As Janice grabbed her backpack and headed for the front door, Harrison asked her to lock it. He did not want any interruptions for a while.
The pen hovered there for a while longer, floating across the myopic panorama like some sort of cigar-shaped vehicle drifting in a blurry atmosphere. He tossed it onto the desk and retrieved the phone number from his Rolodex again. This time he intended to get in touch with his former partner no matter what. Art Holcomb would be able to help, and Harrison needed an alternative source to ET. A trustworthy source who could corroborate information. Someone who had access to resources beyond what he or Zemdarsky could acquire.
Why the witch hazel? Why the reminder of—?
“Washington FBI, Special Agent Grier, may I help you?”
“Ah, yes, I apparently have the wrong number. I was trying to reach Special Agent Art Holcomb. I’m pretty sure he used to be at this number.”
“Agent Holcomb, yes. Uh, is it something I might be able to help you with instead?”
“No, no, I appreciate that, but Art’s the guy I need to talk to. We used to work together.”
“I see, well, I’m sorry to hear that. He’s in Baltimore these days. Try calling their main number. The receptionist should be able to put you in touch.”
Harrison knew that Holcomb could rub people the wrong way, but he was nevertheless disappointed with Agent Grier’s apparent disdain for him.
After a quick Internet search, Harrison found the Baltimore FBI’s main number. A few transferred calls later, someone finally connected him with the right number. Apparently, Holcomb occupied space at a little-known location away from the Baltimore FBI’s main office. In all the confusion, Harrison picked up that his former partner worked alone at the facility.
After several rings, a familiar loud and impatient voice answered Harrison’s call. “Holcomb, go.”
“The moon shines like a freshly unwrapped cheese ball at the holidays.”
“Mongolian women eat Chinese food after cleaning their husbands’ assault rifles,” Holcomb said, laughing. “About time you called me, Bill.”
“How’d you know it was me?”
“Duh. The only other person I know of, besides myself, who gets a kick out of using silly made-up code speak is that former special agent, now bum PI, Bill Harrison.”
“Yeah, well it’s good to talk to you too.”
“Thanks for keeping in touch.”
“Hell, I’ve tried a couple times lately and no one seemed to be able to put me in touch with you. I figured you were probably just blowing me off for one of your preoccupations. But then I remembered that you still had at least one hand typically available to dial the phone.”
“I guess you didn’t hear about the accident.”
“No, sorry, what happened?”
“Lost both hands and all my fingers in a terrible masturbation mishap. The intense frictional heat led to spontaneous combustion.”
“Wow, I thought that kind of thing only caused blindness.”
“I’m wearing glasses nowadays too. I should have stopped while I was ahead. Actually, I’ve been shuffled around from here and there over the last couple of years or so. I don’t think people like me very much. Right now, I’m working with Baltimore PD on gang and narcotics stuff.” The first hint of genuine strain entered Holcomb’s voice. “Nasty shit out there. I’m only a year shy of fifty, and then I will take my retirement and run for the hills. “
“I’m sure whatever assignment you have, you will carry it out in the utmost professional manner.”
“Oh yeah, you know me. I’m surprised the bureau hasn’t assigned my professional butt to Yemen or some other garden spot like it.”
“They like to keep their best and brightest in the capital area. You know, as an example of what others should strive for in that city.”
“We definitely have the best and brightest here in the greater DC area. They all work in that domed building or at some other Pennsylvania Avenue address.”
“I’m glad to hear you haven’t changed.”
“God knows I’ve tried, but the bureau wouldn’t approve my time off request for me to have that sex change operation in Sweden.”
“Maybe when you retire you can take care of that.”
Despite Holcomb’s irreverent attitude, Harrison knew he was one of the best agents at the bureau. Hearing his voice made Harrison realize, more than ever, how lucky he had been to work with him.
“What are you working on these days?” Holcomb said.
“Lately, insurance fraud and marital infidelity stuff. It pays the bills and keeps me busy.”
“Yawn.”
“I know, not as exciting as chasing down gangbangers, but it’s still a chance to beat the bad guys.”
“There’s the stalwart American hero I once knew. I think I’m going to be sick,” Holcomb said, chuckling.
“Actually, I think it’s the excessive amount of alcohol you drink that makes you feel sick.”
“Could be. In fact, I could use a hit about now. Oh, that’s right, my supervisor said I couldn’t drink on duty anymore. He actually removed my vodka stash and poured it in the toilet.”
“I’ll send you a fresh bottle in the mail right away. Think of it as an early Christmas gift.”
“Could you? That would be great. My gambling debt detracts from my discretionary income, so I haven’t been able to buy much booze lately. So, what other cases are you working on?”
Holcomb would want to know—and deserved to know—details about this unique case if he were to assist with it. Harrison cleared his throat, and then said, “It’s kind of difficult to accept if you don’t have an open mind?”
“I’m listening.”
Here it goes.
“The case involves extraterrestrials and a government conspiracy to prevent knowledge of their existence from becoming public.”
Silence detonated in Harrison’s ears. The shock waves razed his surroundings, sucked away the oxygen supply, and compressed his eardrums. He heard ringing too, a high-pitched whine that reverberated through his gray matter.
“I’m sorry, Bill, I thought you said something about aliens? Did you give up the menthols for marijuana? Or maybe they now have flavored joints as well?”
Harrison rubbed his temples. “I’m serious, Art. I’m speaking to you confidentially, by the way.”
“Oh, you’re right about that. I’m not going to say anything to anyone about aliens and a government conspiracy. They’ll think I’m nuts for sure.”
“I know it’s difficult to accept. Hell, I haven’t accepted it either. But the informant is paying me well, and I’m going to follow up on the leads he provides. I called because I know I can trust you and I hoped to get a little assistance.”
“You don’t call me for God knows how long, and when you do call me, you ask for my help proving that little green men from outer space exist?”
“More or less.”
“What do you need me to do? Buy a telescope? Become an astronaut?”
“I need to have independent corroboration of what the informant provides me. I’m also trying to figure out his identity, so I want you to access some of our old aerospace cases and give me the names of the military liaison officers.”
“You think this guy might be military?”
“That’s my impression right now.”
“Is that all?”
“For now it is. Can you help me out?”
Harrison only heard a quiet sigh. He hoped his request appealed to Holcomb’s sense of adventure or, at least, that the bonds of their old partnership were strong enough to gain his assistance.
“Only because it’s you and I need a break from reality,” Holcomb said.
“You’re the best.”
“Most would disagree. Give me the names of the project cases. I’ll need them to do a search.”
Before he provided Holcomb with further details, Harrison realized he had just entered a new phase of the investigation. �
��This must remain confidential. The informant believes this assignment is dangerous.”
“Do you feel that way?”
“I don’t know for sure. He did inform me in a cryptic way of Harold Groom’s demise before it happened.”
“What does Groom have to do with this?”
“Nothing directly as far as I know, but according to the informant, Groom had been a government assassin since the 1960s, and he needed to be knocked off because he was going to start talking. I think the informant was using the Groom reference as a way of establishing credibility with me, along with some other details about traffic accidents from the late forties and early fifties.”
“This is definitely spookish.”
“Just like old times.”
“Well, hell, your secrets are safe with me. What are the names of the project cases?”
“Aurora, Silver Star, and Black Hole.”
“I remember working those with you now that you mention them. Of course, those were my heavy drinking days, so it’s all a bit fuzzy.”
“Can you also search FBI records for any unusual cases pertaining to Roswell, New Mexico, circa July, 1947?”
“Anything else?”
“I need verification of some air force discharge records.”
“I’ll need the names at least, but preferably both the names and service numbers.”
“I have both.” Harrison provided Holcomb with the names of the five traffic accident victims along with their service numbers.
“So what’s important about these guys?”
“All of them died in traffic accidents.”
“So?”
“My informant says they were military policemen assigned to Roswell Army Airfield when the crash of two UFOs occurred there in July, 1947.”
“And who killed them? The aliens?”
“Right,” Harrison said, laughing. “I’m glad to see you’re keeping an open mind.”
“I’m trying.”
“I know this stuff is way out there, but we have got to deal with it professionally.”
“Always keeping me in line, aren’t you?”
“It makes me wonder how you’ve gotten by without me.”
“I’ve been banished, exiled from the main office. No one comes around. That should tell you how well I’ve managed.”
“Then it sounds like you could definitely use a break from the routine. So, to answer your question, the informant says these were no accidents and the men were killed by a government entity responsible for covering up the whole alien thing. The MPs were weak links in the chain of secrecy and were eliminated in the name of national security.”
“I think I like my own answer better than that one.”
“I know what you mean, pal.”
A brief uncertainty crossed Harrison’s mind when he hung up the phone. The anxiety caused his muscles to tighten, creating a noticeable ache in his right thigh. He rubbed it, helping the pain subside. He trusted Holcomb, but one lesson he had learned long ago was that sometimes, secrets eluded concealment.
Chapter 17
Thirty-Seven Fell to the Floor
Ninety-seven feet below Wright-Patterson Air Force Base in Dayton, Ohio, nobody’s office, including the one assigned to General Randolph Stone, had windows. Stone’s office occupied part of a larger cavern sunk beneath the rambling floors of Wright-Patterson’s Air Research and Development Command Headquarters. Beyond his door, a web of circular tunnels connected him and others to the laboratories, meeting rooms, security stations, dormitories, communication posts, cold storage units, and the archives of the Saint Mary Project. A centrally placed cafeteria provided meals and refreshments.
The white walls and linoleum encircled Stone. White fluorescent lights buzzed from neat rectangles arranged in the low ceiling. Fixtures corseted by white acoustic tiles revealed gray only where pockmarked.
Blue squeezed him. The furnishings—desks, chairs, credenzas, telephones, dressers, cabinets—exactly alike throughout the complex and all pale blue like a midday sky, had multiplied over the years. They left less and less white.
“I miss you too,” Stone said, trying to finish a conversation with his wife. He had been unable to visit her in Las Vegas for Thanksgiving, and now, with Christmas just over two weeks away, she wanted to know his plans.
“I’m not sure, honey. Yes, I know I shouldn’t work so hard. I’ll be fine.”
Across from him, air force weapons specialist General Donald Lanham sat with one leg crossed over the other, the dangling foot impatiently shaking. Stone shared his colleague’s excitement, but he diligently indulged his wife.
“You don’t have to get me anything…That’s right…For them? No fruitcake…Because, they never eat it…If we have to, sure…We can celebrate on our own after the holidays…Right, maybe even Paris…I thought you would.”
General Lanham looked at the floor, his hands tapping the blue chair’s armrests. His foot still bounced.
“I love you too…Bye.”
Stone hung up the phone and looked at Lanham. “Well, Don, shall we take a walk?”
“You can walk—I think I’ll run.”
Simultaneously, they rose from their chairs, slowing only briefly to adjust their air force uniform jackets. They passed through an outer office, then steered themselves to a nearby stairwell. While whistling a few bars of “Little Drummer Boy,” Stone slipped his identification badge through the electronic access lock and then held the door open for Lanham. They bounded ahead, their spit-polished black shoes tapping downward.
“Are you ready to deploy?” Stone asked.
“We can go in tonight if we have to.”
“Including North Range?”
“Of course.”
“And it won’t overload?”
“No, the reactor has more than enough capacity. ELF will be ready.”
After three flights of steps, they exited the stairwell and walked briskly through a corridor that curved to their left. They moved in tandem, as the tube was too narrow and its ceiling too low for humans to walk side by side.
They reached a security station attended by two air policemen. One of the guards, a sergeant, stood next to a podium with a computer console and checked IDs. The other guard, M-16 across his chest, positioned himself adjacent to a circular hatchway. The computer chirped an authorization, and the hatchway’s double doors slid apart, revealing a dim compartment. Once both officers stepped inside, the entrance closed. Two firm clicks, and then a second hatch opened.
After walking twenty steps or so, they arrived at their destination, Arena Four. Dr. Schmidt, Saint Mary’s chief exotics physician, waited for them. An elderly, beefy woman, Schmidt retained a dense Bavarian accent despite her decades of residence in the United States. Even in the low, almost nonexistent light of Arena Four, Stone easily spotted her, partially because of the white smock she wore, but mostly because of her face. Schmidt lived underground virtually year-round. Sunlight deprivation had taken a heavy toll on her complexion. Ghostly pale, wearing her medical garb, and stoically awaiting the two senior officers, Schmidt looked very much like a Doric column: heavy, white, and old.
An empty black box, Arena Four was about the size of a child’s suburban bedroom. A sixty-inch surveillance monitor, telephone, and intercom panel adorned one of its walls. The panel hung next to where a one-way mirror once existed that allowed observation into an adjacent room, an empty white box known as Enclosure Four. Alien telepathic skills had made the mirror obsolete. The staff sealed it years ago and covered the void with interlaced metal plates to prevent the exotics in Enclosure Four from sensing the presence and thoughts of anyone observing them.
“Bring it in,” Stone said.
Schmidt lifted the telephone receiver and said, “We are ready for you.”
Arena Four’s occupants gathered around the surveillance monitor. Digital lettering, an opaque horizontal message on the lower part of the screen, read, “Class 5[Restricted]: 7 DEC (SAT) < AutoREC >
E-4/16:22:02 (EST).”
A door slid open, the blue cushions of a gurney in the corridor behind it adding a momentary splash of color to the image on the screen. Then, more white. And gray.
An exotics technician, encased in an environment suit, entered the room, gazing downward through the clear faceplate at the specimen by her side.
“Which one is that, Doctor?” Stone asked, comparing the screen’s time display with that of his Casio sport watch.
“Thirty-Seven.”
“And Thirty-Eight?”
“Thirty-Eight is still in quarantine.”
Enclosure Four’s door closed. The technician took baby steps, leading her three-and-a-half-foot-tall companion to the center of the room. Kneeling, back to the camera, the technician’s hood revealed her nodding head. Even in this position, she stood over the extraterrestrial, easily concealing from view its thin gray extremities and disproportionally large head.
“As you can see,” Schmidt said, “the tech is responding to the EBE. From what we have learned, Thirty-Seven is a botanist. It is also exceptionally talkative. Its telepathy is profusely invasive, our highest category. Some of the staff describe their experiences with it as generally pleasant, but tiring. It asks many questions, ‘why this,’ ‘why that,’ and so on, or so Professor Moresby believes.”
Lanham’s shoulders tightened. “What precautions have been taken?”
“The technician has no knowledge about the nature of this test. I told her to escort Thirty-Seven into the enclosure, as the isolation cells were in need of some maintenance. In trying to simulate field conditions, we will only visually observe the effects of ELF. The use of electrodes would tip our hand, so to speak.”
After this reassurance, Schmidt activated the intercom, instructing the technician to exit, which took approximately thirty seconds.
Alone, the creature stood with long, spindly arms at its sides, tilting its large head. Big black eyes stared at the camera recessed behind a glass plate.
“Go ahead, Don,” General Stone said.
Phone fast in hand, Lanham said, “Control, you have omega clearance. Proceed with the program.”
Its face filled the screen. Scrutiny of the equipment followed. Elongated fingers touched the transparent shield, leaving no smudge or prints. It moved away.
Truth Insurrected: The Saint Mary Project Page 13