Illegal Aliens Read Online Free

screen to see the empty hallway outside the bunker. All clear, fine. He then inserted a key into a slot on the desktop and turned it, setting the double pair of armored doors to their quarters cycling shut. Soon, the FCT would be physically isolated from the outside world by a meter of laminated steel, making entry into the bunker impossible, and exiting forbidden without the general's specific knowledge and consent. Voices in his ear told him that the UN was in an absolute state of panic, with the delegates alternately demanding information, not believing what they were told, and then discounting the whole incident. Bronson grunted. Damn civilians. They were about as useful as lips on a brick.
    “Communications on line,” Dr. Malavade said, formally following the long-lost and semi-legendary procedure manual that had mysteriously disappeared the day after the FCT received their copies of the 18,000 page document.
    Blazing with rainbows, Dr. Malavade's console was a vidiot's dream come true: he could broadcast and receive messages on every level of the electromagnetic spectrum, from radio waves down to hard radiation. Plus his access to the worldwide Internet was absolute and non-detectable, even to the vaunted cyber sleuths of the NSA.
    An expert in cryptography and codes, what languages Mohad wasn't fluent in, his computers were: from Mayan hieroglyphics, through the squeals of porpoises, to Pig Latin. He was also a lip reader, had perfect pitch and did crossword puzzles in ink.
    “Information on line,” Sir John stated, sliding on his hated reading glasses, a sad result of reading too many stock portfolios and books on UFOs. His father, who thought glasses effeminate, immediately ordered the lad to go out and start dating women. This the young Jonathan had gladly done. But only with rich women who belonged to the local UFO club.
    Already the laser printer on the sociologist's right was feeding him duplicate reports from ABC, CNN, NPR, the BBC, ComStat, the New York Times, London Times, Moscow Times, AOL, the National Inquirer and Grit. His teammates might laugh, but as an expert in his field, he knew that you never could tell where the truth might be found.
    “Science on line,” Dr. Wu contributed, enabling her computer and linking it to the NASA, NSA, NATO and NBC sensors en route to the park.
    Yuki's equipment was so sensitive that it could track an astronaut on the moon, or analyze a ballpark hotdog. Which she had done once as a test, and had immediately telexed her findings to the city's Health Department.
    “Security on line,” General Bronson said needlessly, as everyone in the bunker had felt the muffled vibrations in the floor as their only door locked shut. In grim humor, the soldier opened the drawer on the lower left side in his console and lifted out a Heckler Koch 10mm pistol. Automatically, he checked the gun's clip, holstered it, and proceeded to strap the weapon about his waist. Gimme a damn gold helmet, he thought sourly, and I could pass for General George S. Patton. But regulations were regulations.
    “Command on line and running,” Prof. Rajavur announced brusquely, as he slipped on a throat mike and finished activating both of his mainframe computers.
    As the person in charge of the First Contact Team, his console was twice the size of his associates and infinitely more versatile. He could talk privately to any, or all of them, simultaneously. He could countermand their decisions and, if necessary, run their consoles for them, should anyone become incapacitated or unreasonable.
    For psychological as well as technical reasons, Rajavur was situated prominently in front of the wall monitor. The video cameras were focused on him, with the rest of his team clustered about him like so many small moons. That is, except for Nicholi.
    General Nicholi, and not General Bronson, was the soldier in charge of the Earth Defense Forces. The American protected the FCT, but the Russian protected the