Uluru Rising

By Jeff Todd

What happens when an alien probe strikes the earth in the Arizona desert? What happens when rock hounds, college students, and the US Army confront this probe? What happens when religious zealots trek to the alien with hopes for salvation?

An Australian shaman foresees that the Earth will change. And he sees that Uluru will rise. Can humankind adapt? Or must they resist?

Down under, the Earth is carved until the land itself becomes a weapon. Can we handle a second invasion? A team of American scientists and soldiers work to understand then protect us from what they find. Like termites in search of their next meal, humans must address their limitations in a world gone mad. Uluru will rise.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Oct 24, 2011
• ISBN: 9781462054701

Jeff Todd

Jeff Todd grew up in southern Ohio where as a young boy his interest in science fiction began with the adventures of Tom Corbett. His extensive video library includes all the classic sci-fi movies. His dream to become a writer stayed just that until he retired in 1995 from the University of California at Berkeley. He combined his love of science fiction and writing to write “Uluru Rising”. Mr. Todd lives in Wilmington, North Carolina, with his wife, dog and two cats. He is currently working on a new novel, a murder mystery.

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Copyright © 2011 by Jeff Todd.

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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4620-5469-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4620-5470-1 (ebk)

Printed in the United States of America

iUniverse rev. date: 10/13/2011

Contents

BOOK ONE

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

BOOK TWO

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

EPILOGUE

To Mimzie

the best thing

that

ever happened to me

BOOK ONE

CONTACT

CHAPTER 1

They toiled tirelessly; the life of the colony depended on their success. They had trudged far from their elevated hovels of mud and spittle. Multiple legs barely touching the surface, they marched across the barren land under the heat of the scorching sun. Slower ones were ignored and left behind. Those less able were determined inferior; their reproductive capacities were not needed. The orders controlling their behavior were inbred. To defy them resulted in expulsion from the colony and slow starvation. They rested only when their programming allowed. Since hesitation could result in attack from a predator, any sign of weakness was punished.

When they accomplished their mission, they left a directional scent trail and then scurried back to the anxious horde with news of their discovery. They awaited new instructions while resting or tending to injuries. When not on reconnaissance missions, they would mate, fulfilling the prime objective of passing on their talents in an endless line of forgotten ancestors and unknown descendants. They were without pride, incapable of such emotion. But for an individual, reproductive success amounted to an accomplishment nevertheless.

An army climbed over, under, and around each other following the pheromone trail left by the scouts. Their mandibles snapped, and their antennae twitched as they scanned the hot air for signs of predators or competitors. The ferocity and number of their warriors would have daunted much larger creatures.

They found their target. Unfazed by its size, they advanced without hesitation until they attained the living heartwood at the center. Their jaws ripped and tore indiscriminately. They engorged themselves, departed, and then returned for more. Eventually, the core of the young karri tree was consumed. They abandoned it and searched for other sources of nourishment. They left behind no markers of conquest. Nothing resembling graves memorialized the sites of the dead. The abandoned carcasses, dried by the unending heat, eventually shriveled and blew away.

They were the epitome of warriors fighting to the death, inflicting pain and destruction to their adversaries before they succumbed to their own wounds. They followed the warrior code but felt no honor. The legion neither thought nor felt. It foraged, reproduced, moved on, and died uncaring. They left their wounded behind. Or, if hunger dictated, snacked on them wantonly, abandoning the dry shells of their brethren as a grim reminder of the consequence of failure. They followed their orders without dispute. In their warfare and competitiveness for resources, they were models of efficiency. With sufficient leadership, they could have conquered the world.

1724 A.D.

The tall, wiry man ambled from tree to tree searching for damage. He tapped the trunks and put his ear to the bark listening for the hollowness that announced a potential horn. When he found one that met his demanding standards, he drew a stone ax from his belt of twisted vines and chopped at the hollow tree until it released its grip on the Earth.

He gathered his tools of stone and wood and began working on his new horn, stripping away the thin branches, bark, and other clutter. There was an exchange ceremony soon, and he would proudly represent his family group as he had for many years. People talked of the mesmerizing sounds he was able to coax from his long horn of hollow karri wood. He smiled as he worked, thanking his ancestors for providing him with such a fine tree. His horn beckoned forth the totem of the Julunggal python, which he would treat with honor.

The wide, conical, burled end of the didgeridoo, curved and pointed skyward, nestled in a large conch shell that had been passed to him from his father’s father. The long, mottled karri wood was dotted with the ravages of time. Its core, eaten away by army termites, was cleaned of internal debris with a long, hooked stick. The burled end of the horn provided resonance and tone. The thin man looked as ancient as the wood itself. His white hair, streaked with remnants of black, blew softly in the evening breeze.

Two tall, reed thin men and a shorter squat man were also prepared, their lips poised and their cheeks bulging, ready to blow. The old man joined them. Two of them sat, cross-legged on the ground, and two stood as was the nature and tradition of their family groups. The sitting men’s didgeridoo were short, only four feet long in length. The standing men, their horns with large conical bowls resting in large white and pink-streaked shells, held six and a half foot long karri wood didgeridoo. Each silently thanked the termites for providing them with such noble horns.

The crackle of a bonfire was the only sound in this part of the outback. The mulga and mallee wood provided fire. Dusk descended, and the great rock behind them reflected the fire, sending elongated, darting shadows into the crevasses in the ancient stone. The color of the great monolith began to change with the dropping sun. The burnished red of its arkostic sandstone face mellowed into a rich purple hue. As the sun dropped below the horizon, a chill came to the desert. The sand seeped its heat upward into the night. The stone radiated its heat away replacing its warmth with empty cold.

As the sun failed and began its nightly journey around the far side of the Earth, its final rays were the anticipated signal. The horns were considered sacred, and a man’s ability to sustain a tone was a valued and praised art form. The quartet of black-skinned men blew deep into the old horns, creating a harmonic rhythm in the tubes of trapped air, releasing their dreadful lamentation to the desert night. The horns pointed towards a jagged rift in the giant red rock. The reverberations of a mournful sound were enhanced and sent far into the arid land like a bereaved soul.

A family of artnere, poised on an outcrop of rock, raised their heads. One howled, accompanying the horns to chase away lurking demons. The dingo pups joined in the howls. A red fox left his shelter, troubled by the unaccustomed noise. He circled furiously then retreated headfirst, deep into the safety of his burrow. Three aherre-red kangaroo rose to a sitting position and rested on their muscular hindquarters. Their snouts twitched as they sniffed the air and listened as the horns sent long sound waves pulsating across the cooling air on the desert floor.

The four men blew and blew, refilling their lungs, their cheeks distorting grotesquely from the effort. Beside them, six men sat in the sand and pounded their clap sticks in syncopation with the drone from the didgeridoo. They performed their familiar song directly into the stone face. The red rock stood impassive as it had for the millions of years it had rested on the surface of the Earth. The softer rock had eroded away eons earlier leaving this monolith as a focal point for the central region of the down under continent.

The horns played an eerie concert of roiling sounds. They ceased on a common crescendo and then rested their horns on the ground. They turned and sat, their backs to the rock, facing the old man who rose shakily on spindly legs, using a cane carved from a mulga tree with a stone chisel to support his weary frame.

He faced a multitude of more than a hundred. While that was a number rarely seen together, they were dwarfed by the giant rock that loomed over them like a roo over its joey. He raised a wizened arm and smoothed his wisps of snow-white hair. The sides of his head were covered with tight, salt and pepper curls of unruly hair. His coal dark skin was dusty with age. His eyes sparkled in the light of the bonfire, and the crowd hunched forward, anticipating his words. His strong, resilient voice belied his appearance. Encompassing the crowd before him, drawing them in, he extended a finger and slowly drew a circle in the air.

It is good to see you all here. We are all Arrente, Arnhem people. I can see people from many family lines. I see skin names of Perrurle, Kenmarre, Penangke, and others. We meet to talk and to trade, to share songs, dance, eat food, and tell stories. He chuckled to himself. "I liked the taste of the roasted alewattyrre, the sand Goanna. I also ate more than my share of the honey ants. Someone worked hard to dig them out for us to enjoy.

I have lived a very long time. Some think too long. Some days I think I know less than I did when I was a child. He smiled at the children sitting silently in the front of the crowd. "But, I will never again see the day when I can run around Uluru or try to climb her to demonstrate my strength and courage.

"I want to talk of the dream time… when the Wondjina walked this land and created everything. Our dream time ancestors carried Tjurango—spirits of individuals that they buried under the waters, rocks, and trees. Before they arrived, the land was a flat, dark surface. Our ancestors emerged during dream time and created everything for us. When we look around, we see their works. I, like you, am Arrente, but I was also once a Tjurango. And I was once a kangaroo, a large red one, and I could rise on my hind legs and see far. That is what I want to tell you about.

"Something in my bones told me I needed, one last time, to walkabout and see what I needed to see. I walked around Uluru and kept going all the way to Kata Tjuta. I watched for the Walalag, the sisters, our first mothers, but I did not see them anywhere I looked. I watched for the rainbow serpent, too, but did not find it.

"I took with me food, water, and the totem of the kangaroo, the Aherre. I ran out of water and followed a roo who led me to a small pond where I refreshed myself and refilled my water gourds. I thanked the roo, but he said nothing. I walked until I could no longer see this great rock, Uluru, behind me. I was frightened. The rock has always been here. When all else fails, the rock is still here, a gift from those that walked the land before us and blessed us with everything.

I fell down. An agave root jumped out of the ground in front of my foot and tripped me. I fell and struck my head. You can see the bruise here. He pointed to a dark slash of renewing flesh over his left ear.

"I must have been asleep or in my dream time because I did not remember falling when I woke. I did not remember striking my head. When I awoke, I was lying on my back. I opened my eyes, but I could not see. All was dark before me, like the blackest blood. I was afraid. But I did not move. Slowly I began to see. I saw light out of the sides of my eyes. All above me was dark. I turned my head and as far as I could see was black blood above me and dim light from the sun on all sides. I wondered if I had become my own ancestor and was seeing the world created in the very beginning when there was nothing.

"I stood and when I looked up, flying away from me was Uluru. It went high into the sky and whisked away from my sight like a stone skipping into a pond. It changed color as it flew—orange and red and pink and purple and almost black like the night. Then bright orange outlined its red stone. I was standing in the hole where Uluru had been. I watched it until it was gone from the sky. It left very fast. I didn’t know what to do so I lay down again and I slept. I was very afraid and didn’t know what to do.

When I woke, I was by the agave tree again, and my head hurt. I felt dried blood around my ear and gnats were buzzing there, feasting on me. I turned around and walked back towards home. I walked from before the sun was high overhead until it left the Earth for the night. I did the same for many days. Then, in the morning, I could see Uluru again and I was very happy to see that it had returned from its journey. It was back in the ground where it had always been before.

He drew air into his lungs then released it slowly. I do not know what any of this means but I saw Uluru rising and I’m afraid that it may be leaving us. That is all that I remember, and I wanted you to know. The ancestors gave us Uluru for all time. I know that our dreams can be of the past, the present, or the future. But now, in our present, Uluru may be rising away from us and leaving this land. I hope that I am wrong. What would we do without this rock to guide us?

Australia, the Northern Territory, November, 2005

The lorry rumbled over the twisted, rut-filled road, churning dust that lingered in the dry air like empty beige clouds.

Folks, we are now in Uluru-Kata Tjuta National Park. The crowd of rowdy tourists audibly drew in their breath at their first sight of the great rock. They always did. Even though they had been pouting in the heat for the past 12 miles of the drive from Alice Springs, seeing the giant monolith for the first time evoked their awe.

Kata-Tjuta is a series of over 30 rock domes about 33 miles to the west of us. The indigenous people of Australia own this land and the park area. It is leased back to the government of Australia. This is a World Heritage Site, which recognizes the significance of both its landscape and its culture. The young tour guide was black/brown-skinned with a jutting square jaw and prominent, slightly protruding eyebrow ridges. Hers was an exotic, unfamiliar beauty. Her black eyes sparkled with intelligence and wit and she bore lines of sun and laugh wrinkles in the corner of her eyes. Her jet black curly hair was wild and uncombed.

Are you an aborigine? asked a young American boy, loud enough for everyone in the lorry to hear.

Shush, Johnny. That’s rude! said his mother. She grabbed his arm and pulled him against her ample bosom.

It’s all right, the tour guide said. Actually, aborigine only means original people or the people native to the area. I am proud to be descended from those peoples. I am an Arrente, from that family line.

Are you a real Bushman? asked a toe-headed little girl wearing a Cleveland Indians T-shirt with the grotesque, idiotic smiling face of Chief Knock-A-Homa embossed in the center.

No. There really aren’t any Bushmen anymore. I live just outside Alice Springs in a small house by the Todd River, surrounded by giant gum trees. But my great grandfather lived in the bush and survived living off the land for many decades. Even now he can find water in the bush when others cannot.

How big is that thing? asked another tourist wearing a genuine Australian kangaroo skin hat and bush jacket over a stomach that had consumed too many Burger King Whoppers. Both native items bore a Made in Bangladesh label.

Uluru, also known as Ayers Rock, is 1,342 feet at its highest point and it is six miles in circumference. It is the largest, freestanding stone monolith on Earth. Its weight can’t be accurately calculated. Its composition is arkosic sandstone. Interestingly, Colonel Ayers, after whom white Australians named the rock, never visited here. He never saw the rock named in his honor.

Why is it called Uluru? asked an olive-skinned tourist wearing a turban. Kathy silently wondered if he were Sikh or Arab. Few of them ever visited the desert. Living in their own homeland deserts, they soon found the Australian desert boringly familiar and of little interest.

It is the name given the rock by the original people. My people believe that our ancestors created the world during the dream time and they placed Tujurango, spirits of people, under the rocks and trees, the waters, and the woods. My spirit may be under Uluru. So be careful where you step today if you try to climb the rock. As always, this drew polite laughs and smiles from the group of sweating tourists.

Parked in the designated tourist area next to seven other buses, the lorry disgorged Americans, Japanese, Germans, British, and other tourists. Usually, there were a few Australians who didn’t get out much and had seen little of their own country. The non-Aussie tourists were distinctive in their colorful garb. Video-cams, digital cameras, and tote bags swung wildly around their necks as they shoved and pushed to be first in line to climb the rock, as if it were about to disappear. They forgot the heat momentarily in their dash to the rock. The rock held a strange attraction for people. Once seen, it required touching as if to validate its imposing reality. Not trusting their eyes, they caressed the stone, making it a memory.

G’day, Kathy. How do you stand all those bleedin’ tourists? asked a rakish fellow as he handed her a cold can of beer. He leaned against the front of the dust-encrusted bus. They avoided the interior of the park’s tourist center despite its air conditioning. Too many gawking, loud tourists. The buses that arrived earlier had grabbed the little comfort derived from the sparse shade from the four lone eucalyptus trees in the parking lot.

Giving him a friendly smile, she deftly flipped open the can’s tab with a thumbnail and took a long pull on the lager. It pays the bills, mate, she said, wiping away the beer foam sticking to her mouth.

That it do. That it do. But, you know, sometimes it makes me feel like a bleedin’ whore to be with these folk. Here I am, smiling like a dumb roo at their stupid questions, posing for their pictures they’ll look at once then put in an album never to be seen again. And me, such a handsome bloke and all. What a waste.

She laughed. Mate, you’re just making their outback experience authentic. There will always be tourists, you know. Just like there will always be this rock. I like the rock being here. It gives me strength. It connects me with my ancestors. We collect these tourists’ guilders, marks, dollars, and yen so we can buy beer… and pay the tuition.

"But I don’t have to like it. If I hear Waltzing Matilda one more time today, I’ll blow chunks."

Not by my lorry, you won’t. You know, if you act like a clown, mate, you feel like a clown. I try to give them some history. Tell them about the people and the land. When I travel abroad, I try not to act like an ass myself. I never forget what it’s like workin’ as a guide so I have better manners when I’m in someone else’s country.

Your load today really looks like rubes. One of them ‘bout knocked me over goin’ for the rock.

Yeah, they’re pretty raw. A kid on the trip down asked me if I knew Crocodile Dundee.

What did you say?

Same thing I always tell them. Told the kid I knew Mick well… just like all us Aussies do.

Hey! That’s good. I’ll remember that one. He pointed with his beer can. Look at them up there, climbin’ the rock. From here they look like an army of termites in bad clothes.

Kathy smiled. That they do. But they can’t hurt the rock. No one can hurt the rock. It will always be home to me; no matter how many of them leave their candy wrappers and film about.

Maybe your spirit is under the rock, like you say Kath. Maybe one of your ancestors put it there, ya think?

Could be. What about you, Michael?

Me? I’m no Abo like you. If I have a spirit, I think it’s in this here can of beer.

You are so weird. Why did they ever hire you for this job? Kathy asked not unkindly.

I think they recognized the ‘original and genuine Aussie’ in me. He grinned while playfully poking her in the upper arm.

Ouch! Stop that, you bloke. Your beer isn’t that good.

Yeah, it is. It’s cold and fresh and the only beer around here you can drink for free.

That is true. Talking about weird, did you hear about something flying around the moon? Couple of the folks on the lorry down from Alice Springs were talking ‘bout it. Didn’t make any sense.

Yeah, I heard, Michael said with a sneer. "My kid brother spends most of his days on the Internet reading weird shit. He’s into UFOs and all that crazy stuff. He wants to believe everything he sees on the X-Files. Supposedly, there is some alien thing flying around. I think it’s a pile of crap."

Why?

Well, if there were aliens, and I don’t think there are, why would they want to waste time on us? He crushed the empty can and tossed it in the general direction of the trash barrel. It struck the lip and bounced backwards landing on the ground, displacing candy wrappers.

They sure as the world won’t be dropping by to watch you play basketball, mate.

Give a bloke a break, will ya! That was my last can. It’s your turn to buy now and you owe me one from yesterday, too.

CHAPTER 2

Northwest Arizona, U.S.A

It had drifted for eons, traveling at nearly half the speed of light. Unaffected by the isolation of space, it traveled via a well-established nexus of time bubbles, warp strings, and contingent loops. This route permitted a thorough survey in its assigned area of reference, one of the spiral arms of what the humans had named the Milky Way galaxy. Its internally generated energy source, replenished by periodic proximity to the solar flares of the stars it passed, would endure for millenniums longer. The mission parameters were simple and well within its capabilities. Its instructions roughly translated to . . . Read all wavelengths for evidence of non-randomly occurring phenomena. If detected, report and follow transmissions to source. Survey, report. Analyze materials encountered. Prepare for transport. Protect shell.

It struck the earth with a thud, like damp clay slapping against a spinning potter’s wheel. Dirt, pebbles, twigs, sand, and sagebrush were propelled into the air by the impact and remained aloft as if suspended on a cushion of air. There was no one in proximity to hear or observe the actual impact. But the landing was tracked and noted on multiple radar and sentry defense systems. The precise point of landing could not be plotted based on its trajectory, which had varied thrice since it entered Earth’s atmosphere. It touched down in Mohave County, Arizona. It was the first time something quasi-sentient from beyond our solar system had landed on Earth. That it was sentient was not known although the possibility had engendered speculation prior to touchdown.

Alpha Six, this is Dog One.

Dog One, Alpha Six. On course. ETA to target four minutes.

I read you five by five, Alpha Six. Switch to alt com link Zebra Baker.

Roger that. The group leader of the squadron of six F-19 United States Air Force fighter aircraft switched his radio to the pre-arranged secure channel.

Alpha Six, your group’s transmissions will be patched directly to the White House along with your camera feeds. Watch your language, Major. The president will be listening. I’m initiating the patch in sixty seconds from… MARK.

Understood, Dog One. Six out.

Alpha Six switched a transceiver toggle to communicate directly to his flight group. Major Walter, Iron Ass, Rathburn, graduate of the United States Air Force Academy and veteran of both the Gulf War and the air war in the Balkans. He earned his nickname from an airburst of flak near Kosovo that penetrated his airplane and rendered his hindquarters permanently sore from iron fragments. He feared no man or anything that could fly, but the thought of the White House monitoring this mission was a clusterfuck-in-waiting. His iron-impregnated butt shot a sharp pain down his left thigh. He was too concerned with carrying out his mission to think about what he may encounter on the ground in the next few minutes.

Alpha Group, this is Six. Listen up. I’m only going to say this once and I want zero comments. Our vox and camera are going to be fed directly to the White House. Needless to say, play this mission by the book. He noticed that he was sweating abnormally and wondered if it was due to this unknown thing in the desert or the fact that politics was interfering with his mission. Once the people in Washington got involved, you had to permanently keep one hand covering your ass to avoid the second-guessers. I already have enough pain in my ass. I don’t need any more.

This portion of the northwestern Arizona desert looked no more appealing at 1500 feet than it did at ground level. At this hour of the day with the sun dropping near the horizon, the desert above Kingman faded into a purple haze. Shimmering in the lingering heat of the sand, the colors in the landscape would have appeared artificial were they not so real.

Rathburn cleared his mind of distractions before engaging in what was potentially the most dangerous mission of his career. This mission necessitated the clarity of his mind and the speed of his hands. This was most likely no more than a training mission. He hadn’t seen the necessity of following some errant meteorite. From the emptiness of the landscape below, he doubted that the meteor was a threat to sparse population. It might scare the devil out of the scorpions and snakes, but the mission would be a waste of his time. At least he was getting some hours in his jet. There was no substitute for that rush.

An infinite variety of blue-black and purple was painting the desert at the horizon. The land was hardscrabble and not fit for farming grazing livestock. A sparse population and a few nearly ghost towns with exotic western names like Chlorine and Oatman were dying outposts of civilization too irascible to move elsewhere.

What gold and copper this area had borne was excavated long ago. It was a nearly perfect place to disappear if you didn’t require the company of your fellow man. The Kingman area population swelled during the winter months when the snowbirds from the Midwest arrived on their annual trek to the mobile home parks. The locals wondered why someone would choose their county for residence. It was uniformly hot and dull; even the buzzards seemed uninterested. But the cost of living was cheap. For others just passing through, Kingman was a watering hole, burger, gas, and pit stop for the tourists and hordes of eighteen-wheelers passing from Kingman to Los Angeles. Weekends generated some traffic through town when folks from L.A. and Phoenix made frantic dashes to gamble on the Colorado River at Laughlin, Nevada. Someone visiting from far away could scarcely have selected a less accessible or more inhospitable place.

The isolation of the area and the meager population was still preferable to the military and civilian authorities responsible for the safety of the media and thrill seekers who would inevitably flock to the area the moment the landing point was established. It was not possible to keep something like this secret. Since Watergate and the Clinton presidency, secrets were an illusive commodity. The Internet was abuzz since the amateur astronomers noticed it approaching from behind the dark side of the moon. It was happenstance that an astronomer had focused a large scope on that region of the moon’s terminator when it emerged. While most of society remained unaware, an inveterate few were packing their trailers and cars to trek to Arizona anticipating a large meteor. The military knew it was not a meteor, stray comet, or space debris. The disinformation campaign created by the military suggesting a minor asteroid or some space junk was ineffective.

It landed in an area east of the Black Mountains in the Grand Cliffs Wash above Mount Tipton, northeast of Chlorine, on rolling wash area; dry, barren, and covered by few roads. The precise landing point could not be determined until the last moment when it dropped out of Earth’s orbit and began its erratic fall. It had altered its course thrice since it began its descent.

In the minds of the military, the United States can never be too prepared or too secure. The experimental jets from Area 51, planes from Edwards AFB in California, and the spy birds from Miramar in San Diego joined in the pursuit of the strange object nearing the ground. The first military group on site was the jets out of Nellis.

The smug confidence the military placed in its technology was badly shaken by the unknown. Predictability, based on history and intelligence data, was preferred from our adversaries. Predictability saved lives and the loss of expensive weaponry and assets. The lack of precedence and preparation caused nervousness in the nation’s leadership. It was too soon for actual fear or an aura of wonder to attach to the event. But, for those responsible for a country’s safety, it was an event of nightmare proportions.

Washington, D.C.

The finance ministers from the United Kingdom, France and Germany were in town, accompanied by the usual horde of media that descended on foreign dignitaries like flies on garbage. Residing in the Lincoln Bedroom, practicing his golf swing, was Prime Minister Hiro Takashuga, a long time personal friend of the American president. They had met in Japan when Miles Rossi was a member of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee and Takashuga a member of the Diet. In striving to develop improved trade relations between their cultures, they’d learned that Hiro hated sushi and that Rossi could drink sake like a salaryman. The friendship was solidified when they discovered a mutual passion for golf and a humorous tolerance for the idiosyncrasies of each other’s culture.

Miles Anthony Rossi was nearing the end of his first year as president of the United States. He had the distinction of being the first Italian-American and first former National Football League player to achieve the presidency. His post-election bounce in approval ratings and his interlude of press harmony were long forgotten. He was in the course of being blamed for most of the nation’s ills from the teen pregnancy rate to the rise in crime in the inner cities.

Elected on a platform of fiscal restraint and tax relief, he was an outsider in his own Democratic Party. He had openly advocated budget reductions and increased support to the business community. His support for the gay community and a woman’s right to choose had assuaged his party regulars only somewhat. Anyone in Washington who practiced fiscal responsibility was suspect in the eyes of D.C. insiders whose lifeblood was the never-ending supply of money.

Rossi never ceased to be amazed at the number of White House guests who were as interested in his football career as they were in the nation. It wasn’t uncommon for guests, even during state functions, to request his autograph (For my kids, they’d ask) on one of his fading football cards. The interception he’d made in the Super Bowl had saved the game for the Raiders. He retold the story often, only slightly embellishing his role. Any man or woman who had accomplished things requiring physical skills fascinated politicians.

Nearly forgotten were his term and a half as Pennsylvania’s junior senator following his two terms in the House of Representatives. He’d been a popular but compromised presidential candidate for his party, elected on the third ballot following some frantic convention negotiations. Although, it had been generally agreed that any breathing candidate could have defeated the Republican incumbent whose early successes in office had faded.

Rossi’s personal courage had never been questioned after having played a portion of the Orange Bowl with a broken right ankle. That injury and its complications cut short his NFL career and left him with a slight hitch in his gait and a permanent soreness in his lower leg. Even now, when he attempted to play more than 18 holes, his ankle painfully reminded him that he wasn’t either the man or the age he used to be. He hadn’t served in the military, opting for the NFL after college instead of the Marines. His detractors never missed the opportunity to remind the American public of his lack of military service.

Once he’d casually remarked to a White House reporter that the ideal time to attack the United States would be during the kickoff of the Super Bowl. This had generated controversy and harangues on the conservative’s talk shows. As president, anything that issued from his mouth got attention. It galled him to have to appear non-partisan during the annual Ohio State-Michigan football rivalry. But he knew that the electorate wanted a president who projected an appearance of impartiality whether real or feigned.

Miles Rossi earned an MBA while playing in the NFL. He was considered the equal of most economists on taxes and the budget. He had a natural affinity for both money and mathematics. He’d managed to bail out of the market just prior to the dot com crash of 2001 and he’d earned a small fortune on speculating with start-ups.

Giancarlo, his father, had turned the family bakery passed to him from his father into a highly successful chain of forty franchised outlets. Rossi learned from his father the necessities of business acumen and near cutthroat competitiveness.

With his intense eyes and small but noticeable facial scars accumulated from miscellaneous sports injuries, Miles Rossi could be an intimidating figure when he wished. Miles and Marilyn Rossi had two grown children. Their daughter, Haley, had given them their first grandchild. Son Tony had been the very definition of precocious and, when he began quoting poetry at the age of three, they’d taken him to specialists who verified both his faster than average development and high I.Q. From his infancy, he’d shunned balls in preference of books. His education was by private tutor exclusively. He had proven too rambunctious and bored for the exclusive Cathedral School in Washington. While POTU.S.’ Secret Service code name was Halfback, Tony’s was Mutt.

The president, accompanied by two Secret Service agents, rode the elevator to the situation room in the bomb-proofed area under the White House. The reinforcements in the shelter were an artifact from a time people believed a nuclear war could be won. The president slowed his pace and paused outside the heavy walnut doors. He thought he’d prepared himself for everything a president could encounter, but a UFO? For one of the few times in his life, he admitted to himself that he really didn’t know how to proceed.

Mr. President. The three people in the room said simultaneously, standing as the president entered. He waved them to sit back down in the high-backed, overstuffed swivel chairs. A pitcher of chilled water and white legal pads were on the polished walnut table before each seat along with a pen and pencil, each bearing the White House seal.

Former Army General Justin Horn, the Secretary of Defense (SecDef); Dr. Murray Fitzpatrick, National Security Advisor (NSA); and Ed Bennis, White House Chief of Staff, took their seats. A fourth chair was vacant.

Where is Dr. Tennison? asked the president.

Umm… sir, the last report we obtained from her office said she is on the way, Bennis said cautiously.

For now, I want this group small. We’ll call others in as we need them. What is our status, Murray? asked the president.

We will momentarily receive the live video feed from the nose cameras of the F-19s at the landing site, along with their voice transmissions. Their ETA should be less than five minutes now.

What are their orders, General Horn?

Observation only, Mr. President. They are to display no hostile action. They…

How can you possibly know what an alien species will interpret as hostile? the president interrupted. I’d think a group of F-19s flying at me would appear hostile.

Mr. President, Fitzpatrick said patiently as Horn bit his lip and looked away. They remain at altitude above the object, whatever it is. They will not approach. And yes, you are correct; we do not know what would appear hostile. However, something that has traveled from the stars won’t likely be threatened by a few airplanes.

I apologize, Justin. I didn’t mean to snap at you. This damn thing has me rattled, the president continued, OK, what is the protocol, the SOP, for this situation?

Sir? asked the SecDef, genuinely confused.

What are our operating procedures? How do we proceed with this thing? You know. What are the operating plans?

Well, sir, we are basically making it up as we go.

You aren’t serious?

I’m afraid I am, sir.

With the billions devoted to our military and NASA over the past decades, we have no contingency plans, workbooks, computer scenarios for this?

No, sir.

The NSA added, Our scientists have long maintained that something like this was so improbable it didn’t warrant time or money. When Jimmy Carter asked NASA to study on the subject of flying saucers, they refused. Thought it would make them look silly and detract from their mission of exploration.

Oh, that’s just great. We get visitors from another star and the best we can do is to send attack airplanes to greet them? the president said, his voice rising to a crescendo.

The 75-inch high definition plasma TV flickered on. And after momentary static it displayed the desert flashing beneath the nose of Major Rathburn’s lead jet.

The Arizona Desert

Dog One, this is Alpha Six. We are going to spread formation. I will make the initial pass. Rathburn’s voice was strong, confident. There are rock outcropping just ahead and a higher formation beyond that. Simple scrub and desert. There… I’m detecting a faint glow up ahead. I’m there… NOW!

Oh, my dear God, uttered the strained voice from the pilot of Alpha Five. It’s huge.

The damn thing’s orange! said Alpha Three.

Group, maintain your composure, growled Rathburn. Are you copying, Dog One?

Five by five, Six.

I estimate it to be one hundred and fifty feet long, maybe thirty feet high and forty feet wide. It appears symmetrical.

Alpha Three chimed in her South Carolina drawl. Orange barrel sunshine.

What, Three?

It looks like a giant pill. It’s rounded on the ends and seems beveled on the sides, like a pill. Back in the eighties there was a pill of LSD that was called orange barrel sunshine. Came out of Haight Asbury in San Francisco.

Don’t tell me how you knew that, Three, Rathburn said darkly.

It does. It’s shaped like a pill. It appears to have a solid structure although I detect no marks or insignia, said Alpha Two.

It sure isn’t a meteor or some failed space equipment falling from orbit, Alpha Six said pointedly.

It has nothing structural that looks like wings or gear. Its surface is smooth.

It appears immobile. Just sitting there on the desert floor.

It’s orange, all right. It has a haze or a glow of orange around it. It’s almost fuzzy-looking.

The Russian Bearfox bombers don’t look fuzzy. They look lethal. Remember that, reminded Rathburn. This isn’t a toy. It’s a bogey, a threat. Treat it as such.

This is no Russian bomber. The guys out of Area 51 couldn’t create a thing like this that could fly.

OK, cut the chatter, ordered Alpha Six. Dog One, I suggest we paint it with radar. See what we get.

Alpha Six, this is General Larson. That’s a negative on the radar. You are authorized for passive systems only. It could interpret radar as a hostile act. Are you detecting anything on your systems? Friend-Or-Foe detectors? Threat indicators? What are your passive systems indicating?

Negative, sir. Anyone got anything? asked Alpha Six. The other five F-19 pilots’ indicators registered null.

Continue circling and observing, ordered Larson. Anything to report on the ground? Any civilian traffic?

That’s a negative, sir. The land appears empty all the way over to Route 95.

There’s an AWACS enroute from Miramar. ETA seven minutes.

Washington, D.C. The White House Situation Room

The conference room had been silent while the planes passed the orange object. There was little to be said beyond the obvious. Ed Bennis was stunned, staring open-mouthed at the big screen, which continuously displayed the motionless object from different angles from the jets circling above.

Murray, how are those planes equipped? asked Bennis quietly.

"Standard issue Sidewinders, four of them. 80-millimeter cannons. One of the new Falcon missiles, an armor penetrator, and