PHOENIX: (Projekt Saucer series)

by W. A. Harbinson

  ‘Do you think they took photos before they left the area?’

  ‘We assume so. But a laser-beam weapon activated from our pursuing saucer would have put paid to their film.’

  ‘Very good.’

  ‘Do you think we should do something about those men?’ Fuller asked.

  ‘Just scare them for now,’ Wilson replied. ‘I don’t want to be involved. But if your fright tactics don’t make them shut their mouths, let me know and I’ll deal with them as I’ve recently dealt with that increasingly irksome troublemaker, Dr James E. McDonald.’

  ‘McDonald’s still around,’ Fuller said.

  ‘He’s an illusion,’ Wilson said.

  Instead of explaining what he meant by that cryptic remark, he changed the subject by pointing out that since American astronauts had recently orbited the moon in the Apollo 8 spacecraft and would, indeed, soon be actually taking their first steps upon it, he wanted no reports to leak out regarding the debris of his own previous landings there. He insisted, furthermore, that the UFO reports being submitted with increasing frequency by astronauts were to be treated as the sightings of previously unseen natural cosmic phenomena.

  When Fuller agreed, Wilson returned to his flying saucer, leaving the otherwise cynical CIA agent to stare in wonder at its magical ascent until it was lost in the stars.

  Time moved on, Fuller realised.

  Chapter Forty-Six A deeply shocked Dwight felt that he was reliving his life. Back in 1952, with his late friend, Bob Jackson, he had passed a newspaper stand in Washington National Airport Terminal Building, seen from the headlines that UFOs had invaded the capital, and felt outrage that he had not been informed. Now, with his old friend long gone, he saw from the headlines, dated December 17, 1969, in the very same airport terminal, that the Secretary of the Air Force, Robert G. Seamans Jr., had just officially announced the termination of Project Blue Book and the Air Force’s twenty-two-year study of UFOs.

  With his shock rapidly turning into disbelief, reluctant acceptance, anger and despair, Dwight caught a cab and continued on his journey to what could be a crucial meeting with Tony Scaduto. He was dropped off outside a nondescript bar in M Street, not far from where Bob Jackson had died of a ‘heart attack’ that Dwight then, and now, believed had been murder.

  The formerly flamboyant Scaduto was like a different man. Dressed like a HaightAshbury hippie, he was smoking a joint of marijuana, drinking too much, and listening, stoned, to a jukebox playing Zager and Evans, Blood, Sweat and Tears, the Rolling Stones, and Jethro Tull, while psychedelic lights flashed on and off the walls. He was also practically gibbering with fear.

  ‘I tell you, man, wow, right,’ he babbled, inhaling, exhaling, glancing left and right, avoiding Dwight’s accusing gaze and determinedly not raising the subject of UFOs or the termination of Project Blue Book. ‘What a year, right? I mean, I really dig it that a US astronaut’s just become the first motherfucker to land on the moon and that just last month two more astronauts did the same. Superheroes, those guys.’

  ‘There are no superheroes,’ Dwight said, already beginning to despair of this conversation; wondering what had happened in the past year to change his young friend so drastically.

  ‘Yeah, well, right,’ Scaduto continued, rambling while sucking on Mary Jane, putting his head back, closing his eyes, then exhaling slowly, ecstatically. ‘Yeah, but we really beat those goddamned Russkies in the end. That’s one hell of a thing, right?’

  ‘Right,’ Dwight said. ‘But I really wanted to talk about the termination of Project Blue Book.’

  ‘Yeah? Well, you know, I really don’t know anything about that, man. I mean,

  what the fuck, they’ve been trying to kill it off for years, and it was practically dead

  on its feet even before it was finally terminated. Not much lost anymore, right?’ ‘Who do you think was behind it? Jack Fuller’s boys?’

  ‘Yeah, probably, but who knows? I mean, I don’t wanna know anymore. And

  neither do you, man. You shouldn’t be goin’ around askin’ questions like that. Things

  like that can be messy.’

  ‘I haven’t heard from you in a long time, Tony. You don’t reply to my letters

  anymore. You never answer the telephone. Have you given up your UFO work?’ ‘Yeah, right, I gave it up.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘I just got fed up with it, is all. I mean, I just got the urge to do other things.’

  Scaduto raised his fat joint in the air, waved it, then giggled. ‘Yeah, man, other

  things.’

  ‘You didn’t just get interested in other things, Tony. Tell the truth: you got scared.’ ‘Bullshit!’

  ‘You’re scared right this second.’

  ‘Just stoned, man. Bit sweaty. Fuckin’ hot in here. And those lights, man, they

  make your heart race. It’s the new generation.’

  ‘You’re a bit old for it, Tony.’

  ‘I’m okay. I still pull the chicks.’

  ‘The use of that word “chicks” already dates you.’

  ‘Okay, man, just lay off.’

  Flickering constantly, rapidly in the gloom, like the lights seen on so many UFOs,

  the psychedelic lights in this crowded bar were creating bizarre patterns on the walls

  and on the bodies, faces and limbs of the young people packed tightly together, most

  wearing hippie clothes – baubles, bangles and beads – and having shouted

  conversations to defeat the pounding rock music. The sweet scent of pot filled the

  smokey air. In the disorientating, kaleidoscopic lights, Scaduto looked gaunt and

  haunted.

  Determined to get to the bottom of his young friend’s fall from grace, Dwight

  ploughed ahead. ‘So why are you frightened? Did they get to you, Tony?’ Scaduto sighed, releasing smoke through his nostrils. ‘Okay, man, I confess. I

  recently received a visit from three bastards wearing black suits. They claimed to be

  CIA agents, scared the hell out of me, and demanded that I drop my UFO

  investigations and forget what I saw over British Columbia. They said that if I ever

  flew over British Columbia again, I wouldn’t come back. They also told me that they

  knew Hank Lomax had flown the plane, then they told me to give you their regards.’ Dwight was shocked almost rigid. Sitting up straight in his chair behind the small,

  round table, he found himself squinting instinctively into the flashing strobe lights,

  trying to see if he was being observed. Realising that he had become paranoid again,

  on the instant, he then understood, also, just why Scaduto was behaving in this

  manner. Yes, Scaduto was helplessly frightened – just like he, Dwight, was. Oh, God, he thought, not again.

  Trying to get a grip on himself, he said, ‘For the flight from Dayton to Calgary, I

  was listed under another name. I wasn’t listed at all for Lomax’s flight. So how the

  hell could they have known I was present?’

  Scaduto threw his hands up in the air, pleading ignorance. ‘I swear to God, man, I

  didn’t tell them. If they’d asked, I think I would have, ‘cause I was so damned scared, you know? But they didn’t ask – they told me. Yeah, they told me they knew Lomax was the pilot of the Tri-Pacer. Then they said – kinda grinning maliciously – to pass

  on their regards to you, mentioning you by name. So they knew you were there.’ ‘Jesus Christ! How?’

  ‘I think it was the beam of light. You remember? That pyramid of light that

  beamed down from the saucer to cut the plane’s engine while somehow keeping us up

  there in the air, still moving forward. That light scorched and destroyed the film in

  my camera, thus destroying our sole source of proof for the existence of the manmade flying saucers. And I think it also somehow photographed us – or, at least
,

  beamed up an image of us to the flying saucer. They identified us from that.’ ‘Oh, my God,’ Dwight said, briefly covering his face with his hands and now

  feeling as frightened as Scaduto looked. ‘What have I done?’ He removed his hands

  from his face and stared straight at Scaduto who, in the disorientating, kaleidoscopic

  strobe lights, looked oddly inhuman. ‘What about Beth?’

  Scaduto leaned across the table, holding his thick joint between the fingers of one

  hand while using the other to grab hold of Dwight and shake some sense into him. ‘Fuck flying saucers,’ he said to Dwight. ‘I just want to stay alive. And so should

  you, man. For your own sake. For Beth’s sake. This is the last time we meet, Dwight.

  Don’t ever try contacting me again. I don’t exist. I’m invisible. Good luck. Adios.’ He gave Dwight a gentle shove. Dwight pushed his chair and stood up to hurry out

  of the bar. Once outside, on the busy sidewalk, in the afternoon’s wintry light, he

  caught a taxi straight to the airport. There, instead of catching his return flight to

  Dayton, Ohio, he took the next plane to Phoenix, Arizona. He had a window seat and

  during the whole flight he couldn’t take his eyes off the sky. He kept imagining he

  was seeing flying saucers moving silently, eerily through the clouds, but nothing

  materialised.

  Arriving in Phoenix late that evening, Dwight hired a car and drove to a residential area near the University of Arizona, where he booked into a motel for the night. He did not sleep well. Rushing back in upon him, as if stirred by his talk with the equally frightened Tony Scaduto, were all the old dreams of flying saucers and mysterious men in black. Mixed in with such dreams were dreadful visions of Beth surrounded by silent creatures, some human, others alien, bathed in a radiant white light and being probed in the most private places with what looked like surgical instruments. He thought he could hear Beth screaming. In fact, it was himself. He awoke more than once in that interminable, sweaty night, either groaning or screaming.

  At ten the following morning, after a breakfast of black coffee (since he could not stomach even the idea of food) and after making a quick call to check that Beth was okay, he drove to the University of Arizona and was escorted to his pre-arranged meeting with Dr James E. McDonald.

  Over the past few years, McDonald, who was strongly pro-UFO and anti-CIA, had become a thorn in the side of the latter, as well as the Air Force. This had led him into taking up freelance work for the APII and it was through this work that Dwight had gotten to know him and respect him. Though very much the scientist, living in a cloistered world, McDonald had taken the bit in his teeth and gone out to fight all those in the CIA and the Air Force who were trying to stifle information about UFOs and intimidate or harass witnesses. He had done so with tremendous energy and a surprising knack for gaining publicity, thus placing the APII more vividly on the map, even while making himself a leading target for those he was exposing. Dwight had to admire that.

  Now, however, entering McDonald’s office, Dwight was shocked to find that McDonald had changed almost as drastically as Scaduto. A kind-faced, academic man with short-cropped hair and spectacles, he had recently lost a lot of weight and looked like someone in a state of permanent exhaustion. Behind the spectacles, his eyes seemed slightly glassy and distracted, possibly even fearful.

  After welcoming Dwight into his office as warmly as possible, given his condition, he confessed that he no longer wished to discuss UFOs and had, indeed, almost refused Dwight this meeting.

  ‘So why did you change your mind and let me come?’ Dwight asked, when he was seated in the chair in front of McDonald’s desk.

  McDonald shrugged and smiled with what seemed like an air of sadness. ‘I guess in deference to all we shared in the past. By which I mean our joint work for the APII.’

  ‘You were doing so well,’ Dwight said, ‘then you suddenly stopped. Why was that, James?’

  McDonald stared steadily at him for a moment, then shrugged again, this time forlornly. ‘No reason, Dwight.’

  ‘You look terrible,’ Dwight said bluntly. ‘You look sleepless. What happened, James?’

  McDonald was silent for what seemed like an eternity, his gaze focused on the ceiling, then he sighed with what could only be deemed despair and lowered his gaze to look at Dwight – not directly at him, but as near to that as he could manage in his state of chronic distraction.

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘In deference to our friendship, I’ll tell you this once, off the record, but on the condition that you never visit me again.’

  ‘Never?’

  ‘Never.’

  Though immeasurably shocked, recalling Scaduto’s dismissal the previous day, Dwight nodded: ‘Okay, I promise.’

  There was another lengthy silence from McDonald, as if he was struggling to find the courage to speak, but eventually, with another mournful sigh, he said: ‘About the middle of March last year – I can’t recall the exact date – I went for a night drive into the desert just outside Phoenix, which is something I’ve done often in my life, for relaxation. That particular night, however, I blacked out. I awakened fifty miles from where I had remembered driving... and my car was pointing back in the direction of home.’

  ‘Just like Beth,’ Dwight said.

  ‘Exactly.’ McDonald clasped his hands together, placed them on his desk, and studied them distractedly for some time, before eventually continuing: ‘From that day on, I’ve been suffering from dreadful headaches, or migraines, and from the conviction that I’m being observed constantly, in some inexplicable manner. This conviction is so strong that often I think I’m going mad. It’s given me a lot of sleepless nights – in fact, now I’m almost permanently exhausted – and naturally this, apart from its effect on me and my family, hasn’t helped when it comes to dealing with what’s presently going down.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Dwight asked.

  When McDonald next sighed, Dwight realised that it wasn’t really a sigh: it was the gasping for breath that denotes the fierce repression of panic. McDonald spoke softly, in short bursts, catching breaths in between.

  ‘As you know, since the implementation of the Condon Report recommendations... notably the closing of Project Blue Book and all other... UFO investigations... the forgotten UFO controversy has practically become a... a... forgotten issue in the press.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  ‘Behind the scenes, however,’ McDonald continued, gradually regaining control of his panicky breathing, ‘the ridicule attached to the study of UFOs has actually... increased. For that reason, as I was still insisting that UFOs were physical, metallic objects and their origins possibly known to the Air Force, I was... ridiculed relentlessly at committee hearings and in the institute as...’ He shook his head in unutterable despair and humiliation. ‘As a man who believes in little green men and other science fiction or comic book inventions. Now most of my serious work is being ignored and my career is in… jeopardy.’ He glanced down at his desk again, studying his hands, then managed to redirect his troubled gaze to Dwight. ‘If what happened to me in that desert is the same as what happened to Beth, then God knows what they did to me when they got to me. I feel that I’m being… controlled. Not just watched, but… manipulated. And now, like Beth, I’m haunted by dreams of UFOs and men in black – of being inside a flying saucer, surrounded, blacking out. And because of that I’m now exhausted from lack of sleep, my career’s crumbling, and my marriage is rapidly breaking down. I’m in trouble in more ways than one, Dwight, and that’s why this is finished... So… I’ve told you. Now don’t ever come back here. I’m sorry, Dwight. Goodbye... and good luck.’

  Feeling as if he was going mad, Dwight stood up, shook McDonald’s hand, then left the building. After driving too quickly, dangerously, to the airport, he commenced the first leg of his journey back to Dayton, Ohio.

 
; As with the flight in, he asked for a window seat and spent the whole of both flights staring through the window at the clouds below. He kept thinking there were objects down there, but again nothing materialised.

  Feeling ever more fearful, Dwight picked up his car where he had left it in the airport in Dayton and headed for home as quickly as possible, growing ever more fearful for Beth’s welfare.

  It was already dark when he left the airport. Once away from the ugly clutter of the industrial belt, with its gas stations, warehouses, and factories for the production of refrigerators, air-conditioning equipment, cash registers, machine tools and, especially, aircraft instruments, the land became emptier, mostly agricultural land, pretty in the daytime, but flat and featureless in the darkness, though the sky contained a large moon and a spectacular display of stars. There were few clouds – just some candyfloss wisps here and there – but enough to cast shifting shadows on the broad, moonlit fields.

  Dwight drove pretty fast, too frightened for Beth to be careful, trying to distract himself with the feeling of power, of magical omnipotence, that came with being isolated from the world while moving through it at great speed. He normally loved the land at night, the play of shadow and light, but tonight, given the couple of days he’d just had, he felt threatened by it.

  Then he started feeling odd... no longer alone... aware of some unseen presence. ‘What the hell...?’

  He spoke aloud to break the silence, suddenly frightened of being alone out here,

  then he instinctively glanced at his rear-view mirror. He saw only dark clouds crossing the stars and reaching out to gently stroke the moon.

  Nothing else... just the darkness... the stars seeming to move away… the sky unfolding radiantly in his wake as the car barrelled forward. Nothing else in the mirror...