The Roswell Protocols Read online

  Copyright © 2009 Allan Burd

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 0-9705588-4-8

  ISBN-13: 9780970558848

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-61550-151-9

  Visit www.booksurge.com to order additional copies.

  For Roberta, Bert, Michele, Dylan, and Tyler

  My beginning, middle, and end…

  “I’ve loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night.”

  GALILEO GALILEI

  “Government is not reason; it is not eloquent; it is force.”

  GEORGE WASHINGTON

  CONTENTS

  TITLE PAGE

  COPYRIGHT PAGE

  PROLOGUE

  IT BEGINS

  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

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CONTACT

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  ALIEN GROUND

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  CHAPTER 47

  CHAPTER 48

  CHAPTER 49

  INVASIONS

  CHAPTER 50

  CHAPTER 51

  CHAPTER 52

  CHAPTER 53

  CHAPTER 54

  CHAPTER 55

  CHAPTER 56

  CHAPTER 57

  CHAPTER 58

  CHAPTER 59

  ENTITIES UNKNOWN

  CHAPTER 60

  CHAPTER 61

  CHAPTER 62

  CHAPTER 63

  CHAPTER 64

  CHAPTER 65

  CHAPTER 66

  CHAPTER 67

  CHAPTER 68

  END GAME

  CHAPTER 69

  CHAPTER 70

  CHAPTER 71

  CHAPTER 72

  CHAPTER 73

  CHAPTER 74

  CHAPTER 75

  CHAPTER 76

  CHAPTER 77

  CHAPTER 78

  CHAPTER 79

  CHAPTER 80

  CHAPTER 81

  CHAPTER 82

  EPILOGUES

  CHAPTER 83

  CHAPTER 84

  CHAPTER 85

  CHAPTER 86

  CHAPTER 87

  CHAPTER 88

  WORD FROM THE AUTHOR

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PROLOGUE

  NOVEMBER 9, 2009

  COLORADO

  Airman Charlie Faber gently applied pressure to the brake of his Ford Explorer, slowing his approach to the heavily guarded gates of the U.S. Space Command’s Space Surveillance Center. He glanced over to the clock on the center of the dashboard. It read 1:30 A.M., just like it always did, he thought to himself with a sigh. Another dull evening to be spent doing the usual routine. He’d park the car by 1:35 A.M.; get to the coffee pot for a quick pick-me-up, cream with a teaspoon of sugar, by 1:45 A.M.; then be stationed at his post in Box Nine from 2:00 A.M. to 10:00 A.M. for eight boring hours of observation. Then he sighed again, knowing all too well how easy it had been to become accustomed to this position he was assigned to six months ago.

  He leaned his finger against the button that rolled down the window of his car and showed the MP his badge. “Good morning, Marty.”

  “Morning, Chuck. Just like clockwork,” replied the MP as he pressed the button lifting the gate.

  “Yeah, every night—same bat time, same bat channel. Maybe I’ll get lucky and within the next six months they’ll transfer me to a real post—or at least first or second shift.”

  “You and me both,” responded the MP.

  Charlie nodded good-bye and drove his car into the nearby parking lot. Two minutes later he and twenty others on night shift detail boarded the military shuttle bus that would take them inside Cheyenne Mountain. This was a military installation the locals referred to as Crystal Palace because at certain times of the year, particularly in the winter, the snowcapped mountain would reflect the sun making it appear like a giant crystal. That image, combined with the incredible technology housed within, led to the nickname.

  The bus rumbled along the two-way road, stopping momentarily as it approached the large, gray, thick metal blast-doors which guarded the entrance. Charlie anxiously watched the doors open sluggishly, then close menacingly behind him as the bus made its way inside. He always felt as if he were being sealed into a tomb he couldn’t escape from for the next eight hours. And he was.

  The bus left Charlie at a bank of elevators. He took one to the third floor, wondering to himself about the contradictory nature of the space surveillance center. The facility, even though brightly lit, always appeared dull. The temperature was high due to the man-made climate, but still, it always felt cold. Even the mood, which hung thick in the air, smacked of apathy though the entire facility was built out of an ever present sense of paranoia. All in all, Charlie thought, it was not the most pleasant place to work. At least he hadn’t acquired that pasty, sallow complexion that most of the first shifters had. He couldn’t imagine being locked inside from 10:00 A.M. to 6:00 P.M. every day, hardly seeing sunlight. Hmmm, he thought to himself, perhaps third shift isn’t that bad after all.

  After a cup of coffee he quickly made his way to his station in Box Nine, where orbital traffic was closely monitored by the government. The room was a lot smaller than one would expect. Six orbital analysts, known as knob turners, and a commander were stationed within. With the exception of Commander Stromfeld, Charlie at thirty-one was the oldest of the seven officers on duty.

  Charlie took control of the console while exchanging a few pleasantries with his second shift counterpart. Maps were displayed across his computer console showing various locations across the globe. The blips on the map showed any air or space traffic above those locations. The buttons and dials on his console allowed him full access to SPADATS, the Space Detection And Tracking System, so he could isolate specific locations if it became necessary. If there was any activity in space, Charlie would know about it.

  He sat behind his console and briefly scanned the status report from the previous shift. It read—No unusual air activity. He looked over to his friend, Airman Mark Jones, who was sitting at the console next to his, and nodded hello. Charlie raised his eyebrows and shrugged, silently indicating he was ready for another eight boring hours of observation. Mark rolled his eyes and nodded his agreement.

  For the first one hour and thirty-five minutes of his shift Charlie kept watch on his designated zones. Nothing unusual was happening. All “blips” were flying in their recognizable flight or orbital patterns and were easily identified.

  Until now! Unexpectedly a new flashing red light scurried onto Charlie’s display. He quickly flipped through his manifest, making sure that he hadn’t missed something which wo
uld correspond to the blip. Nothing did.

  “What the…” Charlie muttered to himself. “Commander, I got a new bogey that just tripped the fence over the Mid-Atlantic—apogee reading at eighty miles and heading down.”

  Crew chief, Commander Ray Stromfeld, lowered the reports he was reading and looked toward Charlie. An unidentified bogey wasn’t all that uncommon. It could have been an enemy satellite changing course for a new spying route or a dead satellite with a decaying orbit about to reenter the atmosphere. More likely though, it was a meteoroid. According to the astronomical reports, a meteor shower was scheduled for tonight. “Flight Pattern?” questioned the Commander.

  “Coming straight down at free fall velocity, sir,” replied Charlie without looking away from his monitor.

  “Check the inventory log for any dead satellites or other known objects that should have been orbiting in that sector.”

  “Nothing on the list, sir.”

  “What’s your estimate on size?” asked Stromfeld.

  “Judging from the blip, size is approximately fifty yards in diameter.” Being a big Denver Bronco fan, Charlie always thought in terms of yardage, not meters. “Should we bother NORAD with this, sir?”

  “Let’s wait a few minutes. In the meantime, Jones, get the TIP team on line. One hundred fifty feet is downright big. I’m not sure it will burn off in the atmosphere. Whatever it is, if it does make it through, I want to know where and when it’s gonna hit.”

  “Yes sir, Commander,” answered Airman Jones. He was young and eager to please.

  Stromfeld made his way to Charlie’s post. They hoped it was just a meteor that would die in the atmosphere and nothing more sinister. As much as Charlie hated the boredom, he knew the excitement had the potential to be much worse. Two minutes passed as they watched the object continue to fall.

  “Jones, what’s the TIP team’s analysis?” asked Stromfeld.

  Airman Jones ripped the hard copy from the printer and quickly read it to his commander. “If it makes it sir, they estimate six minutes to impact in the Mid-Atlantic. It’s impossible to give an exact estimate due to the fluctuating density of the atmosphere, but it will land in the water. No danger to civilians, sir.”

  Commander Stromfeld grabbed the printout to see for himself. “Let’s hope we have no nuclear subs in that vicinity.” He turned back to Charlie. “Status?”

  “Sir, bogey is now at fifty miles heading into the mesosphere and still descending on its current trajectory—no loss of size noted.” Ablation, the process where the friction generated by speeding through the atmosphere would burn off a meteor’s outer layers, either reducing its size or turning it to dust, should have begun by now.

  “Damn.” Commander Stromfeld raced back to his desk and reached for the gold phone. “This is Commander Ray Stromfeld at the Space Surveillance Center. Flash alert for CINC-NORAD. We mark an unidentified bogey, approximately 150 feet in diameter, descending fast into the Atlantic Ocean. ETI six minutes, point of impact longitude 74 degrees, latitude 48 degrees, radius of error three miles.”

  The blip was at forty miles altitude when something startling happened.

  “Holy … Object just changed course, sir.” Charlie was stunned.

  Stromfeld hadn’t known Charlie for a long time, but what he did know was that he was a damn good airman. About five months ago when Charlie was first starting, he successfully identified an ELINT—an Electronic Intelligence Satellite—that was confusing everyone else on post. Since then, the Commander developed a respect for Charlie’s abilities. If Charlie said the object just impossibly changed course, then he was sure it had. Still, he had to see for himself. “Huh, hold on.” Stromfeld put the phone on his desk and walked over to Charlie’s console. “New flight pattern?” he asked.

  “It’s still descending, only at a different angle and much slower. It now appears to be in an orbital spiral over the northern hemisphere.” Orbital spiral meant the object was circling the earth as it was falling.

  “Any ideas?”

  “It’s definitely not a meteor,” said Charlie stating the obvious.

  “Unknown satellite?” suggested Stromfeld.

  “No. The speed’s not right. Plus I’ve never seen a satellite execute a maneuver like that one. That course change was almost ninety degrees.”

  “Jones?” snarled Stromfeld. Jones was already working. He ripped the new Trajectory Impact Projection estimate from the printout and handed it to Commander Stromfeld.

  “Damn.” Commander Stromfeld raced back to the phone. The boys at the Pentagon are going to love this, he thought. “Modify previous Flash Alert. Bogey changed course. New point of impact, Ellesmere Island, Northern Canada, longitude 85 degrees 30 minutes, latitude 75 degrees 45 minutes. Radius of error one mile. ETI in twelve minutes … that’s 3:51 A.M. our time. Requesting Priority One Action message to Commander in Chief of North American Aerospace Defense Command for full use of all available networks of the SPADATS. Also requesting Priority One use on the computer-linked telescopic system along bogey’s current trajectory. We need a picture of this thing and we need it fast.”

  The computer-linked telescopic system was based in Malabar, Florida. It would take about four minutes for it to receive the coordinates, process them, align itself with the bogey, and transmit a real-time picture back to the Space Surveillance Center at Cheyenne Mountain. On an ordinary day this feat of computer technology would seem extraordinary.

  Today it wasn’t near fast enough.

  The room began to fill with more men, most with a command rank on their uniform. The tension grew palpable, but not directly because of concern over the bogey. Most of the analysts were not used to being around so many high ranks. They were afraid to say the wrong thing for fear of looking stupid in the eyes of their superiors. A higher ranking commander asked Charlie for the status.

  “Bogey is still on current descent trajectory. Speed also remains constant, sir.”

  Time moved in slow motion. No one knew what it was, but speculation filled the room. However, no matter which hypothesis seemed at the moment to be correct, it was shortly cut down by some inconsistency which soon led to a new hypothesis. The cycle continued, but everyone knew the chatter was meaningless. Until they received the real-time pictures from Malabar, they would not have the answers.

  “Commander, two bogeys are approaching on an intercept course,” Charlie said. “Probably Canadian RAF, sir.”

  “How much longer until those pictures come in?” Jones whispered.

  “About a minute for pictures, one more for impact,” answered Charlie.

  “It’s going to be a long minute,” mumbled Jones.

  Thirty seconds more passed when suddenly the unthinkable happened. The occupants of Box Nine stared with disbelief.

  “God dammit!” shouted Commander Stromfeld.

  It became official when Charlie spoke the words. “I don’t understand it, sir. The bogey disappeared from the screen.” Charlie fooled with some knobs and dials but to no avail. The blip would not reappear.

  One senior commander, seemingly unfazed by this unfortunate event, took control. “No need to panic yet, gentlemen. We’ll be receiving visuals in about ten seconds.”

  All eyes focused on the screen in front of them. The first picture finally flashed on and there was—nothing. If the object had exploded they would have at least seen some debris, but there was nothing there. Commander Stromfeld was furious. All of the billions of dollars in high tech equipment had resulted in nothing. Except that Charlie was right, the object heading to earth was definitely not a meteor. Other than that, they knew nothing at all and that didn’t sit well with Commander Stromfeld.

  He quickly reached for the gold phone ordering a priority one Teal-Amber search of the northern sky. The telescope would survey the night sky at an exact counter rate to the earth’s rotation. This would, in effect, freeze the stars in place and highlight any unusual object in the sky. The search would last for five more hours
but ultimately it would find nothing. All members on the third shift in Box Nine would be fully debriefed. No mention of this incident would be made to anyone else, including family and other officers. Not even to the other analysts on first and second shift. If anyone asked, tonight was routine, as it always was.

  At 10:00 A.M. Charlie’s replacement would arrive. His name was Airman Jack Henning. He was only twenty-two, but already he had developed that sallow complexion from being deprived of sunlight for most of the day. He would exchange the usual pleasantries with Charlie as he took control of the console. He’d put down his cup of coffee and begin his shift by reading Charlie’s report. It would read—No unusual air activity. Charlie Faber, Nov. 9th, 2009.

  IT

  BEGINS

  1

  NOVEMBER 9, 2:50 A.M. (PACIFIC STANDARD TIME)

  PRINCE RUPERT, BRITISH COLUMBIA, CANADA

  Stacy Michaels gazed out over the wooden railing surrounding her deck, the cold breeze reminding her of the change of seasons about to take place. The moon shone down like a beacon of silver light, highlighting the cascading mountains in the distance. Thousands of stars illuminated an otherwise dark sky. Every once in a while a sliver of orange light from the Aurora Borealis would glance over the horizon. Without any city lights to interfere, Stacy admired all the beauty of the heavens.

  Until a storm system from the west picked up speed and splashed cloud formations across the awesome celestial backdrop—as if Mother Nature herself was experiencing a mood swing. But even as the night brooded, Stacy remained out on her deck. She couldn’t sleep and she much preferred the open outdoors to the confines of home, even in the cold and even though her home was spacious enough. She poured herself a glass of wine, wrapped herself in a black down blanket, and lowered herself into a lounge.

  She took a sip of White Zinfandel, her favorite, and began to think of an idea for her next children’s book. “OK Princess,” she said to herself as she grabbed a pencil and pad from the nearby table. “What perils will your kingdom face for your eighth adventure?” She tapped her pencil unconsciously on the pad as she gazed through the sliding glass doors into her own kingdom, an old country-style chalet filled with all the modern appliances this century had to offer.