The ride from downtown DC should have been relaxing. The April weather was exquisite, cool as the sheets in a baby’s crib. Strollers dressed in their spring best wandered the streets of the capital, though many betrayed a tendency to quickly glance skyward every so often. Despite the arrival that now completely dominated the news there were no signs of panic. Everyone knew of the alien visitant hovering in the sky above Central America, but no one knew anything about the ship or its possible contents. Under such circumstances, what else could the inhabitants of a major metropolitan area do but go about their business? At least, those that hadn’t been semi-abducted by phlegmatic government agents.

From the rear, the Pentagon’s neo-classical architecture was as utilitarian as the rest of the building. It was the absence of greenery, he told himself as the driver pulled up to the entrance, got out, and opened the door on his side. There was no topiary here at the back. Missing were the neatly trimmed lawn and hedges that softened the look of the main entrance. Neither of his escorts spoke as they flanked him on the way toward the colonnaded entrance.

Identification was flashed both as they entered and numerous times thereafter. Lying in wait, a silent electric transport cart whisked them deep into the building. The endless corridors were not new to Dev. He had been inside several times before, all on work-related matters. Though his escorts offered not a word, not a clue as to the reason behind his visit, Dev suspected that his current visitation was not social.

The cart halted before a doorway that was identified by a number and the name of some brave, otherwise long-forgotten warrior. Sliding off the cart, his escorts went with him as far as the portal. One presented his ID to the armed guard standing to the left of the entrance. Taking it, the soldier passed it over a readout, then handed it back. There was no beep, no flash of lights, but the door opened. A middle-aged woman clad in severe black relieved only by the carved topaz rose hanging from a gold chain around her neck regarded him expressionlessly. Reflecting an absence of vanity, her short hair was gray bordering on silver. Her stare was penetrating—killer grandma.

“You are Devali Mukherjee?”

“None other.” He offered a broad smile. It was not reciprocated.

“Come with me.”

He turned to bid his courteous but uninformative escorts goodbye, but they were already gone, having vanished into the bowels of the gigantic building as quietly as they had arrived. With a slight shrug he turned to follow the woman who had offered the perfunctory greeting.