INVASION OF THE BATON TWIRLERS FROM OUTER SPACE by Carycomic
Summary: A sequel to A "LITTLE" RESCUE MISSION.
Categories: Giantess, Adventure, Crush, Entrapment, Instant Size Change, New World Order Characters: None
Growth: None
Shrink: Lilliputian (6 in. to 3 in.)
Size Roles: None
Warnings: None
Challenges: None
Series: M.A.C.H.O. Tales
Chapters: 50 Completed: Yes Word count: 34460 Read: 257846 Published: May 09 2013 Updated: April 12 2016

1. Chapter 1 by Carycomic

2. Chapter 2 by Carycomic

3. Chapter 3 by Carycomic

4. Chapter 4 by Carycomic

5. Chapter 5 by Carycomic

6. Chapter 6 by Carycomic

7. Chapter 7 by Carycomic

8. Chapter 8 by Carycomic

9. Chapter 9 by Carycomic

10. Chapter 10 by Carycomic

11. Chapter 11 by Carycomic

12. Chapter 12 by Carycomic

13. Chapter 13 by Carycomic

14. Chapter 14 by Carycomic

15. Chapter 15 by Carycomic

16. Chapter 16 by Carycomic

17. Chapter 17 by Carycomic

18. Chapter 18 by Carycomic

19. Chapter 19 by Carycomic

20. Chapter 20 by Carycomic

21. Chapter 21 by Carycomic

22. Chapter 22 by Carycomic

23. Chapter 23 by Carycomic

24. Chapter 24 by Carycomic

25. Chapter 25 by Carycomic

26. Chapter 26 by Carycomic

27. Chapter 27 by Carycomic

28. Chapter 28 by Carycomic

29. Chapter 29 by Carycomic

30. Chapter 30 by Carycomic

31. Chapter 31 by Carycomic

32. Chapter 32 by Carycomic

33. Chapter 33 by Carycomic

34. Chapter 34 by Carycomic

35. Chapter 35 by Carycomic

36. Chapter 36 by Carycomic

37. Chapter 37 by Carycomic

38. Chapter 38 by Carycomic

39. Chapter 39 by Carycomic

40. Chapter 40 by Carycomic

41. Chapter 41 by Carycomic

42. Chapter 42 by Carycomic

43. Chapter 43 by Carycomic

44. Chapter 44 by Carycomic

45. Chapter 45 by Carycomic

46. Chapter 46 by Carycomic

47. Chapter 47 by Carycomic

48. Chapter 48 by Carycomic

49. Chapter 49 by Carycomic

50. Chapter 50 by Carycomic

Chapter 1 by Carycomic
From the files of Dr. Jason Grant.

* * * * *

It was one of the weirdest dreams I have ever had. And, as a parapsychologist, I've had some doozies!

I dreamt that I was in a big meeting hall, with everyone in attendance sitting around a large, round table of ivory-white. Seated in the matching-colored chairs around that table were beings who looked like those cantina musicians, the Biths, from the original STAR WARS movie.

That is; if you can imagine male and female Biths sporting goatee beards.

In any event, they were all watching this holographic image floating overhead. An image of dubious sound quality. Yet, one that clearly showed a young woman with fair skin and long, black hair wearing a one piece, sea-blue swimsuit with white high heels!

"Miss Connecticut. If you had one wish to make, what would it be?"

"I would wish for the baton I twirled earlier to become a magic wand. That way, I could wave it in the air, and feed all the starving people in the world. Because, starvation can lead to desperation. And, desperation can lead to violence. And, of course, violence always leads to war. So, if you can eliminate world hunger, you can bring about...world peace!"

"And, the winner is...MISS CONNECTICUT!!!!!"

It was at this point that the hologram vanished, and one of the pseudo-Biths stood up.

"That female Earthling subsequently became the international spokesbeing for peace, on her homeworld, for one solar-orbit. Truly, a most enlightened culture!"

"Enlightened?!" echoed another pseudo-Bith in obvious derision: "A culture still primitive enough to believe in magic? Why, we have known for _thousands_ of solar-orbits that the powers of the mind are as natural as respiration!"

"I would remind my distinguished colleague," replied the first one: ". . .that when we were at a similar level of development, we also all but deified those who had learned to harness their psionic abilities."

"At least we were still advanced enough to know," the second one retorted: "...that _nothing_ justifies the military use of nuclear weapons. Nothing!"

"In all fairness," countered the first one: "...the Earth people have used nuclear weapons, in open warfare, only twice in their recorded history."

"That is still two times too many, for my peace of mind," the second one continued: "I would remind the Council that our archeologists have psychometrically proven that the asteroid belt, in Earth's star system, was the result of a planet that destroyed itself, in a world-wide nuclear conflict, _millions_ of solar-orbits ago! And, if the people of Earth are allowed to bring their own militaristic madness any further into space, history may very well end up repeating itself."

"In that, I must concur with my distinguished colleague," admitted the first one: "But, I think such a calamity can be prevented if the Earthlings are controlled rather than exterminated. And, I have a plan that I have every confidence will achieve just that. May I outline it, Great Chair-being?"

The pseudo-Bith seated on the chair with the highest back rest nodded. Whereupon, the scene shifted.

Now, I found myself looking up at the two master debators from earlier. Literally, looking up. As if they had become giant-sized! Or, had I shrunk?

In any event, the one to my left looked at the one to my right.

"Do you have a link-up, yet, Dudar?"

"Yes, Zudar. And, I think we have found the ideal candidate. She has been the leader, or 'captain,' of her team for almost two solar-orbits."

"She?" I echoed, half-aloud, to myself.

"She has also been the foremost winner of her division for three solar-orbits," added the one called Dudar.

"Excellent!" cackled the one called Zudar: "Let the psychotronic indoctrination begin."

That was when I woke up...to the sound of my cellphone ringing on the nightstand to the left of my bed.

It was far from easy. But, I managed to sit up, plant my feet on the floor, and reach over to pick the frigging thing up.

"Hello?" I said (rubbing my eyes and forehead with my right hand).

"Is this Doctor Jason Grant?" inquired a voice with a bit of a Southern drawl.

"Yes! Who's this? And, do you happen to know what time it is?"

"Yes, sir. And, I apologize for calling you at what the East Coast deems an ungodly hour. But, I just got a special delivery by express mail. One that I think was meant for you. Only, somehow, it got delivered to me, by mistake!"

"And, you are...?" I asked (rephrasing my first question).

"Kenny. Kenny Gambol."

That blew away all the remaining cobwebs in my mind.

"The country-western star?"

"Yes, sir. And, the name on the return address label makes me think the express company might've thought they were returning it to sender."

"That name being...Prof. Kenneth Gambol?"

"Yes, sir. You must be a mind reader!"

I refrained from stating the obvious. If only because I was too busy trying to determine what America's foremost UFOlogist could possibly have sent a semi-retired country singer.

To be continued?
End Notes:
See? I told you so. :P
Chapter 2 by Carycomic
When we were college roommates, back in the 1980's, I had teased Ken Gambol, frequently and mercilessly. Always begging him (in front of pretty co-eds) to do an accapella rendition of "Zircon Cowpoke." And, naturally, he had hated that as much as the co-eds had loved it.

For him, it had sucked to be an astrophysics major with the same full name as a legendary singer/songwriter.

But, he ultimately forgave me. . .after the car crash that nearly killed me.

We'd been celebrating our graduation from college, and (in retrospect) I guess we each had one too many. Our drunken double vision made us see a four-way stop at that intersection, instead of just two. And, as they say in New York City. . .?

BA-DA-BOOM!

I was told much later, after I revived in the hospital, that I'd been clinically dead at the scene for five minutes. Which, I guess is how I became endowed with the ESP I've repeatedly demonstrated to this day! That, in turn, brought me to the attention of Dr. Robert Adam Peal. The pioneering parapsychologist whose detractors semi-affectionately referred to him as "Old Bananas."

Since Dr. Peal's passing, five years ago, I had been working on a new project that I thought would make perfect grounds for both a reunion and a collaboration between myself and Ken. Hypnotically-reinforced astral projection, as a means of space exploration! Unfortunately, when I tried to get in touch with him, last month, to make the offer, Ken's secretary had told me that he was on sabbatical from our old alma mater (Lebaron University).

I had long since learned what "sabbatical" meant to him. Time off to investigate UFO sightings! And, naturally, his favorite investigations took place in and around Area 51, in Nevada. Of course, as Kenny Gambol the singer now lived and worked in (relatively nearby) Las Vegas, that had more or less inevitably resurrected my impulse to tease him, from time to time.

A fact that didn't fail to nibble at my conscience as I boarded my flight to Vegas at JFK International Airport.

I debarked at McCarran International about five hours later. I had tried catching up on my sleep, en route. But, it had refused to come. Instead, I found myself having another weird dream. This one, seemingly patterned after an old Japanese monster movie.

The U.S. Army was attacking a most unusual foe. A numerically small band of giantesses! Each one, a hundred feet tall, at least!! Yet, none of them were dressed like fairy-tale giants. That is; none of them wore medieval-looking rags and sandals (a la Willy the Giant in Walt Disney's "Mickey and the Beanstalk").

Instead, these were baton-twirling majorettes. Some dressed in mini-skirted costumes of orange-and-silver. Others in black-and-white, or green-and-gold.* But, all of them wearing the same kind of skinny, wedged-shaped caps worn by the Boy Scouts of America. And, all of them either scrunching infantrymen and tanks, beneath the soles of their white go-go boots Or, downing helicopter gunships and fighter jets with the hurricane-force winds generated by the super-fast twirling of their humongous batons!

Fortunately, for me, I woke up to the sound of the chief flight attendant announcing our arrival in Vegas.

tbc
End Notes:
*See "Majorettes Dixi" @ Youtube.
Chapter 3 by Carycomic
* * * * *

Upon leaving the airport, I headed straight for the New York-New York Hotel and Casino. While getting dressed, during the phone call, I had asked Kenny Gambol if he wanted us to meet anyplace special.

"I mean, if you think it would be too awkward, meeting at your suite at the Golden Nugget..." I had started to add.

"Yeah, it might. How about we meet at the replica of 'Nathan's Famous Hot Dogs' stand, in the lobby of the New York-New York?"

"That'd be fine!"

And, sure enough, that's where I found him. At a table for two, against the back wall, reading a paperback novel in between bites of a hot dog with mustard.

"Mr. Gambol?" I half-whispered.

He looked up, giving me a three-dimensional version of the face I had, here-to-fore, only seen on TV. The same infectious grin; and the same wavy hair. Only the crow's feet (and streaks of gray) were new.

"Call me 'Kenny.' Dr. Grant, I presume?"

"Just call me 'Doc.' "

He grinned and nodded, shaking my hand as he did so. The grin, however, faded after I had seated myself. Because, as he slid over a gray cardboard box to me, he confessed that he had read some of what was contained within the enclosed manuscript.

"And, I got to tell you," he added: "...it makes for mighty disturbin' readin'. That's assumin', of course, that he wasn't disturbed, himself, when he typewrote it!"

I half-smiled at the sudden mental picture of Ken, still carrying around that portable Selectric typewriter, years after everyone else had switched to wi-fi compatible word processors. Then, I withdrew the manuscript and proceeded to read.

"Dear Jay:

If you are reading this, it means they are getting closer. Forcing me to initiate my contingency plan. I can't trust the regular Postal Service, because I don't know how extensive their infiltration into the Federal government might be!"

I briefly looked at Kenny. The man had not been exaggerating! Then, I resumed reading.

"What I've uncovered goes back a long way. But, for me, it started last month, with a spate of UFO sightings over Lamont County, Illinois. You've probably never heard of it, so I'll give you some background. It's roughly equidistant between Chicago and East St. Louis, Illinois. With the county seat being the town of Cranston. And, with the county, itself, having been incorporated in the 1870's from annexed bordering areas of Morgan, Macon, Logan, and Sangamon Counties."

"Anyway, I went there to interview one of the witnesses to the earliest of the sightings. A young high school girl named Amelie Sargent. Her father is the head football coach at Knudop High School, one town over from Cranston. And, apparently, she and the marching band (for whom she's the feature baton twirler) were in the second of two school buses returning from a Friday night away game at Cranston High."

"According to the initial newspaper stories, the second bus returned to Knudop, a good two hours behind the first one. And, neither the driver nor his passengers could account for it! Only that the last thing they remember was the bus conking out at a railroad crossing. Followed by a blinding white light."

"Classic loss of time, right?"

"Anyway, after debarking at O'Hare, I rented a car and drove down to Knudop, where I followed the usual first step. Going to one of the local bars and listening to some of the regulars gossip. And, as usual, it worked. I soon found out that Amelie Sargent has an afterschool job, as a part-time waitress, at a local diner. So, that's where I went."

"I sat down at the counter, and she took my order. My usual well-balanced meal of bacon cheeseburger and Diet Coke! Ten minutes later, she brought it out to me. And, when she asked if I needed anything else, I nodded and showed her my business card. Telling her that I'd like to interview her about the bus's engine failure."

"Suddenly, she was freaking out! Screaming like a maniac at the top of her lungs. The next thing I know, the local cops have been called in...and I'm sitting in the city jail for soliciting a minor for illegal purposes!!"

tbc
Chapter 4 by Carycomic
* * * * *

Naturally, I continued reading.

"I spent the next twenty-four hours waiting to be arraigned, Jay. And, I've got to admit; I was a little worried about my chances. You see, in addition to coaching football at Knudop High, Victor Sargent also coached boys' and girls' basketball for the local Police Athletic League. So, according to one of my guards, he had made a lot of friends on the local police force."

" 'Friends who might be willing to do him certain under-the-table favors! If you know what I mean,' he had added with a conspiratorial wink. And, I was afraid I did. As a result, my sleep was anything but restful."

"I woke up around six the next morning. And, not willingly, either. One of the night janitors had turned on a wall-mounted TV set just outside the cell. And, wouldn't you know it? It was one of those crack-of-dawn exercise shows! In this case, one called 'Twirlercise,' as it evidently taught the rudiments of baton twirling in conjunction with conventional aerobics."

"The hostess was a young woman (Caucasian) with light brown hair in the style they now refer to as an 'up-do.' Although, I can still recall them being labeled as 'buns' and 'beehives!' Anyway, she wore a simple blue, sleeveless leotard, with tan moccasins that she kept pointed to eleven and one o'clock (like those co-eds in ballet class we used to date), while making her introductory spiel."

" 'Good morning, everyone! I'm Hannah Barber, for those of you might be newcomers to our home-viewing family. And, today, we have two special guests to assist us in our regimen. The feature twirlers for Illinois State University's Big Red Marching Machine...Betty and Veronica!' "

" 'You've got to be kidding,' I muttered to myself."

"There was some off-camera clapping, then, as a blonde and a raven-haired brunette came on stage to flank this woman. Both of them dolled up just like her (except for their sequined and mini-skirted red outfits). I closed my eyes and covered my ears in an attempt to block out their doubtlessly well-rehearsed, female-bonding drivel. But, it proved no use! So, I got out of bed and walked over to the bars of the holding cell."

" 'Excuse me. Janitor? Would you mind turning down the volume so I can finish getting some sleep? Janitor?' "

"It was useless, though. This guy's attention was totally fixed on those women. And, as I turned around, intending on staggering back to bed in defeat, I immediately saw that he wasn't the only one. My cellmates (a wanna-be Hell's Angel biker with too many unpaid parking tickets; and a young black kid who'd been arrested for selling marijuana in the men's room at the local McDonald's) were equally fixated."

"They literally did not blink--not even once--during that whole telecast!"

"Under normal circumstances, I might have found that un-nerving. But, at the time, I was just too tired to care. So, I got back on my army-surplus cot, rolled over on to my stomach, and pulled the blanket over my head."

"What seemed like only two seconds later, I was being awakened by one of the morning shift guards."

" 'Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty. Time to put on your best face for the judge.' "

"We were allowed to use the men's room to freshen ourselves up, before we were escorted to the cafeteria for bread and coffee. After that, we boarded a bus and went to arraignment court. When we arrived, the first thing I noticed was that the judge...was a woman. A middle-aged African-American woman named Delilah Sampson."

"The biker went first. She sentenced him to thirty days of community service at the local television station. As a glorified grease monkey for their fleet of white cable TV installation vans."

"Then, came the pot pusher. She sentenced him to work at the very diner where I'd been arrested. Adding (quite sarcastically) that it might do him some good, handing out donuts and coffee to members of Knudop's Finest."

"Then, it was my turn. And, when the charges against me were read, I naturally pleaded 'Not guilty!' I also added that I was not a pervert."

" 'I merely went there to ask the girl some questions about a possible UFO sighting. That's what I do for a living! I research UFO's.' "

" 'Oh, really?' she'd replied (after quieting all the laughter down): 'Then, I'll assign you something more...down-to-Earth. Thirty days of community service. At the city junkyard!' "

tbc
Chapter 5 by Carycomic
* * * * *

So as not to be accused of loitering, I ordered a hot dog and a ginger ale, before I resumed reading.

"I suppose I should've considered myself lucky, Jay, to get such a relatively light sentence for what was basically a morals charge. But, I still felt like I was being railroaded! So, I was very sullen during the bus ride back to city jail, where I was to spend another night before Day 1 of my community service."

"What's worse, even Fate seemed to be rubbing salt into my emotional wounds. Because at eight o'clock, later that evening, the local cable TV station began showing an old sci-fi movie. Heh! Listen to me; 'old' movie."

"It was INVASION OF THE BATON TWIRLERS FROM OUTER SPACE! A completely new release when we were seniors in high school. And, as I'm sure you'll remember, it was the primary reason I chose to major in astrophysics at Lebaron U."

"It was a mixed blessing that I fell asleep before the scene where the beauty pageant winner gets possessed by the evil spirt of that ancient astronaut."

That last sentence gave me a feeling of deja vu, for some reason. But, I shook it off and kept on reading.

"The next morning, I rode over to the city junkyard in the back seat of the same police car in which I'd first been brought to the city jail. Upon arrival, I was escorted to the employees' locker room, where I was given a set of blue cover-alls; a baseball cap without any logo; a pair of work gloves; some safety goggles; a blue filter mask; and a pair of mufflers that looked more like Depression-era switchboard operator headphones!"

"That's how I learned I'd be working at the car compactor for the next thirty days."

"Fortunately, for me, it wasn't going to be a sink-or-swim approach to training me how to operate the controls. One of the regular full-time employees demonstrated the procedure for me. About three or four times. Then, he ordered me to take over, so he could monitor how well I had paid attention."

"And, that's basically how it went for the next eight hours (minus lunch hour)."

"When quitting time came, however, the manager asked me to lag behind in his office. Supposedly, because he had one more car to compact. And, he wanted me to handle it, personally. When I asked him why, he said he'd explain in a little bit. So, I did as requested."

"Five minutes later, an Illinois State Police car came into the yard. Driving right behind it...was the car I'd rented back in Chicago!"

" 'What the frig...?' I had started to demand. Only for the manager's pet Rottweiler to start growling at me! So, I bit my lip as I watched one trooper emerge from the driver's seat of my rental car. While his partner emerged from their regular vehicle to let someone out from the 'shotgun seat.' And, imagine my shock at recognizing the passenger."

"It was Amelie Sargent! Fully decked out in a sleeveless blue-and-silver leotard, with up-do and tan moccasins."

" 'Hello, again, Professor Gambol,' she said to me, just as calmly as you please: 'I'm sorry for that little scene I caused at Joe's Diner, the other day. But, I recognized you right away. From all your Discovery Channel documentaries! And, I needed time to consult with the Supervisors before speaking with you, openly. To see whether or not they deemed you a potential threat to their plans. Which, most regrettably (for you), they have.' "

" 'W-W-What are you talking about?' I stammered (in quite genuine confusion)."

"She gestured to my rental car, in response. And, that's when I finally noticed that it was now positioned directly beneath the electromagnetic crane. A moment later, someone activated the crane...and placed it smack-dab in the compactor."

"Where, last night, I'd been worried about having to declare bankruptcy (after paying three weeks worth of late fees to the car rental agency at O'Hare), now that worry was being eliminated for me. In a way I could never, ever have foreseen!"

" 'You won't need that car anymore, Professor,' Amelie now resumed explaining: 'Because you'll be staying on the premises overnight, every night, for the other twenty-nine days of your community service! Allow me to demonstrate what I mean.' "

"Whereupon, she pointed the upper end of her baton at me. And, the next thing I knew?"

"I had been shrunken down to four inches tall and incarcerated in a bird cage!!!!"

tbc
Chapter 6 by Carycomic
* * * * *

"You read that right, Jay. Four inches tall! How do I know this? Well, I didn't know it, right away. Initially, I thought I'd been locked inside some giant metal sculpture built to _resemble_ a birdcage covered with chicken wire-mesh."

" 'Man!' I remember thinking: 'These Midwestern hicks have a weird sense of humor when it comes to community service. If they wanted me to spend each night of it, sleeping on the premises, all they needed to give me was a cot and a house-arrest ankle bracelet!' "

"Anyway, I went over to the nearest pair of bars and called through them."

" 'Hey! Is anybody out there? Can you hear me?' "

"That's when it happened. First, there was a loud 'beep.' Like a smoke alarm with a weak battery. Only ten times louder! Then, this giant metallic square opened up. Revealing a milky-white glass screen. And, finally, there was this electronic whine, like a cable TV when it's first turned on. But, this one was even more near-deafening than the beeping noise that had preceded it. I actually had to close my eyes and cover my ears!"

"When I reopened my eyes, there she was; Amelie Sargent. Still wearing her baton twirling ensemble. And, it's only when she started talking that I learned she really wasn't standing there, before me, in three dimensions."

" 'Hello, Professor Gambol. I assume you're awake, again. Sorry for the black-out! But, I'm afraid it's an inevitable side-effect of the shrinkage. Your brain's way of coping with the reconfiguration of your pituitary system. Hence, this pre-recorded message left behind on a portable DVD player linked to the voice-activation app of my cellphone.' "

" 'And, yes, I did say 'shrinkage.' You see; you are now just four inches tall! Imprisoned within a birdcage, atop the same office desk as my cellphone and the DVD player. A statement that I'm sure you're dismissing as crazy talk, right this instant.' "

"In that regard, she was a better mind reader than you, Jay."

" 'Well, it doesn't matter what you think, Professor. So, why don't you just watch the rest of this recording and relax? Take it easy for the next eight hours! Just watch...and relax.' "

"At which point, she began twirling her baton with her right hand, while holding her left arm akimbo."

" 'Watch...and relax.' "

" 'She's beginning to sound like a broken record,' I thought to myself."

"Because, that's all she kept saying, over and over: 'Watch...and relax.' That's when it suddenly occurred to me; she was trying to hypnotize me! Which, of course, immediately made me defiant. I shook my head; took a deep breath; stood up a little straighter; and stared determinedly at that baton for what seemed like only sixty seconds."

"The next thing I knew, a big rough hand was shaking my left shoulder."

" 'Rise and shine, sleepy head! Time to start Day 2 of your community service.' "

"I looked all around me, completely disoriented. Then, I realized where I was; in the junkyard manager's office! And, I was standing before a cot that I had apparently just finished making up. While wearing a house-arrest bracelet around my right ankle."

"Anyway, I was given a bowl of granola cereal, and a cup of black coffee, for my breakfast. After which, I reported back to the crusher area. Repeating every single thing I had done, twenty-four hours earlier."

I could not read any further at this point. Instead, I closed the manuscript and looked at my old friend's namesake.

"Did you make it this far, in _your_ reading, after you called me?"

Kenny Gambol (the country singer) grimly nodded.

"I don't know what to tell you, Dr. Grant. Except that I hope you find your friend...and get him some much-needed help. I wish I could stick around, but I got to go prepare for my first evening show!"

I nodded in perfect understanding, and shook hands with him.

"Thank you for your courtesy, Kenny. And, I told you; it's Doc!"

He grinned: "Right back at you."

And, we went our separate ways. He, to his rehearsal. Me, to my own hotel room, elsewhere on the Strip.

tbc
Chapter 7 by Carycomic
* * * * *

I checked into my hotel room at Bally's Las Vegas. Formerly known as the MGM Grand Hotel and Casino, of "Rat Pack" fame! It took me about half an hour to unpack and settle in. But, when I was done, I laid down on the bed and tried to organize my thoughts.

Was Ken Gambol pulling an elaborate prank on me? To get back at me for all the times I had teased him about his name? Or, had he really gone round the bend, too fast, and derailed his personal train of sane thought?

I don't know when I fell asleep in the midst of all that mulling over. It soon became evident, however, that I was dreaming again.

I dreamt that I was looking at myself in a giant mirror. And, I could see that I was pinned to a giant, pock-marred cylinder made of stainless steel. Pinned by what looked like a veritable blanket of gray duct tape! Then, the cylinder began to turn. Slowly, at first. And, then, like one of those "Tilt-a-Whirls" at a carnival, gradually faster and faster.

It was at this point the image began to alternate with that of a black-and-white spiral. Spinning round and round like a child's wind-blown pinwheel. Only, when the imagery reverted back to the pock-marred cylinder (starting with my second glimpse of it), there was now a golden coil of light emerging from the reflection. Straight towards my eyes!

I woke up with a gasp.

The first thing I did, when my breathing had decelerated back to normal, was get out of bed and splash water on to my face from the bathroom sink. Then, I looked at my bearded face in the mirrored door of the medicine cabinet.

"This is frigged up."

I decided to re-energize my brain with some food and drink from room service. Ultimately ordering a grilled cheese sandwich and herbal tea. When I was done, I decided to resume reading Ken Gambol's manuscript.

Glutton for punishment, right? Maybe so. But, the true answer was there. I knew it! Because, my dreams were not just nightmares resulting from an over-reactive imagination. They were visions! And, I had to find some way to interpret their meaning if I was going to help Ken out of whatever jam he seemed to be in.

Even if that ultimately meant time for him in a padded suite at the nearest Ha-Ha Hilton.

"That's the way it was for the next twenty-seven days, afterward, Jay. Wake up. Crush cars. Break for lunch. Back to crushing cars. Shift ends. And, I get ready for bed. Going to sleep in the main office (where the night watchman can keep an occasional eye on me for the cops)."

"And, each and every night, for twenty-eight of those first twenty-nine days, I had the same dream. Hundreds of guys, from all walks of life, getting shrunken down in size by a narrow beam of white light! And, each of us subsequently forced to worship--quite literally--at the feet of some giant business woman called 'Mistress Bonnie Sue.' Or, at least, that's what she insisted we call her."

"Yet, it wasn't worship in the sense of some barbaric pagan religion, like an 'Indiana Jones' movie. It was more like a weird self-help group!"

"Because, starting with that second night, I was brought to the front row of these 'worshippers' and the giantess briefly looked down at me, and said: 'We have a new addition to our ranks. His name is Kenneth. Please say 'hi' to him, everybody.' "

" 'HI, KENNETH!' " everybody chorused."

" 'Kenneth used to investigate sightings of the Supervisors' messengers,' she continued: 'But, now, he'll be helping the Supervisors. By debunking those sightings as hoaxes and misidentifcation! Won't you, little one?' "

"She looked back down at me, and smiled, expectantly."

"You see, I knew what she wanted to hear. There was this compulsion at the back of my mind, urging me to reply, 'Yes, Mistress Bonnie Sue.' I couldn't do it, though! Because, deep down, something else urged me to resist. So, I struggled and struggled. Clenching my fists and gritting my teeth."

"Yet, in the end, it was no use. I fell to my knees, exhausted, and gasped out: 'Yes, Mistress Bonnie Sue.' "

tbc
Chapter 8 by Carycomic
* * * * *

"Imagine me undergoing that ritual in my dreams, every night, for nearly a month, Jay. And, imagine my acquiescent response time getting shorter and shorter. In other words; imagine me falling deeper and deeper under this giantess' (for lack of a better term) spell."

"Until, on the twenty-ninth night, 'Mistress Bonnie Sue' was satisfied that I neither could nor would fight the compulsion any longer."

" 'Very good, little one. Now, that your compliance training is complete, you will be released. You will spend one more night here, in Knudop. Then, tomorrow, you will be taken to the state police barracks near Cranston. There, you will board an Air National Guard helicopter that will take you back to O'Hare International Airport in Chicago. Upon returning to the East Coast, you will go back to your place of employment and start associating with the people whose names are on this list.' "

"Whereupon, she showed me an 8x12 piece of white paper that, from my shrunken perspective, looked more like a Times Square billboard. Before I could read it with any serious effort, however, Mistress Bonnie Sue's image suddenly wavered, then disappeared."

"Like a cable TV losing power in the middle of a storm!"

"The next thing I know, I'm back in the giant birdcage covered with chicken-wire. Only, everything around me is shaking like a major California earthquake!"

" 'W-W-W-W-W-What the f-f-f-f-f-frig...?' I involuntarily exclaimed aloud."

"Suddenly, the shaking stopped. Only to be replaced by the sound of a car door slamming. But, louder than any car door I've ever heard slam before."

" 'Oh, frig! Where is he?' "

"That inquiry was made by a decidely (yet totally unfamiliar) female voice. It was followed by another exceptionally loud opening-and-closing of a car door. And, the female voice demanded if the new arrival had taken care of the night watchman."

" 'Yeah!' replied a male voice: 'He's zip-tied and gagged on that cot in the office, with a big lump on his head. Can I get going, now?' "

"With that, I heard an engine start up, and the three of us were moving."

" 'How's the little guy?' the male voice asked."

"I felt the bird cage being lifted up. And, that's when I got my first look at my abductors."

"The white guy doing the driving had silver hair and wore a set of black cover-alls that made him resemble a ninja. All that was missing was the ski mask-like hood!"

"His passenger, who was holding the birdcage aloft, was a lovely, and much younger, African-American woman. Maybe in her late twenties/early thirties. Wearing a white blouse beneath a red blazer; and complemented by the hair style that used to be known as 'the Jackie O Look.' "

" 'He looks dazed. But, otherwise, unharmed. Physically, anyway!' "

" 'Wh-Who...are you...people?' I somehow managed to ask."

" 'My name's Gina,' replied the woman: 'Gina Martin. Special investigator for the FCC. This is Randy Batchelor. He's...' "

" 'I was a FAG during the Vietnam War,' he interrupted her with a grin."

"If his intention was to completely snap me out of my daze, with that statement, it worked."

" 'You were what???"

"A forward air guide. The radioman who called in for air strikes, on enemy targets, after preliminary ground-level reconnaisance by a SpecOps* commando team.' "

" 'Oh.' "

" 'Nowadays, though, I run a pirate radio station. And, that's how I first stumbled across the alien operation that took you captive.' "

" 'Alien?!' I echoed: 'You mean...?' "

"Gina Martin nodded: 'I didn't believe it either, at first, Professor. But, Lamont County, Illinois, is ground zero for a plot by invaders from outer space. And, you're among the ones they've been infecting...for almost thirty-five years!' "

tbc
End Notes:
*SpecOps: Special Operations (the USAF equivalent of Special Forces). Originally known as "Air Commandos."
Chapter 9 by Carycomic
* * * * *

"Naturally, I was quite stunned by that pronouncement, Jay. It made me think I was dreaming, again. So, to rule that out, I pinched myself where it was sure to hurt the most."

" 'ARRRRRRRRRRRRGH!' "

" 'Are you crazy?!' Gina Martin exclaimed: 'I tell you the world's in danger from extra-terrestrials. And, you're a copping a feel of yourself???' "

" 'I'm sorry, miss. But, I had to be sure I wasn't still asleep! The dreams I've been having all month...' "

" '...aren't really dreams,' finished the ex-Air Force commando: 'They're part of some hive-mind linking together every guy under Bonnie Sue Barton's thrall.' "

" 'What did you say?' not daring to believe I had heard him right."

"That's when he pulled over, and got out. He then reached towards the rear window of the vehicle, and withdrew a .30 caliber, army surplus M-1 carbine. Topped with an infra-red telescopic sight. Gina got out, too, and set my birdcage on the roof of what I now saw was a Ford Ranger pickup truck."

"Randy used the scope to survey the direction we had just come from, while continuing his fantastic explanation."

"Basically, he had retired from the Air Force after the First Persian Gulf War. And, with his Social Security check, alone, not providing much of an income for him, he took to wandering from town to town...and trailer park to trailer park. Always getting a local day job as a part-time janitor. And, using his nights off to (illegally!) operate a radio station, on unallocated wavelengths, from _inside_ his trailer."

" 'I played audiotape cassettes of my favorite golden oldies, for the most part. Under the handle of 'D.J. (Pancake) Turner!' But, occasionally, I tapped into--and videotaped--cable TV broadcasts, as well. Strictly for my own home-viewing pleasure, of course! And, not long after arriving in Lamont County, I tapped into a certain exercise program telecast by Jericho Cablevision, over in Cranston. I have to admit; the hostess looked mighty cute.' "

" 'I'd barely been watching it for more than five minutes, though, when my radio equipment suddenly started going haywire!' "

"It did not take him much longer than that to determine that his equipment was picking up a subsonic signal...being piggy-backed by the TV transmission."

"Both mystified and fascinated, he used his temp job as a janitor at Knudop High School to plant listening devices all around the campus. Inside...and out."

"You see, Jay; where I get the lay of the land by eavesdropping on half-drunk locals, in the towns where there've been UFO sightings, Randy could get similar results by eavesdropping on the conversations of local teenagers! Thereby allowing him to go after a certain demographic wherever he set up his pirate radio station."

" 'After a few days, I found out there was an unusually large minority of teenage boys who were into this 'Twirlercise' show. And, not just for the on-air pulchritude! Which gradually made me wonder if there might be a little subliminal audio-hypnosis going on, here.' "

" 'That's what CBS, ABC, NBC, and ESPN thought, as well,' added Gina: 'They've been alleging, for the past ten years, that that's the only way Jericho Cablevision could possibly be supplanting them, in the Nielsen ratings, during college football season. Because, Jericho Cablevision has never shown the usual statistical updates during half-time of a college football game. Instead, they've shown the half-time performances of college marching bands, in their entirety. And, an increasingly larger number of people have apparently preferred the latter format! So, I was sent out here to confirm or deny those allegations, once and for all.' "

"It was at this point that she was interrupted...by the approaching wail of sirens."

" 'State troopers!' exclaimed Randy: 'Gina! Take the wheel.' "

"Whereupon, I got deposited on to the shotgun seat of the cab, while Randy hopped into the cargo bed. Lying flat on his stomach, behind the tailgate,...in a typical sniper's position."

" 'Hey, wait a minute!' I shouted, as we peeled out, back on to the road: "Do you even know how to drive this type of thing?' "

" 'Are you kiddin' me?' she replied with a grin (and an Ebonic drawl): 'I spent summer vacations, durin' high school, navigatin' for my daddy aboard his eighteen wheeler!' "

"To illustrate this point, she put the petal even closer to the metal."

tbc
Chapter 10 by Carycomic
* * * * *

It was at this point that Ken Gambol's manuscript became like a spy thriller.

"The increased acceleration forced me to support myself by sitting down on the floor of the birdcage and holding on to the bars for dear life!"

"It was while I was concentrating on doing this that I had my 'waking dream.' Suddenly, I was no longer looking at the wall of bars opposite me. But, rather, I was looking out the front windshield of one car chasing another motor vehicle. The physical appearance of the latter becoming increasingy familiar as we got closer to it. And, yes, I said 'we.' Because, it suddenly occurred to me what was happening."

"I was observing this high speed chase through the eyes of one of the Illinois state troopers!"

"This was confirmed a moment later, when I saw the white tailgate of the vehicle ahead of us slam open and downward. Revealing Randy Batchelor aiming what I initially thought were Uzi submachine guns at us! Uzis that apparently had infra-red targeting beams, as I could see random threads of crimson whenever we passed through a stray cloud of night mist from agricultural duck ponds."

"The trooper at the steering wheel did his best to throw off Randy's aim (having evidently seen them as well). But, in the end, Randy started firing, and clouding up the windshield. Though, not with broken glass!"

" 'He's pelting us with paint balls!' I heard the driver exclaim."

" 'Quick!' yelled his partner: 'Turn on the windshield wipers.' "

"Naturally, that only made the situation worse. So, the partner rolled down the 'shotgun-side' window and climbed half way out, in order to try and wipe the paint off by hand. Only to come back in, two seconds later, yelling for him to discontinue pursuit."

" 'IT'S BLACK STUCCO PAINT!' "

"Before the driver could put on the brakes, however, there were two loud 'bangs' as both front tires blew out."

"The next thing I knew, after that, I was back in the bird cage. And, Randy was yelling to Gina through the sliding glass panel that made up half the rear windshield of the pickup's cab."

" 'I bought us some time. But, not much. My Tippman's are out of paint. And, I've got to save on the carbine's live ammo. We'll also need to change cars! So, head for the Spinster's place.' "

" 'You got it,' replied Gina."

" 'The Spinster?' I echoed in puzzlement."

" 'Cecilia Finster, a.k.a. 'Finster the Spinster,' Randy explained: 'She's a retired computer teacher from Cranston High. She never married, so local tongue-waggers have speculated that she's a lesbian who never came out of the closet. And that, in turn, has made her a bit of a recluse in retaliation.' "

"I ceased asking questions for the rest of that ride. When we got to Ms. Finster's farm, Randy put a strange-looking whistle to his lips and blew through it."

" 'Quack! Quack!' "

" 'A duck call for a recognition signal?' I exclaimed: 'Seriously?' "

" Gina shrugged: 'Beats giving away our position by flashing Morse code with the head lights. At least, according to Randy.' "

"As it turned out, she was right. Because, from the direction of what I presume was the front porch, a female voice (slightly older-sounding than Gina's) called out to us to show ourselves. So, Gina slowly exited the cab of the pickup, raising the bird cage high above her head. Allowing me to get a glimpse of a white woman in her mid-sixties aiming a Savage Arms Model 550 hammerless double-barrel at us!"

" 'Cecilia?' said Randy: 'Meet Professor Kenneth Gambol.' "

"Our hostess proved quite handy with household tools. Removing the padlock on the bird cage door by fitting a Phillips-head screwdriver through the little arch way. And, then, pulling the blade of it towards her by using the claws of a hammer like a crowbar!"

" 'Thank you, Ms. Finster,' were the first words that came out of my mouth as I exited the bird cage (which had been placed atop her kitchen table)."

" 'You can thank me by calling me 'Celia.' It's a lot prettier sounding than 'Spinster!' "

"She looked at Randy, as she said this. Like a high school teacher glaring reprovingly at an overly rambunctious student! And, all that was missing from Randy's "who-me" facial expression was a cartoon halo over his head."

" 'So!' she now added: 'From the looks of you, you fell into the local trap, too.' "

"I shrugged, with a lop-sided grin. Then, something came back to me."

" 'Gina said something about an alien conspiracy going back about thirty-five years?' "

"Celia nodded: 'And, I'm the one who clued her and Randy in on it!' "


tbc
End Notes:
There might not be much shrinkage over the next two or three chapters. So, if that's your sole criterion for leaving chapter-by-chapter reviews?

"Thou hast been well and fairly warned!" ;-)
Chapter 11 by Carycomic
* * * * *

"Upon seeing my incredulous reaction to this news, on my face, Celia explained herself. It seems that, during the late 1960's, she and her boyfriend (like a lot of other Vietnam War protesters) hid out in Canada to avoid the draft. In their particular case, they had become members of a truck-farming commune in British Columbia. Growing strawberries, sugar beets...and 'medicinal' marijuana."

"The commune's biggest customer, for the latter crop, was the Vancouver branch of the Earth Tiger Tong.* And, when Celia and her boyfriend were arrested during an RCMP drug sting, the tong was apparently not willing to take the risk they wouldn't turn 'Queen's evidence' (as they called it up there, at the time)."

"Consequently, an attempt was made to kill both of them...and only half-successful."

" 'Upon being deported back to the States, I was put into a unique kind of witness protection,' she continued: 'I was forced to work for a top-secret arm of the CIA that was more or less experimenting with the same kind of process that was used on you, Professor!' "

"I instinctively shook my head, not daring to believe I had heard right. Yet, she smiled and nodded."

" 'It's true! You are _not_ the first shrunken man, I've ever seen!! That honor belongs to a certain foreign correspondent who was shrunken by a certain pair of KGB operatives, in Saigon, circa 1973. And, whom I was subsequently trained (by an honest-to-God ninja, no less) to bodyguard!!!"

" 'Alas! That partnership only lasted five years. After which, I was relegated to re-training as an electronic intelligence gatherer, specializing in 'pre-emptive decryption' of computer data. In other words; a hacker! In any case, when I retired in 1990, I was transferred to Cranston High School, here in Illinois, where they set me up as a teacher of computer science. A job that I more recently retired from back in 2000.' "

" 'And, which might be the reason I was abducted by these beings less than two months ago.' "

"According to her, Jay, she was driving home from the Lamont County Cineplex, one night, when her station wagon came sputtering to a halt. It was only after leaving the vehicle, and opening the hood of the engine, that it happened."

"An aircraft shaped like a beehive, atop a rotating saucer-like disc, came hovering over her, about twenty feet off the ground. And, with the dome-like roof of the hive glowing like a swarm of fireflies!"

"A second later, she got zapped by a pencil-thin beam of white light,...and lost consciousness. When she revived, she was alarmed to see a couple of giant-sized women gazing down at her, with grinning faces. Young women, whom she immediately recognized."

" 'It was Elaine Choutard, and her fraternal twin sister Justine! I had met them during half-time of an Alumni Day football game, back in the fall!! The two of them having just finished performing with the marching band: Elaine, as feature twirler; and Justine, as captain of the majorette line.' "

" 'Naturally, my subsequent inquiries were semi-coherent, at best. So, they told me (in perfect unison, too) to just calm down and let my nano-parasite explain everything. Before I could say 'nano-what,' it hit me. The biggest headache I have ever had in my life! Followed by a vision of something straight out of a Lovecraftian's nightmare.' "

" 'Imagine, Professor Gambol, seeing something that resembles a cross between a centipede and an armadillo crawling up the left nostril of _your_ nose. And, then, spreading all up and down your spinal column...like some kind of mutant tapeworm!' "

" 'That's what had happened to me, while I was unconscious. And, in a somewhat more humane fashion? That's what's happened to you."

tbc
End Notes:
* See "LITTLE" KNOWN SECRETS
Chapter 12 by Carycomic
* * * * *

"Naturally, Jay, I was initially thunderstruck by what Celia had said. So, I asked her to elaborate. And, she obligingly did."

" 'When this invasion began, the aliens were using an old low-budget sci-fi movie as their blueprint! A movie one of their telecommunication space stations had intercepted!!' "

" 'Phase 1 had them capturing all manner of baton twirlers, in the same manner I'd been captured. Shrunken, then implanted...with a microscopic cyborg possessed of a psychotronic brain (or semi-organic computer) allowing direct telepathic contact between the aliens and their captives.' "

" 'Hence, the term for the entire process; psychotronic indoctrination.' "

" 'Then, came Phase 2. Recruitment of the manpower the baton twirlers would be overseeing on the aliens' behalf. And, this manpower they recruited from--of all places--high school football games! More specifically; they shrank and brainwashed both the junior ROTC students on the football teams and the cops who provided crowd security in the bleachers. The latter, because of access to vast resources like nation-wide databases and potentially vital co-workers. And the former, because of the military contacts held by their instructors.' "

" 'In both cases, these shrunken men would be duct-taped to their future overseers' batons, then twirled round and round. Until they were so dizzy from centrifugal force that they were completely vulnerable to hypnosis, using black-and-white spiral pinwheels. Which, in turn, cut down on all resistance (physical and mental) to implantation of the nano-parasites.' "

" 'During the last ten years, however, the process has become more subtle. With regard to baton twirlers? The subliminal audio-hypnosis employed by Twirlercise has led to an increase in the number of young girls taking it up, in both high school and college, as opposed to, say, cheerleading. While police officers--like those in Knudop--wash down donuts (like the ones at Joe's Diner) with coffee containing nano-parasites!' "

" 'C-C-Coffee?' I stutteringly echoed.

"She merely nodded, before resuming."

" 'Which leads to Phase 3. A month-long program of sleep deprivation enacted against the nano-parasite's host, through forced joining with the rest of the hive mind. The aliens call it 'compliance training.' And, at the end of the month, the intended effects of the training are...pretty much permanent.' "

" 'By this means, the aliens have built themselves a network of hive-minded pawns. A network that's been expanding itself, periodically and exponentially, for almost thirty-five years.' "

"I instinctively shook my head, Jay. Totally unwilling to accept what she had just told me. Despite the fact that my own shrinkage could be seen as indisputable partial proof! And that's why I grasped at the sturdiest straw I could find."

" 'If what you say is true, how come you seem to have so much free will?' "

"She shrugged: 'I'm not entirely sure. Maybe all that marijuana smoking I did in the Sixties slightly altered my brain chemistry. Maybe the TM I practice as an off-shoot of my original martial arts training has given me stronger-than-average willpower.* And, maybe, it's a little bit of both. All I do know for certain is that I was chosen to join the hive mind because of my computer skills. You see, I've posted a lot of free-to-the-public computer security tips on the Internet!' "

" 'Yet, at the same time, I've spent the last two months playing 'possum, as best as I could, in order to gather the facts I've just explained to you. And, to these two, even earlier.' "

"She indicated, with her head, the duo of Gina and Randy. The latter had just returned to the farmhouse from hiding the pickup. Whereupon, he pointed out that we should all get going right away. I wanted to protest, because I had one or two point-clarifying questions I wanted to ask Celia. But, it was not to be."

"Because, I was promptly drowned out by the sound of a an approaching helicopter."

tbc
End Notes:
*TM: transcendental meditation.
Chapter 13 by Carycomic
* * * * *

"The second I heard that noise, it hit me, Jay. Another vision, that is. I was looking through someone else's eyes. Only it wasn't some state trooper, this time. This time, the voice I heard speaking belonged to a woman!"

"And, whoever she was, she was talking to another woman. Judge Delilah Sampson, to be precise. The woman who had sentenced me to community service at that junkyard, in the first place!"

" 'His location has been telemetrically fixed. Finster the Spinster's farm.' "

" 'Very well,' replied the judge: ' I'll issue the necessary bench warrants, immediately. It's too bad, though. I was just beginning to like her!' "

"Then, I snapped out of it. And, I gasped."

" 'You three have to get out of here. Now!'

" 'Say what?!' exclaimed Gina."

" 'The aliens! They've used me like a living Lojack! You've got to get out of here, before the whole place is surrounded. Just leave me behind."

" 'No way!' declared Randy: 'Even if we could find some police force that hasn't been infected, yet, they'd never believe our story without proof. And, like it or not, you're proof!' "

"Celia nodded in affirmation: 'We'll have to go cross-country. Gina, start up my Jeep Liberty. Randy? I know it's a lot to ask, but...' "

"He smiled, ruefully: 'I'll hold them off as long as I can. But, I'll need some extra firepower, besides my carbine. Care to trade me your double-barrel?' "

" 'In exchange for what?' replied Celia (just as ruefully)."

"Randy unzipped his over-alls, just far enough to reach in and remove a stainless steel Colt .45 Centennial Commemorative 1911 (with walnut grips)."


" 'Careful with her,' he said, half-sriously: 'She's got quite a kick.' "

"A minute later, we were leadfooting it, due east. After about a mile, Gina stopped to let Celia look back at the farmhouse through a pair of high-powered binoculars. And, sure enough: the structure now had a spotlight shining down on it from the nose of a Bell JetRanger. It's rotors gradually being drowned out by the sounds of approaching sirens."

"It was at that moment, that a shot rang out. A twelve-gauge gunshot, according to Celia. Followed by an identical one, two seconds afterward. It was the latter that blew out the spotlight."

" 'Let's get going, Gina,' ordered Celia."

"The younger woman reluctantly complied. But, as we resumed our escape, I suddenly had another 'waking dream.' And, this one was through the eyes of another state trooper!"

" 'Captain!' he yelled: 'This one's cov...!' "

"There followed a .30 caliber crack. And, the state trooper was dead. Which, in turn, led the rest of the state troopers to begin returning fire with 12-gauge Remington pump guns and AR-15 rifles. The whole fusillade aimed at the chimney of Celia's farmhouse!"

"Randy continued to exchange gunfire with them, as best he could. Assuming as much of a fetal position as possible, behind the otherwise dubious protection of the chimney, in between volleys."

"Finally, after what seemed like hours (but was probably more like fifteen minutes), the state police captain had had enough."

" 'Launch the drones!' he temperamentally ordered.' "

"Five seconds later, what resembled a pair of toy flying saucers was hovering over that chimney. One of which fired a pencil-thin beam of white light...and shrunk it to the size of a Lego block!"

"That's when the state troopers opened up one more time. And, Randy--with no more cover available--rolled down off the roof. His bullet-riddled corpse landing on the ground with a god-awful 'thud.' "

tbc
Chapter 14 by Carycomic
* * * * *

"We drove along in silence for what must have been a good half-hour, Jay. With Gina keeping the headlights off so Celia could navigate via the infra-red telescopic sight that Randy had loaned us at the...last moment."

" 'I won't be needing it,' he had said: 'Those troopers are bound to have that front yard of yours lit up like the Fourth of July!' "

"He had tried to say it, jokingly. But, I think he knew he wasn't going to be able to catch up to us. In any event, the silence was finally broken when Gina returned to on-road travel just across the Macon County line."

" 'Where do we go, now?' "

" 'Head for Decatur,' replied Celia: 'We can take U.S. 51 to Champaign, via the concurrency with I-72. Then, change to I-74, crossing the Indiana state line via Iroquois County."

" 'Why Indiana?' I asked."

" 'I have an old friend at the Bowling Green/Ball State Universities Annex, in Union City, who might be able to help us. But, the first thing we should do, when we get to Decatur, is trade this Jeep Liberty in for another, less conspicuous 4-wheel drive vehicle. It won't take the authorities long to find out I owned it, in addition to a station wagon!' "

"So, that's what we ended up doing. At 12:30 P.M., the next day, we traded the Jeep Liberty for something more appropriate to our situation."

"A Ford Escape."

"We spent the rest of the day driving east-by-southeast until we finally reached Iroquois County and the town of Onarga, Illinois. By that point, however, the sun was pretty low in the sky. And, even though they had spelled each other at the steering wheel, as often as possible, both these ladies were exhausted. Physically, mentally, and emotionally. So, we stopped at the only major motel this side of the Illinois/Indiana boundary; the Long House Motor Lodge."

"Gina signed both of them in, as Celia was busy trying to keep that Colt .45 Centennial firmly lodged in her blazer's left inside pocket. Not to mention me, next door, in the right inside pocket!"

"Nor did she withdraw either one of us, until Gina had closed and latched the motel room door and closed the curtains."

" 'So, what happens now?' asked Gina: "Are you gonna call your friend from here?' "

" 'Yes. But, I'll use the room phone, as my cellphone would give off too many risky pings' "

" 'What about the pings I might be giving off?' I objected (from the top of the dresser): 'The state troopers found us once through me. They might..."

"But, Celia was quick to interrupt me."

" 'No, you're on my frequency now! You see, not only can I periodically cut _myself_ off, from their hive mind. But, to a more limited extent, similarly infected others, as well! Though, only when those others are in my immediate vicinity.' "

"She might have gone on explaining, except my stomach began growling with a volume that was at least _doubly_ proportionate to my current height! Naturally making me blush, while my two benefactresses giggled."

"This compelled Gina to volunteer and go look for some fast-food restaurant with a take-out window."

" 'And, while I'm doing that,' she added: '...you can call that friend of yours.' "

"Celia nodded in agreement, giving Gina forty dollars towards the food. Then, as soon as the latter was out the door, she got on the phone. Dialing the number for the long-distance operator. And, when the operator came on the line, Celia asked to make a person-to-person call to Union City, Indiana. Her party's name?"

"Robert Howard Phillips; lieutenant general, U.S. Army (Ret.)!"

tbc
End Notes:
Special note: I corrected some geographical errors. My apologies to all my loyal lurkers in Illinois.
Chapter 15 by Carycomic
* * * * *

"As she waited for the call to go through, Celia explained to me some background on General Phillips."

"He had been born and raised at Widener University, Jay. Back when it was still known as the Pennsylvania Military College. His Quaker father had taught Barton-Wright judo, there! A style that young Phillips passed on to U.S. Army Rangers, in London, during World War II. And, to the teenage students of Indiana's Culver Military Academy, afterward."

"Celia first met him in the early Seventies, when she was undergoing her bodyguard training for that top-secret agency I mentioned earlier. He and her sensei put on a little exhibition match for herself and the other trainees. And she was so dumb-founded by his formidability, for a man of his then-age (mid-fifties), that she just had to walk up to him...and ask for his autograph."

"The two became regular pen-pals, after that. With him serving as the grandfather she'd never known. And with her reminding him of the feisty daughter he'd lost in Vietnam during the First Tet Offensive (she was serving as a M*A*S*H nurse near the DMZ when the fighting broke out)."

"Anyway, he finally came on the line. And she explained our situation to him. There was a pause while Celia listened to his reply."

" Then she said: 'Just arrange for someone to bring us in, Bob. I can tell you what to look for...and, more importantly, whom!' "

"There was another pause. Followed by..."

" 'He's not Regular Army or National Guard, is he? We need someone who'll be off their radar.' "

"Yet another pause. Though much briefer than the first."

" 'Retired Reserve? Great! Where and when?' "

"It was at this point she jotted something down on the notepad that came with each motel room's phone."

" 'We'll be there in an hour. Thanks, Bob.' "

"With that, she hung up and told me that we would be meeting a Vietnam veteran chopper pilot, named Reardon, who now flew paramedical helicopters for one of Chicago's biggest hospitals."

" 'He'll meet us on the Indiana side of the state line, and fly us to the Union Cities area to meet with Bob. All we have to do is hope Gina finally gets here with the food, so that we can at least _wolf down_ a long-overdue supper.' "

"That's when it happened, Jay."

" 'Attention, Cecilia Finster! This is the Illinois State Police! We have the motel surrounded. Come out of your room, with your hands behind your head, immediately! Otherwise, we will open fire.' "

"I looked at Celia with shock: 'I thought you said...!' "

"But, she shushed the rest of my statement, claiming she needed to concentrate. Whereupon, she assumed a yoga lotus position and closed her eyes."

"For the first ten seconds, nothing happened. Then, I noticed something strange happening. She was beginning to perspire from her forehead. While her breathing was becoming almost...well, 'asthmatic' is the best way I can put it, Jay."

"Before I could summon the courage to ask her what was wrong, I heard excited shouting from outside."

" 'Hey, Cap'n! Look!!' "

" 'The drones! How on Earth...?' "

" 'Scatter! Scatter! ' "

"Immediately, I started getting a vision in my head. A vision of all those state policemen being struck by beams of white light...and instantly shrinking! Some, on foot. Others, as a result of trying to hide in their cars!"

"I also saw a great many of them get crushed to bloody pulps by a Ford Escape that suddenly barreled into the motel parking lot at, like, fifty miles an hour. All before screeching to an ear-splitting halt in a perfect one hundred eighty degree turn!"

"That's when the vision abruptly ceased. The result of Celia suddenly snapping me out of her trance and snatching me up off the dresser."

"She dashed out of the motel room like bats out of Hades, itself, were chasing us! Me, in her left hand, and her Centennial Colt .45 in the other. And, as she ran toward the Ford Escape, I could hear the scrunching of metal and soprano-sounding screams of agony coming from somewhere below her boot-clad feet."

"The next thing I know, she was practically throwing herself into the shotgun seat, yelling: "Drive-drive-drive! NOW!' "

tbc
Chapter 16 by Carycomic
* * * * *

"For the first five or ten minutes, no one said a word. We were just too thankful not have been captured by those mind-controlled troopers. Then, on finally getting my second wind, I looked up at Celia and shouted."

" 'I thought you said you had blocked my frequency from them!' "

" 'I also said I could only do it to a _limited_ extent. Pouring out our troubles to General Bob must have diverted my concentration enough that they were able to zero in without raising pings of alarm in me.' "

" 'So what do we do, now?' asked Gina."

" 'We head for the state line, of course! Once we have, I'll tell you where to go from there. Right now, though, I'm famished! Where's the food we sent you out for?' "

"The take-out orders were in the back seat. So, Celia reached over, grabbed them up, and acted as personal feeder for myself and Gina. By the time we had finished every scrap and morsel, we had entered the Beaver Township region of Newton County, Indiana. Whereupon, Celia told Gina to drive south."

" 'General Bob's friend will meet us at the Kentland Crater in Jefferson Township. It's a old meteor impact site that's now a dolomite mining operation. From there, he'll fly us to Union City, Ohio. That's where the general will be waiting for us, with some more of his Old Boys' Retirement Club.' "

" 'Do you think they'll believe you any better than I initially did?' asked Gina."

" 'They will once I show them our protective escort.' "

" 'What's that supposed to mean?' I (carefully) demanded."

"She merely smiled, picked me up off her lap with her left hand, and pointed out the front windshield with her right. Causing me and Gina to gasp, simultaneously."

"Because there, flying right in front of us, in perfect formation, were the saucer-shaped drones that had been responsible for shrinking the chimney Randy Batchelor had hidden behind!"

" 'YOU can control those things, now?!' I exclaimed."

" 'Better than alpha slaves like that state police captain can,' she replied (with a shamelessly immodest smile)."

"With that pronouncement, the saucer drones flew off to a slightly higher altitude, Jay. Leaving us once more alone on this Midwestern back road (except for the occasional on-coming eighteen wheeler headed for Chicago)."

"It seemed like more than an hour later. But, we reached the rendezvous, on time. Because our ride--a fire-engine red Sikorsky S-76, with white lettering that spelled out CALUMED--was kicking up dust with its landing, even as we pulled to a stop."

"Gina deliberately left the keys in the car, after power-locking all four doors. Then, she and Celia ran for the chopper. They piled in --with me, safely inside the left lapel pocket of Celia's blouse--and introduced themselves to the pilot."

" 'Pleased to meet you, ladies,' he replied: " 'Patrick Reardon's the name. 'Tricky Pat' to my friends.' "

" 'Tricky?' echoed Gina (somewhat nervously)."

" 'Yeah! When I'm not acting as an air ambulance driver, I put on aerobatic exhibitions at places like Peru, Indiana, during their Circus Day festivities.' "

" 'Wonderful!' Gina muttered (in a tone that clearly meant just the opposite). And I had to fight the temptation to chuckle...like Reardon shamelessly did."

" 'Strap in, ladies,' he ordered: 'Next stop? The Buckeye State.' "

tbc
End Notes:
Specia note: Peru, Indiana, served as Midwestern winter quarters for a lot of American circuses during the 19th century. And, to the best of my knowledge, the local citizenry commemorate that fact, to this day, with an annual amateur circus of their own, every third weekend of July!
Chapter 17 by Carycomic
* * * * *

"Five minutes after taking off, Jay, Gina asked Reardon precisely how he and General Bob knew each other."

" 'I dated his daughter in Nam,' he replied (in a tone of voice I could only describe as 'bitterly wistful'): '...whenever I had lay-overs on my usual med-evac runs from Hue City to Saigon and back. She...died...during the Tet '68 Massacres.' "

" 'My condolences,' said Gina."

"Reardon thanked her. Celia then suggested that she and Gina try to get some sleep. The latter agreed. And, silently, so did I!"

"I don't know how long I was out, before Reardon's voice awoke all three of us."

" 'We're approaching Union City, Indiana, ladies! Like its Ohio namesake, just across the state line, it was founded on the site where five railway lines intersect. Our destination is within Darke County, Ohio. The Bowling Green/Ball State Universities Annex. Or, as it's more affectionately known, by the locals; Bowling Ball State!' "

"Both Celia and Gina laughed (as he had no doubt intended), before he added that he would be landing the chopper on the fifty-yard line of the football stadium. As per the instructions the general had given him when he called Reardon up in Calumet City."

" 'That's it, to our upper left. C.I. MacCory Stadium; the home of the Mighty Shrikes!' "

"He then spent the remainder of our approach time telling us how the main campus of Ball State University referred to its athletic teams as the Cardinals. While the teams at the main campus of Bowling Green State University were called the Falcons!"

" 'Naming the teams, at this school, after a song bird that hangs its prey on thorny branches (like a butcher with meat hooks) seemed the most reasonable compromise.' "

"It was at this point that I was hit with another painful vision. And, evidently, so was Celia!"

" 'You treacherous bitch!' " I heard her cry out...just before the tell-tale click of a pistol hammer being cocked.

" 'ARE YOU CRAZY, GIRL?' Gina shrieked.' "

" 'When I interfaced with those drones, back in Onarga, I got a download of images from the nano-parasite in that state police captain's brain. Images that included a young African-American girl twirling a baton, while wearing a sleeveless leotard in purple-and-gold. But, none of them made sense...till just now. You used to be a Lionette for North Alabama University! And, you got parasitized during your senior year!!"

"I could not believe what I was hearing. And, neither could Reardon."

" 'What the frig are you talking about?' he demanded: 'Put that gun away before you accidentally shoot something and force us to crash!' "

" But, Celia just ignored him and continued ranting."

" 'That's the real reason you took so long to get back to the motel with the food, isn't it? You contacted the Illinois State Police as to our where-abouts!' "

"Naturally, I expected Gina to vehemently deny this accusation. But, instead, she simply chose...to laugh!"

" 'That's right, Celia. I've been pulling a Mata Hari on you. And, now, you're gonna be ours. Just like you were supposed to be, in the first place! Oh, don't bother trying to call in the saucer drones!! The Shrikettes have already regained control over them. In fact, they've also reversed polarity on the Growth Transitioning Stimulazers. Look!' "

"That's when I had my most painful vision, yet. A vision from Celia's point of view. A vision of half a dozen majorettes, in sleeveless leotards of black-orange-and-tan, looming over both the football stadium and our helicopter...by about fifty feet."

tbc
End Notes:
To all Hoosier and Buckeye lurkers: I know that there's no such collegiate annex in the Union Cities area. I just couldn't resist the chance for another good pun.

;-D
Chapter 18 by Carycomic
* * * * *

"Reardon's first reaction to that sight was instinctive and unequivocal, Jay."

" 'Holy--Shit--Molasses!' "

"Yet, Celia (who was far more used to such things) snapped him out of his trance-like shock by demanding he get us the frig out of there! Wouldn't you know it, though? Gina Martin chose that opportunity to try and disarm Celia!! But, a couple of left-handed palm heel strikes to her jaw (followed by a Vulcanesque neck pinch to her carotid artery) soon cured her of that notion."

"Unfortunately, for us, those giantesses were already on the move. Flanking us, two on either side, with balletic leaps that quickly put us in the middle of a tremendous circle. And, what's worse? Each one of them was armed with a pair of proportionately big batons. Batons they immediately began twirling like those miniature tridents you see in the Japanese ninja flicks."

"Almost at once, the chopper began being buffeted by severe turbulence from all six points of that circle. So, Celia ordered Reardon to fly us higher, in an effort to get above it. Yet, again, it seemed like they were reading her mind. Because, now, they switched tactics."

"They not only began throwing their batons higher. They also began throwing them to each other! As a result? There was now a second barrier between us and freedom. One marked by those batons interweaving their flight paths together in an impassable X-shape."

"That's when the radio crackled to life."

" 'Celia? This is Bob. You might as well land. You can't escape the Mistresses. You might as well surrender peacefully. You'll be hurting more than yourself if you don't.' "

"Suddenly, my remote vision ended. I could only assume that Celia had closed her eyes in a frustrated sense of betrayal. Because, I heard her (most reluctantly) give the order to land."

"Five minutes later, we were down on the ground. And, the moment she had disembarked from the chopper, the first thing she did was demand to know why the former general had sold us out."

" 'Because they're going to change the world for the better,' he replied: 'Under their leadership and guidance, there will be no more racial bigotry. No more sexual discrimination. And, most importantly? No more war! No one will ever again have to lose an only son or daughter. Like I did.' "

" 'If your daughter were still alive, do you truly think she'd condone what you're doing in her name?" Celia rebutted: "Or would she more likely condemn you for being a _treasonous hypocrite_?!' "

" 'I am truly sorry you see it that way,' he sighed.

" 'I feel sorrier for you.' "

"Whereupon there was a loud gunshot! Followed by several disbelieving exclamations and the seismic vibrations of Celia turning and running for it!! She didn't get far, though. Because, the next thing I knew, I was having another painful vision."

"This one showing a saucer drone landing right in her path...and firing a pencil-thin beam of white light."

"The last thing I heard before I blacked out (again) was a thunderous female voice saying..."

" 'Send her to Mars Hall.' "

tbc
Chapter 19 by Carycomic
Author's Notes:
Dr. Jason Grant continues reading from the manuscript of Professor Kenneth Gambol.
* * * * *

"I don't how long I was out, Jay. But, when I regained consciousness, I found myself in what looked like a terrarium. Minus the dirt, rocks, and plants! Furthermore, I seemed to have been slightly re-enlarged, as I saw that I was virtually straight-jacketed by a burlap pouch. Only my head sticking out above where the drawstring had pulled the mouth of it shut."

"And I know there's no such thing as man-made pouches less than an inch tall!"

"I then noticed something else. One of the glass panels of the terrarium seemed to have been tinted extra opaque. Why, I didn't know. Not right then, anyway! It quickly became obvious, though, that I didn't have a monopoly on such a place of detention. There were dozens of others, occupying long wooden shelves, above and below me. And, the same thing applied to the wall across the room from my terrarium!"

"That's when I heard the voice."

" 'So! You're awake at last.' "

"I whipped to my head to my left. And standing there, looking at me, from a pouch identical to mine, was a slightly younger man with blue eyes and wavy black hair. He introduced himself as Steven Hughes of the Defense Intelligence Agency. And, I reciprocated with my name and occupation."

"At the risk of sounding immodest, I was not surprised he had heard of me. I probably qualify for the GUINNESS BOOK OF WORLD RECORDS, what with the number of FOIA requests I've made, to the DOD, looking for uncensored proof that Uncle Sam has known about the extra-terrestrial origin of UFO's since the summer of 1947!* "

"Indeed, Agent Hughes must have been thinking along the same lines, at that exact moment. Because, he remarked how I had finally vindicated myself, the hard way."

" 'It's just too bad,' he had added: '...that you probably won't live to disclose your findings.' "

" 'Where are we?' I deigned to ask the obvious."

"He shook his head: 'I don't know, specifically. They refer to it as 'Mars Hall.' But, the ones who really run this place are from a lot farther away than that. The ones who captured me mentioned something about 'the Pleiades!!' "

" 'And what, exactly, are the ones who run this place going to do to us?' "

" 'Some kind of brainwashing process,' " he replied: 'The guy who occupied that waterless aquarium before you had already succumbed when I first got here! Keeping him naked beneath a pouch, just like ours. Not letting him eat anything but fried banana chips. And not giving him anything else to wash it down with except water!' "

" 'Banana chips and water?' I had echoed: 'How the frig are we supposed to get rid of the fecal matter from that if we're kept as incessantly straight-jacketed as he evidently was?' "

" 'Wait and see,' he replied. Using his head to point towards the darkened glass panel."

"I quickly saw what meant. As if on cue, the latter revealed itself to be giant flat-screen TV! Or, at least, giant from my current size. When the picture came into focus, four baton twirlers wearing sleevless silver leotards and pom-pom adorned go-go boots were introducing themselves as the Silver Cyclones. Hosts of a Twirlercise franchise telecast from Dover High School in Ohio!"

"Then, my flatscreen was activated. Revealing the star of Twirlercise from Cranston, Illinois; Hannah Barber."

" 'Good morning, Lamont County!' she cheerfully proclaimed: "And helping me get you in shape, today, are the captain and feature twirler of the Cranston High School Darlings, respectively. Justine and Eloise Chautard!' "

" 'Hello,' they chanted in unison: 'Why don't we get started with some easy sit-ups?' "

"And to my horrified surprise, Jay (as hard as I tried to fight it)? I wound up doing those sit-ups!!!"

tbc
End Notes:
*FOIA: Freedom Of Information Act.

P.S.---for the story from Steve Hughes' p.o.v., see A "TINY" MIX-UP IN THE MAIL.
Chapter 20 by Carycomic
Author's Notes:
JASON GRANT'S P.O.V.
* * * * *

I closed the manuscript for the night, determined to get some sleep. What I had just finished reading had me more concerned for Ken Gambol's state of mind than ever before! So, instead of heading back to my office in New York City, as originally planned, the first thing I did the next morning was to call McCarran International Airport and cancel my reservations for JFK. Instead, I made new reservations...for a flight to Atlanta, Georgia.

My plan was to catch a connecting commuter flight from there to Wake County, North Carolina. The location of his employer (and our old alma mater); Lebaron University.

It was a land-grant school that had been named for the original owner of that land; Jean-Baptiste Lebaron. He had first immigrated to the United States, via England, as a refugee aristocrat from the French Reign of Terror. And, in actuality, his full name had been Jean-Baptiste, Le Baron de Mondragon! But, as would happen at Ellis Island starting a hundred years later, the customs and naturalization authorities of late 18th-century America had misunderstood the pronounciation of his surname...and consequently changed its spelling for the rest of all time.

Nowadays, the only acknowledgement of his true surname was in the name of the athletic teams; the Demon Dragons.

Anyway, the second stage of my altered plan was to rent a car (or, failing that, to call a cab) at the commuter airport in Wake Forest. And, then, head for Ken's office at Lebaron U. There, I would systematically psychometrize everything stored in it, until I caught a vibe as to where he might be, currently.

To pass the time during the plane ride back east, however, I masochistically resumed reading the manuscript.

* * * * *

"Time stopped having any meaning for me, Jay. Seconds blended into minutes into hours with seemingly no effort, at all. I woke up; sipped what was basically a banana smoothie from an upside-down hamster bottle; then burned off the calories doing the sit-ups required of me in that burlap straight-jacket all us prisoners wore. Then, after repeating that procedure twice more, the same day, I went to sleep. Starting the whole cycle all over again, the next day."

"During all that tedium, I was only mildly curious as to why I hadn't felt any need to go to the bathroom!"

"In any event, this same old boring routine was finally interrupted by the arrival of a group of giantesses wearing sleeveless sequined leotards in green-and-black. These ensembles off-set by their tan moccasins and pony-tailed hair (mostly blonde). And, it was then that the realization hit me of where I was."

" 'Mars Hall' was Marshall University!"

" 'Good morning, Kenneth,' " sang the baton twirler seemingly in charge of the group: " 'We've good news for you, this morning. Today is your graduation day! What's more, you and your next-door neighbor, Mr. Hughes, will be accompanying the six of us, our marching band, and our football team...to an away game against the University of Florida Gators. Upon arriving in Florida, the two of you will be temporarily re-enlarged so that you might enjoy a brief reunion with an old friend. Someone who has been proving quite an annoyance with his obsession to recover a certain item from Ohio. One that rightfully belongs to the Supervisors' homeworld, anyway.' "

" 'In short? You will help us ensnare General Ira. C. McCoy of the USAF Office of Special Investigations.' "

tbc
Chapter 21 by Carycomic
Author's Notes:
Continuing from Jason Grant's p-o-v.
* * * * *

I couldn't do it. I couldn't read any further for today. We had been good friends all through college. And, we had kept in touch, as often as possible, after graduating. So, you can hopefully understand why I found it so depressing to see what Ken Gambol's brilliant mind now had rolling around in it!

Hence, my closing the manuscript, and putting it back in my carry-on bag, when the chief flight attendant provided me the welcome distraction of declaring that lunch was about to be served. Nor did I resume reading it after lunch was cleared away, serving trays and all. Instead, I settled back in my seat, and restlessly slept until the chief flight attendant announced our final approach to Atlanta.

Twenty-five minutes after she had requested the refastening of our seat belts, I was grabbing the rest of my luggage off one of those chute-and-carousel assembly lines that have been the inspiration for so many airport jokes by stand-up comedians. Following which, I finished pyramiding my suitcases on a two-wheel dolly cart before heading off to the nearest information desk to see which local commuter airline might get me to RDU before nightfall.*

It was while standing third in line at such a desk that I suddenly felt the hairs standing up on the back of my neck. As if someone--or something--was watching me...

...with unfriendly eyes.

That was I why slowly commenced a three hundred sixty degreet circle of my immediate surroundings. But, I didn't see anything. That is; not until I got past the "270" mark. Only, then, did I see them!

For what felt like an eternity, five pairs of eyes were locked on mine. One pair belonging to an African-American Air Force officer with a captain's insignia. The other four belonging to the lovely young women flanking him. Three of them, Caucasian (two long-haired blondes; one long-haired brunette). And, one Chinese-American with long, black hair. But, it was neither their loveliness nor their hair color that was so striking.

Rather, it was the fact that no one else seemed to notice them. Despite the additional fact that they were wearing nothing but sleeveless, crimson-and-black leotards with white go-go boots...

...and black, waist-level monograms of the capitalized letter "g."

Between that, and the silver batons they carried under their right arms (like swagger sticks), it was easy to conclude that I was looking at a quartet of majorettes from the University of Georgia. Complete with military chaperone, apparently! Or, at least, that's what I tried to tell myself in reassurance. Yet, that still didn't explain why nobody was looking at them.

Even for the busiest airport in the U.S., that was stretching the "Hectic Pre-occupation Hypothesis" too far!

So, I now began to think that maybe Ken Gambol was not so paranoid, after all. Which is why I tried to look nonchalant as I turned my head to the left and the right. Searching for any number of airport police officers whose presence, alone, might discourage shrink-napping attempts in this public place.

That was when I heard the voices in my head. Four female voices, "speaking" in perfect unison!

"It's no use, Dr. Grant. We control the airport police. Just as we control Captain Blaine, here! So, even if we did abduct you, here and now, no one in authority would prevent it. That's why you should just give up your insane quest and join our hive mind, voluntarily. Your world will only _benefit_ from our guidance."

These ladies started to say more. But, they were drowned out by the chief flight attendant's public announcement that we were starting our final approach to Atlanta! So, everyone should kindly refasten their seat belts.

tbc
End Notes:
*RDU: FAA abbreviation for North Carolina's Raleigh-Durham International Airport.
Chapter 22 by Carycomic
Author's Notes:
WAKE COUNTY, NORTH CAROLINA
* * * * *

Had it merely been a nightmare? Or a precognitive vision? I had no idea. But, either way, I was a long time shaking it off. The whole commuter flight, in fact!

I found out (from an actual information desk, this time) that a two-man operation called Yankee Doodle Airlines might fit my immediate needs. So, I booked passage on a Fairchild/Pilatus Turbo-Porter with a pilot nicknamed "Ace" King.

"You're kidding," I replied when he told me this.

"Beats the moniker I was christened with," he retorted: "Horace Dinwiddie King! And, naturally, whenever I got low grades in school, I was automatically referred to as 'Dimwitty.' "

"So, you shortened it to 'Ace' when you became a pilot?"

"Nope! I got it after I shot down five Czech-made Aero L-39's (sold to the Iraqi air force by the Libyans) during the Persian Gulf War."

The rest of the conversation continued along that same, mutually autobiographical line all the way to RDU. We landed there without incident, and I thanked "Ace" for his kindness and efficiency. After that, I rented a Volkswagen Beetle and headed for Lebaron University.

I have to confess; it felt somewhat odd to be back on campus. It was as if I had never left! Perhaps it was the sound of the college's marching band rehearsing on the nearby football field. The music reminded me of my nightmare and Ken Gambol's manuscript. Although, I tried to console myself with the fact that Lebaron U's marching band had no baton twirlers! Just a flag-twirling color guard, a line of pom-pom waving jazz dancers, and a clownish mascot.

[Imagine a blue, foam rubber version of Disney's "The Reluctant Dragon," wearing a white, short-sleeved jersey--numbered front and back with a double zero--and a gold-banded black top hat. All while riding an Italian motor scooter all around the football field!]

My first stop, after finding a suitable vacancy in the visitors' parking garage, was the Administration Building. There, I showed my identification to the receptionist on duty, and I asked where Professor Gambol's office was.

"It's in the Arts and Sciences Building, doctor. But, I'm afraid the professor is away on sabbatical, at the moment. And, he's not due back until the start of the next fall semester."

"I see," I replied: "Well, thank you, anyway."

"You're quite welcome."

Naturally, as soon as I was out of her sight, I headed for the Arts and Sciences Building! Sure enough; there was still a black iron bulletin board, with magnetized white letters fixed to the surface of it, behind a locked plastic door in the lobby. And some of that lettering indicated that Ken's office was in the Physical Sciences Department on the second floor.

So, that's where I went.

When I arrived there, I started to psychometrize the door knob. Almost instantly, I had a retrocognitive vision of what I was looking for. A spare key, hidden behind the old black-and-white photo portrait of the Arts and Sciences Building to the left of the office door!

Making sure no one was coming down the hallway from either end, I unlocked the door and slipped inside. Once I had re-locked the door from the inside, I began further psychometry. But, this time, the results were not so quick in coming. This time, it took about fifteen or twenty minutes to get the mental picture I was looking for.

That of Ken making notations, on a piece of white paper, with the very pencil I was now holding! Those notations consisting of a name and an address.

"Chet Northfield,
Tarzana, California"

tbc
Chapter 23 by Carycomic
Author's Notes:
A new point of view.
* * * * *

MIAMI INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT,
MIAMI, DADE COUNTY, FLORIDA
(SIX MONTHS EARLIER)

"Chet! Chet Northfield."

I turned around at the mention of my name. Almost missing him in the process. Which, callous as it might sound, wouldn't have been too difficult...

...seeing as how he was only five feet/eleven inches tall.

"Aryc? I don't believe it! What are you doing down here?"

Aryc Omcic and I had been undergraduate classmates at Columbia University. That is, before he'd gone on to get a teaching degree from Auburn University, while I went back to the West Coast for a journalism degree from USC. The American-born son of Slovak immigrants, he still looked as thin, now, as he had then. And, he still showed a preference for buying suits the same shade of brown as his eyes and hair.

"I'm on sabbatical from U-Conn, Torrington, to do some research for a new story."

"You mean, you're still moonlighting as an on-line author?"

He nodded. Reluctantly adding that his latest submission, to the website called "Greatly Thrilling Stories," had been rejected.

"Some right-wing group of Bible thumpers is suing the publishers over their alleged 'over-abundance' of Greco-Roman mythology-based urban fantasies! So, I decided to use the opportunity to come down here and do a little research on the Coral Castle.* I have an idea for a story that will link it and the Easter Island statues with a race of ancient astronauts possessed of hyper-evolved psychic powers. Including the ability to telekinetically shrink objects and people!"

"Sounds promising!" I replied: "E-mail me a rough draft when you finish it. I'd love to read it."

"You got it. But, what are you doing, here? I thought THE NATIONAL INTELLIGENCER employed you as a West Coast stringer."

My luggage arrived, just as he asked that question. Which gave me an opportunity to do some fast thinking.

"I'm commuting up to Gainesville for a football game between the Gators and the Marshall Thundering Herd. Some VIP, who's been ducking an interview with me, is an alumnus of the visiting team's school. So, I thought this would be a perfect opportunity to corner him!"

Aryc grinned: "Uh-oh! He must've been done something really naughty to have _you_ on his tail."

"No comment," I replied (with a similar grin).

It was at this point that his luggage arrived. So, we shook hands and wished each other luck. I then headed for the nearest taxi stand.

What I had just told Aryc was slightly more than a half-truth. General Ira C. McCoy, of the USAF Office of Special Investigations, was an alumnus of the University of Florida (Air Force ROTC). And, for several weeks now, I had been trying to see him with regard to an Aeroflot jetliner that had crashed on the slopes of Mount Rainier, Washington.

With no survivors.

According to one of my regular tipsters, that jetliner had been under the control of Chechen rebel hijackers at the time it went down. Yet, none of the bodies recovered at the crash site had been those of armed men. So, had my tipster been giving me a bum steer? I initially thought so.

That is; till I entered his apartment to find him shrunken to the size of a doll by a trio of kunoichi in midnight-black unitards!

tbc
End Notes:
*Coral Castle: historically famous landmark built (in imitation of prehistoric megaliths) by eccentric Latvian immigrant Edward Leedskalnin, in early 20th century Florida, reputedly using mind-over-matter.

ROTC: Reserve Officers' Training Corps.

Kunoichi: female ninja.
Chapter 24 by Carycomic
Author's Notes:
LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA
(AUGUST 1, 2014)
* * * * *

During the 1980's, "Crazy Bob" Katzman (nee Roberto DelGado Montes) had been a popular stand-up comic. Headlining in Vegas night clubs; doing guest shots on THE TONIGHT SHOW WITH JOHNNY CARSON; even co-starring in one or two movies opposite Whoopi Goldberg!

But, all that changed after he ran afoul of a customs inspector he couldn't bribe to look the other way.

By the time he had completed his twenty-year prison term, for drug possession, he was lucky if he could get cameo appearances on a Syfy Channel movie-of-the week. On the other hand, it did give him incentive to become a "born again" Christian. Consequently, he used the money he had squirrled away in a West Indian bank account, at the height of his fame, to open a half-way house for underage junkies that he ran with the help of an East L.A. priest named Father Diaz. And, which they subsequently dubbed "Casa Esperanza" ("Hope House").

Anyway, the information he picked up from their various guests he would often sell to me, so he could then donate the money to Casa Esperanza's general fund. And, recently, he had heard talk about the Aeroflot jetliner crash.

"Word on the street is, the hijackers were after some kind of meteorite...made of pure silver."

"You've got to be frigging me!" I'd exclaimed.

"Mi mano a Dios," he'd replied, raising his right hand.

But, as I said earlier, I couldn't get any confirmation about such a thing from any other sources. No mysteriously armed men found among the dead. And, definitely, no silver meteorite!

So, I went to Casa Esperanza to confront Bob with this news. He lived on the top floor of the half-way house, in an efficiency apartment converted from attic space. And, as I knew where he kept his spare key, I let myself in. Which is how and when I first saw them...and vice-versa.

Like I also said earlier, there were three of them. All of them wearing ninja hoods. And, each of them definitely female, as the upper portion of their form-fitting unitards left no doubt in that regard, whatsoever!

What finally snapped me out of my side of our mutual trance was the apparent spokeswomen of these kunoichi yelling:

"Eradicate him!"

Whereupon, the second kunoichi began to aim one of her clubs at me. Or, at least, I initially thought they were clubs. Of the type shaped like bowling pins, and juggled by circus acrobats. In any event, I had already fallen to one knee as I withdrew a home-made "flash/bang" grenade from within my left inside jacket pocket.

Actually nothing more than a hard-boiled egg, the hollowed-out shell had had its yolk and whites replaced by a combination of sugar and potassium nitrate. But, with neither of these components coming into contact with each other until _after_ I had smashed the egg. Releasing a blinding white light and a cloud of acrid smoke!

At the same time as my right hand was doing that, my left hand was reaching into my right inside jacket pocket, and removing a pair of tinted polarized goggles. The latter, hurriedly whipped over my head and eyes, protected my vision to the point where I wasn't as initially disoriented as my three would-be assailants. Therefore, I followed up this moment of surprise with a right-footed kick to the second kunoichi's midriff. Knocking the wind out of her, just enough, that she couldn't stop a subsequent kick (with the same foot) to the left side of her head!

I then spun about, clockwise, so that I could deliver a back-handed shuto chop, with the edge of my left hand, to the right side of the third kunoichi's neck. Forcing her to join her friend on the floor.

Yet, while I was doing all that (in less time than it takes to tell), the first kunoichi was aiming one of her own clubs at me. Fully expecting her to throw it at me, I instinctively somersaulted to my left, so as to avoid getting a concussion. As a result of which, I was safely out of the line of fire when a white beam of light struck a grandfather clock standing against the wall behind me.

Struck it...and shrank it.

"Heikegani-ryu!!!"

That's what I instinctively yelled out, as I kicked upwards. Disloding my loafers (deliberately bought one size too big), so that I could use them as short-range projectiles. Throwing them at the first kunoichi even as I charged forward at her. Seeking to disarm her while she was distracted from ducking under the trajectory of my shoes!

But, she'd evidently been made the chunin of this trio for a reason.* Because, even as I closed in on her, she was springing back up, and spinning counter-clockwise to kick me in _my_ "midriff."

Good thing I wear a protective cup when I'm on duty.

Anyway, it was about this point that some of the other occupants of the house began banging on the apartment door, demanding to know what was going on. So, the first kunoichi saw no other choice. She threw Little Bob at me, before yelling something in a foreign language (other than Japanese) into a Dick Tracy-like wrist radio.

I caught Little Bob with no problem. Yet, even as I did so, I was on the look-out for homing pigeons. Or, even specially trained birds-of-prey. Anything but what actually showed up to whisk these three away!

An honest-to-God flying saucer.

It came crashing through one of the windows to my right. A silvery-looking thing about the size of one of those domed serving dishes gourmet restaurants use for bringing roast turkey to your dinner table. And, when it reached the ceiling of the apartment, it shot out three pencil-thin beams of white light. Identical to the one that had shrunken the grandfather clock!

Only, in this case, it shrank each of the kunoichi. Thereby allowing them to be levitated up toward the saucer...and inside it. The dome of the saucer having pulled backward like the roof of a convertible sports coupe!!

Once the kunoichi were all aboard, the dome slid back into place. Whereupon, it flew back out the way it had entered. Leaving me momentarily alone with a Sephardic Jewish ex-comedian...

...who was now only five inches tall.

tbc
End Notes:
*Chunin: ninja squad leader.

Sephardic: anyone of Jewish descent whose ancestors were born and raised in Portugal or Spain prior to the 15th century A.D.
Chapter 25 by Carycomic
Author's Notes:
WATANABE DOJO,
TARZANA, CALIF.
* * * * *

After retiring from the U.S. Army Air Corps, my cousin-- Samuru Watanabe--went into business with an ex-marine aviator named Cornell Brown. The two of them operating a naval surplus H-46 Sea Knight as an air bus for tourists wanting to visit Catalina Island. And, when time permitted in between charters, he worked as a part-time instructor at the martial arts school founded by his parents.

He was now present. Standing to his mother's left, behind the office desk, while I stood to the right and unveiled my passenger. And he had the good manners to wait till I had finished my version of events before actually scoffing.

"A ray gun?!"

"I don't know what else to call it," I retorted: "This isn't exactly a piece of dollhouse furniture!"

I now showed them the shrunken grandfather clock. With my Aunt Connie picking it up, in her left hand, for closer examination.

"During the Cold War, the M.O.C. often used Solution 62, in gaseous form, against high-priority targets of interest.* This beam of light you describe might simply be a high-tech offshoot of same. A shrink gas-powered laser!"

"And the flying saucer?"

"A remote-controlled model aircraft," ventured Sam: "Like the ones used in Naomi's favorite flick."

He was referring to "Invasion of the Baton Twirlers From Outer Space." The only known collaboration between Roger Corman and Ray Harryhausen and, therefore, a cult-classic. One that Sam's daughter had insisted I bring over a videotape cassette of, every time I babysat her during her single-digit years!

It was during this involuntary reminiscence that something began to mentally nag at me. But, before I could do any deep thinking on it, I was distracted by a sigh from the desk top.

It was Little Bob, waking up. And, the instant he locked eyes on all three of us, Aunt Connie was quick to adopt a reassuring smile.

"Welcome back to the Land of the Living, Mr. Katzman."

"Madre de Dios!" he exclaimed: "Am I trippin'? Did them perras slip me some LSD after zappin' me with a stun gun?"

She replied in the negative, before recounting what I had seen and done. When she had finished, she asked him for his side of things. That is; the chain of events leading up to his shrinkage.

"Th-Th-There's not much to tell," he initially stammered: "I had just come back from buying some groceries. And, just as I'm turnin' around, from puttin' some potato chips away on the top shelf of one of my cupboards, I see these three mujeres standin' behind me! Each of them dressed like a friggin' ninja. And, just as I'm about to ask who they are, I get kicked in the cajones!!"

Sam involuntarily chuckled, earning himself a glower from Little Bob. I prevented any arguments, however, by quickly asking him if any of them had asked him anything.

"As a matter of fact, yeah! The one who appeared to be leader wanted to know where I'd heard about the Aeroflot crash and the silver meteorite. And when I told her and her friends to go frig themselves, she got this real cold look in her eyes. That's when she did it."

"She reached over her shoulder to some kind of quiver. You know; the back pack that archers, like Robin Hood, carry their arrows around in? Only it wasn't an arrow she pointed at me. It was a baton! Like the kind used by marching band majorettes!!"

The rest of us looked at each other, in puzzlement, before looking back at him. I pressed him on that last part, asking him if he was sure.

"Frig, yeah, I'm sure!" he declared: "Because that's the friggin' thing she used to zap me! Like the business end of an electric cattle prod."

So, I looked back at Aunt Connie.

"You'd better call Uncle Jiro and have him get in touch with M.A.C.H.O."

tbc
End Notes:
* M.O.C. (Miniscule Operations Command): the Federal predecessor of M.A.C.H.O.

Perra: feminine pronounciation of "perro" (Spanish for "dog").

M.A.C.H.O. (Multi-Agency Counter-Homunculist Organization).
Chapter 26 by Carycomic
* * * * *

As it turns out, M.A.C.H.O. had already been notified.

The uniformed cops I had spoken to at the halfway house (where I had explained away the fight as walking in on some relapsed junkie-sneak thieves) had, in turn, contacted LAPD Robbery/Homicide. More specifically; Detective Sergeant Lori Dillinger and her partner, Paco "Wallop" Fernandez. And, in questioning other witnesses at the scene, they learned of Bob Katzman having returned from grocery shopping just minutes before my own arrival.

They also learned that no one had seen him since. Yet, at the same time, there was no forensic evidence of conventional abduction. Spur of the moment, or otherwise! So, as M.A.C.H.O.'s duly appointed local police liaison, Lori alerted them to a possible shrink-napping.

Hence, their relatively prompt arrival at the dojo. And, after recounting the true story for what felt like the hundredth time, Lori glared at me.

"You're lucky, Mr. Northfield. If not for the obviously unusual circumstances, I'd be obliged to arrest you (and do so, quite gladly) for fleeing the scene of a crime with a material witness!"

"Well, if it's any consolation, Sergeant, I might be able to provide you with a lead."

She crossed her arms: "That being...?"

"While waiting for you, I suddenly remembered something. This past summer, at the San Diego Comicon, a special raffle was held. The number of the winning ticket was picked, and read aloud, by Emily Zaccaroni. The now-retired actress who starred in 'Invasion of the Baton Twirlers From Outer Space!' And, the prize claimed by the lucky ticket holder was one of the RC saucers from that film."

Lori shrugged: "So?"

"Those things are rare pieces of movie memorabilia! So, if you and partner know any purveyors of such, you might want to see if any more such saucers recently came on the market."

"We'll take that under advisement, Northfield," Fernandez now snapped: "We'll also be taking Mr. Katzman into protective custody. Pursuant to M.A.C.H.O.'s regulations!"

Little Bob looked up at me, and I nodded back to him in reassurance. It was only after being certain that all three of them were gone that I turned to Sam and Aunt Connie and told them that I was off to investigate the other lead.

"Call us when you get there," Sam replied.

"Will do."

And, with that, I was off to Cahuenga High School in the San Fernando Valley.

You see, while we were waiting for Lori and Fernandez to arrive, I had asked Little Bob who, exactly, had told him that rumor about the Aeroflot crash.

"Felipe Alvarez. He'd gone to Cahuenga High School to hook up with an old homeboy who had recently transferred there after getting a perfect score on some TAG test.* And, just as they were about to light up a joint in some scrub brush, they heard somebody coming! It turned out to be a group of Junior ROTC cadets, gabbing away. And, it was one of them they overheard mention that Russian jetliner and a silver meteorite."

Admittedly, it wasn't much, by itself. But, then, I remembered something else. Emily Zaccaroni had learned the baton twirling she'd employed, in IOTBTFOS, as a majorette in that school! So, I decided I would interview the military officer in charge of that Junior ROTC unit. On what pretext, though, I had not yet decided. In fact, I was still trying to decide, ninety minutes later, when my VW Thing got rear-ended...

...by a Ford Econoliner full of black-booted majorettes wearing mini-skirted uniforms in the black-and-white colors of Cahuenga High School.

tbc
End Notes:
*TAG: Talented And Gifted.
Chapter 27 by Carycomic
* * * * *

Cahuenga High School is about a block north of Campo de Cahuenga Historical Park (and the adobe replica of the original El Rancho Cahuenga ranch house, thereof). And, I guess you could say the accident was partly my fault. Because, just as I was entering the main student parking lot of the school, I was distracted by a big sign to my right. A sign which proclaimed:

"Like, Welcome To
CAHUENGA HIGH SCHOOL
(Home of the Condors)"

The thought briefly (if sarcastically) danced through my head that there was something quaintly reassuring about Valley-speak not yet having become a dead language.* And, that's when it happened.

SCREECH!
BANG!
CRUNCH!

The front bumper of the aforementioned Econoliner had introduced itself to the rear bumper of my custom-restored VW Thing. And, the aforementioned majorettes who poured out of the van-like bus were suitably aghast.

"Omigawd! Omigawd! Omigawd!" chanted the raven-haired brunette who appeared to be in charge (white-gloved hands over her mouth): "Like, I am SO, so sorry!"

"Quite, alright, Miss...?" I replied, even as I hit the speed-dial button, on my cellphone, to report the accident to Triple A.

"Alana! Alana Zaccaroni. And, this is my BFF, Emma Geer. Co-captain of the Condorettes."

She pointed to a bespectacled blonde girl standing to her right. The latter shyly waved "hello," and my return wave was equally half-hearted, as I was momentarily distracted by the familiarity of that surname.

"Zaccaroni?! As in...?"

The brunette smiled and nodded.

"The actress, yeah. She's my mom, and this is where she went to high school before the American Bicentennial."

I held up my left index finger, as someone at Triple A had finally picked up their phone. Whereupon, I hurriedly told them the gist of what had happened. And, the service representative assured me a tow truck would be along presently. So, I hung up after replying "thank you." Then, after seeing that the bus driver had called the local police on _his_ cellphone, I turned back to Alana and Emma.

"Were you young ladies coming back from cheering at an away game of some kind?"

I pointed to their uniforms.

"Oh, no!" Alana exclaimed: "Like, the Condorettes are baton twirlers. Not cheerleaders! And, we were just returning from a special guest appearance on the local edition of 'Twirlercise.' "

"Twirlercise?" I echoed.

"Oh, YEAH!!" Emma practically squealed: "Like, it's TOTALLY the best exercise show on national TV, right now. And we were invited by the hostess to demonstrate the routine that won us an invitation to the International Twirl-offs, in Indiana, this coming Memorial Day!"

"That might also be why this accident happened," Alana added (with a blush): "Like, we were still so excited by everything, we were talking at the top of our lungs all the way back here."

"You can say that, again," I lip-read the bus driver mouthing to himself.

It was at this point that three things happened. First, a police car arrived from the North Hollywood branch of the Los Angeles County Sheriff's Department. The driver of which took my statement while his partner took that of the Condorettes. Then, the tow truck arrived. Whereupon, the truck driver got out to examine the interlocked bumpers. And, finally, in the midst of all that?

The flying saucer from Casa Esperanza reappeared.

Naturally, the rubber-neckers among the rest of Cahuenga High's student body were the first to notice. Leading to gasps, screams, and the skyward pointing of cellular vidphones faster than you can say "Draw, pilgrim!"

And, it was with the same rapidity that it began firing beams of white light down at the crowd.

The first inanimate object to get hit--and subsequently miniaturize--was the Econoliner. Followed by the police car, the tow truck, and my car, in that order.

"Hey!" I instinctively yelled: "That thing shrank my Thing!"

As if whoever was controlling it had heard me, the flying saucer suddenly began zapping and shrinking people, too! Starting with the bus driver and the tow trucker...and followed by the two deputy sheriffs.

That's when everyone else's collective survival instinct kicked in and we started running for whatever cover was available. Some of them, like the Condorettes, headed down the block towards the park. In my case, I headed for that semi-literate sign. But, the flying saucer zapped and shrank it, just like it had with my car.

So, I started bobbing and weaving between all the other parked cars. Hoping that whatever batteries were powering this overgrown toy would soon lose their charge! Unfortunately, that hope was dashed after I was deprived of half a dozen more hiding places.

It was when it lowered its altitude enough that it hovered directly in my path, between me and a seventh dubious refuge, that the miracle I'd half-seriously begun praying for occurred.

BA-DA-BOOM!

The shockwave, from the fiery explosion that suddenly destroyed the saucer, sent me flying backwards and to the ground. A moment later, someone was rolling me on to my back. Someone who was holding a Blowpipe bazooka over his right shoulder, while simultaneously pointing at a Chevy Silverado pick-up truck with his left thumb.

"Come with us, if you want to live!"

Whereupon, an extra pair of hands lifted me up and half-carried/half-dragged me over to the pickup. Unceremoniously throwing me into its cargo bed before deserting me for the shotgun seat of the truck's cab. Meanwhile, my rescuer jumped into the cargo bed beside me, in order to reload the Blowpipe!

And, all at the same time that the still unseen driver of the Silverado was burning rubber out of there.

tbc
End Notes:
*Valley-speak: a "slanguage," or counter-cultural dialect, once indigenous to the Caucasian teenagers of the San Fernando Valley of Los Angeles. But, briefly (and infamously) popularized across the United States, during the 1980's, as the result of a one-hit wonder record by Moon Unit Zappa. Daughter of 1960's rock star, the late Frank Zappa.
Chapter 28 by Carycomic
* * * * *

I don't how long we drove. But, I do know where we went: westward, along Victory Boulevard, as far as the Los Angeles River bed. Because, when my head got fully reoriented, I saw that the Silverado had pulled into a storm drain outlet. You know; one of those big ones immortalized in the climactic battle scene from the 1954 sci-fi classic, THEM!

Anyway, my rescuers had pulled far enough inside it that they had to activate the Silverado's roof-mounted spotlights. Whereupon, I saw them clearly for the first time. Two Caucasians and a Latino; each one wearing a black beret, with matching leather jacket, slacks, and combat boots. Each one in their late fifties or early sixties. And, with the Latino wearing an eye patch over his right eye.

[Holy Nick Fury, Batman!]

The apparent leader of the group knelt down in front of me and held up his right hand. Folding his thumb and pinky over each other behind the palm.

"How many fingers do you see?"

"Well, unless you're flipping me the bird while I'm seeing triple...,"

He lowered his hand and grinned.

"You'll live. But, where are my manners? The name is Barker, Mr. Northfield. Maynard Barker. Colonel, U.S. Army Special Forces (retired). You probably don't remember me..."

"As in 'Mad Dog' Barker?" I exclaimed: "Leader of Barker's Dozen?"

His grin reappeared as he nodded.

"Barker's Dozen" had been the nickname coined by my journalistic mentor, "Buck" Fogarty, for the Green Beret A-team led by this guy all through the Vietnam War. Indeed, it was rumored that Stephen J. Cannell had loosely based his TV show, THE A-TEAM, on the real-life exploits of that detachment!

"Allow me to introduce my former top-kick," Barker now added: "Ramon Rodriguez."

"Mucho gusto," said the one-eyed Latino (with a hint of Cuban accent).

"And, the burly guy with the bazooka," continued Barker: "...is Rupert 'Monk' Gibbons. The finest heavy weapons expert I ever worked with."

Gibbons countered by introducing the bazooka.

"This is Bertha. British army-surplus from Hong Kong."

"Pleased to meet you all," I replied (with complete sincerity): "At the risk of sounding ungrateful, however? WHAT THE FRIG HAPPENED, BACK THERE???!"

Barker sighed.

"It's kind of a long story. And, I won't blame you if you don't initially believe it. All I ask, though, is that you hear me out before voicing your reaction. Fair enough?"

I gestured for him to go ahead.

"Last Memorial Day, at a reunion of the Dozen at Arlington National Cemetery, I was approached by someone I had only met, once before. Titus 'Tight Ass' Armitage. The troop transport pilot who had ferried us home from Nam, in '74, aboard his Lockheed Hercules."

"He confided to me that he had spent the rest of the Cold War flying spy planes for the Company. But, that--following the end of it--he was recruited by NASA for a top-secret project. Code-name: Silenus."

"Evidently, this project had called for him and four other astronaut-candidates to be injected with a special drug made from genetically engineered mushrooms. A drug that was supposed to help each of them tap the other ninety percent of the human mind! Yet, for one reason or another, it was one of the other four who was deemed best suited for Phase II of the project. With Tight Ass and the other three being let go."

"When I asked him why he was telling me this (in clear violation of the non-disclosure agreements I was positive he would've been compelled to sign), he replied that he had been having strange dreams, recently. Dreams involving one of my former teammates! More specifically; my former executive officer, Reggie Saito."

That caused me to arch an eyebrow.

"As in, Captain Saito; head of the Junior ROTC unit at Cahuenga High?"

Barker grimly nodded before resuming.

"Tight Ass went on to describe the exact nature of the dream. An image of Saito, stripped down to his boxer shorts, giving what I can only describe as erotic foot massages to a bunch of giantesses. Giantesses clad just like those majorettes you were talking to as we drove up!"

He held up his right hand, again, to stop a second instinctive interruption.

"I know what you're going to say. And, believe me, I was just as skeptical, when he first told me that, as you are, right now. So, he offered me proof."

" 'Call Saito, himself, and ask him if he recently saw any UFO's. Then, tell him about me. If nothing happens to you, or the rest of your old teammates, within a week of that phone call, you'll know that I was just being a crackpot.' "

"Don't ask me why. But, I felt compelled to follow his advice. And, sure enough; Saito laughed it off. Yet, somehow, his laughter sounded forced to me!"

"A week later, I was contacted by Ramrod, here."

At the mention of his nickname, the Cuban mournfully looked at the ground.

"It seems that, while driving home from a church bingo game in the Little Havana section of Miami, his wife and son experienced engine failure. And, while conversing with him over the cellphone, they suddenly started yelling about a giantess approaching the car! A giantess wearing a mini-skirted version of a military uniform."

"Then, the line went dead."

tbc
Chapter 29 by Carycomic
* * * * *

Have you ever seen one of those fancy-schmancy new computer tablets? They're basically a portable flat-screen TV roughly the same size as an old Etch-a-Sketch. And, the one I was now being shown by Colonel Barker had been e-mailed some graphic footage. It showed a middle-aged woman (late forties/mid-fifties), of Hispanic heritage, wrapped up like an Egyptian mummy...

...in what appeared to be masking tape.

Standing next to her was a much younger man wearing some kind of belt-like harness around his upper torso, with his arms bound behind him. And, every time he tried to plead for the woman's life? He got an electric shock!

"Sergeant Major Rodriguez," intoned an electronically distorted voice: "As you can see for yourself, we have your wife and son. Your former commanding officer was contacted by someone whose psychic abilities have aroused our interest. If you wish to have them returned to you, alive and unharmed, you and your ex-teammates will use the resourcefulness you demonstrated, during the Vietnam War, to bring him to us. Otherwise..."

Here, a second shrunken man came into view. How do I know he was shrunken? From the fact that a giant hand lowered him into view! But, in his case, this second guy was an African-American, about my age, with Rastafarian dread locks. And, while mummy-wrapped like the woman, his bindings were apparently made of kite string.

He was laid on the floor to the right of Ramrod's wife. Whereupon, he began screaming and begging as a shapely white leg, encased in a black go-go boot, slowly descended over him. That is; till it almost obscured him from view.

That's when it came down with all the speed of a pile driver. Crushing him to a bloody pulp!

"We trust we've made the right...impression...on you. You now have ninety days to find him. When you do so, you will contact us via this e-mail account."

"JaneDoe@theparanoidsareright.com" is what appeared on the screen. Following which, Colonel Barker deactivated the tablet.

"That was two months, ago. Ramrod contacted me, immediately afterward. And I tried to contact Armitage at the cellphone number he gave me. But, he never picked up! Big surprise, right? So, I then got in touch with Monk and the three of us have been searching for Armitage, ever since. Calling on every old friend I have in the intelligence community who still owes me a favor or two."

"But, even with their help," I deduced: "...you've still not had any luck. And, now, with only one month left till the end of the deadline, you're desperate enough to recruit me."

He nodded: "One of my old friends told me of a rumor he'd heard. Specifically; that your maternal uncle works for an ultra-top secret outfit called M.A.C.H.O. I would, therefore, like you to contact your uncle and see if he can use his connections with them on our behalf."

"On one condition," I replied: "Tell me how you guys knew I'd be at Cahuenga High, today."

Barker half-smiled: "Your Cousin Sam told us. When we paid a visit to your Aunt Connie's dojo, in Tarzana, looking for you."

"I hope you won't mind if I verify that fact with them?"

Barker handed me a field phone with built-in scrambler and satellite uplink. A minute later, I was talking to Sam. Whereupon, I gave him a concise summary of what had happened to me at the high school.

"Mom will be glad to hear that," he replied: "The Sheriff's Department is calling it a shooting spree, by disgruntled teenagers, using a remote-control model airplane as a diversion."

"Heh!" I snorted: "M.A.C.H.O. certainly didn't waste any time whipping up a cover story! Which brings me to my next question. Can you describe the trio of guys who showed up looking for me, after I left the dojo?"

He could...and did. Satisfied, I told him about Barker's request for Uncle Jiro's help.

"I'll see what I can do," my cousin replied: "But, even after five years, Meriwether is still pissed at him for occasionally leaking info to you. That man holds on to grudges like a pit-bull with a T-bone steak!"

I chuckled, appropriately, before thanking him and hanging up. Then, I turned to Colonel Barker.

"So, where do you want to start?"

tbc
Chapter 30 by Carycomic
Author's Notes:
CHET NORTHFIELD'S POINT OF VIEW.
* * * * *

Colonel Barker decided that we should independently help the cops check out the source of that remote-controlled flying saucer. So, after getting into the pick-up and surreptitiously driving away from that storm drain, we headed for the motel where Barker and his two fellow ex-Green Berets had booked rooms. It was in Barker's room where he gave me a laptop and told me to start googling.

And I did.

I began my research under science fiction movie memorabilia. Confining the search parameters to the specific title of the aforementioned Corman/Harryhausen classic. And, as luck would have it? I found an abstract mentioning something about "commemorative models!"

It turns out that some outfit called Gray Fox Novelties had made a deal with Tanaka Toys (makers of the original RC saucers for "Invasion of the Baton Twirlers From Outer Space") to come out with functioning replicas of same on every tenth anniversary of the film! Ergo; there had been mass marketings in 1989, 1999, and 2009. All of them, just in time for Christmas.

"Anyway to check on which Miami department store bought the most, each of those years?" asked Ramrod.

"THE NATIONAL INTELLIGENCER has a stringer in Lantana, Florida, who might be able to find out for me," I replied: "Let me try to get him on his cellphone."

Two minutes later, I was talking to M. B. Dexter-Ross. Once, a foreign correspondent for the BBC. Now, a British Virgin Islands expatriate-turned-naturalized Floridian citizen. Mostly, in an effort to dodge a small army of process servers, hired by paternity suit litigators, back in Ye Olde Country!

"Dex? It's Chet. Yes, it's good to hear your voice, too. Listen, can you do me a favor?"

Whereupon, I gave him a highly edited version of my needs. Passing it off as an investigation into movie memorabilia counterfeiting.

"Good Lord!" he exclaimed: "Is nothing sacred out in Hollywood, anymore?"

"You know the old showbiz saying: 'In God we trust. All others pay cash.' "

"I thought that was the Golden Rule of Wall Street?"

"No, you're thinking of: 'He who owns the most gold makes the rules.' "

"Ah, yes! Quite right. Very well, dear boy. I shall call you back, anon."

"What's that in Pacific Standard Time?" I quipped.

"I believe it's pronounced 'When-EV-er!' "

No sooner had I laughingly signed off than my cellphone beeped that I had someone else on "call-waiting." So, I immediately went to caller-ID.

It was my cousin Sam.

"Hey, Cuz! Wassup?"

To which he replied: "First off? Skip the Ebonics. You suck at it! Secondly? I can only describe it as a minor miracle. But, Meriwether has grudgingly agreed to let you meet Stone. The latter, of course, will be accompanied by his bodyguard. My beauteous flesh-and-blood; Naomi!"

"When and where's the meet?"

"Have you ever heard of...Giant Rock Airport?"

"Yeah! Somewhere near Needles, isn't it?"

"Bingo! A Learjet will touch down there at 10:50 PM, your time. Cornell and I can fly you there, from Santa Monica, in our chopper. Is that copacetic, with you?"

"Sounds like a plan. But, I might have some guests."

"Hey!" he quipped as he signed off: "The more, the merrier. Right?"

"Theoretically," I muttered, under my breath.

tbc
Chapter 31 by Carycomic
* * * * *

It only took Dex an hour to get back to me.

"The largest seller of saucer-shaped, remote-controlled model 'spacecraft,' in the Dade County Metropolitan Area, during Christmas of 2009, was Weebee Toyz," he intoned.

"That nationwide chain with the talking llama mascot?" I remarked.

"If you're referring to Al Paca, then yes. Anyway, there's more. They also sold quite a few of those 'flying saucers' at their branch stores in Chicago, St. Louis, Los Angeles, and New York City."

"Define 'quite a few.' "

"Collectively speaking? Six hundred twenty-four thousand gross."

I did the math...and whistled in amazement.

"That's almost three quarters of a million units!"

"Quite right. Is there anything else you'd like to me to unearth, vis-a-vis these memorabilia counterfeiters?"

"No thanks, Dex. This is more than sufficient. Be good!"

"If I was capable of being good, my prolificity would never have gotten so out of hand."

I politely laughed as he hung up. Then, I turned to Colonel Barker (on whose motel room couch I had been transcendentally meditating) and told him what Dex had just told me. Then, something occurred to me. So, I asked Barker to hand me his laptop, again.

He stared at me, quizzically. But, he didn't ask why. He just granted my request. He then stared at me, in utter silence, as I did some more web-surfing.

Five years earlier, M.A.C.H.O. had raided a Bahamian hotel resort that the Russian Mob had been using as a front for shrinkie trafficking.* Officially, it had been a DEA interdiction! But, the fact remains that a lot of steel drums had been found by the initial team of undercover agents.

Drums containing the biochemical shrinking agent known as Solution 62.

Unfortunately, those drums were mysteriously missing by the time the raid occurred in force. Still, if Aunt Connie's theory was right, the Russian Mob might have developed a new way of employing all that stuff. So, I began researching UFO sightings--and mysterious disappearances--in general. Trying to find out who the leading expert was regarding both. And the name that kept coming up, most often, was...

...Professor Kenneth Gambol of Lebaron University.

Getting the telephone number of his main office, off the Lebaron website ("GoDemonDragons.org"), I called it, right away. Unfortunately, all I got was his voice mail! So, I left him the following message.

"Professor Gambol? This is Chet Northfield of THE NATIONAL INTELLIGENCER. I'm doing a series of articles on UFO's. And, I was wondering if you could tell me, off-hand, how many sightings and alleged abductions have been reported to you since Xmas 2009. More specifically; from the areas of New York, Chicago, Miami, LA, and St. Louis. I'm deadly serious about this! So, please call me back, ASAP, at..."

I rattled off my cellphone number. Then, after I hung up, I looked back at the colonel.

"This might take a while. You and your boys want to go out to grab a bite?"

He nodded. So, a minute later, he was knocking on Monk's motel room door, while I knocked on Ramrod's. Then, the four of us went down to the rented pick-up. With Monk and Ramrod hopping into the bed while I occupied the shotgun seat of the cab. Yet, no sooner had we done that, than two LAPD motorcycle cops came racing into the motel parking lot! Sirens blaring...

...and acting as escort for a Ford Econoliner.

tbc
End Notes:
*See A "LITTLE" RESCUE MISSION.
Chapter 32 by Carycomic
* * * * *

Faster than you can say "Give up! You're surrounded," the two motorcycle cops had flanked us. While the Econoliner had skidded to a stop, lengthwise, directly in front of us. Whereupon, the side panel door on it slid back. Allowing a small SWAT team, armed with H&K MP-5'S to disembark in a semi-circle!

Needless to say, the machine guns were pointed at us.

It was then that two guys got out of the van's cab. Each one wearing a Navy-blue windbreaker with matching baseball cap. And each cap bearing, in yellow letters, the initials...

"...FBI."

The younger of the two looked like Yale Summers. The actor who used to play Marsh Tracy's preppie assistant on "Daktari." While his slightly older partner resembled Muppeteer Frank Oz (minus the eyeglasses)! And it was the latter who used his walkie-talkie to send for a yellow-and-black bus to transport the four of us to the Los Angeles Federal Building.

That's where he finally made introductions, after the two of them sat down.

"Mr. Northfield? I'm Special Agent Erhart. This is my partner, Special Agent Ebersol."

From where I sat in the interrogation room, facing the standard issue two-way mirror, I smilingly nodded and said (in the most schmoozing tone I could fake):

"Nice to meet you, gentlemen. How can the Fourth Estate be of service?"

"It's been brought to our attention," began Ebersol: "...that you've been trying to get in touch with one General McCoy of the U.S. Air Force. Is this true?"

I nodded, again: "As a matter of fact, yes. I was trying to get his opinion, pro or con, on a certain tip I was given. Yet, so far, he hasn't returned my calls!"

"A tip from whom?" demanded Erhart: "And pertaining to what?"

"With all due respect, gentlemen, you know I can't answer that first question! Source confidentiality. As to the second question, however? It was hinted to me that something was recovered from the wreckage of that Aeroflot jet that recently crashed on Mt. Rainier, Washington. Something that was stolen (by party or parties unknown) from the Russian space center affectionately known, in English, as 'Star City.' Can I safely assume, from our present conversation, that there's more substance to the story than I initially thought?"

Ebersol pounded the table top with his right fist.

"We're asking the questions, here, smart-ass! Not you."

But, Erhart knew I was seasoned enough to recognize "good cop/bad cop," when someone was trying to play it on me, and quickly admonished his partner to calm down. Whereupon, he tried another approach.

"If all you're doing is attempting to get confirmation- or-denial of this rumor, why did we find you hanging out with three known mercenaries? One of them carrying a contraband piece of ordnance!"

Obviously, he was referring to Monk and "Bertha."

"I hired Colonel Barker and his associates to serve as my bodyguards. On the off-chance that one of my source's claims--i.e., Russian Mob involvement in the crash--proved true."

"And why would the Russian Mob want to cause one of their own country's airliners to crash?" sneered Ebersol.

I looked him straight in the eye.

"Perhaps to save themselves some money when it came to getting their hands on a certain silver meteorite."

Bingo! Both of them instinctively stiffened in their seats at those last two words. Meaning that Crazy Bob's tip did have meat to it, after all.

Before either of these guys could come up with any rejoinder, however, there was a tell-tale buzzing sound from the right pocket of Erhart's jacket. It was, of course, his cellphone on "vibe mode." He answered it outside, while Ebersol kept me company. Trying to prove that he had the optical version of bigger cajones.

"Congratulations, Mr. Northfield!" he exclaimed (with a cheerfulness that made me uneasy): "You just won yourself a free trip to DC. Courtesy of HomeSec!"

Ninety seconds later, we boarded an elevator. With my left hand cuffed to Erhart's right, while my right hand was cuffed to Ebersol's left. The latter pressed the button for the parking garage. And all the way down, I was thinking:

"Is this some complicated ruse on M.A.C.H.O.'s part? Are they trying to give me the answers I want, without letting Barker and the others know about the existence of shrinkies?"

I was still pondering this when the elevator chimed our arrival. The doors opened, and we exited. Only to stop in our tracks in perfect unison! Because, standing between us and the car--Erhart and Ebersol had no doubt planned to put me in the back seat of--was a Japanese-American army officer...

...and the two majorettes I had met, earlier that morning, at Cahuenga High School.

The former was holding a nine-millimeter Beretta on us. But, Alana Zaccaroni (the brunette majorette) smiled and told him to lower it. He did so, with an expression on his face that I can only describe as "relieved." But, the very next second, Alana and her blonde co-captain raised their batons. While Erhart and Ebersol simultaneously went for their weapons!

Two "ka-zaps" later? Both FBI agents were the size of Hasbro action figures.

tbc
Chapter 33 by Carycomic
Author's Notes:
CHET NORTHFIELD'S POV
* * * * *

I looked at the two majorettes. Then, I looked at the Sansei army officer standing between them.*

"Konichiwa. Captain Reggie Saito, I presume?"

"Forget it, Mr. Northfield," Alana replied: "He answers only to us. And, soon, so will you!"

"Please sit down and assume the yoga lotus position," added Emma (the blonde): "Then, very slowly and visibly, click the empty halves of those handcuffs around the diagonally opposite ankle."

"Why? So you can shrink me down like these two?"

I pointed down at Agents Erhart and Ebersol, who were still gazing upward in shock.

"This is the parking garage of the Federal Building," I continued: "And there is no doubt a small army of internal security personnel on their way here after catching your little act on television."

These girls merely grinned at each other.

"Nice try," said Alana: "But, we control those cameras the same way we control Captain Saito. So, we're definitely not going to be interrupted! Now, do as Emma said and..."

"BANZAIIIIIIII!"

The entire trio turned as one at that yell. As they did so, I dove to my left and somersaulted into a standing position near the right-hand rearview mirror of a Ford Taurus. I yanked that mirror free, then spun back around to see Captain Saito flat on his back, unconscious. While, at the same time, my would-be female captors were hunched over, trying to protect their heads from a massively ricocheting Superball!

"Alana!" screamed Emma, pointing at me.

The former, spotting me, did as I'd anticipated. She aimed her baton in my direction, and a white beam of light shot outward, straight at me. A beam of light I used the mirror to reflect...

...right back in Emma's direction.

Alana screamed her friend's name in shocked anger. Thereby distracting her attention from the tossing of a ninja "flash-bang." Which, in turn, left her vulnerable to a shuto strike, to the back of her neck, by a ninja-clad figure!

"Don't just stand there, like a buck in the headlights," the latter snapped. Let's get going!"

Whereupon, a custom-restored 1991 Jeep Wagoneer came barreling into view from an upper parking level. I ran towards it, even as my ninja-clad rescuer stooped to pick up one of the discarded batons in his right hand. While simultaneously throwing the unconscious captain over his left shoulder in a fireman's carry!

The two of them went into the back seat at the same time I claimed the shotgun seat. Our driver then gunned the Jeep towards the nearest exit. He and my rescuer doffing their ninja hoods as they did so.

It turned out to be my cousin and his African-American business partner.

"Sam? Cornell?? What the frig...?!"

"Actually," replied the latter: " 'Cornell Brown' isn't my real name. I got it from an Ivy League football score I heard on TV! My true name is Titus Armitage. 'Tight Ass' to my friends."

It took me at least twenty seconds to process this revelation.

"Would you mind telling me what the frig is going on? And why a bunch of baton twirlers is involved with the Russian Mob?"

He laughed--very bitterly--as he spared me a glance.

"The Russian Mob?! You seriously believe they're the ones behind this?"

I ticked off the facts on my left hands's fingers.

"Fact One: the flying saucer your old friends blew up at Cahuenga High--after it started shrinking all manner of people and things--was manufactured by Tanaka Toys. Fact Two: I don't know any Japanese business concern that _doesn't_ give a piece of the action to the Yakuza. Fact Three: I know of, at least, one Yakuza clan that does business with the Russian Mob in Vladivostok. Fact Four: the Russian Mob, as a whole, will do business with anyone (even terrorist groups)! And, Fact Five? They're the only 'private enterprise' outfit I know who could afford to turn a certain biochemical shrinking agent into a gas-powered laser weapon with an aerial delivery system!"

He smirked.

"Fact Six: despite your admittedly impressive brainstorming, you're only scratching at the tip of the iceberg. With an increasingly dull icepick!"

"Then, enlighten me. Now!!!"

He paused for a moment.

"What do you know about...Project: Silenus?"

"Only what Colonel Barker told me. That you were one of five astronaut-candidates. Each of whom got injected with some high-tech 'magic mushroom' juice."

Armitage nodded adding:

"I was recruited for my combat flight record in Nam, plus the flying time I accrued, jockeying spy planes for the Company. The rest consisted of a Gulf War ace named King; a stunt-flying Army Reservist named Fitzpatrick; a hurricane hunter named Stone; and some ex-RCAF bush pilot who now dive-bombs forest fires for Glacier National Park!"

I sat bolt upright at the mention of the name "Stone." But, Armitage ignored it as he kept on talking.

"When I washed out, I returned to my new civilian life, free and clear. Or, so I thought. You see, the cumulative effect of all those injections...made me telepathic. Oh, I can't read everyone's minds! Yet, my telepathy has still grown strong enough, over the years, that I was finally able to discover the real purpose behind Project: Silenus. We'd been told that the injections were intended to decrease our reaction time in certain 'unexpected aerospace situations.' That, however, was just a half-truth. The whole truth and nothing but the truth?"

"The one of us who responded most favorably to those injections, at that time, would then have had a computer chip surgically implanted in his brain! So he could psychically interface with the flight computer of a spacecraft!!"

"So, in hindsight, it was a mixed blessing for me that I only proved second best. Because, more recently, my telepathy has allowed me to tune in on an even bigger conspiracy. Those two young ladies who seemed to have Captain Saito on an invisible leash? Well, they've basically been possessed, themselves. By nanotech cyborgs...of extra-terrestrial origin!"

Sam later swore that I was so wide-eyed and open-mouthed, with astonishment, that I looked like a manga art model.


tbc
End Notes:
*Sansei: second-generation Japanese-Americans (usually Baby Boomers).
Chapter 34 by Carycomic
* * * * *

I don't know how. But, we managed to make it all the way to Venice without any units of the LAPD pulling us over. More specifically: we drove to the front gate of CPS, Inc. A private security firm on the Venice/Culver City line. And, when I asked what the initials stood for, Armitage replied:

"Condottiere Protective Services. A reference to the mercenaries that served in the Venetian army during the Italian Renaissance. These guys train bodyguards for celebrities and foreign diplomats; keep DOD contractors safe from industrial espionage..."

"...and, occasionally, serve as military advisors to Third World dictators?" I muttered.

Armitage smirked: "That Cold War-era stereotype is as outdated as disco music."

"Oh, I don't know. I'm sure there are some people helping both traditions to stay alive-stay alive."

Armitage ignored my BeeGees reference in order to show his driver's license to the gatekeeper. And when the latter had verified him as expected, the Wagoneer continued on to the main administration building. There, we were greeted by the founder and CEO of CPS, Inc.

Ex-Special Forces Colonel Maynard Barker.

"I see you and your two friends managed to miss the excitement at the Federal Building," I remarked (pointing to Ramrod and Monk, directly behind him).

He laughed and introduced me to a blond-haired guy, in a black business suit, standing to his right.

"Chet Northfield? Say 'hello' to our in-house counsel, 'Legal Egil' Lindstrom. Originally from Solvang.* "

I shook his hand, adding that I had the feeling he already knew Armitage and my cousin. And he nodded.

"Mr. Armitage apparently turned up at your cousin's dojo in an effort to warn you about imminent danger to yourself and my clients. When he learned you weren't there, he contacted me. On my unlisted cellphone number! How he got that, I have no idea. But, when I verified that the FBI had arrested my clients, I immediately set about arranging their bail."

During this litany, we had been walking down a central hall way to a conference room Barker assured us was soundproof...and bug-proof. This was certainly good news to Sam, who was starting to get pretty tired of dragging Captain Saito along (pretending the latter was drunk).

That's when another figurative bombshell was dropped in my lap: Saito was Sam's brother-in-law!

"That's why I came along for the ride when Armitage went to help you out. Apparently, Reggie's the one who passed himself off as Homeland Security, as part of the trap that lured you down to the parking garage."

"Big deal!" I exclaimed: "That still doesn't explain his pulling a gun on me at the behest of those twirl-girls. And, don't say 'alien mind-control,' Armitage!! I'm not buying that story without more proof."

"Precisely why I scooped these up, along with him," countered Sam.

Whereupon, he dumped the batons on the conference table.

"You wouldn't happen to have an X-ray machine handy, would you?" he asked Barker.

The latter nodded. Whereupon, he had two in-house security guards bring a stretcher from the company infirmary to the meeting room. Saito was strapped to it, and then rolled right on back to the infirmary, with the rest of us close on their heels. Upon arriving there, the guards stripped Sam's brother-in-law down to the waist before propping his back up in front of a glass screen (while we stood behind a lead-lined window). And the picture that came back, of Saito's spinal column, was frightening beyond words.

What looked like an armor-plated tapeworm was wrapped around it...from the coccyx to the medulla oblongata.

tbc
End Notes:
*Solvang: a north-central Californian town originally founded by post-WWI Danish immigrants.
Chapter 35 by Carycomic
* * * * *

Armitage looked straight at me.

"Still think I'm bullshitting you, Mr. Northfield? Technology like this is still just a wet dream even for the eggheads of DARPA! So there's no way the Russian Mob beat them to the punch. Not without a lot of outside help. And I mean way, way out!!"

He pointed up at the ceiling with his left index finger for needless emphasis.

"OK," I conceded: "So Sam's brother-in-law is being mind-controlled by little green men via baton-twirling co-eds. That doesn't explain why they're going to such desperate lengths to get you! Let alone, what you expect me to do about it."

Armitage paused to look at the rest of us before answering.

"As best I can figure it, everybody implanted with one of these things becomes part of some hive mind. With varying levels of subservience! The only ones who might be exceptions to that rule are those with already altered brain chemistries. Like, say, ex-flower children from the Sixties..."

"...or the astronaut-candidates of Project: Silenus," I concluded for him.

He nodded, adding: "If you and your cousin could get Captain Saito to the appropriate government authorities, the people of this planet might just have a fighting chance against whatever these aliens are planning."

I pointed at Saito with a left toss of my head.

"If we take him anywhere from here, we better handcuff him, first. Because, if you're right, he could be acting as a psychic GPS, even as we speak."

For emphasis, I took Erhart and Ebersol's handcuffs (which I had finished removing in the Wagoneer) and started moving toward Saito to put them on him. Whereupon, his eyes suddenly flew open and he lunged straight at me!

Fortunately, Uncle Jiro had taught me well. I instinctively used the momentum of the lunge to fall flat on my back with very little resistance. As I did so, I slapped one of the handcuffs on to Saito's left wrist while simultaneously digging the soles of my shoes into his midriff and using my legs to catapult up him and over my body and on to his back! I then rolled over on to my stomach and sprang forward to twist his left arm _behind_ his back.

Normally, this would have occurred in less time than it takes to tell. But, Saito suddenly proved to have the strength of a Viking berserker! Requiring me to bark at Sam and Monk for some help. Whereupon, the latter did a "Superfly Snuka" on to Saito's legs, while the former twisted Saito's right arm behind his back, so we could link it to the left one with the second pair of handcuffs.

It was only after accomplishing all that that I applied the ninja equivalent of the Famous Vulcan Nerve Pinch. Rendering Saito unconscious, once again. I then looked straight at Armitage.

"Still think I'm bullshitting you, Tight Ass?"

Before he could give me any kind of snarky rejoinder, klaxon alarms started going off all over the place!

"Red alert! Red alert!" blared the PA: "Security breach on Admin rooftop. Repeat: security breach! Admin rooftop. This is not a drill. Repeat: no drill!"

Ramrod hurriedly ran to a nearby closed-circuit TV monitor and activated it with a remote control. He then clicked through one or two more buttons before finding the camera view he wanted. One showing four beehive-shaped flying saucers on the roof...with their silvery domes slowly peeling back.

From beneath each of those domes emerged a quarter of tiny animate objects that quickly grew into lovely young Japanese women! Each one between sixteen and twenty-one years of age. Each one about five feet/six inches tall. Each one wearing nothing more than white sneakers and sleeveless black leotards (with some kind of logo resembling a gold phoenix emerging from red flames). And each one armed with a silver baton with white knobs at each end.

Batons which subsequently shrank the first half-dozen armed security guards that barged on to the roof through the access staircase.

Barker looked at Monk.

"Take these four to the escape tunnel..."

He indicated me, Sam, Saito, and Armitage.

"...and leadfoot them to the Santa Monica Airport. Mr. Northfield? You better take these with you..."

He handed me the batons Sam had confiscated from the Cahuenga Condorettes.

"...as further proof for the Federal desk jockeys. My people and I will try to hold these girls off as long as we can."

I gave him a nod of affirmation. More than half-suspecting that CPS, Inc. was about to go the way of the Alamo.

tbc
Chapter 36 by Carycomic
Author's Notes:
CHET NORTHFIELD'S POV
* * * * *

As it turned out, the escape tunnel led directly into the storm drain system of Los Angeles. And the get-away car turned out to be a John Deere TH 6x4 Gator. A six-wheeled ATV that basically resembles a cross between an army-surplus M274 Mechanical Mule and an even older Amphicat!*

Monk sat in the driver's seat, while the rest of us sat in the cargo compartment. Armitage and I facing Sam and Saito, who had been blindfolded using a backwards ninja hood. And all of us wearing those big yellow ear mufflers more commonly used by airport runway guides (a.k.a. "monbacks"). In hindsight, that was sort of ironic, as we ultimately exited from the storm drain system (via a remote-controlled wire mesh gate) into a secret basement just below the hangar where CPS, Inc. kept their company jet! A Cessna Citation, to be precise.

"Can either of you handle one of these?" Monk now asked us.

He pointed to a couple of ultra-light aircraft. Basically, a cross between a go-cart and a hang glider, which are things I had mastered, separately, during my college freshman years. As for Sam? He had flown Lockheed YO-3A's, once or twice, back in Vietnam. So, these would be child's play for him!

Whereupon, Monk resumed his instructions.

"This ramp will lead you up to the main entrance. Once you're airborne, head for these co-ordinates."

He showed us a map of Needles, California. Simultaneously putting his right index finger to his lips while nodding at the backward-hooded Saito. And we nodded back in understanding. Following which, we strapped ourselves and Saito in. A Bluetooth-equipped helmet for each of us. But, only three pairs of goggles needing to be issued to us.

Two minutes later, we were airborne. Each of our ultra-lights flying well below the level at which traffic news helicopters usually flew. Yet, still high enough that we had a pretty good view of the ground below us. Including any cellphone and electric power supply towers that might might obstruct our flight path!

It was at this point that Monk contacted us via the Blueteeth.

"Bertha-boy to Coop Flyers. Bertha-boy to Coop Flyers. Just beep once, in acknowledgement, if you can hear me."

Sam and I each said "beep" into our respective microphones. So, Monk continued.

"When you reach your destination, you are to go to our local hangar. Tell the resident chopper pilot on duty that you wish immediate airlift, for all four of you, to East Oshkosh. Repeat: East Oshkosh! He'll know what it means and respond accordingly. This is Bertha-boy...signing off."

Needless to say, I was puzzled. When I was a little kid, the name "East Oshkosh" had been a generic term of derision (used by city-slickers like me) for any small American town in the middle of nowhere. Obviously, it had another connotation for the employees of CPS, Inc. But, what could it be?

* * * * *

LEBARON UNIVERSITY,
WAKE COUNTY, NORTH CAROLINA
(PRESENT DAY)

JASON GRANT'S POV

The jumble of mental images I received, while psychometrizing the pad on which Ken Gambol had written down Chet Northfield's name, were nearly overpowering. Apparently, Ken had meant to return this reporter's phone call. But, his trip to the Midwest had caused him to get side-tracked (which was, admittedly, putting it mildly).

Even so, my retrocognitive vision made it clear that contacting this guy, Northfield, was crucial. Unfortunately, just as I was picking up the phone to call the operator for California information, I was interrupted by a female voice from the office doorway.

And, standing in that doorway? Four young women in long-sleeved black leotards...and carrying silver batons with white knobs.

tbc
End Notes:
*ATV: All-Terrain Vehicle.

Mechanical Mule: a slow-moving cargo carrier originally intended to replace the more famous Jeep. One such was used (in tandem with a remote-controlled bulldozer) in the 1980's sci-fi film "Maximum Overdrive."

Amphicat: a six-wheeled "dune buggy" once manufactured by Mobility Unlimited of Canada. And formerly popularized by the Banana Splits on their old Saturday morning TV show, back in the Sixties!

YO-3A: a motorized glider, with three-bladed propeller, used for stealth reconnaissance, by the U.S. Army during the Vietnam War.
Chapter 37 by Carycomic
Author's Notes:
NEEDLES, CALIFORNIA
(AUGUST 1, 2014)
* * * * *

CHET NORTHFIELD'S POINT OF VIEW

As it turns out, we flew the ultra-lights to Needles Airport rather than the more privately owned Giant Rock Airport. And, sure enough, the pilot of the Rockwell Sabreliner passenger jet that awaited us knew exactly what we were talking about (even if I didn't) when we said wanted to go to "East Oshkosh." In fact, he barely even raised half an eyebrow when Sam and Cornell hustled the hooded and handcuffed Saito aboard!

Ten minutes later, we were flying due northeastward to the Badger State of Wisconsin. And every second of that three hour-long flight was nerve-wracking, as we took turns keeping watch, outside the windows, for any beehive-shaped UFO's that might be following us. But, we seemingly lucked out. As we landed at Wittman Field--in Oshkosh, Winnebago County, Wisconsin--with almost no complications.

The "almost" being our risky application of a sleeper hold on the suddenly reawake Saito. So that we could all deplane without having to let everyone see him wearing that suspicious black hood!

The ground transportation that our pilot (who shall remain nameless) called ahead for turned out to be a Kia Sorrento with tinted windows. And, after we all piled into it, we started driving southeastward. We didn't know where until another hour later, when I saw a green sign with white lettering.

"You Are Now Entering
FONDUE LAC*
The Melted Cheese
Capital of Wisconsin"

But, we didn't stop for any cheese snacks. Instead, the Kia Sorrento kept on driving until we rounded the southeastern tip of Lake Winnebago. Then, the driver headed northward. Ultimately arriving in Calumet County, Wisconsin, just east of the lake. And, fifteen minutes after that, we reached our final stop.

The Brothertown Indian Reservation.

The reservation cop who met us at the main gate was told, by our driver, that he had a party of four to see George True Axe. So, the cop whipped out a cellphone and speed-dialed his immediate superior. While he did that, I fingered through my mental filing cabinet to see what I could remember about this reservation's history.

It had originally been land shared by the Winnebago and Menominee tribes. But, in the early eighteen hundreds, they had been joined by members of the Quaker-Christianized Oneida Iroquois driven out of New York State. Two hundred years after that, they held out a similarly helpful hand to Hmong refugees from Southeast Asia!

Right now, though, I could only hope that the trend didn't end with us.

My fears proved groundless. The cop waved the Sorrento through, after he first directed the driver to the tribal council's meeting house. The driver followed those instructions to the letter. And, there, I was finally introduced to George True Axe. A full-blooded Menominee Indian who was not only the tribal council president.

But, also, the former point man for Barker's Dozen!

It was my cousin Sam who explained that latter bit to me. The two of them having recognized each other right off. And, of course, initially fibbing to each other how neither of them had changed in the slightest. The routine politeness ended, however, when George noticed the unconscious Saito.

"What's up with Sleeping Beauty?"

"Is there a place where we can explain that to you in private?"

He nodded, and led us into his private office. Gesturing to four out of six chairs grouped around a solid oak business desk. There, Sam, Cornell, and I took turns disclosing the fantastic story. Needless to say, he was just as incredulous as I had been, at first!

"I don't blame you for disbelieving us, Mr. True Axe..." I began.

"George," he instinctively corrected me.

I nodded, before continuing: "Yet, if you had just been through what we've been through, you'd have no shred of skepticism left whatsoever."

He massaged his chin on the steepled fingers of both hands before he finally replied.

"Look! I owe Maynard; I admit it. Allowing me to invest tribal funds in his company has helped us build a lot of badly needed schools and houses. But, alien-possessed baton twirlers?! That's got to be the biggest whopper any red man has ever heard since the purchase of Manhattan Island!"

Wouldn't you know it? That's when Saito saw fit to wake up, once again.

"You want proof, Mr. True Axe?" he chortled (like something out of a low-budget horror movie): "Then, look out your office window!"

Two seconds later, we heard a multitude of high-pitched screams coming from outside. And, it didn't take us long to locate the source of them. Namely; a sextet of baton-twirlers wearing the sleeveless red-and-black leotards of the University of Cincinnati, Ohio.

And, each one of them, a one hundred foot-tall giantess.

tbc
End Notes:
*Fond Du Lac is the correct spelling. Ah! The power of cheesy puns.

Hmong: Laotian hill tribes (formerly collectively referred to as "Montagnards" by the French) who served as anti-communist jungle guides, for SEATO forces, during the Vietnam War.
Chapter 38 by Carycomic
Author's Notes:
BROTHERTOWN RESERVATION,
CALUMET COUNTY, WISCONSIN
(AUGUST 1, 2014)
* * * * *

STILL CHET NORTHFIELD'S P.O.V.

I turned away from the windows and knelt down before Saito.

"OK," I said: "I finally get it. That nano-cyborg, or whatever you call it, allows you to revive him at the press of a button. So, who are you...and what do you want?"

Instantly, Saito stopped laughing and looked me straight in the eye. Then, he replied (in a voice that sounded like every female member of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir talking at once):

"We represent the Governing Council of the Commonwealth of United Planets. A group of non-terrestrial races who have not had a major military conflict, between our member worlds, in over one thousand of your years. Can the races of your home world say as much?"

"Unfortunately, no. So, I repeat my second question; what do you want?"

"With regard to our long-term plans? To put the governments of your world on a short leash. To unify them, as it were, under a matriarchal system of leadership. Of course, _any_ major shift in power takes time to properly enact. So, in the short term? Each of your world's nation-states will be quarantined from all the others. With general administration handled by our baton-twirling overseers..."

Saito's head briefly tilted to his left. Towards the giantesses loitering outside, and grinning down at all the Native Americans ogling them.

"...while day-to-day policies will be implemented by the military and police forces under our control."

I couldn't help snorting in mild disbelief.

"You talk as if you've already brainwashed them all. Which I kind of doubt, seeing as how the reservation cops would've had us in handcuffs, ten seconds after we entered this office, otherwise!"

"This is true," Saito's puppet masters replied: "We have not sewn up _every_ pocket of potential resistance, as yet. Hence, our use of Sergeant Major Rodriguez as what you would call...a 'Trojan horse.' "

A chill went down my spine as I heard that.

"Ramrod was implanted with one of those things, right from the start. Wasn't he? Which means his wife and kid were never in danger, at all! Were they?"

"That is correct, Mr. Northfield. It was, therefore, his inside knowledge that allowed the Seki-shi Gakuenettes (those young ladies from Japan) to invade CPS, Inc. on our behalf. As a sort of reconnaissance-in-force! To see how resourceful such independent factions might be. We are embarrassed to admit that you've exceeded our initial expectations. Managing to make off, as you did, with the two batons you 'confiscated' from our local Los Angeles Overseers."

"You mean, Alana and her Cahuenga High co-captain."

"Correct. So, please, surrender them (and yourselves), now. Without further delay!"

"And, if we don't...?" I argued, trying to stall for time.

The answer I got came from a totally unexpected quarter.

"This is Chief True Axe. Get me the rez police!"

Sam immediately lunged forward to try and slap his hand down on the cradle of the phone! But, George had anticipated that, and had whipped out an old Colt M-1911 from his top desk drawer.

"Get back," he commanded, as he used the barrel to wave Sam away from him.

"George!" my cousin exclaimed: "Are you crazy? You heard him--them--whatever! They plan to..."

"They plan to correct centuries of social injustice perpetrated by high-powered idiots like the ones in D.C." the old Menominee statesman replied: "And, maybe if I hand you guys over to them, they'll go easier on my people. Shit! They might even abolish the reservation system, once and for all!!"

"Hitler had a non-aggression treaty with Stalin at the start of World War II," Cornell (I mean, Titus Armitage) reminded him: "You think these E.T.'s will honor any such promise any better?"

"The Bearcat majorettes are not harming anyone," Saito's puppet masters reminded us: "They are simply standing around, at parade rest! The only ones who seem to be bothered by that are y..."

That did it. Sam's brother-in-law, or not, I'd had enough of this guy. So, one right-legged snap kick later, I'd broken his nose with the sole of my shoe. Thereby, shutting him up.

Permanently.

tbc
Chapter 39 by Carycomic
Saito's body fell to the carpet, face-first. And, almost immediately, a pool of blood began to flow from where his nose was buried. But, then, a strange thing happened.

A thin stream of that blood began trickling its way towards me!

Consequently, I sprang to my feet and began backing away from it. Although, as I did so, that blood suddenly began to...well, I don't want to use the word "evaporate." The word "implode" would probably be more accurate, as both sides of that trickle seem to collapse in on themselves!

At the same time that was happening, something began to grow--and grow--and grow--and grow. Nor did it stop growing until it was about two feet long. And I couldn't help gasping.

Because, the thing in the middle of all that blood-stained carpeting was the same thing I had seen in the X-ray picture of Reggie Saito's spinal column!

Now, one of the first thing's my Uncle Jiro had taught me about ninjitsu is that you should never react out of anger or fear. If you have to use lethal force, at all, calculate your killing in advance. But, this thing, rearing its metallic-looking head in my direction? It aroused some kind of instinctive disgust in me. Consequently, I whipped out a tanto knife from the left inner pocket of my gray blazer...

...and stabbed that thing right in its head. Impaling it to the carpet!

It started thrashing and convulsing, almost right away. With some kind of electrical light show occurring at the same instant. That, in turn, naturally distracted everyone else in the room.

Except for my cousin, that is.

Sam used that opportunity to throw his Super-ball at the side of George True Axe's head. The impact dazing the misguided Menominee just long enough for Sam to charge towards the office desk and barrel-roll over it. When he landed behind it, he did so in a half-crouch. Just low enough for him to deliver a right-handed punch to George's stomach. Followed by an upward thrust of his left hand's palm to George's jaw!

"Chief True Axe?" inquired a feminine voice from the fallen receiver: "Chief?"

Sam carefully placed it back on the cradle, after putting George across his back like a sack of flour. He then tossed the Colt M-1911 towards me.

"I'm going to have my hands full with him," he said, as I made a right-handed catch: "Cornell? Pick up those batons. We still need them as evidence. The same thing goes for that overgrown silverfish! Chet; think you can carry it under your blazer for now?"

I nodded, and did as requested.

Ten seconds later, we hot-footed it out--and piled in--to the Kia Sorrento. All while screaming at the half-puzzled driver to burn rubber out of there! He did so. But, almost instantly, we were being pursued by a small fleet of black-and-white Jeep Grand Cherokees behind us.

Not to mention, three giant majorettes balletically leaping along on either side of us.

* * * * *

LEBARON UNIVERSITY,
WAKE COUNTY, N.C.
(PRESENT DAY)

JASON GRANT'S POV

I shook off the involuntary vision. Instinctively sensing that it had probably lasted no longer than ten seconds, in real time, at most. I then looked, once more, at these four young, honey-blonde women (who were virtually identical to each other) standing before me.

"My apologies, ladies," I improvised: "I didn't mean to stare. It's just that I didn't know the school now had majorettes."

"They didn't," said one of the near-quadruplets: "Not until they recently integrated the rhythmic gymnastics team into the marching band. We're the Baronettes. And, it's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Dr. Grant."

My posture became slightly more rigid at the use of my name.

"I'm sorry. Do I know you?"

The other three smiled as their spokeswoman replied:

"Please, don't prevaricate. It belittles you in our eyes!"

I could not chuckling a little ruefully.

"An ironic choice of words. Don't you think?"

"Perhaps," she countered: "But, you can avoid it becoming more than figurative if you'll surrender yourself--and Professor Gambol's manuscript--peacefully and immediately."

"Decisions; decisions," I sarcastically muttered.

tbc
Chapter 40 by Carycomic
Author's Notes:
BROTHERTOWN RESERVATION,
CALUMET COUNTY, WISCONSIN
(AUGUST 1, 2014)
* * * * *

CHET NORTHFIELD'S P.O.V.

The driver of the Kia Sorrento--a former Army Ranger named Kevin McCloskey--put the petal to the metal as he finally glimpsed a barbed wire fence in the distance.

"Looks like we're coming to the other end of the rez. Hang on, folks!"

We grimly did as he said. But, even though we could feel the G-forces of the Sorrento's acceleration press in on us, we by no means left our pursuers behind in the dust. Neither the reservation police. Nor the baton-twirling giantesses so effortlessly keeping pace with us on our left and right flanks.

"I don't mean to be racially insensitive," McCloskey spoke up again: "But, if you gentlemen want to say any prayers to Buddha, for a miracle, now would be a good time to do it!"

Before I could think up any nasty retorts, I was cut off by the most thunderous rendition, of Steppenwolf's greatest hit, that I had ever heard.*

"GET YOUR MOTOR RUNNIN'!
HEAD OUT ON THE HIGHWAY!!
LOOKIN' FOR ADVENTURE
IN WHATEVER COMES OUR WAY."

"YEAH, WE GOTTA GO AND MAKE IT HAPPEN.
TAKE THE WORLD IN A LOVE EMBRACE.
FIRE ALL OF YOUR GUNS AND WATCH
THEM EXPLODE INTO SPACE."

"I LIKE SMOKE AND LIGHTNIN'.
HEAVY METAL THUNDER!!!"

The Cincinnati Twirlcats suddenly stopped in their tracks. A look of startled terror appearing on their faces. Whereupon, a pair of flying saucer drones suddenly appeared (one over each trio) and flashed white beams of light on them. That, in turn, led to all six of those giantesses suddenly shrinking down small enough to be tractor-beamed aboard those remote control aircraft before the latter flew away at high speed.

A second later, a De Havilland STOL Caribou came screeching down to the ground in front of us. Tearing up the earth, from left to right, as its rear loading ramp simultaneously began to lower. This was followed by a bright orange-and-white Conair Firecat suddenly coming down in a power dive that strafed all the Jeep Grand Cherokees with a cloud of atomized liquid that I was all too familiar with.

Solution 62.

"GREETINGS, GENTS!" blared a rather jovial voice from the direction of the Caribou: "THIS IS YOUR CAPTAIN SPEAKING. IF YOU'RE IN THE MOOD FOR A CHANCE AT THAT PERFECT GET-AWAY, ALL YOU HAVE TO DO IS DRIVE ABOARD AIR ADIK WITHOUT FURTHER DELAY."

"You don't have to tell me, twice!" muttered McCloskey.

Whereupon, he steered hard to his right. Thereby depriving himself of a sight few others had ever witnessed. A posse of shrunken police cars! And, the moment we were within the interior darkness of the cargo hold, the rear loading ramp went back up. As did the cargo plane, itself, a minute later.

Only, then, did the rest of us disembark. The second I did so, I made straight for the cockpit to thank our rescuer.

"Captain? My name is Chet Northfield..."

"No need to introduce yourself, Mr. Northfield," he interrupted: "I was well briefed as to who all of you are. My name is Jean-Loup Cervier of the Supplementary Air Reserve (RCAF-NORAD). And, when not reactivated for emergency military duty by the Canadian Ministry of Defense, I'm serving as a bush pilot for my people. The Fireweed Clan of the Dakelh First Nation. Which is why I'm often referred to as..."

"Don't say it!" begged co-pilot.

"...an Aircraft Carrier!!" exclaimed still another voice from over the cockpit's radio.

The co-pilot (a young Caucasian in his mid-twenties) shook his head.

"Of all the training officers in all the Forces, I have to get stuck with one-half of the Native Canadian version of Abbott and Costello."

"I prefer 'swarthy Morecambe and Wise,' " Cervier rebutted: "As does my colleague in the Firecat. One Francois LaPierre. And, as he's a bush pilot for the Ashinini Cree, he's often referred to as..."

"Don't tell me!" I exclaimed: "Let me guess. A 'Planes Cree?' "

The co-pilot groaned and face-palmed himself.

tbc
End Notes:
*"Born To Be Wild" by Mars Bonfire: Dunhill-RCA (copyright 1967).

STOL(Short Take-Off and Landing).

Conair Firecat: single-seat forest fire-fighting version of the Grumman S-2 Tracker.

Adik: Cree First Nation term for caribou.

Carrier: Native Canadian tribe who supposedly derived their English designation from widows carrying their husbands' cremated ashes around for the first year or so of mourning.

Morecambe and Wise: famous British comedy team of the 1980's.
Chapter 41 by Carycomic
Author's Notes:
M.A.C.H.O.HEADQUARTERS,
(AUGUST 1, 2014)
* * * * *

MILES STONE'S P.O.V.

I was relaxing in my quarters when it happened.

To sharpen up my cyber-telepathy skills, in between missions, I was making some half-serious attempts to hack into the corporate database of Nakafusa Games to see if they would be coming out with CAMP CAPERS III this Christmas. The second version had proven just as popular as the first. So, already, there was popular demand for a fresh sequel game.

But, as usual, my down time was interrupted by the virtually real face (chubby cheeks and all) of Myron Meriwether. The portly Director of Operations for M.A.C.H.O.!

"Captain Stone? Mission briefing; my office; five minutes! Stand by for bodyguard pick-up."

Sixty seconds later, I was outside my dollhouse, in the normal-sized stateroom I shared with my normal-sized bodyguard Naomi Watanabe. As if on cue, she came charging through the door like an offensive tackle in the NFL! Only slowing down just long enough to cup both of her hands together, so I could jump into them.

For those of you who don't remember, I first came to M.A.C.H.O. as an astronaut who had somehow been shrunken as the result of test piloting a space shuttle with a flight computer that could be telepathically interfaced with! Unfortunately, the first ones to find me, in my new state, had been a pair of horny gang molls aboard a Colombian drug lord's private yacht. By miraculous coincidence, however, that drug lord (and everyone else aboard his yacht) got busted in Miami by the DEA. Which is why I initially had _two_ normies as bodyguards: DEA Agent Melissa Belmondo; and MDPD Officer Gladys Crabtree.*

Unfortunately, for them, they got shrunk in the course of our first official mission together, following my graduation from "Kleinmann University. So, now, they were being assigned _their_ first mission, as shrinkie-alumni of "Kleinmann," while I worked with the granddaughter of Anjiro Watanabe (the sensei in charge of the self-defense training for all the normie bodyguards).

Sure enough; when Naomi and I entered Meriwether's office, Mel and Gladys were already there with their own normie bodyguard. Eric Bravo! Formerly, an anti-terrorist "wet worker" for the CIA.

"What's up, Chief?" I immediately quipped (trying my best to sound more like the original Maxwell Smart--Don Adams--than that lame-ass Steve Carrel).

Meriwether didn't even give me his customary groan. Which meant, whatever mission we were about to be assigned must be really serious. And, when he aimed his remote control at the giant flat screen TV on the wall behind his desk, my hunch was confirmed in the worst way possible.

"What you're looking at is a fire that broke out at CPS, Inc. A private security contractor, based in Venice, California, that even M.A.C.H.O. has occasionally employed. Authorities in Los Angeles have been told that it was an experimental counter-insurgency drone, called 'the Scavenger,' that malfunctioned and blew up on impact."

"Yet, this is what really happened."

He hit another button on his remote control. And, right away, the point of view switched to a firefight, in some kind of corporate hallway, between SWAT-clad security guards...and a bunch of hot-looking Japanese teenage girls wearing nothing more than sleeveless black leotards (with some kind of fiery phoenix logo) and white sneakers.

You read that right! These guards were using Mossberg Bullpup shotguns (in twelve gauge) and H&K MP-5 submachine guns (firing teflon-coated armor piercers in 9mm). And, yet, each slug uselessly exploded in mid-air just inches from those girls' faces! Whereupon, the latter would counter-atttack with laser beam-emitting batons that shrank the guards to one inch tall!!

Small enough to be crushed beneath the soles of those sneakers.

Then, the flat screen suddenly went staticky! Indicating, to me, that whatever video surveillance camera had recorded that one-sided battle scene had permanently gone out of commission. A fact that someone else's voice confirmed, out loud, a second later.

That voice turned out to belong to a guy, in his early to mid-sixties, wearing a black beret with matching leather jacket.

"This is Colonel Maynard Barker calling anyone at the Multi-Agency Counter-Homunculist Organization who might be monitoring this frequency. CPS, Inc. has been overrun. I have no choice but to activate our self-destruct system! If you receive this transmission, do NOT send Captain Stone to Giant Rock Airport!! Divert, instead, to Calumet County, Wisconsin. Seek out George True Axe; chief and tribal council president of Brothertown Indian Reservation. Repeat: go to Brothertown Reservation, instead! This is Colonel Barker...signing off."

Whereupon, the old warhorse held up, in his right hand, a device that Eric quickly identified as a "dead man's switch." One that Barker just as quickly stopped pressing down upon with his right thumb!

We instinctively closed our eyes to the thunderous, fiery explosion that followed. When we re-opened them, Meriwether got right to the point.

"You five will head for Wisconsin via Grissom Air Base in Peru, Indiana. Chet Northfield seemed to think that these baton-twirling homunculists were after you, and the rest of your compatriots from Project: Silenus, Captain Stone. So, I've taken the liberty of arranging a reunion between one of them and yourself. A Cree metis named LaPierre! And he'll be flying protective escort, for your transport craft, in a Conair Firecat loaded with gaseous Solution 62."

"If only to see whether or not these homunculists can take what they dish out!"

tbc
End Notes:
*See THE MAN FROM M.A.C.H.O.

MDPD: Miami-Dade Police Department.

Wetworker: Cold War-era euphemism for "hit man."
Chapter 42 by Carycomic
Author's Notes:
MILWAUKEE, WISCONSIN
AUGUST 2, 2014
* * * * *

CHET NORTHFIELD'S P.O.V.

The planes that had helped rescue us landed at the Gen. Mitchell Air National Guard Base. Like the neighboring international airport, it had been named for General William "Billy" Mitchell. The U.S. Army officer who was court-martialed for the manner in which he had expressed the need for a post-WWI air force independent of the army and navy.

There, we were met (in a carefully blacked-out hangar) by two squads of Security Police. One squad led Jean-Loup Cervier and his co-pilot to the refueling facility in order to top off both the Caribou and the Firecat. The other squad brought over the disembarking passengers from a USAF JetStar, before stationing themselves outside the front door of the hangar..

At first, it looked like there were only two paasengers from that third plane.. But, I immediately recognized one of them as my cousin Sam's daughter: Naomi Watanabe.

And I knew full well she now worked for M.A.CH.O.

"Daddy? Uncle Chet?"

She ran forward and embraced the two of us in a shameless bear hug. As a result of which, I suddenly heard a somewhat high-pitched voice yelling at her!

"Hey! HEY! Watch it up there, sweetie!"

I backed away a step.

"What the frig...?!"

Naomi blushed a little.

"Sorry about that, Cap! Dad? Uncle Chet? Meet Captain Miles Stone (USAF Reserve)."

Whereupon, she held up what others might have initially assumed to be a young boy's action figure, about six inches tall and wearing scale-model cover-alls. The very next second, however, that notion was destroyed by the "action figure" actually giving me and Sam a salute!

"And, this..." continued Naomi: "...is my co-worker, Eric Bravo."

The guy who taciturnly nodded at us, in greeting, was in his early-to-mid-forties. With the kind of dirty blond hair that used to be called "sandy brown." But, like me, he wasn't entirely Caucasian. You could see it around the epithelial folds of his eyes! And, the look in those eyes?

It was the same look I'd seen staring back at me, from a mirror, after the very first time I had killed someone as a full-fledged ninja. Definitely a hard-ass, of some kind!

"Gentlemen?" he finally spoke up: "Let's sit down and get started."

He gestured to one of those rectangular tables with foldable legs that are more commonly used for church spaghetti suppers. With Bravo, himself, seating himself at the head of the table, while I sat at the foot of it. He then asked that I give my statement of events, first. That took me about an hour, at least!

When I got to the part about having to kill Naomi's Uncle Reggie, she frowned a little. But, true to her training, she nodded her head in silent understanding while managing to keep a dry eye.

He then turned to Cornell Brown who was seated to Sam's left.

"Mr. Brown? You told Mr. Northfield that these women--and the men they've enslaved--operate through some kind of hive mind. How is you can tap into that hive mind without one of those mind-controlling nanites they seem to employ?"

Cornell shrugged: "I'm only guessing, of course, But, I think the telepathy I developed (as a result of Project: Silenus) allows me to access them on a semi-conscious level. I certainly don't seem able to do so when I'm not dreaming!"

Bravo then looked to his left.

"You were another of those five astronaut-candidates, Mr. LaPierre. Is that correct?"

Francois nodded. So, Bravo asked him if he had been having any strange dreams since leaving Project: Silenus. And he nodded, again. Only, this time, he added something out loud:

"I never showed the telepathic potential that Miles and Titus--I mean, Cornell--did. Yet, what I do remember from those dreams was truly frightening. The aliens controlling these girls have been at this a long time. And, they have moles, everywhere! At least, in your armed forces."

"Well, that may be true," Bravo conceded with a shrug: "Yet, we do have two things we didn't have before, Two of their weaponized batons; and a nanite that's no longer microscopic. With Captain Stone's help, we should be able to do some very interesting reverse-engineering, relatively quickly,"

"I'm afraid I must dispute that statement."

The voice that had made that reply came from the shadowy rafters overhead. And it was definitely feminine in origin!

tbc
Chapter 43 by Carycomic
Author's Notes:
JASON GRANT''S P.O.V.
* * * * *

LEBARON UNIVERSITY
WAKE COUNTY, N.C.
(PRESENT DAY)

Once again, I had to involuntarily shake my head in order to clear it. An action that made the Baronettes smile in derision.

"Disorienting, isn't it?" said their spokesperson/captain: "Your individual telepathy tuning in our hive mind. You could avoid all that inconvenience simply by joining us!"

There was no longer any doubt in my mind that Ken Gambol had not been out of his mind when he wrote the manuscript I was now concealing beneath my suit jacket. These flashbacks I'd been experiencing ("retrocognitive visions" if you wish to be technical), of people I'd never even met, were recurring with too much frequency to be anything but real.

That being said, however, the question became: how was I going to make it past these young ladies blocking the only door in and out of Ken's office?

It swiftly became evident they were going to answer that question for me.

"Enough of this stalling! Ladies? Which of you wishes to have the honor of...indoctrinating him?"

Before any of the other three baton twirlers could reply, they were interrupted by a very loud "KIAI!" Which was followed, almost instantly, by a bright flash of light; a somewhat deafening bang; and a white puff of acrid smoke. Consequently, all four of the young ladies fell to their knees, crying and coughing. While I, on the other hand, had seen the egg-shaped object responsible for their condition arc over their heads just soon enough to begin my descent behind Ken's desk!

I was therefore just enough less afflicted that I could get a running start and leap over their slumped forms as if I were an Olympic high hurdler. Out in the hallway, though, I had to pause for breath and get my bearings.

"Sorry, Professor Grant. But, there's no time. My little flash/bang set off the sprinkler system in that office!"

"Who...?" I began to demand, peering to my right.

All I saw, however, was a figure wearing a black turtleneck beneath a matching leather jacket, baseball cap (sans team logo) and over-the-mouth kerchief.

"What part of 'no time' didn't you understand? Come on!"

He grabbed me by my left wrist, and I just barely kept from losing the manuscript pinned beneath my right arm as I was half-dragged down the hallway toward an exit stairway I knew led directly to the faculty-only parking lot directly behind this building.

Bursting through the double door at the bottom of that stairway, my rescuer suddenly used his black-gloved hands to doff his low-budget mask. Throwing both cap and kerchief into a nearby trash can. Followed by another egg-shaped explosive even more pyrotechnical than the first! After that, he practically threw me into the back seat of a waiting Kia Sorrento (like the losing opponent in a judo match) before slamming shut the door and jumping into the shotgun seat.

It was only after I had somehow managed to pick myself up off the floor of the rear compartment, and seat myself properly, that I felt calmed down enough to repeat my earlier question. Albeit, in fuller--and louder--detail.

"JUST WHO THE BLAZES ARE YOU PEOPLE???"

My rescuer gave me a smile that I was sure was only half-shameless, at best.

"Sorry for my initially bad manners, Professor. My name is Chet Northfield. And, our get-away driver, here, is Kevin McCloskey."

tbc
Chapter 44 by Carycomic
* * * * *

GEN. WM. MITCHELL ANG BASE,
MILWAUKEE, WISCONSIN
(AUGUST 2, 2014)

CHET NORTHFIELD'S P.O.V.

"I'm afraid I can't permit that."

That decidedly female voice had wafted down from the warehouse rafters above us. And, the moment it had done so, both Naomi and Eric Bravo went for their guns Only to find out the hard way that it had merely been a verbal distraction! For the next moment...

...it began raining men.

More specifically, ninja! They rappelled down from those rafters like professional mountaineers. But, wearing black-and-red unitards that initially made them resemble black widow spiders. In fact, they were initially the _size_ of spiders! That is; till they landed on Bravo and Naomi like the proverbial ton of bricks. These shrink-and-grow ninja then repeated that same trick on LaPierre and Cornell. While Sam and I went down last. Our own ninjitsu training allowing us to deck quite a few before superior numbers won out. And all that in less time than it takes to tell!

Only when we were all encased in silk-mesh nets did the owner of that voice show herself.

She was lowered to the ground by two more ninja. Each one holding on to their rappelling cords with one hand, while gently-yet-firmly grasping the shapely wrist of a baton twirler in a lovely sleeveless, cream-orange leotard with matching moccasins.

[Imagine Peter Pan without his Robin Hoodie.]

"Greeting, gentlemen...and lady. My name is Laura Petrie. Please! No jokes about 'Lolack of Twilo' or 'Oh, Rob!' That's my real name. I'm from Scotland, Indiana, via IU @ Bloomington. * And these handsome young men restraining you are..."

"...genin of the Heikegani-ryu," I interrupted her: "I ran into some of their kunoichi counterparts in Venice, California, recently. Fancy them working for baton-twirling alien invaders!"

Laura laughed (somewhat) good-naturedly.

"I see your reputation for intuitive leaps of deduction are not exaggerated, Mr. Northfield! But, in this case, you're only half-right. These young men are actually Zainichi from Shiojiri, Japan. Brought here, via their hometown's sister city of Mishiwaka, Indiana, posing as mere exchange students. When, in fact, they are actually promising sulsado-ka.. I give you...the Am Ja Hwa Rang!"

Sam instinctively gasped. And I couldn't blame him. Because, in my own one-man war against the Heikegani-ryu, I had heard rumors of a similar organization within the special forces of the North Korean army. Practitioners of a ninjitsu-like art called "sulsa-do," whose code-name loosely translated...

...as "Knights of the Night."

"You've all led us a merry chase," Laura continued: "However, it's now long-past time to return our stolen property to us. Boys? Will you be so kind?"

Whereupon, we were all thrown to the floor like heavy sacks of flour. Following which, each pair of sulsa that had been holding us eased black-taped batons out of small, thin scabbards strapped to their backs. Although, they proceeded to aim them like long-barred target pistols.

That's when things got really strange.

You know that old joke about "no atheists in fox holes?" Well, right that second, it was proving true in my case. I was silently praying for a miracle. And, believe it or not; I got one!

"FIRE IN THE HOLE!!!"

tbc
End Notes:
* IU at Bloomington: the flagship campus of Indiana University ("Go, Hoosiers!")

Zainichi: any Japanese of centuries-old Korean heritage (as opposed to the children and/or grandchildren of more recently naturalized Korean immigrants to Japan).
Chapter 45 by Carycomic
Author's Notes:
A slight detour.
* * * * *

SOMEWHERE IN THE RYUKYU ISLANDS
(THIRTEEN YEARS EARLIER)

The master chunin dropped to one deferential knee as he entered the darkened chamber.

"Forgive this intrusion, Jonin-sama."

"Hai, Kohai-san?"

"I bring word from one of our people in Tokyo. The American CIA wish us to do them another favor."

"And what might that be?"

"The double-agent we trained for them (the one we dubbed 'Mujina-san') has apparently succumbed to cumulative hormone imbalance. He has become an indiscriminate killer of yaoi!"

"Where?"

"In the American city of San Francisco."

The high priest of the Heikegani-ryu momentarily pondered what he had heard.

"Using what we taught him?"

"Hai, Jonin-sama."

"How close are the American authorities to finding him?"

"The local police have called in the FBI...and their much-vaunted Behavioral Crimes Unit."

"Then, we have no time to lose. Send for Tanuki-san."

"Hai, Jonin-sama!"

SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA
(ONE WEEK LATER)

Jordan Trask (born and raised in Sheboygan, Wisconsin) carefully refastened the padlock on the chicken-wired door of the dovecote. After which, he checked the door to the roof access stairway, Smilingly reassuring himself that the masking tape he had put over the wedge-shaped bolts was still in place. He then stealthily made his way down those stairs to an almost-identical door. And, from there, he ultimately returned to his hotel room.

It was only while hanging up his midnight-black apparel that he sensed the other's presence.

"Alright! Show yourself."

The genin who re-enlarged before him bowed upon regaining full size.

"Tanuki???" exclaimed the ex-CIA operative.

"Long time/no see, Jordie. I'd ask how you're doing. But, I've read the local papers."

"Including my sister's obituary?!"

"My condolences on that. Really! She was a credit to her calling. Which is why I know she'd be the first to disapprove of what you're doing in her name!"

"Surely, you don't approve of their lifestyle, Tanuki."

"The drunk driver that killed her could just as easily have been straight. But, that's moot. You've given him the Old Testament-style punishment he deserved. And the same for the bartender who didn't cut him off. Leave it at that, and go back to teaching ESL in Tokyo!"

Jordan Trask shook his head.

"Not until every single one of them has been eradicated from this city."

'I can't let you do that, Jordie. Jonin-sama's orders."

Trask grinned, mercilessly.

" 'Nothing must endanger our sacred anonymity?' " he quoted.

Tanuki nodded: "Not even CHI."

"Then get to it," ordered Trask: "Kill me...if you can."

Twenty minutes later, Tanuki shrank down to two inches tall to hide out from the FBI/SFPD raiding party that busted into the hotel room intent on arresting Trask. Only to find the latter's corpse...

...which Tanuki had only had time to shrink down to three feet in height.

* * * * *

GEN. WM. MITCHELL ANG BASE (AUG. 2014)

CHET NORTHFIELD'S P.O.V.

"Fire in the hole!" exclaimed a new voice from up in the rafters.

A second later, a trio of "flash-bang" grenades went off, one right after the other This was followed by the staccato reports of an M-16 being fired on semi-automatic mode. Which, of course, did nothing to lessen the collective ringing in everybody's ears. Even mine!

[Hey! We were trussed up in those nets like chickens. Making it virtually impossible to cover our ears, effectively. At least, not in time to heed that seemingly miraculous warning.]

When the disorientation finally passed, however, the first thing I noticed was that the net surrounding me was gone. And, so were the nets surrounding everyone else. The second thing I noticed was even more interesting. The ninja holding the M-16/M-203 combo that had saved our asses was wearing brown face paint beneath a black domino mask. Making him look just like a Japanese raccoon dog.

Also known as... a "tanuki."

tbc
End Notes:
Chunin: the ninjitsu equivalent of a junior officer.

Jonin: the headmaster of a ninja ryu,

Mujina: Japanese term for "badger" (state mammal of Wisconsin).

Yaoi: Japanese term for homosexuality.
Chapter 46 by Carycomic
* * * * *
STILL CHET NORTHFIELD'S P.O.V.

During the initial ambush, Sam and I had estimated about fifty sulsa suddenly re-enlarging and dropping down from the rafters. And, between the two of us, we had managed to account for one-fifth of them. The rest of them had fallen to 5.56 mm rounds fired by the genin who now identified himself...as Kevin McCloskey.

The only one he did not kill was the Hoosier twirler Laura Petrie. Her, he sedated with an acupuncture needle dipped in thorazine!

Only then did the resident SP's of this base come barging in to our "rescue." Eric Bravo quickly took charge, though, and explained to the sergeant of the guard (in a concise-if-edited fashion) what had happened. So, when the sergeant got on his cellphone, and ordered fifty-one body bags be brought to the hangar/warehouse, ASAP, I had a pretty good idea who was going in the fifty-first. And, sure enough, I was right!

When Ms. Petrie woke up, half an hour later, we had her in a maximum security cell, wrist-tied, blindfolded and wearing an extra-large WAF blazer over her leotard. In the interim beforehand, it was decided that Naomi would interrogate her...

...while I interrogated McCloskey.

"OK, Lucy," I said (not even bothering trying to sound like Desi Arnaz): "Start 'splaining.' "

At least he had the good manners to courteously chuckle.

"If, by that, you mean you're subtly demanding to know how a certain redheaded ex-Ranger of Company D, 151st Infantry, could get the drop on a bunch of shrink-and-grow ninjas, the answer is simple. I learned it from my old man!"

McCloskey, Senior, it turns out, was a Vietnam War veteran (from East Chicago, Indiana) who had spent the first ten years, after 'Nam, running guns as a Company merc. Then, around 1977, they started paying him to cross-train with the Heikegani-ryu! When he "graduated," the Company put him to work in Soviet-occupied Afghanistan as a "military advisor" to the Mujahideen. After the Soviet Union dissolved in 1991, however, he moved back to the States, where he went to work for CPS, Inc.

Just to be near his ex-wife and son (who now lived in Culver City).

"Pop taught me their secrets during my summer vacations with him. And I've been following in his footsteps since graduating from college!"

* * * * *

MILES STONE'S P.O.V.

Naomi had talked it over with Eric Bravo, beforehand, and the two of them decided it would be better if she conducted the verbal questioning. That way, I could hide in her breast pocket and use my cyber-telepathic implant to do a little "websurfing" of Laura Petrie's (I could not even _think_ of that name without picturing Mary Tyler Moore!) nanite-infested brain. So, I went into my auto-hypnotic trance and did exactly that.

"Hello, Major Stone. "I've been waiting for you."

There she was; standing there, in my mind's eye, just as everyone else had seen her during the initial confrontation in that commandeered maintenance hangar. And, by that, I mean she was the same height as I was mentally picturing myself!

"How...?" I instinctively began to ask.

"Those I serve have been at this a lot longer than your people. Indeed; the computer chip in your brain was developed from the reverse-engineering of electronic equipment your government salvaged from a certain spacecraft...in Roswell, New Mexico."

tbc
Chapter 47 by Carycomic
MILES STONE'S P.O.V.

* * * * *

My response was understandably instinctive.

"Say what???"

Laura smiled at me.

"They never told you that part. Did they? The ones in charge of Project: Silenus, I mean. And, oh, there's a lot they neglected to tell you, Captain! For example: you weren't shrunken by some exotic transuranic element in the micrometeorites that forced your space shuttle to crash. Or even by the energy of the Bermuda Triangle. It was a side-effect of the genetically engineered mushroom extract you were given!!"

Within the mental landscape where she and I were holding this conversation, I criss-crossed my arms in blatant disbelief.

"Bullshit!"

Rather than offended, she actually seem amused by my profane rejoinder. Because, she grinned like a Cheshire cat...with rabies.

"It's true! The ultimate goal of Project: Silenus was to send Earth's first interstellar spaceship to Alpha Centauri. A ship in which the passengers, and most of the crew, would be in cryogenic hibernation. The one exception among the latter would be a specially trained pilot. One who would have a microelectronic computer chip surgically implanted in his brain, so as to telepathically control all the electronic equipment aboard (including robotic maintenance drones). Yet, who would also have been shrunken down, to the size of a child's toy, so as to conserve on food, water, and air supply consumption! And, of course, shrinking the prospective colonists, as well, would allow space for _hundreds_ of cryogenic tubes aboard the ship!"

"The only problem? How to re-enlarge everyone when they reached Alpha Centauri. A 'slight' complication that Hana Nozama was still trying to lick when M.A.C.H.O. arrested her, five years ago."

"Big deal!" I exclaimed (trying to regain control of the conversation): "That still doesn't explain how you even know about the existence of M.A.C.H.O. So, let's start the proverbial gut-spilling, there."

MEANWHILE, BACK IN THE REAL WORLD...
(FROM CHET NORTHFIELD'S P.O.V.)

"OK," I replied: "That explains your mad ninja skills. But, it doesn't explain how Twirl Girl and these Am Ja Hwa Rang got through base security."

"I can answer that," Eric Bravo interjected: "But, you're not going to like it, anymore than I do. I just got off the phone with the base control tower. A Tarhe sky crane got here just before we did. Sent by the Michigan Air National Guard to pick up a decommissioned Grumman Tigercat (in one of those boxcar-looking transport containers) for the Kalamazoo Air Museum. With one stop-over at Grissom Airbase, Indiana, for refueling!"

Sam instantly knew that was bogus.

"Kalamazoo's only a hundred forty-eight miles from Milwaukee. Less than three-fourths of the maximum range of a Tarhe. So, the pilot might have to refuel on the way back. But, definitely NOT on the way here!"

"Exactly," I replied: "That was just a cover story for picking up a Trojan Horse load of Zainichi ninja...and her."

I tilted my head in the direction of the one-way mirror for emphasis. Which is how it suddenly came to my attention what Cornell Brown and Francois LaPierre were doing.

They stood facing each other: hands clasped; eyes closed; and, yet, with their heads looking upward at the ceiling.

* * * * *

MILES STONE'S P.O.V.

"We learned of your organization's predecessor from the mind of one of our most important 'recruits.' A U. S. Senator, named Curtis, whose eldest son was attending Annapolis on a football scholarship. His father sat on the Appropriations Committee, at that time. And, shortly before his 'recruitment,' the Senator had just given the tie-breaking vote of approval for some extra funding needed by something called the M.O.C. What that was, he didn't know. But, his approval had involved some kind of bio-medical help for his younger son! Thus, needless to say, the Supervisors immediately began trying to gain information on this M.O.C."

I nodded my understanding. Unfortunately, before I could ask my next question (a demand for who else in Congress might be under her Supervisors' sway), I was interrupted. By my old buddies from Project: Silenus!

"Get out of there, Miles," Frank LaPierre yelled: "Disengage! DISENGAGE!"

"What are you...?"

"She's been stalling for time!" shouted Titus Armitage (as he grabbed me, and pulled me back, by my astral shoulders): "Until she could make a break for it."

I snapped out of my trance, to find myself in Naomi's cupped hands as she ran out of the interrogtion room to avoid the falling debris from Laura Petrie becoming instantly giant-sized...

...and literally shooting up right through the roof.

tbc
Chapter 48 by Carycomic
Author's Notes:
MILWAUKEE, WISCONSIN
(AUGUST 2014)
CHET NORTHFIELD'S P.O.V.

* * * * *

As you've no doubt already guessed, her handcuffs snapped apart like a paper chain. While, at the same time, the blazer that had modestly been placed over got torn to shreds. But, her cream/orange leotard? Not only did that remain intact. It also grew to giant-size with her!

And Laura Petrie didn't _stop_ growing until she had reached a height of one hundred feet.

After that, she headed towards the civilian side of Billy Mitchell Airport. Hopping, skipping, and jumping like a humongous ballerina...until she reached the control tower. There, she smiled and curtsied while two RC "flying saucers" suddenly materialized directly over her head!

The one hovering over her left shoulder then fired a pencil-thin beam of white light that shrank her back down to normal size...and probably beyond. Because, the second saucer then fired a similar beam of light! Only, this one was of slightly longer duration. Making me wonder if this might be the real-life equivalent of a STAR TREK tractor beam. Gravitationally attracting our former captive aboard before departing, with its "sister ship," while the rest of us just stood and watched from just outside the front doorway of what had once been a glorified guard house.

Yet, which now lay in ruins.

Thirty minutes later, we were all of us airborne, on a Lockheed Hercules, eastbound for M.A.C.H.O. Headquarters. Naturally, the loudness of the plane's engines forced us to wear foam rubber-padded headphones. But, thanks to Captain Stone and his cyber-telepathy, we were now able to converse with Myron Meriwether via the lap top that my cousin Sam's daughter, Naomi, had brought along with her.

* * * * *

MILES STONE'S P.O.V.

"A hundred feet tall?!" Meriwether exclaimed.

I grimly nodded.

"And, in full view of the public?" he added.

I shrugged: "Well, in full view of everyone in the control tower, at least."

He gave himself a double face-palm: "Oh, shit."

"Don't worry," I hastened to reassure him: "I already circulated an anonymous tip, via social media, that it was an elaborate publicity stunt for a new sci-fi flick! A three-dimensional image projected by experimental lasers attached to some of those new toy-sized drones with the fan-like rotor blades."

"Quick thinking, Captain," sighed Meriwether with a grateful nod: "I'm afraid, however, that plausible disinformation is only half the battle."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"The last time Uncle Sam dealt with a true giantess was in December of 1962. And she was the result of an accidental biochemical mutation!* One that somehow negated the usual limitations of a human skeleton's ability to support only so much weight in relation to height. Yet, here we are; now faced with a segment of the female American population that can be enlarged, en masse, on purpose!! Solution 62 is, therefore, not a viable first defense against such forces. Not in a wide-scale _open_ battle, anyway."

I nodded again, adding: "Especially, when you consider how bulletproof these girls appear to be at this size. Laura Petrie was fired upon by every member of the Wisconsin Air National Guard, present, who was any good with an M-16. Yet, not one bullet seemed to affect her any worse than a mosquito bite!"

That's when my partner, Naomi, chimed in.

"Maybe we can give ourselves an edge by reverse-engineering that nano-parasite Uncle Chet managed to skewer."

Whereupon, a smile reappeared, on Meriwether's face, faster than you can say "Holy Shit."
End Notes:
*See "WHAT PRICE, VICTORY?".
Chapter 49 by Carycomic
Author's Notes:
M.A.C.H.O. HEADQUARTERS
(OCTOBER, 2014)
CHET NORTHFIELD'S P.O.V.

* * * * *

In the two months that followed, the people at M.A.C.H,O. (the Multi-Agency Counter-Homunculist Organization...in case you'd forgotten) learned several things. First off? A SEAL team from N.A.S. Glenview, Illinois, retrieved the body of Captain Reggie Saito from the Brotherton Reservation in Wisconsin.* Bringing it to a secret branch of M.A.C.H.O.'s Research & Development Division (beneath the campus of UW-Milwaukee) for autopsy by Dr. Donna X. McGee.

According to Miles Stone, the good doctor had been born at San Francisco's Mare Island Naval Base on Valentine's Day, 1974. Hence, her Irish-Mexican mom (nee Maria-Bonita Brophy) middle-naming her "Xochiquetzal" after the Aztec goddess of love! And, by age twenty, she began attending the USC medical school as part of the Naval ROTC program. Hence, her post-doctorate residency at the naval hospital in Bethesda, Maryland.

It was there that she was first recruited into the organization...after witnessing two of its agents take down a serial homunculist who had tried to add her to his collection of shrunken love-slaves.

Her autopsy of Saito revealed that the nano-cyborgs were apparently able to assimilate any organic matter (solid or liquid) to augment whatever form of energy they usually ran on. Hence, the one I impaled having enlarged itself after soaking up some of Saito's blood! But, it wasn't just self-enlargement they were capable of, with that extra energy.

"It also enables them to...asexually reproduce."

It was difficult to determine whose ensuing "Say what?!" was louder. Mine or Meriwether's. So, Doctor McGee illustrated her statement by flicking a switch on her remote control. Thereby temporarily replacing her image (on Meriwether's office flat screen) with that of a glass container filled with water. The video camera that had been focused on her zooming in on that container, like an electron microscope, instead.

Eventually showing what resembled a bunch of armor-plated microbes.

"What you're looking at are colloquially known as 'water bears.' The only species of terrestrial micro-organism known to science that can survive almost anywhere. Even the vacuum of orbital space! Yet these, as we already know, are of _extra-terrestrial_ origin. Something that would be evident just from the electronic components of their anatomy!"

"Are those components what allow them to mentally link their hosts, together?" I asked.

"Oh, yes!" she exclaimed (reappearing on screen): "But, that's not all. With regard to the supra-normal gigantism, they can increase the density of their host body's skeletal structure, in proportion. Thereby eliminating the breaking of rib bones with every step taken over a height of ten feet. They can also retard--and, to a lesser extent, even reverse--their host body's aging process! Which would allow a middle-aged female host, for example, to resemble a teenager."

"Speaking of which," I replied: "What about those batons the alienized majorettes are wielding? What makes them tick?"

"You mean, what purpose do they serve?"

Meriwether and I nodded as one.

"Well," she continued: "One baton serves as a weapon, for both offense and defense. Emitting a beam of white light that basically transforms anions into cations and vice-versa. The more anions an object gets, when hit with this beam, the smaller in size it becomes. And the reverse holds equally true for the cationic transformation process! Whereas, the other baton is more of a tool. Emitting a combination of subsonic waves and psychedelic patterns of yellow light that basically lull the on-looker into a highly suggestible state."

"In other words," I summarized: "...a kind of subliminal hypnosis."

"A very sophisticated kind," she added: "One quite capable of inhibiting all normal inhibition. Like the one against cold-blooded murder, for instance."

"Thank you, Dr. McGee," said Meriwether: "Your report has been most illuminating."

tbc
End Notes:
*N.A.S. (Naval Air Station).

Anions: negatively-charged ions attracted to electrolysis anodes.

Cations: positively-charged ions attracted to electrolysis cathodes.
Chapter 50 by Carycomic
Author's Notes:
MILES STONE'S P.O.V.
* * * * *

Most people don't like living under a shadow. Young Michael Curtis had been born and raised under two! His father, Charles, was a Democratic U.S. Senator from Oklahoma, with a prominent seat on the Appropriations Committee. While his older brother, Trevor, had spent the fall of 1988 as the star quarterback of the U.S. Naval Academy football team at Annapolis, Maryland. But, as Michael had neither a head for politics nor the physical co-ordination vital to contact sports, the only way he had, to relieve his misery, was to heap disgrace on the family name!

So, during the spring break of 1989, he and three buddies from the Magic City campus of Texas Tech decided to leave Palm Springs, California, to do a little bar-hopping in Tijuana, Mexico.

There, at what must have been their fourth or fifth cantina, Michael noticed how raptly the bar tender was watching a soccer game on TV. And, when the team that the latter was rooting for lost, Michael used that opportunity to explain (a little _too_ loudly) just how many ways he felt soccer was inferior to American football. Or, as he so unwisely put it,...

... "real" football.

Faster than you can "Oh, shit!," a fight ensued. With the policia arresting all four of the instigators. And with Michael drunkenly boasting about his parentage. The desk sergeant, taking note of that, made a discrete radiotelephone call to a certain expatriate Cuban who owned a fishing boat in San Diego. The Cuban then RT'd a certain staff member at the Russian Consulate in San Francisco! Twenty-four hours later, Senator Curtis got a phone call of his own at his Georgetown mansion in DC.

If the senator wanted Michael back, alive and unharmed, he was to have his older son, Trevor, visit the tail end of the Reflecting Pool (directly opposite the Washington Monument) at half-past-ten, that night. There, he would hand the caller's partner an envelope containing a traveler's check for one hundred thousand dollars. Any interference by the FBI and/or local cops? And Michael would fry like a moth on a bug zapper.

The senator, of course, thought that was just a figure of speech. But, he was wrong. Because Trevor saw, for himself, that Michael had been shrunken and twist-tied to just that: an electric bug zapper! One that had been plugged into a portable battery pack clipped on to the partner's belt. And the only thing keeping that battery turned off...

...was the partner's thumb on a dead man's switch.

The partner, by the way, turned out to be a woman. A female KGB operative, commonly known in spycraft as a "sparrow." And the ransom drop turned out to be just a pretense for taking infra-red telephoto snapshots of the exchange. In order to extort further "cooperation" from the senator, for something even bigger, later on! Yet, for all this elaborate planning, the caller had made one mistake.

He had used a sparrow, cross-trained by the Heikegani-ryu, to abduct Michael from that Mexican jail.

Now, Chet Northfield has never divulged just how he happened to learn that this particular sparrow was on American soil in the first place. Although, like most of his other "anonymous" tips, he had probably heard about it from his Uncle Jiro. In any case, he used his own brand of ninjitsu to crash the pool party and put the KGB photographer in a sleeper hold. And, when the sparrow returned to their get-away car with the ransom? She wound up getting beaned in the forehead with a Superball!

Thereby stunning her just long to get her mini-skirted ass injected with a needle full of Solution 62 (the same as Chet had already done to the photographer).

Needless to say, it was the Miniscule Operations Command who wound up taking all the credit for aiding Senator Curtis. The result of a certain "special delivery" getting anonymously mailed to Myron Meriwether's office at Langley, Virginia! And the senator, of course, gratefully vowed all kinds of funding for the M.O.C. in the hopes that Michael would, one day, get re-enlarged. What nobody knew at that time, however, is that Trevor Curtis...

...had already been alienized.

How do I know this, more than twenty-five years after the fact? Simple! Laura Petrie's over-confident bragging. During our cyber-telepathic chat, she had made a boastful reference to Senator Curtis. So, naturally, that was one of the first things I checked during the long flight back to Key West from Wisconsin. And, when I saw that Trevor Curtis was now a captain with the Office of Naval Intelligence, I suddenly had a retrocognitive vision of everything I've just described. More specifically? Everything as it'd been seen through the eyes of then-Midshipman Curtis.

Including his "psychotronic indoctrination" at the hands of his girlfriend--and two other alienized baton twirlers--back at his hometown high school.

Unfortunately, Captain Curtis wasn't home when a mixed bag of FBI agents and marine MP's. raided his BOQ apartment at Quantico. Which, in turn, pissed off our Director of Operations. To the point where he almost _broke_ his right fist, pounding the top of his desk in frustration!

"The man was being groomed to be our next ONI liaison officer! Do you know what that means?!"

Naomi Watanabe and I nodded as one. But, Myron kept venting, anyway. Holding up his C-shaped left thumb and forefinger for emphasis.

"He came _this close_ to knowing everything about M.A.C.H.O. Too close, as far as I'm permanently concerned. So, that's it! As of this moment...I'm initiating the Omega Protocols."

Naomi and I looked at each other in shock as he added:

"All personnel to active duty, until further notice. All other cases to be instantly dropped. We---are going---to war!"

THE END...of volume 1

TO BE CONTINUED in volume 2.
End Notes:
*BOQ: Bachelor Officers' Quarters.

Quantico: the city in Virginia, USA, where the FBI has its training academy on the grounds of a USMC base.
This story archived at http://www.giantessworld.net/viewstory.php?sid=3518