Event

TWENTY-SEVEN

After shaking hands and quickly catching up, Jack explained Fielding's mission. He took it well that he was here in an unofficial capacity of "advisement" only, and that he would have to take orders from a major. He didn't bat an eye as Jack led him to a table to sign an extensive secrecy and nondisclosure form.

Fielding looked at Jack and rubbed a hand over his bald head. "Just who in the hell are you working for, Jack?"

Collins held the colonel's gaze a moment; an unvoiced answer seemed to flow between the two officers.

"Why, the same man you work for," he finally said.

"Got it, don't ask."

Jack nodded.

Collins entered the tent with Colonel Sam Fielding close behind. The colonel had taken the rest of Jack's briefing without batting an eye, only commenting, "Should have fucking known the government was covering up at Roswell."

Sam's element of 101st would be split to secure the town for the quarantine cover story and Site One security. That would free up the Event Group personnel and the Delta/Ranger contingent for tunnel teams. Jack had all of the incoming troops sign secrecy and nondisclosure orders, basically assuring the government they would have to keep their mouths shut forever.

The two men put on surgical masks as they stepped through the makeshift autopsy area. They were met by a staff doctor and shown the way into the examination area of the spacious army tent. There were several of the strange metallic boxes found at the crash site. Teams were using small tools, brushes, and cotton swabs as they gathered minute samples from the containers. To the left was a paneled-off area with a large see-through window that showed teams inside working with other high-tech gear, but most were bent over microscopes.

"Hello, Jack," Denise Gilliam said as she walked up and removed her surgical gloves.

"Denise, this is Colonel Sam Fielding. He and I served together in the Gulf a million years ago. Colonel, Dr. Denise Gilliam, our chief forensics pathologist."

The colonel and the doctor shook hands.

"What have you got so far, Doc?" Collins asked.

Gilliam turned and took in the scene around them. "Well, we have collected the DNA samples of over three hundred different species of alien life in these twenty-seven containers," she said, then saw the look of confusion on their faces. "We believe the containers are like cargo bins, they get used over and over. We also know they were empty on this particular trip, as none of them have any recent bodily material inside of them. We have sent off slides and specimens by fighter jet to Helicos BioSciences in Cambridge. But as I was saying, the cages were empty."

"All of them?" the colonel asked.

She looked at Jack, who nodded his head for her to continue. "No, sir, we have one here that was occupied upon impact." She gestured to a large crate that was mangled and torn apart. "We were successful in collecting DNA of a species of creature that is not found on this planet." She placed a hand on the ripped-open section of the metal container. "We've found hair, or what we would consider hair. Actually it's more like a porcupine quill. We believe it's part of this particular animal's sensory input mechanics as the follicles on the ends have bits of nerve ending on them. Now we're running the samples again to be positive of the results, but what it looks like is that whatever was shipped in this container is anatomically different from any life-form we know of."

"How do you mean?" Jack asked.

Denise turned and walked over to the window and looked in on the other pathologists, who were busily working alongside the paleontologists. "Its atomic structure is out of whack" she said, looking away into the area her team was working. "It shouldn't be able to exist," she said with awe in her drifting voice.

"I don't follow," Fielding said.

"It means its body should sink right to the core of this planet, Colonel. Its structure is so dense it shouldn't be able to live on this world, or any others that our space probes have reached thus far."

"Can you expand on that?" Collins said.

"I'll try, gentlemen. Have you ever tossed a rock into a lake and watched it fall once in the water?"

They both gave a quick nod.

"Well, that's what this creature would be able to do here on this world. The ground would be like water is to you or me. It would literally be capable of swimming through our soil."

"You mean it can tunnel or dig?" asked the colonel.

Gilliam looked at him for a moment in thought. "The atomic structure of this animal is not like ours and everything around us. You see, every atom that makes us or even the ground we stand on, or the furniture you sit on, is always in motion to some degree. One atom spins around another, that spins around yet another, never connecting but giving the illusion of being a solid to the naked eye. This animal is made up of atoms that are attached to each other in groupings of eight and ten, no single atoms like us, thus its structure is far more solid than our own. So, no, not tunnel or dig, Colonel. It would be able to run or whatever it does in the ground a lot faster than we can walk or run in our own atmosphere. I just used water as an example for lack of a better example. In our air or aboveground if you will, it would be eight or maybe even as much as ten times faster than we are. Just conjecture at this point because it being here and living is still, at least according to our science and universe, an impossibility."

"That means it could be a threat to my men if it finds us first," Fielding said. Like any good commander he feared for the well-being of his men above all else.

"Okay, what about these others?" Jack asked hurriedly.

"Well, they're not too dissimilar from us. They definitely died due to impact trauma. Wounds on one were severe enough that he must have died instantly. The other looked almost as if it were asleep. There was old scarring on both of the subjects, as if they had led a harsh existence. Some here think they are fighting scars, as many of them look like they were made by claws, or nails if you will, while others were clearly teeth marks. These beings may be from a harsh or combative society, or they may be a subservient species of something else."

"Doc, right now let's make the priority this creature that treats alien steel like it was tissue paper," Jack said, touching the ripped-open areas of the cage. "I think we have to--"

Jack was interrupted by shouts and warnings outside.

The three people turned and listened as yelling filled the camp and crash area. They started for the tent flap but were met by Mendenhall, just returned from town with Colonel Fielding.

"Major, we have a visitor out here, and he asked to see the man in charge of the flying saucer crash; his words, sir."

"So much for securing the area before the cover story hit the news," Collins said.

They walked outside, removing their surgical masks. The sun was blazing and made their eyes water. They stood and watched as an old man was escorted by two armed security men to where they were standing. The man wore an old brown fedora and newer-looking jeans, battered brown cowboy boots, and looked as if he had just shaved. He had at least three pieces of toilet paper stuck to his cheeks and chin, stanching the flow of blood from the nicks that were obviously inflicted by a hurried job with a dull razor.

"This man just walked up the mountain, sir. Right to where we were hiding and said he wanted to speak with the man in charge," one of the men said. "We would have just sent him on his way, but he said he wanted to talk to the fella that was in charge of the saucer crash. It's like he knew we were there, sir."

Collins stepped up to the taller, much older man. He looked him over, then held out his hand. "I'm Major Jack Collins, U.S. Army, and you are...?"

The man looked from Collins to the crash area around them and then at the huge tents that had been erected overnight.

"Gus Tilly. I prospect this part of the mountain." He didn't take the major's hand right away, instead eyeing the strange black Nomex uniform a moment. "Don't look like what I wore in Korea."

"U.S. Army, sir, that's what and who we are," Collins said, gesturing to the men and women around him. He was still holding his hand out, but with his other he reached over and pulled down a Velero patch on his right shoulder and revealed a small American flag underneath.

The old man looked relieved, then took Jack's hand and shook quickly.

"Now, why do you think this is a flying saucer? We can't tell what it is."

The man turned and shaded his eyes against the sun. Then the old gray eyes fixed on Jack. "You're not gonna tell me it's a plane crash or some horseshit like that, because I'll call you a liar, sir."

"Whoa, take it easy there, Mr. Tilly. All we're saying is we're not sure what it is. Now, why do you think it's a flying saucer?" Jack asked.

"Because, youngster, I have the guy... er, uh, pilot or whatever it is that flew the goddamn spaceship thing here," Gus said, looking from Collins to Colonel Fielding. "And I'll add one more thing, fellas. You better listen to what he has to say, because we have a whole lot of trouble on our hands."

The rocky valley had turned into an armed camp above and a civilian holding pen on the highways below. News crews from as far away as Los Angeles had picked up the rumors of the mutilated cattle and the two missing state policemen, and now even a story that maybe a rogue motorcycle gang had been responsible.

The element of the 101st herded them together one news crew at a time as they came into the small town of Chato's Crawl, ignoring the shouts and curses that they had rights. As soon as the army had shown up and corralled his news crew, Ken Kashihara knew this wasn't about a rogue biker gang. He was worried because three full busloads of reporters and conspiracy nuts had already been moved out of town. He didn't believe for a second the cattle-disease story; his gut was telling him something else was going on and it was big.

Ken grabbed his cameraman and walked to the rear of the roped-off area. He at least wanted to be one of the last reporters removed from the area.

Sarah went through the logistics line collecting her field gear. She had collected a set of ambient-light (night-vision) goggles, web belt, and canteen, a portable VDF, which she had trained on extensively for use in locating underground rivers, and a black set of Nomex BDUs. Then she was surprised by receiving a weapon that she had only fired once in her time here; it was still experimental, she thought. The Event Group quartermaster handed her an XM8, the newest assault rifle developed for the U.S. Army. It came with an SMG/PDW package. That meant it was configured with butt plate slid in and had a short barrel, excellent for Sarah's line of work, in tunnels or other tight spaces. The quartermaster issued her three hundred rounds of 5.56 mm armor-piercing ammunition in thirty-round magazines.

"Jesus, where in the hell are we going to deserve these kind of weapons?" asked Steve Hanson.

"The weapons are courtesy of Major Collins. I don't know how he did it, but he pulled some strings and we got a hundred of these just an hour ago."

Sarah accepted her weapon and signed for it. She couldn't help but wonder where they were going and just what in the hell was out there that they needed these.

"Sarge--"

"Before you ask, you'll be briefed on-site, young lady. Now get to the transport level," the gruff quartermaster ordered.

"Well, you wanted your field mission, Sarah, I hope you're happy," Steve said as they gathered their gear.

"Yeah, and now I'm a little worried," she said as she raced him down to the cargo elevators to be one of the first on the helicopter.

The four jet engines of the giant C-5A Galaxy whined a sleep-inducing lullaby for the one hundred soldiers in her cavernous belly. They sat in canvas seating strapped along the side and center of the aircraft, instead of the more comfortable airline seats on regular military charters.

Thirty of the U.S. Army's elite and highly secret Delta unit, sometimes known as Blue-light, watched the more boisterous elements of the seventy-man team derived from both Companies B and C of the Third U.S. Ranger Battalion (Enforced) as they talked about home and girls. The Delta teams checked their weapons and conversed in soft whispers. They removed their black helmets and readjusted their chin straps before placing them back on their heads. Before leaving Fort Bragg, where they had been training for the last few months with these very Rangers for a mission in Africa, a mission that had suddenly been scrubbed, they had been issued small oxygen cylinders and new night-vision goggles. They also received the new multi-use vibration-direction finders, or VDFs, the kind geologists used to detect minute tremors and anomalies and the direction they came from.

"What the hell is up with these things?" a young Ranger PFC asked.

"Who the hell knows? Maybe they're lowering us into volcanoes now," his sergeant whispered, as he checked the loads in a magazine of 5.56-millimeter rounds.

"Did you hear the latest?" the PFC shouted over the engine whine, succeeding in getting the attention of the rest of the Deltas and Rangers. "I heard that we're going after something in a desert somewhere."

"What? Here in the States?"

"That's what I heard, probably some more training for Libya or something."

"Well," the sergeant said, patting the stock of the special-order Barrett fifty-caliber rifle, "whatever it is, I hope it doesn't like breathing."

Farbeaux watched his men and was pleased with the way they were preparing. All former French Army commandos, they had experience ranging from assaults in Africa to clandestine actions in South America.

They were arranged around the hydraulic lift in Phil's Texaco. The station was closed, and Phil, Farbeaux guessed, was out with the rest of the town's people, wondering what was happening. Farbeaux had indeed lucked out when the tracer he had placed on Mendenhall's hand had led him straight here. He and his men had dodged a search team twice as they searched the town for stragglers that they could hustle off to that bar and grill and detain. He and his men had come inside one of the now quarantined helicopters shortly after the arrival of the first American C-130 this morning.

Farbeaux was dressed casually and was waiting for his phone to ring, which he knew it would, and this time he decided he would answer. He only had to wait another minute. He looked down at the incoming number, then placed the cell phone in the portable scrambler.

"Legion" was all he said.

"May I be so bold as to ask what it is you are doing?"

This was the man the Frenchman was hoping for, Hendrix himself.

"You fool, if you go in without Centaurus expertise to back you up, you and whatever idiots you have following you will be chewed to pieces. You have eliminated two of my teams, that I can forgive, but if you fail to satisfy me in this matter, there won't a safe place where I can't get to you. Now fulfill your contract to Centaurus!"

"I wouldn't have lived long enough to say thank you for the bullet you placed in my brain. I will collect what I can of the technology and--"

"You dumb son of a bitch, is it technology you think we are after? We have all that we need." Hendrix laughed. "The thing that may be out there is far more than even you have bargained for. Even if you live through this without getting mauled, I will burn everything in your private collection right in front of you, and then I will personally put that bullet in your brain, do you unders--"

Farbeaux pushed the button on the scrambler and ended the call.

No, my friend, you won't be doing that. And please, "mauled"? Besides, I have learned enough about you and your little basement secrets that it should make interesting reading to a certain senator, he thought to himself as he picked up a handheld electronic computer and started writing his "get-out-of-jail-free card."

Billy turned the ATV off and coasted the final ten feet. The four-wheeler had enough forward momentum to roll through the scruffy yard to barely bump the rotting slats of the wooden front porch before coming to a full stop. The boy removed his helmet and looked around. The chicken coop was full of chickens, but unlike on Billy's previous visits they were all huddled together in one corner of the pen with a large Rhode Island Red rooster walking guard in front of them. He then looked at Buck's stall and noticed the mule was gone, and that meant Gus was still up in the mountains.

He was just about to put his helmet back on when he saw out of the corner of his eye a flash of movement at the kitchen window. He swallowed and wondered who, or what, was watching him. The boy knew without a doubt eyes were on him because the hairs on the back of his neck were standing on end. Gus once told him that usually meant danger to a man attuned to the desert. Billy tried to slide the helmet on, but it seemed his arms wouldn't work anymore. He turned slowly and looked at the window. It was empty.

He shook his head, still trying to build up the bravery he needed to get out of there. It was for reasons like this his mom never let him watch those old horror movies she sat up late watching on television. She told him kids of today didn't have the patience to be frightened as she had been when she was young. Billy had thought that was just about the dumbest statement he had ever heard. He shook his head, unable to believe he was actually as afraid as he was, so he guessed he had learned patience.

Instead of placing the helmet on his head, he took a deep breath and forced himself to calm down. He wouldn't let the fear of something that wasn't there scare him. What would Gus think? He sure wouldn't think Billy was ready to accompany him to the mountains to prospect, that was for sure.

Billy placed the helmet on his handlebars and looked at the house. It looked normal.

"Hey!" he shouted bravely at the house.

His eyes roamed over the front windows quickly, looking for any signs of movement. He took another breath. He didn't see motion but he felt he was still being watched. Then a horrible thought struck him: What if Gus was hurt? Maybe Buck was still in the desert, but Gus had come back and had a stroke or something?

That helped him find his bravado. He jumped from the ATV and ran to the porch, and that was when he saw through the old screen door that the front door had recently been repaired. Nails were crudely pointing this way and that, and a few were even bent over. Billy stopped and examined the situation again.

"Hey, I know you're in there!"

Still nothing. He took one step and then another. He placed one foot on the first step and then evened it out with the other foot. He swallowed and watched the door, and then he suddenly looked to the window that sat above Gus's old cot in the corner. Did that window shade move? He started to back away, then thought about Gus again. He took the next step, and then he was at the front door. He placed his hand on the screen door and easily pulled it open, flinching every time the spring made that popping noise. Then he placed his shaking hand on the glass doorknob and closed his eyes. He turned the doorknob, but stopped and thought, what kind of an idiot was he? He had put one over on his mom on occasion and seen too many movies where a door had been the only thing separating a stupid kid from the horrors of a slasher that waited just the other side of that door. Then he looked down and saw that the wooden door's center panel hadn't been nailed down all the way and one corner was sticking out.

Billy swallowed and backed away a step and examined the repair job. Yeah, it was Gus's work alright. Bob Vila he wasn't. With one hand holding the screen door open he leaned over and peered through the crack. All he saw was darkness. He knew then that he was being silly, but still wasn't in a hurry to throw open the door. He looked behind him to make sure nothing was sneaking up there, then went to one knee and looked again. This time the space seemed even darker. So Billy leaned closer--and saw the huge black eye blink. Billy stood straight up and the screen door slammed him in the ass, knocking him against the door. He stood motionless as he heard something move on the other side of the door.

Suddenly the windows started shaking and the door was rattling in its frame. The screen was flapping like a bird's wing, and that made him move, almost tearing the screen door off its old hinges when it slammed back on him. He stumbled and fell backward, rolling down the steps of the porch, and then a hurricane of wind and dirt and dead grass started pummeling him. The noise came from the back of Gus's house, hesitated there, then started forward, seemingly coming from over the roof. Billy screamed, but no sound came out of his mouth as the world became a swirling storm of desert sand and wind. Finally one of Gus's front widows shattered and glass flew everywhere. Then a shadow fell over the porch and front yard as the horrible noise and vibration not only continued but increased twentyfold. Suddenly he felt the evil was out here and not in the house, so he quickly gained his feet, but it was like one of his horrible dreams where you try to run but your shoes are sticking in syrup or something equally thick and sticky. He finally pulled the screen door open, and it flew back with a crash as it hit the house and the spring snapped. Then to his horror the screen door went flying away off the porch.

"Oh God, oh God, oh God," he cried as he turned the doorknob and opened the front door and ran in.

He was halfway through the kitchen when he saw Gus's back door crash in and a large, dark forbidding shape crouch and then stand motionless. His mouth widened to scream, but again nothing came out. And then to top off his day, he saw something rise up off the floor and go screaming away from the menacing dark figure. It was small and wearing a white shirt that caught the wind from the open front door and flew back like a cape.

Billy finally managed a loud and convincing scream as a small green creature ran right for him with the taller black thing in the shadows starting forward into the house. Billy immediately turned with both pursuers screaming after him. The smaller of the two hit his back and they both crashed onto the porch and right into the arms of another figure that towered over him. Billy screamed and then Matchstick screamed as they both fell onto the porch after bouncing off the thing standing before them.

"Hey, hey, easy," the tall figure said as it removed its black face and head.

"Ahhhh!" Billy screamed again.

"Ahhhhhh!" Matchstick screamed behind him.

Billy turned back toward the scream and his eyes widened when he saw what was there. Matchstick's eyes went from Billy to the taller figure and then back to Billy, and they both cried out simultaneously.

"Hey," a voice called among the wind and debris. "Billy, Matchstick?"

Billy stopped screaming and looked up and finally saw the first sane thing he had seen since arriving. Gus was running from a settling black helicopter, then Billy looked up and saw a dark-haired man looking down and holding a helmet, tossing a black nylon mask into it. He smiled and pulled the boy up. Then he hesitantly reached for the thing behind him, but decided to hold off.

Sergeant Mendenhall called from the interior of the house, "All clear!"

"Clear here!" Jack called out, still staring at Billy and the small alien, then quickly stepping aside for Gus.

The old man reached Billy and picked him up off the porch, then Gus reached for Matchstick, who looked to be in shock and was shaking as heavily as Billy.

"I see you two have met," he said as he turned and winked at Collins.

The alien was nervously looking around and sitting upright on the bed. The visitors crowded into the small one-room house. Matchstick eyed each man in turn and listened as they talked, every once in a while tilting its head and then with shaking hands taking a sip of water from the glass Gus had given it.

"You feel better, Matchstick?" Gus asked.

Jack turned and looked at the old man. He met his eyes and gave him a small smile. "Matchstick, that's its name?"

"As close as I can get anyway. He can talk like us," Gus said, "but he's just being stubborn right now. But sometimes he does his talkin' through me; brain chatter's what I call it."

Jack walked over and joined Mendenhall, who had slid the dirty sheet away from the body of the Gray, which was still lying on the floor.

"One ugly son of a bitch, Major," Mendenhall volunteered.

Jack took in the malevolent features of the Gray compared to the soft features of the smaller Green. Like Gus, he didn't think he had an imagination capable of thinking this thing up. He thought the two races were as dissimilar in looks as they were in temperament.

"Not exactly something you would take home to meet Mom, is it, Sergeant?" Jack turned toward Gus. "Did this being have the same telepathic ability as your friend, Mr. Tilly?"

"I didn't exactly invite it in for drinks and mild conversation, so I couldn't tell you."

Collins turned and looked at the alien sitting with its back to the wall on the old bed. Its eyes narrowed and the small mouth set itself in a straight line. Then it finally looked at Gus, its features softening, then turned back to Collins.

"Destroyer, feeding?" came the buzz-filled voice. It was like hearing someone through a wet pillow using a voice synthesizer.

"Yes, it's feeding," Collins answered after a moment's hesitation caused by the strangeness of the visitor's voice.

Babies, babies, babies, babies. This time it closed its eyes and only spoke with Gus through its telepathy.

"Matchstick says it's laid little monsters, babies, it says," Gus interpreted for them, wincing at the pain. "He gives me headaches when he talks like that, nosebleeds too. Matchstick, talk like regular--" He caught himself. "Just use your voice."

"So it's definite, it has the ability to project thought," Jack said.

"You could say that," Gus answered.

"Matchstick, this is Colonel Sam Fielding of the United States Army," Collins said softly to the small being while raising his left eyebrow toward Gus, who in turn looked down, knowing he had been a little rough on the major.

The colonel stepped forward and gave the alien an awkward smile and almost saluted, having actually brought his hand halfway up, then, embarrassed, looked at the others in the room and lowered his right hand to his side.

Collins smiled. "I'm Major Jack Collins. Do you know your race has been here before?" Collins bent down and looked the alien over.

Mahjtic looked from one man to another, each human in turn, still confused. Then it looked at Gus and then to the boy, not saying anything.

"Over fifty years ago," Collins continued. "I believe you are going to tell us about a faction of your race, who look to take this planet from us?"

The alien suddenly looked just at the major.

"This part of your society has acted upon itself to end life on this planet with the thing you call the Destroyer, am I right so far?" Collins asked.

"Those that would make us crash... your world with Destroyer, attack us" It closed its eyes in thought. "Damage on... to our craft"

Collins nodded. "A being like you told a man a similar story a long time ago." Jack sat on the foot of the bed. "The being like you told him it might happen again. Why did they wait?"

They watched as the alien's eyes widened. It brought its large head down, then up. It understood now.

"Talkhan, the Destroyer, hibernates. Have you animals here... sleep for long time frames?" it asked, looking from face to face. Collins noticed it was shaking, perhaps afraid they would blame it for the danger they were in.

"Yes, we have animals that hibernate," Jack answered.

"The Destroyer kind wake fifty year on its world... We take Destroyer for use by Masters on other world, easy way to--"

The men looked at the small being, waiting for it to finish, but it was looking at Billy.

"Matchstick, don't stop now, you go on and tell 'em," Gus said.

It swallowed and then looked away from Billy and out the kitchen window.

"Is... is easy way... clean your world. Gray's use...animal to clean undeveloped planets of life for harvesting of...resources and... settlement. The Destroyer exterminate man and... all life on this... world," it said sadly, looking into the water glass. "We take animal to other world, not this one. Gray attack us and bring here."

"Your kind is against this action?" Fielding asked.

Matchstick looked up with his large eyes and blinked. "We teach and work machines... We are... worker? Is this your... word?

"My kind, we... we are afraid and... can do... not much," it said sadly, shaking its head. "I want help..." It pointed and then spread its fingers out at everyone in the small kitchen. It slowly rose from the bed and stood on unsteady feet and walked to the window. "Too late, babies come. Not stop now, but baby have baby in twelve..." It placed a finger to its mouth and thought. "Baby have baby in twelve... hours. Then more baby." It kept shaking its head. "And more baby more smarter baby smarter baby more." It looked to the floor, not able to look at the men.

"How many babies right now, Matchstick?" Jack asked.

"Numbers one hundred, little more, maybe one hundred twenty, depend food source? Yes, how plentiful food animal to feed on."

"How much food is there from three hundred head of cattle and some bikers?" Fielding asked out loud. "Pretty good welcome-to-earth banquet, I would say."

Jack walked to the window and placed a hand on the being's shoulder. "We need your help."

Matchstick looked up and held Jack's eyes.

"If Destroyer and baby killed, the Gray will not stop. This planet is theirs. We cannot help your kind much. We are teachers... doctors...servants. Soon the Gray will tire of easy fight and come here. That you will never stop."

"First we have to stop this animal. Can you come with us?" Jack asked.

Matchstick walked away and stood next to Billy, staring at him, blinking its eyes, then smiled at the boy and touched him on the shoulder. Then it looked at the black Kevlar helmet Mendenhall had placed on the kitchen table.

"Mahjtic and Billy, we will help you."

"Good, we'll leave right--"

"Want soldier helmet," it said, looking from Jack to the helmet on the table and then at Billy.

"Yeah, a helmet," Billy said, looking defiant.

"Tough negotiator," Fielding said.

"That's a high price, but, okay, you have a deal," Jack said in all the seriousness he could muster.

Mahjtic walked over to Gus and took his hand, then pointed at the picture on the small table by the bed of the young Gus in uniform.

"Gus, fight with Mahjtic, make young again," it said, still pointing at the old black-and-white picture.

"Looks like you've been drafted, Mr. Tilly," Jack said.

Gus Tilly looked at the picture and then at the others around the room. "S'pose it wouldn't do any good to call my congressman right about now, would it?"

All three soldiers shook their heads no.