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    Alien Eyes
    Alien Eyes
    Alien Eyes
    Ebook333 pages4 hours

    Alien Eyes

    By Scott Skipper

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    About this ebook

    Humanity was a sort of biology experiment conducted for a few million years by the aliens from Tau Ceti 4. The experiment is finished and the human race is no longer necessary, so they sent a team to release a synthetic virus to sterilize us, thus eliminating the species humanely, but the first attempt failed due to bad navigation over Roswell, New Mexico. Seventy years later a second team was on track to complete success until an alien named Deshler got a message from Carrie Player, the only person on earth who could speak his language. She browbeat, cajoled and sweet-talked the single-minded alien into betraying his mission—at least in part.

    Now almost the entire human race is infertile, the aliens are on their way home and Carrie Player, head of the CIA’s Department of Alien Affairs, is burdened with the task of finding a solution in the vast trove of alien data that Deshler left her. He also left her carrying his offspring who may or may not be the savior of the species.

    At the same time, in another bureau of the spy organization, a team races to find the mastermind of a new kind of suicide bomber that is spreading a deadly epidemic in Southern California. No one suspects that their paths are converging.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherScott Skipper
    Release dateSep 11, 2015
    ISBN9781311326621
    Alien Eyes
    Author

    Scott Skipper

    Scott Skipper is a California fiction writer with a broad range of interests, including history, genealogy, travel, science and current events. His wry outlook on life infects his novels with biting sarcasm. Prisoners are never taken. Political correctness is taboo. His work includes historical fiction, alternative history, novelized biography, science fiction and political satire. He is a voracious reader and habitual and highly opinionated reviewer.

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      Book preview

      Alien Eyes - Scott Skipper

      Chapter 1

      Is it true it never rains on the Rose Parade?"

      Yes, and every year thousands of suckers in Ohio see the sunshine and decide to move to California. Alex Anderson answered his son’s question and pulled the blanket more snugly around his shoulders—again.

      When’s it gonna start? eight-year-old Ashlee asked for the thousandth time.

      Pretty soon.

      I’m cold.

      So am I, but you’re the one who wanted to come.

      When’s it gonna start?

      The mental image of his ex-wife sleeping late in the warm bed of her new paramour after some New Year’s Eve debauchery elevated his core body temperature a degree. He wanted to look at his watch but that meant releasing the edge of the blanket. Finally, faintly, marching band music pierced the dry morning air, but it was quickly drowned by roaring that rattled the diaphragm and an evil looking angular, and curiously small, aircraft flashed over Colorado Boulevard not much above the palm trees. The heads of the crowd snapped from left to right tracking its flight. Alex thought he could hear neck bones cracking.

      That’s the X-47B drone, he told young Paul.

      What’s a drone? Ashlee asked.

      That means there’s no pilot, her brother said.

      So why doesn’t it crash?

      Alex dropped the hem of his blanket and pointed at two men in front of the broadcast booth who had big, odd-looking things strapped to their forearms. Those men are flying it.

      Are they afraid to ride in it?

      Probably. The band had entered Colorado Boulevard, and behind it, the first float was making the turn. He reflected that, although it would be a long two hours, the end was finally in sight.

      When the band had passed the broadcast booth where the two perennial commentators sat plastered with makeup, warming their feet next to space heaters, the float rolled serenely past with an equestrian team following. Alex thought he was hallucinating. A man standing in front of the bleachers flew apart. A millisecond later the muted explosion revealed the truth and a trio of detonations echoed from the walls of the Norton Simon Museum across the street.

      Reflexively he pulled the heads of his two kids to his chest and covered their eyes.

      What happened? Ashlee asked.

      It was a bomb, Paul said.

      Their father held their heads immobile and stared trying to make sense of what he was seeing. A mangled body lay by the curb. Blood and gore splattered parade-goers and people were screaming, but no spectators appeared hurt. Ashlee’s little pink blanket had red spots on it. He threw it off of her and said, Don’t touch your blanket and don’t look. We have to go.

      But the parade. Ashlee began to cry. Paul’s face was white.

      Sorry, sweetheart, the parade just got canceled. Let’s go.

      The crowd bumped toward the end of the bleachers but sharing collective shock, excited little pushing. Alex took his phone from his jacket pocket and tapped his ex-wife’s number. She answered on the first ring. Are the kids okay?

      Yeah, they’re fine. I need you to come get them.

      How am I supposed to get near the place?

      You can’t. I’ll bring them home, but I’m coming back here. Just take them. It will probably take me an hour to get to the house.

      Why are you going back?

      Because I can help. Just go home and take care of the kids. He pressed end without waiting for a response.

      The chaos of parade day, amplified exponentially, threw ordinarily surly cops into a state of agitation that cowed and angered people about equally. Alex ignored the gyrations of a particularly animated motorcycle officer beckoning for haste and focused his energy on keeping his two charges upright and moving. It took most of an hour to reach the residential street where he had parked his Jeep Cherokee. By a wide and circuitous route, it took another hour to reach the house in North Pasadena that no longer belonged to him. Julie’s car was on the driveway. She watched from the front room window and ran outside to take custody of her babies as if continued exposure to their father might put them at risk of another bombing.

      How close were you? she asked.

      He ignored the question. Paul, take your sister inside. When the boy dazedly took his little sister by the hand and led her into the house, he said to Julie, Close enough to get blood splashed.

      Oh, God. What did they say about it?

      Nothing really. I made sure they saw as little as possible.

      So what makes you think you have to go back there?

      Because I have experience that might be helpful.

      I wish you’d find another job.

      Gotta keep those support checks flowing.

      Don’t be an asshole.

      I have to do what I do well.

      You’re an over-achiever.

      Take care of the kids. The thought of her having spent the night with her new interest seized him and impelled him to turn and leave without saying more.

      ⁂

      Hordes of fleeing parade goers forced him to park above the 210 Freeway and walk all the way to Colorado Boulevard. He donned a fluorescent yellow vest and tucked rubber gloves into his hip pockets. Fair Oaks was jammed with ambulances and fire trucks. The paramedics stood vacantly by their vehicles. As he neared and was challenged by a highway patrolman, he offered his credentials and said, I’m here to help. The ID card seemed to confuse the cop, but it prominently displayed the letters CIA, which apparently carried enough cachet to gain him access to the party.

      Alex Anderson was not a CIA agent, but a security contractor hired by the CIA to do things real spooks considered unseemly. The profile of the Global Response Staff gained considerable stature after the debacle in Benghazi in 2012. The entity that issued his paychecks actually went by the unassuming brand of Allied Security. Alex had not been in Libya but had done multiple tours in Afghanistan and was currently between assignments, hence the begrudged trip to the Rose Parade.

      Crime scene tape stretched across the crosswalk at the corner of Colorado and Fair Oaks. A cluster of EMTs loitered behind it. Very many people get hurt? Alex asked them.

      A cocky-looking kid said, Nobody got hurt—‘cept the dudes that offed themselves. That’s why we’re standing here shooting the shit.

      Must have been some dumbass suicide bombers, another said.

      Alex said, Yeah, maybe. Pretty lucky, huh?

      Yeah, but it sucks. They called off the Rose Bowl.

      Alex whistled. That’s going to piss-off a bunch of people.

      Sure thing, the first EMT said. We need to send the Marines over there to kick their ass once and for all.

      Couldn’t agree more, Alex said and kept walking.

      It was a surreal prospect. The single float with delicate lavender orchid blossoms waving over a limpid pool, and Asian characters emblazoned on the pink wall of a pagoda-looking thing, sat where it stopped after the explosions. Drying blood showed brown on the flower petals. The empty bleachers were bedecked with yellow tape and everywhere were little tent-shaped evidence markers. Police in high visibility vests and blue rubber gloves lined both sides of the street and knots of investigators in white hazmat suits with gray booties and particle masks floated over the pavement. Three white tarps covered the corpses.

      A heavy-set guy in civilian clothes, but sporting an orange vest said, Who the hell are you?

      Alex lifted the ID that he had hung around his neck. GRS. I’m an explosives investigator.

      You don’t say. Well, you can’t go out there and fuck up the crime scene, and you can’t get near the deceased gentlemen without a funny white suit.

      Wouldn’t dream of it. Where do I get a hazmat outfit?

      You’re supposed to bring your own.

      Look, I saw it happen. I was here with my kids, but I forgot to pack my Tyvek for the parade.

      Okay, smartass, see if the coroner will loan you one. There’s a van parked on the bridge but you’ll have to go down to Green Street to get around the protected area.

      Got it. Alex was damned tired of walking around Old Town Pasadena by the time he turned north on Orange Grove and reconnected with Colorado west of the Norton Simon Museum. He had a nearly verbatim discussion with a cranky woman in the rear of a motorhome-sized van. In the end, he pulled a level ‘C’ suit over his clothes and adjusted the particle mask around his nose and chin. He now felt safe from dust and large particulate matter. How do I look? he asked but she only made a disgusted face. Then he plodded back to the middle of the block where the bodies lay.

      He approached a white-suited wraith hovering near the closest tarp. Pardon me, I’m GRS, could I take a look at the explosive device?

      What’s GRS? the man asked.

      CIA. He held his credential in front of the man’s face.

      How the hell did you get here so fast?

      I was in the crowd with my kids. Just lucky I guess. What have you got left of the bomb?

      You tell me. He lifted the sheet from the mutilated carcass. We found no trace of a vest, a belt, a backpack—nothing.

      And no shrapnel, right?

      Yeah, how’d you know that?

      I told you, I saw it happen and no bystanders got hit with any. Alex squatted to examine the remains more closely. The body’s midsection was gone, the ribs ripped open. The upper torso was connected to the lower only by the spinal cord and it bent at a right angle in the lumbar area. All the internal organs were missing or pulp. Pretty clear the bomb was inside him.

      That’s what we figure. Did it to get past security and skipped shrapnel on account of the metal detectors, but they just didn’t have enough boom to hurt anybody.

      Sure rained on the parade.

      No shit and the football game.

      Alex stood and thought for a moment about the blood on Ashlee’s little pink blanket. You know what? I’m getting out of here, and if I were you I’d get a level ‘A’ respirator.

      He returned to the van and the unhappy woman. Did you get your jollies out there? she said while he put his suit into a trash bag.

      I suggest you treat this as a bio-hazard scene.

      That’s not my call.

      Suit yourself. You got any disinfectant?

      Alcohol.

      That’s the best you got? You people did not come prepared. He poured alcohol over his hands and rubbed it on his face. It stung and instilled little confidence.

      ⁂

      Walking to his car, Alex pondered the Oklahoma football fans parked on the golf course that doubled as a parking lot for the Rose Bowl. With their big game called on account of Islamists, they would be looking for Middle Eastern blood, and surely there was no shortage of Muslims in Pasadena. With that happy thought, he phoned the mother of his children.

      What’s it like there? she asked.

      It’s pretty quiet really.

      The news is saying that nobody got hurt.

      I’m not too sure about that. Listen, I want you to burn the clothes the kids were wearing, and if they’ve changed clothes, burn those too. Wash their hands in a bleach solution and give them baths.

      You’re scaring me. What happened this morning?

      I’m not sure but I don’t want to take a chance that they got any blood on them.

      Oh, my God, Alex, what are you thinking of?

      It’s too soon to know but don’t take a chance that they’ve been exposed to something contagious.

      Like what?

      Lots of things come to mind.

      Oh, God, I’ve got to go.

      Wash your hands in bleach too, and burn your clothes.

      Goodbye. He heard her drop the phone without disconnecting.

      His next call was to his employer. Bernard Bernie Pickering struck Alex as an odd name for a guy who shipped mercenaries to global hot spots. Pickering did not answer, and the call went to voicemail. Bernie, it’s Anderson. I just examined what was left of one of the bombers. Give me a call. I’ve got something interesting to tell you.

      Alex did not think enough time had passed to listen to the message before his boss’s caller ID appeared on the display. Yeah, Bernie.

      How the hell did you get into the crime scene?

      I lied a lot.

      So what did you see?

      Well, first, I saw it happen.

      No shit?

      Unfortunately my kids saw it too.

      That’s rough.

      Tell me.

      How old are they?

      Eight and ten. I hope they’re still young enough to forget about it.

      Yeah, let’s hope.

      Listen, what I saw when I got up close and personal with the hamburger was pretty weird.

      They’re not saying much on the news.

      They may be missing the boat. It’s clear they were surgically implanted.

      Al-Asiri, again?

      Probably, but I’m thinking the idea here is biological. They didn’t try to get close enough to anybody to kill them. It looks to me like they just wanted to splatter Arab blood and shit on as many majorettes as possible.

      Oh, Christ! That’s a sick thought.

      I figured you’d want to make sure that I’m not the only guy thinking this.

      Will do, but I don’t want to drive to the office on New Year’s. Do you mind coming over here?

      No sweat. Give me a couple hours. Traffic is a might congested.

      ⁂

      The first thing he did was drive to his condo, stuff his clothes into double trash bags for burning later, then he slathered himself with rubbing alcohol and showered until the water ran cold. The thought crossed his mind that, even though there was no chance he would ever do a load of laundry, he ought to invest in a bottle of bleach. He dressed and began the drive to Anaheim Hills where Bernie Pickering lived. It was a gated community, but the guard apparently had been notified and opened the gate without hesitation. Alex pressed the call button on the intercom beside the door, and Bernie released the electric latch without bothering to ask who was there.

      The wheels are in motion, Bernie said while shaking hands.

      Who were you able to get on the phone on New Year’s?

      Neilson at the Company. He called somebody he knows at the FBI, and your message should be reaching the local level anytime now.

      If it’s true there’s going to be one hell of a lot of people to monitor, Alex said.

      Oh, hell yes. I suppose they’ll have to use the National Guard. Then how are they going to quarantine them?

      I wonder if they were going to hit the Rose Bowl too.

      It would have been an ideal target because so many people are from back east. You’d get a lot of germ dispersal for your buck, Bernie said. Did you happen to take a picture of the body?

      Sure. Alex located the image on his phone and handed it to his employer.

      Definitely an inside-out blast. It’ll be interesting to see where these assholes have been for the last six months. I’ll bet anything they’ve been in Yemen and West Africa.

      Yep, and probably walked across the border at Tijuana.

      Couldn’t be simpler. You might as well have a seat. Neilson promised to call back when he knew something. Want a drink.

      Scotch neat. Thanks. What’s the news reporting?

      While Pickering poured two glasses from a decanter, he said, They’ve got nothing. Their vans can’t get close and their helicopter pilots are going to sleep watching the crime scene guys standing around. Videos of it are all over the internet, though. Thousands of people were recording the parade.

      Bernie’s phone rang and he left the room to take the call. Alex sipped his whiskey and took a TV remote from the coffee table. Pointing it at the huge screen on the wall he un-paused a YouTube video that Bernie had been watching. The viewpoint was from farther along the parade route and caught two of the bombers in the act. He could clearly see the nearer killer using his cell phone to detonate the explosive in his abdominal cavity. As the man disintegrated in slow motion the cloud of blood and viscera blossomed in a pattern that favored the bleachers. He wondered if that was intentional or just luck.

      Bernie returned just as the video ended. That guy got a lucky shot. I can’t believe the cops didn’t think to confiscate everybody’s recording devices.

      "They were pretty excited by the scale of the thing, but imagine the riot taking everybody’s phone would have caused.

      Yeah, I guess. Well, that was Neilson, and he says they’ve gotten tissue samples from each of them to USC Medical Center. And to reward you for being in the right place at the wrong time, you’ve got a new gig.

      That’s good news. My spousal support doesn’t take a break when I’m unemployed.

      Tell me about it.

      What’s the gig?

      Security for a CIA operative looking for al-Asiri.

      Where?

      Yemen.

      I knew that. Alex sighed and drained his glass.

      ⁂

      Alex stood by his car in Bernie’s driveway and called Julie. He said, I’m coming by to talk to the kids.

      This isn’t a good time.

      Well, make it a good time. I’ve got a new assignment, and I’m leaving tomorrow.

      If you had a normal job this wouldn’t happen, she said.

      Dammit, if I had a normal job you wouldn’t get as much alimony. I’m on my way to say goodbye to my kids. Deal with it.

      The air felt soft and warm. The sun had just set, and in the Southern California twilight, he felt a familiar melancholy that carried him back to an idyllic day when Paul was a baby and he and Julie had moved to their first house. That was an evening reminiscent of this. It was a feeling that could never last. The streets were eerily quiet, and he felt like he was already half a world away from everyone he loved.

      ⁂

      On January second he packed his duffle bag and drove to Allied Security’s office in El Segundo. The world had returned to normal and the radio news repeated monotonously the same incomplete report of the bombing. Sometime during the previous evening, the president had interrupted his Hawaiian vacation to reiterate the same vacuous promise he made after every crisis, that he promised to degrade the extremists. Alex turned off the radio.

      Suzy, the receptionist greeted him with a beguiling smile. I’ve got you booked on a redeye this evening.

      Thanks a lot.

      Sorry, you know Bernie. It saved him a hundred bucks.

      Yeah, is he free?

      No, but he’s reasonable. Go on up.

      When he stuck his head into his boss’s office Bernie gestured for him to take a chair while be finished a phone call. USC/Keck confirmed Ebola in each of the tissue samples—two negative for HIV, one positive, he said after ending the call.

      Fuck! A twofer.

      Yeah, short term and long term risk. You still want to go to Yemen? Nobody will blame you for staying near medical treatment during the incubation period.

      I’m going. Nothing got on me.

      What about your kids?

      I can worry just as much in Yemen. They’ve got a mother.

      Suit yourself. You’re meeting your contact at Langley. That’s all I know. By the way, they’re trying to keep the Ebola news quiet—

      What? That’s a public health issue. How the hell can they keep it secret?

      Our government works in mysterious ways.

      That’s ridiculous. In two weeks when Ebola cases start breaking out people are going to know that their government kept it from them.

      The inmates are running the asylum.

      That’s the stupidest thing I ever heard. He stopped short of declaring that he intended to inform the mother of his children. The leak had to start somewhere.

      Enjoy your vacation in scenic Sana’a.

      Later, on the short cab ride to LAX, he fumed at the idiocy of trying to keep the Ebola exposure from the public. His call to Julie excited a predictable panic, and he did not tell her to keep the news a secret even though tracing the disclosure back to him was bound to have repercussions. Fuck ‘em if they can’t take a joke, he said out loud after ending the phone call.

      Chapter 2

      Carrie Player sat propped in bed with a bolster behind her lower back. She sipped a cup of coffee and prepared to watch the Rose Parade but wondered why since it seldom varied. Perhaps, she thought, it was just to see the sunny weather and the palm trees.

      What the hell? she said aloud. The image did not register. She clicked rewind and watched it again. A pedestrian moving in front of the bleachers disintegrated. Oh, my God, she said.

      The pandemonium in the crowd and the garbled narration of the commentators—adept at describing horses and flowers, but ill-equipped for suicide bombings—baffled Carrie’s senses. She stared transfixed at people trying to move from the epicenter, at people wiping gore from their clothes, and parents shielding their children’s eyes. In seconds the camera switched to a close-up of the commentators who stammered in disbelief over what had happened. The only coherent thing Carrie heard them say was that there had been three

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