CHAPTER 1
 

Southern Utah—March 10, 1996.  Three a.m.  Sunday morning in a remote part of the Glen Canyon Recreational Area, home of magnificent Lake Powell. 

Billy “Wise Owl” Johnson opened his eyes.  He had been awakened by a distant drumbeating sound.  He thought it might be a helicopter.  If so, he and his brother could be in deep shit.

Gradually the disturbing noise faded.  Relieved, Billy twisted around in his sleeping bag and tried to doze off again.  It was impossible.  Like previous overnight stays at Lake Powell, he couldn’t stop worrying about his stupid, dope-smoking twin brother, Buck “Brave Eagle.” 

The last time they were here, the idiot wandered off to take a leak and got lost in the darkness, he was that stoned on peyote.  Not a smart thing to do when you’re camped on a mesa 300 feet high with sheer cliffs bordering the ice-cold Escalante tributary, one of the lake’s major feeders.

The memory soured Billy’s face.  It was bad enough he’d been born a Navajo Indian, one of the most screwed-over people in North America, but being Buck’s identical sibling had made life nearly intolerable for him.  Since their birth 19 years ago, they had worn the same clothes, done the same things, gone to the same places--always together.  That’s what angered him most, his lack of true individual freedom and a unique identity.  

More and more lately, Billy felt the same way about his brother that Cain did about Abel.  Like the other times, his mind drifted and began thinking about Old Testament fratricide.  Moments later, he heard the drumbeating sound again--growing louder. 

Alarmed, Billy threw open his sleeping bag and shouted, “Wake up, Buck!  A helicopter’s coming!”

No response.

Billy yelled again.  This time the warning roused its intended target. 

Rolling over in his sleeping bag, Buck fumbled with the inside zipper, finally got it open and stuck his head out.  Yawning and rubbing his eyes, he muttered, “Did you say helicopter?”

“Yeah,” replied Billy, trying not to panic.  “I think it’s the park rangers.”

Unconvinced, Buck wondered aloud, “What makes you say that?”

“Charters don’t fly this late at night.  It has to be rangers.”

Buck sneered.  “Get real.  Rangers don’t use choppers.”

“There’s always a first time.  If I were you, I wouldn’t take any chances.  It sounds like they’re flying a search pattern.  If it is the rangers, they just might land and see what we’re doing here.”

Knowing how smart Billy was, the reason kids nicknamed him “Wise Owl” in school, Buck relented.  “You’re right, Little Brother.  Better safe than sorry.”

That was another thing Billy hated, being called “little” because he was younger than his twin by 10 seconds.

To stay warm, Buck had slept in his clothes--plaid wool shirt, blue jeans and white athletic socks.  Donning Adidas tennis shoes, he tied the strings and stood up.

“Are you getting rid of your dope?” asked Billy hopefully.

“Yep.  I’m gonna throw it in the Escalante.”

Wasting no time, Buck reached into his backpack, grabbed a small foil-wrapped package, stuffed it in his pocket and hurried down a shallow gully to the mesa’s eastern rim.

When Buck reached the edge, he reconsidered his next action. 

In hindsight yesterday, he and Billy should’ve gone to their old stomping grounds on the Navajo Reservation south of Lake Powell.  There, in Northern Arizona, unlike Utah, peyote was legal for sacred rituals in the American Indian Church.  Although his belief system was nonexistent, he could always invoke the right of religious freedom to avoid arrest by tribal cops for getting high.  That option wasn’t available to him when U.S. Park Service rangers had jurisdiction.  The paleface bastards could lock him up in Leavenworth and throw away the key, if they wanted to, just for looking stoned.

A distant staccato sound attracted Buck’s attention.

Scanning the horizon, he caught sight of glinting rotor blades illuminated by moonlight, being chased by a wispy contrail.  Just as he had suspected, the helicopter was flying without navigation lights and anti-collision strobes. 

Buck went up once in a Cessna 152, on an introductory flight from the airport at Page, Arizona.  Although brief, about 30 minutes with the landing scheduled after sunset, the demo was long enough for him to learn that operating an aircraft at night without external lighting was a blatant violation of FAA regulations.  But then, Lake Powell and its much larger environs, the Glen Canyon Recreation Area, was federal property and the rangers were government employees.  They could do whatever the hell they wanted and violate his civil rights in the process, such as invading a private campsite without probable cause. 

Buck looked for the phantom intruder again.  Barely visible to the north, it was following the Escalante on a southerly heading, coming straight at him.  To keep from being spotted, he lay down on his stomach in the dirt. 

Seconds later, level with the mesa, the chopper whizzed past the gully, rolled into a steep left bank, swung around to the north and began tracking the tributary in the opposite direction.

When the whirlybird flew by the second time, Buck got a good view of the profile, highlighted by the Moon.  He’d seen the shape before, in Vietnam War movies.  Bull-nosed with landing skids, squat rectangular fuselage, single rotor, tapered engine cowling and a long tail boom, the helicopter identified itself as a UH-1 Huey.

Buck was puzzled.  The Hueys in Vietnam, he recalled, carried at least six soldiers, probably more, plus two pilots.  Why would the Park Service use a chopper that big?  

Also, why would rangers fly at night when it was hard to see things on the ground?  

The answer came to him an instant later.  The pilots weren’t rangers, he realized.  Mother Hen Billy made that up, so he’d throw away his dope.

Feeling foolish, Buck stood up and marched angrily back to the campsite.

As he approached, his brother asked, “Did you get rid of your stash?”

        “Hell no!”

“Why not?”

“Rangers aren’t flying the chopper.”
       "Then who is?"
       Buck had an answer ready. “Army guys, that’s who.  On night maneuvers.”

“They’ve never done that before around here,” retorted Billy.  “Not that I’ve heard of, anyway.”

“Like you said, there’s always a first time.”

Billy ignored the sarcasm.  “There’s another explanation, you know.”

“What’s that?”

“The pilots are drug smugglers.”

Buck almost laughed.  The idea of dope dealers at Lake Powell sounded utterly absurd.  Yet, his bother wasn’t called Wise Owl for nothing.  If Billy had a good reason for thinking that way, he wanted to know about it. 

To find out, he asked an obvious question.  “Why would drug smugglers be at Lake Powell?”

“Delivering narcotics to a houseboat,” replied Billy.  “Like that double-decker we saw on the Escalante yesterday.  The Grand Explorer.”

“Why would smugglers do that?”

“Because it’s easy, that’s why.  Think about it, Buck.  A helicopter can land almost anywhere close to shore.  That makes the lake one humongous drop zone.  Using a houseboat as their target, the smugglers could fly in drugs from Mexico and no one would suspect a thing, not even the rangers.”

Billy’s theory made sense, thought Buck. 

“If you’re right,” he said, “it would explain what the Grand Explorer’s doing on the Escalante.  Nobody comes here in the winter.  That makes this a perfect place for picking up drugs.”

“Exactly,” agreed Billy.  “Wahweap’s too far away, but not Bullfrog.  The marina up there is only twenty miles from here.  By using Bullfrog as a distribution point, the smugglers could supply the entire Four Corners area.”

Buck envisioned the kind of narcotics market that would be.  Four Corners was the place where Utah, Colorado, New Mexico and Arizona came together at a common point, coincidentally in the middle of an immense and prolific petroleum region.  Several high school friends of his worked at Four Corners, living in one of the many trailer camps that housed well-paid oilfield hands.  With nothing better to do at night than read pocketbooks and play poker, the roughnecks were perfect customers for drug dealers.  Las Vegas wasn’t that far away either--an ideal place for selling cocaine and marijuana.

Because it was so logical, the smuggling theory made Buck squirm.  If the Grand Explorer really was being used to transport dope and he and Billy got caught snooping tonight, they could kiss their brown Indian butts goodbye.

He wondered if anyone on the Huey had spotted their campsite.  Probably not.  Otherwise, the chopper pilot would’ve have landed on the mesa and sent crewmembers to investigate.

Still a comfortable distance away, the UH-1 circled west around the mesa, followed Willow Creek Canyon, a water-filled gulch, to the Escalante and disappeared below the rim.

The whistling noise faded and the night was quiet. 

Curiosity killing him, Billy asked, “Do you think they flew away, Buck?”

He shook his head.  “I’m pretty sure they landed.”

“By the Grand Explorer?”

“Sounded like it to me,” Buck said.  “I’ll go see to be certain.”

“Hold on,” Billy said.  He reached into his backpack, pulled out the Canon binoculars Grandpa gave him for Christmas last year and explained, “Take these with you.  They’ll come in handy.”

Nodding, Buck grabbed the optics, hung them from his neck, crept down the gully again and stretched out in a prone position by the rim. 

In the water 300 feet below, he saw stars imitating the real ones above.  Behind him, the full Moon cast a broad dark shadow along the rocky shoreline.  To the east, on the other side of the tributary, a small cluster of dim lights gave away the Grand Explorer’s position.

From reviewing his waterproof navigation chart yesterday, Buck knew the river arm at that place was a half-mile wide and 150 feet deep.  Billy’s binoculars pressed against his face, he scanned the spit of land across the Escalante where the Grand Explorer was moored.  Not surprisingly, a short distance beyond the houseboat, the UH-1 rested on level ground, rotor blades slowly winding down.

Facing him at an angle, the Huey’s front windshield reflected moonbeams.  Buck sharpened the Canon’s focus.  He could see the cockpit door on the right side.  It opened and a tall lanky man jumped out. 

Buck knew he was the chopper pilot because they always sat in the right seat, not the left one as in fixed-wing airplanes like a Cessna 152. 

Easily seen in the bright lunar glow, the man had on cowboy boots, jeans, leather flight jacket and a soft-billed camouflaged jungle hat.

That’s not what Army guys wear, Buck uttered silently.  Billy might be right.  This really could be a drug smuggling operation.

The pilot strode over to the houseboat, trotted up a gangplank and entered the lower deck cabin.  Buck scanned the bottom floor windows.  All had drapes pulled shut, preventing him from seeing anything inside.  The movement of shadows behind the drapes indicated there were other people onboard.

Several minutes later, the pilot reappeared on deck and stood by the railing facing the mesa.  As Buck watched through the Canons, the pilot reached into his flight jacket, pulled out a pack of cigarettes, stuck one in his mouth and fired up with a chrome lighter.  The flame illuminated his face.  His eyes seemed to be looking up at the mesa--directly at Buck.

Instinctively, he ducked his head and scooted backwards, only to be chided by an inner voice.  Get a grip, Brave Eagle! it said.  There’s no way that guy can see you up here.

Semi-convinced, Buck crawled back to the edge and peered through the binoculars again.  The pilot had turned around.  Leaning back against the railing, cigarette dangling from one hand, he appeared to be staring at something to the north.

Buck aimed the Canon optics in that direction.  In seconds, he located a dark fuzzy orb fixed in space above the Escalante.  Based on the prevailing visibility, limited somewhat by airborne dust reflecting moonlight, he guessed the apparition was about five miles away. 

From the object’s lack of movement, Buck thought it might be a dirigible, like the Snoopy Met Life blimp he’d seen on TV during NFL football games. 

To be sure, he tweaked the focusing knob. 

The fuzziness changed to a sharp edge.  The outline was unmistakable.  Even so, Buck couldn’t believe his eyes.  A common term described the object, but he was too astounded to mouth the words, much less utter them. 

Incredulously, he was looking at a no-shit-for-real flying saucer.

CHAPTER 2



As Buck gawked through the binoculars, the disk gradually mushroomed.  A few seconds more were needed to interpret the change.  Rather than growth, the increasing size indicated movement towards him.

The UFO appeared to be following the Escalante.  Closer now, Buck could see a cone of shimmering green light shining down from the saucer’s belly.  He assumed the ghostly column was exhaust from a rocket engine that provided vertical lift. 

Belying that possibility, however, the only noise came from coyotes yelping wildly along the tributary.  The canine cacophony told Buck the propulsion system, if indeed it was a rocket engine, emitted a high frequency sound inaudible to human beings, like the silent dog whistle Grandpa used to call Rocky home at night.

Buck ignored the yelping and concentrated on holding the binoculars steady with his trembling hands.  He felt sure the apparition was real, not a figment of his imagination.  Still, his disbelief hung by the thinnest of gossamer threads.    

The UFO approached in a shallow descent with decreasing speed.  Less than 200 yards from Buck’s position, it slowed to a stop and began hovering motionless above the Escalante.  The disk was so close, he had to sweep the Canon optics left and right to see the entire fuselage.  He had no doubt about the vehicle’s origin, that it absolutely was extraterrestrial. 

Illuminated by moonlight, the spacecraft was dull black with skin that appeared perfectly smooth.  There were no joints that Buck could see--no rivets, no flight control panels or engine inlets.  He also saw no windows and it surprised him.  At the very least, there should’ve been a glowing porthole or two.

A smaller dome protruded from the curved upper surface.

The UFO’s cockpit perhaps? he wondered.  If so, how did the alien pilots see out?

Using his elevation above the tributary as a guide, he estimated the saucer’s diameter to be the same, 300 feet.  The bulging outline appeared to be 50 feet thick in the middle and it tapered gently to a rounded perimeter edge. 

Underneath the rim near the edge, pinpricks of white light flashed erratically.  Buck decided they were flight control thrusters maintaining the UFO’s balance above the silent rocket exhaust, to keep from tipping over.  

Larger flashes joined the tiny ones on the rim.  Located every 45 degrees, the bigger thrusters fired horizontally in a direction tangential to the perimeter.  Buck thought he heard popping sounds, but it was hard to tell with the coyotes howling loudly on both sides of the Escalante.

The UFO reacted to the thruster firing by slowly rotating around its center of mass.

After 180 degrees of turn, the movement stopped.  Buck now saw a rounded dorsal fin near the rim, sticking up from between two large holes in the upper surface.  The openings reminded him of the jet exhaust pipes on a Southwest Airlines 737 he flew in once, while the dorsal fin resembled the vertical stabilizer on a Word War Two B-17 bomber.

Because of the familiar features, he would not have been surprised to see “UNITED STATES AIR FORCE” stenciled along the rim in large white letters. 

Buck concluded that the UFO’s tail pipes vented thrust for horizontal flight.  As for the fin, its function was obvious: to provide directional control and prevent yaw the way a boat rudder does.  Since the saucer apparently flew like an airplane, he assumed the 180-degree rotation had set up an emergency departure so the UFO, if detected, could zoom off in the direction from which it had approached.

He wondered where the spacecraft would land.  The answer came to him an instant later in a most startling way.  Rather than proceed to a secret base somewhere, which Buck believed would happen, the UFO began descending.

For a moment, he thought it had lost power, then realized the descent rate was constant, like an elevator only slower.

Up until that point, because the saucer had been flying in a level attitude, Buck could not see underneath the UFO’s belly.  Now it was visible as a reflection on the Escalante’s smooth surface. 

The mirror image appeared as a large, elliptical back hole in the tributary.  In the center of the ellipse, Buck saw a round aperture about 30 feet in diameter.  A column of emerald incandescence beamed through the opening.  As before, Buck assumed the glowing column was rocket exhaust.

He detected a faint whiff of ozone.  The smell made him think the air was being ionized by an invisible force coming from the UFO.

As its altitude decreased, a circle of sparkling turquoise mist formed on the water, marring the aperture’s reflection.  Seconds later, the mirror image disappeared when the UFO settled gently on the Escalante.  The tributary lit up briefly, the way a swimming pool does when underwater lights are switched on at night, and went dark again.

Unnoticed behind Buck and across the Escalante, the coyotes had stopped yelping. 

Although awestruck, his brain continued to function.  He figured the UFO was taking on water, to replenish itself, and would fly away any minute.  However, that notion proved wrong when the spacecraft began sinking.  Buck sensed it was intentional and not because of a leaky hull.

The water line ran up the curved upper surface and over the small dome.  After the UFO had completely submerged, the Escalante smoothed again and reflected stars and the Moon, as if nothing astonishing had just happened.

Startled once more into a state of stunned disbelief, Buck pinched his nose to see if he was dreaming.  The sharp pain said no.  Yet, he still felt detached from reality.  With the coyotes quiet now, the only evidence of the UFO’s submergence in the Escalante were small ripples spreading out in concentric circles and the lingering smell of ionized air.

As the ozone odor dissipated, Buck tried to grope with the mind-boggling event he’d just witnessed.  It was almost impossible for him to believe that an alien spaceship had landed in the tributary and deliberately submerged.  Lake Powell seemed like the last place on Earth visitors from another world would want to hide, considering the large number of tourists and fishermen that traveled here each year.  But that influx, he knew, in regards to the Escalante, only happened in the spring, summer and fall. 

During wintertime, because of icy inlets and frozen coves, boaters seldom ventured this far from Wahweap or Bullfrog, for that matter.  If people did come here then, the tributary was deep and dark enough to keep them from spotting a black-skinned object hiding below the surface.  Unquestionably, from November through March, the Escalante was an ideal base for secret alien operations.

Before Buck could consider the ominous implications of that conclusion, the sound of an outboard motor being started caught his attention.   Peering through the binoculars again at the Grand Explorer, he saw the Huey pilot sitting in the open cockpit of a runabout tied to the stern of the houseboat.

The cranking continued.  Finally the engine coughed and sputtered to life.  When it was running smoothly, the pilot untied the mooring rope and churned across the Escalante.  Reaching a spot above the submerged spacecraft, he slowed to a stop, stood up in the cockpit and coiled the mooring rope into several loops, as if getting ready to toss the end to someone.

Transfixed by the mysterious activity, barely breathing as he stared through the Canon optics, Buck wondered what target the pilot would throw the rope at. 

He got the answer when water stirred several yards from the runabout.  Again to his utter astonishment, what little of it remained, a shiny cylinder broke the surface. 

Approximately six feet in diameter, it rose above the water until the rim was even with the runabout.  Next, on top the cylinder, a round hatch flipped open and a small, gray-skinned figure appeared in the passageway.

Buck’s heart skipped three beats.  Even more incredible than a UFO, he was seeing an actual extraterrestrial being.  

The chopper pilot tossed the line.  The alien caught it, pulled the boat up close and jumped into the cockpit.  A second alien of the same size and color exited the passageway and became the runabout’s third occupant.  Someone closed the hatch from inside the cylinder and it sank below the surface.

The pilot headed back to the Grand Explorer.  On the way, he leaned toward the aliens as if talking to them.  In response, they turned their heads, glanced up at the mesa in Buck’s direction, then looked at the pilot again.  Frozen in place, afraid of moving a single muscle for fear of being seen, Buck wondered how good their vision was. 

Did they spot me?  God, I hope not.

The pilot pulled up by the Grand Explorer’s stern, tied the mooring rope to the deck railing, helped the extraterrestrials aboard and led them down the gangplank onto land.  The trio headed towards the helicopter.  Much shorter than the pilot, the aliens looked like first graders following their teacher across a schoolyard at night. 

When the group reached the UH-1, the aliens climbed through an open sliding passenger door in back and the pilot used his normal entrance.  Both doors closed and the Huey’s rotor blades began turning.  By the time Buck heard the high-pitched whine of the turbine engine, he had imagined what would happen next and it scared the living shit out of him.  

Terrified for his life and Billy’s, Buck jumped up and raced back to the campsite.  The binoculars flew back and forth from his neck by a cord.  Without slowing, he ripped the expensive twin optics free and tossed them aside.

As he approached the campsite, Billy was putting on his Adidas.  Like Buck, he had worn his clothes to bed except for the tennis shoes.  When he saw his brother running toward him, Billy yelled with an anguished face, “This can’t be happening!  Tell me that wasn’t a real flying saucer I just saw!”

“It was real alright!” Buck gasped, puffing hard.  He skidded to a stop beside his backpack, ripped open the zipper, grabbed a flashlight from inside and shouted, “Let’s go!”

Billy scrambled to his feet.  “What about our gear?”

“Fuck the gear!  We have to get outta here--now!”

Flashlight switched on, Ever Ready beam pointed ahead of him with Billy on his heels, Buck scrambled up the side of the gully and headed in a northerly direction across the mesa, away from the Escalante.  A sudden whump-whumping noise to his right told him they might have left the campsite too late.

Airborne less than a minute, the UH-1 popped up into view above the tributary, flew west across the mesa and landed near Willow Creek, Buck’s planned escape route.

His heart sank.  He and Billy were cut off from the cove where they had moored their boat yesterday, a rented Sea Ray.

But then, maybe not.

Buck stopped abruptly, made a pile of sand with his feet, knelt down and screwed the flashlight into it.  Aimed skyward, the Ever Ready cast up a beam made hazy by dust in the air.

Satisfied, he told Billy, “Hang on to the back of my belt.”

With a death grip, his brother took hold.  Stooped over with their heads ducked, they dogtrotted in tandem through the gloom, weaving between cactus stands, black bush and dwarf cedars shadowed by the Moon. 

After several minutes, Billy said in hurried breaths, “We’re going the wrong way, Buck.  We should be veering to the right.”

“Shut up.  I know what I’m doing.”

During the detour, Buck mentally crossed his fingers.  He was hoping the flashlight would act as a decoy long enough for him and Billy to reach the western edge of the mesa.  From there, they would follow the rim north to a talus slope that acted as a stairway down to the Sea Ray’s harbor.  After that, he had no plan.  All he could wish for was a successful escape through Willow Creek and the Escalante, followed by a mad dash up the Colorado River channel to Bullfrog, the closest place with people who could protect them.

Five minutes later, they reached the rim.  By then, despite the odds against evading a pursuing helicopter in a runabout, Buck was starting to feel better.  Billy had done a good job hanging on to his belt and less than a quarter of a mile remained before they reached the all-important stair-stepped talus slope.  The Huey was off to their right, indicated by a swirling moonlit dust cloud.  He presumed the chopper pilot and his alien buddies were heading towards the Ever Ready beam, away from the western rim.   

Just as Buck was about to congratulate himself for successfully evading the enemy, a powerful light flashed on in the darkness ahead. 

A loud baritone voice accompanied the glare.

“HOWDY, BOYS!” boomed the unseen person.

       The twins stopped dead in their tracks, frozen like deer by the bright illumination.  Buck wanted to run in the opposite direction, but decided against it after discerning the light source.  To his dismay, in the person’s hands, he saw a portable halogen lamp mounted on top of what looked like an AR-15 assault rifle. 

Even more attention getting, the barrel of the automatic weapon had a silencer attached. 

Not exactly the kind of gun deer hunters use, noted Buck grimly.

Behind the bright light stood a tall slender man.  His body size and attire identified him as the Huey pilot.

He pointed the halogen lamp at Buck, then Billy, and back at Buck again.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” the pilot uttered.  “Indian look-alikes!”

He shook his head in amazement, then hollered to his left, “I GOT ‘EM!”

Glancing in that direction, Buck saw two tiny beacons jiggling above low shrubbery on the horizon.  One light raised up and moved back and forth in a short arc.  He assumed it was a signal from the flying saucer crew.

Billy will shit in his pants when they show up.

The pilot spoke again, with a sneering Southern drawl.  “That was a smart move y’all made back there--trying to go around me like that.  But not smart enough.”

To keep from appearing scared, which Buck was, more than any time in his life, he puffed up his chest and said, “It was all I could think of.”

The pilot smiled wickedly.  “Well, now.  You must be the alpha twin.  Am I right?”

Buck had no idea what an “alpha” twin was.  But if it meant the dominant sibling, than the term was appropriate.  He’d been top dog since birth, but should that be admitted?  Maybe it would be better to just keep quiet.

Angered apparently by the lack of a prompt response, the pilot stepped forward and jabbed the silencer into Billy’s stomach.  The blow doubled him up.  He fell to the ground, gasping for air like someone suffocating to death.

“Jesus Christ, mister!” Buck blurted out.  “I’m the leader.  Hit me, not him!”

The pilot answered by kicking Billy in the ribs.  “Get the picture now, Alpha Twin?” he snapped at Buck.  “Every time you smart off to me, I’ll give your brother a world of hurt.  Understand?”

Buck nodded silently with a meek expression.

Finally able to breathe again, Billy began crying.  The pilot pointed the assault rifle at him.  “Shut up or I’ll blow your brains out!”

The weeping stopped.

Closer now, the two beacons bobbed up and down along a coyote trail.  A dozen yards away, the persons switched off their flashlights, split apart and moved forward to separate positions on each side of the pilot.  Buck now saw two more AR-15s pointing at him, also equipped with halogens and silencers. 

The spotlights flashed on, blinding his eyes.  When he got used to the glare, Buck could see the figures fairly well.  They were the aliens he had expected.

Both were small creatures, no more than five feet tall and colored gray.  The moonlight made them appear nude.  From the lack of genitalia and other noticeable body features, Buck guessed they were wearing skin-tight exposure suits. 

The aliens looked almost comical to him, like naked children carrying over-sized toy guns, but there was nothing funny about their faces.  They had no ears, mouth or nose--just huge black, almond-shaped eyes.  To Buck, the orbs were like those of a giant praying mantis, vacant and unblinking. 

Their stare burned into him.  Petrified, he looked away and pretended the aliens weren’t there. 

The pilot nudged his shoulder with the assault rifle.  “Turn around, Alpha, and put your hands on your head.  I’m gonna pat you down.”

Buck did as told.  Arms raised, he felt two busy hands exploring his body.

They stopped. 

“Okay, you’re clean,” the pilot told him.  “Now sit on the ground, away from your brother.”

Again, Buck obeyed. 

The pilot stepped over to Billy and kicked his shin.  “It’s your turn, Bravo.  Stretch out so I can search you.”

Body trembling, Billy straightened his legs.  The pilot bent over and began poking at his clothes.  The movement pulled up the sleeves of the leather flight jacket.  Buck could see his forearms.  They were covered with tattoos.  He recognized them as signs of the Devil, a purple and red collection of crescents, stars, pentagrams, pitchforks and horned beasts.   

Halfway through the inspection, the pilot’s jungle hat fell off, revealing a full head of reddish gray hair.  Highlighted by the other halogen lamps, Buck had a close-up view of the man’s face. 

He looked permanently angry, with ruddy freckled skin, deep wrinkled frown lines and hundreds of small pitted acne scars.  Buck noticed larger scars on his cheek and jaw.  From their appearance, he figured they were war wounds.  Probably from Vietnam, based on the pilot’s apparent age, around 50 or so.

Particularly striking were his eyes.  The color of green Arctic ice, Buck had never seen windows to a soul so lifeless and cold.  

Finished with the body search, the pilot picked up his jungle hat and put it on.  “Bravo’s clean, too,” he remarked to the aliens.

There was no reply.  Just four unblinking orbs reflecting the full Moon overhead.

Speaking to Buck again, the pilot said, “I’m gonna ask you some questions, Alpha Twin.  One wrong answer and Bravo pays the price.  Is that clear?”

Buck nodded.

“Good.  Let’s start with names.  What’s yours?”

“Buck Johnson, sir,” he replied, voice raspy from the lack of saliva in his mouth.

He was answered by laughter.  The behavior puzzled him. 

What’s so funny, asshole?

The pilot explained his reaction.  “You’re an Indian, Alpha.  A male red-stick.  Your folks naming you ‘Buck’ is like mine naming me ‘Man.’  Get it?”

In any other circumstance, the ethnic slur would’ve caused Buck to retaliate with his fists, which he’d done against white kids numerous times.  Being called a red-stick was no different than saying black people were niggers. 

He also didn’t appreciate “Buck” being turned into a joke.  The moniker was short for “Buchanan,” his middle name and Grandpa’s last on Mom’s side of the family, and he was damned proud of it.  A Marine volunteer during WWII, his grandfather served in the Pacific theatre as one of 29 Navajo “code-talkers” recruited to relay orders by radio during combat, using their native Indian language.  Buck knew the history by heart. 

During the first 48 hours of battle on Iwo Jima, Corporal Buchanan and the other code-talkers processed over 800 top-secret messages without error, all unbreakable by the Japanese.  Yet, despite Grandpa’s valor, sometimes delivering memorized orders on foot through withering enemy fire, he was never decorated.  Even worse, the government failed to disclose his heroism and was still keeping it secret five decades after the war ended.  Typical white men’s gratitude, Buck recalled bitterly as he always did.

The pilot interrupted his thoughts by asking, “So where are you from, Alpha?”

The question had sounded almost friendly.  Caught off guard by the sudden change in tone, Buck stuttered, “Ah--ah, Page, sir.  Me and my brother work at Wahweap marina.”

“That’s a long ways off.  What are y’all doing up here?”

Buck wasn’t sure how to answer, but for Billy’s sake, he had to say something quick.  He decided to tell the truth.

“We came up to get away from the park rangers.”

“Oh, yeah?” the pilot said, eyebrows raising.  “How come?”

“To do drugs.”

The reddish brows arched higher.  “What kind?”

“Peyote.”

“Where’s your stash?”

“In my pocket.”

“Good.  Hand it over.”

Buck complied.

The man opened the foil-wrapped package, smelled the contents, tossed it to one side and smirked.  “That much dope couldn’t keep me high ten seconds.”

“It’s all I could afford,” mumbled Buck, feeling stupid as well as scared  

The pilot studied his quarry.  “So you thought I was a park ranger.  Is that right, Alpha Twin?”

“At first I did.”

“Well, that just shows what a dumb red-stick you are.  Park rangers don’t have helicopters.  Not at Lake Powell, anyway.  At least, not yet.”

He laughed and shook his head.  “I bet you don’t even know how many rangers there are in the park, do you?”

“No, sir.”

“The answer’s thirty.  And they patrol over a million acres.  That’s how big the Glen Canyon Recreation Area is--the size of Delaware.  And Lake Powell is a hundred and eighty miles long.  For all the good rangers do, they might as well stay at Wahweap and drink coffee.  They damn sure don’t work this late at night and you thought I was a ranger.  I never heard of anything more stupid than that.”

Looking dead serious again, he asked, “Who all knows you’re here, on the Escalante?”

“Nobody,” answered Buck.

“That’s hard to be believe.”

“Honest, mister.  We told our boss we were going camping, but didn’t say where.”

“What about your folks?”

“Our grandpa’s all we got.  He knows we’re on the lake, but nothing else.”

Satisfied apparently by the explanation, the pilot changed subjects.  “What about cell phones?  Did y’all bring one along?”

“No, sir,” Buck said, wishing he had.  Otherwise, he would’ve called 911 back at the camp.

The pilot’s eyebrows lowered, menacingly.  “I think you’re lying to me, Alpha.  Everybody carries a cell phone nowadays.”

“I’m not lying,” insisted Buck. 

The pilot looked down at Billy.  “Is that right, Bravo?  Is your brother telling the truth?” 

Rather than wait for an answer, the pilot kicked him full in the face. 

Stunned, Billy lay still for a split second, blood gushing from nose and mouth, then covered his face with both hands and rolled sideways, groaning loudly and kicking his legs from excruciating pain.

That was Buck’s last straw.  Fists clenched, with total disregard for his own life, he jumped up and attacked Wise Owl’s tormentor.  Deftly sidestepping the charge, the pilot caught Buck’s right arm with one hand and flipped him onto his back. 

Dazed, he looked up into the serrated steel teeth of an eight-inch commando knife.  There was no doubt in his mind what would happen next.  The bastard was going to cut his throat.  Hopefully, it wouldn’t hurt too much.  

Bending down, still holding the AR-15 with the other hand, the pilot pressed the blade against Buck’s neck.  “You stupid red-stick,” he growled.  “Pull another stunt like that and I’ll slice off Bravo’s ears and make you eat ‘em.”

The words and touch of cold metal on his skin were more than Buck could take.  Horrified by the threat, he lost control of his bladder, which had been full for hours.

Spotting the spreading dark stain around the blue jean’s crotch, the pilot grinned maniacally.  “Lookee there!” he cackled.  “Alpha Twin just pissed in his pants!”

Buck was too busy praying to care.  Like his brother, he was a member of the American Indian Church, but quit going when Mom died nine years ago from cancer.  He didn’t much believe in the Great Spirit before she passed.  Why should he feel any different afterwards?  What kind of god takes away mothers just when their children need them so much?  With Dad never around, a traveling curio dealer who sold Indian jewelry at sidewalk shows and spent it on booze before dying from liver failure, Grandpa Buchanan took over the parenting chores.  A better father there never was.  But he didn’t believe in a supreme being either.  So religion wasn’t practiced in the Johnson family.  Until now.

Buck prayed silently for himself and Billy.  He knew they were going to die; that was a given.  He just wanted it to be as painless as possible.  Then, hopefully, they would go to Heaven and be with Mom again.  Meanwhile, all he could do was try to appease his captor.

Lips quivering, he said, “I swear on my mother’s grave.  We didn’t bring a cell phone with us.”

The pilot answered by sticking Billy’s right arm with the commando knife.  He yelped and grabbed himself.  Blood tricked from the cut beneath his fingers.

“Please, mister,” Buck pleaded, eyes filled with tears.  “I’m telling you the truth.”

Still not satisfied, the pilot looked over at the aliens and said, “Go search that gully on the rim, the one I showed you before takeoff.” 

Obeying, they plodded off like zombies and disappeared into the darkness. 

By then, Billy was sobbing heavily, more from fear than pain.  The pilot pointed the commando knife at him.  “Keep quiet, Bravo, or I’ll shut you up permanently--one slice at a time.”

To keep from crying out loud, Billy bit his left hand.  The illumination from the pilot’s halogen lamp showed how hard he’d been kicked.  His nose was pulp, lips split, one eye nearly swollen shut.  Blood mixed with dirt and dead grass caked his face. 

The sight sickened Buck.  He wanted to clean his brother with canteen water that was back at the camp, but didn’t dare ask the pilot’s permission.  There was no telling what the sadistic son of a bitch might do.  Pour it down Billy’s throat and drown him, probably.

The pilot slipped the commando knife back in the scabbard on his belt and sat down on a boulder a few yards from Buck and Billy.  Aiming the halogen lamp at them with one hand, he reached into his flight jacket with the other, pulled out a pack of Lucky Strikes and asked, “Want a smoke, Alpha?”

Buck figured it was trick, another cruel way of tormenting him.  At the same time, he craved a weed so bad he was willing to chance it.

He nodded eagerly.  “Yes, sir.  I’d like one.”

Much to his surprise, the pilot tossed the cigarettes to him, along with a silver Zippo.  The lighter looked well used.  Buck noticed a military emblem on the side that said “Air Cav,” where the chrome plating hadn’t worn off.

He took out a Lucky, lit it and pulled in smoke like an emphysema victim sucking on an oxygen tube.  The nicotine fix did little to ease his alarm.  Almost always, he recalled, in movies anyway, the condemned were allowed one last cigarette before dying.

As accurately as possible to avoid another provocation, Buck lobbed back the pack, followed by the Zippo.  Both were easily caught by the pilot with one hand.

He took out a Lucky for himself, stuffed the pack into in his pocket and fired up with the lighter.  While exhaling, he let the wick burn.

“That’s how I found you,” he said, staring absently at the flame.

Buck had no idea what the bastard was talking about.

“Heat,” explained the pilot.  “I spotted yours while flying along Willow Creek.  Body radiation.  Ninety-eight point six degrees Fahrenheit.  My chopper has infrared, you see--the forward-looking kind.  Pretty neat shit.  Too bad I didn’t have it in Nam.  Otherwise, I could’ve killed twice as many gooks.”

The burning Zippo held his gaze.  He smiled faintly, as if remembering good times from the past that would never be repeated.  Finally, because he was either finished reminiscing or the metal case had gotten too hot to hold, the pilot snapped the lighter shut, making a loud click, and put it in his pocket with the cigarettes.

He sucked more smoke into his lungs, tilted back his head, formed a small “O” with his lips and began tapping his cheek with one finger.  The action sent a parade of pintsized gray doughnuts sailing through the air.

Looking at Buck again, he asked in an off-hand manner, “So what do you think, Alpha Twin?”

“About what, sir?” answered Buck, as politely as he could.

Terrified about what might happen next, he would do and say anything to appease his captor.  The only thing off limits was a blowjob and he couldn’t be sure about that if it meant saving his life and Billy’s.  

“Flying saucers,” the pilot replied.  “Ever seen one before tonight?”

“No, sir.”

“Mighty impressive, wasn’t it?”

Buck nodded, vigorously.  He wasn’t acting.

“My friends call it a transporter,” the pilot said.  “It has an antigravity drive, plasma rockets, fusion powered generators, electromagnetic shielding, full-spectrum terrain scanning, stealth technology--the works.”

He rambled on, mixing words with smoke.  “Transporters are interplanetary capable.  They can fly to the Moon and back, even Mars.  I’ve been inside the cockpit.  It was amazing how simple things are.  My Huey is more complicated than a transporter.”

The pilot took another puff, launched more wispy doughnuts, and asked, “How about you, Alpha?  Ever been flown in a chopper?”

Busy inhaling the last of the smoldering stub, Buck shook his head no.

The pilot smiled thinly.  “Well, tonight you’re getting the chance.  I’m taking you and Bravo for a ride.  Free of charge.”

Buck’s ears perked up, along with his spirits.  Suddenly he saw hope for the Johnson boys.  Instead of dying tonight, they were being abducted, like people were on “The X-Files” TV show, and he understood why.  The aliens had never examined a Native American before, someone like him.  His genes were different from other races, causing Indians to be addicted to booze.  At least, that’s what Grandpa said when he explained why alcoholic beverages weren’t allowed on the reservation. 

Buck felt less anxious.  He assumed the aliens were aware of the inherited defect and would want to analyze his blood after he had a drink or two.  When the test was over, they’d let him and Billy go because nobody would believe a wild-ass story about UFOs using the Escalante tributary as an underwater base of operations.

Hearing himself think about it convinced Buck an abduction was certain.  Still, before giving thanks to the Great Spirit for being spared, he had questions of his own that needed answering.

“Where are we going?” he asked the pilot warily.

“To a houseboat.  The one you were watching from the gully.”

Those were the words Buck had hoped to hear.  He and Billy were being abducted after all!

“How about my brother?  He’s hurt real bad.”

“Don’t worry.  He’ll be fixed up.  We’ve got some gee-whiz medical stuff on board.”

 “What about our boat?  It’s supposed to be back at Wahweap tomorrow.”

“We’ll take care of that, too.”

“Do you know where it is?”

“Yep.  In Willow Creek.  I flew over it on my second pass.  We’ll tow the boat out to the main channel before dawn.  After that, the current will take it back to Wahweap.  You can say your boat drifted off when the moorings came loose, while you were asleep.”

Although he’d heard the right answers, Buck still had concerns about his and Billy’s fate.  It didn’t help when the pilot told him with a wide twisted grin, “Relax, Alpha.  Everything will be just fine.”