Praise for
E V E N T
“The Roswell Incident—whether legend, fact, or some combination of both—has inspired countless novels and movies over the years, but David Lynn Golemon’s Event peels back the layers of Roswell with refreshing originality. The action is spectacularly cinematic, the characters compelling, and the story is a flat-out adrenaline rush that pits real-world, cutting-edge military technology against a literally out-of-this-world threat. Even better, the Event Group itself is one of the best fictional agencies to arise in the literature of government conspiracies.”
—New York Times bestselling authors
Judith and Garfield Reeves-Stevens
“Fans of UFO fiction will find this a great read, and fans of military fiction won’t be disappointed either.”
—SFSIGNAL.COM
“Golemon puts his military experience to good use in this promising debut sure to satisfy fans of The X-Files.… the plotting and hair’s-breadth escapes evoke some of the early work of Preston and Child, and the author’s premise offers a rich lode of material for the inevitable sequels.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Imagine mixing in a blender a Tom Clancy novel with the movie Predator and the television series The X-Files… readers who enjoy nonstop action and lots of flying bullets will enjoy Golemon’s first book in a projected series.”
—Library Journal
St. Martin’s Paperbacks Titles
by DAVID LYNN GOLEMON
Event
Legend
Ancients
E V E N T
DAVID LYNN GOLEMON
St. Martin’s Paperbacks
NOTE: If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
EVENT
Copyright © 2006 by David Lynn Golemon.
Excerpt from Legend copyright © 2007 by David Lynn Golemon.
All rights reserved.
For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2006044417
ISBN: 0-312-37028-8
EAN: 978-0-312-37028-2
Printed in the United States of America
St. Martin’s Press hardcover edition / September 2006
St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition / April 2007
St. Martin’s Paperbacks are published by St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
10 9 8 7 6 5
For Eunice and Valisa, Mom and Sis,
who are always in my thoughts.
My children,
Shaune, Brandon, and Katie, for just believing in me.
For Annemarie,
To put it frankly, the woman who saved my life.
And finally
for my father,
The only real hero I’ve ever known.
This one’s for you, Pop!
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As any author will tell you, the process of listing all the kind and generous people who helped or assisted in some way to the actual foundation of any written story can be a daunting task. So it’s always best to start at the top.
Heartfelt thanks go first and foremost to Thomas Dunne Books for taking a chance on a strange story from the desert. To Pete Wolverton (the best editor in the business), for guiding a novice novelist through the minefield of the written word. Pete’s suggestions added heart to my soul and the end result was magical. To Katie, an assistant editor who patiently dealt with an out-of-control geek and answered every stupid question thrown her way (the publishing world will hear from Katie), and to every one of the editors at Thomas Dunne, who I’m sure thought about a career change right in the middle of editing Event. Now, for my agent, Bob Mecoy, the first believer in this little monster tale, here’s to a long “E” Ticket ride, Bob!
I would like to thank a special man out in San Diego, Dr. Kenneth Vecchio of San Diego State University, for doing something for our boys overseas that not a lot of people think about; the special Abalone shell body armor mentioned in this book is real and on the wish list of this author to get it to the troops soonest! Along those same lines, kudos to Helicos BioSciences in Cambridge, Massachusetts, who are doing amazing things with their magical DNA sequencing machine, cutting precious time off a long and difficult process of sequencing.
With the exception of the M-2786 radio and the Cray Corporation’s Europa XP series computer, all military hardware mentioned in this novel is real and either on the drawing board or in action. Also thanks go to the U.S. Department of Energy, who was very helpful in answering some very unnerving questions.
To the Mathies family of Babylon, New York, for treating a writer like a human being. It will never be forgotten.
For all those people in Roswell, New Mexico, who are tired of the notoriety. Someday it will all pay off, I promise.
And finally to all those people and friends I have failed (forgotten, let’s be honest) to mention, thank you. Any mistakes or outright omissions are the author’s responsibility.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
During the current times, it’s easy for people to take for granted the men and women who are defending this country; right or wrong, opinion versus opinion, they are doing their jobs and doing things well in the most inhospitable conditions that can only be imagined by people who have been in war.
It is not the intention of this author or the publishers of this work to merely make the American military a mere prop in a fictional story. With the highest respect, we attempt to portray them in the highest regard possible. We would never disrespect their ability, their patriotism or their honor for the sake of realism.
But all those soldiers must admit, you would rather be fighting an enemy with a little more class than your current foe—after all, all monsters aren’t bad.
PROLOGUE
Seventy-six miles northwest of Roswell, New Mexico
July 10, 1947
The blowing sand stung like small buckshot striking his face and exposed hands. The portly man held his hat tight to his head as he ran from truck to truck shouting at the drivers the best he could, repeating his commands when the wind snatched his words away. He was becoming hoarse with his repeated yelling over the sandstorm that had arisen in the last fifteen minutes. The last truck driver in the line of fifteen two-and-half-ton vehicles nodded, understanding that the convoy would wait on the side of rural Highway 4 until this sudden show of desert fury subsided.
Dr. Kenneth Early, a metallurgist by profession, had been placed in charge of arguably the most valuable pieces of cargo in the history of the world, at least that’s what he kept telling himself. Garrison Lee had selected him personally to make sure the crates they were transporting arrived safely in Nevada. They would have flown to Las Vegas Army Airfield but the dangers of an aerial mishap dictated they travel by secure truck convoy, and Lee had provided ten of his best security people to guard this unusual cargo.
The doctor fought his way back to the lead truck and waved at the driver inside, then proceeded to the green government Chevrolet at the head of the column. He opened the rear door and was grateful for the shelter the car provided. He removed his hat and shook it out, creating a small dust cloud and making his security driver cough.
“Sorry, it’s really blowing out there” Early said as he threw his hat on the seat beside him, then took his thick glasses out of his coat. He placed them on his no
se, then leaned forward, placing his elbows on the front seat. “Any luck with the radio yet?”
“Not a word, Doc, it’s probably the storm; these army-surplus radios just aren’t that good when it comes to weather.”
“Damn, Lee will have my butt if we don’t let him know we had to pull off, it screws up his time schedule,” Early said trying to peer through the side window. “I don’t much like sitting here out in the middle of nowhere.”
“Me neither, Doc. To tell you the truth, knowing what’s in those crates, hell, I can’t seem to look at the world the same as I did yesterday.” The driver swallowed and turned his head to look at Early. “There’s some really bad scuttlebutt goin’ round, Doc, really creepy stuff.”
Early looked at the young army lieutenant, only attached to the group three months. “I know exactly what you mean, I’ll feel better when we have it all safely at the new complex.”
Early hadn’t been bothered by the corpses as much as he had been downright afraid of that goddamn empty ten-foot-by-ten-foot container, or cage, as the rumors were saying. Lee had tried to keep the lid on all the talk going around, but what they were carrying to Nevada would haunt anyone who was there for many years to come. For Early, it was the image of that cage that kept slipping back into his thoughts like the flitting remembrance of a nightmare; he closed his eyes as he tried in vain to control a shiver.
“Who in the hell is this?” the lieutenant asked aloud.
Early opened his eyes and looked at the army officer. He watched as the man placed the radio handset down and pulled a Colt .45 automatic from the holster he carried on his belt.
Early looked up through the windshield and was shocked to see three men dressed in black. He narrowed his vision and adjusted the fit of his glasses in an attempt to peer through the sand that was washing across the side of the road.
“Are they wearing hoods and goggles?” he asked, but the lieutenant had already opened the door, allowing the howl of the wind to take the doctor’s question and scatter it among the blowing sand.
“This is a United States government convoy. You men—”
That was as far as the young lieutenant got. As Early watched in horror, a black-clad man in the center of the three strangers raised what looked like a Thompson submachine gun and fired a burst of three rounds into the upper body of the army officer, slamming him first into the doorjamb and then to the roadway. The wind quickly took away the mist of blood that had exploded out of the lieutenant’s back.
“My God!” Early screamed.
It suddenly dawned on him that the car was not the best place to be at that moment. He quickly slid across the seat and scrambled out into the wind and sand, slipping once and falling to one knee, then finally gaining his feet and using the rear quarter of the Chevy for a guide. He fought his way to cover, all thoughts of protecting the debris and bodies lost in his panic to escape. He hunched low and started to make his way to the first truck in line when five .45-caliber bullets slammed into him from behind. Early hit the windswept road and rolled into the side ditch. As his life’s blood was soaking into the sand, he saw a tall man dressed in black combat gear standing, over him. The man looked around, then slowly leaned over, going to one knee and placing a gloved hand on Early’s quivering shoulder. The man spoke apologetically, as if he had done anything other than to brutally end Early’s life.
“I’m sorry for this, Doctor, but your boss doesn’t understand what it takes to make this country safe from our enemies,” he said loud enough to be heard above the blowing wind. A confused Early could only look up at him.
“Controlled violence, planned well and executed, is a valuable tool, a new one to be sure, but one our new enemies understand.” The man looked around a moment and shook his head and leaned even closer to the doctor’s ear. Gunfire had erupted up and down the line of trucks. “I’m just sorry it’s you and these American boys that got in our way” the man said sadly, shaking his head. “A goddamn shame.”
The killer in black lowered his head as he watched Dr. Early take his last breathy then he stood and started shouting orders.
The rest of the convoy personnel met the same brutal fate. And together with their cargo gathered from a small desert air base in New Mexico, they would all disappear into legend, and a mystery was created that would haunt the country for over sixty years, creating the largest cover-up in American history.
Among the blowing desert sands, now mixed with the blood of the dead and lost, the Roswell Incident was born.
ONE
Pacific Ocean, 577 miles south of the Panama Canal
The USS Carl Vinson sailed smoothly through the calm waters of the Pacific. Her huge mass parted the sea 320 miles off the coast of South America, leaving a wake of incandescent colors and sea life that rolled and churned after her four massive bronze propellers.
The Nimitz-class supercarrier was on her way home after a cruise of six months in the south-central Pacific. Her home port was Bremerton, Washington, and that was where most of the crew’s families would be waiting anxiously for their men and women to return from their long voyage. Her huge engines pushed her through the Pacific at twenty-six knots.
Flight operations on the Vinson were in preparation for the fighter and bomber air wings to lift off the following afternoon for their home bases of Miramar and Oakland. The only planes flying this morning were the carrier’s combat air patrol, better known as CAP, and they now cruised at twenty thousand feet and were one hundred klicks out. The morning had been calm and without incident for the two old but formidable Grumman F-14 Super Tomcats when the first radio call was transmitted from the Vinson, call name Ponderosa.
“Range Rider flight, this is Ponderosa. Do you copy? Over.”
Lieutenant Commander Scott “Derringer” Derry had his visor down as he looked into the rising yellow disk of the morning sun, reminding him of the Persian Gulf and his many combat missions over Iraq. As he thumbed the transmit button on his joystick, he looked to his left and slightly behind, eyeing his wingman, satisfied he was still in position and no doubt hearing the Carl Vinson the same as himself. “Ponderosa, this is Range Rider lead, copy five by five, over.”
“Range Rider One, we have an intermittent contact south at eight hundred miles and closing. Advise this information comes from Bootlegger and not Ponderosa. We have no contact at this time. Over.”
Under the mask, Derry pursed his lips. Bootlegger was the call sign for the guided-missile cruiser riding shotgun for the Carl Vinson, The USS Shiloh, with her Aegis tracking and fire-control system, could supply better air intelligence than the huge carrier, so her information was always acted upon.
Derry once again took a quick glance over his shoulder at his wingman. His partner gave a small wag of the huge fighter’s wings, indicating he had the gist of the call.
“Range Rider copies, Ponderosa. Inform lead of any target aspect changes, over.”
“Roger flight lead, Ponderosa will advise. Stay alert to TAC 3, Bootlegger will monitor. Over,” the Vinson answered.
Derry clicked his transmit button twice in acknowledgment. “Do you have anything yet, Pete?” he asked his radar intercept officer, or RIO, Pete Klipp.
“Negative, boss, I don’t have a thing on scope at this time”
Derry raised the dark visor on his helmet and once again looked down and back at his wingman, Lieutenant J. G. Jason Ryan, call sign Vampire, who was flying smoothly as ever as he brought his F-14 level with his commander.
“Does your RIO have anything, Vampire?”
“Negative lead, we’re clear,” Ryan answered.
“Understood. Let’s go see what we can see,” Derry said.
The two navy fighters made a slow turn to the south and climbed.
The Combat Direction Center on the Carl Vinson was darkened to the point where the outlines of the operators were cast in a multicolored, luminous veil caused by the screens they monitored. On one of these screens was an air-search radar patch-throu
gh from the USS Shiloh.
“Still nothing?” Lieutenant Commander Isaac Harris asked.
The radar specialist adjusted the bandwidth on the monitor and looked over his shoulder at his commanding officer; a confused look crossed his features. “Comes and goes, sir, first solid, then nothing. Then on its next sweep it’s there, big as a barn, and then vanishes.”
“Diagnostics?” Harris asked.
“Clean, Commander, and Shiloh also reports their equipment is working fine, everything is up and to spec.”
Harris rubbed his chin and straightened. “This is damn strange.” He leaned forward and asked, “Heading change?”
“Negative, course still holding on a line to Vincent,” the technician answered. By this time a few of the other radar, sonar, and communications operators were leaning back in their chairs and watching with mild concern. Harris squeezed the young man on his shoulder and turned to his station, a large red-vinyl-covered chair raised on a pedestal so he could see the entire floor of the CDC. He lifted the red bridge phone that was mounted on the chair’s side and waited, looking hard at his operators until they all returned to their screens.
“Captain, this is Harris in CDC, we have a developing situation in our defensive perimeter.” He waited a moment for the captain of the Carl Vinson to respond. “Yes, I recommend the Alert One aircraft to be launched and bring the battle group to battle stations.”
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