Aura

By Wayne Josephson

Nathan Conley is a new summer intern at a Washington, DC newspaper. His first assignment: Bring down the next President of the United States.

After a near-death experience, handsome Nathan Conley awakens with a rare gift. He can see the colors of people's auras – the radiant life energy that everyone possesses but no one can see. He joins forces with beautiful Lexy Holland, a paranormal expert, who reveals that he has the power to tell whether people are good or evil.

Senator Andrew Layton is on the verge of being elected President. But his popularity and charisma mask the truth that he has an evil aura, and a far more shocking agenda than anyone could imagine – a secret alien power that he plans to unleash on America to eliminate the human from humanity.

With Nathan in constant danger, the fate of America and the world lie in the balance if he fails to prevent Layton from becoming President.

Aura is a riveting sci fi thriller packed with nonstop action, unexpected twists, and a mind-blowing ending!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wayne Josephson
• Release date: Apr 11, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201219079

Book preview

Chapter 1

The bright morning sun blinds me as I walk down Pennsylvania Avenue, two blocks from the White House, toward the headquarters of the Washington Star newspaper. This is the first day of my summer internship, and I walk a little faster to keep pace with the crowds that jostle me. The honking cars and smelly buses are jarring to a small-town boy like me.

The business people on the street, sweating in their expensive clothes, look important and act important because they are. They run the most powerful city on earth. I feel out of place in my polo shirt and khakis, and my new shoes hurt my feet.

Knowing that I’m just a stone’s throw from the home of the President of the United States, it hits me that I’m in the big leagues now. This is my first trip so far away from my hometown of Des Moines, Iowa, and I’m beginning to feel nervous.

Am I really up to all this? Can I make the grade? I wanted to be a journalist since I was a boy – it’s in my blood. My father was a star investigative reporter for the Des Moines Register, and all I ever heard at home was newspaper talk.

I would go into the office with him and watch the reporters hustling around, working the phones, pounding out stories on their computers, trying to meet deadlines. It gave me a bigger thrill than passing for a touchdown as quarterback of my high school football team.

I pass by a homeless woman who squats on the sidewalk, surrounded by crude signs warning about the end of the world. People on the street ignore her, but this pathetic, haggard woman is a new experience for me.

I can’t help but stare. A big mistake as her eyes meet mine.

My husband was abducted by aliens, she mutters to me.

I turn away from her, and then look back.

She calls after me and says, They’re here.

I guess not everyone in Washington is a mover and shaker.

I begin to feel anxious again. I was so confident when I accepted this internship. Two weeks ago, at graduation, I was on top of the world – editor of the school newspaper, captain of the football team, senior class president. Now I feel like a nobody, about to be swallowed up by the big city.

I take a deep breath and walk into the sleek glass and concrete building with the Washington Star logo emblazoned over the entrance. People smile at me and nod. Maybe this is a friendly town after all.

I step into the elevator and ride up to the tenth floor. The doors open and I approach the receptionist, a nice-looking, cheerful older lady.

Good morning, she says. May I help you?

I’m Nathan Conley. Here to see Mr. McSwain.

Oh, yes, Nathan. George is expecting you. I’m Mrs. Simmons. Please follow me.

She leads me through double glass doors into a vast newsroom the size of a football field. The place is buzzing with activity, just like my dad’s newsroom back home. I begin to feel more comfortable.

I follow Mrs. Simmons across the busy floor to a windowed corner office. George McSwain is on the phone. He smiles and gestures for me to sit down. I know that he is forty-five, the same age my father would be, if he were still alive.

It’s only nine o’clock, but his shirt is already rumpled from the summer heat, his tie is loosened, and his desk is a mess, papers strewn everywhere.

Mr. McSwain hangs up the phone and rises from his chair. He’s a big guy, taller than me, and I’m six feet one.

Well, well, if it isn’t little Nathan Conley! Except you’re not so little anymore. You’ve become quite a handsome young man.

He shakes my hand and grins.

Nice, firm handshake. That says a lot about a person.

Nice to meet you, Mr. McSwain, I say. Thank you for giving me this opportunity.

My pleasure. And call me George. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for the son of my old colleague. Your father and I were inseparable in college, and we never lost touch, until...

He stops short, not wanting to talk about my dad’s untimely death last year.

George strides over to a side table and pours himself a mug of coffee.

I’m already on my third cup. But that’s the newspaper racket for you. Can I offer you some coffee, Nathan?

Maybe a glass of water.

He pours it for me, and I gulp it down.

Thanks, George.

Sit down and let’s get reacquainted, he says. It must be five years since I last saw you. I can see a strong resemblance to your father – same brown hair and blue eyes. You really packed on the muscles during high school.

I’m a little embarrassed. I might look like a jock, but I want to be taken seriously as a reporter.

I played football and baseball, but my passion is writing. I guess that’s kind of unusual.

Not at all. I was an athlete, too. Sports are important. They develop teamwork and a competitive spirit. You can’t succeed in this business without those qualities.

I breathe a sigh of relief. So far, so good. I like George. He’s a good guy – smart, enthusiastic, and works his butt off.

There is a pause in the conversation, then George furrows his brow and asks, How’s your mother doing, Nathan?

Pretty well, I guess. This last year has been kind of rough. I’ve had to be the man of the family. And I’ll be heading off to college in the fall, so she’ll be alone for the first time.

She’s a great lady. Give her my best when to speak to her.

Thanks. I will.

Which college did you choose? he asks.

University of Missouri, same as you and my dad, I reply. They gave me a scholarship.

Great choice. Best journalism school in the country, says George. Where are you staying this summer?

I’m rooming with my best friend from high school. He’s an intern at the White House for the summer and starting Georgetown in the fall. We’re housesitting an apartment near campus.

Perfect. You’ll be in the heart of the action. Presidential election years drive this town into a frenzy. Can you feel the electricity in the air?

Yes, sir. And now that I’m eighteen, I’ll be able to vote for the first time.

Mind if I ask who you’re supporting? he wonders.

I like President Franklin. He seems to be doing a good job, and I think he deserves a second term.

George lets a little smile creep in. It looks to me like a smile of agreement. But he decides to challenge me.

What about his opponent? he asks. Senator Layton is ten points ahead in the polls. Unless the world ends between now and November, he’ll probably become our next President. Why aren’t you jumping on his bandwagon?

I think for a moment to formulate my answer. I don’t want to sound like an idiot.

Andrew Layton looks qualified on the surface and has a lot of charisma, but I’m not sure he’s proven himself yet. He hasn’t even finished his first term in the Senate.

George beams with excitement. He stands up and begins to pace back and forth as he explains.

I couldn’t agree with you more, Nathan. He’s too perfect, too slick. There’s something about him that makes me suspicious. I can't put my finger on it – maybe it’s reporter’s intuition. It gave me an idea for your summer assignment.

A grin crosses my face. I thought I’d be making copies and fetching coffee. Isn’t that what interns do?

"Not at the Star, he says, and I can tell he means it. Everyone makes a contribution here."

Great. What did you have in mind?

"Well, as part of the Star’s campaign coverage, I was thinking maybe you could delve into Andrew Layton’s past accomplishments and see if anything unusual jumps out that might be worth investigating further."

I crinkle my brow. But there’ve been tons of articles written about him already. Do you actually think I could uncover something about him that no one else has discovered?

You never know, says George. Maybe a fresh pair of young eyes like yours can see things that others have missed.

I’m speechless. George is assigning me the task of investigating the man who will probably become the next President of the United States.

George adds, After all, Woodward and Bernstein were only a few years older than you when they exposed Watergate.

He’s right. Those guys were junior reporters and they took down President Nixon, the most powerful man on the planet.

But first things first, says George. Go downstairs and get your picture taken for your press pass. That’s your magic ticket everywhere. Then you can start your research on Andrew Layton.

Chapter 2

That afternoon I begin researching Senator Layton on the internet, trying hard to block out all the noise in the giant newsroom.

The news stories reveal that Layton was formerly the District Attorney of New York. He gained fame by convicting seven murderers in a row. I find it intriguing that all seven claimed they were innocent, that they were set up.

My cell phone rings. It’s Spencer Forman, my best friend and roommate.

Hey, bro, I say. What’s up? Where are you?

Where the hell do you think I am? he cracks. I’m strolling down the hallway of the West Wing of the White House on my way to a meeting with President Franklin.

I snort. Spence is such a con artist. He started his internship at the White House Communications Department today, and already he thinks he’s the President’s personal speechwriter.

We became friends on the school newspaper staff. He wrote all the best columns. Smartest guy I ever met, and the funniest. Most kids thought he was a geek, but we hit it off right away. My buds on the football team ribbed me for being his friend, but most of them are buttheads. Spencer’s the best and most loyal friend you could ever want.

"Spence, the closest you’ll get to a Presidential speech is maybe assistant spellchecker. Oh, wait, they have computers for that. So what is your job?"

Now he snickers. I make sure the President’s ice water is kept constant at forty degrees. How’s your first day going, Nate?

Pretty amazing, I say. I got my press credentials, and I’ve been given a confidential, top-secret assignment.

Details, please? says Spence. I’m all ears.

Not over the phone, dumbass. It might be bugged, and I could get killed for telling you.

"Reality check. You’re working for the Star, not the CIA. But you got my attention."

Tell you what, I say. Let’s try out that gym near our apartment after work, and I might give you a formal briefing.

After work? laughs Spencer. "Are you serious? There’s no such thing as after work in the West Wing. We’re a 24/7 operation here."

You’re so full of crap, Spence. America won’t collapse if you take one night off. Come on, meet me at the gym and I’ll teach you how to pump iron.

I’ve been introduced to the weight room before, jock face. But for some odd reason, we never developed a lasting relationship.

Spence wouldn’t know a squat from a hammer curl. He’s a beanpole with two left feet, but I wouldn’t trade him for my two best linebackers.

It’s settled, then, I say. See you at five-thirty.

* * *

The weight room is like my second home. I spent my four years in high school bodybuilding for sports, and it became an important part of my life. Whenever I’m stressed out, I hit the gym and after a good workout, I’m relaxed.

I walk into the gym in my usual tank top and shorts. It’s filled with young professional men and women sweating and grunting, and the room echoes with the sounds of clanking weights, pounding treadmills, and whirring stationary bikes.

Spencer is waiting for me, dressed in a baggy shirt and basketball shorts. I can’t resist laughing, and he laughs along with me.

Geez, Spence, I say, could you look any more pathetic? I’m embarrassed to work out with you.

Shut-up, musclehead.

I pick up a pair of forty-pound dumbbells.

Let’s get to work.

I start my bicep curls. Spencer’s eyes bug out.

Your guns are bigger than my thighs! says Spence with a huge grin.

Enough, already, I say. Pick up those ten pounders and start your reps.

I’ll start with eights, he says. Now tell me about your assignment.

We begin lifting together as I lower my voice.

Now Spence, this is top-secret. I shouldn’t be telling you any of this, since you work for the White House.

He is about to explode with excitement.

You know me, Nate, he whispers. I can keep a secret. Now talk!

I finish my set, take a deep breath, and put my dumbbells down.

I’m investigating Senator Layton.

Spencer’s mouth drops open. No way! Are you serious?

Then he stops to think about what I just said.

Hold on. What’s to investigate? He’s clean as a whistle. The guy’s been examined with a fine-tooth comb. If he weren’t legit, he wouldn’t have a double-digit lead over my boss.

I interrupt his bragging. I don’t think your actual boss is the President of the United States.

Okay, my boss’s boss’s boss. Whatever. The point is, everyone in the West Wing believes Senator Layton will be elected. Believe me when I tell you that the mood in the White House is so grim that people are already cleaning out their desks.

I walk over to the cable machine and start my tricep pushdowns.

Maybe they shouldn’t pack up their boxes just yet.

Spencer rushes up and whispers in my ear.

What do you know?

I finish my reps and exhale, then take swig from my water bottle.

Nothing so far. Just a hunch from my editor, George McSwain. He wants me to try to dig up some dirt on the Senator.

I hope you find something, he says. The guy scares me. He has this strange power over people. It’s more than charisma. He casts a hypnotic spell over everyone, as if he has a kind of superpower.

Spence is on a roll, as he continues his rant.

And Layton’s senior staffer, David Dickson, eats nails and raw meat for breakfast, says Spencer. At the White House, we call him Dave the Dick.

I laugh and shake my head. Spencer is too funny.

What about Layton’s running mate, General Rockland? I ask. What kind of Vice President would he be?

Spence rolls his eyes and whistles.

Don’t even get me going on that guy. He’d nuke his grandmother if he had the chance.

Sounds like a fine pair of gentlemen to lead our country for the next four years.

Spencer smirks. Yeah. Problem is, would there even be a country after they’re finished with it? No one truly knows what Andrew Layton is all about. It’s impossible to predict what he’d do with all that power.

Chapter 3

Hundreds of miles above the earth, the black expanse of space is illuminated by billions of stars. Our little planet earth is a gleaming blue and white jewel floating in the darkness.

A dozen silvery spaceships, elliptical in shape, approach the earth. Having traveled from the moon, they are not gigantic mother ships, but more like...commuter size.

As they pulsate and shimmer, glowing with colors of red, yellow, and purple, they whisk toward our planet.

* * *

Meanwhile, down on earth, the Arizona desert sits in silence under the same starlit sky. There are no buildings, no people, no signs of life anywhere.

Beneath the desert, far underground, is an enormous man-made cavern. It is a secret military base that belongs to NORAD, the North American Aerospace Defense Command.

Officially, the base does not exist. It is not marked on any map. There are no signs in the desert above that would indicate its presence. Access to the facility is so well hidden that no one could ever discover it.

Inside the cavern is the most sophisticated surveillance equipment known to man. Dozens of desks with computer monitors are staffed by military personnel hunched over in deep concentration. A dozen additional workers rush around the room coordinating the activities of the facility.

Mounted at one end of the room is a seventy-foot-long flat screen panel. Projected on the screen is a map of the United States. Across the map, numerous flashing lights pinpoint critical locations that are being monitored.

Colonel Thomas Bryant, Chief Officer of the facility, casually watches the screen and sips a mug of black coffee.

A new member of the team, Private Morris, rushes up to the Colonel in a state of excitement and salutes his superior officer.

Colonel Bryant, sir! he exclaims. We’ve just confirmed another sighting!

Bryant returns his salute, looking bored.

Where, Private?

The overeager soldier points to the screen.

There, sir, in western Nebraska. It’s just flashing now!

Bryant takes another sip of his coffee.

How many sightings does that make so far tonight?

At last count, sir, there have been fourteen. I believe we may be under attack! It appears to be an alien takeover attempt! What should we do?

Bryant sighs and turns toward Morris.

Private, you don’t seem to have been fully briefed before you joined this unit.

Morris stutters. Well, sir...

The Colonel cuts him off.

Then you need to be aware that we will stand down and not interfere with the proceedings.

The Private is confused. He points to the enormous screen, with all the flashing lights. Each one represents an alien spaceship that has positioned itself somewhere in America, hovering a few hundred feet off the ground.

But Colonel...

Bryant is close to losing his temper.

Private, let me remind you what this operation is all about. We are engaged in an exchange program.

He points to the sky.

"With them."

Private Morris, rendered speechless, stares at his commander and blinks in disbelief. The Colonel continues.

An exchange program that was established by President Eisenhower and has been running smoothly for over fifty years. The aliens abduct Americans, and the military’s responsibility is to protect them and allow them to accomplish their missions.

The Private’s face grows pale. Fifty years?

"Ever since