Signal Fire Read online

  Signal Fire

  by

  B.P. Broome

  Copyright © 2014 B.P. Broome

  All Rights Reserved

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 1

  When the lights arrived, they arrived without fanfare. No sky-watching scientist detected the approach of an interstellar fleet and warned the world of its impending destruction. No perfectly-aimed laser cannons laid waste to Earth’s cities. There was no vague yet ominous command to be taken to anybody’s leader, no assurances that the newcomers came in peace. They arrived subtly, gradually, as if giving humanity a chance to adjust to the absurdity of it all.

  Tom DeWitt, for one, hadn’t quite made the adjustment. He sat on his couch with a beer in his hand, watching ‘round-the-clock coverage of what was being called mankind’s first contact with intelligent alien life. From where he sat, however, the contact appeared rather one-sided. The human race was present and accounted for, but Tom hadn’t seen any sign of their guests aside from the flickering pink lights scattered seemingly at random around the globe. According to various news agencies, the lights were approximately six feet high and three feet wide. Over fifty had been discovered so far, including one by a research submarine a thousand feet below the surface of the Atlantic Ocean.

  Tom’s cell phone rang, and he answered without taking his eyes off the television. “Yeah.”

  “You watching this?” Reese Jackson, a colleague in the linguistics department.

  “Like I have a choice. It’s on every channel. Even ESPN.” Onscreen, a group of young men and boys in Amman, Jordan threw rocks at their local light. Some of the projectiles hit their target and fell harmlessly to the ground. Others seemed to be absorbed by the light, still others disintegrated when they came within range. There didn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason to the light’s reactions to stimuli, the newscaster said.

  “Did you get that email from the feds?” Reese asked, breaking the light’s hold over Tom.

  “Yeah. How did you know?”

  “Saw your name in the c.c. field along with a few others I recognized. Any idea what it’s all about?”

  “No. It wasn’t very clear.” The young Jordanians on TV scattered, and an older man, his white robe flowing around him, rushed into the frame. He dropped to one knee, took aim, then fired a rocket-propelled grenade at the light. Tom held his breath. The RPG didn’t explode on impact; it simply fell to the sand, intact, like many of the rocks before it. “That’s one way to welcome them,” Tom said.

  “Hmm?”

  “Nothing.” Tom finished his beer and considered another. On one hand, they were going down smoothly. On the other, an alien invasion could be imminent. Best to be running on all cylinders, he thought as he set his empty bottle aside. “I recognized a few of the names on the c.c., too. Besides us, there’re two others from the linguistics department. Married couple, both retired. A few are from anthropology and archeology. As for the rest of them, I don’t know.”

  “So what do you think?” Reese asked.

  “I imagine the feds are trying to put together a team to figure out what the hell is going on. They have to be just as lost as us civilian folks.” The broadcast switched to a different feed, this one coming from a beach in San Diego. Armored vehicles surrounded the light that had appeared there early that morning, and F-16s streaked back and forth across the sky. Reports that the entire city was being evacuated were unfounded, claimed the reporter on the scene.

  “Are you going to the meeting?”

  “If we don’t, they’ll probably come knocking at our doors,” Tom said. “Though the email didn’t specify, I have to assume this meeting’s mandatory. Need a ride?”

  “If you don’t mind.”

  “Not a problem.” Mass transit in the D.C. area had been halted when the first light was spotted near Jerusalem, nearly twelve hours earlier. That meant a six-mile bike trek for Reese. “I’m going to try to sneak a nap in beforehand. I suggest you do the same.”

  “Aye, aye, Cap’n.”

  Tom had been informed of the meeting by a memo sent to his inbox at Georgetown. In language dry enough to induce coughing, an army Major General—or, more likely, a subordinate—laid out what he knew about the “situation” thus far. It amounted to essentially nil. Hopefully, the memo concluded, more would be ascertained at the eight p.m. meeting with Tom and his fellow Hoyas.

  Tom understood why he’d been summoned. Author of four highly-regarded books and scores of academic papers, he was fluent or close to it in over a dozen languages. Need to hail a taxi in Hebrew or order a pizza in Portuguese? Tom DeWitt’s your man. More importantly, in this case anyway, he was local. Reese’s invite was a bit of a mystery. The kid was brilliant, but as green as they came. Most of his experience consisted of aiding Tom in the classroom or wading through a sea of underclassmen’s research papers. Maybe the general needed someone to do the heavy lifting. Or fetch coffee and sugar-laden goodies.

  While the most significant event in human history unfolded, Tom stretched out on his couch and closed his eyes. Before he could coax himself into dozing, the TV station’s Breaking News alert bleated and he reluctantly lifted his eyelids. A new light had been discovered, this one in Nepal. Tom watched as a helicopter approached and its pilot shot shaky footage of the thing. It flickered atop one of the Himalayas’ snow-capped peaks like a candle on a birthday cake. Like the other lights, however, it did nothing else.

  “Why don’t you guys just cut the crap and say something?” Tom muttered. He rolled onto his side, his back to the television, and closed his eyes again. As the first tendrils of slumber picked away at his thoughts, he suddenly realized the purpose of his presence at the meeting.

  They are trying to communicate. Either that, or they already have.

  Chapter 2

  Travis Holton struggled down the narrow staircase that led from his second floor apartment to the busy Frankfurt street below. When he began renting the place two years earlier, he’d found the tiny loft and rickety stairs quaint. Very European. Now, however, he would’ve given anything for a nice, modern place complete with plush carpeting and an elevator. He’d ev
en be willing to tolerate muzak. He paused to catch his breath, then planted his crutches on the next step and carefully brought his left foot down to join its artificial brother. Only ten more steps to go.

  “Need help?” Petra called from the second floor landing.

  “No. I’ve got it.” Travis resisted the urge to turn and look back at his wife. Though her face would provide comfort and strength, the effort involved would no doubt send him tumbling down the slick steps and into the hustling populace on Friedmanstrasse. Instead, he tightened his grip on his crutches as best he could and continued the painfully slow process of descending the stairs. Crutch, crutch, foot. Crutch, crutch, foot. When he reached the street, he turned to Petra and gave her a shaky thumbs-up. She forced a smile, gave a thumbs-up of her own, then disappeared into the apartment.

  Fortunately, the strass that would take Travis to Frankfurt University’s School of Theology stopped less than a block from his home. He waited for the locals to pile onboard, and when the pushing and shoving and jockeying for position came to an end, he stepped into the streetcar, wrapped his good arm around a steel pole, and steadied himself for the ride. When the streetcar lurched forward and he remained on his feet, he relaxed a bit.

  Petra, good sport that she was, had offered to accompany Travis on his trip even though she detested all things religious. Nothing but children’s stories and primitive rituals, she’d once said. The root of most of the world’s problems. Up until three months ago, Travis was inclined to agree with his wife. He’d been raised in a devout but not zealous household and had attended church regularly until his senior year in high school. With maturity, however, came the onset of independent thought and a consciousness of the larger world around him, and he began to question the church’s teachings. He’d been turned off by what he saw as hypocrisy. It seemed every Sunday’s sermon was followed up a week later by a monologue that contradicted it, as if the powers that be were twisting the Bible’s words to fit the message they were conveying that day. Travis decided to take a break from organized religion, one that would last nearly ten years. But now he was ready to approach the church again, this time from a more seasoned perspective. Losing your leg, the feeling in the right side of your body, and four of your closest friends in a matter of seconds will do that to a man.

  The strass pulled to a stop in Frankfurt’s main plaza, and the frenzied transfer of disembarkers and onboarders began again. A pair of what looked like college girls glanced at Travis’s crutches, whispered between themselves in German, then took the empty seats in front of him. The only word Travis caught of their exchange was Amerikanische.

  It was just past nine o’clock when the strass reached the university. Travis waited for the stampede of locals to brush by him before daring to step off the streetcar and begin the long trek to the School of Theology. Though the building was on the opposite side of the campus, Pastor William’s temporary office was located on the first floor. Thank God for small mercies, Travis thought as he left the morning drizzle behind and entered the warmth of the lobby.

  He spotted a directory and had no trouble finding the office. It was little more than a cubicle, really. Pastor William sat in front of a computer that had become obsolete right around the time Travis had made his last appearance in a church. Travis stood in the doorway for a moment, then cleared his throat.

  “Have a seat,” Pastor William said, not bothering to take his eyes from the monitor. “Strange days are ahead, my friend.”

  “From the looks of the news, I’d say you’re right.” Travis propped his crutches against Pastor William’s desk and dropped into an empty chair on the opposite side. He and Petra had spent the morning glued to the television—as he was sure most of the world had—watching bizarre pink lights appear at random sites all over the world. Pastor William was looking at a world map that pinpointed the location of each one. The lights closest to them were discovered in Bordeaux, France, and just outside Berlin.

  “So.” Pastor William clicked off the monitor and spun around to face Travis. “What brings you here, aside from what we discussed in our initial phone call?”

  “I’m thinking about coming back to the church.”

  Pastor William laughed. “Your timing couldn’t have been much worse,” he said, cocking his thumb over his shoulder at the monitor’s blacked-out screen. “In case you hadn’t noticed, Travis, the Holy Trinity has some competition for Its affections. In fact, I think you should be the one convincing me to stick with my faith.” Pastor William sighed and rubbed at his eyes. By the looks of the stubble on his face, he'd skipped his morning shave. “I apologize, son. Bad attempt at humor. Borderline blasphemy, if not the real deal.”

  “That’s okay. Sometimes humor is all we have to get us through trying times. Even if it’s bad humor.”

  Pastor William laid his palms on the desk and stared at Travis. “Is that what got you through your ordeal? Humor?”

  “No. It was my wife, my comrades, a handful of sadistic physical therapists, and plain ol’ boring stick-to-it-iveness. Looking back, maybe I should have watched a few South Park DVDs to help with the healing process.”

  Pastor William nodded. “But somewhere along the line you decided the Lord might be of more assistance than Eric Cartman.”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s understandable. But what I am having trouble understanding is why you sought me out. Wouldn’t a military chaplain or psychologist make more sense for a gentleman in your line of work?”

  Travis shrugged. “I must have talked to a dozen of them while I was recuperating. They’d nod and cluck their tongues and take a few notes, then they'd be off to another five-minute bull session in the next hospital room. Assembly line psychotherapy. But when one therapist is assigned to a hundred men, that’s what happens. I’m looking for something more personalized.”

  “And since English-speaking civilian pastors are hard to come by in this neck of the woods, I’ll bet my name was the first to pop up after your Google search.” Pastor William pointed to his coffee mug. “Would you like some?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Good. More for me.” Pastor William took a sip, then offered his guest a smile. “Whenever you’re ready, Travis.”

  For the next half-hour, Travis related his experience to Pastor William, starting with the routine patrol of an Afghani highway that turned out to be anything but routine. Despite being equipped with an armored personnel carrier and the latest in personal safety gear, he and his squad didn’t stand a chance against the roadside bomb that blew his APC onto its side and set it ablaze. When he and his crew emerged, choking and disoriented, they’d been easy pickings for the enemy. They scrambled into defensive positions around their burning vehicle as small arms fire rained down upon them. Three of his squad fell immediately, and Travis was low-crawling toward the fourth when an RPG hit not ten feet from him, shredding his leg and peppering his right side with shrapnel.

  His charge, a PFC not a month in-country, had been hit as well. Blood spurted from a wound on his neck. He looked at Travis and tried to shake his head. No. Staff Sergeant DeWitt ignored him and continued his approach, taking a bullet in his already mangled right leg. He reached the PFC—Richardson—just in time to witness his last breath. As chopper blades ripped at the air in the east, Travis planted his mouth against Richardson’s and exhaled. He felt his own breath and a mist of warm blood against his throat. Richardson was gone. Staff Sergeant DeWitt lost consciousness to the thump and roar of his air support bringing death to the enemy.

  He awoke days later in a German hospital, near the Czech border. Petra made the cross-country trip to be with him. What was left of him, anyway. After six weeks of surgeries and drugs and nightmares and weeping fits, Travis was fitted with a prosthetic leg and deemed ready for physical rehabilitation. It was a slow, hellish process, one he wouldn’t have been able to complete without the support of Petra and his fellow casualties, some of whom had sustained injuries that made Travis’s lo
ok like a paper cut. Finally, an additional six weeks later, he was sent home to Frankfurt.

  “Three months in a hospital gives a man plenty of time to think,” Pastor William said.

  “Yes, it does. Even when your thoughts are muddied by a morphine drip, they’re still there.”

  “And it was in your hospital bed that you rediscovered God?”

  “I think it was even before that. When I tried to save Richardson and…couldn’t. I felt so powerless. Like a total failure.”

  “You didn’t fail, Travis. You were caught in an ambush. Outnumbered and outgunned. Such is the nature of war today. I saw the same thing in Asia, circa 1970.”

  With his full head of jet black hair, Travis had pegged Pastor William’s age as fifty, if that. “You don’t look old enough to have served in Vietnam.”

  Pastor William smiled, and this time Travis noticed the lines and creases at the corners of his eyes and around his nose and mouth. “Thanks, I guess. Once upon a time I was a combat medic. I saw more than my share of blood and death, and decided the medical thing wasn’t for me after all. After the war I went back home and landed a solid union job. Welding, fabricating. Somewhere along the way I found myself where you are today, wrestling with my faith—or lack thereof—and looking for answers. I retired and enrolled in the seminary.”

  “Wow,” Travis said. “Isn’t that a little drastic?”

  “I didn’t view it that way. Some people gradually get back into the church, taking in a sermon here, a Sunday school class there. I decided to go all in, to really immerse myself in this thing called Christianity.”

  “And what did you learn?”

  “My knowledge is a work in progress, as is everybody else’s.” Pastor William cocked his head, again indicating the computer monitor. “And just when you think you’ve got a tentative grasp of things, someone throws a monkey wrench into the works and you’re right back where you started.”

  “This really changes things, doesn’t it? I mean, if there’s intelligent life out there, that means we humans aren’t so special anymore. It calls into question everything we’ve taken as fact for thousands of years.”