Woodstickin' 2016!
(August 20, 2016)
10: A Call in the Night
Close to eleven p.m. The last thing Ford wanted was to be awakened from sleep by the special phone—but because it was the special phone, he rolled out of bed, picked up the receiver, snagged his glasses from the nightstand, and stepped barefoo0t into the hall. "Pines here, talk to me," he said.
The voice on the phone didn't bother with greetings: "Sir, this is very odd. I don't know if it has anything to do with the manifestations earlier in the week—"
"Just tell me, Mr. Powers," Ford said quietly.
"Well—it's a potential anomalous reading right where you are, in Gravity Falls, Oregon. Not paranormal, but suggestive of a Type VI event."
Frowning, Ford said, "An incursion of an alien craft into Earth space? Are you sure?"
"Yes, sir, reasonably sure. Yesterday at 1201 Pacific time, LROR detected a blip and triangulated on it as it emerged from an apparent orbit. The long-range radar followed it for roughly 5,000 kilometers, descending from an altitude of 442 kilometers over the Pacific to just 3,600 meters when it crossed into US airspace at 1232."
Ford did the mental math—though he'd trained as a scientist, he was always more comfortable with the old-fashioned units of measure, since to most other people they were more understandable. The blip descended, in other words, from an altitude higher than the mean altitude of the International Space Station orbit to about 12,000 feet, at very high speed, nearly Mach 10, hypersonic. "And then?" he asked.
"The radar observer at first thought it might have been a meteorite, though the return suggested something different. Anyway, once it neared the Cascade range, it slowed drastically and maneuvered."
"Meaning it was under control," Ford said.
"Evidently. Our SEWR picked up what is evidently the same object—there's a small gap between the extended range radar and terrestrial stations—as it swung in a wide arc to the northeast, made a long loop, and then approached Central Oregon at an altitude of only a few thousand feet. As it moved inland, its airspeed dropped abruptly from about Mach 4 at the coast to 300 knots as it moved northeast over Washington State and then circled back over Idaho and into Oregon airspace again."
There it was. Feet and knots. Even Powers the punctilious would fall back on feet and nautical miles per hour. Ford took a deep breath. Any Earthly craft slowing that quickly, while turning, would have ripped itself to fragments. Unless, of course, it was one of the experimental Agency planes equipped with the inertial damping they had reverse-engineered from the Area 51 recovered alien ships. Ford asked, "And were there any reports of sonic booms near the coast?"
Powers said, "Negative, sir, none from Oregon or Washington State. However, if it was a craft analogous to the Kepler Sigma Seti probes—"
"It would be air-streamed to eliminate sonic events, yes, I know," Ford said. "Go on."
"The target dropped below the radar horizon at 1347 your time, its airspeed then reduced to 210 knots. At that point, it was between Featherville and Boise, still some two hundred miles from Gravity Falls, but it appeared to be steering a true course toward your location."
Ford pushed up his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "Any reports of UFO sightings?"
"Negative. Though of course it might be a Category Al-C probe, drone, or manned vessel."
"All right," Ford said. "If it was cloaked, then obviously no one would visually witness it. But why do you think it set down near Gravity Falls?"
"Since UFOs often cause electromagnetic effects, Agent Dover suggested correlating any unusual electromagnetic activity with the known radar track. It took her a good many hours to gather the raw data and then process it, and I've just received her report. Briefly, she has identified fifteen local power disruptions and short outages—on the order of a few minutes—and none of them have any obvious explanation. They were like dominos, falling one at a time in a track that headed your way. The first one was in Spokane, then the rest in Idaho, and Oregon, the closest ones southeast of you—I told you the radar target made an extraordinarily wide turn, nearly a complete loop—and they progressed right to Gravity Falls. At 1555, the eastern part of the Roadkill County electrical grid went down for close to half a minute."
"Yes," Ford said. "I remember, our backup generator kicked in at about that time."
"That was the last of the electromagnetic disturbances," Powers said. "I've ordered a download of satellite surveillance footage, and we'll look for any trace of a landing on it, but the last time a bird tracked near enough for the pictures to be useful was late this afternoon, around 1800. We'll grab that imagery and do a Hinman comparison with footage from earlier in the week and see if anything turns up. It will take a couple of hours, but I thought you ought to know. What are your orders, sir?"
"You've done all the right things," Ford said. "Good job. All right, I'll check with the instrumentation I have on hand. That may necessitate my driving around the Valley, considering the somewhat limited range of the sensors. I will have the red phone with me, so call as soon as you have results, one way or the other."
"Yes, sir. Dispatch a team, sir?"
"It's too early for that," Ford said. "Every time some of our men show up here, there's gossip and rumors for weeks afterward. But have Team—let's see, OR-2 is the nearest, correct?"
"Yes, sir. With choppers, they can be there within half an hour."
"Very well. Have a fifteen-man SPLAT team readied, armed, and standing by in case I signal for help. Thank you, Powers. Well done."
"Thank you, sir," Powers said. "I'll be in touch."
They hung up without goodbyes. Ford went to his ready station—a small closet in his study—and changed from sleepwear to boots, trousers, pullover turtleneck, bandolier with a quantum destabilizer pistol holstered, and his long coat. He dialed Stan's number.
Stan answered right away: "Yeah, Brainiac?"
"You asleep?"
Ford heard his brother snort. "At this hour? It ain't even eleven! 'Course not, I just got in from Woodstick. If you don't know, I'm managing the whole show."
"The festival . . . hasn't closed for the night, has it?" Ford asked, surprised.
"Nah, not until one in the morning, but I came home because—" Stan broke off. "Huh. Why did I? I shouldn't have come home. Why did I leave so early?"
"Something's up. I'll be at your house in five minutes to pick you up," Ford said. "I'll be driving the Land Rover."
"That's sweet, but I don't date my relatives," Stan said. "Seriously, what the hell, Ford?"
"We may be caught up in a paranormal event," Ford said. "And you and I are going to find out if it is, and if it is, what it is and where it is."
"Sheesh!" Stan said. "You mean like when we were like twelve and called ourselves Mystery Twins?"
"Exactly."
Ford heard Stan laugh. "Hot damn! Now you're talkin'! I'll be ready. Just have to get a jacket and my brass knucks."
"Be at the foot of your driveway. That will save time."
"You got it."
Ford headed out—and Lorena, in a bathrobe, met him at the front door. "You may need this," she said, handing him a big silver travel mug. "Coffee, a little strong, and the way you like it."
Ford took it, smiling. "No questions?"
"Why should I ask? I trust you," she said. She grabbed his bandolier and pulled him close enough for a kiss. "You be careful out there."
"I shall try," Ford said, rubbing her back.
"Good. Now you go get 'em," she said.
He walked to the garage, happier than his errand should have made him feel.
Ford rarely drove the Land Rover Defender—an Agency vehicle—but it was a 4x4, and chances were good that he'd have to venture off-road. Up at the next driveway, Stan climbed into the passenger seat and strapped himself in, and twenty minutes later, as they drove through town and toward the fairgrounds, Stan asked, "So what does all this stuff do?"
The stuff was an array of electronic screens and displays, which hummed or clicked very softly, packed into an open hard-shell briefcase that rested on Stan's knees. Ford said, "Those are sensors that pick up subtle clues of strangeness in the area. The case bottom has the electronics and controls. The lid has visual displays. The top left screen registers any paranormal activity, but since the line is green, the area's clean. No ghosts or apparitions. The center top screen is a sniffer, detecting any slight atmospheric changes from sensors mounted on the vehicle roof. No alarm signal from that one. The top right detects radiation—"
"Radiation? And I got this thing close to the family jewels?" Stan yelped, sounding on the verge of panic.
"No, no, it doesn't emit radiation, it detects twenty different types of radiation, only four of them potentially lethal."
"Like that's a comfort!" Stan said. "Hey, Ford, it's blinking some green letters and numbers: IR-3, plus sign, 7.7. That important?"
"Yes," Ford said. "It indicates the presence of Type 3 ionizing radiation, a lingering trace as though an ionic impulse engine has passed through in the past twenty-four hours."
"Oh, yeah, of course, that's all clear now," Stan muttered. "OK, bottom left screen shows like concentric circles of green light expandin' out from the center, little sprinkles of green schmutz out round the edges—"
"GRAD," Ford said. "Ground-level radar. The scatter of lights near the edges are the bluffs and higher hills. It's got a limited range because of the elevated land around the Valley, but it may come in handy. Right now it's picking up no aerial traffic."
"Yeah, OK. Bottom center screen is just white numbers that keep changin'. Right now it's five point seve—no, five point eight. It's been swingin' between five and six the whole time."
"GAD. General anomaly detector," Ford said. "That would be disturbing in Iowa. It's very close to normal—for Gravity Falls."
"OK, and the right bottom is just a blank gray screen."
"That will let us display images if and when HQ send us some," Ford said.
"Uh, Poindexter? The radiation whatzis is blinkin' harder, and now it's turned orange. Number is 8.5. Uh-oh, and now there's an orange arrow pointing, uh, to the west, see?" Labeled compass points had sprung up all around the edges of the screen.
"That's good," Ford said. "It's localized the origin of the radiation trail." He took the first left turn. "Now where is it?"
"Uh, swung to about the one o'clock position. North by north-east?"
"Where does this road go?"
"To the fairgrounds. Where Woodstick is!"
"Is that to our right?"
"Naw, dead ahead—right there! See the cars and the lights?"
"Hang on." Ford wrenched the Lincoln off the road and onto a meadow that, years before, had been graded for a concrete-and-asphalt business that had never been built. Weeds and saplings smacked the undercarriage as the big vehicle jounced and lurched.
"Geeze!" Stan said, gripping the open briefcase. "Give me a little warning next time! Where the hell we goin'? We're gonna run into Meadow Creek in a minute!"
"Where's the arrow?" Ford asked.
"Pointin' straight ahead and red! And the number is ten!"
A line of trees loomed up, and Ford braked. Ford took a long drink from the travel mug and passed it to his brother. "Lorena made some coffee. Finish it off."
Stan did in three quick gulps. "Little slug of brandy in it, huh? Tell her it's good stuff."
"I will." Ford cut the headlights and engine, got out and popped the hatch, and handed Stan a quantum destabilizer rifle. "Don't fire this unless it's absolutely necessary," he warned as he pulled a pair of odd-looking goggles over his head, leaving the lenses on his forehead just above his specs. "And remember, Stanley—something that looks different isn't necessarily a threat! You know how to power the—"
The weapon hummed. "Way ahead of you," Stan said, patting the destabilizer.
"Then let's go."
They shoved through the cluster of young pines, found a place where the creek looked narrow enough for Ford to jump across and then turn back and grab Stan's hand to pull him across—almost—and then Ford said softly," Up the bank and it should be within sight. Don't make any noise."
"I'll try not to make anything louder'n my left show squishing," Stan grumbled.
They scrambled up the bank—not very steep—and pushed through another row of saplings. Past that lay a gentle, rolling two- or three-acre meadow, the grass knee-high, dotted with saplings. A waning moon rode in a clear, dark sky, giving them some light, but Ford handed Stan a compact pair of binoculars. He pulled his own goggles down to cover his eyes. "Night vision," he explained. "Switch is on the left barrel. Let's take a good look."
Through the goggles and binoculars, the landscape glowed an eerie light green. And in the bizarre illumination. Ford and Stan saw it at the same moment.
"Oh, my God!" exclaimed Stan, lowering the glasses and raising his weapon.