After Holcomb finished reading and looked across the table, Harrison casually rubbed a finger across his own chin. Holcomb lowered and crossed his eyes. He glanced once more at Harrison, and then quickly flicked the egg away. The object spun and landed firmly on the table next to them, which a young mother and her toddler son occupied. Hidden behind a menu, the mother’s eyes failed to notice the intrusion into her morning. But her observant child witnessed the projectile land inches from his elbows. He poked his finger into the egg.
“Eat it. It’s good,” Holcomb said, mouthing the words more than verbalizing them with his raspy, dehydrated voice. The boy put the egg in his mouth. Holcomb smiled and nodded at him. “Good boy.” He turned back to Harrison. “Did you want some too?”
“Never a dull moment with you.”
“No, that’s your area of expertise.”
“Speaking of which, we’ll need to pick up a few things, like some water bottles, dark clothes, hiking boots, a digital camera, and tape measure.”
“You want to handle it like a crime scene?”
“As much as possible. The only problem is, we’ll be trespassing.”
They both peered toward the next table. The mother still read the menu.
“We’ll just have to make sure we don’t get caught,” Holcomb said.
“ET says that particular area is only subject to patrols, no sensors right now due to maintenance. With one of us on lookout, we should be able to see them coming.”
“Assuming we actually find this guy’s remains, how will we verify it? ET says the air force destroyed his dental and DNA records.”
“Ah, the air force’s records.” Harrison paused and sipped his coffee. “There may be another source for these records, as well as a source for locating the F-4 that he allegedly piloted. But that comes later. What I need to know is who can do the forensic comparison? We need someone we can trust, someone discreet, someone good. You wouldn’t happen to know anyone who might meet those qualifications?”
Holcomb hacked out a laugh and then said, “Yeah, Maggie will help us.”
“You still on good enough terms with her?”
“Uh-huh, but mostly because I’ve been staying away. She’s busy these days too, with extracurricular stuff. She paints.”
“Paints? What, houses?”
“No. Geez, houses…” Holcomb shook his head. “What do you call it? Uh, still life, portraits. Hell, she’s way out of my league.”
“But she’s still at Quantico?”
“Yep.”
“Good, because I don’t care how good ET’s leads are; I need to know that the evidence can withstand scrutiny. I mean, he says this body is that of officially missing air force major Jeffrey Blair, and gives background on it, but for all I know, it could just as easily be Jimmy Hoffa.”
Holcomb nodded and picked up the Protocol One memorandum. He looked it over and then glanced at Echo Tango’s letter. “This is some crazy, scary shit, Bill. A fine mess you’ve landed us in. I mean, apparently they kill people who risk exposing them and their secrets.”
Harrison took a bite of his cold omelet. He set the fork down, pursed his lips, and then said, “He says he’s trying to establish credibility with me.” Pausing, Harrison pointed at the documents. “I have to admit, if this body is there, and it is poor Major Blair’s, then that would mean he’s credible beyond any doubt for me.”
“Have you asked why he’s having you do this? You’ve said it yourself—Echo Tango already seems to have all the answers. He’s obviously high on the food chain, high enough to get his hands on these different reports and documents, not to mention your alias identification. Why should he bother you with any of this? No offense, but you’re not exactly in the loop these days.”
None of these questions were new to Harrison. A logical, reasoned, or informed answer remained elusive. All he had was a hunch, a vague sense about his past.
“With any luck, we’ll find that out,” Harrison said.
<> <>
Sears had everything they needed, and was the scene of a lengthy discussion about which would be best to purchase: dark or tan clothing.
Holcomb eventually won out, making authoritative references to his knowledge of such matters, based on his experience as a former soldier in the US Army.
“Tan is the color of the desert,” Holcomb had insisted.
“Art, they don’t have any tan sweat suits.”
“Then gray will work.”
“Great, we’ll look like a couple of mutant squirrels.”
“Better that than looking like a couple of Mummenschanz flunkies. Besides, infra-red will pick us up either way.”
“Fabulous.”
So, in their gray sweats and brown hiking boots, rucksack and gear in the trunk, they left old US Highway 93 at 10:00 p.m., eighty-five miles north of Las Vegas. They headed for the remains of Major Jeffrey Blair, officially missing former ARDCom test pilot.
Officially, the body rested somewhere on the bottom of the Pacific Ocean, twenty miles off the Oregon coast. The air force accident report stated that, on February 5, 1998, during a training flight, the major’s aging F-4 Phantom, equipped with an experimental flight control system, inexplicably lost altitude and crashed. The air force listed Blair’s failure to eject and his incoherent radio transmissions as indications that his oxygen supply malfunctioned. Suffering hypoxia, Blair became semiconscious and, presumably, lost control of his aircraft.
The next-of-kin notification regurgitated a cursory version of the accident report, but Echo Tango’s letter and the memorandum with the unheard-of class-five classification about Protocol One procedures told a different story.
According to Echo Tango’s information, ARDCom had assigned Major Jeffrey Blair, a test pilot at Dreamland, to fly the Roswell-originated experimental craft. ARDCom had other pilots, but none had ever developed into a weak link to the extent that Major Blair had. After dozens of flights, and one particularly unusual encounter with an unknown, the stress of secrecy became too burdensome, and Blair developed signs that he was psychologically unstable.
The unsigned Protocol One memorandum contained oblique language: “Major Blair’s condition could pose the greatest risk to himself. Deterioration is likely. Authority stipulates Protocol One treatment at the earliest convenience.”
According to Echo Tango, Protocol One meant termination of an individual in a manner that appeared consistent with suicide or accident. For Blair, an attempt to escape from his assassins resulted in a premature and messy death. Multiple gunshot wounds to the chest and back made a “suicide” cover impossible. Thus, the air force aircraft accident report became the new cover story. But what to do with the body? A newly acquired parcel of land—one of Dreamland’s buffer zones known as the Ranch Annex—was hastily utilized, but precise coordinates were recorded so that future recovery and relocation, if necessary, could be undertaken. Surrounded by remote desert terrain and security systems, an obscure patch of land within the infamous Area 51 seemed the ideal burial ground. Besides, who would ever find out?
“How much farther?” Harrison said, driving his black Dodge Charger with its headlights off. Neither he nor Holcomb chose to wear the pair of night-vision goggles for very long while in the moving car. It made both of them dizzy. So progress was slow; even though the dirt road had straightened from its earlier course, now it was rockier. Gravel and stones scoured the Dodge’s wheel wells. “Is that the ranch house?”
“Where?” Holcomb said from the front passenger seat.
“Over there, to the right.”
Through the dusty windshield and passenger-side window, Holcomb could only see a dark mound. He held the flashlight close to the map, and then checked the GPS receiver.
“Art? Hello, pilot to navigator.”
“Just a second, I don’t think this is working right.” Holcomb looked up and to the left. “Yep, there’s the fence. I guess that was the ranch house. Not too much farther now.”
The r
oad angled left, then ran parallel and adjacent to Area 51’s fence line. Harrison saw it clearly. High chain link, topped with barbed wire. White signs hung on it at regular intervals. He had a pretty good idea what the sign’s warning message contained.
“Is that a hill up ahead?” Harrison said, squinting. “Or is it a cloud?”
“You know what?” Holcomb said, chuckling. “Yes, yes, I do believe it’s the mother ship come to take us away.”
“No, I think it’s that hill. Check your equipment; ET said there is a lone hill near our stop.”
Holcomb leaned forward and studied the map. He pressed the flashlight close, its beam a narrow sliver on the page.
“It’s definitely a hill,” Harrison said.
“Then it’s our hill,” Holcomb said, peering through the windshield. “Pull over and we’ll cover the car with some brush.”
Harrison parked, and while he removed the rucksack from the trunk, Holcomb set about collecting the camouflage. Harrison helped, but neither had thought to bring gloves of any kind. Their efforts produced meager results. They threw some dirt on the hood, trunk, and top as an additional measure. They concluded that, for their own benefit, leaving the Dodge partly exposed was acceptable. Holcomb also tagged its location in the GPS receiver as the “car” waypoint.
They approached the fence line and paused in front of a white sign posted on it at eye level. The “no trespassing” sign indicated violators were subject to the use of lethal force, search, seizure, arrest, detention, and/or punishment to the fullest extent of the law.
“Well, TJ?” Holcomb said.
Harrison waited. His new boots felt a little tight, but his leg and hip felt good, and so did the goose bumps. He looked to his right, squarely at the fidgeting Holcomb, and then said, “When in the course of human events…”
“I suppose that means you want the wire cutters?”
Nodding, Harrison reached into a side pocket of the rucksack and removed the cutters.
Harrison started snipping near the ground. With each clip, the metal made unruly retorts, too loud for the quiet surroundings. Harrison stayed focused, but quickened his work.
He bent the loosened part of the fence inward. “That should do it.” He returned the wire cutters to the rucksack. “I sure hope ET was right about sensors, or else we’ll be in jail soon.”
“Or dead.”
Holcomb and Harrison both sighed.
“Let’s go,” Harrison said.
They squeezed through. While Harrison pressed the fence back into place, Holcomb removed the rucksack and opened the top flap.
“Here,” Holcomb said, handing the night-vision goggles to Harrison.
The goggles gave Harrison a clear view of the endless stretch of dirt and sand, patches of brush, rocky mounds, dry creek beds, and dark mountains in advance of them. He spotted no patrols. As Harrison looked skyward, the moon hung low over the mountains. Beyond it, an infinite horizon of stars twinkled overhead. He gazed past the constellations and saw the familiar shape. In the desert, he found it easy to see the Milky Way’s thick waistline, so thick it was like a fogbank. “Fogbank” was the term the documentary narrator had used described it, a description he had heard dozens of times as a youth, father at his side, viewing the planetarium shows at Griffith Observatory in Los Angeles.
“That way,” Holcomb said, whispering. “We go due west for about two miles. How does it look?”
Harrison concentrated on scanning the surrounding terrain. “Coast is clear.”
They began their march, stopping occasionally for Holcomb to take a reading on the GPS receiver and to check its compass. Mostly, they proceeded in silence, both understanding that any sound, even that of their voices, could reveal their presence to a passing patrol.
Before long, Harrison started breathing heavily. Years of smoking had taken their toll and he took increasingly long pauses to search the area.
About a mile into their journey, Holcomb whispered into Harrison’s ear, “Let’s take five, buddy.”
Harrison kept scanning.
Holcomb eased himself onto the ground, setting the rucksack and other gear to the side. He cupped his hands in front of his mouth and breathed into them.
Kneeling, Harrison said, “Maybe we should keep moving? We’ll probably keep warmer that way.”
Holcomb shook his head. “I was thinking, we need a little more of a plan. This could turn to shit at any time.”
“I know. Look, we need to get dental records on Blair and documentation on the F-4 listed in the accident report. ET sent a postcard to me from Wichita with a picture of F-4s in the boneyard at Davis-Monthan Air Force Base in Tucson. Blair’s next-of-kin letter shows a Wichita address. My plan was to check out both leads. I think the postcard was meant to point me that way.”
“What about your other evidence?”
“It’s in a safe-deposit box in Tucson under Wes Hiatt.”
“What were you supposed to do with all of it?”
Harrison shrugged.
Holcomb put the equipment back into the rucksack, and the two headed off in the direction to Blair’s grave.
After about half a mile, Harrison looked above the horizon and thought he saw a light. “Wait a second.” They both stopped, and he continued to search the sky. Nothing unusual. “Did you see a light overhead a moment ago?”
“No.”
“Must be my imagination. Let’s keep going.”
They continued to move through the quiet darkness, anxious to reach their destination, and anxious to avoid detection. After another half hour, they stopped to determine their location.
“We’re close,” Holcomb said. “How accurate is this thing?”
“According to ET, within a yard.”
Holcomb pointed to their right. “That way, about another hundred yards or so.”
After walking the distance, they stopped and rested. A slight breeze nudged the cool and silent desert landscape, refreshing them both. They drank from their water bottles, quenching their thirst and moistening their parched mouths.
Harrison rubbed his thigh and leg and anticipated three or four days of pain to follow. After a few minutes of rest, he said, “Can you check that gizmo and tell us if we’re in the right spot?”
Holcomb stood and held the GPS receiver in front of him. He stepped to his right, and then forward, and then to his right some more. “Toss me the shovel.”
From inside the rucksack, Harrison pulled out the shovel, unfolded it, and locked the tool into place. He tossed it to Holcomb, who had to walk a few steps to pick it up.
“Nice aim,” Holcomb said, picking up the shovel. He returned to his starting point and said, “We dig here, and can expand the radius if needed.”
“Let me get some photographs first.” Harrison retrieved the camera out of the rucksack. He stood up and handed the night-vision goggles to Holcomb. “You keep watch, and I’ll start on this.”
“How’s your leg?”
“It’s felt better,” Harrison said, taking his first picture of the scene.
Holcomb walked away and found a nearby hill. He perched there for sentry duty. He turned back to Harrison and was about to say something, but was suddenly blinded from the flash of the camera. “Jesus Christ.” Holcomb put his hands over the front of the goggles and blinked his eyes several times. “I was just going to ask you to tell me when you were about to take a shot.”
“Sorry, I’ll let you know from now on.”
“Thanks, but you better give me a minute until I can see again.”
After a few more pictures, Harrison started digging for Blair’s remains. At various points during the excavation, Harrison took additional photographs to ensure a proper record of the search. Holcomb continued to scan the horizon and their surroundings for any patrols. Occasionally, he looked skyward and amused himself with the thought of spotting a UFO.
Sixty minutes and two-and-a-half feet later, a weakened Harrison said, “I think I found something.”
“What?”
“I don’t know for sure. Let me take a few pictures first.”
“Great,” Holcomb said, covering his eyes.
Harrison photographed the object he had struck with the shovel, and then he dug with his hands around the object, finding more of it. He grabbed the flashlight and shined it down low on the area. “I think it’s him.” Harrison continued to photograph the scene and uncovered more of the earth surrounding the object. Twenty minutes later, he said, “It’s a skeleton all right.”
“Did you bring anything to carry it in?”
“I took a couple of trash bags from a maid’s cart this morning.”
“Well played.”
Harrison stood and pulled the bags from the bottom of the rucksack. He noticed Holcomb looking at him. “Don’t watch me. Watch the desert.”
“Sorry, it’s been a while since I’ve recovered a body in the desert on a secret military installation. Just grab the skull, if you’ve found it, and let’s get out of here.”
“Working on it, working on it.”
Turning his attention back to the desert, Holcomb thought he saw a glint of light on the horizon ahead of him. “Hey, uh, did you just take another picture?”
“No, just digging like crazy over here, trying to free the man’s skull.”
“Uh, that’s good, Bill, keep that up,” Holcomb said, concerned they would not be alone for much longer.
“I’ve got most of it uncovered. Hide your eyes.” Harrison pointed the camera at the ground, but Holcomb interrupted him.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
“We need the evidence.”
“I realize that, but I don’t think that patrol headed this way would find it difficult to spot us right now if that flash went off.”
“Patrol?”
“I spotted some lights, pretty sure it is a vehicle.”
“All right, I’ll hurry. How far away do you figure?
“Not sure, maybe a couple of miles. There is some pretty rough terrain between us and them, though.”
A few minutes passed, and Harrison could not free the skull. “Give me a hand with this and let’s bug out.”
Truth Insurrected: The Saint Mary Project Page 19