A Triple Thriller Fest (76 page)

Mike put the receiver back on its cradle and turned to Smith.  “The old man says don’t call him the ‘old man’ anymore.  Do you have any civvies?”

The meeting concluded, the participants went their separate ways.  Mildred went straight to the weapons manager to get her gear.  She hoped that CSAC had kept her favorite pistol in working order.  It was a small, lady-like one.

Smith disappeared to round up some civilian clothes for Mike to wear.  Mike picked up a regular telephone and dialed his computerized voice mailbox system.

“This is your VoiceCall message center, if you have a mailbox on the system please dial your number now,” intoned the metallically androgynous voice that answered the telephone.  Mike dialed the number of his mailbox.  The robotic voice announced that he had one message.

The message was from Mike’s secretary.  “Mr. Liu, you had many calls, but I was able to get some of your staff to address them.  Mr. Wickerspoon would like you to call him when you have a moment.  Also, a Richard MacLaren called; he asked that you call him as soon as possible.  His number is 505-978-3344.”  Mike punched the asterisk on the handset and the VoiceCall message computer switched off.

Mike called Seth Wickerspoon.

“Mr. Wickerspoon’s office,” answered a pleasant female voice.

“Hello, Elizabeth.  Is Seth in?”

“Hold on, Mr. Liu.  He’ll be right with you.”

“Mike, sorry you can’t attend lunch.  What’s up?” said Seth.

“I’m doing something for Bob McHugh.”

“Oh.  When will you finish?”

“Don’t know.”

“O.K., but keep in mind I still have a business to run.”

“Yes, sir.”

Mike then dialed McLaren’s number.

“MacLaren residence,” answered a young female voice.

“Is Richard MacLaren in?”

“One moment, sir.”

“Dick MacLaren,” said a deep voice.

“Mike Liu here.”

“Hello, Mike, I’m afraid I’ve some bad news.  My father-in-law is dead.”

“How, when?  Gosh, I’m really sorry.”  Mike was shaken.  What a week for the telephone.  As if the call from the young Navy Lieutenant wasn’t enough, now Mike would have to deal with the death of his old friend.  The coincidence of the two events was mystifying and strangely frightening.

“Johnny joined the Great Spirit in his sleep, Thursday night.  The formal ceremony is set for weekend after next, can you make it?”

“Why so late?”

“It was his wish; we found it written on a sheet of paper.  Apparently the sun is at a certain point on the horizon on that day.  Johnny was pretty insistent.

Despite his grief, Mike was mystified why Johnny Thapaha had specified a date certain.  “Did he say anything?  Any messages?”

“There was something, but I have to see you.”

“Was anyone with Johnny?”

“No, but my littlest, Jimmy, was with him that morning for his last visit to the mesa.”

“Dick, I’ll be there.”

Mike replaced the handset on its cradle.  His thoughts rushed back to those long-buried memories.

1970: The Navajo

1000 Hours: Tuesday, July 7, 1970: National Security Agency, Laurel, Maryland

“Mike, can I see you for a moment?” said McHugh over the secure telephone.

“I’ll be right there, Sir.”

Mike walked down the narrow corridor in the National Security Agency building in Laurel, Maryland, to McHugh’s interior office.

Unlike his office in Port Hueneme, California, with the trophies of his successes and achievements, McHugh’s office at NSA was strictly utilitarian.  The standard office furniture was gray metal desk, chair and metal bookcase.  In one corner sat a metal, three-drawer file cabinet with a metal angle iron holding the drawers closed.  The metal angle iron was locked with combination locks on the top and the bottom.

The fluorescent lighting in the office gave off a harsh white light that washed out the deep tan that McHugh normally sported.

McHugh looked up from the manila folder that he was reading from as Mike walked into his office.

“Hi, Mike, take a seat.  I think we have stumbled on to something a lot larger than we ever thought.  Here, take a look at these reports.”  He dropped several folders labeled “Top Secret” in front of Mike.

Mike picked up a manila folder and opened it.  Inside the folder were carbon copies of typewritten reports from the late 1940s.  Also included were photographs taken by Army Air Corps investigators at the site of a crashed flying vehicle of unknown origin.  The crash described in the reports involved an alleged alien spacecraft near Socorro, New Mexico, in July 1947.

“I’ve read about such things,” said Mike.  “But this — this is proof positive that the United States has been visited by UFOs.”

“Read on, Mike.  There’s more.”

Silently, Mike continued to read the reports.  The crash involved a craft of unknown origin.  In the wreckage of the spacecraft, investigators had found the bodies of three aliens who had perished in the crash.  The wreckage and the three bodies were secretly transported to the Army’s Wright-Patterson Field in Dayton, Ohio.

Finishing the file, Mike looked up at McHugh, who had been quietly sitting back in his chair, drawing on his corncob pipe, observing his young protégé’s reactions to this mind boggling information.

Awkwardly, Mike said, “Sir, what does this have to do with us?”

“Here,” said McHugh as he took something out of a manila envelope and tossed it to Mike.  The object was a silvery colored sheet of paper-like cloth material.

The strange markings on the sheet of material were indecipherable and looked as if they had been imprinted with a device that had fused the image’s pigmentation directly into the fibers of the material.  Also fused into the material was a map of what looked like the United States of America.  At four locations on the sheet were what appeared to be coordinates and a locator in hieroglyphics of an unknown language.  The sites coincided with the locations of the four Sentinels.

“Holy shit, Sir.  Does this say what I think it says?”

McHugh shrugged and sighed.  “Our eggheads can’t decipher the information as yet.  By the way, this map is so classified that knowledge of its existence must be denied by all who have seen it.  Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“My guess is that the spacecraft was on a mission involving the objects that have been found around the United States.  I’d like you to check out the Socorro incident firsthand.”

“When do I leave?”

“Tomorrow,” said McHugh.  “Go through this file in detail and let’s talk before you go,”

0900 Hours: Wednesday, July 8, 1970: Holloman Air Force Base, New Mexico

“Welcome to Holloman Air Force Base, Lieutenant Liu,” said Captain Edward McIntyre as Mike climbed down from the F-4 Phantom that had just brought him from Andrews Air Force Base, near Washington, D.C.

“Thank you very much, sir,” said Mike, as he saluted the senior officer.

“What brings Naval Intelligence to the Southwest to investigate an old alleged UFO crash site?  Not much water in the New Mexican desert.”

“I’m really sorry, sir, but my orders are clear.  I can’t discuss anything.  I’m to be given access to all information you may have,” said Mike to McIntyre, whom he knew had been assigned to Project Blue Book, the successor Air Force group to Project Grudge.  Project Blue Book had continued to officially investigate extraterrestrial activity well into the sixties, until its activities had been taken over by CSAC.

“Sorry, just idle curiosity,” said McIntyre.  “Anyway, welcome.”  He extended his right hand to Mike.  “By the way, drop the formalities, okay?  My name is Ed.”

“Okay.  Call me Mike.  It does seem unlikely, I guess,” said Mike as he shook McIntyre’s hand.

Only a few people in the government had been given the opportunity to link the Watch Stations with the events in New Mexico and Wright-Patterson Air Base.  Inside the CSAC, only a small control group hand-picked by McHugh was aware of the terrible consequences that could occur if, in fact, the Wright-Patterson secret were linked with the secrets of the Watch Stations.  One of that group was McHugh’s junior officer, Mike Liu.

Mike got his duffel bag, tossed it into the back of the dark blue Jeep, and climbed into the back seat.  McIntyre got into the right front passenger seat.  As soon as the two were barely in the vehicle, the driver threw the jeep into first gear and roared off.  The jackrabbit start threw them back into their seats.  Both Mike and McIntyre clung to whatever part of the jeep that provided a handhold as the Jeep bounced along the flight line.

The stiff suspension of the Jeep accentuated the airman’s hell-bent method of driving.  At the end of the flight line, he swung the Jeep into a sharp right turn and roared past an opening in the chain link fence on to the blacktop road.  Arriving at the base commandant’s headquarters, the driver slammed on the brakes and came to a screeching stop.  Both Mike and McIntyre were thrown forward by the sudden stop.  As soon as both McIntyre and Mike alighted from the Jeep and Mike had retrieved his duffel bag, the airman once again threw the Jeep into first and with a squeal was gone.

“What’s that guy in training for, jet fighters or New York cabs?” said Mike.

With a laugh, McIntyre said, “One of our best mechanics.  Doesn’t know how to drive worth a damn.”

The base headquarters was the typical three story stone aggregate panel and windowed building found on countless military bases around the country.  The uninspired architecture was both functional and cost effective.  However, the sand-colored panels seemed to fit well with the desert location of Holloman Air Force Base.

McIntyre and Mike walked to the reception counter, manned by a young airman in a dark blue uniform.  The airman inspected their Department of Defense identification badges and asked both to sign the register.

“Let’s go up to my office,” suggested McIntyre.

Climbing up the three flights of steps to McIntyre’s office, Mike wondered why McHugh had sent him to Holloman.  This seemed to be a well-documented situation.

The Socorro incident involved only one spacecraft and was not as widely known as the earlier crash of a flight of three spacecraft near Roswell, New Mexico.  Examination of the four spacecraft had revealed similarities in design and structure.  Some analysts had speculated that the four shared a common origin.

Unfortunately, like the nine occupants of the three vehicles in the Roswell incident, the three crew members of the sole Socorro craft had died in their crash.  The remains of the vehicles and their crews had been taken to the medical center at Wright-Patterson Field for further forensic and medical examination.

Mike and McHugh had read the voluminous reports on the Socorro and Roswell incidents.  These reports had been filed contemporaneously with the discovery of the spacecraft in the late forties.

Despite the fact that all known artifacts associated with the Socorro and Roswell crashes had been removed to Wright-Patterson, the Air Force maintained a small group of investigators at Holloman, as part of Project Blue Book.  McIntyre, a 1964 graduate of the United States Air Force Academy, had been in charge of the group at Holloman.

McIntyre’s small office was in the interior of the building and was only large enough for a gray metallic desk, a gray metal bookcase, a gray leatherette desk chair, and two gray metal side chairs.  In addition, two gray metal, four-drawer filing cabinets sat in one corner of the tiny office, with an angle iron across their front, held in place by two combination locks.

McIntyre smiled.  “Welcome to my humble abode, care for coffee?”

“Sure, cream and sugar.”

As McIntyre disappeared down the hallway to get some coffee, Mike helped himself to a seat in McIntyre’s tiny office.

McIntyre soon returned with two rigid plastic holders each with a thin plastic cup filled with steaming coffee, which he placed on the top of his desk.  McIntyre took his chair behind the desk and invited Mike to the coffee.

“Now, how can I be of help to the Navy?”

“For starters, Ed, I’ve already had access to the files of Projects Blue Book and Grudge.  I’ve reviewed the Wright-Patterson reports and the Socorro incident Reports.  My superiors would like me to actually walk the site, if I can.”

“We can get a Huey to take us to the site this afternoon.  However, before we do that, you may want to check into the BOQ.”

“Good idea.  Will there be any trouble getting the Huey?”

“No problem.  Let’s figure on going around 2:00 p.m.”

1500 Hours: Wednesday, July 8, 1970: Socorro, New Mexico

With a swirl of dust, the Huey settled on to the desert floor.  Mike and McIntyre unbuckled their seat belts and jumped out of the open door.  Crouching low, Mike and McIntyre ran out from under the still turning main rotor.

Walking the crash site with Mike, McIntyre retold the history of the Socorro incident.  Shepherds had found the crash site and had notified the local sheriff.  The sheriff, after arriving at the scene, immediately radioed Holloman Army Air Field.  Swarms of Army Air Force investigators descended on the scene and picked it clean.  Large portions of the wreckage were trucked out in unmarked tractor trailers to be flown to Wright-Patterson.  The remains of the crew were also transported to Holloman Army Air Field and from there to Wright-Patterson.

Mike, who had read the voluminous reports on the Socorro incident, including the highly classified report concerning the mysterious sites, knew much of the material now being recounted by McIntyre.

Mike took in the topography of the New Mexican desert, broad flat plains interrupted only by a few flat-topped mesas.  The Rio Salado flowed through the reservation.  The Gallinas Mountains were in the distance.  The scene was a splendid vista of cactus and sand.  The azure sky was broken only by wispy clouds floating high above.  An occasional hawk floated lazily in the sky hunting for its daily meal.  Mike noticed several campfires on some nearby mesas.  He asked McIntyre about them.