Royce drove his truck through the desert. He didn't like his post in Arizona, but he went where the Army told him. He reminded himself that he was the son of the famous Colonel John Daggers, respected soldier and leader, who did several tours in Desert Storm and was now fighting in Afghanistan. Yet Royce could never measure up to his dad. He barely finished boot camp with the lowest scores any person could get and still pass. He thought he was allowed to stay in the Army because of his dad.

Plumes of dirt flew behind his car as the truck bounced down the dirt street. Royce didn't care that he was stationed in this remote area. He was glad he was not sent to a hotbed of fighting like his buddy, John, who was knee deep in sand trying not to be killed by insurgents of Isis or the Taliban.

His army issue truck turned toward a group of buildings, drab and nondescript, painted the color of gray mud. He parked his car at the entrance. The building was attached to the side of a large mountain that overshadowed it. The base was honey-combed into the mountain and extended, he supposed, hundreds of feet below. Royce didn't care. He was getting paid for this shit job. The only time this place was interesting was when they came. Royce didn't believe in aliens, but these people who dressed in black and white suits looked like aliens. They were tall for one thing, and unusually thin and they had visited once since he had been here.

He walked up a small flight of steps to a brown door. Royce touched a small scanner to the left of the doorway. He placed his right eye next to it. The door clicked and he opened it. Royce always like this new tech. He felt like James Bond going into his headquarters at MI6. The soldier greeted him from his seat at the table. The man was looking at several monitors showing the surrounding area in front of the building.

"Hello, Royce," the soldier said.

"Hi, Dale, anything new?"

"Same shit. Same sand."

Royce nodded. "Have the tall Thinners visited?"

"No," Dale said. "And don't call them that. If they knew, they’d fire you."

"Whatever."

He walked to the next set of doors. A swirl of sand lay on the floor. Sand was everywhere on the top floor but not on the lower floors. The door clicked.

"Thanks. See you after your shift."

"Sure."

"Yo," the soldier said, "do you want to go to the titty bar after work?"

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"Nah."

He grabbed the handle and walked into a long corridor that ended at a set of elevators. Royce glanced at the security camera mounted on the wall. He was going to give Dale an obscene finger as his dad, the Colonel, always called it, but he didn't want the other guards stationed below to see him.

The elevator opened as if by magic and he entered. The silent machinery moved him into the belly of the beast. Every time he went to work here he felt as if he was going into a different world, a place where a poor schmuck with a worthless job and a crazy father could do something important. He recalled his dad waking him up every morning at the crack of dawn to exercise and clean the house. The Colonel always told him he had to be a good soldier and learn discipline. His mother was a forgettable figure in the kitchen, who never talked. She looked downwards when his dad spoke to her.

The therapist the Army made him see told him that he was raised by an abusive dad who had anger issues. He also had anger issues, the therapist pointed out. Royce smirked. Hey, he thought, it was not my fault I had to beat a man because he told me I was a sissy. It was his right to show this man he was not a fairy. His father, the Colonel, would never let that remark slide. The therapist said he had wounded child syndrome. He told her that was bullshit. He didn't need his parent’s attention.

The elevator stopped and he stepped out into the hallway. The temperature was climate controlled, but he always felt warm.

Royce's station was located at the end of the adjoining hallway. He took a left and saw a room with bullet-proof glass. Soldiers dressed in army fatigues like him stared at several consoles showing the corridor he came from and the other rooms of the underground structure. He nodded to the soldiers and they barely looked at him.

He walked until he was at the very end of the path. A dark gray door greeted him. Royce knocked. The door clicked. Moving inside, he saw a soldier sitting behind the desk with his boots up on the polished surface.

"Hey, Royce, you're late."

"No, I’m not."

The soldier stood and moved toward the exit.

"I’ll see you in a week. I got some R&R."

"Lucky bastard. I will see you later. Don't drink yourself silly like last time," Royce said.

"Haha, see ya."

The soldier opened the door and left. Royce turned to the rows of monitors before him, feeling like God before his followers. He thought, I know all and watch all and don't call my name in vain because I can see and hear everything. He shook his head and saw the broad expanse of Bastions on the monitor sitting silent against the black background, like sentinels at rest waiting for something. He had been watching these Bastions, as they were called, for almost five years.

Today's and yesterday's newspapers were strewn on the table next to the screens. The sports page was open and he scanned it and saw the Lakers were in the championship again. He saw movement at the corner of his eye and reached for his handgun. On the monitor before him, he saw shadows roving along the Bastions.

"What the hell?" he said.

The shadows melted and shimmered, casting doubt on what he saw. Royce stood and moved closer to the monitor. He saw it again. Suddenly, as if in premonition, a sound he had never heard before blasted along the room and the hallways beyond.

A buzzing noise sounded and then a mechanical voice said, "Security breach in sectors 4, 6, and 8!"

Royce knew sector 6 was his area. He grabbed the M16 rifle along the wall and ran.