The Native American woman was startling beautiful. Her silver hair was the colour of moonlight, neither grey nor white, but something else, it was mercurial.
She sat cross legged in deep meditation. There was no pounding drums, no bass chant, or wisps of fragrant smoke around her. The only music was her heartbeat, the slow rhythm of her breathing.
Microphones listened. Cameras recorded. This was sound insulated room, deep in the Yukon Mountains of Eastern Canada. Remote and isolated, the home of a special project.
In the darkness she let out a terrible wail.
"Silver Fox!" Came the voice. Light's engaged. From behind a closed door a man followed, his lab coat the uniform of his profession. From it hung a identifying badge.
Professor Abraham Cornellius. His red hair and beard distinguished with grey missing from the younger man who looked out from the embedded picture. Project Leader Weapon-X. Abraham knelt beside his test subject. "What did you see?" He asked.
"Something is coming." Silver Fox replied. Breathless she shook.
Cornellius helped her upright. Was it excitement, or fear? He couldn't tell. Wide eyed she stared into him. "Tonight." She said, her nails bit through his clothes, she gripped tighter. "She brings him tonight!"
Cornellius shook his head not yet understanding. Silver Fox was still in a trance, he could see the whites of her eyes. Her words meant nothing – yet. Abraham led her into the adjacent room. Computer screens flickered green on black.
"I need to draw." She told him.
Abraham watched as Silver Fox sketched what she had seen, the pen scraped on the back of the hastily grabbed perforated printer paper. Her delicate fingers drew with a few bold strokes recognisable images.
"A shooting star." He said, then finger to the recognisable outline. "Over Mount Logan."
As the skilled artist sketched a second series of striking images Cornellius analytical mind had pieced together the information the Native American Psychic had received into a working theory. He was already reaching for the receiver.
"I need a retrieval squad in the air immediately." He snapped. "Get choppers over the western slopes of Mount Logan now."
The beat of blades in the night air and roar of engines thundered across the bleak landscape. Like great black insects the military helicopters swung low over the white snow.
Inside thermal cameras picked up whatever hot bloodied life was to be found.
Then it came a fiery ball of light falling almost colliding with the mountain, and yet the meteor changed course, just enough. Enough to miss the jagged ridge of rock, enough to confirm this was an unidentified flying, as opposed to falling, object. There was an explosive impact as it made contact with the ground several miles away, a bang, a crashing of timber, a dark shadow as earth was catapulted skyward.
The Helicopters closed in, and the UFO exploded. A burst of bright green light and then darkness.
"It's destroyed itself." The Pilot observed as he swung around the burning pit that had been the crash site.
"There." A gloved finger stabbed at thermal imaging screen in the cockpit of the lead chopper. Red and amber was the colour of the now moving target.
"Just as the Professor predicted." The Pilot dipped the stick and pursued.
"My God. How is that possible?" His Second asked.
Another harsher voice barked over the coms. "Do not let the target escape."
The Pilot swore. "The old man is watching. Better make this look good." His finger flicked the cover from the trigger for his weapons.
From the lead chopper a line of fire spat from chain guns hung from the sides of the aircraft. Tracer's lit the night.
The target leapt out of the line of fire, sailing high above the trees before hitting the ground once more.
"Estimate target speed to be in excess of fifty miles per hour."
"I have a firing solution." A second gunship had swung around ahead of them, it fired. The Target leapt again, away from the new threat, but back into the sights of the lead Chopper. Bullets tore into the night once more.
"Target is down. Repeat Target is down,... Wait, Target is moving again, don't just,... shoot Goddamit."
"Bullet Proof." Cornellius whispered disbelieving. He watched the live feed. He'd never forget this moment. She was so human, so angry, tears streaked down her cheeks, as her fists smashed into the lead Helicopters canopy. Leaping to attack her attackers.
"Target her now. Use the Missiles." The voice crackled over the radio, betraying its distance. However remote they were from their sponsor, the old man, it seemed, was always watching.
"But the crew..." Abraham stammered, even as he saw the target pull the pilot from his seat, sending him tumbling away from the helicopter into the snow.
"Now." The old man barked.
The second Helicopter gunship responded. Missiles shrieked from it's pods. The distance between them and the first gunship was less than a hundred feet. The explosion followed almost instantaneously, buffeting the second helicopter even as it pulled up and away from the fire ball.
The first gunship and the female target fell together from just above the tree tops to the forest floor. A flaming ball to the snow.
Even as the secondary explosion followed moments later, a third helicopter landed and disgorged a ground assault team.
They ran. Closing in, not on the fiery wreck, but using hand held instrument, they scuttled towards a second smaller heat signature.
The scream shook the forest. Snow fell from trees, on the mountain there was a distant rumble of avalanche. The men on the ground staggered as the sound assaulted them.
The bursting missile had punctured the female target's skin, she bled from a wound on her side. Her clothes were otherwise untouched. Fire clung to her as it consumed splashed gasoline. She did not seem to care. Staggering forward she broke into a sprint, but was met by a heavy burst of concentrated fire from the second helicopter's chain guns. She kept on coming as if fighting through an icy hail storm. Accelerating towards the ground team.
Missiles streaked downwards, multiple launches, exploding around her. The soldiers on the ground threw themselves into the snow, scrabbling from cover, hiding from the fire and shrapnel.
From the air came search lights into the mist. Then as the smoke cleared they all saw her. She staggered on. Bloody now, her clothes torn, she fell, crawling, leaving a bloody trail over the white of snow.
Her hand reaching outwards, her last movements laboured, then with her dying breath she gasped her last word, as her fingertips touched the blue and red blankets that swaddled the child in the snow. Her child, her baby.