You might be skeptical. I understand. I need to establish credibility with you. Therefore, there’s an assignment (funds included) that may help you accept the truth of which I speak. You must collect five traffic accident reports, all of which are around fifty years old. Do this in person. We don’t have time to waste. You will not have difficulty retrieving them. I have seen to this. The police report numbers are Tucson/49-082705; LA/48-0114271; Albuquerque/51-112854T; Killeen/50-TA1214075; Seattle/47-1219035. The victims in these traffic accidents were military policemen assigned to Roswell Army Airfield when the crash of two UFOs occurred there in July, 1947. I assure you, these were no accidents, and a government entity responsible for covering up the Roswell incident killed them. The military policemen represented weak links in the chain of secrecy and were eliminated in the name of national security.
Keep these police reports with the postcards that I sent to you. The puzzle has many pieces. I cannot give all the pieces to you at once. To do so would place me in too much risk. I am fully aware of your experience and have confidence in your abilities, despite your unfortunate injury. Your values are our greatest weapon, TJ, and believe me, you’re closer to the truth than you can possibly imagine. Upon your return to Tucson, immediately place a personal ad in the classifieds of the Tucson Sun Times. Have it read, “ET, back in town.” I’ll contact you after the ad appears.
Sincerely,
Echo Tango
The reference to ARDCom, Harrison concluded, had the most significance. While many were aware of his injury and the nickname, few knew about his classified work with the air force. In fact, “Silver Star” was so secret, it required him to work undercover throughout the investigation. He became “Wesley Hiatt,” a greedy and loathsome security supervisor with McDonnell-Douglas who had “damaging” evidence on several engineers assigned to Department of Defense contracts. Hiatt’s compromising information and photographs, in turn, attracted a bid through an ARDCom informant in the Soviet Union’s consulate in San Francisco. The informant’s superiors, Russian intelligence officers, planned to use Hiatt’s materials in an effort to blackmail the engineers into providing technical details for a new air force reconnaissance satellite, the AMS-111, otherwise known as Silver Star.
Hiatt, AMS-111, the damaging information, and the engineers had been, of course, entirely and thoroughly fabricated. But the investigation did lead to the arrest and deportation of two consular officials, one a “grain agriculturist” and the other a “journalist.” The informant entered the witness relocation program.
By Harrison’s estimation, eight people officially knew these details. He had no way to know how information was shared, either formally or informally, among ARDCom officers, so it was possible that his anonymous client was not involved in Silver Star or, for that matter, any of the other cases. His last FBI partner, Art Holcomb, working primarily on surveillance, and Brian Holst, their supervisor, had direct knowledge. Holst was easy to eliminate, though, as a candidate for Echo Tango. Not long after the Silver Star case, Holst died from food poisoning contracted by eating a cheeseburger made from contaminated beef.
Holcomb, while a possibility, was not high on Harrison’s list. Although odd and secretive at times, ET just was not his style. Echo Tango had to be someone closer to home.
Roswell also stood out in Harrison’s mind. When he was a kid, he saw an old newspaper his father kept inside a desk at home. Old and faded, the paper’s headline announced the US military had recovered a flying saucer.
Echo Tango’s letter also reminded Harrison of that inexplicable, luminescent sphere he witnessed in the night sky over Tucson last July.
Silence interrupted the LA traffic broadcast. Mere seconds of dead air, but long enough to make Harrison pause. When an ad for Delta Airlines came on, it reminded him to check his watch.
He set the letter aside and removed the police reports. When he read them, he thought their historical features were noteworthy. They told as much about the time in which they were written as they did about the traffic accidents they recorded. At the very least, Harrison felt he was holding a bit of history in his hands, as if he were the scholar that all of his professors had hoped he would become. He turned over the details of the five articles again in his mind.
In 1949, Tucson motorist and tradesman Willis Jackson died after the car he was driving plunged over a cliff west of town. Investigators determined that the accident was due to brake failure in his ’34 De Soto Airflow.
A year later, Howard Webster, truck driver, suffered fatal injuries when his vehicle lost control on a highway in Killeen, Texas. Webster’s accident partially ejected his body through the windshield after a blown tire caused his truck to spin and roll into a cattle yard.
Gary McDonald, construction foreman, encountered a similar fate in 1951. Near Albuquerque, a tire blew out on his Pontiac, sending it into a roadside ditch. McDonald’s severe head injury and internal bleeding did not cause his immediate death. An attachment to the original report indicated that, after lingering in unconsciousness for three days, his heart simply stopped beating.
Another victim, George Fairfield, drowned in 1947. Authorities listed inclement Seattle weather, high speed, and drunkenness as the reasons for the accident. Fairfield’s new Studebaker careened off a waterfront pier, where he worked as a fisherman.
In the final case, Mike Pullman, actor, died in 1948 when he drove his agent’s Lincoln Continental Cabriolet through a guardrail on the Pacific Coast Highway in Los Angeles. No skid marks. No evidence of mechanical failure. Investigators concluded that he simply must have fallen asleep at the wheel.
The sun reached through the driver’s-side window into Harrison’s rental car, just enough to cause uncomfortable glare on the white photocopied reports. He traded them for his sunglasses and another cigarette, which went unlit. Increasing the radio’s volume came first.
“Yep.”
Traffic, Friday traffic, slowed progress on the southbound lanes of the 405 Freeway. He needed to leave for LAX in a few minutes.
Harrison lit the cigarette and latched his seat belt. He tugged on it twice to make sure he had properly secured it. When he drove out of the parking lot, and the Griffith Observatory receded in the rearview mirror, he double-checked the car’s brakes. Good response. No squeaks. He gripped the steering wheel with both hands. The Chevrolet also had an airbag.
Chapter 13
Too Late for Comfortable Ignorance
Mandy Zemdarsky foisted Harrison a beer and then opened one for herself. An amusing spout of carbonated suds erupted from her can. Some of it splattered onto her lime-green blouse and onto Harrison’s sunglasses. Mandy gave Harrison her seal of approval, a giggle and slap on his shoulder. Her home was her playground. She always managed to make housework, raising children, taking care of her husband, and hosting friends a seamless act of joy. Forty-one years of marriage had made it nearly perfect.
“Pete’s going to burn down the house,” Mandy said.
Harrison smiled. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Mandy brushed aside a graying strand of brown forelock, suppressed a burp, and thanked Harrison. She wiped her sweaty brow. Ever frugal, her husband kept the air conditioning switched off most of the time.
“How was your work as a bodyguard?” Mandy said, winking. Her brown eyes, bright like her husband’s, stood at equal height to Harrison’s. She wore sandals, and he sported old sneakers.
“Just fine.”
“Well, we’re just glad you are back, safe and sound.” One of Mandy’s strong hands gripped Harrison’s elbow as she escorted him through the house toward the backyard, while he sipped the beer. The Zemdarsky residence smelled like a home he once knew, except for the scent of barbecuing chicken and ribs. Their home cradled a scent similar to brown grocery bags and the inside of a recently run dishwasher, and it reminded Harrison of distant, quiet Saturday mornings.
As they passed through the walnut-paneled hallway from the foyer to the kitche
n, Harrison pocketed his sunglasses and glanced at the twenty-something framed pictures hanging on the walls. One of them was new. Henry, the Zemdarskys’ eldest son, stood next to a small business jet, his right thumb pointed up.
“What’s this?” Harrison said. “Henry flying jets these days?”
“He’s doing just that! We’re so proud of him. He just started his own charter service out of Long Beach, and that’s his one and only plane. He’s promised to fly us anywhere we want to go. Hah!”
Harrison laughed, and Mandy slapped his shoulder again. They rounded the corner into the kitchen, where Harrison met an unanticipated guest.
In the kitchen, a perfect grin greeted him. “Hey, Bill, how are you?”
Harrison halted and sucked in his stomach. He had not worn a belt, so his khaki Dockers started to slip. As he relaxed his abdominal muscles, his expanding waist halted the slipping pants. Sweating now, Harrison suffered the frugality of his partner’s decision-making about the air conditioner.
“Janice, what a nice surprise,” Harrison said. “Have you finished your report?”
Tossing a salad, Janice said, “Last night. I brought it with me.” Lettuce bounced delicately and competently up and down.
“Always so much business with you,” Mandy said, shaking a finger at Harrison.
“It’s okay, if Bill likes the report he’s promised to keep training me. We may even go on a stakeout.”
“Good, then the two of you can get better acquainted,” Mandy said.
Harrison blushed. Beano barked from the backyard. “Pete’s not cooking my dog, is he? I better get out there.” He noticed the big toenail on Mandy’s right foot needed trimming. Out of his peripheral vision, he saw Janice tossing the salad. Ahead, the sliding door leading to the backyard was already open. A dead fly and an orange peel shared space on the door’s lower track. Harrison thought of mentioning this fact, but he was outside before he could say another word. A basketball waited for him on the patio table. His head started to ache.
Must be from the smoke?
The flames rose much too high, and the conflagration surrounded dinner. Zemdarsky, bedecked in a straw hat and checkered apron, stood too close to the inferno. Harrison shook his head and spotted Beano. Preoccupied, she sniffed along the wooden fence in the part of the yard that was farthest from grill.
After picking up the basketball, Harrison cautiously approached Zemdarsky. “They about done, don’t you think?” He tried spinning the ball on his middle finger.
“Willy, my boy, about time. Apparently, everybody here likes them well done. Don’t you?”
“I see you invited Janice,” Harrison said, kneeling. Beano trotted over to him. “Hi, girl.”
“She needs to eat.”
“I gave you more than enough food.”
“No, the Evans girl, not that girl. God, that’s warm.” Zemdarsky shuffled back from the flames. His eyes sparkled.
“She’s young.” Harrison lowered his voice. “I admit though, she seems pretty mature for her age.”
“And she’s very bright, Billy. I’ve read her report—hell, dissertation. ‘Gubernaculum and Jurisdictio.’ You will be impressed.”
Harrison ran his hands over the basketball’s surface and pressed it with his fingertips. “Can we just eat? Or, how about some free throws?”
“Okay, okay. But I think she likes you.”
Fighting the urge to look over his shoulder, Harrison accepted a friendly lick on the cheek from Beano. “How was your week?”
“She’s a dog, Bill. She doesn’t have weeks. If you’re interested, mine was fine. How was yours? Did your client pay well for such a last minute arrangement? All the necessary fees and expenses taken care of?”
“Yes, of course. It could lead to more work too.”
Zemdarsky nodded and retrieved the chicken and ribs. “We can talk after dinner.” Grease dripped into the charcoal. The flames hissed and flared.
Staring at the fire, at the rising flames, Harrison said, “Pete, this is going somewhere I’m not sure I want to go.”
Smoke rose from the pile of meat and bones stacked on the plate.
“Would you rather eat outside?” Pete said.
Harrison stood, bouncing the basketball once on the cement patio. “No, I mean the case. It’s taking me somewhere I’d rather not go. But, the thing is, I think it might already be too late.”
“Too late for what?”
“To not get involved. To stay comfortably ignorant.”
“Willy, in case you haven’t noticed, there are people around who actually give a crap about you, and your smelly dog too.” Zemdarsky lowered the grill’s lid and looked Harrison square in the eyes. Smoke had darkened his cheeks and the hat’s inner brim. “Whatever it is that you’re facing, you don’t have to face it alone. You don’t have to carry these burdens alone.” Zemdarsky removed the hat and tossed it onto the patio table. “Besides, no one person ever has all the answers. Got it?”
Harrison nodded.
“Now then,” Zemdarsky said, helping himself to a rib, “dinnya ice surfed.”
Chapter 14
Who is Echo Tango?
Half asleep, Harrison stood on the edge of Arroyo Verde’s sandy creek bed. Between light puffs on a cigarette and squinted glances at Beano down below, he wondered why he felt so tired. He’d slept through most of the weekend, drowsily lounging on the paw-scuffed sofa in the living room reading Janice’s paper and, not so oddly, dreaming about her as well. His headaches had returned on Friday night and continued through Saturday. He bought more aspirin on Sunday, but found that he did not need it. By this Monday morning, his head was fine; he just felt tired. Back inside, he yawned and watched Beano scamper to the sliding glass door between the kitchen and staircase.
“Get the birds, get them.”
Beano’s ears instantly perked up. She liked watching the blackbirds land on the patio’s railings. In Harrison’s dream, the one with Janice, they had sat together on the patio.
But, a different patio.
Harrison walked into the kitchen, where a full pot of coffee awaited him. It had a twelve-cup capacity. He opened the cupboard, feeling like he had opened cupboards and drawers all weekend long.
Where were we?
“Let’s see, shall it be the brown coffee mug or the other brown mug? Which one, Beano? Huh? Get them, Beano. Get the birds. Hmm…”
One of the two mugs sat near the back of the mostly empty cupboard, unused for several weeks, if not longer. Another cupboard on the other side of the stainless-steel sink contained more items. Two plates, two cereal bowls.
And why were we so sad?
A drawer near the sink contained his utensils. A fork, a spoon, a steak knife. Harrison took the mug closest to him and filled it with coffee, then returned to the living room to read the newspaper.
Except for the walls, sparse furnishings occupied his living room. As a student and even as an adult, Harrison collected and framed reproductions of famous newspaper headlines. They hung throughout the townhome. Above him, the front page of the New York Times announced the Hindenburg disaster. A pair next to the kitchen proclaimed war in Europe. By the front door, the Titanic sank.
Thumbing through the Tucson Sun Times, he came to the classified section and checked their procedures for placing an advertisement. From his open briefcase, which sat on the walnut coffee table, he retrieved a pen and circled the information. He put the pen in his mouth, separated the newspaper, and put the page with the circle into the briefcase. Harrison pondered yet again who waited for the advertisement to appear.
Harrison took out a notepad. Holcomb? Even though he felt this was the wrong answer, he wrote down his old partner’s name nonetheless.
An old case code-named “Aurora” came to mind. He and Holcomb had worked hard to identify a leak, a man who passed information to the Russians about special materials used in the fuselage of Aurora, an air force reconnaissance aircraft.
Harrison sipped co
ffee, and then wrote, “The General,” below Holcomb’s name. Disgust crept through Harrison as he remembered this man’s manipulative ways.
The stakeout had taken place at a dilapidated motel in Hemet, California. The FBI and military personnel watched as the Russian contact entered the suspect’s room. Then, through the front door they went, Harrison leading the way. The suspects retreated into the bathroom, hoping to escape through the window. Outside, the general’s security unit blocked their way. Gunfire erupted. Harrison, Holcomb, and other FBI agents dove for cover. Bullets from automatic weapons pierced the room’s interior walls, knocking the bathroom door off its hinges. Screams came from outside.
Near the bodies lay two revolvers. Harrison always thought the guns looked out of place. “Case closed,” the general said after the raid, his only comment.
Harrison’s final report on the espionage investigation was almost as succinct: “Suspected source for the unlawful transfer of classified materials to Russia, and the source’s contact, were both terminated after a brief exchange of gunfire at meeting site. All ‘Project Aurora’ files were recovered and returned to contractor’s control.”
The shooting incident left much distrust between the FBI and air force, but even Harrison’s own agency seemed to brush the shooting incident under the carpet. Anger and bitterness still gripped Harrison whenever he recalled the episode. To this day, he remained suspicious of the whole damn mess.
Recalling his last name now, Harrison scratched out “The General,” and wrote, “General Taylor.”
Bastard.
Harrison tapped the pen on his lips, thinking of other, more likely prospects for ET. No one at ARDCom seemed likely of anything other than total obedience. Except for one man. He wrote down the name, nodding.
Truth Insurrected: The Saint Mary Project Page 11