Monsignor Loricci backed away from the screen, knocking papers and a calculator to the shiny tile floor. He rubbed his tired eyes and blinked.

"That shouldn't be there," he whispered. Hurriedly, he typed in new coordinates and waited for the primary and secondary mirrors to adjust.

"Yes, there! I see it clearly now!"

Monsignor Loricci leaned closer to the observatory's wide plasma screen monitor and clicked on the tape drive icon. After it had recorded the images, he typed an encrypted email and sent it to Cardinal Cordele at Castel Gandolfo, the Papal Summer Residence located in the Alban Hills twenty five miles southeast of Rome.

Two minutes later, the red phone next to the computer workstation rang.

Clearing his throat, the monsignor picked up the receiver, its signal scrambled with a transfer box the CIA would be proud of. A secretive group deep inside the Vatican's elite Swiss Guard had installed it three years ago.

The voice on the other end was that of Cardinal Cordele. "Buongiorno, Monsignor Loricci."

"Your Eminence! Thank you for calling me back."

On the other side of the Atlantic, Cardinal Cordele adjusted the sash circling his portly girth and glanced out the floor-to-ceiling windows of Castel Gandolfo's library. This was not just any library; it boasted over 22,000 volumes, including an extremely rare collection of antique books by Copernicus, Galileo, Newton, Kepler, Brahe, Clavius, and Secchi. Down the hall and around the corner, a unique meteorite collection took up nearly a fifth of the building. Using these samples, knowledge of the earliest beginnings of the solar system could be postulated—or, at least, that was what the Vatican Research Observatory Group's website claimed they were for.

"You are sure about what is on the tape?" he asked the monsignor.

"Yes, Your Eminence."

Billy Johnson yawned and took another sip of steaming black coffee from his oversized 'Farmers are the future of America!' mug. "Man, that's good."

Putting the mug down on the metal desk, he stared at his laptop. 'July 4, 4:59 a.m.' blinked at the bottom right hand corner of the screen. "Stupid pump's on the blitz," Billy muttered after a quick scan of the data.

"Not again!" Randy Johnson said, glancing up from the sports page.

Billy rolled the mouse up and down on the pad a few times as he verified his findings. Frustrated, he slammed it down so hard the laptop's screen fell over and closed. He swiveled around in his chair and looked at his brother.

"Go out there and find out what's up with that pump. Then call me on the radio, and I'll try and get a crew lined up before lunch—holiday, or no holiday."

Randy folded the paper. "Yeah, it's supposed to be over a hundred this afternoon. We got to get water, or we're gonna lose the soybeans."

Billy scratched the back of his leathery neck and sulked. "If I ever see that weasel salesman again, I'm gonna haul him down to that pump, tie him to it, and turn the thing on. Diesel and oil all over that Brooks Brothers suit might get his attention."

Randy snickered and smashed a mosquito against the PGA money list rankings printed on the back page of the sports section then got up and headed out.

The door banged shut on the doublewide as Randy disappeared into the dark.

Captain Jennings flinched and looked up from his monitor, spinning around to face General Sanchez. "Sir!"

"What is it Captain Jennings?"

"Fastwalker, coming in at mach 14 over southern Arkansas!"

"Put it on the big screen." General Adam Sanchez whistled like a man calling his dog, waving his arms and motioning several officers to their posts. "Time?"

"05:09 a.m. Central," Jennings said.

"We got anything in the vicinity?"

"Checking… Yes, sir, two F-22s, stationed at Barksdale."

"Get 'em on the speaker!"

Captain Jennings punched a couple of keys on his computer and pointed at the General's hands-free mike. "You're live, sir."

"Boys, this is General Sanchez of NORAD. Change of plans this morning! I hate to bust up your routine flight run, but we have a fastwalker in southern Arkansas, and I want you locked on target, armed, and ready to fire on my command. Transmitting new coordinates to your nav systems as we speak. Kick it up to mach 2."

The digital sound was crystal clear.

"Roger that, NORAD. Coordinates received; thrusters will fire in three…two…one…"

The control room speakers broadcast the cockpit noises and the pilots' grunts as their jets arced them into 6 G's as they turned across northern Louisiana and into Arkansas.

"Billy, this here's Randy."

Duh, Billy thought, reaching for the mike. "Yeah, Randy. What is it now?"

"You forget to tell me something?"

"What do you mean?" Billy asked, not in the mood to play games.

"We got company out here—three Chevy Suburbans, two Ford one-ton pickups, and a Volvo eighteen-wheeler, all of 'em black." A spit could be heard through static. "Man, that's a nice lookin' rig. They really sexed it up."

"Who are they?" Billy asked, drumming fingers on the metal desk.

"Looks like maybe a wildcat crew."

Billy rubbed his chin and pulled the mike closer to his whiskered face. "Ain't the same ones we saw in Eldorado last week, is it?"

"Nope, theirs were white, and I think they were with Texaco. These trucks don't even have tags."

"First the pump, and now this. We'll never make it to the Fourth of July picnic." Billy sighed deeply. "Sit tight. I'll be there in a couple of minutes."

Billy's pickup skidded to a stop. He glanced at his watch; it was 5:18 a.m. He left the engine running and the headlights on when he got out.

"You talked to any of them?" he asked his brother, nodding toward the trucks.

"Nope, been sittin' here waiting on you." Randy spit a brown stream of Copenhagen at a bug near his boot.

Billy cleared his throat and pondered the brown line of tobacco juice on the ground. "That stuff's gonna rot your tongue out."

Randy shrugged his shoulders and pointed to the trucks. "They haven't moved, and I haven't heard a peep."

"I'm thinking they're government," Billy said, squinting in the direction of the shiny black eighteen-wheeler.

Randy reached inside his truck and pulled out a long barreled pistol with an old-fashioned wooden butt, the initials 'RJ' prominently carved into the polished wood. "I don't care if they're CIA, FBI, or X-Files. They can't just barge in here and set up camp."

Billy grabbed the gun and tossed it back into Randy's truck. "You crazy?"

Billy walked toward the caravan of black vehicles, all of which looked showroom-floor new. As he approached the contoured trailer, bristling with small antennas along its roof, a door opened in the back. Blinding white light flooded the ground.

A black-suited man stepped into the doorway. "You Mr. Johnson?" he asked, in an accent that was definitely not native to southern Arkansas.

"Yep. This is my brother, Randy. Who are you folks?" Billy asked.

"We're government."

"I told you," Billy mumbled.

"What part?" Randy demanded, moving in behind his brother.

Black Suit jumped down from the trailer and straightened his coat and tie. "The part you aren't supposed to know anything about."

"Now, you look here," Billy said, shoving his hands deep in his pockets. "I'm a tax paying farmer, and this is my land. You boys can't just come in here like you own the place."

Randy adjusted his 'Seed and Feed' cap with stubby fingers. "Say, Mister, you got a warrant, or some papers? Something that says you can bring these vehicles in here?"

"I'd even settle for a badge," Billy quipped.

Black Suit stared at Randy and Billy from behind bug-eyed sunglasses. "No, we don't have papers, or…badges." He stepped forward, and the brothers took two steps back. "But I'll let you see why we're here."

Randy glanced at Billy, and Billy returned his puzzled look.

"Okay, what you got?" Billy asked, wishing now that they'd kept the pistol.

"This way," Black Suit invited, stepping away from the trailer.

"Thank you for the update, Monsignor Loricci. Remember, not a word about this to anyone. NORAD can't help but pick up the craft this close to Earth, and they will surely scramble fighters to attack it."

"What will be our position?"

After a long pause, Cardinal Cordele said, "As soon as the transmission is complete and I've had time to study it, I will arrange a meeting with the Holy Father. You know he takes a personal interest in our work."

Randy and Billy fell in behind their mysterious tour guide, past the vehicles and the water pump—which now seemed to be working just fine—to a stand of pecan trees that looked like they'd been recently napalmed.

"What happened?" Billy asked, staring at a smoking hole in the ground.

"Your little community is full of heavy sleepers. At 4:31 Central time this morning, a satellite crashed. We're here to recover it."

"What?"

Black Suit peered into the hole and motioned them over.

Billy cautiously approached the rim. "How did you get here so—"

"Mr. Johnson, we possess technology far superior to what you can buy at Wal-Mart. It's our job to be in the area when one of these, ah, disturbances takes place."

Smelly smoke rose from the crater.

"Something's moving down there!" Randy yelled, jumping back and pulling Billy with him. "Smells like sulfur, and looks like Hell in the flesh."

Billy really wished he had the gun now, as he craned his neck and tried to look into the hole. Hairs stood up on his forearms and the back of his neck.

"Where's the rest of your crew?" he asked, peering back over his shoulder at the black vehicles.

"Most are in the trailer, but a couple of them are down there." Black Suit pointed at the hole. "You saw them moving around."

"No, sir!" Randy fired back. "I saw something that was most definitely not human. It was big, with wings, and long hair, and glowing red eyes! It looked right at me!"

Black Suit stared at Randy then chuckled. "Mr. Johnson, that's one active imagination you've got there. Bet you liked to draw as a kid."

Randy looked indignant. "I know what I saw!"

"Look, guys," Black Suit explained in a more serious tone. "That's one of our top-secret satellites down there, and it has some very sensitive data on it. The 'red eyes' are sensors, and the 'wings' are just charred solar panels."

Randy straightened his shoulders. "You callin' me a liar, X-Filer? I may not be a rocket scientist, but I do know if that fell from up there—he pointed heavenward—to down here, it would have burned up." He looked smug, like he'd just passed gas and gotten away with it.

"It sure don't feel like no satellite," Billy agreed, rubbing hairs down on the back of his neck.

Black Suit glanced at the hole. "Take another look, fellas."

Billy and Randy inched forward. In the distance a roar grew louder up in the sky.

"What's that?" Billy asked, looking up.

Suddenly, it became difficult to breathe, like the air had been sucked out of a room.

Billy and Randy blacked out.

"What just happened, Captain Jennings?"

"Fastwalker vanished, sir."

The announcement was met with a stony silence.

"Unacceptable," General Sanchez said at last. "Where are my birds?"

"They're gone, too."

The general grabbed the arm of his chair and sat down. "I want a full report, including all data and recorded transmissions, on my desk in no more than ten minutes. If we lost those planes, there will be an investigation."

"Yes, sir!"

Billy slapped the snooze button and heard his wife mumble something about coleslaw. He rubbed his eyes and stared at the clock. It said 5:31 a.m.

Didn't I just get up? he thought sleepily. I can't believe I overslept!

Billy rubbed stiff whiskers, put both feet on the floor, and scratched his head in search of a forgotten thought that didn't want to be found. He dressed in the dark so as not to wake his wife, exited the tidy brick ranch house sheltering under an ancient oak tree, and made his way to his pickup.

Ten minutes later, he pulled up to the doublewide they used as a farm office, near the turnoff of highway 80, where the Johnson family property started.

Randy sat in his truck with the dome light on, studying the sports page.

"You oversleep, too?" Billie asked, bumping the side of Randy's truck with a balled up fist.

"Yeah, first time in five years. You too, huh?"

Billy nodded. "Let's get a move on, or we'll never make it to the lake this afternoon."

Randy rolled up the paper and stepped in behind his brother. "You ever feel like you just did something, but you know you didn't?"

"They call it déjà vu, and yeah, I have. This morning comes to mind."

Randy scratched his nose. "I know what you mean. Say, Billy, old man Williams is gonna need some help with the grilling. I told him I'd get over there after lunch and pitch in."

Billy unlocked the door and turned the lights on. "Okay, but business before pleasure."

Billy plopped down in his 1950's-style wooden swivel chair and bumped the mouse pad next to his laptop. The screen came alive with data. "Son of a gun! Pump's working today! I would have sworn it'd be messed up this morning. Maybe it'll turn out to be a good day, after all."

Randy looked up from the sports page and grinned. "May be good, but I hear it's gonna be hotter than blue blazes. Supposed to be over a hundred." He took a sip of coffee. "I'm gonna run out to the bean field anyway, and make sure the water's coming in. I don't trust that computer."

"So, let me get this straight," General Sanchez said, flipping through paperwork. "Our analysts are telling us we had some kind of…time warp…incident this morning?"

Captain Jennings flinched. "Not exactly, sir. According to the data, our pilots engaged the bogey, but when they locked on the target… Well, that's when it happened."

"They disappeared?"

Captain Jennings squirmed. "No, sir. That's when they, ah, materialized back on the tarmac at Barksdale. According to the data, the planes engaged the bogey at 05:22 Central. At 05:22:30, our pilots were sitting on the runway at Barksdale, with no memory of the encounter. Crazy thing is, the onboard computers in the F-22s must have been reset. They're extremely reliable, but show no break in time."

"I don't get it," General Sanchez replied tossing the paperwork onto his desk.

"We don't either, sir. But we did pick up something unusual on the ground, in the vicinity of the bogey."

"Yes?"

"It appears there's some kind of electromagnetic vortex emanating from near where the bogey was spotted, on a soybean farm in Arkansas. We've got a team headed there now."

Randy pulled up to the pecan grove near the pump house and switched off the ignition. He heard something that sounded like a rumble of thunder high overhead and looked up, staring heavenward in the dawning light. What the heck is that? he wondered.

Then, suddenly, everything grew quiet.

Randy opened the door and got out. Glancing down, he noticed tire tracks.

Lots of tire tracks, and footprints, too.

He radioed Billy.

"Is it working?" his brother asked.

"You ain't gonna believe this, but we had company last night."

"What?"

"We got a bunch of tire tracks out here. My guess is that ol' boy from the pump company felt so bad, he had a brand new one installed. By the looks of these tracks, they had a large crew out here, including an eighteen-wheeler."

A shiny black Volvo eighteen-wheeler roared up the entrance ramp and onto I-35, headed toward Texarkana. The east glowed yellow and pink. It would be hot today. The driver looked over at his passenger and grinned.

"So, how many does that make now?"

The man in the black suit smiled and took off his sunglasses. Black eyes filled with glowing embers stared back at the driver. "Honestly, I've lost count. But I think we're real close."

The driver nodded in agreement. "Seems like each one we pick up gets to be more complicated than the last, though."

Black Suit shook his head. "The trailer should do the trick. Of course, the electromagnetic field is strong, and their military will most likely pick it up. We've got to keep moving to throw them off. Good for us this sun is going through a major magnetic storm. That should help cover us."

"It's a shame we can't just hop the gate and be there, like they can," the driver said, thumb extended toward the trailer in tow behind them.

Black Suit smiled. "When on Earth, do as the humans do, or some such trivial nonsense."

The driver nodded and gripped the steering wheel firmly. "We'll be in Nevada in fifteen hours."

"Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, Your Holiness." Cardinal Cordele bowed and kissed the Pope's ring.

"So, you are convinced by what you've seen?" the Pope asked.

"Yes," Cardinal Cordele replied. "And if I may be frank, does this not create a rather precarious position for the Church?"

"In what way?"

"Well…there's life out there, and now it's coming here."

The Pope smiled. "My dear brother, the Holy Scriptures foretell it! Why we haven't seen it sooner is beyond me. But the real battle is for the soul, not the planets. They come to steal, kill, and destroy."

"The aliens, Holy Father?"

"Call them whatever you wish, but the Scriptures refer to them as angels. More specifically, fallen angels."

"But, Your Holiness! They have ships that fly through space, and advanced technologies! We've even captured some of them on film."

"Cardinal Cordele, I remind you that Daniel said, 'They shall mingle themselves with the seed of men.' That time has come."

"Sir, we found the source of that electromagnetic anomaly in Arkansas."

"What!"

"We'd lost it due to a series of severe solar storms, but it just re-surfaced a few minutes ago, stronger than ever."

"Where?" General Sanchez demanded.

"Groom Lake."

"And the source?"

"They tell us it looks like an irrigation pump used on a farm. Our boys from out at '51 are giving it the once-over as we speak, but what I can tell you for sure is it's a communication device. To them." Captain Jennings pointed at the ceiling.

"Okay, I'm struggling with this one. There's bound to be a hearing."

"Sir?"

"Never mind." General Sanchez waved at him to continue. "Is that all?"

"No, sir. We also picked up the farmers and debriefed them. Turns out they have no recollection of the encounter. As they described it, they sensed something was amiss that day, but they blamed it on oversleeping. Something they claim they never do."

"I see. That will be all, Captain."

"Yes, sir."

Captain Jennings left General Sanchez sitting behind his desk in the NORAD Control Room. He grinned as he hurried down the long corridor, buried deep inside a Colorado mountain, to his private quarters. Looking up and down the hallway first, he slid his key card in the slot and entered.

He slammed the door behind him and exhaled. Our ranks continue to grow daily, Captain Jennings thought, staring at his image in the mirror over the sink. It won't be much longer now.

In his reflection, the faint flicker of an ember re-kindled with new intensity in his black eyes.