The White Death Read Free

glanced at Gail in surprise, then looked at his watch. “At this time? I was ready to turn in.”
    “I’m sorry, sir. They were very insistent.”
    “What’s the general doing here?” asked Thomas. General Ernest Richards had been recently promoted to the coveted position of General of the Army, a post not filled since 1950. The outgoing president had awarded him the position in recognition of his leadership against terrorism and the need for a symbolic head of the Army. He was also still Chairman of the Joint Chiefs—America’s most senior military commanders—but that was going to change when Thomas decided who was competent enough to fill Richards’ shoes.
    “They won’t tell me anything,” said Gail. “It’s a black meeting. No notes, no minutes, no diary entry.”
    Thomas heaved a sigh. “Very well then,” he replied, turning a corner into Gail’s office, which led directly to the Oval Office. “Wish me luck.” He winked as she opened the door for him and then closed it securely.
    “Director. General,” he said, extending his hand to shake theirs. “It’s frightfully cold outside tonight. What brings you both to the White House at such a late hour?” The lights in the Oval Office were dimmed, as they always were this time of night.
    George Houston, FBI Director, sat back down beside the stern general. He was an elderly man with a full head of neatly kept gray hair and a thick, trimmed moustache to match. Out of the two, he was the more suave.
    “First, let us congratulate you, sir,” said Richards in his usual formal tone.
    “Thank you,” said Thomas. He had met the general on a few occasions and found him almost intimidating. “But you two certainly didn’t come here at this time of night to congratulate me.”
    “No,” said Houston. “You’re quite right, Mr. President. Over the next few days, you’ll have many off-the-book meetings.”
    “I can only imagine,” agreed Thomas, taking a sip of coffee.
    “But none like this,” said Richards. “Mr. President, the word confidential does what we are about to discuss no justice at all. Only thirty-one people on this planet currently know what we are about to tell you. After that, it must remain thirty-two people until your successor is elected or someone dies.”
    “Okay,” Thomas said slowly, lowering himself into his massive leather chair and reclining backwards slightly. He suspected the feeling of sitting behind the presidential desk never got old. “You’ve certainly got my attention. Let’s hear it.”
    Thomas watched as his two visitors paused, turning to look at each other. He knew in that instant he was about to be taken on a verbal rollercoaster.
    “Extraterrestrials,” said Houston.
    “Aliens, Mr. President. Since 1903 the United States government has played host to an alien council,” said Richards.
    Thomas sat still, forgetting to breathe. Did he just hear correctly? Aliens? He had always suspected Earth had made contact with them, but to be told directly? His initial reaction was to laugh this off as a joke—after all, it was a long-standing myth that presidents were briefed on the alien presence on Earth after taking office, but Thomas hadn’t known whether to believe that or not.
    The director and general stared motionless at him, not blinking.
    Reality that they were serious began to slowly dawn on Thomas. “Okay,” he said carefully. He knew they were wondering if he was taking them seriously. It wasn’t totally out of the realm of possibility, and he’d always prided himself on keeping an open mind. The rollercoaster had just reached the tipping point. “Continue on.”
    “The entire program is called Section 51. Despite what science fiction fanatics believe, Area 51 is truly just a testing ground for experimental craft for the Air Force. Three kilometers down beneath the base is Section 51.”
    “An expansive,” continued General Richards, “military base which houses experimental laboratories and