Operation Sleipnir (Part 27)

Yal-hune looks great in a flight suit. A modern day recruiting poster in action. The teams onboard are ogling her mercilessly, but being the best of the best are also professional and silent. No cracks, smirks or anything besides unabashed gawking. Most of the combat personnel stationed at Shamballa haven't met Yal-hune. I wonder if Yal-hune can manage to keep their thoughts out of her mind. These teams don't know of Yal-hune's abilities, though they are aware of her being an alien. About five of these guys have worked alongside aliens before when MIMIR was still active. Working alongside aliens in a combat mission is a very rare thing. Until a few years ago, I knew of none that had. Sure, I heard rumors and stories, but that was all they were. No one ever had corroboration.

I strap myself in and Tech2 is already jockeying the plane to the runway. Yal-hune is sitting by herself towards the back of the temporary bolt down seating. I know she already knows what is out there, but I haven't asked her. I don't know exactly why I haven't asked. There is something a bit disturbing about knowing too much. If she knows the future, our future, as well as I think she does, then even her interaction with me is known to her. That has got to be a bit unsettling for her. Do all folks on her world know their own futures? Or do they shield themselves from knowing everything. Again, I haven't asked. I guess I don't want to know my own future. Not that I'm fearful of what's in it, rather I think I prefer more surprises in life. That may be an emotional need - I don't know. Perhaps when one evolves beyond lower emotions such knowledge is nothing but useful?

The men are talking about small matters of little import. Chatter en route on missions is notoriously banal. A sense of normalcy can be sustained when guys talk about what a sleazebag David Letterman is, or what they would do to the kidnapper of Jaycee Dugard. Yal-hune doesn't bias such things, regardless of how they bring to life humanity's more base responses.

Time passes and I realize we are already entering Colombian airspace. I turn behind me and look at the two trucks fastened securely, which will be used for collecting artifacts and left behind if space does not permit their inclusion on the return flight. One truck is plastered and disguised as a Colombian pest control company truck and the other truck is disguised like a Pepsi truck. The Agency prefers Pepsi over Coke in these matters. The trucks are filled with munitions and other typical equipment. Everything is supposed to go smoothly. But in a plane full of boy scouts, everyone is prepared and ready for anything.

We start to make our descent. We are arriving at the Alfredo Vásquez Cobo International Airport. In the region of Leticia, we had forward observational posts trying to spot drug traffickers here about twenty years ago. The entire area is corrupt and narcotics are one of the primary industries. Several kingpins live in the region, with great influence over the municipal and regional law enforcement and military. Fortunately, none of them are too interested in extraterrestrial life.

The plane hits the runway with barely a jolt. I love it when a pilot makes a good landing in a plane of this size. It's all the more impressive when the runway is a bit on the short side.

I turn to look at Yal-hune and she seems distant and preoccupied. She is concealing her thoughts very well and what she is thinking of at this time is will remain known only to her. The men are getting into their white workman coverall disguises and are unfastening the trucks in a display of utter competency. In six minutes the trucks are packed with personnel and rolling down the cargo ramp. Yal-hune is standing and watching, but still saying nothing. Her silence is beginning to get unnerving and I have to speak to her.

"So what's on your mind Yal-hune?"

"I've been thinking."

"About what?"

"Things."

"Care to elucidate a bit?"

"Not really."

If I didn't know better, any other woman, with those responses, I would assume was ticked off at me. It seems out of place with her personality.

She turns to me and smiles, "You are paranoid. It's charming on you. I've been processing a lot of eventualities, outcomes and futures. You said you didn't want to know the future, so I'm going to keep mum from now on."

"I knew you were listening in on my thoughts!"

"When you start Victor Von Doom-ing, with the whole internal monologue thing, it's hard not to hear you think. Your thoughts were far louder than the conversing troops."

"Don't keep mum. I want to know things, just not everything."

"Let's go into the Pepsi truck. I don't want to ride in the pest control one."

"Any particular reason?"

"I like the colors."

I sense she is just fooling around with me. She knows something, the future most likely, and is influencing it - possibly controlling it by her decisions. I have a deja-vu, which indicates my assumption is probably right on the money.

We walk down the ramp and enter the idling Pepsi truck with B team. Our wireless headsets operate in frequencies well above easy listening and intercept with 100ghz+ EHF signals. These EHF signals are perfect for short distance communication. They are not good at all for long distance communication or for missions in adverse weather or terrain.

I speak authoritatively as befits the occasion, "Teams A and B Go!"

Our truck starts rolling.