Per aspera ad astra, p.20
Per Aspera Ad Astra, page 20
Wiping honest sweat from his brow, Ben reentered the hangar to roll Misty out to join her stablemate. He was just setting himself behind the port wing root when his phone rang. Drawing it from the inside pocket of his flight suit, unzipped to the waist over a plain T-shirt, he took the call. “Hello Maggie,” he said. “It’s been a while. How’s the probe problem coming along?”
“It isn’t,” she replied. Even over the phone, Ben knew something had gone very wrong.
“What’s going on?” he prompted, gentle but firm.
“Have you learned to read texts during a call?” she said after a beat. Her grandfather’s ineptitude with modern smartphones was legendary. “It’s important.”
Ben smiled, troubled. “Daphne finally taught me,” he admitted, referring to Bill’s youngest. “What’s wrong?”
“The probe…well, it might not be just a probe,” Maggie said, a tremor in her voice. “But it…sort of…escaped.”
Ben nearly dropped the phone. “Escaped?”
“Yes, Gram, escaped. Alan’s sent a picture of something you need to see straightaway.” She sighed heavily. “Please have a look. I’ll wait.”
His throat tightening, Ben fiddled with the phone, retrieving the message without accidentally killing the call. With a flick, he brought up the appropriate thread, finding an image dated for this morning. Enlarging it, he realized he was looking at the side of a Plexiglas holding cell. Wondering what could’ve made his grandchildren so upset so early in the day, he stared at the tiny image, only realizing its significance once he’d fully zoomed in. The message—it was clearly laser-etched—was short and to the point, and he needed no reminding of the name, nor the incident in question. The implications of the warning and what it alluded to were something else entirely.
“I see,” he said, his insides squirming. “When did this happen?”
“Sometime last night,” Maggie replied. Ben could see her in his mind’s eye, wringing her wrists with worry. “Mr. Morrison and I reckon it used a laser to breech the tank. He thinks the probe might’ve been remotely operated.”
Ben hesitated for a moment. “Your father said they might send someone,” he said, meaning the USSF. “I take it he’s their guy?”
“Yes, he arrived yesterday evening.”
“And you’ve had to tell him about…your nature?”
“Yes. He took it surprisingly well, actually.”
“Good for him,” Ben said, thinking hard. “Where are you now?”
“We’re heading off campus,” Maggie replied. “Mr. Morrison—Paul—thinks it best we seal my lab and await further instructions from his, well, he called it a ‘controller,’ in town where we won’t be noticed.”
“Maggie, you’re to stick to him like glue,” Ben ordered. “Alan and Mark too. He’ll know what he’s doing, otherwise they wouldn’t have sent him. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Gram,” she said, genuine, palpable fear thick in her voice. “I don’t understand what’s going on!” she continued, defiance burning through her terror. “What the hell do these ‘masters’ want with you?”
“I wish I knew,” Ben said, breathing a sigh. It was true, he didn’t really have a clue why the aliens—these so-called masters—he’d first encountered more than seventy years prior, were interested in him personally. There was no doubt they were the same, and not some new species that’d decided to visit. That single engagement with their vessel certainly pointed to one possible answer. Beyond that, he could only speculate, and now wasn't the time. “If you want to know what details we have, ask your father, or if he isn’t available, Uncle Bill or Aunt Clara. Your grandmother and I need to discuss this.”
Maggie gulped. “All right. You’ll look after yourself, won’t you?”
“Always,” Ben promised.
The connection terminated, Ben put the phone away and resumed pushing the Stearman, before seeing to the wind farm and returning to the house. As he’d known she would, Emma was already in the kitchen, the sounds and smells of sizzling sausages filling the first floor.
“How’d the windmills hold up?” Emma called as Ben extricated himself from his flight suit, hanging it in the closet off the back parlor. “I could’ve swore I heard one working in the breeze last night.”
“One of the old-timers threw a blade,” Ben said, pecking his wife’s cheek. “I left it locked.”
Emma expertly worked the saucepan. “I suppose it’s good we decided to replace them. Breakfast will be on shortly.”
Ben sat at the head of the table, taking out his phone and examining the message, Emma humming to herself as he sipped the orange juice she’d set. Beyond their evening shoots, the last two weeks were little different from the previous decade; neither wanted to raise a fuss about ongoing events. This was due, in large part, to sheer lack of information, of “actionable intelligence” as the euphemism went, and they’d hoped Jimmy’s kids could provide some in due course. Now, however, with the probe gone—escaped—they were almost back to square one. Except for the warning.
As Emma brought two plates heaping with bangers and mash, setting one before him as she sat, Ben came to a decision he knew she wouldn’t like. It was all he could think to do that might—might—bring about a breakthrough. Placing his phone on the table, he slid it to his wife. “Have a look at that, dear.”
Surprised and suspicious, she obeyed. Ten seconds later, Emma all but slammed the device onto the polished wood. “I know what you’re thinking,” she said, her brow furrowed in consternation. “And I absolutely forbid it.”
“Would you rather I sit here comfortably, waiting for them to take me?” Ben said, his voice low and full of meaning.
“Of course not!” Emma denied fiercely. “But you can’t just go out there and bait them. These beings aren’t fish you can trawl for!”
“You were right there with me,” Ben countered coolly, “sharing my eyes. You know they’re exactly that. What’s more, it confirms what your father said. These are the beings of the ancient tales, and they’ve returned to resume their trade. Perhaps they never halted it in the first place.”
“Load of old tosh,” Emma whispered dolefully, but the lack of vehemence in her voice put the lie to her words. The room descended into stony silence as husband and wife ate, each shooting furtive looks at the other as possibilities and consequences wafted about on mayfly wings. At last, Emma began clearing the dishes, muttering under her breath all the while.
“If you’re going to put yourself out there like an utter fool,” she called from the kitchen, “at least do me the courtesy of taking me with you.”
Ben’s brow catapulted skyward, about as close to a shocked outburst as he ever got these days, and he rose as well. There was no plan, not really, beyond “hop into Misty and fly around for a while until they show up.” But as he drew Emma into an embrace of profound gratitude, the beginnings of several began to percolate in his mind.
“Thank you,” he whispered into her ear.
Emma pulled away just enough to face him, a brittle smile crossing her lips. “Don’t be silly,” she gently admonished. “It was always going to be this way, I just never wanted to face it without you. Why d'you think I agreed to learn to shoot in the first place?”
“I don’t know,” Ben shrugged, honestly curious. “I always figured you’d use some kind of combat magic.”
Emma blinked, her own brow climbing. “Benjamin Markett, you know full well how I feel about that.” she stated baldly. “Others may be comfortable with it, at need and as a last resort. But I swore an oath to do no harm, an oath I’ve always taken very seriously. Bullet wounds I can mend, but magical ones…”
“Can’t argue with that,” Ben agreed. “But you’re also not wrong, and that I—we—can’t just go haring off on our own. Someone has to be told what we’re up to, contingency plans made, before we go any further.”
“That’s all well and good, but who on Earth do you propose we call?”
“I have an idea.”
His phone’s alarm was barely silenced—he always rose at five in the morning—when the damn thing began vibrating again. Hoping it might be a report relating to the liaison the government had finally sent, David picked it up and accepted the call. “Ames here.”
“Sorry to disturb you this early,” came the sanguine reply. “Things are starting to pop over here, and we thought you’d want to know.”
“Ah, Colonel,” David replied somewhat muzzily, wiping sand from his eyes. “I hadn’t expected to hear from you so soon.”
“I hadn’t expected to call, either,” Ben replied. “Your man Paul Morrison arrived yesterday.”
“He’s found something already?” David said dubiously. He didn’t know who the USSF had ultimately sent and didn’t care; the less he knew, the less mental overhead for him. His sole contribution to the setup and oversight of the mission, once agreed to by the joint committee, was a redacted memo. Judging by the old pilot’s tone, it’d been the right call. If it hadn't, the colonel would’ve told him sooner, and in a far less affable manner.
“Indeed,” Ben said. “But it was something anyone could’ve seen. The probe left a calling card as it escaped.”
“Escaped?” David blurted.
“That was my reaction. Check your texts, Emma just sent you something.”
David did so, and felt his heart briefly seize within his chest as he pondered the image and all it implied. “That’s some calling card.”
“You can say that again,” Ben quipped. “I imagine Paul’s control was sent a whole crop of photos with much more information, as well as his and my grandkids’ preliminary findings on what might’ve happened. Unfortunately, this development leaves us in a bit of a pickle.”
The image of a man walking around Riyadh wearing a pig costume popped into David’s head, and he shuddered. “I have a feeling there’s something you’re not telling me. Is Emma listening in?”
“She is now. Why?”
David paused, trying to phrase his query in a way they’d both understand. He knew Emma would, but there was a chance Ben might not. “Emma, did you feel any tugs of wrongness last night? Any irregularities at all?”
“No, actually, I didn’t,” she said, relieved. “But that was the sensation I felt on those other occasions, back then and in April.”
“Right, good,” David said, throwing his blanket aside and rising. “And this Cuthbert character, he’s the one from your 1948 report?”
“That’s correct,” Ben said. “And it’s partly why I’m calling. I’m convinced that, somehow, he’s still alive and aboard the ship I tangled with. You’re familiar with the tales, I take it?”
“I doubt there’s a sorcerer alive who isn’t,” David said with a surly grunt. “Particularly considering the minders’ fascination with UFOs.”
“Exactly,” Ben agreed. “These ‘masters’ of his are cagey indeed.”
“You must have a plan,” David prompted. “You wouldn’t have called if you didn’t.”
Ben paused, and David could see the cocky grin spreading across the colonel’s visage. “Pieces of a few,” he said. “But to make any work, or to at least have a shot at taking full advantage of this opportunity, we’re going to need outside assistance.”
“That’s asking a lot,” David warned. “What did you have in mind?”
After an audible feminine sigh, Emma’s voice took over. “Ben insists on putting himself out there, chumming the waters as it were.”
“Are you nuts?” David shot back. “You actually want them to take you?”
“Take us,” Ben corrected. “Emma insists on coming along.”
“But if they take…if they get hold…” David spluttered, utterly stupefied. “It’d be like the tales all over again!”
“Except this time, we’ll be armed with knowledge,” Emma replied. “And if you and my husband are correct, inside assistance.”
“Assuming this isn’t some incredibly elaborate double-cross,” David said darkly. “You never actually met the guy before he got snatched, did you?”
“I’m reliably informed he was a good stick,” Ben said. “His squadron leader in particular held him in high regard.”
“I can see the two of you have been thinking this over for a while,” David said, after several moments of terse silence. “Probably even decades.”
“Certainly long before Emma caught the probe,” Ben agreed. “Can’t fault us for that, can you?”
“I guess not,” David breathed, walking aimlessly around his hotel room as his mind teetered on the edge of information overload. The campaign was moving into the summer sprint toward the national conventions, and he was extremely busy on that front, setting up speakers and overseeing rallies. To have this dumped on him now could distract him at a critical moment, possibly leaving the President vulnerable. On the other hand, the reality of what he was being presented with was far bigger, with global and perhaps interetellar implications. In the end, there remained unanswered the most important question of all: why.
“Then I’ll ask again,” he said, once he’d collected himself. “What do you need from us?”
A brief pause. “I’d like to borrow the 48th Fighter Wing.”
The phone turned buttery in David’s grip, and he had to resist a strong urge to hang up and hurl the device from the fifth-floor balcony with all his might. “You don’t do anything small, do you?” he hissed. “Or by half measures.”
“In for a penny, in for a pound,” Ben quoted with a guttural laugh. “Call it a training exercise or something, whatever you want. Just get them mobilized and prepared to comb the British Isles, ready to respond to anything. That ship is still out there somewhere, and if I could intercept it with a lowly old Tempest Mark II, then a few dozen Eagles shouldn’t have any trouble. You know where I live, as well as the general area I’ll be operating from, so the only consideration I’d ask is this: try to have the 492nd patrolling southern Scotland and the north of England. You’ll see why soon enough.”
David blew a hefty, weary sigh. “You do realize this is going to require me to cash in all my chips,” he stated frankly. “All of them. Every single little favor I’ve earned over the years, and an awful lot of sweet talking in the process. If this backfires, you can forget about your damn Medal of Honor. Even the President will want to forget he ever heard your name.”
“If that’s what it takes,” Ben replied, his voice a low, menacing growl that sent an electric thrill arcing up and down David’s spine, “then so be it. I don’t care if they take back every honor they’ve ever given me, tear up my commission, cancel my pension, and strike my name from the rolls. Because even if I fail, at least I’ll know I gave it my best effort.”
The connection was cut. For the first time, David Ames began to fully appreciate the character of the man—the leader—he was dealing with. A man he’d so frequently taken for granted.
“Good luck, sir,” he said to himself as he prepared to face the day. “You’re gonna need it.”
Chapter 14
They were doing a remarkable job of acting natural, eating lunch at a pizza place Maggie recommended for its outdoor seating this time of year, when the call came. Paul was expecting it all morning as they roamed around town, but what he hadn’t counted on was the cool request to be put on speaker so she could talk to the three siblings. As far as he knew, such a thing simply wasn’t done, but extraordinary events called for extraordinary measures. The recap of the morning’s event was terse and to the point, taking less than five minutes, even taking into account different perspectives—there were really only two. Fortunately for everyone involved, the controller needed little in the way of introductions, as she began the call addressing everyone by name.
“The analysts have gone over the photographs you sent,” the voice said, once all that was done. “And your preliminary conclusions; they agree with your assessment. Have you secured the containment unit?”
“Yes ma’am,” Alan said at once.
“Good,” the voice replied. “I’ve been instructed to ask if one of you might be willing to accompany it and Mr. Morrison on the first available transportation to Washington, along with any data on the probe you’ve gathered.”
“Excuse me, but why?” Maggie interjected, taken aback.
“To perform our own forensic investigation,” the voice replied, not missing a beat. “We received the photos taken last night, as well.”
“Don’t we have any assets in-country who can take a look?” Paul said, also puzzled. “It’d save time and resources, surely.”
“I don’t know,” the controller admonished before continuing. “Your expense account’s been updated to accommodate any and all means for getting you and one other, plus secured freight for the container, to USSF headquarters with all possible haste.”
All three Marketts exchanged significant looks as Paul digested this change in plans. “Have they even made room in the Pentagon for it yet?” he ventured, buying thinking time. “Last I heard, they were operating out of a vacant office block in Quantico.”
“Again, I don’t know,” the anonymous woman said, though she seemed more sympathetic. “Make your arrangements, send them to the same e-mail, and someone will be there to meet you. That’s all I have.”
“Understood,” Paul said glumly. He was definitely not looking forward to another trans-Atlantic flight, so soon after the last. “Do you need us to pick someone now, and tell you?”
“If you wish,” the controller said, disinterested. “I’ll wait.”
There was some muttering among the siblings as they brought out their passports. Mark was looking back and forth between Alan and Maggie, clearly keen on staying home, while his older brother was torn between a desire to get on with things and something else perhaps only he felt. Maggie, on the other hand, her posture erect and attentive, was fixing Paul with a look of determined curiosity. The choice of who should accompany him to the States immediately became obvious.
