by Mark Frost
Aside from the usual Secret Service presence, the compound appeared to be empty. An agent escorted me into Nixon’s private offices, where I was greeted warmly by the President; wearing golf togs, he had apparently just returned from an afternoon round and a dinner. He then introduced me to the room’s only other occupant, who needed no introduction; I was shocked to instantly recognize , the world-famous entertainer––a longtime personal favorite of mine––who had been Nixon’s companion that day on the links at his charity tournament. They both had cocktails in hand––not their first, judging by their elevated jocular spirits––and I joined them when the President quickly offered and poured me one as well. As closely as I can re-create it, the conversation that followed went like this:
PRESIDENT NIXON: So we were putting out on the 15th green today––and you have to understand we’ve talked about this on a few prior occasions––
: Only every time we play.
PRESIDENT NIXON: Over the last few years. Well, out on the course is the only time no one else is listening, isn’t it? Safe to say it’s a subject we share a passion for, isn’t that right, ?
: My library on this stuff might be the only one bigger than his––that is to say, the only private collection. Over 1,700 books.
PRESIDENT NIXON: You have to understand, (he refers to his guest by his first name throughout) has not only read most of the same books, he built a library in the form of a spaceship to house them.
: For the record, the room is merely round––as is the rest of the house––because I happen to believe it’s conducive to improved mental acuity, among other beneficial qualities.
PRESIDENT NIXON: Hell, he calls that place “the Mothership,” what does that tell you?
(They shared a laugh. As I looked around I realized that the shelves in this room were entirely filled with books––most of which I’d read, many based on cases I’d personally investigated––on the subject of UFOs. So this was the “private library” Nixon had spoken to me about four years earlier.)
: True, all true, Mr. President. Guilty as charged, if being fascinated with the most tremendous mystery facing mankind today is a crime.
PRESIDENT NIXON: In my experience, what defines a crime depends on who’s getting screwed.
(Another laugh. Presidents get a lot of laughs.)
PRESIDENT NIXON: All kidding aside, has been urging me to get out in front of this issue, make a splash, as it were, lift the lid off the box and give the public a little glimpse about what we know.
: If anyone can and should, I believe it should be you, Mr. President. As I understand it, Colonel, you’ve been working on this subject your entire professional life, so what do you think about that idea?
ME: Before lifting the lid on any box, I check to see if it ever belonged to Pandora.
: Don’t you think the public has the right to know what’s really going on out there?
ME: That’s a question I’ve never really been paid to express an opinion about, sir.
: Impressively evasive, Colonel, but you must have one, don’t you?
(I looked at the President, who was grinning at me in a way I can only describe as sly.)
ME: I would feel more comfortable about expressing it if the “suggestion” came from him.
PRESIDENT NIXON: What did I tell you, ? Good man. Loose lips sink ships.
ME: But now you’ve got me curious. Is this something you’re actually considering, sir?
(The President sets down his empty glass to look at his bookshelves, and I notice he’s worrying a green ring on the ring finger of his right hand.)
PRESIDENT NIXON: I believe that on a subject as vital as this one the American people have the right––the fundamental right––to make up their own minds about what they believe. They can’t do that without more information. The question that needs to be asked first is: should the public be told about what we already know, and, if the answer is yes, it then falls to us to determine how much should they know if the issue concerns our national security.
(He looks at me again, and gives a slight nod.)
PRESIDENT NIXON: So why don’t you go ahead and answer ( )’s question, Colonel.
ME: I’ve looked at this from every angle. My personal opinion, sir, is that while I and my fellow investigators in Blue Book ran around for two decades tracking cases, the Air Force and military had in their possession––from the beginning, and have since continued to accumulate–– a great deal more evidence than they were ever willing to share with us. Also bear in mind that all the other branches conducted their own investigations and they’re all equally, remarkably unwilling to share results with each other.
: That’s a pisser.
PRESIDENT NIXON: That’s the way of the world, gentlemen.
ME: Whatever they knew in fact, the Air Force used Grudge and Blue Book as a sop to public perception––because it gave them the appearance of meaningful inquiry into this subject, as political cover, without any intent of providing public revelation. The Condon Report was more of the same, and they used it to put the final nail in the coffin. The intellectual interest of enlightened citizens like yourself aside, it’s clear to me now that the military-intelligence community’s primary goal all along has been the quashing, debunking and discouragement of general civilian curiosity while, the entire time, they were pursuing their own investigation into this matter on a separate, deep dark track which had nothing to do with us. Is that specific enough for you, sir?
( lit a cigarette as that sunk in.)
: That’s truly shocking, Colonel.
ME: It’s just an opinion, sir.
(Nixon picks up the phone on his desk and punches in a number.)
PRESIDENT NIXON: Have the car brought around to the back, please, Luis––no, the other one…no, I’d prefer that you didn’t tell them, please…if they ask, tell them we’re just giving Mr. a ride home. Thank you, Luis.
(He hangs up and turns to us both. There’s a sharp gleam in his eyes.)
PRESIDENT NIXON: In politics, secrecy is power and power is currency, but if you don’t use it for anything meaningful it wastes away. Eats at you, from the inside, like a cancer. We all want answers to the big questions. I’ve always been of the mind that policy decisions need to be informed with fresh insight, which sometimes can only be gained from expert opinion that develops outside the dense fog of institutional influence. You need to keep at least one eye toward history on these things. I felt that about China, I felt it about detente, and the nuclear treaty with the Russians. (Pause, as he deliberated over something.) I’d like you both to take a drive with me. I’m also going to have to swear you both to secrecy.
We both readily agreed. At the President’s direction, we quietly exited the library to the rear of the compound, where an unadorned black sedan was waiting for us on a back service road. It was well after 9:00 now, a warm humid night with the only pale light on the water provided by a rising half moon. There was a driver sitting inside but I saw no additional Secret Service presence. I sat beside the driver, while the President and settled in the back. We exited the compound through the service entrance. I heard the two men quietly converse during the trip, below my ability to hear, as we drove for approximately half an hour.
We eventually arrived at what I realized was a side entrance to a vast military installation that I had previously visited, Homestead Air Force Base. The sentries on duty were apparently expecting us and immediately waved us through the gate. We drove to the far end of the complex, parked outside the entrance of a large hangar, got out of the sedan and walked to a nearby door. All exterior lights had been extinguished, most likely so no one would realize who was there, and a single soldier was waiting for us at the door. I recognized him as General , who I had met on a few previous occasions, and who had long been rumored to be a part of Majestic 12. (He gave no indication of recognizing me, but I find it hard to reckon that, under the circumstances, he wouldn’t have known who I was.)
&nb
sp; Few words were spoken. The General led us inside, where I realized that the belly of the hangar had been transformed into a large and complex concrete bunker. He took us to a waiting elevator––it required the use of a key he carried to operate––and we descended three levels belowground. I felt a rising level of tension that I could see the others shared; a light sheen of sweat coated the President’s face, and looked pale and anxious. The General led us out of the elevator and down a long concrete corridor with rooms on either side. Through the windows I saw a number of what appeared to be labs or clean rooms. He took us into one of these rooms, a large blank space.
Varying-sized pieces of strange metallic debris were laid out all around the center of the floor; it appeared to me similar to an FAA crash retrieval, where investigators attempt to re-create the shape of a crashed plane. In this case, the shape it conformed to on the floor bore no resemblance to a plane or jet. This was more triangular than circular, with a wingspan of approximately thirty feet. Neither the General nor the President offered any words of explanation. We stood looking at it for a while. and I exchanged a look. I felt he was asking me whether I thought this was “authentic.” I shrugged slightly; “no way of knowing.” Without closer examination, for all I knew it could have been the shattered and rearranged remains of a Pontiac Firebird.
Without a word, the General led us back into and down the corridor outside until we reached a heavily secured steel door and paused while the General punched a code into a numeric keypad. The door opened, we entered another corridor, then passed through a door on the right into a plain, rectangular paneled room. A long wooden console and chairs faced a window that ran the length of the room and was currently obscured by a shade. No other personnel were present. The General dimmed the lights and indicated we should be seated. At a signal from the President, the General pushed a button on the console and the curtain started to rise.
We were looking into a very dimly lit room that appeared to be empty. Then, in roughly the center of the room, I realized a shape, small and pale, appeared to be sitting or squatting, turned away from us, showing only a grayish-greenish-white spiny back. Then it disappeared entirely. Moments later it reappeared, as if a concealing shadow––or a magician’s cape––had simply passed over it. But it hadn’t moved and I still couldn’t tell if it was inert or animated. Whatever it was then phased in and out of my view a second time. The General flipped a switch on the console and tapped twice on a microphone; the sound of which we could hear through a speaker as it was conveyed into the room.
I saw the shape react, stiffen. Then it turned to look our way through the window––it seemed to me likely that it was one-way glass, mirrored on the interior side––and for a brief moment the shape of its face was visible. The glimpse we got was extremely brief before it vanished again, and I wasn’t entirely sure of what I saw, beyond a vivid impression of large oval black eyes, pinched to the point of nonexistent mouth and nose, and a smooth bulbous head. Then it was gone.
But what lingered longer than the persistence of the image was the visceral feeling that seemed to emanate from the figure; what clawed at my gut and the base of my skull was a sickly sour wave of such pure and uncanny malevolence that for a moment I thought I might lose consciousness. A paralyzing fear ripped through the most primitive parts of my brain and I couldn’t move, except to glance over at and I instantly recognized he was just as pole-axed as I was; pale and covered with sweat.
Then the thing was gone and it didn’t reappear. The room went dark. The General and the President did not react––I’m guessing they’d seen this before––although Nixon wiped the sweat off his upper lip. Moments later, the curtain came down again. I knew perfectly well that what we’d just seen could have been conjured up for our benefit with the simplest of smoke and mirrors. As a kid I’d seen the trick a dozen times in carnivals and county fairs. But the feeling persisted. I felt shaky and nauseated. leaned forward to grab the back of a chair to steady himself. Not a word was spoken. The General and the President walked out of the room. Moments later, and I followed. We rode the elevator back up in silence.
When we walked back outside, I saw my car waiting on the tarmac beside the black sedan. The President shook my hand and said quietly that we would speak soon, then he and got back into his car. didn’t look at me again; he appeared to be in shock. They drove off and I followed them back out through the same gate through which we’d entered. Once we were back on the streets they soon turned and drove off in a different direction, while I headed back toward the highway that would take me home.
I wouldn’t hear from the President for over three weeks. Although we had made plans to speak again, I never saw again in person, so I don’t know if he continued to advocate that the President publicly disclose any of what we’d seen. I can’t imagine that he would. To this day I’m uncertain of what the President’s motives were that night: Was he earnestly seeking our opinion about disclosure, or did he mean to terrify us enough to buy our enduring silence? To my knowledge, never spoke about it to anyone and, naturally, neither did I.
ARCHIVIST’S NOTE
If the president still harbored any thoughts about going public with whatever he knew--and whether or not this was an “authentic” encounter of the third kind remains an open question--the problems he was about to face in the real world soon overwhelmed every other aspect of his remaining ambitions. Within a month the lid blew off his attempt to cover up the previous year’s “third-rate burglary” at the Watergate headquarters of the Democratic Party. Although no evidence ever surfaced in the subsequent congressional hearings that Nixon had given the initial order for the job--apparently he did not--his actions in trying to contain it and obstruct the ensuing investigation were decidedly criminal. Within a year this led to his resigning the presidency in disgrace, which forever blackened his name in history.
One of the few stones left unturned from Nixon’s five and a half years in office concerns what Air Force Colonel Doug Milford, soon to be retired, went on to do with the job Nixon had given him.20
As far as we know, despite his mounting legal difficulties, Nixon was able to make good on his promise to Doug Milford, earmarking an untraceable source of funding--known in intelligence circles as a “carve-out”--for his plan to carry on some deeper and more independent investigation into the UFO phenomenon without any official military or political involvement or oversight. Milford proceeded to use his four decades of discreet interagency experience to engage with a small number of individuals he trusted from different backgrounds and organizations.
The last known direct contact between Milford and Nixon took place near the end of his presidency. On the night of July 24, 1974, Nixon placed a call to Milford at his Twin Peaks residence on a secure line directly from the Oval Office. The following entry from Milford’s personal journal is his reconstruction of their conversation:
PRIVATE JOURNAL OF LT. COL. MILFORD
July 24, 1974, 8:30 PM, PDT
ME: Hello?
PRESIDENT NIXON: Can you guarantee that this is a secure line on your end?
ME: (instantly recognizing his voice) Yes, sir, I can.
PRESIDENT NIXON: No names. God knows if any members of the Inquisition have tapped me here––I have the room swept every day––but it’s a chance we’ll have to take. And, believe me, this is one conversation I am most certainly not recording on this end.
(I wait. I hear the sound of ice cubes rattling in a drink; from past experience he sounds as if he’s been drinking heavily.)
PRESIDENT NIXON: You’ve heard the news, I suppose.
ME: The Supreme Court.
PRESIDENT NIXON: Shot down our argument of executive privilege. 8–0. I put three of the bastards on that bench myself and this is the thanks I get. Only Rehnquist recused himself. We gave Congress all the transcripts––more than 1,200 pages––but no, that’s not enough for them. Now they’ll get the tapes, just as they’re preparing to vote the articles of impeachmen
t.
ME: I’m sorry to hear that, sir.
PRESIDENT NIXON: Well, you can’t just stick your head in the sand about it. Got myself on the wrong side of the wrong people––it’s a global conspiracy, Colonel; go after their secrets, they play the game with live ammunition. And I’m about out of bullets.
ME: How can I help?
PRESIDENT NIXON: Listen to me now, it’s even worse than we thought. Worse than I ever imagined. They never told me a fraction of their plan––and it was what they were planning all along, after Blue Book. You were dead-on, Colonel, Blue Book was a misdirect from the start, nothing but a cheap feint to draw the eye and tamp down public opinion. The real action started in ’53––I don’t even know for sure if Ike knew about it, if he did he never told me––they called it Gleem then. They renamed it Aquarius in ’66, one big fat fuck-you to the hippies, I suppose, and it’s still going.
ME: What is it?
PRESIDENT NIXON: A parallel program shadowing Blue Book, in place from the start. The Wise Men are running the whole show at this point––not even a pretense of public interest. They had full access to all your records, and the cases that popped, the ones that really stood out, all went to them. They left you to sift through the 90 percent that were mostly horseshit. Truman or Ike probably set it up this way for security reasons, but the net effect is they were not at any point answerable to the executive branch, still aren’t, and now it’s out of control. As far as I can tell they never answered to anyone.
(He lowers his voice, as if there’s someone in the next room.)
PRESIDENT NIXON: And I can tell you exactly why they shut down Blue Book––because they’d already made contact, and they were terrified somebody down the chain––somebody whip smart, Colonel, like you––might find out and blow the whistle. I didn’t know that at the time or I never would have shown you Homestead, but I’d only just found out about it and I thought…well, it doesn’t matter what the hell I thought anymore.