Professor Francis Moresby may have appeared as if he were there for a senior-center bridge tournament, but under the white flyaway hair and behind the creaky voice, there stood a genius. A genius who had participated in Saint Mary for nearly six decades, almost since the beginning.
“You are right on time, as usual, General Taylor,” Moresby said, winking one of his cloudy eyes.
“Nice to see you again, Professor.”
“Edward, I believe you know Colonel Randolph Stone,” the professor said, presenting the air force officer standing next to him.
With his hand extended, Taylor said, “Of course. Our paths have crossed more than once. Glad to have you with us, Colonel.” Reflexively, he inspected the subordinate officer’s uniform. Nothing appeared out of order.
“Thank you, sir.” Stone tolerated Taylor’s gaze and returned the handshake. “I’m honored to be here.”
Moresby leaned toward both officers and suggested they go to the conference room. “There is much to discuss, and the Circle is anxious to have their recommendations implemented.”
He led the two officers down a corridor to an elevator, where Colonel Stone inserted a small key into the call switch. After several quiet seconds, the doors opened and the threesome stepped inside.
As the elevator descended, Taylor pondered Colonel Stone’s presence at this meeting. He knew Stone had served for three years as the director of flight operations and security at Area 51. Still, the Circle strictly controlled membership in the working group. Attendees evaluated operations and conducted planning at these sessions. Although Stone held an important position, it was essentially a procedural one.
“You’re wearing a suit today?” Moresby said.
Taylor’s gears shifted. “Yes, sir. I did not want to draw any unnecessary attention to myself. Considering the observatory is not our usual meeting place, I wasn’t comfortable with the idea of wearing a uniform.”
After a long pause and probing stare, Moresby said, “I think maybe you are anxious to become a civilian.”
“I really have not thought about it, sir.”
The elevator doors opened, revealing another hallway, its tiled floor partially covered by thick Persian carpets. Following the sound of a nearby conversation, the three men exited the elevator and then entered a conference room. Colonel Stone closed the oak-paneled doors behind them and found a seat.
With ornate decorations, another Persian rug, and rows of bookshelves, the chamber felt more like a private library than conference room. Adding to its aristocratic atmosphere, handsome light sconces and framed paintings of various styles hung on the beige walls.
At the center of the room, a dozen men sat around a dark brown table. Most wore air force or navy uniforms; a few wore civilian attire. Colorful stacks of files, writing tablets, and notebooks sat arranged like tableware in front of them. No single conversation dominated the room. Rather, multiple discussions between two or three people occurred simultaneously.
Taylor and Moresby sat in the two remaining chairs. Across from them, one of the naval officers, Admiral Horner, fat and sweating, nodded at the general.
The loud, intervening voice of one of the civilians said, “Gentlemen, gentlemen, we all have very demanding and pressing needs that require attention. But let’s begin with the incident of seven July.”
The announcement resulted in silence, and brought the attention of the participants in Saint Mary’s working group to the head of the table. There he sat, Dennis, the working group’s chairman, arms folded, lips pursed, looking like an impatient teaching assistant from Harvard waiting for undergraduate term papers. The observatory was his choice for the meeting, a ploy to get the military types away from their turf. In many ways, he still struggled to earn their respect.
His youthfulness bothered many. When he flailed his arms while speaking, Taylor often thought Dennis resembled some sort of precocious composer conducting an orchestra. His bad breath, an odor similar to urine drying in an alleyway, certainly had not endeared him to anyone.
But, the Circle had chosen him.
This obscure program manager from the Pentagon fit their requirements better than others. Apparently, even better than Taylor.
Although he was relatively new, the chairman’s grasp of Saint Mary’s complex structure had helped guide the project through three very difficult years. The problems had originated mostly from increased pressure on the government, an unfortunate side effect of Saint Mary’s socialization functions. As the public became more aware and accepting of the UFO phenomenon through a carefully orchestrated and subtle propaganda process undertaken by the project, they also grew more interested in the entire story, including the government’s secrets.
Within recent months the chairman had gained the Circle’s endorsement to curtail Saint Mary’s activities, and developed plans for a renewed expansion of the project when their new base, known as North Range, would become operational. During the interim, the focus had shifted to limited flight tests and Professor Moresby’s communication efforts with the four identified species already engaged in various stages of terrestrial contact. The professor’s work, while valuable to him personally and facilitated by the possession of four live specimens, proved inconsequential.
Then the Dreamland encounter occurred, with the loss of two F-15 fighters.
“The details of the incident are in your briefing material,” the chairman said. “I assume you’ve read it. If you have questions, Colonel Stone is here and will address those. Let us focus on the first issue, that being the one the Circle would like us to consider. How do we respond in terms of the Dreamland flights, the security protocols, and defense profiles?” The chairman rested his freckled arms on the table. “I guess those are really three issues, but they work together. Professor Moresby?”
Moresby’s face took on a serious expression. He waited several seconds, until all eyes watched him. Bowing his head and clasping his hands, he said, “Our Father, who art in heaven…”
Taylor appreciated the gesture, but did not join with his colleagues in laughing aloud. He noticed Colonel Stone remained quiet. Clenching his jaw, the colonel narrowed his eyes, almost into slits.
“I am sorry, Dennis,” Moresby said. “I hope you know that I do take this very seriously. I also know that I am the only one here with sufficient esteem and respect to dispense humor.”
The chairman flicked his wrist, pointing an invisible baton at the professor.
Taking the cue, Moresby said, “First, let us dispense with the security aspect. I understand the standard protocols are in effect. The families of the missing pilots have been adequately informed. The witnesses? Colonel Stone, who were the witnesses?”
Without referring to his notes, Stone said, “Two personnel, both nonessential. An airman and a sergeant with traffic control.” His voice, shaky and servile at first, grew firm, even contemptuous. “As you mentioned, the standard protocols are in place. The initial report from the security branch is that they anticipate a routine disposition. The exposure will be contained.”
The old professor heard the words and mutated tone. “Thank you so much, Colonel. Your diligence has earned you yet another merit badge.” He let his gaze drift around the room. “General Taylor’s security branch will undoubtedly be of great help to you. However, the more pertinent question is the impact on flight operations.”
“But wait,” a soft-spoken voice said, emerging from the stillness left by Moresby’s comments. The voice was that of Colonel Bennet, one of Taylor’s colleagues at Nellis. “We’ve had more press attention with this one.”
Subdued, oddly charming Bennet, Saint Mary’s disinformation officer, was a tiny man, easily overlooked in a crowded room. Behind the military-issue, horn-rimmed eyeglasses, he had one brown eye and one green eye. Most people never noticed this though, as he rarely looked anyone squarely in the face. He sat a little farther back from the table than everyone else and contemplated a fraying seam on his blue pant leg.
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Continuing, Bennet said, “The sighting was not confined to the test range. People spotted the object in Las Vegas. We even had reports from controllers at McCarran. This one has been more difficult to contain. The sightings coincided with extensive disruptions in radio communications.” Bennet paused and aimed the top of his head at the chairman. He rolled his eyes upward until they were limited from moving any farther due to the physical design of the sockets and muscular tissue. “It’s bringing a whole lot of attention down on us.” Relaxing, he receded into his chair.
“Colonel Stone,” the chairman said, “our test schedule is on hold, yes or no?”
“Yes.” With attention from the group on him, Stone elaborated. “In fact, aside from site-specific runs for the prototypes, no large-scale tests are slated until December. Typical problems associated with the inadequate power cell preclude a more aggressive flight schedule. Also, our field agents from Dreamland will be engaged to suppress local evidence.”
“Given the scaled-back test schedule, I anticipate that interest will wane rather quickly,” the chairman said, his hands wafting his bad breath forward. “We will have the usual increase of sightseers around Nellis. But word will spread that nothing is going on. The standard denials and suppression should suffice.”
“What about that bitch, Senator Vaughn?” Sweat dripped from Admiral Horner as his question boomed across the table like a warning shot fired over the bow of an encroaching warship. “That woman’s got a real knack for stirring things up. She needs to find something other to do than nose in on our business. Needs to be home, raising kids, doing the laundry, servicing her husband, if you ask me. Can’t you do something about her, Taylor?”
“I am.” Taylor looked at the chairman and raised an eyebrow. A knowing expression from the chairman instructed the general to proceed with describing the latest information regarding the senator from New Mexico. “While her persistence about cattle mutilations continues to be a source of frustration for us, she is finding that navigating through our government’s dense bureaucracy can be a hopeless and confusing task.”
Thoughts of the mutilations made him pause. Their disinformation purpose seemed antiquated. To this day, he could not grasp why Saint Mary continued them. Such was the nature of the working group. They kept secrets from the public, of course, but they also kept them from each other. He did not always agree with this practice, but within the last few years, he’d found good reason to compartmentalize a few secrets of his own.
Resuming, Taylor said, “I am personally supervising every aspect of the senator’s inquiries. This is not a typical case, however. She has very close ties with the President. Their friendship goes back many years, to their days in law school.”
“I wonder if they ever had, you know, an affair,” General Lanham, an air force weapons specialist, said. “Wouldn’t that be something?”
“We could really sink her with a story like that,” Admiral Horner said.
“Yes, such a story could be damaging,” Taylor said. “It could also inadvertently expose us. Our fingerprints would be all over it. No, no, this is not a good time for such measures. As you know, we are not immune from outside politics. There is a chance, a very good chance, according to our sources, that Senator Vaughn will join the administration in a second term.”
The working group hung on every word.
“To do what?” Admiral Horner said.
“The plan is for her to join the ticket. She will replace the current Vice President, who is having some medical problems that, for obvious reasons, haven’t been made public yet.” As Taylor looked around the table, he saw faces turn pale, more sweat drop from the admiral, and Stone’s slits narrow even further. “We are not immune from politics.”
Reaction to news of the senator’s rising influence met his expectations. Professor Moresby sat serenely. Colonel Bennet’s lips stirred. Admiral Horner, General Lanham, and the other officers chattered anxiously.
Then, fists thumped the table, shock waves sending file folders to the floor.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” the chairman said, his arms cutting through the air. “Of course, anyone who meddles in our affairs, especially one with Vaughn’s connections, is a danger. Eternal vigilance is the price we must pay for carrying the burden of secrecy. The Circle remains convinced, however, that our more relevant concerns relate to the defense profile.” Poised like an expectant headmaster, he folded his arms and said, “Does anyone care to delineate for us the issues regarding this topic?”
“This is damn serious,” Admiral Horner said. “The air force has been lucky so far, but naval assets have been lost, as you all should know, in incidents similar to this. This most recent Dreamland encounter swindled you out of two F-15s just like our loss of a P-3 and F-14 last year near Puerto Rico. Worse still, the Norfolk event. I don’t think I need to remind anyone here about our losses in that incident. The pattern is the same.”
“Could it be the elusive fifth species?” Professor Moresby said.
Silence.
Even the air seemed to disappear.
The officers sat frozen; fears of inadequacy compressed their innards. They hung there, suspended, as if dumped into the suffocating vacuum of space.
For once, the machinery in General Taylor’s head powered down. Emotional batteries kicked in. How will this ever end?
Blood circulated again in his colleagues’ arteries. Their cheeks blushed. Moresby twiddled his thumbs.
At first, the professor’s movement unnerved Taylor. To remind the working group about the fifth species—the daunting, mysterious, unpredictable fifth species—would only encourage more self-destruction.
But watching the old man, Taylor realized the professor’s simple act clarified everything.
“This group knows where I stand. The fifth species is obviously a dangerous threat,” Admiral Horner said, confirming Taylor’s concerns. “Could be the most dangerous. This is what Saint Mary is all about. I don’t put much stock in such things as communications, the hybrids, disinformation, or other intangibles. We need to take a stand. Our day of infamy has come and gone, gentlemen, and I don’t see us fighting back. Saint Mary may have grown out of fear, but I don’t see us doing enough to conquer that fear.”
“We have ELF,” General Lanham said.
“Sure, we have ELF,” Admiral Horner said. “But has it been deployed yet? Do we really know if these low-frequency sound waves will work in the field? Do you want to bet our safety on a multibillion-dollar erector set?”
“ELF will be up and running soon enough, and it has shown promise as a weapons platform,” General Lanham said, his eyes moistening. “I don’t suppose you have any solutions, specifically speaking?”
“All I’m saying is that we need to straighten out our priorities and quit wasting precious time. If I were running this show—”
“I appreciate your comments, Admiral,” the chairman said, interrupting along with an upward hand slice. “But my inclination is to assert an element of diplomacy into this discussion. All functions of the project are supposed to work together. In a mission of this kind, the priorities can be difficult to assign. Everything is important. Security, technology, operations, disinformation. You cannot imagine the dependence we now have on our legal staff. Litigation over the tax status of our facilities has exploded. Apparently, some have found this to be a possible way to break open Saint Mary. In many ways, our front line is a group of lawyers huddled in the basement of Wright-Patterson. In the same sense, our frontier, our jurisdiction, extends virtually anywhere it has to. Remember when the Belgians showed everyone their secret files and photographic evidence? I have never seen the Circle so incensed. In that case, our security branch acted effectively. Their liaison work with NATO was invaluable. But your comments, I have to admit, do reflect the consensus of the Circle’s members. In fact, their interpretation has led to a clarification of our priorities.”
As Admiral Horner grunted his approval, General Taylor�
�s mechanisms came back online, immediately trying to anticipate where the chairman was headed. Taylor glanced at Colonel Stone. He stared directly at him.
“Three years ago,” the chairman said, “funding was obtained for what was described as a state-of-the-art plutonium storage facility, called North Range. The location of weapons-grade material is not seen by legitimate authorities as, shall we say, newsworthy. The budget submission was black. The secrecy was to our advantage. Not all of you know this, but North Range is actually a new air base, our new air base.” The chairman thumped his chest, emphasizing the last three words. “It will be operational in January. Gentlemen, our primary mission will be weapons development. We are to pursue an aggressive policy of technology exploitation. Other functions will remain, but we will consolidate them. The Saint Mary Project must provide solutions, more so than ever before, to the defense question.”
Attempting to hide his surprise and growing anguish, Taylor said, “As you know, my current duties are confined to the security branch and the hybrid programs. They have encompassed other areas in the past, but I am unclear about your use of the phrase, ‘aggressive policy of technology exploitation.’ What exactly does that mean?”
“Essentially, we will not simply rely on the recovered technology. Roswell and Norfolk provided us with great treasures, yes, but the Circle believes we should, and possibly can, intercept and capture these alien craft.”
“You must remember,” Professor Moresby said, “the fundamental reason for our secrecy is that upon the moment of disclosure, we must be able to reassure the public that we can defend ourselves.” Most of the men around the table nodded. “Of course, once we declare war on the aliens, which is the implication of this policy, there probably won’t be any public left to defend.”
“Now wait, Professor—” the chairman said, but an uncharacteristic burst of noise from Colonel Bennet cut him off.
“Excuse me, excuse me, but with all due respect to my colleagues and the members of the Circle, I am concerned this policy was made in haste.” Bennet paused. He slid off the horn-rims and folded them in his lap. “There is so much that we do not understand. I know that we have lost assets in the course of these encounters. The abduction phenomenon alone is reason enough to warrant serious concern. But think about where we are with the recovered technology. We’ve had the experimental for sixty-plus years, and we still haven’t flown the damn thing more than a few miles. We don’t even have the right power cell, or any clue how to fabricate one.”
Truth Insurrected: The Saint Mary Project Page 3