Escape Meridian Read online

  This particular Blinky kept to the secret hanger, for the most part. But I’d seen it and a couple like it out in the mess hall on occasion, late at night.

  I hadn’t gotten a chance yet to talk at it. But it was on my list of things to get to.

  This base was full of stuff I wanted to get at the bottom of.

  But right now I was more interested in that mean looking black ship crouched out there on the concrete landing pad. The humming plasma rifle in my hands was warm enough to make my palms sweat. I was getting impatient like Mattany. I wanted to see what was gonna come outa that ship.

  Wanted to see what color it was. Because I had a sneaking suspicion it might be a particular shade of blue.

  “THIS IS YOUR LAST WARNING!” Mattany blasted out the bullhorn clutched in his little lady hands.

  The word WARNING echoed out across the concrete. Silence fell over all us. Except for the collective hum of a few hundred plasma rifles, and the buzz of the cloaking columns out on the perimeter.

  Then…

  A hatch opened on the side of the ship.

  Lucky for me, I had a nice, clear view of it.

  A landing ramp extended out. Got stuck halfway down. Motors clunked and whined as the thing fought itself. It shuddered, then went all the way down to the concrete below. Hitting with a decisive CLANK.

  My fingers clamped down around my rifle. A tightness went through my chest. I made my breath steady–even though my heart was racing like a scared pony.

  So many dang years waiting for this…

  Shadows moved beyond the hatch. A figure appeared, stepping into the harsh, afternoon light.

  A collective sigh of disappointment went through the troops.

  It was just some guy. Ordinary looking in every way. Average height, average build. Brown hair. He wore shorts and a t-shirt that looked like they’d seen better days.

  He held his hands up and stepped down onto the landing ramp, a smile curling up his lips.

  He knew what was coming behind him.

  She stepped into the light. A gleaming, golden figure. Like a stylized statue of a woman come to life. As she moved, the light ran over her light it was liquid.

  Several hundred men (and a good number of women) sighed in appreciation.

  I appreciated her majestic form too. But my eyes went to what she was dragging behind her. My heart skipped a couple beats, then went into overdrive. My face went hot with rage. It took all I had to keep my hands from snapping that humming plasma rifle up to my shoulder and squeezing off a shot.

  I coulda done it, too. I was a good shot. I could shoot the ass off a gnat at five hundred yards.

  But I contained myself. Tamped that rage back down into its little box, deep inside my belly where it burned bright. Kept me warm on some damned cold nights, it did.

  I was a redneck kid from middle-of-nowhere Montana. I grew up hunting rabbits with pappy’s old .22 to help round out the dinner table. I knew patience.

  Patience would get me what I wanted.

  A dead alien wouldn’t be able to tell me how I could get at the rest of his kind. Find out where they live. What their weaknesses were.

  So I held myself steady as that golden goddess dragged a blue-skinned alien out into the light. An alien with a familiar triangle shaped head, its chin coming down to a sharp point above its chest. The tentacles that sprouted from the thing's head quivered and its orange eyes blinked as the woman yanked it out into the light. Its long-fingered hands were tied in front of it, bound with some kind of wire.

  Strange enough, it wore a charcoal gray business suit with a button up shirt and a dark blue tie. Like it had been on its way to a meeting.

  I took a quick glance at Mattany. His jaw was clenched, his eyes narrowed.

  Weren’t no shock there. He knew what that alien was.

  The great unwashed masses of humanity thought there were only two kinds of aliens. The military and the government knew of at least one other kind, it seemed.

  I’d known since I was a kid.

  One day soon, them blue aliens was gonna know who Buck DeHaas was.

  If I had my way, it’d be the last damned thing they ever knew.

  Three

  Took me a while to find out what the deal was with the dude and the golden lady. I was still getting to know folks around the base. I'd transferred in some weeks back from hot and swampy Jacksonville, Florida after doing a tour in the latest skirmish the politicians in D.C. had gotten us into.

  I preferred hot and dry.

  I’d joined the Marines a few years back. My efforts at tracking down the blue aliens on my own hadn’t been producing much for me. Rumors had it the government was playing footsie with the Blinkys and Stickmen. I figured joining up was my best bet to get closer to the bastards.

  Turned out I was right.

  I managed to get myself assigned to the base quartermasters’ in Florida. There I made nice with the computer system. I scanned postings and tracked the flow of supplies going out across the country.

  And I found a steady stream of items going to a blank spot on the map in New Mexico.

  With some more finagling, I got myself assigned to that blank spot on the map.

  A base called Area 53. Just a bit west of the old, decommissioned Holloman Air Force Base.

  I knew I'd hit the right place when I got off the transport and saw one of them ugly Blinky spaceships squatting out on a landing pad. Along with a dozen sleek, silver hover jets.

  The cloaking field generated by them buzzing, pulsing poles was another hint this place was so far off the map that even a bloodhound couldn’t find it.

  I didn’t have much luck getting closer to the aliens, though. I’d been working on getting myself assigned to the Lab’s security detail when that black ship dropped down out of the sky and upset everyone’s applecart.

  The base–which had been on high alert after I got back from Roy’s graduation–went into super mega freakout lockdown after the black ship landed.

  I cooled my heels for a few weeks. Watching. Waiting. Working the channels to get myself placed higher in the food chain where it came to guarding the aliens.

  I found out the blue alien was locked up in the special hanger. The hanger that had the secret lab. I hadn’t found out what they were doing in there. If it didn’t have anything to do with the aliens, I wouldn’t care.

  But I saw them Blinkys going in there. Along with a dumpy guy in a lab coat they called Dr. Kincaid.

  There was a lot going on with that hanger.

  The guy and lady from the black ship was in and out of there a lot, too.

  Along with a perpetually pissed off General Mattany.

  Didn't take long to figure out the guy and lady were civilians. He wore shorts or jeans and a never ending series of old rock band t-shirts. The lady…well, she went around in a bathrobe and flip-flops. From chatter around the barracks, word was she didn't bother with anything else under that robe. No one knew where her golden armor had gotten to. But she walked around like she was still wearing it. Proud, fierce, and invulnerable.

  Most of the base was desperately in love with her. All the while wondering how the skinny nobody she was with managed to catch a woman like her.

  If my life had been different, I mighta been one of them boys slobbering after her. I had bigger fish to fry, though.

  The sinister black ship they brought to the base had gotten dragged into the hanger next to the Lab. Then that hanger got locked up tighter than banker’s wallet.

  The only thing that came back out of that hanger was a classic Jeep 4x4. The thing had been bright red once. But its paint was dull and peeling. It didn’t have any tires, either. It had wheels. With bits of crumbly rubber stuck around the rims.

  They rolled it over to the motor pool. The woman sweet talked the boys there into fixing it up. Hell, I’d snuck over there when I saw them hauling it in. I made like I was getting stuff from one of the Grums parked back in the stifling hot hanger. The place
stank of rubber and grease. Cars ain’t never been my thing. Growing up out on farm had learned me the mechanics, though. I could turn a wrench as good as any of the grease monkeys in there.

  The Master Sgt in charge of the motor pool had watched the Jeep roll in. He’d marched right over there, setting his cap back on his head.

  “What in the hell is this?” he said.

  “Orders to roll it in here, Master Sgt,” the Corporal behind the wheel said.

  “Well you can roll it the hell back out of here,” the Master Sgt. barked back.

  That was when she strolled in like she owned the place.

  Everything came to a stop in the hanger. The banging and chatter and clatter of air guns cut out. Every eye turned her way.

  She went up to the Master Sgt. She was as tall as him, though he wasn’t exactly a giant. He was wide though, with a gut that was probably just short of getting him kicked out of the service.

  She put her hands on her hips. I was close enough to see that robe she wore wasn’t all that thick. Didn’t leave much doubt she wasn’t sporting anything underneath it.

  Took a healthy set of cojones for a gal to walk into a building full of testosterone loaded young males like that.

  There wasn’t a whiff of fear about her.

  Her brilliant blue eyes locked on the Master Sgt's.

  “I need this fixed,” she said, “How soon can you do it?”

  The Master Sgt. rallied, finding his voice after gulping air like a fish for a few seconds.

  “We’re not a civilian shop, ma’am,” he said, “We don’t take just anything.”

  She leaned in at him. He cringed just a bit under her withering stare.

  “How soon can you fix it?” she said.

  “Ma’am, I can’t…” he said.

  “One week,” she said, “You can do that, right?”

  “I don’t…”

  “One week, right?”

  Light glinted off something below her neck. A circle of gold. I couldn’t see any chain holding it up. It looked stuck to her skin.

  The Master Sgt’s gaze darted back and forth. No one was stepping forward to bail him out. Fact, a lot of the guys were grinning from ear to ear.

  I was kinda surprised there weren’t any catcalls. Then again, this lady exuded an aura of menace. A sense of Don’t even think of messing with me.

  “The keys are in it,” she said, “I’ll be back on Friday to pick it up.”

  The Master Sgt’s eyes went wide. “Friday! But today’s Monday! You said a week!”

  She winked at him. “I changed my mind,” she said, “Friday. I have faith in you Master Sgt…”

  She glanced down at his coveralls, where his tag would be.

  “Master Sgt. Buxwald. I know you and your highly skilled crew can take on this challenge. You’re patriots. All of you. I know you won’t let me down.”

  She snapped off a perfect salute. Then turned right smart and marched out of there.

  There was a collective sigh as that posterior disappeared into the bright sunshine beyond the big, open doors.

  That lady might not have been in the service. But there was military in her blood.

  And I knew where she was going to be on Friday.

  I just had to make sure I’d be ready, too.

  Four

  I followed the freshly painted Jeep out past the base gatehouse. My pass was forged, and the ground car I was driving was borrowed without permission. I’d end up in the brig if this little jaunt took more than three hours.

  The risk was worth it.

  The ordinary guy (whose name I’d learned was Chris) was driving the Jeep, a big grin on his face. The Jeep was bright red and shiny again. Rolling on some fresh, black, fat tires. The engine had a nice, throaty hum to it.

  The boys in the motor pool had done a nice job on it.

  And they got it done by Friday.

  Once again I’d snuck around to watch. Hanging back behind a Grum that stank of diesel and hot rubber. All the mechanics lined up around the sparkling clean Jeep when she walked in, her boyfriend strolling in behind her. His eyes had gone wide and he shouted with delighted surprise.

  The goddesses' name was Liz. Every red-blooded male on the base had made a point to find out her name.

  The Master Sgt and his mechanics totally ignored Chris.

  They got their reward as the woman went from man to man (along with a couple women mechanics) and gave each one a big hug and a big kiss on the cheek. Liz praised each and every one of them, telling them she was proud of them.

  The Master Sgt’s crew had such red faces they shoulda caught fire.

  But I’d never seen a happier crowd of guys. They all stood up straight and returned her perfect salute.

  It was pretty danged obvious they'd follow that gal straight into hell if she was so inclined to lead them there.

  The military woulda done a whole lot better with folks like her in charge.

  Chris had gotten behind the wheel and started the Jeep up. Liz got in on the passenger side, stood up and blew the mechanics kisses as Chris peeled the Jeep out of the hanger.

  I ran out the back of the hanger and around the side where I’d parked my borrowed ground car. Which was a flattened version of the armored Grums that patrolled the base perimeter day and night. It was painted in desert camo, just like me. I wasn’t planning on staying in camo, though. I’d thrown a duffle bag with some civies in the back before coming over to the hanger.

  Chris and Liz sailed past the gatehouse–which wasn't manned. Everyone one on base had transponders in their handheld comm units. If you didn't have the code, a crap ton of hurt was going to be coming your way.

  I eased on past the gatehouse a couple minutes later. I wasn't carrying any weapons, except for my well-worn hunting knife stuck in my duffle bag. The military didn't have much sense of humor about folks walking off base with plasma blasters or normal projectile weapons.

  There was only one road in or out of the base. A long, straight stretch of well-maintained blacktop. Which ended a couple miles short of the old Holloman base. The nice, smooth blacktop turned into a narrow road of crumbling asphalt that ran past Holloman and out to the highway.

  Nothing to see here, folks, just an old decommissioned base.

  Right.

  Chris and Liz turned their shiny red Jeep north.

  I followed at a good distance. Barely keeping them in sight. The New Mexico desert flashed by the narrow windows of my ground car. Reddish rock and dirt, punctuated once in a while with a stand of mesquite or cholla cactus or sagebrush.

  The air conditioning in the ground car wasn’t up to the task of keeping the desert heat out. Pretty soon sweat rolled down my cheeks again and my uniform was sticking to my back. My stomach rumbled, but I didn’t feel like fishing any of the bland military rations I’d snagged from out of my bag. I pulled a stick of cinnamon gum out of my shirt pocket and folded it into my mouth. The sharp sting of it quieted my gut a bit.

  About thirty minutes later, the Jeep pulled into a dirt parking lot off the west side of the highway.

  I drove by without slowing.

  There was some tents and a big panel truck in the lot, along with a lot of people.

  There was also a burned out building on the other side of the lot.

  I went a couple miles down the Highway, then found a spot to turn around. I parked the car and slipped into the back and did a quick change of clothes. Five minutes later I was behind the wheel, pulling back onto the highway. I had on a comfortable pair of jeans, my good, broken-in pair of cowboy boots, a tan, button-up western style shirt. And, of course, my black Stetson. Which settled down on my head like it was born to be there.

  I felt a bit more like my old self again.

  A few minutes later I pulled into the dirt lot and found a spot to park behind a couple of big rigs–far as I could get from that bright red Jeep.

  I wandered over to the end of the long line leading to the panel truck. A vinyl b
anner flapping between two crooked, metal poles declared the place to be Guydoro’s.

  Just, Guydoro’s.

  I was going on the assumption the place was serving food. Had to admit, the smells coming from that truck were mighty fine. Sizzling burger and bacon, plus notes of freshly charred chili peppers.

  One didn’t spend much time in New Mex without getting into the Great Chili Debate. I hadn’t come down on either side–green or red–yet. But I was leaning toward green.

  Chris and Liz were near the front of the line, which was moving at a pretty good clip. There were lots of happy looking customers walking away from the food truck window with paper plates loaded with burgers and fries and big cups of soda pop in their hands. My stomach rumbled again, telling me it needed something more than cinnamon flavored saliva coming its way.

  I moved forward with the line, and eyeballed what Chris and Liz had on their plates when they walked away from the truck. Burgers and fries. Fine. I could do that. If I could eat military food three times a day, I could eat something from a truck sitting beside a burned-out building.

  I kept half an eye on the ordinary dude and his skimpily dressed goddess. There were dozens of mismatched picnic tables spread out behind the food truck. They went over to an isolated one and sat. Liz made sure she faced the crowd. Her eyes scanned everyone.

  I looked away quick, before her eyes caught mine.

  That woman wasn’t one to underestimate. I had a feeling maybe she was almost as dangerous without her fancy armor as she was with.

  When I got up to the front of the line, I saw there was only one thing on the menu. Bacon Cheeseburger, with Roasted Green Chilis.

  Well. That simplified things.

  I handed over some money to a gal at the window. A few seconds later I was in possession of a paper plate full of burger and fries. I opted for a bottle of water instead of the soda pop, though. I woulda preferred a beer, but the gal explained their liquor license had been blown up with their restaurant.

  Blown up.

  I let that sink in as I ambled around the truck, toward the tables behind it.

  Blown up.