Thick black contrails crisscrossed the sky. Mere yards from where they had emerged from the Cadillac, flames leapt from a charred and mangled F-22 fighter lying upside down—canopy and pilot crushed. Its two Pratt and Whitney turbofan engines continued to whirl while thick black smoke billowed. Above, like a swarm of bees, Craing fighters circled in unison. Whatever battle had ensued seemed to have ended as quickly as it had begun. The ground shook as the last F-22 crashed—this one closer to the house. Jason heard an ominous low-frequency sound, blaring shrilly in the distance. An alarm or a warning—its effect caused an almost overwhelming sense of impending dread and doom. “We need to get to the gate,” Jason yelled over the thunderous noise. Ricket followed him, with weapon held high—ready to fire. Debris covered much of the yard. Although hard to see through the heavy smoke-filled air, Jason spotted something in the near distance. Crossing over to an adjacent, more direct path, they could now clearly discern an alien ship.
