SOMEWHERE OVER MICHIGAN, 22:00 HOURS.

James McNeil leaned back from the control panel and sighed. His co-pilot, Martha Franks, glanced at him. "Long day, huh?" she asked.

McNeil nodded, rubbing his grainy eyes. "First day back always is."

McNeil had been on a weeks' leave in Alexandria. For seven glorious days, he was a civie and not an Air Force pilot. He stayed up as late as he wanted to, slept as late and he wanted to, and drank as much as he wanted to. No 05:00 days in sight.

Then, as always, the last day of leave crept up on him and sacked him in the nuts. He was ordered to board a train for New Jersey and be at Grogan AFB at noon sharp for an important assignment. He didn't know what that assignment was until the base commander met with him. Even after, he didn't know much, only that he was to fly a T-1X9 airbus to the Western Montana Research Center, an underground (and highly top secret) facility where, it was rumored, UFOs were studied and stored. McNeil didn't believe in that crap; it was probably where govie science geeks cooked weaponized anthrax, plague, and SuperFlu. Nowhere near as glamourous as flying saucers.

One thing bothered him: On the inventory sheet, one of the items was listed as: SUBJECT K-245-10, VOORHEES. What the hell was that? If it was a "subject," it had to be alive, right? If he wasn't scared of being court martialed, he'd go back and try to have a look. Sure, the Marine guards would shoo him away, but he was sure they could work something out: They were brothers-in-arms, after all.

"Just keep your eyes open and on the sky," Martha said.

"Yeah, I..." McNeil stopped as the rattle of gunfire filled the cabin. Martha's black face went milk white.

A moment later, someone screamed, and a loud thud sounded, followed by more gunfire. McNeil, his heart pounding, got out of his seat and drew his sidearm.

Martha shook her head, and started radioing for help. "Make sure that door's locked!" she shouted.

At the door, McNeil tried the handle. It was locked. Next, he drove the deadbolt home and stepped slightly back. Following 9/11, the government had outfitted the cockpit doors of all its transport planes with reinforced alloy conceived in a government lab somewhere and known only to Uncle Sam, Mossad, and probably, now, Russia. A man could stand on the other side of that door and lob rocket propelled gernades at it until the cows came home, and he wouldn't even put a dent in it.

Another scream rose, and another burst of gunfire. McNeil winced. Though the fuselage was as tough as the door, there was no guarantee that a window wouldn't shatter or a hole wouldn't form. Within seconds, the plane would break up and go down.

For the first time in years, James McNeil was actually scared.

Following another burst of gunfire, silence reigned. For a moment, nothing. Then a serious of loud thuds shook the plane. It sounded like God Himself was running toward the cockpit. Behind him, Martha screamed into the microphone to ground control, panic evident in her voice.

Shuddering, McNeil drew a deep breath, and suddenly the door exploded open. A massive man in the gray, tattered remains of a jumpsuit stood before him. He was bald, his skin a sickly blue-green, and wore a singed, shattered hockey mask. McNeil screamed and fired. The giant took no notice. Instead, coldly, dispassionately, he raised a long, wicked machete and brought it down. McNeil felt the blade cleave his skull, felt it sink into his soft, pulpy brain matter. Martha screamed, and McNeil fell.

The last thing he saw before dying was the giant, the monster, grabbing Martha by the back of her jacket and flinging her headfirst through the window. Then, feeling the wind rushing into the cockpit and the plane lurching into a nosedive, James McNeil went on leave.

Permanently.