Chapter 2
Thomas Kevin Morgan ran his hand across the presidential emblem, expertly emblazoned into his black leather folder. He couldn’t help but shiver. At thirty-eight years old, he was the youngest president to have been elected into office. Years of political deadlock and scandal in Washington had seen the public cry for presidents to wield more executive power. Congress was seen as old and decrepit, too interested in dirty political dealings. Each new president since 2020 had steadily increased the power and authority of the presidency. While Thomas was against having power vested totally in one position, he was prepared to use it to its full effect now.
“How’s the beast?” asked his vice president via text message.
“Like traveling around in a flashy tank,” texted Thomas in reply. From his earliest memories, he had wanted to become president. In high school, he set out a road map to make it happen—mayor, governor, senator. Everything had fallen into place. While his friends went and made their millions in banking and trading, he had climbed the greasy pole. With an election result of seventy-three percent, unheard of in modern times, he had a powerful mandate to push through earth-shattering reform. The world had been slowly dying, and his main reason for wanting to be president was to get the job done. Too many had tried and failed. He considered himself a conviction politician and would drag the country off its knees by any means necessary. A change in society was needed, and Thomas knew he had no choice. A one-term president he may end up being, but in these four years he planned do to enough to set America on a path out of sickness and away from societal collapse. It had been a long road to the presidency, but now the real work had to begin.
“Five minutes to castle return,” said his lead Secret Service security agent, Lorraine. She was the first female to be the lead agent. “Castle” was code for the White House.
It was 11.30 P.M., and he was tired. A good night’s sleep and then starting in earnest tomorrow morning sounded like a plan to him. He had to admit the White House was still a daunting building. His predecessor had told him before he took oath that you never really appreciate the history of the building until it’s too late. It had all the grandeur of a palace while being a working office for the most powerful person in the world. The Secret Service had expressed “moderated pleasure” that he was unmarried with no children. It made their job a lot easier.
“Mr. President,” said Gail Jackson, a tall, thin woman with short hair and wiry glasses. She had worked with him for ten years now. Despite some resistance from White House officials, he had promoted her to chief of staff. Her organizational skills and acute political antennae were invaluable to him, even if she was considered a hothead who would happily bypass set procedures to get the job done. Thomas knew he needed trailblazers like this to cut through the bureaucracy. He had four years, and not one day could be wasted.
“Good evening, Gail,” he said with a smile, stepping into the White House from the south lawn. The warmth instantly hit him, a welcome feeling considering most of the East Coast area was still under the eye of a snowstorm. He had spent the day waving while freezing.
“Good evening, Mr. President,” she replied, walking with him through one of the White House’s characteristically long corridors. “I have the Director of the FBI and Chairman of the Joint Chiefs waiting in the Oval Office.” She handed him a steaming mug of coffee.
“What?” Thomas glanced at Gail in surprise, then looked at his watch. “At this time? I was ready to turn in.”
“I’m sorry, sir. They were very insistent.”
“What’s the general doing here?” asked Thomas. General Ernest Richards had been recently promoted to the coveted position of General of the Army, a post not filled since 1950. The outgoing president had awarded him the position in recognition of his leadership against terrorism and the need for a symbolic head of the Army. He was also still Chairman of the Joint Chiefs—America’s most senior military commanders—but that was going to change when Thomas decided who was competent enough to fill Richards’ shoes.
“They won’t tell me anything,” said Gail. “It’s a black meeting. No notes, no minutes, no diary entry.”
Thomas heaved a sigh. “Very well then,” he replied, turning a corner into Gail’s office, which led directly to the Oval Office. “Wish me luck.” He winked as she opened the door for him and then closed it securely.
“Director. General,” he said, extending his hand to shake theirs. “It’s frightfully cold outside tonight. What brings you both to the White House at such a late hour?” The lights in the Oval Office were dimmed, as they always were this time of night.
George Houston, FBI Director, sat back down beside the stern general. He was an elderly man with a full head of neatly kept gray hair and a thick, trimmed moustache to match. Out of the two, he was the more suave.
“First, let us congratulate you, sir,” said Richards in his usual formal tone.
“Thank you,” said Thomas. He had met the general on a few occasions and found him almost intimidating. “But you two certainly didn’t come here at this time of night to congratulate me.”
“No,” said Houston. “You’re quite right, Mr. President. Over the next few days, you’ll have many off-the-book meetings.”
“I can only imagine,” agreed Thomas, taking a sip of coffee.
“But none like this,” said Richards. “Mr. President, the word
confidential
does what we are about to discuss no justice at all. Only thirty-one people on this planet currently know what we are about to tell you. After that, it must remain thirty-two people until your successor is elected or someone dies.”
“Okay,” Thomas said slowly, lowering himself into his massive leather chair and reclining backwards slightly. He suspected the feeling of sitting behind the presidential desk never got old. “You’ve certainly got my attention. Let’s hear it.”
Thomas watched as his two visitors paused, turning to look at each other. He knew in that instant he was about to be taken on a verbal rollercoaster.
“Extraterrestrials,” said Houston.
“Aliens, Mr. President. Since 1903 the United States government has played host to an alien council,” said Richards.
Thomas sat still, forgetting to breathe. Did he just hear correctly? Aliens? He had always suspected Earth had made contact with them, but to be told directly? His initial reaction was to laugh this off as a joke—after all, it was a long-standing myth that presidents were briefed on the alien presence on Earth after taking office, but Thomas hadn’t known whether to believe that or not.
The director and general stared motionless at him, not blinking.
Reality that they were serious began to slowly dawn on Thomas. “Okay,” he said carefully. He knew they were wondering if he was taking them seriously. It wasn’t totally out of the realm of possibility, and he’d always prided himself on keeping an open mind. The rollercoaster had just reached the tipping point. “Continue on.”
“The entire program is called Section 51. Despite what science fiction fanatics believe, Area 51 is truly just a testing ground for experimental craft for the Air Force. Three kilometers down beneath the base is Section 51.”
“An expansive,” continued General Richards, “military base which houses experimental laboratories and meeting rooms.”
“Laboratories for what?” asked Thomas. If this concerned human or alien forced experimentation, then he was going to have a very frank discussion with both these individuals and make the first decision of his presidency.
“Experimental technology, Mr. President,” replied Richards, opening his red military folder and flicking through it. “Climate control stabilizers, oil replication, food technology, medical science, geothermal networking—the list goes on. We have some of the best minds working down there.”
“Human minds?”
“Yes, Mr. President. The only alien in residence in Section 51 is a woman called Freda. She is our point of contact. Freda has been the official representative of the Council for this region of space. She’s been with us since 1903,” explained Richards.
“You see, Mr. President,” began Houston, leaning forward with his mug of tea, “the Council represents the four main space-faring civilizations known to exist, controlling roughly a third of our galaxy. Apparently, intelligent life is indeed very rare. The Council was set up to provide assistance and watch over fledgling civilizations such as ours, helping them progress and to provide protection from pirates. There are six ‘fledglings,’ as Freda calls them, which includes us. The Council chooses a representative for each planet, and they are to guide the inhabitants of that planet and report back on progress made. Not only that, the representative must also protect the health of the planet itself. Habitable worlds are extremely rare, and the Council will protect them just as much as a species. Freda has catered for Earth for over 100 years now.”
“And not aged a day,” quipped Richards.
“Slightly envious?” asked Thomas. “Have you worked for Section 51?”
“I work for the United States,” said Richards. “I’ve worked alongside Section 51 since the age of twenty-five.”
“Okay,” said Thomas. His tired mind was surprisingly keeping up, despite the late hour. He mused to himself. He was sitting in the White House Oval Office, being informed about aliens and councils, while the rest of the country slept. This was something he certainly did not foresee. “To be honest, this isn’t totally mindboggling. I believe most reasonable and rational people accept the possibility of aliens. It would be the height of hubris to assume we are the only intelligent life in existence. What does shock me, though, is the government’s ability to have kept this all under wraps.”
“Hence the small number of people who know about it. Every president is sworn to secrecy. There are other reasons why U.S. presidents receive such substantial Secret Service protection when they leave office. It’s a gentle reminder that they may have left office, but the government is still with them. Watching and listening,” said Houston.
“Charming,” replied Thomas, thinking ahead to his own retirement. He at least took solace that all U.S. presidents had lived long lives in the past hundred years. “Can I ask why they haven’t intervened in helping us with this genetic problem?”
“They provide us with a blueprint and nudge us in the right direction of what we can achieve and how it can benefit the world,” said Richards carefully. He looked at George for support.
“Mr. President, ever since the Second World War, Freda and the Council have been reluctant to provide us with anything more than theory and postulation about what is possible and what is not worth pursuing. They will show the way, but that’s it.”
“Please explain,” ordered Thomas, glancing between the two. “With our race on the brink of possible destruction, wouldn’t they do everything they could to help us survive?”
“Two words: nuclear power. When nuclear power was provided to another civilization to remedy a crippling pollution and energy crisis, what happened? That race created nuclear weapons instead and significantly changed their course of history. Freda said after that, the Council moved to refuse any technological aid to a civilization,” said Richards.
Thomas nodded, mulling that over. “I can understand that,” he said. The topic of nuclear weapons made him think back to his studies on World War II. It frightened and engaged him at the same time how small incidents—and, more importantly, appeasement—could allow dictators to take over powerful countries in a short period of time.
“She cryptically once said that with the advent of nuclear weapons, alien civilization was in danger of approaching a red line set down by the Council for fledgling planets.”
“What’s her opinion of Earth?” he asked.
“Not what it once was,” said Houston without hesitation.
“Freda believes the United States is not the country it once was and is incapable of being the chosen nation.” Richards sat back in his chair, straightening his dark green military jacket clad with every type of medal.
Thomas watched the fascinating working relationship these two men had. They clearly worked closely together and were very aware of each other’s strengths and weaknesses. Richards now looked to George, as if acknowledging he was the one better able to explain the next part of this unforgettable conversation.
“Chosen nation?”
“Yes, Mr. President,” began Houston, getting up to pace the room. “Chosen nation is a term Freda used from the very beginning in 1903. The United States was chosen by the Council as the lead nation on this planet, the country with the most potential for greatness and that represented the best aspects of humanity. Therefore, they made contact with us. Since the Second World War, I think we can all admit in the privacy of this office that things have not gone well for our country. War after foreign war, economic chaos, and a sharp decline in social structure and civility. Thankfully, or unfortunately, Freda can find no other nation that is not heading down the same treacherous path we are.”
“What path is that?” asked Thomas. He couldn’t deny that the urge to meet this woman was building with each passing second. Not only for the personal selfish reasons of wanting to meet an alien, but for the potential opportunities that could come as a result. While what was being currently discussed was attention-grabbing to say the least, Thomas couldn’t help but consider other scenarios, as well. He was confident that Freda would, with some persuasion, grant them vital support in the genetic war scientists across the planet were fighting every day. The biggest concern for him was that they were still losing this war.