That the carrier had been taken off-station from the critical and volatile Persian Gulf told Turcotte how important this mission was, as much as what Lisa Duncan, seated to his left, had already told him. The presence of a British lieutenant colonel three seats over who sported the sand-colored beret of the elite British Special Air Service, SAS, also indicated a certain degree of martial seriousness. On the other side of the British colonel was an American major in a flight suit, the patch Velcroed to his left shoulder showing the Grim Reaper of Task Force 160, the Nightstalkers.
They were all prepared to listen to a briefing by a former Soviet operative. The man, Karol Kostanov, spoke in clipped English, his accent polished at one of the KGB’s finishing schools during the height of the Cold War. He claimed he had been working freelance around the world since the breakup of the Soviet Union. How the UN Alien Oversight Committee had gotten hold of him, Turcotte had no idea, but he imagined that it involved a lot of cash, based on the expensive suit and custom-made shoes Kostanov wore.
“Please proceed, Mr. Kostanov,” Duncan ordered once she made sure everyone was ready.
Kostanov had a carefully cultivated day’s growth of beard, framing his aristocratic face and thin glasses, the frames made of some obviously expensive metal. Turcotte wondered if Kostanov even needed the lenses in the glasses or if they were part of his costume, designed to impress. Kostanov’s skin was dark, his hair streaked with gray.
“I was contacted a day and a half ago by a representative of the United Nations Alien Oversight Committee,” Kostanov began, but Duncan waved a hand.
“I know about that,” she said. “You claim you know about a cache of alien artifacts in southwestern Ethiopia, guarded by people who work for a South African business cartel. Since we are closing on helicopter range of that area, I don’t have time to listen to your superfluous bullshit, as we will be launching a military strike force soon. Give me the facts.”
Kostanov pursed his lips as he considered the diminutive woman who had just spoken so harshly.
“Ah, the facts,” Kostanov repeated, just the slightest edge of mockery in his voice. “There are not many, so I will not waste your time.
“One. Before the breakup I worked at Tyuratam, a Soviet strategic missile test center. It was also headquarters to Section Four of the minister of interior. From what I have read recently in your newspapers, Section Four was the equivalent of your Majestic-12.
“We, however, were not so fortunate in our discoveries of alien artifacts as you Americans. We had the remains of one alien craft that had been severely damaged and that was all.”
Turcotte leaned forward in his seat. He’d seen the bouncer that had crashed from a very high altitude at terminal velocity into the New Mexico countryside. There hadn’t been a mark on it. What could have damaged the craft the Russians had?
“What kind of craft?” Duncan asked, showing that this was news to her also. “A bouncer?”
“Not a bouncer. Bigger than that but nowhere near mothership size either.” Kostanov shrugged. “It was very badly damaged. The scientists worked at reverse engineering what we had, but there was not much success.”
“Where was your craft found and when?” Duncan asked.
“Nineteen fifty-eight in Siberia. Best estimate from the crash site was that it had been there for several thousand years. I believe the disclosure of that craft was used by the Russian government as part of their attempt to maneuver one of their people high on the UNAOC council. I would assume UNAOC is keeping that quiet for their own reasons and because there is little to be gained from the craft.”
“Was it an Airlia craft?” Duncan asked.
“We didn’t specifically know about the Airlia until just recently,” Kostanov said, “but from what I have seen of your mothership, it was made of the same black material that the mothership is made of, so I would assume it was Airlia.” Duncan waved for him to continue.
“Despite the lack of success the head of Section Four felt that if there was one craft, there most likely would be others. The scientists postulated that this craft could not have crossed interstellar distances, therefore it had to have been ferried here. The unit I was part of was directed to search down other leads.”
The Russian turned to the map and used a handheld laser pointer. “In 1988 we received word from KGB sources that someone had discovered something strange, here in southwest Ethiopia. I accompanied a Spetsnatz — Soviet special forces — unit,” Kostanov added, with a glance at Turcotte’s green beret and the colonel’s sand-colored one, “that was sent in to do a reconnaissance.”
“And you found?” Duncan prompted.
“We never made it to our target site. We were attacked by a paramilitary force. Since we were going in on the sly and did not have air support and could not risk an international incident, we were heavily outgunned. Half the team was killed. The rest of us were lucky to make it back to the coast and get picked up by our submarine.”
“A paramilitary force?” Turcotte spoke for the first time.
“Well armed, well trained, and well led. As good as the Spetsnatz I was with and more numerous.”
“Who were they?” Turcotte asked.
“I don’t know. They weren’t wearing uniforms with insignia. Most likely mercenaries.”
“Get to the point,” Duncan said. “What was at that location?”
“The word we received was that there were some sort of evidence of advanced weaponry,” Kostanov said. “Alien weaponry.”
Everyone in the room sat up a little straighter. The question of alien weapons had been raised many times in the closed chambers of the UN Oversight Committee. Given that the A-bomb had been partially developed from an Airlia weapon left in the Great Pyramid, there was a great deal of speculation about what other deadly devices might be secreted somewhere around the planet. The destruction of the Majestic-12 bioexperiment facility at Dulce, New Mexico, by a ray from a foo fighter indicated that there were weapons the Airlia had that many governments would dearly like to get their hands on. Weapons that the UN would like to get under positive control before an irresponsible party gained hold of them.
The message Professor Nabinger had received from the guardian about the civil war among the Airlia indicated that they’d had a weapon powerful enough to have wiped the Airlia home base, known in human legend as Atlantis, off the face of the Earth so effectively that it had become only a myth.
“More specifics,” Duncan said.
“I don’t have more specifics,” Kostanov said. “As I told you, we never made it to the target. This happened in early 1989, and as you know there was much turmoil and change in my country that year. We were never able to relaunch another mission. You now know as much as I do.”
“And the target is?” the British lieutenant colonel asked.
Kostanov shrugged. “That is for your intelligence people to tell you. I gave them the location. I assume they have better pictures than I had ten years ago.”
Duncan gestured at a woman in a gray three-piece suit who had been sitting along the wall while Kostanov spoke. She now stood up. She was tall and slender with jet-black hair, cut tight around her head, framing an angular face. She appeared to be in her mid-thirties, but it was hard to tell as her skin was perfectly smooth and pale.
“My code name is Zandra,” the woman said. “I represent the Central Intelligence Agency.”
Zandra held a small remote. She clicked a button. A long-range satellite photo appeared. “Northeast Africa,” Zandra oriented them quickly. She clicked and the shot decreased in scale. “Southwest Ethiopia, near the border with Kenya and Sudan. Very inhospitable terrain. Largely uninhabited and largely unexplored.” Turcotte nodded to himself. That fit the pattern. The Airlia had picked the most inaccessible places on Earth to hide their equipment: Antarctica, the American desert in Nevada, Easter Island. Always where it would be difficult for humans to get to and survive.