Independence Day: Silent Zone (19 page)

"I
work at JPL in the microcircuitry division. We do the circuit boards
and
harness wiring for the space program, mostly satellites."

Then
she did something that broke his heart. She nodded. It was a big dopey
nod with
an expression on her face that showed how impressed she was. She had
just
gotten around to asking him why he'd knocked on the door when the phone
rang.

"I
gotta get that. Come in and sit down." Brinelle disappeared into
another
room.

The
house was impressive. It was a small palace built in the
Spanish style, with lots of exposed wood and high, whitewashed
ceilings. He
wandered into the sunken living room and examined a painting. It looked
vaguely
familiar, and he wondered if it might be the work of a famous artist.
It was
that kind of house.

He
sat down on the sofa and let his life flash before his eyes.
This chick is
mondo diggable
, he told himself.
I haven't known her an hour, and I've already
lied to her a couple of times. If I keep working at Area 51, I'll never
be
friends with her or anyone else. There are too many secrets to keep.
Suddenly,
he pictured himself at forty, still with long hair, still puttering
around with
the spaceship, still single. When Dworkin and the others were gone
would he
continue to work down there alone?

Contemplating
these matters, he reached into a bowl of nuts on the coffee table and
was
trying to open one with his teeth when another woman walked into the
room.
"And who might you be?" she asked.

"Um,
hello. Is your name Gluck? Trina Gluck?"

"It
might be. Who are you?"

"Hello,
I'm Bob. Bob Robertson. I work at JPL in the microcircuitry division.
We do a
lot of the electronic work for the space program. I was just having a
very
pleasant conversation with your daughter."

The
woman, elegant, in her late fifties, was obviously Brinelle's mom. From
the way
she was dressed, it looked like she'd just come back from a social
function.

"Are
you a friend of my daughters?"

"Sort
of. I mean, I hope so. But actually, I'm here to see you. I recently
read the
report on your abduction and wanted to ask you some questions about it."

Instantly,
Okun knew he'd said the wrong thing. The woman's
expression turned ugly- "Get out of this house before I call the
police."

Okun tried to make
her understand how important it was, but she wouldn't listen. Brinelle
came back
in and tried to take his side, but her mom was irate, screaming at the
top of
her lungs, tears on her face. When he stopped in the doorway, she began
pushing
the door closed. "Dr. Wells sent me," he blurted out, just as the
door slammed in his face.

He
stood on the doorstep, stunned. How could he have been so stupid? Up to
that
moment, he'd treated it all as a game, the Great American Flying Saucer
Hunt.
But obviously, it was a deep personal wound for this woman. The instant
he'd
mentioned the word abduction, a wave of pain had broken across her
face. For
Trina Gluck, it wasn't a game. Okun started off down the brick driveway
when
the door opened again.

Mrs.
Gluck stepped onto the porch and waved him back inside. "If Dr. Wells
sent
you, you can come in."

The
kidnapping, as she called it, had taken place about ten years
earlier, shortly after her husband, a congressman, had declared his
candidacy
for one of California's Senate seats. It was Memorial Day weekend, and
Brinelle
was away at her first slumber party. Trina's husband was in bed
reading. She
was in the bathroom brushing her teeth when her arm suddenly relaxed to
her
side. A moment later, the toothbrush clattered into the sink. Although
she'd
never so much as imagined an encounter with aliens before, she somehow
knew
immediately what was happening. She was terrified and felt the impulse
to
scream, but couldn't. She still had control over her eyes and tried to
turn
toward the door, but her neck would not cooperate. She felt the first
one come into
the room a moment before she saw its reflection in the mirror. She
described it
as being about three or four feet tall with a large head and shiny
silver eyes,
but it moved about the room so quickly she couldn't get a good look at
it.
After the first one examined her hair and nightgown, others came
through the
doorway.

One
of them stood directly behind her, hidden from view, and identified
itself to
her as "the friend." This creature spoke to her using her own voice
for what seemed like a long time. The distinction between her own
thoughts and
those of the friend began to blur. She felt small hands touching her
body in
several places and heard them rummaging through the drawers and
cabinets. She
felt her shock settling into anger and struggled to regain control of
herself.
When the friend asked how they could help her relax and cooperate, she
asked
for her husband. Go get my husband out of bed. But a moment later she
heard her
own voice reply, "Your husband is asleep now."

She
was taken outdoors and laid on her back in some of the bushes
by the side of the house. The friend made her understand she had a skin
disease, something contagious on her stomach and pelvis. Small hands
lifted her
nightgown while other hands lifted her head so she could watch the
operation that
would cure her. Silently begging them to stop, she watched a needlelike
instrument slice into her skin. The blade opened a bloodless incision
down the
left side of her belly, from the rib cage down to the hip. A second
instrument
she couldn't see was inserted into the opening. As it slid between her
skin and
stomach, the friend congratulated her on being clean again. Still
listening to
her own voice being used by another being, she was given a brief
lecture of
some sort. It might have been on hygiene, but she couldn't be sure.

When
the operation was finished she was put into a sitting position, then
lifted up
into the sky. It was the sensation of sitting in a strong net and being
lifted
by a very fast crane. She watched as the lights of the city receded
between her
knees.

Then
she was in a gray room. She heard the soft rustling of their movements,
like
pieces of silk being rubbed together. She rolled her head to the side,
and
noticed she was lying on a platform or table a few feet above the
floor. The
room appeared to be circular, almost spherical in shape. A bank of
windows was
set low against the wall, almost part of the floor. Nearby she noticed
a pile
of clothing, old dirty clothes, and she had the sense that someone had
been
sleeping there. The friend came and repositioned her head so that all
she could
see was the blank gray ceiling. She was told that the examination would
continue.

Then
a new creature stepped into her peripheral vision and
approached the table. It was much taller than the others, but she felt
that it
was different in other ways as well. It seemed to be a leader of some
sort. It
leaned in and brought its face closer until she could see her distorted
reflection in the bulging eyes. They reminded her of insect eyes
although the
face around them was nearly human in shape. She closed her own eyes,
hoping
that if she ignored this tall creature, it would back away. But it
continued
hovering over the table, studying her.

Without
using an audible voice, the leader began pronouncing a series of words
or
ideas, as if it were reading down a list. She knew she was being asked
about
each item, but did not understand her role in the exchange. The only
one of
these "words" she could recall later was the letter Y, and only because
it had been asked of her repeatedly. Several times, the tall creature
probed
her thoughts for the meaning of this symbol. She tried to cooperate,
thinking
they might spare her life if she could give them the information they
wanted.
It was clear to her it didn't mean the letter Y in the alphabet. It
occurred to
her that it might be a place, a landmark in a city perhaps. She thought
of the
Space Needle in Seattle and the arch in St. Louis, but the creature
seemed
dissatisfied with these answers.

It
stood up, and, as it moved away from her, she must have lost
consciousness.

"My
husband woke me up at two in the morning saying he'd had
a dream someone was trying to break into the house. He went downstairs
to look
around and noticed the security alarm had been disarmed. It never
worked
properly after that, and we ended up having to have it replaced. I
asked him
for a glass of water because my throat felt dried out. When I sat up to
take
it, he noticed there were leaves and dirt all over my back and in my
hair. We
decided that I must have been sleepwalking and that I was the one who
had
turned off the alarm. We went down and checked the side of the house,
because
the leaves in bed matched the japonicas growing out there, but nothing
looked
unusual, no signs of struggle or anything like that. I told him about
having
this sensation that I'd gone somewhere, but at that point it was still
buried
at the back of my mind.

"We
talked about it the next morning over breakfast, and I mentioned to him
again
about this sense of mine that I'd been carried off somewhere. He wanted
to call
the police, but I wouldn't let him. When he left for the office, I went
up to
the bathroom and took a shower. Then it all came back to me in a crash
when I
opened the medicine chest and saw my toothbrush hanging in the rack
next to
his. I never put it there. I was always very meticulous about standing
it in
the little ceramic cup. That little detail caused an avalanche. I
remembered
the whole thing at once. I didn't stand there
remembering it piece by
piece. It all came back to me in a single moment. I looked on my
stomach and
found a thin red mark, like a scratch, where I remembered them cutting
me open.
Later our doctor told me it was a scar. He said it was so thin that I
must have
had it since I was a child. But I know I didn't.

"We
called the police, and that was a mistake. I felt utterly
violated, like I'd been raped, and when I told everything to the police
it was
clear they didn't believe me! Then the FBI showed up and the CIA and
the Army.
I was going through a severe nervous breakdown, and they behaved as if
I were
making the whole thing up to get some attention. That's probably been
the
hardest part of this whole thing, being isolated and made to feel like
1 did
something wrong. Dr. Wells was the first person who tried to understand
what I
was going through. He put me in touch with Dave Natchez and the
survivors
group, so I had some support, someone who believed me. Well, my husband
believed me; without him I probably wouldn't have survived. Does that
answer
your questions?"

Okun
felt a little overwhelmed by everything she'd told him. "Yeah, I think
so."

"So
how is Dr. Wells?" she asked, trying to lighten the mood. "Still
crazy, I hope."

"Unfortunately,
Dr. Wells passed away."

"How
awful. I'm sorry to hear that. Were you close?" Not knowing how to
answer
the question, Okun merely shrugged. She went on. "I wish I'd written
back
sooner. I got a letter from him about six months ago, and I just
haven't made
time to answer it. Oh, I feel terrible."

"Six
months ago?"

"Yes,
I know. I have no excuse. I could have found the time."

"Could
I see the letter?"

"Certainly."
It bore a postmark six months earlier. The envelope was printed
stationery from
somewhere called Sunnyglen Villa in San Mateo, a town at the base of
the San
Francisco peninsula. The letter was only a couple of sentences long and
revealed nothing.

"Do
you have a phone I can borrow?"

He
called Sunnyglen Villa and asked to speak with Dr. Immanuel Wells. The
soft-spoken woman on the other end said Mr. Wells was ill and couldn't
take any
phone calls. She offered to take a message, asking if he was "with an
agency." Okun said he was an old family friend and said he'd call back
later. He stared down at the envelope, wondering what sort of mental
institution would give itself a name like Sunnyglen.

It
was the middle of the afternoon. If he was going to get back to Las
Vegas
before the van picked them up, he'd have to leave soon. After he
thanked Mrs.
Gluck for sharing her story, Brinelle walked him out to his car.

"Hey,
what's your hurry? Why don't you stay for dinner?"

"Gotta
get back to work."

"You're
gonna drive to San Mateo right now, aren't you?"

Okun
laughed. "I wish. No, seriously, I have to get back to Pasadena."

"I
see. Paranormal investigator all day, jet propulsion engineer all
night. Don't
you hate it when people lie to you, Bob?"

"Yeah,
as a matter of fact I do."

"Hey,
I've got an idea," she said brightly. "Let's go visit Dr. Wells
together. We can crash at my friend's place in Palo Alto."

Okun
couldn't tell if she was being serious or not.

Yes, Okun
hated it when people lied to him. He
talked about the lies Radecker had told him as he drove
toward San Francisco. And the more he talked, the angrier he got. "He
told
me my job was to make the spaceship fly. Fine. But when I tell him I
need a
second ship to make it happen, he tries to hide the information from
me! What
is that about? When I tell him I want to talk to Wells, he tells me the
guy is
dead! Screw you, Radecker!"

Later,
he
would claim that this tremendous sense of anger was what motivated him
to drive
north that afternoon instead of east like he was supposed to. But even
in the
middle of his yelling fit, Okun realized there was more to it than
rage. He was
curious. He wanted to meet this Wells character, see what he was all
about. And
there was something else, a need to assert himself—to take control of
his
research and stop putting himself at the mercy of Radecker.