A Triple Thriller Fest (77 page)

“As far we know those are Navajo medicine men communing with their gods.  Been doing that for centuries, I hear.”

“That’s funny.  There was no mention of Navajo medicine men in the Wright-Patterson reports.”

“You know, you’re right.  Something you might be interested in.  We recently brought in a Navajo medicine man for questioning.  One of our agents had heard a rumor that this fellow, Johnny Thapaha, had some artifacts from the Socorro incident.  We’ve been holding him for about six weeks at Holloman.  Do you want to see him?”

“Sure.  But isn’t six weeks a long time to hold someone without charges?”

“Executive Order 1121 provides that we can detain anyone for up to six months without charges if potential disclosure of alien activity threatens to jeopardize national security.  As you may know, this is consistent with the law, and I forget the exact title, that permits the President to issue an executive order detaining any person at any time for indeterminate periods if there’s a threat to national security.  This order was promulgated pursuant to that law following the Roswell and Socorro incidents.”

“Yeah, I know that law,” Mike said, expressionless.  “It’s the follow up to the laws passed in the forties that relocated all Japanese Americans from California to detention camps.  Real nice law.”

“What do you mean by that?” said McIntyre, turning toward Mike.

“Nothing.  Forget it.”

1700 Hours: Wednesday, July 8, 1970: Holloman Air Force Base, New Mexico

Mike and McIntyre stood in the hallway of the detention barracks at Holloman in front of Interrogation Room 4A.  Through the closed door, Mike could hear heated words from one person, accompanied by occasional slamming of a fist on a wooden table.  McIntyre knocked on the door, which was answered by a young Air Force special investigator.

“Can I help you, Captain?” said the airman angrily.  The airman was about twenty nine, had sandy brown hair and brown eyes, and was about five foot six inches in height.  He was dressed in a brown suit, white shirt and green tie.

“I spoke to you on the telephone,” said McIntyre.  “This is Lieutenant Mike Liu with the Navy.  He’s here to investigate the Socorro incident and would like to interview Thapaha.”

The airman stepped into the hallway.  Through the open door Mike could see an older Native American sitting erect in his chair, hands on the table in front of him, his gaze fixed on some faraway point.  The old gentleman was dressed in a red plaid woolen shirt, shapeless cotton trousers and sandals.  His graying shoulder length hair was held in place by a red and blue bandanna.  The man had a classic Native American profile, prominent nose, sharply chiseled features, and dark brown skin coloring.  Johnny Thapaha appeared to be oblivious to the men in the hallway.

Noticing that Mike was looking at his prisoner, the airman reached back and pulled the door shut with a determined click.  “Why do you want to talk with the redskin?”

“The what?” said Mike.

“That Injun,” the airman drawled; a thin smile on his face.

In this airman, Mike saw the same insolence that had tormented him in his youth.  Something snapped in Mike as he heard those words uttered.  With one swift move, Mike had his left hand at the startled airman’s throat pinning him to the wall of the hallway.  As quickly, his right hand had unbuttoned his uniform jacket, had reached behind his back, and had cocked his Walther, the muzzle of which was now in the airman’s mouth.

“Please don’t ever use racist terms like Injun or redskin again,” he said in a low, measured voice.

The only thing that the airman could do was shake his head up and down.  His eyes bulged out in fear; his pants were soaked in urine.

McIntyre was shocked at the terms used by the airman, but was equally dumbfounded by Mike’s reaction.

Several Air Force policemen came running down the corridor with pistols drawn to confront a scene in which a naval officer was holding what seemed to be a civilian at gun point.  McIntyre signaled the airmen to halt and put away their pistols.

Then McIntyre gently reached up to tap Mike’s shoulder.  “Come on, Mike, I think he’s learned his lesson.”

Mike took the Walther out of the airman’s mouth, uncocked it, and placed it back in its holster.  He continued to hold the airman by his throat, tightening his grip for effect.  Finally, he released his grip and his captive collapsed in a whimpering heap on the floor.  Mike’s eyes remained fixed on the heap on the floor.

“A little strong, weren’t you?” said McIntyre.

Mike’s focus slowly turned to McIntyre, his face passive.  “Not if you’ve had to go through what I’ve had to go through.”

McIntyre said to the sweat-drenched and huddled airman, “You’re off this case.”

“Can I see Mr. Thapaha alone?” said Mike. 

“Sure, I don’t see any reason why not,” said McIntyre.  “After all, you’re the fourth interviewer.  Maybe four will be our lucky number.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, nothing.  Just some Indian superstition.”

Mike entered the small interrogation room in which Johnny Thapaha sat at an oak conference table.  The table was grimy with the dust of the desert and countless spills of black coffee never quite wiped up.  He sat directly across from the silent Navajo, who continued to stare into the distance, not acknowledging Mike’s entrance into the room.

The two, one Native American, the other Chinese American, sat silently.  The two cultures, separated thousands of years ago by the inundating of the land bridge between Asia and the Americas, sat alone in the small, stifling conference room on folding chairs constructed of wooden slats on a light oak frame.  Like the conference table, the chairs showed neglect.

The bright light of the conference room accentuated the strained battle of wills between the old Navajo medicine man and the young Chinese American Naval officer.  Mike searched for a hint of acknowledgment in the fixed gaze of the old Native American.  He saw nothing, just eyes that looked beyond Mike, beyond the conference room, beyond Holloman Air Force Base, into the New Mexican desert and, possibly, beyond.

After about one half-hour of this silence, Mike spoke.  “Elder, we do not seek to harm you.  The man who was in here before was uneducated and did not know where he was.  We simply seek your assistance in determining the mysteries of the desert, the mysteries of the visitors from the sky.  We understand that you can be of help.”

Mike lapsed into a strained silence once again.  Johnny Thapaha spoke not one word.  The old man sat, his eyes unmoving, unblinking.

Finally after another half-hour of silence, concluding there was nothing that he would get out of the Navajo, Mike got up to leave.  As Mike started to open the door, Johnny Thapaha spoke.

“He was the fourth.”

The news came as a jolt.  If Johnny Thapaha had found a live alien then that meant that there were four involved in the Socorro incident not three, as the government had thought for years.  However, Mike understood that this interview was over and without further comment he opened the door and stepped outside into the hallway.

McIntyre had been leaning against the window frame, gazing out into the New Mexico desert.  When he saw the door opening, he quickly took one last puff on his cigarette and put out the stub with his shoe.

“Did you get anything from the old man?” said McIntyre.

“No.  I need to get back to Washington.”

0900 Hours: Thursday, July 9, 1970: CSAC Offices, Laurel, Maryland

“Welcome back, Mike,” said McHugh.

“Thank you, sir,” said Mike.

“Did you uncover anything of interest?”

“You know how everyone thinks there were three crewmen on the UFO that crashed in Socorro, New Mexico?”

“Yeah?”

“There were four.”

McHugh paused.  “How do you know that?”

“The Air Force is holding an old Navajo medicine man, Johnny Thapaha, on suspicion of hoarding artifacts from the crash site.  Although they and I were unable to get any information from the old guy, during my interview, if you could call it that, the medicine man said that there were four.”

“Have you told anyone about this?”

“No, sir.”

“Don’t.”

“What do we do next?”

“First off, we’ve got to get control of the Navajo medicine man, get him out of the hands of the Air Force.  Second, we need to gain his trust so that any information he may have will be willingly shared.  Having grown up in the West, I know that failing to gain the trust of these people is the worst way to get any information.”

“Yes, sir.”

McHugh added.  “I understand you got a little rough with an airman yesterday.”

“The guy was a racist asshole.”

“Try to cool those jets, it doesn’t help you,” said McHugh.

Mike was one of few nonwhite officers in the Navy and McHugh knew that reports of this type could be used by those who would claim that this was the very reason that proper acculturation was so important in selecting candidates for the officer corps.  By proper acculturation, the proponents meant that only certain types of people should be naval officers.  Mike didn’t fit that category, never mind his NROTC education at the University of Virginia.  White uniforms weren’t the only uniform white in the officer ranks of the Navy in 1970.

“Do you want to stay on this case?  If Thapaha spoke to you, you’re apparently the only person he’s spoken to that we know of.”

“I’d like to give it a try, sir.”

“Makes sense, I’ll go see the director for orders.  Just don’t go terrorizing anymore airmen, okay?”

“Aye, sir.”  Mike snapped to attention on that remark by McHugh.

1000 Hours: Friday, July 10, 1970: Holloman Air Force Base, New Mexico

“Good luck with him,” said McIntyre.  “We haven’t been able to get any information out of him in the six weeks we’ve had him in custody.  He’s all yours.”

Johnny Thapaha stood erect in a regal manner in the first floor hallway of the detention barracks.  He was dressed in the same clothes that Mike had seen the last time at Holloman.  When Mike walked out of the processing office to take custody of the medicine man, Johnny Thapaha took no notice of Mike or any other person.  He stood quietly with a fixed gaze.

“Good morning, Mr. Thapaha,” said Mike.

No response.

“I’m going to take you back to your people,” continued Mike.  “I’ve made arrangements to stay with you for a short period of time.”

No response.

This guy is going to be a challenge, thought Mike.

Mike had arranged for a government issued interagency motor pool car.  The tan colored Ford Fairlane did not carry any markings.  In addition, Mike was dressed in a blue button down collar shirt, tan trousers, Bass Weeguns, and a navy blue windbreaker.  With his black hair and dark complexion, Mike could have easily passed for a Native American himself.

Mike opened the door for Johnny Thapaha and then got in the driver’s seat for the one hundred and fifty mile drive to the Navajo Indian Reservation near Socorro and the crash site.

The drive passed in silence.  Neither Johnny Thapaha nor Mike spoke during the two and one half hour drive.  Mike enjoyed the Southwestern desert, the colorful yellows and reds of the desert, the sagebrush and creosote bushes, the occasional saguaro cactus, the brilliant blue sky broken only by wisps of white clouds, an occasional soaring hawk, and the countless electric poles that whipped by.  A cabin could be seen every few miles in the distance, a thin wisp of smoke rising out of the smoke stack.  The land was desolate, but fascinating.

As Mike drove into the Navajo Indian Reservation along New Mexico State Route 52 from Magdalena, New Mexico, he looked for the town hall.  The poverty that followed the Navajo into the twentieth century was evident in the ramshackle housing that was clustered along the road.  Life had not changed greatly for the Navajo and they continued to live much as their ancestors had for centuries.  Mike pulled up to the neat white stucco building in the small town square and parked the car.  Leaving Johnny Thapaha in the car, Mike walked into the town clerk’s office.

“Hello,” said Mike to the Navajo woman behind the long wooden counter.  The attractive Navajo woman, Ruth MacLaren, was dressed in a traditional long-sleeved colored blouse and a long cotton skirt.  Her blouse was decorated with buttons of silver and a narrow string of hammered silver medallions.  On each wrist was a bracelet of turquoise and silver.  Around her waist was a belt of hammered silver.

Around her neck were several beaded necklaces of many colors, shapes and sizes.  Her black hair, glistening in the light, was arranged into two braids tied with red ribbons.  The braids ran down the front of her blouse.  She was about twenty.

“May I help you?” said Ruth.

“Yes, I spoke yesterday with Richard MacLaren about Johnny Thapaha.  Where can I find him?” said Mike.

“Is Johnny here?” she said excitedly.  She sprinted to the door, brushing past a startled Mike.

Mike didn’t have to answer, he simply turned to follow the happy woman out the front door to the parked car where Johnny Thapaha sat waiting, looking into the distance.  Ruth ran out the front door of town hall crying, “Johnny’s home!  Johnny’s home!”

The townspeople came out of the few time-worn buildings that lined Main Street in the small, sleepy New Mexican town.  Pretty soon, a small crowd had gathered around the sedan.  Ruth, who was Johnny Thapaha’s youngest daughter, pulled open the front passenger’s door and helped Johnny Thapaha out of his seat.  She hugged and kissed him, ran her fingers through his hair, touched his hands, his arms, his back, crying in happiness.  Johnny Thapaha looked emotionlessly into the distance to a vision no one else could see.

As Mike came up to the crowd, the jubilation quieted, they turned to face the government man.  The tension was palpable; the Navajo had little need for the white man’s helpers, never mind that he had just brought back their medicine man, their chanter.  From the crowd stepped a young Navajo about Mike’s age.  He walked up to Mike and extended his right hand.