PHOENIX: (Projekt Saucer series)

by W. A. Harbinson

  Shivering, though sweaty and flushed with dread, she reached the open door and glanced tentatively into the store, scanning the shadowy space behind the cash register for a sign of Frank Bancroft. He was nowhere to be seen. The store, though empty, seemed untouched.

  With her heart now racing so fast she thought it would burst, Beth entered the store and glanced about her. All the stock on the shelves – cans of oil, cleaning solvents, light bulbs, tools, maps, rubber floor mats, seat coverings and other automobile and driver products – was as it should have been. The cash register, Beth noticed, was firmly closed.

  No sign, then, of a hold-up.

  Relieved just a little, but with her heart still racing, Beth advanced farther into the store and stepped around the far side of the counter containing the cash register.

  There she gasped instinctively and froze in horror.

  Frank Bancroft had fallen out of his chair and was lying flat on his back, but in a dreadfully contorted position and with his eyes popping out of his head, staring at something that had clearly terrified him. He had foamed at the mouth, evacuated his bowels, and fallen out of his chair as he collapsed.

  Beth didn’t need a doctor to tell her what had happened. This man had died of a heart attack brought on by sheer terror.

  Now terrified as well, Beth gasped again, covered her mouth with her hand, then ran back to her car. She turned on the engine, which started with no trouble, then raced the car along the road, not stopping until she came to her local police station, near Carillon Park. There she informed the officer in charge, Deputy Marshall Tom Clooney, red-faced and pot-bellied, about Frank Bancroft’s death. She said nothing about her blackout, the stopping of her wristwatch, the malfunctioning of her car, the smoking grass and the great circle of black ash. Convinced that the amiable Clooney would think she had gone mad, she decided to keep her mouth shut and relate only the details concerning her finding of Frank Bancroft’s corpse.

  When the report was completed, the cop on duty promised to have the body collected and the garage closed up. Relieved, Beth left the police station and drove on home.

  She was still terrified.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven Once booked into the Hampshire Hotel, downtown, Dwight and Bob walked the short distance along 21st Street to the Aerial Phenomena Investigations Institute – the same modest, Federal-styled building located just off Pennsylvania Avenue where, six years ago, Dwight had given a deep background interview to the well-known astronomer and astrophysicist, Dr Frederick Epstein, Fellow of the Royal Astronomical Society, member of the American Association for the Advancement of Science (AAAS), and now the dedicated, hard-working head of the APII.

  Epstein, Dwight noted, hadn’t changed much in the intervening years. Back in 1953, because of his rather old-fashioned, prematurely greying Vandyke beard, he’d looked older than his age; now, though still only forty-seven, but with his beard even greyer, he looked ten years older than that. Nevertheless, he had good-natured, distinguished features, lively hazel eyes, a ready smile, and a tendency to stroke his beard when thinking. Slightly dishevelled, he seemed right at home in an office cluttered with filing cabinets, loose files, heaped reports, old newspapers, magazines and photos of UFOs.

  The walls, also, were covered in photos of UFOs and poster-sized charts. One showed the most commonly reported UFO shapes, grouped into flat discs, domed discs, Saturn or double-domed discs, hemispherical discs, flattened spheres, spherical, elliptical, triangular and cylindrical. Another chart was divided into two illustrated sections, one showing the most commonly reported UFO formations, the other showing UFO manoeuvres both singly and in formation. Other charts showed the world-wide locations and flight directions of the major UFO waves from 1896 to the present; major UFO events in the United States and overseas; the major areas of alleged magnetic deviation around the world, including the North and South Poles; and the names, addresses and telephone numbers of the world’s leading civilian organisations.

  ‘A major problem we’re having,’ Epstein was saying as Dwight removed his gaze from the wall charts, ‘is that the checking of UFO reports is being made more difficult by the man-made satellites circling Earth in increasing numbers and now, in the case of the unmanned Soviet Lunik, passing the Moon to go into orbit around the sun.’

  ‘Which it did only yesterday,’ Bob reminded them as he unwrapped a stick of chewing gum and popped it into his mouth.

  ‘Correct,’ Epstein said, distractedly stroking his beard. ‘For that very reason, Dwight, I’m really glad you’re considering getting back into this business. We can certainly do with all the expert help we can get. You remember the Levelland sightings?’

  ‘Yep,’ Dwight said, feeling comfortable in this company, particularly since Bob Jackson had been indirectly responsible for reuniting him with Beth and Nichola, thus giving him back his sense of purpose. ‘Texas. November 1957. The sightings caused quite a stir.’

  ‘They surely did.’ Epstein picked a report off his desk and studied it thoughtfully. ‘I’ve been studying this case in detail, Dwight, so let me refresh your memory by reading from my completed report.’

  As Epstein read out the details, it all came back to Dwight in a rush. The events in Levelland, Texas, had formed the spectacular climax to the biggest year in UFO reports since 1952. The sightings had begun at 11.00pm on November 2 and ended at 2.00am the following morning. All the reports were of glowing, yellow-white, torpedo- or egg-shaped objects, approximately seventy-five to 200 feet long or in diameter, that had landed on the roads around Levelland, forcing oncoming cars to brake, stopping their ignitions, and emitting quite a bit of heat before taking off again, after which the cars’s ignitions had restarted.

  The first sighting was at 11.00pm on the night of November 2, just north of Levelland, when one of the objects flew towards the automobile of two witnesses, causing the motor and lights to fail. When the witnesses got out of their vehicle to view the object more clearly, it came so close, they were forced to throw themselves to the ground. Considerable heat was felt as the object passed over them. When the object left the area, the automobile’s ignition and lights came back on.

  An hour later, at midnight, a driver four miles east of Levelland was stopped by a brightly glowing, egg-shaped object, about two hundred feet in diameter, that was resting in the middle of the road. As the driver approached the object, his car’s engine and lights failed. When the object took off, rising vertically to a height of approximately two hundred feet and then shooting off rapidly, the witness’s car started up again.

  A few minutes later, another witness, driving eleven miles north of Levelland, called the police to report having exactly the same kind of sighting and experience.

  Five minutes after midnight, a witness driving nine miles east of Levelland got out of his car when its engine and lights failed. He was about to look under the hood when he saw an egg-shaped object sitting on the road ahead. He later described it as being about seventy-five to a hundred feet wide, made of what looked like aluminium, and giving off a white glow with a greenish tint. Frightened, he got back into his car and watched the object for a few minutes, until it took off and disappeared. When the object had flown out of sight, the witness’s car started again.

  Fifteen minutes later, nine miles north of Levelland, another car stalled as it approached a similar object sitting on a dirt road. When the object ascended vertically to an altitude of about three hundred feet, then shot off and disappeared, the car’s engine started up again and its lights came back on.

  After receiving this latest report, Levelland Patrolman A. J. Fowler sent two deputies out to investigate. They later reported seeing bright lights in the sky, but had no ignition problems with their vehicle. However, a few minutes after they called in their first report, a witness driving just west of town saw a ‘large orange ball of fire’ coming towards him. It settled on the road about a quarter of a mile ahead. When the witness approached it, his car’s engine cut out and its lig
hts failed. When the lights ascended a few minutes later, the car started up again.

  Thirty minutes later, a truck driver informed the police that as he was driving northeast of Levelland, his truck’s engine and headlights failed when he approached a brilliantly glowing, egg-shaped object that was straddling the road ahead. When he got out of his truck to investigate, the object shot up vertically with a roar and then flew away. The truck’s engine and headlights then came back on.

  By this time, other deputies in the area had received similar reports and were out on the roads, frantically investigating. While driving about five miles outside the city, a sheriff and his deputy saw a ‘streak of light’ with a ‘reddish glow’ on the highway, about three or four hundred yards ahead, lighting up the whole area. A few miles behind the sheriff and deputy, on the same road, two patrolmen saw a ‘strangelooking flash’ that appeared to be close to the ground about a mile in front of them. The last sighting of the evening was made by another policeman, who saw an object travelling so fast it looked like no more than ‘a flash of light’ shooting from east to west.

  ‘In other words,’ Epstein now summarised from his own report, ‘twelve drivers, including police patrolmen, reported seeing a large, glowing, egg-shaped flying object and three more reported an unusual flash – all in a single, three-hour period covering the midnight of November second and third.’

  ‘Forming a kind of grand climax to the biggest UFO flap since 1952,’ Bob added, ‘the sightings caused the Air Force a lot of embarrassment. They didn’t investigate the affair until days after it took place, sent only one man to do the job, failed to interview nine of the fifteen witnesses, and stated falsely that lightning had been in the area at the time of the sightings. Under pressure from the public, the assistant secretary of defence insisted that the ATIC submit a preliminary analysis to the press. When Captain George Gregory – the head of our once beloved, now relatively useless Project Blue Book – did so, he claimed that the evidence was too slight for proper investigation, that only three of the witnesses could be located, and that contrary to reports, the object, or objects, had only been visible for a few seconds. He also reiterated that the sightings had been caused by lightning and storm conditions in the area – none of which were actually present at the time. Nevertheless, the Air Force’s final report blamed the sightings on unusual weather phenomena of an electrical nature, suggesting ball lightning or St Elmo’s Fire, and again dragged up non-existent stormy conditions, including mist, rain, thunderstorms and lightning. With the aid of Donald Menzel, they then tried to blame the recent wave of sightings, including the Levelland affair, on the launching of the second Russian Sputnik. But when this failed to wash, the public uproar became so loud that the National Investigations Committee on Aerial Phenomena, NICAP, was able to press for Congressional hearings.’

  ‘Yeah, I read about that,’ Dwight said. ‘But I haven’t heard much about the hearings since then.’

  ‘No, you wouldn’t have,’ Bob told him. ‘In August last year, John McCormack’s House Sub-Committee on Atmospheric Phenomena requested a week-long hearing in closed, secret session, but any hope that the hearing would be a fair one was destroyed when the House Sub-Committee decided to take no further interest in the matter.’

  ‘However, what we discovered right here at the APII,’ Epstein said, ‘has given us even more cause for concern. Last December, the Air Force published a staff study that came down heavily on the three major civilian UFO groups, accusing us of being biased and sensationalist. To make matters worse, we also learned that the Robertson Panel, in making their recommendations back in 1953 regarding civilian UFO groups, had used the chilling phrase...’ Epstein paused for a moment to pick up another wellthumbed sheet from his desk and read from it. ‘The apparent irresponsibility and the possible use of such groups for subversive purposes should be kept in mind.’ He let the sheet fall back on the desk, as if it was contaminating his fingers. ‘We’ve also recently learnt that the FBI and the CIA are keeping extensive records on people involved in UFO investigations, including the members of our own organisation. Should you be considering joining us, I feel it’s only fair that you know this. You’ve already had a lot of trouble with the Air Force; you’ll get more if you join us.’

  Recalling his dire experience with the Air Force, due to his involvement with UFO research, Dwight knew exactly what Epstein meant. Nevertheless, he said, ‘I’m willing to take that chance. Now that Bob’s got me interested again, I won’t rest until I find out why the Air Force, which so clearly was concerned about UFOs when we were in Project Blue Book, went to such lengths to frustrate our investigations and turn Project Blue Book into a farce. It was, and remains, a contradiction that still keeps me awake at night.’

  ‘That’s precisely why we want you,’ Epstein said, standing up and coming around his desk to shake Dwight’s hand again. ‘Welcome aboard.’

  Chapter Twenty-Eight Even before opening his eyes in his bed in his suite of rooms near the summit of the mountain in Antarctica, Wilson recalled his dream and realised that it had not been a dream, but a powerfully vivid, telepathic exploration of his colony. Having practised meditation and astral projection for years, he had at last developed the ability to see with his ‘inner eye’. This morning, in a state of half sleep, just before awakening properly, he had roamed from his bedroom near the summit, down through the hacked-out interior of the mountain, to the various layers of the colony: the guard rooms just below him, then the computer rooms; then, farther down, the laboratories and surgeries, the machine-shops and storage facilities, then the slave accommodations, dining rooms and ablutions; and, finally, at the base of the mountain, the great landing pads and maintenance hangars for the flying saucers. He had made that journey in his mind, seeing everything clearly.

  Even as his body was rotting with age, with its various organs being replaced one after the other, his Extra-Sensory Perception, practiced daily for about seventy years, was increasing dramatically.

  Opening his eyes, he gazed through the panoramic windows of the suite at the vast, snow-covered wastelands of the Antarctic. All white. Everything. Except for the sky. The gleaming mountains and valleys stretching out to where that sheet of sheer blue met the white horizon, though that, too, was often rendered a silvery white by windswept snow and frost. Light. Lots of light. A unique and dazzling vision. The light flashed off the mountain peaks and glaciers as snow broke up, rolled down the mountain slopes, or drifted like powder on the wind, reflecting and bending the rays of the blinding sun. The Antarctic was vast, supremely beautiful, and empty. There were no people out there. No noise. It was the end of the world.

  Sitting upright, Wilson glanced around the bedroom: a functional room, with pineboard walls, clothes closets and a couple of chests-of-drawers. There were no paintings on the walls, no decorations or ornaments of any kind. There were, however, a series of TV monitor screens banked along one wall and controlled from the control-panel on his bedside cabinet. Though Wilson was now able to use his ESP to scan the colony, he could more easily do so by means of the spy cameras located in more areas of the underground complex and transmitting back to the TV monitors in his bedroom and study.

  Switching on the monitors, as he did every morning before getting out of bed, he used his hand-control to flick from one screen to the other and check that everything was in order: the great saucers on their landing pads in the cavernous space hacked out of the mountain’s rock; the massive workshops where the saucers were constructed; the laboratories where surgical experiments were conducted on captured human beings and animals, some dead, others alive; the storage rooms for the collection of frozen human heads, limbs and organs; the slave accommodations where the nightshift workers were sleeping; and the dormitory-styled quarters for the comfort girls. Everywhere he checked, he saw hundreds of men and women at work, including white-coated scientists, technicians and surgeons; slave-workers in grey coveralls; and the flying-saucer crewmembers in their black
flight suits – all illuminated in the arc lights powered by self-charging generators and fixed high on the walls of solid rock, as were the spy cameras. The underground colony was a hive of activity. Everything was in order.

  Satisfied, Wilson slipped out of bed and padded on bare feet into the adjoining bathroom where he attended to his ablutions, then had an invigorating cold shower. After drying himself, he put on a silk dressing gown and returned to the bedroom, where he sat on the edge of the bed, again facing the panoramic window with its breathtaking view of Antarctica. Phoning through to the quarters of the comfort girls, he asked the matron to send him someone trained in electronic stimulation. Then he placed the phone back on its cradle and patiently waited.

  The girl arrived within minutes, entering via the elevator in the study and coming into the bedroom from there. Wilson’s taste in comfort girls changed from time to time - sometimes he enjoyed Eurasians, other times blacks, sometimes the Ache women flown in from Paraguay by Ernst Stoll – but his present taste was for slim white girls, preferably no younger than eighteen, no older than twenty. The girl who now entered fitted the bill exactly, being slim, blonde, eighteen years old, and dressed in a diaphanous robe that emphasised every curve in her body with each step she took. Though subdued with a constant supply of Valium and other sedatives, she was still a little nervous of Wilson and kept her head bowed.

  ‘Your name?’ Wilson asked.

  ‘Clare Collins.’

  ‘Where are you from?’

  ‘Albuquerque, New Mexico.’

  ‘When were you abducted?’

  ‘I think about eighteen months ago.’

  ‘You don’t know the precise date?’

  ‘No, sir, I’ve forgotten.’

  ‘Have you forgotten a lot about your previous life?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Forgetting more every day?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good. Soon you won’t remember a thing about it. Then you can come off your