Chapter 12 from Galen Shields: Call Upon the Russian

XII. Call Upon The Russian



A country song played quietly on the radio, as the truck driver followed the narrow dirt road. He switched the high beams on, illuminating his path. A vivid array of stars stretched across the midnight sky and creeping behind the mountains, the lights from Las Vegas let out a luminous glow. He passed the sign that read RESTRICTED AREA: NO TRESPASSING BEYOND THIS POINT. After the sign, it was a straight shot ahead. He glanced at the rearview mirror and examined the crate strapped down to the iron bed of the truck, then focused back on the road, which seemed to stretch endlessly into darkness. He lowered the windows and took in the cool desert air. All was quiet out there, save for the squeaking of crickets.
Finally, a guardhouse appeared in the gloom a barbed-wire fence became visible surrounding the perimeter. The driver came to a complete stop at the guardhouse and two soldiers dressed in Air Force jumpsuits emerged, each armed with an assault rifle. The driver gave the first soldier a friendly nod.
“This vehicle and its cargo are authorized under Vane Horizons,” said the driver. “I have a scheduled drop-off for a shipment 411.”
“Right on time, sir,” said the soldier. “You may proceed.”
The truck drove through the gate and continued down the road. The driver stayed alert, studying every aircraft hangar and facility along the road. Even at this time of night, scientists roamed the grounds like pedestrians in a small town, walking about their busy schedules. This top secret government and military facility went by many names such as Dreamland, Paradise Ranch, Watertown Strip, but most notoriously known to the world as Area 51.
The truck pulled up to the backside of a colossal white hangar, large enough to fit several aircrafts and reversed into a loading dock. The driver stepped out of the truck and climbed on the iron bed, then unloosened the straps over the sealed wooden crate. A bald man came out of the hangar wearing a lab coat and black slacks.
“Shipment 411,” said the bald man. “We’ve been waiting for this device with much anticipation.”
The driver nodded and the bald man climbed onto the bed. Together they lifted the crate and moved it into the loading dock.
“It’s heavier than I thought,” said the bald man. “Your friends at Vane spared no expense, huh?”
“I’m just the delivery man,” said the driver dryly, as he lowered the crate onto a conveyor belt. The bald man pressed a button on a control panel on the wall and the crate was transported into the hangar on the conveyor belt.
“I do request I get the crate back when they are done with it,” said the driver. “We like to recycle them.”
“Of course,” said the bald man before entering the hangar once again.
The driver got back into his truck where he sat, and waited.

The crate moved steadily along the conveyor belt and arrived into the hangar, a massive enclosed structure of metal, stretching two hundred feet high. This monstrosity of an edifice was more than just an aircraft hangar, however, for it housed the most fascinating and unique aircraft known to mankind.
The crate came to a complete standstill at the end of the conveyor belt.
“Shipment 411,” came the automated voice on the intercom.
Instantly, three scientists abandoned their computer consoles and electron microscopes and headed towards the motionless crate. One scientist with curly hair and wire-rimmed spectacles stayed at his console, however, and watched with eager eyes. The three scientists gathered around the wooden crate that read Vane Horizons along its exterior and commented on its groundbreaking contents. They marveled on such a technology, while one scientist tried to pry it open with a crow bar, the wooden top slowly breaking off into splinters. All the while, the scientist with the spectacles accessed the security system on his console and rubbed his sweaty forehead with a handkerchief. He heard a repetitive thumping noise that seemed to echo in his head and for a moment thought it was his heartbeat, but then realized it was his watch, ticking closer to the unbearable seconds that lay ahead. The wooden top of the crate cracked open just as he shut the security cameras off. The man’s timer began the countdown.
The Russian popped up from inside the crate with a cigar in his mouth and stared down at the three scientists, hands gripping onto his gun.
A scientist stumbled back. “What the—.”
His words were cut short as a beam of white light shot out from The Russian’s gun and vaporized his body into a grey cloud of ash. The Russian’s lips curled into a smile, the cigar dangling, and the remaining scientists howled in frightened unison as their colleague drifted off into the air. The Russian took his time climbing out of the wooden crate and jumped onto the ground, his black military boots thumping hard on the cement. He wore a leather jacket today under a Kevlar vest and a pair of crinkled black slacks. The battle scars on his forehead were hidden by his streaks of long black hair. His next victim made a run for it so The Russian calmly lifted his gun and fired directly into the running man’s back. The light stretched throughout his limbs and the cloud of ash continued onward, still running for the door, then quickly rose into the ceiling. The Russian watched the ashes rise and fall and thought it a lovely sight that reminded him of the dust clouds in his uncle’s farm.
The last scientist dropped to his knees in shock, staring down at his colleague’s ashes. The Russian took his time on this one. He pulled out his lighter with the KGB emblem, lit his cigar, then snapped the lighter shut. He let the flame settle and gave the cigar a few puffs, before letting out a plume of smoke and stuffing his lighter back in his jacket pocket. The scientist was trembling now, staring up at his killer overwhelmed and beat. The Russian lifted his gun and pressed the tube, which served as the barrel, against the man’s forehead, then let out a childish whistle.
“I admire your willingness to accept death,” came The Russian’s low chilling voice. “If only they were all so prepared.”
A plume of smoke rose from The Russian’s mouth as the ray of light shot straight through the man’s skull. The Russian stepped back as to avoid contact with the ashes. Some got on his jacket and he quickly brushed the particles off his arms.
“Are you about done over there?” said the man with the spectacles at his console.
The Russian nodded sternly.
“We have five minutes before security goes back online.”
The Russian looked up and felt a twinge of excitement as his eyes scanned the immense flying saucer standing proud along the hangar. It was exactly how he’d imagined it, literally a saucer-shaped silver craft with black metallic circles along its hull. The U.F.O. was propped on display against four pillars at each side with wires attached to the ship from all sides, connecting into different stations. Just standing in its presence gave him a mystical aura that made his skin crawl under the thick Kevlar.
“Beautiful,” he whispered.
He followed the scientist with the spectacles toward the ship, climbed onto its elevated platform and headed below it. The Russian looked up at the bottom of the alien craft and admired the simplicity of its design. No sign of pipes and complicated layering. Everything was simply flat as a plate and a silver that gleamed in the light of the hangar. As they walked, he let his hands run along the bottom of the ship and his watch instantly slammed hard against its exterior.
“It’s magnetic,” said the scientist. “Watch it.”
The Russian then noticed the hum of a magnetic field somewhere within the ship. He could feel the incomprehensible power of another world resting above him and he longed for its technology, yearned its abilities to overcome the impossible.
“Is this the renowned Roswell spacecraft?” he asked with a fascinated curiosity.
“No. All we have left of that one is debris. This one landed two months ago in Bolder Canyon, Colorado without the slightest dent or a scratch. Same kind of ship as Roswell’s though. Something tells me this beauty was given to us.”
“In exchange for what?”
The scientist looked at him. “I don’t know.”
They continued walking below the ship until the scientist stopped under an opening above them. It was a square hole of perfect dimensions, where they had been working under and inside was a silver oval-shaped instrument attached to what seemed like the mechanics of the ship.
“This is it,” said the scientist.
Together they cautiously pulled the device, that resembled a large egg, out of the hole.
“With this drive, your friends will find what they like to call Avalon.”
The Russian pulled it out of his hands. “I will take that.” He then carefully placed it within his leather jacket and held it tightly.
“Two minutes,” said the scientist, beaming down at his watch.
They walked back out from under the ship, down the platform and stopped dead in their tracks. The scientist turned around and glared up at the Russian behind his spectacles, who towered over him in his boots.
“Are you ready?” asked The Russian, taking out a knife from his sheath. The scientist stood rigid and motionless, his hands at his sides.
“In the chest,” he said with a face covered in sweat. “Watch my heart.”
“What kind of man do you think I am?”
“You tell me.”
“No,” said The Russian, taking a step closer until their faces met. “You tell me.”
The man with the spectacles sighed. “I saw the way you killed those poor bastards back there. Looked like you were enjoying it. I’d say you’re just a regular old psychopath, that’s what I think.”
The Russian beamed at him in deep thought and responded with a simple, “Hhm.” Then, without warning, he thrust his knife into the man’s chest, then pushed it deeper until he felt it make contact with bone and pushed through that. The man’s eyes opened wide and the spectacles fell off his face. A trickle of blood oozed out from the corners of his mouth as he collapsed. The Russian pulled out the knife, wiped the blade clean against his Kevlar vest and sheathed it. The man squirmed in agony, then let out a moan of fear when The Russian lifted the gun over him.
“We had a deal!” yelled the man, blood gurgling in his throat. “No! No! No!”
“This is a top secret government and military facility. I am afraid you are an unnecessary risk.”
“Please!” pleaded the man. “I have a wife!”
“You were absolutely right,” said The Russian. “I am going to enjoy this.” He turned a knob at the edge of his gun, switching it to maximum power. “I promise, you will not feel a thing.”
The man’s scream was cut short by his disintegration and the echo continued to travel even after he was gone. The Russian put out his cigar over the ashes on the floor and placed it in his front jacket pocket for keepsake. He gripped the device inside his jacket and climbed back onto the conveyor belt and into the crate where he came from. He sprawled on his back like a corpse in a coffin and lifted the wooden top over himself.
“I’m in,” he said to the microphone attached to his collar. The conveyor belt began to move again, transporting him back through the tunnel. He began to whistle his own version of Whistle While You Work and even as the truck driver lifted the crate back onto the iron bed of the truck, he continued whistling, adding his own harmonies. He lay in peace, holding the device gently as if it were an infant and waited for the truck to exit the premises. After a few bumps and turns, the driver spoke into his earpiece.
“We’ve crossed the safe zone. All clear.”
The Russian kicked the wooden top off the crate and it toppled to the side. He sat up into the desert night and enjoyed the cool wind in his face. Resting in the crate, as if it were a bathtub, he pulled out the device and ran his fingers over its sleek material. Such a powerful machine, capable of warping an entire ship into other worlds, resting in his hands like a toy. His phone began to vibrate and he pulled it out. The caller ID said it was Jasper Creed, Vane Horizons’s second in command. Just the person he wanted to speak to.
He answered and said, “What a captivating piece of hardware.”
“Where have you got it?” came Creed’s deep raspy voice.
“In my hands.”
“Good. Bring it to The Fortress.”
“If I am to fly all the way to France for you, Creed, I expect to have my money waiting there.”
“Your money can wait. I have another assignment for you.”
The Russian grumbled, then dropped a gloved fist hard onto the wooden crate. “I am not your guinea pig. I only took this job because I want to see Avalon discovered as much as you do. If there is no bounty, there is no job!”
“Relax, Mr. Harkov. This is a regular job. The target’s name is Galen Shields. A fifteen-year-old traveler who is causing quite an uproar in the world.”
“How much are you putting up for the boy?”
“The grandest bounty of them all, don’t you worry. Bring him in alive. He is Vane’s most valuable commodity.”
“Just another traveler to me.”
“Not entirely. This one is…a fast learner, so to speak.”
The Russian switched off his gun. “Finally, someone I could have fun with.”
“Oh and Harkov. There is no need to fly here. The driver will take you to a portal in Silver City, New Mexico that will take you to The Fortress.”
“I wasn’t aware there was such a portal.”
“My friend, if you aware of half the portals on this planet, I wouldn’t be doing my job.”
Creed hung up. The Russian let out a frustrated sigh, sat back into his wooden crate and continued to whistle along the desert highway.