Quarantined Planet 3: The Ark Angels

By John Allen Pace

A seven-time alien abductee, Jack Sunday has made a meager living as a paranormal radio host. Unfortunately, all the alien stories, conspiracy theories, and unhinged call-in regulars have become toxic for station ratings and management shows Jack the door. However, on the night of his final broadcast, something unexpected happens with galactic consequence.

Jack is unwillingly reunited with the Ark Angels, an elitist organization determined to create their human utopia on a distant planet, while leaving Earth in ashes.

With the aid of his lover, friends, one radio fan, and a long-trusted FBI agent, Jack reluctantly commits to eliminating the stolen alien devices in a high stakes race against time. It’s a struggle for the future of Earth and humanity, but, having become a jaded, drug addicted and broken man, does Jack have the will to save our world?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: Aug 29, 2016
• ISBN: 9781483455488

Book preview

Quarantined Planet 3

The Ark Angels

John Allen Pace

Copyright © 2016 John Allen Pace.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—without written permission of both publisher and author, except in the case of brief excerpts used in critical articles and reviews. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

ISBN: 978-1-4834-5547-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4834-5548-8 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2016912074

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Lulu Publishing Services rev. date: 08/23/2016

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Epilogue

About the Author

Read the entire Quarantined Planet series from John Allen Pace. Still to come, the fourth, final, and full-length novel, Far Harbor, in which all questions will be answered and all loose ends tied up.

Special thanks to my love, Aileen, for her continued support, creative input, and understanding that writing is a time-guzzling and often solitary undertaking.

Chapter 1

In 2013 …

The skyline of Seattle, Washington, twinkled around the city’s iconic Space Needle. Atop one of the loftier downtown buildings, flashing strobe lights warned aircraft away from a pair of radio station transmission towers.

Inside the building, the on-air broadcast of Classic Rock Ninety-Five echoed through its empty offices, hallways, and sales cubicles. A deep-voiced announcer belted out the following as if declaring matters of life and death: The best of rock, Classic Ninety-Five! This is Ground Zero! With your host … Jack Sunday. Hard-pounding rock music kicked in, followed by the announcer’s voice. This is Ground Zero! A change in music was preceded by an explosion sound effect.

Welcome back. I’m Jack Sunday, the show’s anchor halfheartedly stated. A sudden transformation in his tone turned his voice from indifference to near anger. On this, the last segment of this final night of Ground Zero. We’ve talked about the paranormal, the unexplained, UFOs … Why didn’t God, or—even better—aliens stop 9-11 or Syria’s civil war or—the romantic comedy? But the big question: What … He paused for dramatic effect. What did any of it matter and what would’ve been the point? Are we even worth the trouble of saving as we flirt with realizing our own extinction?

Jack Sunday, thirty-five, slim and fit at 165 pounds, had dark hair and a permanent five-o’clock shadow—a good-looking man. He never worked out, was often moody, a pessimist (though he always referred to himself as a realist), and an atheist. Even so, Jack, overall a likable guy, was the kind of a man who would overtip the waitress serving his coffee.

He sat behind a circular desk, facing three flat-screen computer monitors. A massive mixing board in front of him sparkled with illuminated red, yellow, and green buttons. Jack took a quick breath and pulled the microphone closer as his lead-in music began to fade.

Be sure to join me and the Abduction Busters this Tuesday night at the Dusty Whisker for our final Zero Hour, he continued. "All drinks half price, and super producer Marc Steel will supply the DSM-IVs, or whatever number they’re up to now. You were going to be a psychologist, no?" he added with a wink at his radio partner.

Marc, in Studio B, watched Jack through a window between the two rooms. He was a heavyset man, thirty-seven, with long blond hair, a scruffy beard, and dark glasses. The man gave Jack a thumbs-down in response to his attempt at humor. The unkempt producer stood before another array of impressive broadcasting equipment and answered a nearby push-button phone, primitive by comparison and a holdover from an earlier and simpler time in the industry. It was Marc’s job to screen Jack’s phone calls before putting them on the air.

Ground Zero, he said, answering line one. You have a question or comment for Jack?

In the on-air studio, Jack’s digital volume meters bounced back and forth as his last broadcast continued. We’ll talk about my alien abductions, the end of the middle class in the land of inopportunity, the new corporate buzz words to disguise discrimination, corporate culture, and Marc’s lamentable—no, sorry—nonexistent sex life. Then, promptly at nine, it’s Dark Side of the Rainbow"—The Wizard of Oz set to Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon … never gets old. Copious amounts of alcohol will be consumed … Get there before I down it all. Don’t miss it—Dusty Whisker, this Tuesday night at eight." Jack, who never wore the reading glasses he’d been prescribed, squinted at a monitor, sighed, and shot Marc a what-the-hell gesture.

Marc responded with open hands and mouthed the words, What do you want me to do?

To the phones we go, Jack said, annoyed. Classic whatever and Zero line one, where—he rolled his eyes—Tim Coldsnow, our favorite Native American, is waiting … again …

It is destiny, Tim interrupted. The end of your show, my friend.

No destiny, Tim, just low ratings, Jack said, giving an honest and displeasured answer.

You’re on the path, Tim continued. The true life—

The true life? What is that? Please expound, Tim.

Choice is illusion, Tim said, unfazed by Jack’s insulting manner. For each of us, there is a trail that must be followed—

Ah, you’re what, a determinist, then? I’m destined to fail. Is that it?

No, friend. No pass or fail. There is only the life lived, Tim said as if he were some sort of sage or guru. We’re all part of a greater plan.

But we have no free will, no choice?

The universe knows our choices, but still it expects us to make them.

That makes no sense, Tim.

Fate, destiny—

"I’m destined to hang up, ’cause in this portion of the greater plan, we’re fortunately out of time. Jack cut Tim off with the thump of a button that promptly lit up a bright red, something he did with many listeners he found disagreeable or annoying. Hey, and in the meantime, Tim, lay off the peace pipe. Or, come down to the station and share with the rest of us. Can I say that on the air, Marc? Marc? Calling occupants of interplanetary craft?"

Jack’s producer had missed his name and the Carpenters’ song title. He was busy ogling Mia Madagan on a security camera monitor. She was an attractive, very thin and tall, twenty-six-year-old woman, with long dark hair and bangs to her eyebrows. Marc found her Goth-chic vibe and typical outfit, a black sweater and pleated Catholic -schoolgirl skirt, quite sexy.

Damn, he said to himself before welcoming her through a microphone under the camera’s screen. Hey, Mia, he said. Come on up. Tapping a button near the monitor, Marc buzzed her in by unlocking a door opening to an alley behind the building.

In the main air studio, Jack checked a huge digital clock on his mixer board.

The hourglass has run out on this failed experiment. A big thanks to my eight listeners, he said. Pounding bumper music faded in while Jack continued talking. To station management—he paused—may a Xenomorph lay eggs in your gabagoo.

He hung his head as a wave of depression set in. Radio was all he had ever done and all he knew how to do, although he, like so many in the business, had never made any money doing it. Most radio announcers were lucky to make a few dollars above minimum wage, even in large cities and even in 2013.

I’m Jack Sunday, destined for some heavy drinking. He pushed the microphone away with much more force than needed, took off a pair of tattered headphones, and tossed them across the console.

A recorded explosion gave