Diablo Mesa(83)
Tappan scoffed in disbelief. “There’s no war here.”
“But that’s where you’re wrong. There most certainly is a war: a secret war. And it’s been going on a long, long time.”
Rush looked from one to the other for a moment. Then he appeared to come to a decision.
“Sit down,” he said, indicating the chairs.
After a long pause, Nora took a seat. Tappan followed.
“As a gesture of goodwill, I’ll answer your initial question. Because if my intel is accurate, you two—more than almost anybody—will understand.”
He sat forward, lacing his slender fingers on the desk.
“We’re a hybrid branch of both the United States armed forces and its intelligence community, established informally in 1946 as an offshoot of the OSS and, more formally, in the National Security Act of 1947. The name given us in classified civilian circles is Atropos. As a component of America’s security network, we feel we need no name.”
“Never heard of you,” said Tappan.
Rush smiled mirthlessly. “It would be an intelligence failure if you had. Everything about us—from our history, to our appropriations, to our service members, to our installations—is black. Not for our safety, but for that of the countrymen we serve.” He paused. “I can see the skepticism in your face, Mr. Tappan. But the fact is, we are almost certainly the most important element in keeping you alive—and safe.”
“Funny, I don’t feel very safe at the moment.” And Tappan turned to spit another mouthful of blood.
“You may see things differently after a short explanation. In the simplest terms: we’re the guardians of the Roswell Interaction.”
“The Roswell Interaction,” Nora said.
Rush nodded. “The custodians of the alien probe that crash-landed nearby in 1947. It was not a duty that we chose, or that we wished for. Rather, it fell upon us to form a new branch of service, dedicated to taking on this responsibility—in the aftermath of a discovery too monumental to be entrusted to an inept government, weak intelligence agencies, or a distracted military.”
“Inept and weak?” Tappan asked in disbelief.
“In the confused aftermath of World War Two, with the rising Soviet menace—yes. We came together from many areas—army and navy special forces, X2 paramilitary personnel, the Strategic Services Unit—infuriated by the porousness of places like Los Alamos, Oak Ridge, and Richland. Supposedly, only a few hundred people knew what ‘Little Boy’ really was before Hiroshima…but within a year, almost all our atomic secrets had leaked to the Russians. Atropos was formed to put a stop to those leaks; to protect America from itself. Until we were suddenly given an even bigger mission.”
“Roswell,” Nora said.
Rush nodded. “In our early capacity of guarding secret sites and halting espionage interdictions, an Atropos team was sent out from Los Alamos to investigate what had taken place there. No doubt you can guess what they discovered.”
“An alien vessel,” said Tappan after a moment.
“Probe,” Rush corrected. “Unmanned, if you can use such a term. But you left out a key word: hostile.”
Tappan shook his head. “That’s a paranoid Cold War assumption. There’s no reason to think any extraterrestrial visitors capable of seeking us out would be anything but friendly.”
Rush smiled mirthlessly. “Spoken with the ignorance only a wealthy dilettante could assume.” He glanced at Nora. “You’re an archaeologist, I understand. That makes you a scientist, at least marginally. What do you think? That alien beings are necessarily pacifistic, short and fat and so ugly they’re adorable, with fingers that light up like a Christmas ornament?”
Nora didn’t answer.
“You’re wise not to speak. Because anyone with a little humility would realize we—despite what your friend here says—can’t afford to make such assumptions. As Einstein said: most assumptions are wrong.” He leaned forward, tented fingers pressed tightly together. “That ‘friendly’ probe killed over three dozen of our men. Had it not been damaged, it would undoubtedly have killed more. Most likely, a planet-full more.”
He looked at Nora, then at Tappan. “Once initial extraction was complete and we had secured the probe, our analysis of the wreckage and its associated technology indicated the craft was sent by an alien civilization as a prelude to attack. A hostile scouting mission, as it were.”
“How can you be sure they’re hostile?” Tappan asked.
“You mean, in addition to killing two dozen soldiers during, ah, ‘first contact’? In the decades since, we’ve run hundreds of tests and simulations. Perhaps you’ll get to see the documentary evidence yourself. If you had only a little more objectivity, and a little less hubris, you wouldn’t need to ask that question in the first place.”
He paused for a moment. “Your resistance to the truth is understandable. We’d all like nothing better than to believe in a warm, hospitable universe. But those are pipe dreams, naive and utopian. Montezuma indulged in a similarly understandable fantasy when he welcomed Cortés as a god. We know how that ended: in the destruction of his civilization.” He paused again, looking at the two in turn. “Go into the primeval forest at night. You’ll find it teeming with life, from insects and spiders to salamanders, frogs, snakes, birds, and other animals small and large. And what are they all doing? They are hunting. Evolution produces a violent struggle for resources—nature ‘red in tooth and claw.’ That is the one universal, eternal constant. The galaxy is like that forest at night, roamed by hunters. They are hunting for resources. They are hunting for planets to plunder. They are hunting down emerging technological species to exterminate, lest they become competitors. The first commercial radio broadcast took place in 1920…and we’ve been shouting heedlessly into the universe ever since. Every planet within a hundred and two light-years can now hear us. And the result? The result was Roswell.”