Star Trek The Original Series From History's Shadow (30 page)

“If you could, you’d have done it by now,” Wainwright countered, “so let’s quit pretending you’ve got power you don’t have, all right?” That was enough to make the colonel bristle, but Wainwright pretended not to notice. “As for
where the craft is, to be honest, Colonel, I was hoping you could tell us. After all, this smells a lot like the kind of thing you’d have your hands in.”

Olson’s vexed reaction appeared genuine, and Wainwright saw real anger flash in the other man’s eyes. “Are you suggesting a cover-up?”

“Suggesting?” Wainwright shook his head. “No, that’s a waste of time. You and I both know that sort of thing’s happened before, with Magestic leaving Blue Book holding the bag and looking like idiots. There’ve been at least, what, three incidents where you swept in and took the legs out of a Blue Book investigation, making off with the evidence they’d found and forcing the case officers to dismiss the initial sighting or other report? I know Carlson would never screw us like this, but you? Yeah, I can see that, easy.”

With a grunt suggesting he was growing irate at the discussion’s turn, Olson glanced over his shoulder at Marshall before returning his gaze to Wainwright. “Perhaps you and I might continue this conversation in private.”

“Miss Marshall has full clearance,” Wainwright countered. “So whatever you’re going to say, you might as well say it now.”

As though sensing an opening to get in his own jab, Olson turned to Wainwright. “Yes, I’ve heard those . . .” He stopped when Wainwright held up a hand.

“Whatever you’re thinking might be a smart thing to say next? Rethink it, Colonel.” He let a hint of menace lace the words. “Those birds on your shoulders or the fact that I’m old enough to be your father won’t stop me from knocking you on your ass, right here and right now.” Though he and Marshall had endured gossip over the years regarding their personal relationship, this was the first time anyone had seen fit to confront them about it in such a direct manner.

“I’d have you arrested,” Olson snapped.

Wainwright nodded. “Sure. After they let you out of the hospital.”

“Gentlemen,” Marshall said, her exasperated tone giving them pause. “With all due respect, I’d like to go home at a decent hour tonight, so can we please get on with this?” She crossed her arms, offering an expression conveying restrained annoyance. “You can fight over my honor after I’ve gone.”

Drawing a breath as though to calm himself, Olson placed his hands in his trouser pockets. “Fine. What else can you tell me about the crash site?”

“The damaged area wasn’t that large,” Wainwright replied. “No felled trees, no signs of fire, though there was some disrupted dirt and rock from where it touched down. That suggests a controlled landing, to some degree. We also don’t think the object was very big, probably the same size as a single-seat fighter jet, more or less.”

Olson said, “We can assume it wasn’t a Russian rocket or missile, and China’s only just sticking their toe into the water so far as that’s concerned.” A month prior, China had detonated its first hydrogen bomb, and now joined the U.S., Russia, and Great Britain in the fraternity of countries possessing the ability to construct nuclear weapons.

Another day, another headache
.

“If it was some kind of craft,” Marshall said, “and it didn’t just fly back out of there under its own power, then we’re thinking something that small could be disassembled and removed from the crash site. There’ve been no further reports of unidentified craft in that area—or meteor activity, for that matter—since the initial sighting. Of course, that sort of thing suggests a group like us.”

“Or just someone with time and resources,” Olson countered, “which is alarming on a number of levels.”

Wainwright said, “We’ve thought about ways to look into that. For example, if it’s a private group, then maybe one of the UFO organizations or clubs out there might come across some information. We’re going to be paying more attention to things like the newsletters and magazines these groups publish, checking for hints of someone bragging about a great find in the California mountains, that sort of thing.” Indeed, Wainwright already had dispatched Mestral to Los Angeles to speak with Cal Sutherland, who still was publishing his
Watch the Skies
magazine. If anyone was going to come across juicy information about somebody claiming ownership of a flying saucer, it would be Sutherland. Olson, of course, did not know about Sutherland, thanks to the efforts of Professor Jeffrey Carlson, who had cultivated the tabloid journalist as a resource.

What he doesn’t know won’t hurt us
.

Appearing to mull over this notion for a moment, Olson nodded. “It can’t hurt, but we definitely need to explore other avenues. This is the kind of thing that poses a threat to our operational security and as a consequence, there are going to be some changes with respect to other activities.”

Uh-oh,
Wainwright thought.
Here it comes
.

“What do you mean?” Marshall asked.

Olson removed his hands from his pockets. “For one thing, it’s been decided that we’ve collected more than enough credible evidence proving aliens have been here and they’re curious about us. We need to guard that information, to say nothing about the other . . . artifacts . . . we’ve obtained, not just from outsiders but even those in our own government.” He turned so that he could look at Wainwright. “You as much as anyone knows we’ve been doing this long enough that we have military
and civilian leaders overseeing our work who’ve never actually
seen
what we’ve done. Most of those people either don’t believe, or else they’re living in denial.”

Nodding, Wainwright sighed as he realized this was one of the few things on which he and Olson agreed. “You can say that again.” The simple truth about Blue Book, and even more so with Majestic 12, was that the compartmentalization of the information gathered by both groups over the past twenty years had become so labyrinthine that only a select few individuals even had knowledge, let alone access to everything.

“MJ-12’s efforts going forward will be focused on better understanding the information we already have,” Olson said, “and following leads that support our defense against specific threats for which we have solid evidence.”

“What about us?” Wainwright asked, already knowing the answer.

“You’ll keep to your current role, but the priority is finding connections to these threats,” Olson said, lifting himself from Wainwright’s desk. “Meanwhile, Blue Book will continue its downplaying and discrediting of other UFO sightings and witnesses as appropriate.”

For the first time, Wainwright considered mentioning to Olson the Certoss aliens he and Marshall had been tracking with the clandestine aid of Mestral and with the support of Professor Carlson. It was a secret the four of them had kept to themselves for a decade, believing that the fewer people who knew of their effort, the better the chances of being able to hunt for the mysterious aliens from the future without attracting their attention. To that end, Mestral had been working on constructing what he called a “sensor device,” which would allow him to scan for and locate indications of advanced or otherwise “non-terrestrial”
activity—communications signals or other energy readings not achievable by current human technology, for example. The Vulcan had been experimenting with such devices for some time now, limited as he was to equipment and other materials available to him.

No,
Wainwright decided.
Olson doesn’t need to know. Not yet.

“That sounds like a misuse of our resources,” he said, eyeing the colonel. “We know the threats are real, so why can’t we get the support we need?”

Olson sighed. “Look, I might not like you, Wainwright, but I can’t argue that you and Marshall haven’t produced results. Carlson and the rest of the MJ-12 committee know the real deal, but the truth is that right now the United States has bigger, more immediate problems. We’re upping our commitment of resources to Vietnam, and that means more money needed to fund it. Now, if we could brief Congress on what we know, I’m guessing we could get a blank check, but until such time as the president gives us the green light, we make do with what we have.”

“And what if the Ferengi or somebody else comes knocking?” Marshall asked. “What then?”

Turning to head for the door, Olson replied, “Then I imagine the meetings with Congress will go a hell of a lot quicker.” He reached the door, but instead of leaving the room, he looked back at Wainwright and Marshall. “Unless, of course, you can find something concrete before that happens.” Without waiting for a response, the colonel exited the room, the door closing behind him.

“Idiot,” Marshall said, shaking her head.

“But he’s not wrong,” Wainwright said. “Until we can wave something irrefutable in front of Congress, we’re never going to get full support.”

“What more do they need?” Marshall asked, rising from her chair and moving around her desk. “Some Ferengi or Certoss to come down here and stick a probe up his butt? Maybe we could get Mestral to demonstrate that to Olson. You know, to help him dislodge his head.”

Chuckling, Wainwright smiled. “You’ve been reading too many of Cal Sutherland’s magazines.” Some accounts of “abduction” carried with them varying degrees of legitimacy, such as the case involving a New Hampshire couple who claimed to have been studied by aliens aboard their ship in 1961. Their story even was turned into a book published just last year, and many government officials believed it was the book that had launched a spate of similar claims, with witnesses or “victims” being subjected to all manner of obscene medical examinations and other procedures after being taken aboard spaceships. Such accounts were an interesting contrast to the plethora of books Wainwright had read over the years from more “trustworthy” sources, such as Morris Jessup, an astronomer who had made something of a name for himself in the UFO enthusiast community after writing a handful of books detailing stories and theories regarding extraterrestrial activity. Though Jessup enjoyed no mainstream recognition for his efforts, his books all were required reading within the MJ-12 and Blue Book organizations, and Wainwright and Marshall even had followed up on accounts recorded in a few of the books.

There was a knock on the door, and they looked at each other in confusion for a moment before Wainwright called out, “Come in.” When the door opened, it was to admit two men he did not recognize. Both wore dark, conservative suits, though the taller of the pair also wore a fedora pulled low over his eyes.

“Good evening, Mister Wainwright,” his companion said, before turning to Marshall. “Miss Marshall. We apologize for calling on you unannounced, but we have some information we think you’ll find important.” He looked to be in his mid-thirties, with brown hair and bright hazel eyes, and carried himself with a self-confidence—perhaps even arrogance—that only natural leaders tended to exude.

“Who are you?” Wainwright asked, scowling. He felt his hand twitch, wanting to reach for the pistol in its holster beneath his left arm, but he forced himself to remain still. “How the hell did you even get in here?”

“That’s not really important,” he replied, “though to make it easy for all of us, you can call me Agent 937.” He indicated his companion. “This is Agent 176. I hope you’ll understand that we need to protect our identities, but it’s the information we have for you that’s of true importance. It’s also very sensitive, which is why I need to insist that you not share it with anyone; not even your Vulcan friend, Mestral.”

Despite himself, Wainwright could not help his mouth opening in shock at the unexpected demand. He exchanged confused glances with Marshall before asking, “How do you . . . ?”

The man held up his hand. “Hopefully, now, you understand that this isn’t a joke. Our information pertains to the Certoss, and how we can help you find them.” He paused, offering a small, humorless smile. “Interested?”

Okay,
Wainwright conceded.
That’s one way to get my attention
.

TWENTY-FIVE

U.S.S. Enterprise

Earth Year 2268

Phaser in hand and followed by a pair of security guards, Kirk lunged from the turbolift the instant the doors opened and sprinted down the narrow observation deck overlooking the starboard side of the
Enterprise
’s shuttlecraft hangar bay. Standing near one of the viewing ports was Lieutenant Commander Barry Giotto, along with two more guards. The security chief, also wielding a phaser, gestured with his weapon toward the window.

“Six of them, sir,” he said by way of greeting. “We’ve sealed off the bay, and I’ve got teams at every exit. The only way they’re getting out of there is the same way they got in.”

Kirk nodded, getting his first look at the odd situation unfolding on the hangar deck. “Scotty’s working on that.” The chief engineer already had reestablished the ship’s deflector shields. Though they were not yet at full strength, they still were more than the Tandaran ship could boast. For now, the
Enterprise
had the tactical advantage so far as ship-to-ship combat was concerned, though that was not the issue at the moment.

While Giotto dispatched the four security guards to join teams he had positioned at different exits, Kirk peered down through the viewing port at the
Balatir
sitting in the center
of the bay. The Certoss vessel took up much more space than a shuttlecraft sitting in that same position. Two shuttles, the
Galileo
and the
Copernicus,
were positioned before the bay’s rear bulkhead, and the enormous clamshell doors to Kirk’s left of course were closed, providing the only barrier separating this part of the ship from the harsh, unforgiving vacuum of space. Six figures, all dressed in what Kirk figured to be some kind of tactical assault uniform consisting of torso armor with a molded neck and a helmet with a wide face shield, milled about the
Balatir
, each of them brandishing a formidable-looking rifle. None of the intruders was attempting to gain entry to the craft. “Nice work reacting to the threat, Commander.”