Chapter 2: Troubles and More Troubles in the Red Desert

A commotion and strident voices outside, enticed everyone but Lieutenant Halke to investigate.

A first sergeant and two corporals, plainclothes military police, were holding irate “citizens,” in the town center square. Plainclothes may be a misnomer as they were dressed like extras in a cowboy movie, complete with revolvers in quickdraw holster rigs. One corporal carried a lever action carbine and the other, a double barreled shotgun. Period pieces. All three wore MP arm bands.

“What’s the word, Top?” Olé the peacemaker inquired smiling, non-menacingly.

The first sergeant growled a vile inflected word. “Paparazzi!” He did not salute Lt. Cruz, but tugged at the brim of his Smokey Bear stetson. “Ma’am.” She nodded.

This was trouble, BIG trouble! There were no warning notices or signs anywhere to keep people out. They relied purely on remoteness. Now they were discovered. Most reporters aren’t stupid.

Lieutenant Cruz, Olé, and Doc were in uniform, and Olé had referred to the first sergeant as Top. Could they be anything other than a secret military base? They would certainly appear to be.

“Let’s get these folks over to the infirmary and out of the sun.” Doc suggested. “Move this,” she waved disparagingly at the custom all wheel drive dunebuggy, “over to the motor-pool. Cover it until it can be decontaminated.”

“Don’t touch my equipment! I protest this entire fiasco. I DEMAND to see your commanding officer!” An older man, from his demeanor, the boss, blustered at them.

Olé looked him up and down. “Sure! Understandable you would want to see the CO, but until the CO informs me he wants to see YOU? Nope! We don’t know you, but we will find out exactly who you really are, before you see the CO.” and pointed in the infirmary’s direction as a corporal drove away the souper dooper begadgeted dunebuggy.

“Top? Better to be safe than sorry. I suggest you and your men go to decontamination rather quickly.” Olé liked the gambit Doc had implicated and pointed at the NCO club as the impromptu ersatz “decon” center. Top liked THAT idea! Top looked doomed, but saluted and mumbled, “Yes Sir!” his way of signaling he understood the ploy and would brief the corporals. Olé wasn’t wearing sleeve insignia, just collar badges. Resembled those that officers wear.

Olé acknowledged and returned the salute. “Good man!” overplaying the part. Earned him a double take and a lopsided pinched grin from Top. Accompanying the dejected corporal, Top walked sadly toward the club to be “decontaminated.” Olé steered the paparazzi reporter team to the infirmary. Doc helped herd.

Once inside the infirmary, the “guests,” Warren Norman and company, were cajoled into surrendering their “contaminated” clothes for hospital split-back gowns, and unctuously assured that EVERYTHING would be done to save them from the BAD bacterial infection threatening their lives. They were put to bed and sedated. Their doors, locked.

A “Decontamination” meeting at the NCO club is underway.

“It’s the tiger-by-the-tail situation.” says Top. “Can’t keep em and can’t let em go!”

“We HAVE to let them go.” Lieutenant Cruz insisted. “Are you CERTAIN the CO really meant we should handle this OURSELVES? And just keep him advised? I’d love to kick this back upstairs and not be involved. Danger Will Robinson!”

“Authority to delegate is the best clean hands device ever invented.” Olé assured her.

“Agreed, they have to be freed. They WILL be missed! When, where and how they’re freed, has to work for US! Keeping our secrets and location, um secret.” Doc lamely finished.

“We don’t want a nationwide hunt for missing reporters. Instead of the three we have, there will be three thousand combing Wyoming. Of course their office knows roughly their location.” Lieutenant Halke stated the obvious, on everyone’s mind...

“Keep em sedated, tote them a couple of states south of here, and drop them across the border in Mexico. Let Mexico demonstrate their hospitality toward illegal border crossers.” Top suggested.

“Well, that is one; A1 solution. I don’t foresee a downside for us. But plenty raw for them, though!” Olé was flipping his hand, “Si, No, Si, No.”

“Similar, but maybe less drastic, let them wake up somewhere remote from here and miles from anything. Even in a different state. By the time they make it back to civilization, any of their reports or claims that we exist, will be dismissed as ravings of, of, I’m confident we can come up with some medical basis for hallucinations and dementia. Peyote?” Doc contributed.

“Shoot them as spies.” suggested Colonel Haas.

“Attention!” Olé commanded. “Afternoon, Colonel!”

“As you were, as you were.” Colonel Haas put them at ease. “Just thought I’d peek in and see ... hopefully see, maybe a solution to this dilemma. Maybe? Anybody?”

“Yes sir. Just maybe, yes sir.” Lieutenant Halke looked doubtful. “Area 51.”

“Some distance away and their CO and I don’t mesh well.” Colonel Haas was disappointed.

“No sir. I was suggesting we could create an area 51 UFO scenario, an alien abduction drama for the reporters that ... if they were ever brave or foolish enough to report it, their credibility might be so damaged it would never recover.” Lieutenant Halke was nodding, affirming herself.

“Interesting, Lieutenant. Tell me more.” Colonel Haas leaned forward in his chair.

“I can ask the nanobots to create little green men for us. A semblance of aliens. Animatronic puppets! The reporters can film, interview them, be abducted by them, whatever you decide, sir.”

“By GOD! Lieutenant! You are a GENIUS!” Colonel Haas enthused.

“Yes, sir, I am.” admitted Lieutenant Halke.

Astounding it was to everyone, and not just her aplomb, but the genius of her solution.

“Actually, I really liked Colonel Haas’ suggestion.” Olé seconded that forgotten motion.

Intermission, Intra-Act, Q&A

Dear Reader. Let me introduce myself. I’m your narrator. My name is Warren Norman, and I’m a free lance journalist and newsman. Financially, it’s a rewarding business and I can afford a crew and the expensive gadgetry that makes humdrum stories seem spectacular. As the chef said while plating an ordinary meatloaf, really it’s all in the presentation. Guess it’s up to me! I’ll try to shed some light on a few hidden things in the story. Okay. Big Presentation Now!

Ta-Dah! A synopsis of what has occurred. The first mission in time was obviously going after Eve, not meeting her. “Hi Gran. What’s for supper?” Hardly! The mission outline, discover Eden, is clearly misdirection. Even Olé, not the sharpest pencil in the box, understands Eden isn’t going to be there. We can assume CC Olé’s cyborg body probably included a proximity fuse or remote detonator.

Far-fetched? Doc IS detonated by the nanobots. Who knew she was a bomb? Is there any investigation as to Eve’s proximity prior to Doc explodes? Absolutely none on Doc’s part. Never crosses Doc’s mind she could wipe out humanity! That an order to execute Olé might endanger Eve and our entire species?

Doc has no orders pertaining to Olé’s audience. Why kill Olé and let his disciples live to preach? They weren’t allowed, but Doc wasn’t in the loop to know.

A big clue is included in the sharing of CC Docs mission by the diners. On booting-up, a monitoring program squelches any ideas or feelings incompatible with Doc’s mission. Obviously planned but withheld from the actors, the mass kill was remotely triggered. The REAL target was certainly Eve. Luckily it failed. She was gone, moved on.

Later Doc asks a pertinent question which Lieutenant Halke absentmindedly ignores. “How did you know it is safe to interact with the nanobots?” Is Lt. Halke “fixed” so she can’t, doesn’t answer? Hidden inaccessible directors fund and determine, assign the missions. Are THEY monitored and tampered with? Why don’t they consider the dire ramifications of these missions? Olé does!

And why was it important to eliminate a cargo cult dangerous to the Bible’s credibility? Willing as they seem to be to commit genocide on humanity, it’s unlikely they believe in or respect the Bible. Is there some use for or secret in the Bible they need, so insuring the Bible continues is important? Who IS this Arch-nemesis of mankind? We have only uncovered the tip of the iceberg. Or, is it the tiny bit of a nanobot, huge and complicated elsewhere? You are not alone mistrusting nanobots.

As to me, you just read about me a couple short paragraphs back where I first enter the story. They sedated me and my crew! Imprisoned us in the infirmary. That’s where I am in current story time. Where I am NOW actually as I write this commentary, I am safe. Enjoying my third life time, more or less comfortably ensconced in the past. I escaped a horrid future. Twice! This story is about how an apocalypse so miserable, unlivable, and so untenable began. I gave up everything to escape it! Into the past. Twice! Costly and Worth it! Do you still think this story is fiction? Read on.

Eats of Eaten

When Warren Norman awoke, it was to chirping noises. He was immobile, strapped to a bed. Completely restrained. Nude and alone except for: A chirpy childish contralto voice said, “Bestirs.”

“Comestible?” asked a more infantile falsetto voice, Pain in his thumb. A potato-head sized creature with a head like peeled avocado and watermelon seed eyes, appeared to be sucking on his thumb. It bit him again.

“Ow.” Warren was startled by the sharp pain.

“Screeches.” said the falsetto.

“Yum.” said a bull frog warble. The biter.

“Stinks.” said contralto.

“Incontinent.” said falsetto.

He felt twiggy fingers on his genitals.

“Comestible!” said contralto.

“Yum!” said froggy, showing shark teeth in a wide grin.

Warren fainted.

“Okay, move em! Get the animatronics out of here.” Doc urged. “Ready Olé?” Olé finished applying guacamole to his dead-blow sledgehammer and hands. Doc covered Warren Norman with a sheet and put a streak of guacamole on Olé’s cheek. “My hero!” and chuckled. More soberly, while waving an ammonia ampule under the nose of, “Mr. Norman! Mr. Norman? Just relax. You’re fine now. We found you. You’re safe, now.”

“What in...” Warren Norman was very upset when he regained consciousness, nearly ready to cry. He struggled against the restraints binding him.

“Just be calm sir. We found you in time! I’ll have those straps off of you in a minute. Don’t fight me Mr Norman. I’m trying to release you. Be calm, please.” Doc was unstrapping the “alien’s” victim.

“Was that for real?” A worried Warren Norman asked incredulously.

“I’ll say you have been dreaming a nightmare, if that will that calm you?” Doc suggested.

“No. It was, too ... REAL!” and Warren began shaking. Pointing a quivering finger at Olé. “What are you doing here?”

“Cleaning my weapon, sir.” Olé was smearing guacamole around the head of his dead-blow hammer, while pretending to be wiping it off.

“What is that stuff?” Warren pointed at the gloppy green guacamole.

“Smashed Snot-heads.” Olé snarled. “Alien lil shitz. Look like something you might dig from your nose, only bigger. Nastier! Doc won’t let me, sez I can’t call em Booger-heads!”

“That’s disgusting, Olé!” she was firm and calming, “We’ll get you transported back to the clinic momentarily, Mr Norman.”

“What happened to me?”

Doc and Olé looked at the reporter pitying him. “Abducted and ... and eaten alive! But not much! You are mostly still intact. We found you before ... well, before they did their worst.”

Warren Norman studied a bandaid strip around the base of his thumb. Then he opened the sheet draping him and stared at a makeshift gauze diaper. Tomato sauce Bloodstained. His lips quivered and he squeezed his eyes shut, until tears leaked from the corners. Doc gently re-swaddled him in the sheet. “It’s best not to look or think about it until the trauma surgeons have done their magic for you. Are you in pain? I can give you another injection? It’s better not to. Stuff’s terribly addictive.”

“I feel nothing.” a disconsolate Warren Norman choked out.

“Maybe tomorrow you’ll feel better. Maybe even feel like interviewing the prisoners?” Olé suggested. “But I can understand you not wanting to see them.”

“You have prisoners?” Mr Norman discovered there were a few things in life that still interested him. Revenge was one! News was another. Reporter instincts still functioned aggressively.

“Here we go. Thanks Top! Okay, lets get you on the gurney and wheel you back to your room.” Doc was supportive and cheerful. “The sooner the trauma team gets to you, the better your chances for a full recovery.”

“I want to meet with my team as soon as the surgeons are finished with me.” instructed Mr. Norman. He was hurt, damaged, traumatized, but not dead. Yet! “And I still want to see your CO.”

“Can’t! He was the first et!” said Top pushing the gurney.

“ET! Eaten?” flabbergasted Norman spluttered! “Somebody MUST be in CHARGE! I understand chain of command. When the leader is taken down, the next in line steps up. WHO is in effective command around here?” Warren Norman demanded.

Olé pointed an accusing finger at Doc.

“A WOMAN?” Warren Norman opened his yap and put his foot square in the doodoo. Assuming a slightly provocative glamorous pose, Doc batted her eyelashes over her cold unamused steely eyes, and gave him a playful toot-a-Lou wriggling wave of her fingers.

“Damn! Where are the officers? Certainly there is somebody here outranks a sergeant.”

“Not any line officers.” Olé refuted.

“Line officers?” Norman knew the phrase, had heard it, read it, didn’t know it’s import.

“In line for command. Command qualified. All the remaining officers are specialists. Doctors, scientists, instructors. Not in line for, nor command qualified. No training for it or experience at it. Command Sergeant Major Franklin is qualified. Next senior, is lil ol’ me.” Olé pointed at himself, batted HIS eyelashes and mentally dared Mr. Norman to continue being an ass. The dare must have registered in his hard eyes, and the pugnacious jut of his jaw. Mr. Norman visibly deflated.

“Since you are so anxious to talk to someone in authority, talk!” Doc commanded. “Why are you here? What enticed you to come way out here to nowhere? Talk!” Warren Norman struggled to get up! Top easily kept him on the gurney with one massive paw. There was power and authority in Doc’s voice. The voice of Command. Norman may have been trying to stand to attention.

“I have a stringer in a truck-stop back up on the road. They phoned in a lead! Something military and secretive was maybe happening out here.” Norman confessed.

“Nearest truck-stop is over fifty miles from here. Explain WHY they thought secret military operations were running out here!” Doc pressed.

“Military vehicles and uniformed personnel seen headed this direction. Comments over eats and drinks ‘Have to make do with this, till we get there.’ and ‘Last Chance till base’. Not much of a lead, but I’m free lance, self assigned, and news is always what and where you make it.”

“Interesting phrase ‘making the news’! Don’t you agree Sergent Major?” Olé did.

“What news do you intend to MAKE of this?” Doc’s sweeping arm encompassed the entire area.

“News? Front page! National! International! World News! Headlines! Alien invasion of man-eating monsters!” Norman’s eyes glittered with avarice. “Scoop of a lifetime! I’ll be rich! Famous! Write a best seller book about it! Maybe movie royalties! Guest appearances at big premiums. Maybe host of my OWN talk show? Ceiling unlimited! Made news? This is about ME! I’ll be MADE forever!”

“Ummm, maybe. If we let you.” Doc speculated, impatiently tapping her finger.

“I’ve got rights! Freedom of the press! I’ve got press credentials. You can’t stop me!” Norman glaring belligerently was daring her to try.

Olé stepped to the plate. “Allow me, Command Sergeant Major. Taking out the trash is too menial. Beneath your dignity.

Okay, MISTER Norman, what are these rights you are referring to?”

“First amendment rights, boob! Freedom of speech and the press.” Norman was derisive.

“Oh! Well then, where did you find these so called rights?”

“You ARE kidding, right? The Constitution! A Sergeant Major doesn’t know the Constitution? Must be an idiot. Incredible!” Norman was beginning to enjoy putting Olé in his place.

“Oh, I know the Constitution Mr. Norman. First Amendment says. ‘Congress shall make no law respecting... ‘ How many members in congress, Mr. Norman? Both houses combined.”

“Roughly 500. I think.”

“Roughly? Seems the First Amendment applies to exactly 535 members of Congress.” Olé smirked. “Congress is prohibited from messing with our rights. Over and over again. Amendment after amendment restricting Congress, the government, from usurping power over our rights!”

“This is ridiculous! Everybody knows...” Norman got no further.

“You mean everybody ASSUMES they know, without actually reading the Constitution, didn’t you mean assumes rather than knows, Mr. Norman?” Olé challenged.

“What says the Ninth Amendment?” Warren Norman stammered at a loss for words.

“Yeah! You don’t know it, because you have never bothered to READ the Constitution. Boob yourself!” Olé glared harder than Norman was glaring at him.

“I’ll paraphrase it for you. It says: Just because some rights are MENTIONED in the Constitution, that is no means a list of rights, and it acknowledges we have a whole bunch MORE rights NOT mentioned in the Constitution! So, obviously the Constitution isn’t the source of our rights.

Do you believe in the ‘ALMIGHTY!’ Mr Norman?” Norman had a sour expression as he glared at Olé. “I’d bet your interview skills aren’t near on par with my interrogation skills. What you don’t say is as important as what you say. A believer wouldn’t hesitate, Mr Norman, so you aren’t one.

“The Declaration of Independence says the Creator gave us our rights, but you don’t believe in Him.” Olé negatively considered Norman as kind of stupid. Norman read it correctly and ground his teeth. “Leads ME to believe you don’t HAVE any source for ANY rights, other than those you invent for yourself, and I can easily ignore those and as easily, you!” Olé was serious!

“Enough Olé!” Doc took out the sting with the friendly glance she bestowed. She had no friendly glance for Warren Norman. “You have rights Mr. Norman. If you understand them, or why you have them or not. You and I also have a problem! Are you listening, Mr. Norman? Better listen!”

“Freedom of the press has never included divulging National Security Secrets. You WILL be prosecuted if you do. The intent will be to lock you up for very close to forever. But the courts have the jurisdiction, and the discretion to be harsh or lenient. Unfortunately they can’t undo your crime, can’t stuff the cat back in the bag, regardless of what horrible example they decide to make of you.”

“I want the cat kept safe in the bag, and avoid all these problems. Wouldn’t you like that? Avoid those problems and penalties? How can you accommodate me, Mr. Norman? Make me an offer.”

“Don’t think I can. Why should I? Why would I want to? You’re fishing! First, you try to intimidate me. No! First, you LIED to us about some fake plague and drugged us. Kept us as prisoners in the infirmary. I see that now. False imprisonment! That will get your asses slammed in the calaboose! And, I’ll sue you in addition to pressing criminal charges!” Mr Norman actually looked pleased with himself.

“We are no longer moving, Mr. Norman.” Doc reminded him. She pressed a finger behind her left ear lobe and listened intently a few seconds. Top and Olé did the same. All three were deadpan. Poker faced as they studied Warren Norman.

“Wha ... What do you mean, aren’t moving?” Warren was digesting new information. The sergeants were hooked into a secret communications network. He looked about. They were stopped in town center, approximately half way to the infirmary. “Not moving? Why not?” He was worried. “Let’s go! That way!” He pointed.

“Why? Why would we want to?” Doc’s eyes were the most predatory he had ever seen in a human face. Worse than the psychopaths he’d interviewed on death’s row. If looks could kill... ?

“At the golf course playing golf with the CO. Knocked off for the day. Colonel Haas invited them.”

“Colonel... ?” Warren Norman was completely bewildered. So Doc patiently explained.

“Our CO. His suggestion is, shoot you as spies. Ask anybody. He said it. My fervent hope is, you get gangrene in your pecker and die in agony!” The three Army NCO s abandoned him on the gurney in the middle of the street. Nonmilitary style, they linked arms like the three musketeers, and in step, headed directly for the NCO club with a lighthearted gait. Planning decontamination.

Warren Norman was lost. Such a hopeless, powerless feeling of foreboding overwhelmed him. He leaped from the gurney, running in circles of indecision. First after the NCOs, but then towards the infirmary, then towards the administration building. There was no one on the street to ask directions to the golf course. Finally, he ran shrieking to the infirmary! The entire echoing place was empty except his crew. The cinematographer and the sound man. They were dressed in their freshly laundered original clothes, a small conciliatory gesture, courtesy of the US Army.

“Find my clothes!” he ordered and limped into the shower room. Gingerly, he removed the bandage, and gently washed away the ketchup and guacamole. Pleased and surprised to find his genitals undiminished, it infuriated him to be the butt of such a cruel joke. He vowed revenge. Swore an unholy oath to avenge himself on his abusers! He kicked the disgusting bandage into a corner.