Each was clad in a black, one-piece suit. The term chameleon would be a good one, as the suits were designed to take on the characteristics of the local terrain, both in colour and in texture. Clothing was rarely worn, and only for specific purposes, such as this.
They rarely carried weapons, as they knew their mental powers were so sophisticated, so that there was no need for anything as crudely destructive as a weapon.
They wore hoods and facemasks, not because the atmosphere was poisonous to them, but as a precaution against local germs and bacteria, and so as not to import theirs to the planet. They were seeking to ascertain whether this remote part of North America could sustain another underground colony. They had already tested the soil, the vegetation and the local fauna. Humans were a known risk, so this part of the desert was as safe as they could find.
They needed to know whether their digging machines would be able to operate effectively here, and so tests were necessary to ascertain the strata and formation of the rock to a depth of a thousand metres. Their machines were so effective that, with the right conditions, a complete system of tunnels and chambers could be constructed in a thousand time gronks. This would be suitable for a colony of five hundred individuals.
There were already eight colonies of this size on Earth, and the Captain of the Mother ship was hoping to double the numbers over the next twelve months.
The New Mexico desert was cool and the night air was still. The stars were displaying their glory against the inky black sky, and small creatures scuttled about on the dirt.
The highway stretched like a black piece of elastic, stretched in a straight line across the flat plain, the white lines merging with the edges in the distance. A pair of headlights approached the small bridge over a small dry gully, and the 4x4 police truck pulled over onto the hard shoulder just before the bridge. The driver switched the engine off, and the silence resumed. The voice of the police dispatcher punctured the peace, so Sergeant Mike Dunwoody turned off the set.
Mike frowned, easing off his seat belt. He felt a tightness across his chest, and had been feeling rough for a few days. Carol, his wife, had told him to see old Doc Henry, but Mike thought he was just having a spell of indigestion.
With twenty-five years in law enforcement, which was after seven years with the Air Force Security Police, he had completed fifteen years with the NYPD. Then he and Carol had brought the family out to New Mexico, where he had joined the local Sheriff’s department. Stillswood was a sleepy town, but he liked it. Mike was eligible for retirement and, now his kids were both employed, he knew that he would be silly not to go for it soon. In truth, he loved the job and would miss it like crazy.
He was glad to have left New York, as it was getting manic there. He was grateful that he had left before 9/11, as his life-style here was much more laid-back.
He reclined the seat a couple of notches and looked at his watch, - 3 a.m.. He was waiting for the Tucker boys, and he knew they were due to come this way at around 03.30 in their super-charged pickups. Their races were the talk of the town, so much so that several thousand dollars rode on the outcome of the next race. It was time to put an end to their games before someone died, and Mike planned to do just that.
He had a spike strip that he would deploy across the road, and then he would book the sons of bitches.
He settled down to wait, absently looking out across the desert at the mountains to the West.
Movement caught his eye and he frowned. It was hard to tell what the movement was, or how near it was to him. At first, he thought it was an aircraft, but then it seemed to be on the ground. He lost it for a moment, but then came a brief pulse of light, which vanished as quickly as it came.
He opened the box in the back of the truck, taking out the night vision head set. He then started the truck, driving down into the dry gully towards where he thought he had seen the flash.
There were rumours of drug smugglers flying choppers into the desert and meeting fast trucks that took the drugs to Las Vegas. If he could go out with a big drug bust, then he’d be made for life. There may even be a movie made of him. He smiled at the thought.
He was a big man, six-three and 238 lbs. He had been a hard muscled man a few years ago, but now he was fifty, most of it was fat. A lack of exercise and too much of the wrong food was the cause, and he kept meaning to change - tomorrow.
He drove slowly and very carefully. There had been a lot of rain in the mountains recently, so this gully could become a torrent in no time. Such was the dryness that the torrent would come and go, yet the gully would be dry again within twelve hours.
Several times he stopped, listening through the open windows. There was nothing to hear, except the usual night sounds of the desert. He was about to give up and return to catch the Tuckers when he heard a roar.
He smiled, knowing that sound, so, wasting no time, he immediately drove up the bank onto the desert floor.
Sure enough, within a couple of minutes a wall of raging water surged past his truck, heading for the bridge some two miles away now.
Mike got out of his truck, watching the swirling water. He was amazed as he saw what he thought was a child being swept along, with arms and legs flailing.
Taking off the head-set, he immediately trained the searchlight onto the figure, driving the truck along the edge of the gully as the beam locked onto the unfortunate individual.
He drove fast, overtaking the figure and heading for a bend in the gully. He parked, got out, unclipped the winch hawser and clipped it onto his duty rig. He watched as the water swirled past, and then he caught sight of the child.
They must have been camping up stream. Damn kids, he thought.
On wading into the water, he almost lost his footing several times as the power of the water was so forceful. As he waited in the middle for the child, a log hit him on the chest.
Winded and unsteady, he caught sight of the figure, so as it approached, he grabbed, holding onto a leg.
Activating the remote unit for the winch, he just held his casualty, allowing the truck to pull them both to the safety of the bank. He felt the tightness in his chest return, but this time, it hurt, a heck of a lot more than before.
He felt his feet touch the bank, so managed to scrabble up onto dry land. He pulled the bedraggled figure to safety, falling forward onto his hands and knees. He was gasping for breath, so he thought that the log must have hit him harder than he had thought, maybe cracking his ribs.
He unclipped the winch, and turned the kid over onto his back. He blinked a couple of times as he looked at the child’s face.
While frowning, the heart attack caused him to pass out.
<<Captain.>> the science officer said.2
<<I know. I was aware of Ruma until the moment it lost consciousness.>>3
<<Ruma is still alive.>>
<<Accepted. Have you visual?>>
<<Negative, the water swept it out of our range.>>
<<It is stationary now, six clicks east.>>
<<I will effect retrieval and evacuation.>>
<<Do it.>>
The science officer paused. It was well known that, unusually, this particular casualty was the offspring of the Captain, and was some twenty years old. It was a young science student attached to the ship. The Captain had only ever had one child as a female, so was particularly attached to it, having carried and given birth. This was not usual practice, but certain eccentricities were accepted, particularly in one so respected.
<<Aye Captain.>>