Homeland Insecurity

"We stand today at a unique and extraordinary moment. The crisis in the Persian Gulf, as grave as it is, also offers a rare opportunity to move toward an historic period of cooperation. Out of these troubled times, our fifth objective -- a new world order -- can emerge: a new era -- freer from the threat of terror, stronger in the pursuit of justice, and more secure in the quest for peace." -- George H.W. Bush, September 11, 1990

"The biggest conspiracy has always been the fact that there is no conspiracy. Nobody's out to get you. Nobody gives a shit whether you live or die. There, you feel better now?" -- Dennis Miller

###

Reg Watkins was the first to spot the object that Saturday afternoon in July. It was just a shiny dot against the blue background of the sky at first. Not five seconds later, it was a few hundred feet above their heads.

"Holy shit, did you guys see that?" Reg exclaimed. He pointed to the south-west, squinting as he looked up at the looming object, shimmering in the afternoon sun.

Jessie Chandler and Glen Cranston were leaning against the tailgate Reggie's 2003 red Dodge Ram. The truck was pockmarked with rust spots and the sides were coated with dried mud. Two NRA stickers adorned the rear bumper. Hung behind the seat in the cab was an empty wooden gun rack.

The three men had driven to a field a mile in back of Reg's house to hunt quail and pheasants -- although pheasant season didn't open for another five months and quail soon after that. Reg was meandering through the tall grass, carrying his twelve-gauge shotgun, while the other two men drank beer beside his truck. The three men had stopped at Art's Quik-Stop to buy beer late that morning before their hunting expedition. Glen had wanted to get a twelve-pack of Coors, much to the distaste of his two friends. "Only whores drink Coors," Jessie had reminded him. Glen purchased Budweiser instead, despite complaints from Reg that the company was now owned by Belgians.

"Don't they make anything here anymore? Everything I buy at Wal-Mart is made in fuckin' China anymore," Reg lamented as he opened his second can of beer.

So far, the only thing that Reg had shot that afternoon was an empty Budweiser can that Jessie had thrown high across the meadow. When Reg saw the shimmering object soaring above them through the blue sky he froze and pointed, too amazed to speak for several seconds.

Jessie and Glen shaded their eyes from the glaring sun with their hands as they peered off in the direction where their friend was pointing. As the oval metallic object descended and hung above the pine and spruce trees their jaws slackened and their eyes grew as wide as saucers.

"Christ almighty, what the fuck is it?" asked Glen, sounding frightened.

"A drone," Reg said. His jaw tensed and he gripped his shotgun tighter as he stepped closer to where the metallic craft was hovering, almost fifty feet overhead.

"A drone? What the hell are you talkin' about, Reg?" Jessie asked.

"Drones... UAVs... reconnaissance crafts -- like Predators and Global Hawk. We use 'em in Iraq and Afghanistan. FEMA has them too, so they can track us until the time comes to take us to the concentration camps they've built around the country," Reg said.

Jessie and Glen were a few yards behind Reg. Glen took the last swallow from the can of beer in his hand, then dropped it to the ground. He popped the tab on the full can he was holding in his left hand, then turned towards Jessie. He grinned and jerked his head towards Reg, then in a high-pitched whine began crooning the theme to The Twilight Zone.

"Don't get him going about how 9/11 was an inside job or Operation Northwoods," Glen cautioned Jessie with a smirk.

"Go ahead and mock if you want, sheeple, but wait till The U.N. sends troops in here to help round-up..."

Reg never finished his sentence before an intense beam of blue light shone down from the craft above them onto the ground. The three men froze in place. They shut their eyes tight to block out the blinding light of the blue wedge-shaped beam.

Jessie was the first of the three to open his eyes again. When he did, he scarcely trusted them to be accurately telling him what was in front of him and his two friends. He rubbed his eyes and squinted.

"Holy fuck..." he hissed to himself.

"What the fuck are they?" Reg asked. He could feel a warm, wet spot forming on the front of his camouflage pants that began running down the inside of his right thigh, soaking his pants.

Standing ten feet in front of the men were two humanoids, each not quite four feet tall. They appeared to be naked. Their skin tone reminded Glen of the colour of people on his parents' old black and white RCA television when he was a kid -- or at least white people; he could not recall seeing many black people on TV back then, except for Bo Diddley on Ed Sullivan once and a man tap-dancing on The Lawrence Welk Show when his parents watched it.

Glen noticed that the two small strangers had large black eyes that seemed out of proportion with their bulbous heads. They had tiny slits for mouths, as though someone had taken a knife and cut one for them. He saw no ears protruding, nor any hair anywhere on them. Looking further down, he noticed that their bodies were smooth everywhere, making it impossible to determine their gender -- much like Barbie or Ken dolls' crotches, he thought. Glen blushed and looked back up at the interlopers' large almond-shaped eyes.

"They're greys. I've heard George Noory talk about them on his show," Glen intoned.

Reg cocked his shotgun and leveled it at the two diminutive grey creatures. One of them raised his small right hand. It had three slender fingers and an opposable thumb, but Reg did not notice any fingernails. Seconds later, Reg let out a high-pitched yelp of pain and flung his shotgun to the ground, as though it were red-hot or electrified.

"Son-of-a-bitch!" Reg cried out, glaring at the expressionless creature.

"What are greys?" Jessie asked, seemingly unfazed by Reg's actions and outburst.

"Aliens," Glen explained, without any emotion.

"Those sons of bitches think they can come here and do whatever the hell they please. They won't even learn how to speak English. Then they expect to go on welfare and get a driver's license too," Reg spat out with a sneer.

"Ummm... Reg, I think he means the other kind of aliens -- the kind that come from other planets." Jessie explained.

"I don't give a good goddamn where the hell they come from. We wouldn't be having so many problems with crime and the economy if we defended our border like we should. Don't you guys listen to Lou Dobbs? And those goddamned aliens had better learn English if they plan to stay here. If English is good enough for The Lord Jesus, it's good enough for me, and them too."

Jessie was about to speak when he was interrupted by one of the small creatures, now less than two yards in front of him and his friends. Reg and Glen heard it too, except they didn't hear it like they normally heard someone's voice. They perceived it echoing in their minds, as though the grey fellow was transmitting his thoughts to them. None of the three men had ever exhibited any psychic abilities before -- Reg was convinced that all claims of psychic powers were a Satanic plot, or a scheme by The Vatican to pervert True Believers' minds, or perhaps both. The three men were flummoxed for an explanation when their new-found grey friend began silently communicating with them.

"What the hell does it want?" Glen asked.

"He wants to know which one of us is in charge," Jessie explained.

"That would be me, since we're on my land," Reg announced, taking a step forward.

The two other men smiled, content to lag behind and let Reg be their emissary if need be.

"Which one of you guys is in charge then?" Glen asked aloud, wagging a finger at the aliens.

The three men paused, their senses keen as the two visitors answered Glen's question. Once they had finished, Reg's mouth formed into a contemptuous sneer.

"What the hell you mean, no one's in charge? Boys, we got ourselves some Communists here. This is exactly what they've been warning us about on the John Birch Society's website," Reg said. "I bet they came down here through the NAFTA Super Highway, just like Ron Paul said they would," he added.

The small grey humanoid to the left of the men approached Glen. It extended an arm and handed Glen a gold-coloured medallion that was about three inches in diameter. Glen looked down at the metal disc in his right palm. Embossed on the obverse was a design that vaguely reminded him of a crop circle in England that he had once seen a photograph of on the Internet. He flipped the object over. The reverse side had more symbols on it that he did not recognize or comprehend the significance of, although he thought that a few resembled triangles, circles and crescent moons.

"What is it?" Jessie asked.

Glen shrugged. "I don't know. Some kind of coin, I guess."

"Let me see that," Reg demanded, snatching the object from Glen's hand. "I bet it's an Amero. These bastards are probably members of The Illuminati, trying to establish The New World Order."

Reg scanned the object with his eyes, flipping it over as he tried to grasp the meaning of the strange symbols and text. He furrowed his brow and pursed his lips. Finally giving up trying to fathom the significance of the script and design on the brassy object, he returned it to Glen with a grunt, indicating his bewilderment.

"Where are you guys from?" Jessie asked, staring into the dark eyes of one of the small visitors. He stood silent for several seconds, then nodded, although he looked confused.

"What'd it say?" Glen asked.

"It said they're from our future," Jessie said. "It... he said that we're on a path of self-destruction and that they came to help us. This coin will let us communicate with them and explain their plan."

"Help us how?" Glen asked.

Jessie shrugged, raising his palms slightly. "He said the planet is sick and that we have to learn compassion if we want to survive."

"What the hell does that mean: the planet is sick? Those damn environmentalists need to feel my carbon footprint in their asses," Reg scoffed. "To hell with compassion too. We send food to starving kids in all those countries, then they grow up and join al Qai'da -- that's where our compassion gets us."

"No, Reg, what he's saying is right," Jessie interjected. "There's a difference between genuine compassion and enlightened self-interest, like the government practices. There are plenty of organizations that help people around the world and want nothing in return. They don't turn around and rape a country after they rebuild it."

Reg gave his friend a look of disdain. "Are you with us or against us, Jessie? You're talking like a disinformation agent," he said. "Have you gotten your RFID chip yet?" he asked, unable to hide his contempt.

"I'm not a disinformation agent and I'm not a sheeple, Reg. I'm just an average guy who's patriotic too, just not in the way you want me to be. I'm fed-up with all of the fighting. I'm tired of hearing politicians and commentators shouting at each other every time I turn the television on. I'm tired of being told to worry about a dirty bomb going off in New York or Los Angeles. I'm tired of worrying that some lunatic asshole is gonna walk in my kids' school or my church with a gun and shoot everyone. I'm tired of politicians trying to get us to vote for them by making us afraid of enemies that they created and armed decades ago. If these aliens have an idea about how to stop all this insanity, I say we should hear them out. We've been listening to you paranoid, so-called patriots for the past seven years and where has it gotten us? It's my country too, and my vote counts as much as yours." Once Jessie finished he clenched his jaw, waiting for Reg's reaction.

"Be a skeptic if you want, Jessie, but there's a lot of shit that goes on that we don't hear about, or that you don't want to believe. When we get home, how many people are going to believe us when we tell them what we saw out here today? When I was in the army out in the desert I saw a scorpion the size of a fucking raccoon. You think that's not caused by those nuclear tests they did back in the fifties? What else are they doing that we don't know about? Believe what you want, Jessie; the government can use pawns like you once The U.N. takes over. Maybe come tomorrow you won't believe what you saw here today either," Reg said.

No sooner had Reg finished speaking when he and his two friends once more saw the intense blue beam of light eminating from the craft floating above them. This time they attempted to observe what was happening, but the light was too bright. Glen cried out as the light nearly blinded him. They were forced to clamp their eyes shut tight once again.

"What the hell happened?" Jessie asked after he had opened his eyes again.

He and his friends turned around where they stood, scanning the field and sky. All they saw were clouds and Reg's Dodge truck, parked where they had left it.

"They're gone," Glen said, stating the obvious.

"Now what?" Jessie asked.

"Let's get the fuck outta here," Reg suggested, picking up his shotgun.

Reg was already hurrying back towards his truck before the other two men had begun to move. He had it running by the time Glen and Jessie climbed into the cab. Before Jessie had pulled his door closed Reg was pressing on the accelerator, spinning his tires on the soft field. As he drove, two pheasants flew from a thicket of alders beside the truck, soaring high into the clear, blue sky.

###

That Sunday afternoon Reg Watkins was in his kitchen cleaning his shotgun. He was hungover and tired. He had been up late the night before drinking beer and chatting online in the Patriots' Refuge Chat Room on the Internet. When he heard a vehicle in his yard, then the sound of two car doors slamming shut, he got up from the table.

Looking out from his back door Reg saw a black Cadillac that appeared to be an early 1970's model. Approaching his house were two men. They were tall and slender, well-dressed in black suits with thin black ties hanging over their white shirts. Both were wearing dark sunglasses. They reminded Reg of The Blues Brothers, if John Belushi had have been fifty pounds lighter.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Watkins, might we have a few minutes of your time?" the man on the left said.

Reg gave the two men a suspicious stare, wondering how they knew his name, then realized they must have seen it on the mailbox at the end of his driveway.

"I'm kind of busy right now," Reg said. "Besides, I'm Methodist. I'm not interested in joining your temple, or whatever it is you guys have. Two guys were here last week and left me a copy of The Watchtower, so I already have one -- thanks-just-the-same."

"No, we're not here for that, Mr. Watkins. I'm Agent Barker -- this is Agent Bender. We understand you and your friends had an unusual encounter yesterday."

The slim man in the suit was resting his right foot on the bottom step of Reg's porch a foot or so in front of his partner. He and his companion each pulled a small black leather wallet from the inside pockets of their suit jackets. They flipped them open to display laminated identification cards with photographs. Reg squinted and pressed his nose against the wire screen of his door but could not clearly make out the details of the cards in the mens' hands from where he stood.

"So?" Reg grunted.

"We would like to discuss it with you, if we could," Agent Barker said. "We won't take up much of your time."

"And why is it you think I would want to talk to the Feds about this anyway?" Reg asked.

"We're not affiliated with the present administration, Mr. Watkins. Presidents come and go, but our agency continues to oversee important matters of national security such as this. We work with patriots like yourself to ensure the continued stability of the nation. All we need is a few minutes of your time, then we will be on our way. You would be doing a great service to your country by allowing us to have a candid discussion with you." Agent Barker spoke in a monotone that conveyed an undercurrent of seriousness and power as his eyes locked on Reg.

"Come in then," Reg said.

Reg pushed the screen door open and allowed the two men to enter. He motioned for them to sit down, then took a seat directly across from Agent Bender at the kitchen table. Now that he could see the two men up close Reg noticed how pale they both were -- as if their skin was almost translucent.

"So, tell us what you saw, Mr. Watkins," Agent Bender said.

"Well, me and my friends, Glen and Jessie, we were back there on a lot of land I have -- just hangin' out, drinking a few beers, you know, when I seen this thing in the sky. At first I thought it musta been a plane, but I didn't see any chemtrails. Then a few seconds later it was right over us -- not much higher than the trees. The next thing I know, there was this blue light shining down from it. Sort of like a laser, like I seen at a Pink Floyd concert once. It was real bright, so I closed my eyes. When I opened them that's when I saw the two men, or whatever the hell they were."

"Could you describe these men..." Agent Barker took a pen and small notebook from the pocket containing his I.D. and began writing.

"They were real short, maybe four feet tall, each of 'em, and grey. Like a dark grey. And they were bald. I don't think they were wearing any clothes either, or at least they looked naked. But I couldn't tell if they was men or women -- sort of like how Ken and Barbie ain't got no junk." Reg let out a nervous laugh.

Agent Barker looked up from his notepad and nodded. "Yes... did you notice any other distinguishing features?"

"Their eyes... they were big and black. Like they were too big for their heads, or they were wearing goggles. Their heads were funny shaped too, sort of like a rutabaga squash. And they only had four fingers, including a thumb, on their hands."

Agent Barker nodded and let out a quiet grunt as he scribbled in his notebook.

"Oh... and they gave a coin to Glen, or at least that's what it looked like to me. But I'll be damned if I can tell you what was written on it. The letters weren't like nothing I've seen before. I've seen Japanese writing and Arab writing -- now that's some weird shit, but this wasn't nothing like that at all. Some of it was just circles and triangles with dots around them or in the middle."

"Yes... we spoke with Mr. Cranston earlier about the object. He was kind enough to loan it to us. It needs to be analyzed back at the office. Now, if you could tell us what the E.B.E.s told you, Mr. Watkins..."

"The what?"

"The grey creatures," Barker explained.

"Oh... something about the environment and loving one-another, or at least that's what Jessie said they told him," Reg said.

Agent Barker flipped through his notebook. "Yes, Mr. Chandler indicated that they said the planet is sick and that you had to learn compassion," the man in the black suit said.

"Yeah... something like that," Reg answered.

"Did they give anything to either you or Mister Chandler?"

"No. They just gave that coin or whatever it was to Glen."

"Very good. Now, who have you talked to besides us about this incident?"

Reg thought for a moment. "Well, I was chatting with a bunch of folks online last night. I told them about it," he said.

"And what was their reaction?"

"Some of 'em thought I was crazy. It's hard to find many folks with an open mind these days. The government lies so much that we can't believe anything, so most people don't trust much of anything they hear. But some of 'em believed me. This one woman in Ohio, she said she's been abducted lots of times, so she knows the truth. She said the government always covers up things like this. They've been doing it since Roswell, back in forty-seven."