Area 51's Top Secret Experiment Is Unleashed

Illustration for upcoming Mongel Comic

2008-04-20T18:26:00.002-05:00

Chapter 5

2008-04-20T18:23:00.001-05:00

BAM! BAM! BAM!

The insistent pounding at Mongel’s chamber door continued. Mongel crouched low to the ground and slunk toward the door. His fingers found the nearest weapon, a foot-and-a-half long knife strapped to his right thigh.

Mongel wasn’t much for pajamas, but he never went to bed without his trusty blade.

As he reached the door, he heard a familiar voice coming from the other side.

“… out of bed, you lousy deaf ape. Answer the door already!”

Mongel slapped the button to slide the door open and shouted, “Snicky!”

Snicky, Mongel’s old comrade-in-arms, stood in the hallway. He resembled a Terran rat, but walked on his hind legs and was just shy of five feet tall. And he looked scared shitless.

“Whoa! Easy with the pig-sticker, bud!”

“Sorry,” Mongel said apologetically, as he slid the massive knife back into its sheath. “I’ve just been a little paranoid lately.”

Snicky latched himself onto Mongel, hugging him with all four limbs — and his bald tail. “I never thought I’d see you again!”

“Yes, yes,” Mongel replied. “It’s good to see you too. Now get off me, you freak.”

Snicky squeezed even harder. “We allthought you were dead! How the hell did you make it out of Area 51 alive?”

“Get off me and I’ll tell you all about it.”

Snicky complied. Mongel took a long look at his old friend. Snicky’s shiny black eyes glistened with tears.

“Man, you always were a softie,” Mongel chuckled. “You know, I barely made it out of Area 51 alive. No thanks to you.”

“Hey!” Snicky answered, but Mongel cut him off.

“What matters now is we need to find the bastards that attacked us and make them pay. Are you in?”

“Hell yeah,” Snicky replied, “but first things first. Let’s get a drink. There’s some more of the guys that are dying to see you.”

Doubt swirled through Mongel’s mind. He was still shook up from his nightmare. He was grateful to see his old friend. And most of all, he was eager to stomp on his enemies’ necks. But for now, he’d have to settle for a drink.

Snicky lead Mongel through Area 52’s icy corridors to a pair of glass double doors. A red neon sign on the wall simply read, “BAR.” Mongel froze. The hair on his head, neck and back pricked up in alarm.

“What’s the matter?” Snicky asked.

Mongel couldn’t answer at first. Then he realized what triggered him. An unpleasant scent. Subtle, but unmistakable. Like ground black pepper, with an undertone of rotting melon. He had smelled it before.

“The day of the attack,” Mongel said. “I smelled this same scent. Can’t you smell it?”

Snicky’s nose wriggled, his long whiskers waving in accompaniment. “All I smell is your nasty funk, brother.”

“Smartass,” Mongel replied, as Snicky walked into the bar. Mongel stayed in the hallway a few seconds longer, scanning left and right for any sign of an intruder. The corridor was empty. He joined Snicky inside the bar.

Xitix hissed a sigh of relief. The chameleon-like spy clung to the icy corridor wall, his refractive skin cells bending the light around him to render him invisble. His disguise was perfect, but for one flaw — his telltale pheromones. Most creatures couldn’t sniff him out. Their olfactory senses weren’t tuned finely enough. But that damn dirty ape caught wind of him. Now that Mongel was on the alert, Xitix knew the time for action was nigh. He whispered into his transmitter headset.

“Skellix nara. Hettim ai. Mongel nai wgah’nagl fhtagn.”

Xitix leapt down from the wall, then darted down the corridor.

The bar was cavernous, loud and comfortably dim. The ominpresent ice and metal of the walls was livened by a random assortment of sports paraphernelia. Team jerseys, autographed photos of athletes, hockey sticks, football helmets and other ticky-tack cluttered the walls.

Humans and other species played pool, darts or Rigelian shuffle. Most just sat around drinking, eating, laughing it up and watching sports. The dozens of widescreen TVs scattered through the bar were all tuned to the same show: Monday Night Football.

“What’s the deal?” Mongel asked. “There’s gotta be some other games on.”

“House rules,” Snicky answered. “American football takes precedence, especially on a Monday night.”

“So, who’s playing?” Mongel asked.

“I think it’s the Patriots versus the Cowboys.”

Mongel snorted. “I’d rather watch two Arcturian dung beetles fight over a turd.”

A waitress walked by Mongel. She looked awfully familiar. He tapped her on the shoulder. She turned and Mongel saw it was Anna, the humanoid robot he met a few hours ago, in the research lab.

“Anna! I see Dr. Styx fitted you with some clothes,” Mongel said. “But what’s the deal? He’s got you serving drinks now?”

“I’m not Anna,” the waitress replied. “I’m Kelly. A prototype. Look around you. We’re all prototypes.”

Mongel noticed all the waitresses were nearly identical to Anna. But some had wheels or tank treads instead of humanoid legs. Others had mechanized claws instead of slender, feminine fingers.

“Rather than decomissioning us,” Kelly said. “Dr. Styx decided to recycle us. It’s kind of a shit job, but it beats the scrap heap.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Mongel replied.

“If you don’t mind … “ Kelly said as she excused herself.

Mongel and Snicky bellied up to the bar. A human fighter pilot stood there, dressed in a flight suit and chatting with an insectile creature. The buglike alien held a bottle of Heineken in its claw. A strawlike tongue uncurled from its mouth and shot down the bottle’s neck. The creature slurped noisily.

“No offense, man,” Snicky said to the bug, “but that’s just nasty.”

“None taken,” the bug replied.

Snicky hopped onto an open barstool and yelled, “Hey, bartender!”

What looked like an octopoid-human hybrid turned to face Snicky. “Yes?”

“How about a Leinie’s for me and whatever my simian friend here wants.” said Snicky.

The eight-armed barkeep eyed Mongel expectantly. Mongel looked around, then muttered something inaudible.

“Speak up!” the barkeep replied.

Mongel cleared his throat and yelled, “A BANANA DAQUIRI!” The fighter pilot and his buglike friend turned to stare at Mongel. “Fuck off!” Mongel growled. “I’m an ape.”

The barkeep handed Snicky his bottle, after popping the top off with a clawlike appendage. He handed Mongel his banana daquiri, complete with a festive pink umbrella. Mongel harumphed as he plucked the umbrella out and crumpled it in his massive fist.

Just as he leaned back against the bar to work on his drink, Mongel spied a familiar face.

“Mongel!” shouted a burly soldier. It was his old friend, Sgt. Barker. Barker, beer in hand, wobbled up to him. “Wassup, Snick?”

“Not much,” Snicky replied.

Barker gave Mongel a bear hug, spilling both their drinks. “Shit, man! Sorry!”

“Barker. You’re sauced.” Mongel said. “A little early to be this drunk, isn’t it?”

“You know how I do it,” Barker replied. “I work hard! I party hard! It’s good to see you! And in one piece, even! I tell ya, we’re gonna find those scumbag terrorists and make ‘em into fuckin’ meat pies! Or something!”

Mongel scratched his head.

“I don’t think terrorists were behind the Area 51 attack. At least, not terrorists alone. Sure, they fronted some intel. I tracked some computer hackers back to Beirut. They’re six feet under, now. But the attack was too massive, too advanced for terrorists. They’re into suicide bombs. Not particle beam cannons.”

A woman’s voice cut through the crowd. “Whoever carried out the attack on Area 51 was not of this world!

Mongel and the others turned to face Anna. The real Anna. She sat alone at a high-topped table and was dressed in black fatigues. Mongel, Snicky and Barker joined her.

“Anna?” Mongel asked. She nodded. “How did you hear us from over here?”

She pointed at Barker. “This guy’s yelling his head off. You’re drunk off your ass, aren’t you?”

“You know it!” Barker slid next to Anna and gave her a leering grin. “I work hard!” He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial tone. “And I play hard.”

“Don’t play with yourself too hard,” she replied icily. “You’re liable to break it right off.”

“Leave her alone,” Mongel said to Barker. “Anna’s a robot.” He sniffed curiously before adding, “I’ll be damned if I can tell, though. If I didn’t know any better … Jeez, you even smell human. You areAnna, aren’t you?”

“Absolutely. Dr. Styx thought of everything. He’s been developing me for more than 50 years. Most of the technology that went into me is extraterrestrial.”

“I know alien weaponry,” she continued. “I’m living and breathing it. And I can tell you, without a doubt: The Area 51 assault was alien in origin.”

Barker stared blearily at Anna. He seemed to be heeding little of what she said, as he drank in the sight of her perfectly formed physique.

“Area 51’s defense network would’ve repelled any Earthly attack. But, it failed miserably.” she said. “You couple that evidence with the recent Bermuda Triangle activity, and the loss of our deep space recon drones, and the answer is obvious. We’re dealing with an alien threat.”

The hair on Mongel’s neck pricked up again. He suddenly felt too sober for his own good. As an Anna clone passed by with a tray of drinks, Mongel helped himself to a beer and downed it in one gulp.

“Anna?” Snicky asked.

“Yes?”

“You’re really creeping me out,” Snicky said, as he hopped on the table top. He stuck two fingers in his mouth and pierced the air with a shrieking whistle.

The crowd of bar patrons fell silent and stared at him.

Snicky raised his bottle and said, “Now that I have your attention, I just want to offer a toast! A toast to the safe return of Zero Ops’ star agent — Mongel!”

Mongel stared meekly at the ground as the crowd roared.

Sketch for new illustration

2008-02-17T22:04:00.001-05:00

This is brand new sketch for comic page that is being created. I am turning chapter 1 of the story into a black and white comic to see how it will look. If it looks good I will turn the entire story into a comic which will be posted here on the site.

New Mongel Art

2008-02-17T01:07:00.003-05:00

This illustration is from a short animation project that has not been completed yet. The animation will be 45 30-45 seconds and will show Mongel attacking some terrorists who are trying to steal weapons from a warehouse

Chapter 4 "Dreams"

2008-02-17T00:08:00.004-05:00

Chapter 4 “Dreams”
The door hissed closed with icy finality.
Mongel surveyed his new quarters with the methodical dispassion he had come to rely on over the past few tumultuous days.
The room had a sterile décor of ice and stainless steel. Alternating panels of 7’ by 3’ steel and solid ice rock made up the circular perimeter wall. There were no windows; no sweeping views of desert sand like he was used to in Area 51. Instead, the entire ceiling gave way to a skylight view of inky black space. Unlike the starry night sky most humans were used to, this view was far more detailed. The stars shown brightly with all their fiery glory. The brilliant colors of the nearby planets weren’t faded by space dust, and several spacecraft of various shapes and styles hovered and swooped in and out of the area. It was a real-time image that showed current positions of all known, friendly, and not-so-friendly visitors in quadrant 24.
So cold; space, ice, stars, and steel. For a moment Mongel felt the lonely chill he’d come to know as a constant companion. As usual, he shrugged it off and concentrated on the moment at hand.
A large monitor hung suspended from the steel panel directly across the room with a message of welcome scrolling across the screen. That was it. No bed, no chair. There wasn’t even a table or any sign of food at all.
That’s when Mongel remembered how hungry he was. He remembered the giant banana he had met in the hall and chuckled. What a feast that would be! But the chuckle faded, and the smile drifted back into the frown that he was becoming more used to. The banana had triggered more than a hungry growl, but brushed up on the haunting sense of homesickness that had been tickling the back of his brain lately. He shrugged it off: how could he be homesick for a place he barely remembered, anyway?
Besides, he had more important matters to consider at the moment. Like where the hell was his dinner?
He strode over to the computer screen to investigate the only other object in the room a little further. As he approached the general message of welcome changed to something more specific, and a clear female voice rang out:
“Welcome, Mongel. How can I assist you this evening?”
Amused, he spoke back:
“You can help me by pointing out how the hell I’m supposed to find dinner in this ice cube.”
“I have prepared your native dish of Uhnrocke with a warm banana dessert. Would you prefer coffee or the customary lamsurk mead with that, Sir?” the very polite computer screen answered.
Taken aback, Mongel scratched his head and pondered the question. He’d never heard of Uhnrocke or lamsurk mead. But the bananas sure sounded good. Just what he was craving!
“Uh, coffee,” he grumbled.
And before he even had time to wonder where it was going to come from, one of the stainless steel panels he had mistaken for a plain wall slid silently out of the way. Out of the compartment came a table and a chair. Set delicately upon the table, on fine china with a linen napkin, was the most delicious food Mongel had ever seen.
He sat down, placed both palms on the table, and inhaled as deeply as he possibly could. It was as if he was trying to drink in all the heavenly scents and save them forever. He just couldn’t get enough. Finally, the need for fresh oxygen won out and he let it go. He pulled his chair up closer to the table and wondered where to begin.
He felt a little awkward with the formal setting. It certainly wasn’t the tin tray cafeteria fare he was used to. And that was on a good day. For the past week he had been eating nothing but Government Issue MREs. They served their nutritional purpose, but were nothing compared to the event laid out before him here. He contemplated the delicate white napkin for a moment, and the shrugged and tucked it into his shirt.
As it turns out, Uhnrocke was a rich and hearty stew, with venison like meat that tasted strangely familiar. The vegetables were nothing he could identify, and one was even blue. The computer must have assumed he was from one of the many alien races that inhabited Area 52, because this was certainly no customary dish he had even heard of. Yet still, there was a haunting familiarity that kept brushing up on the nagging homesickness from before. Strange.
Whatever it was, it was gone all too quickly. Soon he gave up all sense of unease triggered by the formal setting and picked up the bowl to lick out the last drops. The thick warm gravy rolled down his tongue and the tender meat almost dissolved at first bite. He tackled the warm banana dessert with relish. The sticky sweet fruit tantalized his taste buds and danced all the way down his throat. The coffee was piping hot, and came with a beautifully full refill pitcher. Mongel polished off the last bite and leaned back with a deeply contented sigh.
“Was the meal to your liking, Sir?” from the friendly and efficient computer screen.
“Why, yes, computer screen. It was delicious.”
“And now you would like to refresh yourself, yes?”
Intrigued, Mongel cocked an eyebrow and responded, “Yes?”
As efficiently as it had appeared, the dinner and all it’s accouterments slid back into the stainless steel compartment. Another panel slid away and a steaming hot shower appeared in its place. Mongel didn’t think twice, but jumped at the first opportunity he had had to get really clean in weeks. The computer was right, he marveled. The shower was, indeed, just as refreshing as the meal.
Hopeful about what would come next; Mongel presented is freshly cleaned face to the computer screen with an expectant look.
“And now?”
“My sensors indicate you need to rest, Sir.”
And just as he had hoped for, another panel slid aside and out came a bed. Not a barracks cot like he was used to, but a real bed, with a nine inch thick mattress, a goose down comforter to keep out the arctic cold, and more pillows than Mongel had ever seen in one place before.
“A little girly,” he grumbled to himself as he ambled over. But the minute he sunk down into that goose down heaven he decided that maybe girls knew a thing or two about how to get a good night sleep. Mongel had never given any serious thought to settling down, but he was beginning to think Ms. Computer screen over there was his cosmic soul mate.
With a wry smile at the thought, he settled himself in for the first good night sleep he had enjoyed since the Area 51 attack. He punched at the pillows to puff them up just right, and then lay back to gaze and the beautiful space-scape spread across the ceiling. As the starlight danced and a speedy blue ship skimmed over the rings of Saturn, Mongel felt his muscles relax and waited for sleep to take him.

But the sweet slumber he hoped for eluded him. Even with all these delicious creature comforts, his mind couldn’t be put at ease with a warm meal and comfy bed like his body. Eventually he did fall asleep, but it was as fit-full and anxiety ridden as his daylight hours.
Just like so many nights lately, even before the dreadful attack, the vague sense of homesickness that teased the edge of his consciousness in the daytime came rushing to the fore in his dreams. He fell into the same confusing dream that was becoming all too familiar…
He was walking down a hot jungle path. The warm, moist sunshine trickled through the giant green palms and dappled the path before him with golden light. His feet knew just where to go. His mind was free to explore the familiar surroundings; to drink in the sweet scenes of home. The birdcalls were music too his ears, the monkeys in the trees seemed to be cheering his return. The fruit trees were bending at the weight green bunches of sweetening bananas. He knew low feathery leaves in the meadow to his right would yield the tart blue root vegetable that flavored his favorite dish.
A cold chill of recognition ran down his spine and seized his belly as Mongel grumbled and rolled over in his sleep. He involuntarily licked his lips and shook his head.
Finally the dream path led him to his final destination. Up ahead a beautiful white city rose to greet him. The thick jungle thinned out and he could see the skyline up ahead. More and more he passed homes and small farms; the family-clan villages that grew up on the outskirts of the capital. As he passed they rushed out of there homes to see him go. They called to family members in the fields and raced to shake his hand, cheer him on, or simply dance with joy. There was a sense of celebration in the air, and instinctively he knew it was for him, all for him.
They all looked like him. This wasn’t Earth, where he was a respected stranger. This was home. Here the men shared his face, the women found him strong and appealing. Here they knew him. They loved and welcomed him.
His joy and excitement grew; his pace grew faster. He greeted the villagers warmly, and relished the feeling of peace that grew from the knowledge that he was fulfilling his destiny. He could hardly wait to arrive…
But he knew not where. He wasn’t troubled by the lack of knowledge, only curious.He had only begun to contemplate when the dream was interrupted…
Static filled his vision, and his focus faded in and out. Disconnected images flashed and faded: the acrid smell of burning sulfur, the sweet taste of frauzine flowers, the stinging pain of guilt, the pulse quickening joy of his lover’s smile, the cool mountain breeze ruffling his fur and carrying the warm jungle-scent from below. His body lashed in a spasmodic jolt when the demon faced Grendock leader, Grange, appeared and hurled a blood curdling accusation at his feet. His razor sharp teeth snapped over his clicking black tongue and his burning red eyes pierced straight through his heart to access and deploy his every weakness against him.
His blood ran cold as the dream refocused with a desperately dark turn.

The sky opened up with flame and the warm sunshine was a scorching sear that burned his skin and singed his eyes. The cheering monkeys were haunting demons with bone chilling screeches, evil red eyes, and sharp needling teeth. They swung in his path, grabbed at his rough hide, and bit at his ears and ankles. The excited villagers were an angry mob. They rushed at him and threw rocks from the fields. Their anger and hatred rolled over him in waves and drove him down. They crushed in on him, fleeing the burning city, craving an object on which to focus their fear and desperation. He scrambled to regain his footing, but lost his strength to a draining sense of guilt and forlorn hopelessness. He relinquished himself to their angry hands, their pounding feet.

The snarling words of Grange swirled in his ears once more…all his fault…belief in a dream…such folly and failure…knew he would die in pathetic defeat…
BAM, BAM, BAM!!!!
The abrupt banging on the door tore Mongel from his aching nightmare and propelled him out of bed. His lifetime of training switched his brain into operational mode almost instantly, so that his focus was so intently trained on the possible threat on the outside of the door he didn’t even notice the diaphanous silvery stream retract back through the space filled “window” in the ceiling.
Many miles overhead the silver thread retracted back to the transmitting source: A liquid-like black spacecraft hovering unnoticed in the uppermost left-hand corner of the quadrant. The two scientists inside cursed their exasperation and anger. They were the exact same gorilla-like men as Mongel, only much older. They showed the years of wear their exhaustive search had torn from them in their thin frames and gray straggling fur. The taller of the two, Racier, bit his lip and wiped his wrinkled brow, attempting to hide the extent of his worry from his more volatile partner. But his cool green eyes burned with a fierce intensity belying the precarious desperation of their situation.
They had been trying to communicate with Mongel for weeks now, but every attempt had been thwarted, diverted, or simply hi-jacked. It was clear now that this was no random accident. Someone was out to sabotage their most vital mission. The frustrating failure burned like bile in their mouths and drove Manche to pound the console in destructive rage.
Far below, a dark shadow slides across the moon on Mongel’s forgotten space window as he reaches for the handle on his cold steel door.
Stay tuned for chapter 5

Chapter 3

2008-02-17T00:04:00.004-05:00

Chapter 3
At approximately 7:13 a.m. on June 30, 1908, Sergei Makoyev was incinerated.
Makoyev was a trapper by trade. Beaver pelts were his specialty. But that morning, his luck ran out.
“Not a single catch,” he muttered to himself, as he checked on the last of his 23 empty traps.
Makoyev sighed, then dropped his leather pants down to his ankles. He planned to relieve himself under the cover of a nearby bush. As he squatted, a deafening roar split the still air of the Tunguskan forest.
In his last remaining seconds, Makoyev had barely enough time to realize the burst hadn’t come from his own troubled bowels.
Makoyev had never seen an American Humvee, for this vehicle hadn’t been invented yet. Naturally, when he looked to the sky to see the burst’s source, he couldn’t recognize the flaming and twisted wreck of the Humvee rocketing toward him.
Sergei literally never knew what hit him.
Approximately 100 years later, General Folds had just finished predicting a similar fate for Mongel’s despised enemies.
“I needn’t tell you that what I’m about to show you is beyond ‘Top Secret,’” the General warned. “As a Zero-Ops agent, you’ve been entrusted with confidential and sensitive knowledge before. But, as a matter of policy, I am required to ask: Mongel? You do understand that divulging any details of anything you should see within this facility will be grounds for your execution?”
Mongel growled. He was not in the mood to have his loyalty questioned.
“Of course, sir.”
“Excellent,” the General said. “Now, shall we begin?”
The General led Mongel from his office out into the Area 52 main hangar. The two walked along the hangar wall toward what appeared to be a 10-foot brushed-steel circle, set into wall’s frozen surface.

Folds waved a hand before disc, which hissed open like an iris. They stepped through the hole, Mongel ducking to avoid banging his fuzzy head.
The walls of the corridor beyond, like those of the hangar itself, seemed to be laser-carved out of solid ice. More of the brushed metallic material appeared, in the form of structural support ribs holding the tunnel up.
“That’s T’pring alloy,” the General told Mongel. “It’s the only thing we’ve found that holds up to the Antarctic cold. Tempered steel will bend and snap like a twig.”
The halls was carpeted, as was Folds’ office, with a nasty pea green deep-pile.
“Who picked this hideous stuff out?” Mongel asked. “This looks something the cat barfed up … Sir.”
“Actually, you’re not far off. It’s derived from the sputum of an amphibious lizard, native to the second moon of Pollux Five. This entire base is a test bed for alien technology, right down to the construction methods and materials. The beauty of this stuff is, it takes a beating and repels stains. I’m trying to talk my wife into redoing our basement with this.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Someday she’ll see the light.”
Suddenly, Mongel stopped dead in his tracks. Around the corner came a six-foot-tall walking banana. Mongel’s stomach growled reflexively, as he’d dined on nothing but K-rations for the past six weeks.
“Back off, jerkwad,” the banana said as it strolled by, then nodded to acknowledge the General. “Evening, Sir.” The banana straightened its white lab coat and continued down the hall.
“What’s the matter, Mong old boy?” the General deadpanned. “Ain’t you ever seen a banana?”
“Not one that could feed a family of 20, sir. What the hell was that?”
“The Plantainoids are a potassium-based life form. They are among our most trusted allies and I needn’t remind you that America’s trusted allies are not on the menu.”
“Of course,” Mongel replied guiltily.
As the two walked on, Folds briefed Mongel.
“With the destruction of Area 51, we’re standing in the last refuge for the Zero-Ops project. I know Zero-Ops has been the only family you’ve known, but its true nature has been concealed, even from you. If word were ever to leak to the public about our group, it would rock the foundations of what most people call ‘reality.’”
“You and I take extraterrestrial life for granted,” Folds continued, “but most people have no idea that the U.S. government has been dealing with extraterrestrial races for the past six decades. Zero-Ops hopes to keep it that way.”
“Huh,” grunted Mongel. “You say ‘hopes?’ So, there’s room for doubt?”
“Of course. It’s hard enough to keep a secret between a handful of people, much less several dozen different species. Inevitably, there will be leaks. Like those media reports of the Bermuda Triangle Lights. Our domestic PsyOps program can only discredit them for so long. We’ll soon have to take more drastic means. That’s where you come in.”
With a questioning growl, Mongel raised one bushy eyebrow.
“We have reason to believe the so-called Bermuda Triangle Lights are unfriendly in nature. And our deep-space recon drones aren’t detecting them until they’re practically entering sub-orbital space. That means their technology is farther advanced than anything our R&D department can cook up.”
The two stopped at another metallic disc set in the hallway’s icy wall.
“Mongel, I’m going to call on you to perform a very dangerous mission. I can’t give you too many details right now, and I know you’re itching for answers … and revenge. But first, I need you to meet a friend of mine — Dr. Styx.”
The General waved a hand to open the circular door, and they stepped into a cavernous laboratory. Creatures of all shapes and colors milled about, wearing white lab coats tailored to their odd bodies. They puttered over machines and chatted amiably with their human counterparts.
“Greetings, General,” said a thin, reedy voice. “And you must be Mongel.”
Mongel looked around, searching vainly for the seemingly disembodied speaker.
“I’m right here,” the voice said, and Mongel detected a flurry of motion in his peripheral vision.
General Folds cleared his throat and explained, “Dr. Styx is, for lack of a better term, invisible. His skin refracts and distorts light. What bounces back to our eyes can only be detected by the rods and cones at the distal edges of our retinas. We tend to bump into him a lot.”

Mongel huffed. “Gee, Styx, why don’t you just put on a jacket or something? I mean, if you’re walking around naked all the time, that’s just kinda nasty. What if someone were to accidently rub up against your —”
The General socked Mongel in the arm.
“What?”
“Forgive him, Doctor,” Folds pleaded. “He’s not acquainted with many extraterrestrial cultures yet … or their taboos.”
“Very well,” said Styx, in a decidedly chilly tone. “Follow me, gentlemen,” he added and the General, better-trained at detecting the Doctor’s movements, led Mongel by the sleeve.
“I’m going to show you three projects that are nearing completion,” Styx said. “I believe you may find these useful as you investigate the Bermudian phenomenon.”
Styx led the pair to room where a soldier in winter camo fatigues stood behind a metal workbench, fiddling with a small silver gun. A white Humvee was parked in the center of the room.
“Lt. Samos?” asked the Doctor.
“Yes, sir?”
“May I ask you to demonstrate the singularity gun?”
“With pleasure.” The lieutenant twisted the gun’s muzzle, producing a soft click. He pointed and aimed it at the Humvee, then squeezed the trigger.
The armored vehicle imploded and vanished with a loud FOOP!
Mongel was speechless.
“As the name suggests,” the doctor said, “the singularity gun fires a small black hole into its target’s center of mass. The target then implodes, vanishing from this dimension.”
“Where does it go?” Mongel asked.
“That, dear sir, is a good question.”
The General chuckled and added, “As long as the target vanishes without a trace, we could care less.”
In the next room, Mongel, the Doctor and the General came upon a naked woman standing next to a plastic mannequin.
The General blushed. Mongel tried to avert his eyes, but couldn’t help but notice the woman was a fiery redhead. She seemed unperturbed by the trio’s presence.
“Ah yes,” said the Doctor. “I keep forgetting about your respective species’ taboos concerning nudity. Quite irrational, really. Especially considering Anna is merely a robot. I suppose I’ll appease your sensibilities and have her fitted for a uniform.”
“Yes, please do,” said the General.
“Anna?” said the Doctor.
“Yes, Dr. Styx?”
“Give these gentlemen a demonstration of your abilities.”
“With pleasure.”
Anna’s right arm exploded into a mass of writhing, silvery tentacles. Hundreds of thin, razor-sharp tendrils whirled in a mass, before wrapping around the mannequin’s torso. They squeezed together, crushing the dummy into countless tiny shards.
The last room was an experimental hangar, where what looked like a 300-foot long black cigar hovered in the air. Mongel tried to discern its features, but its black surface seemed of devoid of any. The dark object seemed to absorb light.
“This, Mongel, will be your assigned space craft,” Styx said, “once we’ve finished prepping it for deep space.”
At that moment, a flying blue orb appeared in the trio’s midst.
“General Folds,” the orb said, “you are needed at your office. And, Mongel’s quarters have been prepared.”
“Excellent,” Folds said. “Mongel, this is Milo. Milo will take you to your room. You’ve had a long day and I expect you’re eager for some rest. I’ll come find you at 0700 hours.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Mongel and he turned to follow the orb out of the hangar.

Chapter 2 "Secrets"

2007-03-09T17:36:00.003-05:00

Ten thousand feet above the Southern Ocean, a shadow sped southwards in the direction of a remote Antarctic research station. No one had seen the shadow during its flight. It had briefly appeared on the radar of a tired Egyptian Air Force technician’s screen, but the blip had disappeared just as quickly.

The Egyptian had rubbed his eyes, smacked his monitor, and called for another cup of coffee to endure the last few minutes of his graveyard shift. He never could have guessed—and certainly wouldn’t have believed—that a cloaked alien craft traveling more than twelve times the speed of sound had just entered and left Egyptian air space in a matter of moments.

And he certainly wouldn’t have believed an overgrown primate—one with human intelligence and superhuman strength—was piloting the craft.

Crammed into a cockpit designed for creatures several feet shorter, Mongel tapped a button on the complex dashboard to remove the gelatinous shield which surrounded the craft. Though the shield had little effect against any kind of incoming firepower, it cloaked the seed-shaped ship from the naked eye and sliced through the air with such smooth precision as to eliminate earth-shattering sonic booms.

The craft immediately slowed considerably, having to fight drag without the shield. Mongel would have preferred to remain cloaked, even over the isolated Antarctic, but the ship’s power supplies had been drained from the day’s flights.

He shuddered at the memory. There had been the escape from Roswell, then the impromptu mission in Beirut, and now this flight to the middle of a frozen continent approximately in the middle of nowhere. Mongel didn’t know where else to turn.

Mongel tapped another button, this one on the craft’s flight stick, and checked in with the remote research center.

"Research 52, this is Roswell-oh-one checking in, approaching from north-by-northeast, seeking clearance to land," Mongel said in a low, grumbling voice. A voice crackled back through the headset. "Clearance not granted, Roswell-oh-one. This is a penguin research facility, and we aren’t equipped to handle visitors. Please leave our airspace immediately."

The craft’s cockpit immediately leapt to life with a cacophony of shrill bleeps and alarms. Something was locking onto the ship, and the ship’s detection systems didn’t like it one bit. Mongel didn’t take kindly to the warnings.

He pressed the button on the flight stick again and growled, "Didn’t you hear me, Research five-two? I said this is Roswell-oh-one. Zero Ops Agent Mongel checking in, seeking permission to land." Mongel heard a murmuring in the background, then a couple of shouts. Someone was surprised to hear from him.

A deeper, huskier voice came over the headset. "Roswell-oh-one, we’re glad to hear you’re okay. Forgive us—we’re a bit jumpy after the attack stateside. Please proceed to Bay One, it will be opening shortly."

The cockpit’s alarm shut off as quickly as they had begun, and as Mongel approached the research facility, he could only shake his head. It looked so much like Area 51, his home for his entire life, save for the fact that there was less sand and more ice.

A lone building, no more than a two-room shack, stuck out in the white. To the naked eye, it was a desolate place with no more than a couple of biologists keeping an eye on the wildlife. Mongel knew, though, that there was much more to the place. Only, it was all underground.

A gaping hole began to appear in the ground as one of the iced lakes opened to reveal a landing bay the size of a warehouse. Mongel guided the craft into the opening, and it immediately began to close over him.

The massive primate stepped out of the ship and, for the first time, set his eyes on the most secret place on earth.

The hanger was a beehive, bustling with white-coated scientists and men in military fatigues milling around an array of aircraft and equipment. A tall, broad-shouldered man in military dress strode toward Mongel, his voice echoing across the hanger.

"Zero Ops Agent Mongel, my goodness, are we glad to see you," he said. Mongel snapped his legs together and offered sharp salute. "Sir, I guess you have heard about the attack on Area 51."

"At ease, Mongel. We have heard, and we’re all very sorry," said the man, returning the salute. "I’m General Folds, and I’m in charge of Area 52. I trust you weren’t wounded in the attack?" "No sir, General. All due respect, General, it’s a long story, and it’s been an even longer day."

The General nodded, turned, and motioned toward a door at the end of the hanger. "Let’s head to my office, then. I need to know everything you can tell me about the attack. We may not have much time."
**
The General’s office was modest by high-ranking military standards. A large, oak desk sat in the middle with a couple of armchairs pointing at it. Mongel didn’t quite fit into the chair, but he did his best to squeeze in. Area 52 obviously lacked the custom-sized furniture that Area 51 had been adorned with.

"You’ll have to forgive us, Mongel. Roswell was the only base suited for . . . for someone of your size. I’ll have my men arrange living quarters for you right away." "That won’t be necessary, General," Mongel said. "I’m ready to continue where I left off. I’ve taken care of the terrorists’ intel in Beirut, and now—"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa there, Mongel. I hate to admit it, but we’re in the dark here. That attack on Area 51 caught everyone off guard, and we’re still trying to piece things together. I need you to start from the beginning, and tell me everything you know."

The opposable toes on Mongel’s feet dug into the carpet, and the giant primate grunted in frustration. "Okay," he growled, "but it sure ain’t pretty." He took a deep breath and began. "It was sometime near dusk—it’s nearly impossible to keep track of the time in these damned tunnels. I was firing off some rounds at the shooting range after a day of training when the sirens in the base went off."

Mongel’s eyes wandered to a corner of the General’s office and stayed there. He shook his head and continued. "I ran toward the main hangar to see what was going on, but Dr. Grey—the head scientist there—" Mongel cleared his throat with some difficulty. "Dr. Grey ushered me to a panic room of sorts. I had never seen the room before, and he locked me in before I could resist. I heard him yell over the siren ‘This is for your own protection, Mongel! When the rear door opens, get yourself out of here!’ "

The General leaned forward, processing Mongel’s new information. "Dr. Grey was a wise man. He knew they were coming for you."

"They didn’t know what they were coming for," Mongel answered tersely. "The rear door opened a few minutes later, but I could hear gunfire and feel ground-shaking explosions all throughout the base. I tried to beat down the door, but it could only be opened by Dr. Grey’s thumbprint. Sure enough, half an hour later, the door opened," Mongel’s voice cracked, "and a very surprised looking terrorist holding Dr. Grey’s limp hand was standing there. Down the hallway I saw nothing but destruction, so I grabbed the terrorist, disarmed him, and broke both of his arms."

Mongel continued. "He cried out, asking repeatedly in his panic where the secret alien weapon was. A couple dozen terrorists heard his cries and headed our way, so I threw him over my shoulder and bounded out the back door. It led to a small hanger which even I didn’t know about, containing the Roswell craft I came here in."

Mongel dropped his chin to his hairy chest and sighed. "I hated running, but there was nothing I could do. So I milked the terrorist for information as quickly as I could. It took a couple more compound fractures, but he finally gave me coordinates in Beirut."

"So that’s where you’ve been?" asked the General. "Yeah. Turns out that’s where the intel came from. A bunch of pathetic hackers. At least, that’s what they were before I got there."

The General leaned back, clearly disturbed by Mongel’s retelling, but his eyes burned with fury. "We’ve got to get to the bottom of this, and quickly. I trust you feel your training is complete, Zero Ops Agent Mongel?" "Sir, you just point me in the right direction . . ." Mongel replied.

The General stood. "That will come in due time, Mongel. But first, allow me to prepare you. I’m going to show you the latest and greatest weaponry the United States Military has to offer." As they exited the office, a gleam sparkled beneath the fury in the General’s eye. "And then, Mongel, you’re going to bring their world crashing down on their heads."

Chapter 1 "Revenge"

2007-01-11T18:22:00.003-05:00

In a shadowed alley on the outskirts of Beirut, several light-skinned men with heavy accents stood discussing and reveling over an unspeakably dark act. They puffed on cigarettes in front of a heavy metal door, relaxing before taking their post for the night watch. By day, these men could have passed as regular citizens.

But on this night, they were armed to the teeth.

Two of the men wore Belgian-made Browning 9 mm sidearms. Two each had a Heckler and Koch MP5 slung over their shoulders. None of the four had any idea that they were being watched by a hulking, silhouetted figure from above.

They chatted boisterously, each giddy with the euphoria of recent success.

"It was an absolute massacre, a beautiful thing to behold," said one of the pistol-toting men. "Or so they say. Civilian contractors, scientists, and many of their decorated military men – they say that none made it out."

"So our intelligence proved useful, eh?" chuckled a bearded man. He stroked his MP5 with one hand, taking a drag on the cigarette with the other. "That mysterious place, so full of the secrets of their military," he spat at the word in disgust. "Their entire Area 51 wiped out in one stroke from us. Our justice is a beautiful thing, is it not?"

The other three voiced their agreements, offering mocking military salutes. "Goodbye, America," said the third terrorist, feigning heartbroken emotion. "Your people hardly know it yet, but your downfall has already begun."

The watching silhouette snorted at this. He had heard enough, and it was time to make his presence known. Flexing his massive, powerful hands, he stood in the moonlight and cut loose a blood-curdling shriek. It was a shriek of grief, loss, and unbridled rage. The entire city block seemed to freeze.

The four men in the alleyway below stumbled and nearly fell over each other in alarm. Each raised and readied his weapon, looking to draw a bead whatever it was that had made the hair on their necks stand up.

But none of them could be sure what they just heard. Was it human? There were no wild animals in this part of Beirut, but the shriek almost sounded like an oversized … no. It couldn’t be.

Their eyes panned up to the rooftop where the moonlight glinted off a pair of yellow eyes, a set of glistening teeth, and – most shockingly of all – a gigantic, hairy outline.

Immediately, the alley leapt to life with an ear-splitting array of gunfire. In their line of work, the terrorists always shot first and asked questions later. But in their panicked shooting, none could be sure if the shadow – whatever it was – had been hit.

After his entire clip was spent, one of the men armed with a 9 mm lowered his gun, visibly shaken. "Just what the heck was that?" he asked, eyes wide. "And did we hit it?"

A ground-shaking thump immediately behind him answered his question. The terrorist felt a hot, sticky, and foul stench breath down his neck. He turned slowly, half frozen by fear.

His comrades spun more quickly, but even they were too late. In a blur, the shadow hoisted the closest terrorist off the ground by the scruff of his neck. The terrorist, now reduced to nothing more than a trembling, terrified man, stared into a pair of unblinking eyes, his feet dangling a full four feet off of the pavement.

And then, the bizarre scene grew even stranger. The silhouette spoke. That hairy, oversized thing actually spoke.

"Killed everything in Area 51, eh?" uttered the beast in a guttural growl. "Well, I guess your intelligence wasn’t that good. Your men missed me."

And with a roar that echoed through the city for blocks, he flung the terrorist headlong into the side of a dumpster, knocking the thug out cold.

The three remaining men fumbled with fresh clips, trying desperately to rearm themselves to fight off this …. this thing. But it moved faster than anything they’d every seen, no more than a freakish blur in the shadows.

The blur sped to the nearest MP5-wielding terrorist, tore the gun from his hands, and then ripped it in half. He tossed the pieces to the trembling thug, then leapt into the air, planted both feet into his abdomen, and sent him flying into the alley’s brick wall.

The blur then shot up into the air, bounded off the wall, and plowed into the next terrorist like a linebacker blindsiding a quarterback. The thug went sprawling as he fumbled his weapon across the alley floor.

The last terrorist was finally recovering what was left of his wits and managed to shove a fresh clip into his pistol. His hands were shaking badly as he took aim at the towering primate.

"D-d-d-don’t move," sputtered the thug. He back away unsteadily. "Listen, uh, man. I’m just a lousy hacker," he pleaded. "I work with computers. What do you want with me?"

The silhouette raised himself up to his full height and stepped into the halo of light cascading from the open alley door. The terrorist’s jaw dropped open, and he whimpered in fear. There he saw it, and he couldn’t deny it. A hulking monkey, at least ten feet tall, stood wearing fatigue cargo pants and a Kevlar vest.

Then the thing, the abomination, spoke between teeth gritted in rage.

"You provided intel for the attack on Area 51," he spat, walking forward with almost a casual confidence despite being directly in the pistol’s line. "You are responsible for the death of hundreds of Americans. You took my home from me. And so it ends here – your life is forfeit."

The terrorist screamed an open-mouthed, terror-stricken wail as the massive monkey stepped closer. He squeezed the trigger again and again, sending a dozen rounds into the monkey’s chest.
But the monkey kept coming. He even grinned, baring his vicious teeth. "Kevlar vest," he said, patting the spot where the bullets had been stopped. "Area 51’s finest."

He snatched the pistol from the terrorist, tossed it over his shoulder, then drew his own from a holster on his hip. He thought about ending this miserable thug’s life, but then he harnessed his rage and thought better. The terrorist was sniveling, cowering, and absolutely petrified with fear.

"I want you to tell them I’m coming," he snarled. "Tell the ones who supplied the weapons, tell the mercenaries that carried out the attack, and tell the man who backed it all."

The monkey walked to the alley wall, turned one last time, and growled.

"Tell them my name is Mongel, and I stand for truth, justice, and making terrorists pay."

Then he turned, pulled himself up the alley wall with little more than the flick of two powerful forearms, and disappeared into the night.

Stay Tuned - Chapter 2 Coming Soon