had seating for escaping the summer heat. The house had no running water, no indoor toilet and a single oil heater for heat.

He recollects a patterned linoleum floor, a huge wood stove and an oversized fridge in the kitchen where Dasha provided a never-ending supply of baking, perogies, cabbage rolls, borsch, dumplings, homemade sausage and a host of other traditional Russian fare. She was a short, stout woman with dark hair, wore wire rim glasses and always attired in tea dresses and flat black shoes.

There was a simple eating area adjoining a small living room where the furniture was always covered in plastic. The master bedroom on the main floor had a big four poster bed with a matching three-piece dresser set; a valuable family heirloom hauled from Russia and Dasha’s pride and joy.

The second floor had a narrow steep stairway leading to it a pitched ceiling, a single round window at one end and this floor served as his bedroom. The house had a dirt floor cellar, whose only interior access was via a wood ladder through a hatchway in the main floor.

An outhouse was tucked away behind the house hidden among a few poplar trees fifty feet away, which was a long walk in the cold of winter but far enough away that the flies were not a bother in the summertime.

Ivan, who wanted to be called grandpa, was a simple man with a bald head and a full grey beard. He was tall and lanky, always sported blue denim bib coveralls with a white shirt and permanently on his head, was a grey wool fedora.

Frank sensed that Ivan wanted to be called grandpa as this would be his only opportunity in his life to feel like he filled this role so Frank accommodated him.

As Frank grew, Ivan understood his need for space and solitude, that there would be no close relationship between them. As long as Frank did his fair share, stuck to the rules and didn’t cause any grief, he was good with that.

Grandpa was not a big talker, but he did have these crazy sayings that seemed to fit every scenario in life, like, I’m not a mentor or a coach. I’m a grandpa, that’s what I do or I can only make suggestions. You have to make your own choices.

Frank chuckles. He found himself using many of these sayings as he aged. He heard them so often they were ingrained in his brain.

He spent most of his toddler years self-entertained in front of the TV, his built-in babysitter. He didn’t understand a lot of what was being broadcasted as his first language was Russian, but the images were entertaining. He had to be taught English to go to school.

By the time he was eight, a black and white long-haired dog Bo was his new and constant companion, almost a surrogate nanny; his days, when not in school, were spent outside with this mutt.

He does love the outdoors. The countryside where he was raised was full of bluffs of trees, small rolling hills, a wood-filled ravine and a creek that went on for miles flowed through their farm.

He explored these woods packed with birch,