The barrel of a handgun pressed against his forehead.
The voice came again, “Were you messing with my doorknob?”
“Up the corridor?”
“Roger that.”
“Eh, yes. I…I have ID.”
Moresby felt a tug on his coat as the gunman yanked away his badge. Anger rattled his heart. He knew this one was being rude, a bully, for no good purpose. His kind was like that.
The gun lowered, revealing the man. Dark all over, he wore a black jumpsuit, black beret, and black boots. He even had a deep tan. Black eyes stared at Moresby. After shoving the ID back into the professor’s coat, the man holstered his gun. Leather creaked and snapped. Leaning close to his prey revealed his sharp features. His black clothes and sharp facial features made him look like a big black bird. The bird exhaled fresh breath, as if he had just sucked down a mint.
Moresby pressed his stiff back against the door, waiting, just waiting for him to leave, so he could be alone. He hated the men in black. He hadn’t originally, but now he did; after all the years, he finally felt hate for something. At first, this had bothered him, but no longer. He prayed they would someday suffer for their blind, sickening, and well-paid-for obedience. His aging, decaying retinas stared into the blackness.
“You need a haircut, old man.”
“Young man, pick up the mess you made.”
The blackbird grinned and tapped one of his jump boots near a crop circle photo on the floor. “Scotland. Been to that one. Have you, old man?”
“Back up,” Moresby said, motioning with his wrinkled hands. The movement concealed their shaking. “I’ll take care of it myself. Just move along. I have important work to do.” He crouched to the floor and scooped the debris into a single pile.
Heels struck the floor. The blackness diminished and then disappeared. Seconds later, a man in blue approached from the other direction. Looking up, Moresby saw the man had a friendly face.
“Professor, is there something I can help you find?” the air policeman said, helping Moresby up. The old man wheezed.
“I was looking for a place to work.”
“Was the comm office inadequate? Are you all right, sir?”
Moresby cupped a hand over his mouth, nodded, and coughed twice. The wheezing subsided. “Yes, the computer limited my progress.”
“If there’s a problem with your computer, I’m sure we can set you up with another one. Why don’t you follow me back?”
“It’s not the computer, my son. I need a chalkboard, a big chalkboard. I was trying to find a room with a big chalkboard.”
The air policeman hesitated, and his head jerked back. “A chalkboard?”
“A big chalkboard. Do you know where I can find one? The format is more familiar to me than a computer terminal. The future of humanity depends upon it.”
The guard smiled and pointed a thumb down the corridor. “The old briefing room. I’ll unlock it for you.”
“Thank you. You are too kind. Been in the air force long, young man?” Moresby said, following the air policeman the short distance to the room. His first glance inside the room brought a cheery expression to the old man’s face. “Yes, yes, this will do nicely.”
“Do you have chalk?”
The professor removed a carton of chalk from the back pocket of his trousers and held it up. “But around here, an eraser would be more important,” he said, winking.
“Yes, sir” the air policeman said, exiting and closing the door behind him.
Moresby stepped toward the front of the room, laid the disorganized folders on top of a large counter, and started sorting. Equations went in one stack, photos another, and transcripts from abductee interviews into a third. Once done with that task, he arrayed the photos chronologically, in a line on the counter. The symbols had changed over the years. Moresby believed the “alphabet” had become more complex, as if the aliens assumed we had learned it all along.
So mysterious, these little guys.
While still examining the photos, Moresby slid a piece of chalk from the carton. He rubbed it between his fingers. Feeling its grittiness, the professor finally relaxed. The encounter with the man in black faded from his consciousness, and his thoughts flowed again. The boundaries dissolved. He overlooked nothing and became connected to all of it. Before long, he walked, happily, in a wheat field in Scotland. A steady, cool wind carried the sounds of sheep. Tips of a swaying wheat crop tickled his palms.
Soon thereafter, he drew a series of circles—linked, adjacent, stacked side-by-side—on the chalkboard. Lines, dash marks, and symbols took shape. Labeling them came next: Earth, Ship, Hemisphere, Union, One.
Moresby paused and compared his work to a chart he’d prepared earlier. “Check the math,” he said, mumbling.
Nearly an hour later, calculus equations filled every inch of open space on the chalkboard. With reluctance, Moresby resorted to writing inside the circles as well. He set down what remained of his third piece of chalk and brushed his hands on his trousers. Arms folded, he stepped back and inspected his work.
“Is this our little greeting?” General Stone said from behind.
Moresby’s heart jumped.
“Is this the message?” Stone said.
Moresby turned around and saw Stone standing by the door wearing an olive-drab flight suit. “It’s a message. There are several more combinations that I still need to check. Going somewhere, General?”
“Professor Moresby, the Circle has directed the chairman to accelerate our joint operation. I just received the instructions, and I am en route to Nellis. The experimental is being loaded onto a C-5, and I will accompany it to its new base, North Range.”
“Did Dennis say why the Circle insists on the new timetable?”
“I didn’t ask.”
Moresby did not believe him. He knew that Stone and the chairman were tightening their grips.
“You are to finish here,” Stone said. “Afterward, you are to proceed with the female hybrid to the new base. I will meet you there tomorrow evening. General Lanham has seen to the logistics personally and assures me that ELF is installed and operational.”
“What about arrangements for the psychotronic generator?”
“Couriers have retrieved it from your lab at the university. It will be at North Range when you arrive.”
Moresby summoned a look of acceptance. “General, I can be ready to go immediately. However, I am concerned that Janice is not fully recovered from the test. Has Dr. Schmidt released her yet?”
“She has,” Stone said, clenching his teeth.
“This is a crucial operation. I just wanted to make sure our assets are in proper order.”
Stone’s jaw relaxed. “You needn’t worry. But you are right, this is a crucial operation, crucial for Saint Mary. And this time next week our country will be better defended because of it. We are lucky men, Professor. Our years of work are about to pay off. The North Range operation…”
Stone’s words drifted past Moresby unheard. The thick scent of chalk dust hovered under his nostrils. He remembered the first lecture he gave after earning his degree in astrophysics.
How much we’ve learned.
But he had long since discarded many, perhaps all, of the concepts he had once believed as a student and teacher. His studies as a scientist for Saint Mary effectively discredited them.
How much we don’t know.
Moresby had learned a difficult lesson. He had to stretch his imagination beyond the curiosity usually characteristic of scientists. Facts were hard to distill from the endless cascade of data, observations, and encounters. Except for one fact.
How little we understand.
He managed a nod when Stone finished speaking. After the general left, Moresby turned to the chalkboard and sighed. “I better erase this.”
Chapter 39
Russia
A pale face—that of a young border guard—with no discernible expression, peered out from behind a panel of gl
ass. Inside the booth, the dim overhead light barely illuminated his dark clothing and dark hair. Even his hands hid within tattered gray winter gloves.
He made a request of William Bernard Harrison, who stood before him. Harrison handed over his phony passport and visa, too tired for nervousness about scrutiny of the items. His weighty eyelids closed without a fight. Only the sound of shuffling shoes, quiet conversations, and chattering teeth blended with occasional erratic movements kept him from falling asleep.
The guard was slow, methodical, and preoccupied with fine-tuning a transistor radio.
Harrison shifted his stance and looked about. The armed guards searched minimal luggage. He read unfamiliar signs, heard strange languages, and felt bitterly cold. His face, mainly his chin and cheeks, ached from the trauma of the below-freezing temperature. He wondered if he would ever accomplish his task.
Ahead of him, the border guard’s eyes darted between the forged documents and Harrison. The movement seemed artificial, practiced, without any real concern for proper procedure. The officer reached unenthusiastically for a stamp, but stopped short of putting rubber and ink to paper. His reddish-brown eyes narrowed, focusing on Harrison’s puzzled expression.
“U vas ruchka?”
“Huh?”
“U vas ruchka?” the guard said again, lowering his gaze to Harrison’s chest.
Harrison looked down.
“Ruchka? A pen?”
“Uh, yeah,” Harrison said, unzipping his jacket. He pulled a ballpoint pen from the inside pocket. He pushed it through the slot under the pane of glass. “Pozhalesta.”
“Oi, spacebo vam, Mister Khiet.” The guard tucked away the pen and stamped Harrison’s passport and visa. With a grin and thick accent the young man said, “Welcome to Moscow, Mister Hiatt.”
“Spacebo,” Harrison said, grateful and relieved. The loss of the pen was a small price to pay. The guard obviously needed it more than he did.
Stepping ahead, Harrison spotted the large avocado-green suitcase he had purchased at a thrift shop in San Diego. The suitcase sat randomly among the luggage of other travelers. As he picked it up, he looked around and found the next, and final, line in which he had to wait. Except for a carton of Marlboro Menthol Light cigarettes, he knew the customs officials would not be terribly interested in the items he carried: secondhand clothes, also purchased at the thrift shop, and some toiletries.
The customs officer said a few barely audible phrases, then without explanation, left his post and exited through a doorway. Harrison watched the travelers ahead of him and searched their faces for an understanding of the disruption. But they stood there, looking disinterested in their circumstances, except for a woman, sneezing and coughing, at the front of the line. A man next to her whispered. She shrugged and furrowed her brow.
Weariness embraced Harrison again, and the disorder troubled him. He had never been to the former enemy’s land before, and he expected more diligence. He knew the Russians had problems, but the shabby conditions and inefficiency thus far surprised him.
Checking his watch, he saw that it was nearly five o’clock. He tried to calculate what time it would be in Tucson, but realized it did not matter. He had barely slept since boarding the plane in San Diego, and his stamina rapidly diminished. Long-distance air travel always wore him out, and getting to the hotel was all that mattered.
Moments later, a different customs clerk, a short obese man, approached and hastily checked through the line of travelers. “Dobrie dehn,” Harrison said, offering a cordial greeting when it was his turn.
The clerk ignored him and studied the declaration form. He scratched his nose and mumbled, “American?”
“Da.”
“Cigarettes?”
“No thanks, I don’t smoke.”
“Nu, vikhoditeh!”
Harrison recognized the order to exit and complied despite the dark, frozen air outside. Ice and snow hugged the ground and wrapped their way up the sides of buildings, light posts, and ashen tree trunks. A dingy yellow tour bus with a raspy engine sent a puffy column of exhaust and condensation into the air.
After a brief search, Harrison found a battered Lada parked at a taxi stand and hoped its heater functioned properly. He moved toward it, nearly slipping on a patch of ice. Organizing his thoughts in Russian, he reached the Lada and opened its rear passenger-side door. “Gostinitsa Rossiya, pozhalesta.”
“Khorosho,” the driver said. He was an adolescent with a shaved head and wearing a black leather jacket.
Harrison tossed his suitcase into the backseat and followed it in. He barely finished closing the door before the Lada jumped forward into traffic. Horns and fists protested as the teenager drove him to the center of Moscow. As the car bounced and swerved, swayed and vibrated, he could not resist the urge to close his eyes and rest.
Fleeting images, places, and people punctuated his subconscious journey. Soon, the renderings slowed and became more cohesive. Between consciousness and sleep, he met Holcomb in a long gray corridor.
A figure, blue and familiar, beckoned them.
“I have someone I want you to meet,” Holcomb kept repeating.
“Again? But we’ve already met. He’s one of Mary’s angels.”
Their footsteps echoed. The blue figure stood in front of them now, rubbing his chest. “We have met,” he said. “And droog, droog! Oi! Teper ti znaesh.”
“You see,” Holcomb said. “Now you know. You’re his friend, and he is yours.”
“Droog, droog!” the figure said, insistent, rubbing his chest.
Another voice floated through the corridor. Harrison stopped and listened. “Do you hear that, Art?”
“No. Only you can hear it.”
Harrison lowered his head.
“What’s wrong?” Holcomb said.
“Art, the voice sounds the same. I knew it, but never—”
A squeal, a skid, and Harrison slid forward.
“Ha ha ha. Mi zdece. Eta Gostinitsa Rossiya. Khey! Khey!”
His eyelids opened, barely, but enough for Harrison to see that he was face to face with the Lada driver. The bald youngster pointed out the window. “Mi zdece. Eta Gostinitsa Rossiya. We khere.”
Harrison paid the kid and then got out of the taxi and back into the cold. Snow fell, but he restrained the urge to rush inside. Not far away, the red brick walls of the Kremlin rose above the snowdrifts. The intricate colors and patterns of Saint Basil’s Cathedral clung to spiraling towers and onion-shaped domes. Countless silhouettes moved in and out of Red Square. Chimes from the clock above Spassky Gate signaled 6:00 p.m.
Harrison never imagined that he would ever set eyes on such a beautiful scene. Half a world away from home, he felt both excitement and anxiety. And cold, very cold. Shivering, he brushed snowflakes from his dampening hair and tromped through heavy, gray slush toward the hotel.
Chapter 40
Hands Gripped the Truth
After a sound sleep through the night, a shower, and no shave, Harrison dressed. He tried to recall, then realized exactly, the last time he had stood inside a house of God.
According to the information Taylor provided, Harrison was to proceed to Krasniya Sobor, a church in the Sparrow Hills section of Moscow. His contact was Father Petrov.
As he looked out his hotel room window at the dim, gray sky, he wondered how Petrov had come into possession of such an important document. He also wished that he had purchased gloves.
Taylor’s file lacked specific details, but it was clear that the loss to the Russians of a comprehensive Roswell UFO–crash engineering report seriously compromised Saint Mary’s security. Apparently, Father Petrov awaited the arrival of a courier to retrieve the item, which had been in his possession for several years.
But the courier never arrived.
Harrison made his way to the hotel’s main floor. He needed coffee, at least, and wanted to find a shop where he could purchase gloves. A cafe tucked into a tiny room near the hotel’s entrance
offered him the opportunity to order breakfast. The only waitress was an older woman who went about her work with solid disinterest. When she brought the cup of coffee, he gave her several dollars and insisted that she keep the change. At first, she refused, but he gently complimented her service. This brought a smile and her acceptance of the excessive tip.
Harrison took a slow sip of the hot and strong coffee, a ritual that made him think of Janice. He felt angry that she faced harm and that he could not protect her. Sadness about her life, the loneliness and strangeness of it, also stung his consciousness. Disappointment that the government, his government, would so readily betray her rights as an individual, and treat her as nothing more than a lab specimen, throttled his heart rate. More than anything, he simply wanted to talk to her. To tell her that he accepted and loved her. He could admit that to himself now, and he was comfortable and secure with his feelings.
Harrison stood and set down the half-full coffee cup. In a hurry, he asked the waitress where he could find the subway. In very basic Russian, she gave him directions, using her hands to point the way to the nearest station.
He thanked her and shoved his bare hands into his pockets.
The route led him through Red Square to an intersection at Tverskaya Prospekt. As he passed Saint Basil’s Cathedral, he looked across the square and easily recognized Lenin’s Tomb. Mushy brown snow and dozens of people covered the square. Two very old women, bundled in tattered winter coats and heavy boots, stepped foot into his path. Halting, Harrison realized they were asking him something. Their wrinkled faces concealed endless memories, and their words struck at his heart.
“Mi odni. Kakiye u vas? Mi khoteli bie syest,” they both said, crying.
Without hesitating, Harrison gave each of them ten dollars and politely told them to find a warm place and to buy themselves something to eat. Tears rolled down their cheeks, and sobs churned white puffs of air from their mouths. He continued onward, feeling a twinge of embarrassment and guilt.
As he approached the Lenin Library, he saw the sign for the subway. An arrow pointed to a descending staircase. A map at the bottom of the steps allowed him to determine which train to take and which stop he needed. Once he identified the correct train, he walked to an escalator that drew him farther below ground. Most of the people gliding on the escalator around him stood silently, and those few who spoke discussed mundane topics. The scene reminded him of the many times he’d ridden the metro in Washington, DC, and out of reflex, Harrison stood to the right, out of the way of others trotting downward on the left.
Truth Insurrected: The Saint Mary Project Page 29