J.M. Dillard - War of Worlds: The Resurrection (23 page)

"I had hoped you would listen, General, for the simple reason that what I have to say is vitally important to all of us . . . and to our national security." Harrison managed to say it respectfully enough so that the general didn't take offense but raised an interested brow.

Wilson struck a match, held it to the bowl, and sucked in. "Go ahead," he said between puffs. "You've certainly got my attention."

"All right." Harrison paused, choosing his words carefully. "Have you ever heard of the Forrester Project, General?"

Wilson drew on his pipe, one elbow resting on his desk, and furrowed his brow. "Forrester . . . that was a long time ago, wasn't it? Back in the fifties?"

"Nineteen fifty-three, to be exact." Harrison leaned forward, encouraged that Wilson should remember.

"We're talking about the invasion, then."

"The alien invasion, yes. I don't see why everyone in the military is so reluctant to say that word."

Wilson narrowed pale blue eyes behind a puff of smoke. "For a scientist, you have a tendency to overgeneralize, Doctor. I'm a military man, and I'm willing to say the word
alien.
But if the military is reluctant to use it, perhaps it's because of the hysteria that followed." He glanced from Suzanne to Harrison. "I'm sure you're both too young to remem—"

"/ remember," Harrison interrupted hotly. "I was there." Suzanne shifted uncomfortably in her chair.

"I see." Wilson's teeth clicked against the stem of his pipe. He held two fingers to the pipe bowl to steady it as he spoke. "Well, I'm sorry to hear that. You must have been terribly young." His tone was sympathetic, but matter-of-fact. "Yes, I remember the Forrester Project. As a matter of fact, I'm old enough to remember it well—I had just enlisted. Forrester was the one who went around scaring people, saying the aliens weren't really dead. The army interred the aliens at great cost to the government to prevent a full-scale panic. I was on clean-up detail."

Out of the corner of his eye Harrison saw Suzanne cringe. "I kept my parents' surname," Harrison said, "but I'm Clayton Forrester's adopted son." His tone was heavy with repressed anger. "And he was right."

The pipe clicked against Wilson's teeth again as he digested this without any outward reaction. "That's a very startling claim. I trust you brought proof."

Harrison smiled thinly and reached for the briefcase by his feet. Handsome oxblood leather, another expensive present from Char he almost never used, like the yellow silk tie around his neck. He set the briefcase on his lap, snapped it open, and pulled out a file that he tossed onto Wilson's desk. "I'm glad you remember the Forrester Project; it saves me a lot of explanation. But there's a copy of the report issued by Forrester's research group in there, just to refresh your memory."

Wilson opened the file and began to glance through

it.

"To summarize," Harrison continued, "Forrester was worried about the fact that the alien bodies and

tissue samples simply didn't demonstrate any deterio ration as dead, decaying tissues should. It seemed
as
if they were in a type of"-—he decided against using the scientific term for Wilson's sake—"suspended animation, so to speak. Forrester asked the government for funding to do more research, more analysis so that we'd know enough about the aliens to stop them the next time—"

"The next time?" Wilson asked with gentle surprise, and tilted his broad, jowly face up at Harrison.

Harrison smiled wryly. "I should have said, in the event of another alien attack." He shut the briefcase and put it back down by his feet. "It's not a particularly popular topic; Dr. Forrester and I have become used to being labeled paranoid." Next to him, Suzanne squirmed guiltily. "Why don't you just take a look at the old photographs in there, General?" He nodded at the file in Wilson's hands. "The ones of the barrels stamped 1953. I'll bet you can even tell me what's inside them."

Wilson riffled through the file and found what he was looking for. "I can," he said cautiously, scrutinizing Harrison. "But it's classified."

"Maybe," Harrison's tone became confidential, "you've also heard of a place called Jericho Valley."

Wilson put the file down and stared at Harrison with his full attention. "What do you know about Jericho Valley, Dr. Blackwood?"

Harrison and Suzanne glanced triumphantly at each other. So he'd finally struck a nerve. "It's a long story," Harrison began. "One of my colleagues intercepted a very unusual transmission emanating from inside the Jericho Valley installation. One that was answered—"

"By whom?" Wilson leaned forward across his desk.

"A resident of one of the star systems in the constellation Taurus. That's as much as we know right now. I gave a recording of that very transmission to a Lieutenant Colonel Paul Ironhorse—I suspect he's having it analyzed right now. A copy of the computer runs are in there for you." Harrison nodded at the file. "If you let your people look at it, they'll come to the same conclusion we did—that a bona fide communication took place."

Wilson unfolded the printout onto the desk; he studied it for a long time before he muttered, "Incredible." He addressed Harrison. "But I fail to see how this proves anything about your aliens."

"Unfortunately, I don't have pictures of the barrels I saw at Jericho Valley. Colonel Ironhorse let us have a look." At Wilson's sharp glance, he hastily explained. "Both Suzanne and I have the necessary security clearance to do so. Anyway, I noticed something very alarming. The barrels—the same barrels you see in that photo-—were gone. Hundreds of them, vanished . .. and six of them were on their sides, empty —as if whatever was inside forced its way out."

"It's true," Suzanne volunteered. "I saw them too. I can verify that the markings on the empty barrels at Jericho Valley are identical to those on the barrels in the photograph."

"And if you don't believe us," Harrison added, heartened by the fact that Wilson actually seemed to be listening thus far, "you can check with a Colonel Paul Ironhorse to get the markings stamped on those barrels. The point of all this is, there was a nuclear waste spill at Jericho Valley. The place was hot with radiation. I believe the level was high enough to kill off the bacteria in the aliens' systems, which in turn brought them out of their suspended state." He stopped and anxiously searched the general's face for a reaction; Wilson's expression was one of concern but otherwise unreadable.

The general took his pipe from his mouth, set it in an ashtray, then leaned forward and folded his hands on top of his desk. "That," he said slowly, "is the most fantastic story I think I've ever heard."

"It's not a story," Harrison said desperately. God,, he couldn't afford to be turned away now! "It's a scientific theory, supported by a body of fact, presented in a logical and reasonable fashion. I'm a respected astrophysicist"—he shook his head—"not some kook spouting stories about UFOs."

"I didn't mean to suggest otherwise, Doctor." Wilson paused to choose his words carefully. "The fact that you were brought here by my niece gives you more credibility than you realize."

"Niece?" Harrison did a double take, frowning first at Wilson and then at Suzanne. "I thought you said he was a friend of your father's." Why the hell hadn't she said anything? Here he was, thinking that she and Wilson were . . . well, anything but familial in their relationship. And he would have worried far less about their chances of getting help from the general if he'd known the guy was Suzanne's uncle.

Suzanne smiled sweetly at Wilson. "Uncle Hank is my father's favorite brother."

Wilson beamed back. "And you're my favorite niece."

Old home week. Encouraged, Harrison began to smile himself. "So you're willing to help us, General?"

The warm smile vanished; Wilson was all military again. "Unfortunately, Doctor, I'll need some hard evidence before I can act on your theory." He reached into the In box on one corner of his desk, fished out a thick manuscript, and started flipping through it. "Just this morning, as a matter of fact, I received a report on the incident you make reference to"—he broke off to scan a page—"which suggests the work of a terrorist group. Ah, here it is." He touched a thick stubby finger to the paper and squinted at it. "Can't read this damn small print without my glasses. The People's Liberation Party."

Harrison felt himself sink from triumph down into despair. He sat forward on the edge of his chair. "General, I've already given you evidence. And I'm trying to warn you about something a lot more dangerous than terrorists. Terrorists didn't leave with those barrels—the six revived aliens did."

"Just because those barrels were empty doesn't mean the aliens
walked
out, Doctor," the general replied patiently. "What real proof do you have that the aliens are alive? It's far more likely that the terrorists stole them."

"What possible use would terrorists have for them?" Harrison asked him angrily.

"To instigate panic, for one thing."

"And what about the transmission, general? How are you going to explain
that
away?"

"Try to look at it from my point of view, Dr. Blackwood—"

"No, look at it from mine!" Before he knew it, Harrison was on his feet bent over the desk, shoving his face into Wilson's. He was vaguely aware that he was shouting and that Suzanne was going through paroxysms of embarrassment, but he didn't care. In the back of his mind, a phrase kept repeating:
Clayton was wrong. I should never have wasted my time coming to Washington. Goddamn military, they'll kill us all through their stupidity. Goddamn military, they'll kill us all. . .

"Please take your seat, Doctor," Wilson was repeating calmly, but Harrison ignored him.

"These creatures are completely ruthless, General, without mercy! They see us as something less than animals, an inconvenience to be done away with. Thirty-five years ago, they tried to take over the world, killed millions of people—and no one wants to remember! Well, I can't forget. They killed my parents —and, General, this time they won't stop until we're
all
dead. You, me, Suzanne . . ."

Wilson blinked at him and picked up his pipe again. "I'm sorry, Doctor." His tone was gentle.

Harrison stopped, slightly dazed by his own outburst, but unrepentant. Still leaning over the desk, he glared at Wilson. For a moment no one spoke.

"Bring me something concrete," Wilson said finally. "I'll see that it gets to the proper people. You have my word."

"There isn't time," Harrison told him bitterly. Concrete? Jesus, what more did the man want? Feeling defeated and furious, he wheeled around and strode out of the office, afraid if he stayed a second longer he'd say something to the general that even his niece would be unable to smooth over.

Yet, as furious as he was, his mind was already racing to find a solution to Wilson's challenge.
The son of a bitch wants hard evidence, huh? Then by God, I'll find a way to give him that if it's the last—and it probably will be—thing I do.
He didn't break his rapid stride until he was back out in the waiting area. It was devoid of people, save for a lone receptionist who was busily fielding incoming phone calls.

Harrison tore off the tie-—
good riddance
—tossed the briefcase on a chair, opened it, and pulled out the portable phone. He dialed the Institute number, then checked his watch as he remembered the three-hour time difference. It was eleven-thirty here in D.C., which meant there was about a fifty-fifty chance that Norton would be there this time of the morning. Probably just setting the coffee up now.

The Institute switchboard operator answered.

"Extension 5900," Harrison said. Behind him came the sound of heels clicking against the uncarpeted floor at top speed . . . Suzanne. She walked up beside him, her scowl fiercely disapproving, her posture rigid, tight, angry.

"If you expect people to help you," she began in a low voice that rose in volume, "you'd better learn to be a hell of a lot more gracious. You were impossibly rude to my uncle back there."

"The world doesn't have time for graciousness," he snapped, so vehemently that she recoiled slightly. "The general wants concrete proof, does he? I suppose that means depositing a live alien on his desk! Well, by God, I'll get him one if that's what it takes! But we're giving them time, Suzanne, time they can use against us—we're giving them too much time!"

"Harrison!" Norton's voice came over the receiver. He was shouting in an effort to interrupt. "Harrison, did you call me just so I could listen to you and Suzanne arguing?"

He took a deep breath and forced himself to speak calmly. "Sorry, Norton."

There was a pause, and then Norton said, "Doesn't sound like things are going too well for us."

"They're not." Harrison met Suzanne's worried eyes and shook his head. "The army's decided our proof isn't enough. Looks like we've got some work to do."

Back at his desk, Wilson puffed thoughtfully on his pipe for a moment before reaching out to press the button on his intercom. "Ms. Underwood? See that I'm put on the President's afternoon calendar. Then connect me with Lieutenant Colonel Paul Ironhorse."

SIXTEEN

At eight o'clock the next morning, Suzanne, clutching an oversize mug of coffee she'd stolen from Norton, stumbled bleary-eyed down the corridor toward her office. She and Harrison had returned from the visit with Wilson the night before, and Suzanne hadn't been able to sleep well afterward; her mind had kept rehashing all the possible ways they could provide Uncle Hank with the evidence he'd requested, and as a result she was exhausted again this morning.