“Bill, it’s me. Forty pounds lighter, but it’s still me.”
Holcomb’s weight loss really made him look so much smaller than Harrison remembered. He had just one chin, instead of two. Yet, he seemed taller than before, nearly as tall as Harrison, standing up straight, shoulders back, chest out, instead of hunched over. Holcomb also stood with hands rolled into fists. That had not changed. Neither had the fidgeting, almost like he was warming up for a boxing match or a brawl.
“My God, Art, what the hell?”
Harrison’s former FBI partner pointed to the small gap in the door’s opening and said, “I know I’ve lost weight, but not enough for me to squeeze through this.”
Harrison let him inside without any further delay.
“Did you just call me?” Harrison said, closing the door behind Holcomb.
“No.” And then in a Russian accent, Holcomb said, “I thought I’d surprise you. Surprise!”
Harrison double-locked the door and said, “Pardon my gun.”
“That’s okay, I’m sure it doesn’t get out much.”
The two men laughed and hugged each other.
“I know this is unexpected, but I needed to meet with you,” Holcomb said.
“I didn’t recognize you. You look healthy for a change. I can’t believe you’re here. Have a seat.” Harrison sat on the corner of the bed while Holcomb pulled up a chair from the desk. “What brings you to Vegas?”
“You.”
“Me?”
“Well, you and this case of yours. I took the first flight out this afternoon. Call it a Christmas vacation. That’s what I’m calling it.”
“You must have something pretty important to talk about.”
“That’s what I like about you, Bill, your finely honed investigative instincts. Nothing gets past you.”
“Just like old times, huh?”
“Yeah, just leave it to you to get us into a real fix.” Holcomb paused and peeled off his tan trench coat. He tossed it onto the bed. Neither one of them was surprised that their gray suits, white shirts, and red ties were nearly identical. “I guess I should have called you first. Our matching wardrobe is kind of embarrassing.”
Harrison smiled, and said, “Go on, go on.”
“When I looked up those discharge records for the five dead military policemen from Roswell, they came up classified.”
“Class fivers?”
“Yep, pretty strange. One of them, the earliest victim—I can’t remember his name—the one killed in ’47, well, his name was cross-referenced to an FBI case file. Can you guess which one?”
“The aerospace incident case in Roswell?”
“You got it. So I started thinking—”
“Oh no, now we’re in trouble”
“I don’t see the humor in that.”
“I do.”
“So, as I was saying, I don’t know anything about aliens, but I do know a little about investigations. Your ET friend may be on to something. Anyway, not to be outdone by government spooks, I took a drive to the bureau’s personnel section in DC. I have to say, I don’t know if it was because of Hoover, or what, but we keep really good records. I looked up the agents assigned to the Albuquerque field office in ’47. There were only a handful, and a young agent named Eugene Chamberlain handled the Roswell aerospace incident case. Guess where he’s at now?”
“You know where we can find him?”
“Of course, what kind of investigator do you think I am?”
“Do you think he’d talk to us?”
“Given the situation, I doubt it. He’s six feet under in the lovely Memorial Gardens of Springfield, Missouri.”
“Shit,” Harrison said, sighing.
“Bill, I wish I could say that Eugene lived to see the day when he could enjoy his pension, but the service file says that he died from a self-inflicted gunshot wound in January, 1948.”
“They got him too.”
“I don’t know what kind of cover-up we’re onto here, but these deaths are just too coincidental. Add that to the recent reclassification and transfers of our old cases. That’s enough to make me suspicious.”
“That’s not all. I spoke today with the next of kin of an air force sergeant who died a few weeks ago. My informant says the sergeant witnessed an encounter between two fighters and an alien ship that interrupted a flight test of a rebuilt Roswell craft last July 7.”
Holcomb rolled his eyes.
“Now, wait. ET says they knocked off this sergeant and another airman for security reasons, and made it look like an accident and suicide. Get this—the dead sergeant’s brother-in-law is a Las Vegas cop. He didn’t seem to think the sergeant’s death was anything more than an accident, but was really concerned about why I was nosing around. It seems as though the sergeant was under orders not to talk about his work. Based on the cop’s reaction to me, I think the sergeant may have told him something. We didn’t get much further than that, but it would sure help to confirm ET’s claims.”
“Do you think it was just an accident?”
“It looks that way, but I think that’s the point. There’s a pattern that ET is trying to show me. Hmm, were the discharge records recently classified?”
Holcomb nodded and said, “In August, just like our old cases.”
“All of this must be related in some way to the encounter of last July. Cases have been sealed and transferred, discharge records classified, witnesses eliminated in one way or another. It’s like they’re trying to cover their tracks, old and new.”
“I’ll say. There’s something else I have to mention; it’s why I decided to come see you right away.”
“What is it?”
“Well, it’s enough to make me start drinking heavily again. When I got back to my office yesterday afternoon, after my little visit to the personnel section, there was an e-mail message waiting for me from my supervisor, the little eunuch. The message read something like, ‘Your errands are interfering with your caseload and are not consistent with current assignments. No more unauthorized visits to headquarters.’ But what’s interesting is that I hadn’t told anyone where I went. Seems like either incredible insight on my boss’s part, which I doubt, or someone told him. Again, it was just too coincidental. Someone must have gotten wind of my research.”
“You think that’s possible?”
“Hey, buddy, you haven’t been out of the game that long. I think you know the answer to that question. But that’s why I decided to come. You’ve got no one watching your back. And I assume you still don’t know who this informant is?”
“Nope.”
“That has to change.”
“And that’s what bothers me. Echo Tango seems to have all the answers. I can appreciate the safety factor, but I get the feeling he’d hang both of us out to dry for the sake of his own protection.”
“Then it sounds like he definitely works for the government.”
They both laughed, remembering the many times their so-called superiors seemed more interested in their own reputations than actual justice.
“Don’t get me started,” Holcomb said. “It’s bad for my blood pressure.”
“I won’t, I won’t. But I have to say, I’m really glad you’re here. How long are you on vacation?”
“Eh, as long as I want, really. I’m sure the boss is glad I’m gone, the little invertebrate. And so am I.”
“In that case, can I buy you a beverage? I’ve got nothing else to do until I hear from ET.”
“Yeah, and maybe we’ll get lucky and meet some lovely aliens. I hear the ones from Venus have big tits.”
Chapter 24
Protocol One
“I better see if I can get a room at this place,” Holcomb said. “Even I’m not drunk enough to go to bed with you.”
“The vacancy sign is still on, thank goodness,” Harrison said, chuckling under the influence of too much alcohol. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Yeah, uh, which way?”
> Harrison pointed to the Sundowner’s office, but Holcomb wavered as he stood looking at the sidewalk beneath his feet. Gripping Holcomb by the shoulders, Harrison turned him in the direction of the office and said, “Just walk straight across the parking lot for about fifty feet—you’ll run into it.”
“Okay, buddy, I’m on my way,” Holcomb said, belching and staggering ahead.
Harrison watched as his old partner arrived at the hotel’s office without mishap. Once Holcomb stood safely inside the office, Harrison walked to his room. He turned on the light and saw nothing, not even envelopes with secret messages, waiting for him.
After moving over to the bed, he sat on it with a groan. He removed his suit coat, shoes, and tie, and unbuttoned his already untucked shirt. The Colt .45 went into the nightstand’s top drawer. Leaning back onto the bed, Harrison sighed and let his eyelids fall shut, but only for a moment. He sat up and staggered over to the light switch, and then turned it off. The bed thumped and creaked when he collapsed onto it. He watched the room spin clockwise.
“I’m here,” Harrison said. “Time for ET to phone home.” Harrison laughed and rolled over. Not long after, the sound of low snoring filled the room.
<> <>
At just past two o’clock on Saturday, December 21, General Edward Taylor watched the light go out in Harrison’s room from the backseat of a rented minivan. He looked at the rucksack stowed on the floor next to his feet, and he readied himself for the delivery.
Nothing would be the same after this weekend.
His information was scant, pieced together from various sources: flight logs, a brief encounter with General Lanham, an oddly worded fax from ARDCom, a late-night delivery of fresh oranges to the VIP quarters at Nellis Air Force Base.
He could do this himself. Such an act could even be justified to General Stone. All of this, in fact, he could do alone, unnoticed. But he went over it a hundred times, and always arrived at the same conclusion: Without Harrison, they stood no chance of succeeding. Harrison must do the digging and see it all for himself. There was just no other way to convince him to help, or to help him recollect what so many needed him to remember.
After this dig, nothing would be the same.
General Taylor’s feelings took him in another direction, and he thought about Janice. He’d known before asking for her help last summer that she would say yes. He possessed faith that she could protect herself, but he worried about her more now than ever. She was so completely involved in his final mission, and so vulnerable now while she underwent testing and observation at ARDCom.
Another barrel roll inside his heart and mind slid Taylor into memories about his son. As long as you’re in the air force, Drew, just fly. Don’t do anything else. Just fly. Tears came next, and then so did the small flask of Scotch from his coat. “Edward, I am sorry, Andrew was confirmed killed in action.”
At 2:30 a.m., Taylor put the flask away and made his move. His face and throat were sore, and his nose ran. He had not cried like that in years.
<> <>
Harrison awoke, his heart pounding. At first, he thought someone screamed. He held his breath and heard the shrill shriek again. Sitting up and focusing, he realized the damn telephone was ringing. He grabbed the receiver, accidentally yanking the rest of the phone onto the floor.
“Hello?”
“A package is on your doorstep.”
“Wait, I have questions.”
Just a click, and then the dial tone returned. Harrison dropped the phone and jumped out of bed.
“Christ!”
Unprepared for the sudden motion, Harrison halted and put a shaky hand on the nightstand to regain equilibrium. After bracing himself, Harrison reached down with his other hand and removed the Colt .45 from the nightstand’s top drawer. Under better control and more stable now, Harrison stepped to the door. The peephole and alcohol in his system distorted everything, and it took him a moment to decode the outside imagery.
The sound of clicks, a chain’s rattle, and creaking hinges greeted Harrison as he unlocked and opened the door. The night’s cold temperature held a calm over the scene. Harrison sucked the refreshing air into his chest and lungs. The act awakened him, but he also started shivering.
He heard music not too far away, toward the flickering lights outside the entrance to the Sundowner’s casino. Silhouettes approached the lights, momentarily losing their murkiness before going inside. The music’s volume fleetingly increased each time the doors to the casino opened.
Harrison felt some pressure on his feet. Gazing downward, he saw a tan canvas rucksack tilted on its side, with brown leather straps and brass buckles, waiting for him just outside the doorway. The rucksack’s main pouch looked full. He picked up the heavy sack and set it on the bed. After sealing up the door, Harrison shielded his eyes and turned on the lights. After his pupils adjusted to the brightness, he turned his attention to the sack.
The canvas smelled wet, dirty, just like the army surplus tent he and his high school friends had used, decades ago, on summer camping trips to the mountains. According to Harrison’s father, nothing smelled as bad, yet at the same time, as good, as wet, dirty canvas. Harrison nodded in agreement and unbuckled the top flap.
Inside, a manila folder sat on top of several other objects. The folder contained $2,000 in cash, a typed letter from Echo Tango, an air force aircraft accident report, a copy of a next-of-kin notification letter, a USGS map, and an ARDCom memorandum, classified as class five, regarding approval for “Protocol One” procedures.
Protocol One?
Harrison set the documents and cash aside and pulled out the sack’s remaining objects: wire cutters, a collapsible shovel, a compass, a whiskbroom, a gardening trowel, scissors, a flashlight, night-vision goggles, and a GPS receiver.
Huh? What are we digging up?
The items, all arrayed neatly on the bed, made more sense once he read Echo Tango’s letter. He looked at the other documents and pieces of equipment. “Wichita” appeared on the next-of-kin notification. “F-4 Phantom” appeared on the accident report. They were leads for Harrison to follow later.
The next step in the investigation would also wait, but not for very long. Just long enough that he and Holcomb could acquire a few other items necessary to complete the mission properly.
Chapter 25
In Search of Major Jeffrey Blair
Colonel Samuel Ritter sipped hot coffee at his desk inside Dreamland’s security control center. He and others, including James Evans, had arrived late last night, and the caffeine helped him begin what would likely be one of the longest days of his career.
Computer monitors and video screens scattered random bursts of color onto the walls of the dim control center and onto the faces of the figures working within. It reminded Ritter of the Vegas casinos where the lack of windows and absence of natural light defied anyone to guess what time it might be. Although cool air circulated throughout the room, Ritter felt warm. He had much on his mind and worried about anything going wrong. Taking deep, relaxing breaths, he focused on performing his tasks, monitoring radio traffic, taking phone calls, and sending and receiving e-mails regarding tonight’s mission: a full-scale field test of Saint Mary’s newest weapons system, a mammoth extremely low-frequency sound-wave projector, known simply as ELF.
Ritter knew much rode on tonight’s field test. Saint Mary’s working group had long believed ELF could become an effective weapon. Testing had shown that not only were aliens were vulnerable to high-powered focused ELF pulses, but their craft were also impaired by them. The craft’s construction went beyond exotic metal and electronics; they also contained intelligent, bioelectronic and biomechanical components. Although shielded against the most intense forms of outer-space radiation, both a craft and its occupants succumbed to incapacitation when hit with ELF pulses.
“Sir?” a lieutenant in desert-camouflaged fatigues said, approaching Ritter.
Ritter looked at the lieutenant from behind a c
offee mug. “Is this about the need for patrols in the vicinity of the Ranch Annex quad?”
“Yes, sir. Seems the perimeter coordinator is still concerned they won’t have adequate technical coverage there due the maintenance shutdown on ground sensors.”
Ritter took another sip of coffee and then said, “If he is requesting I change my mind, then tell him his request is denied. I need the majority of our air and ground patrols deployed in the test area.” Ritter knew he did not need to explain further, but looked the lieutenant square in the eyes and said, “Trust me. We need them in the test area.” He leaned forward and whispered, “They may be needed for crash-retrieval duties. Every single one of them. Do you understand?”
The lieutenant nodded.
Ritter leaned back. “The Ranch Annex is remote and could not be lower on our list of concerns. Please tell the perimeter coordinator to make do with the single patrol unit that I already approved.”
“Yes, sir,” the lieutenant said, and then he receded into the shadows of the control center.
Ritter took a deep breath, looked around the room, and wiped some sweat off his brow with the back of his hand. Sipping more coffee, he watched the dark figures move around the timeless room. Some sat silently, soft light from their computer screens dancing on their faces.
Shadows of the shadow government.
Ritter had never felt more alone within the Saint Mary Project than he did at that very moment. He shook his head, took another deep breath, and looked at the computer monitor, hoping everything would go as planned.
<> <>
Harrison stared at Holcomb across their table in the Sundowner’s coffee shop. Both tried eating breakfast, without much success. Queasiness dulled their appetites. Taking a break, his former partner reviewed Echo Tango’s latest documents. Harrison watched a small bit of scrambled egg dangle from Holcomb’s chin. He was sure Holcomb would have normally detected this irregularity, so he interpreted his continued attention on the documents as a sign of genuine interest.
Truth Insurrected: The Saint Mary Project Page 18