Truth Insurrected: The Saint Mary Project

by Douglas, Daniel P.

  The visits ended in Harrison’s junior year in high school. His father traveled on a more frequent basis, and so the trips together to the hills above Los Angeles faded. Soon, college studies came, consuming Harrison’s time, widening their times apart even more.

  College graduation brought the family together, and in a private moment, the proud father gave his son a gift.

  “Always remember, Bill, infinite horizons are within your reach.”

  Harrison still had the gift, an old globe. Woefully out-of-date, it remained one of his most valuable possessions. It sat inside his office. He wondered if he would ever see it again.

  Harrison understood the sometimes-painful burden of secrecy. People outside the circle of government trust often did not understand this hardship. Some people with secrets found it easier to shut themselves off and suffer the burden in silence.

  You were trying to tell me.

  Closing the document, Harrison stood and wandered over to the suitcase lying on the well-made bed. He dug out a pack of cigarettes, smoking two of them in a row while pacing. Angry flicks from his wrist tossed ashes onto the carpeted floor. As he was about to light a third, the telephone rang. His hand, jittery from the sudden intake of nicotine, lifted the receiver.

  “Yes?”

  “Mr. Hiatt, this is Karen from the front desk.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “There is a Ronald Sheraton waiting for you.”

  “Can you describe him?”

  “Uh, about, well, average height, light colored hair, but it’s…” The front desk clerk paused, lowering her voice. “It’s kind of only on the sides and very thin on top. He has a scraggly beard. He looks very intense, sir.”

  “Send him up.”

  <> <>

  A blond male, wearing khaki chinos, brown loafers, a red cardigan sweater, and a white T-shirt flashed a devious smile. The brunette who sat at the sidewalk cafe noticed him and returned the expression. He knew he could have her, but for now, this sensation was enough.

  James Evans had other prey to hunt.

  Exhaust fumes from a loud MTA bus encircled him. The bothersome vapors made James think of rancid microscopic particles sullying his new clothes. He groaned and wondered anew if an alleged earlier Holcomb sighting at Union Station by FBI personnel was yet another dead end.

  A car honked its horn. James looked around, peering over the top of his Perry Ellis sunglasses, but he did not see the two FBI agents who had contacted him earlier about Holcomb and their plans to tail him. Tiny blond follicles on the nape of his neck came to life. The sensation deepened. He pocketed his sunglasses, smiled again, and then dialed his cellular phone.

  “I’m here,” James said. His smile grew wider as he stepped along the sidewalk. “On Los Feliz, just as you asked…Yes, I’m heading that way now…I think I’ll walk instead…Yes…Yes, this time it just feels right…”

  James left his blue sedan behind, the one he drove from Griffith Observatory, and approached on foot two FBI agents who’d parked three blocks away.

  “Yeah, I see you now.” James paused and rubbed the back of his neck. “And just to let you know, I think we’ve hit the jackpot.”

  <> <>

  “Nice beard, Art.”

  “I see you shaved yours.”

  “Yep.”

  “And developed a new fashion sense.”

  Harrison glanced down at his thrift-store ensemble, and then said, “Get in here.”

  Holcomb entered the room and closed the door behind him. He slumped his exhausted body into the nearest chair. His bloodshot eyes shifted to the bed, looking like they were trying to convince the rest of his body to move there.

  Walking back to his seat next to the coffee table, Harrison said, “I just got back from Moscow.”

  “You sure took the long way around.”

  Harrison gazed at the thick document; hazy light draped across the aging blue binder containing the Roswell craft data. “It’s been an eventful week. I’m just glad you’re alive.”

  “Same here.” Holcomb stretched his arms and closed his eyes.

  “How’d you get out here?”

  “Amtrak. Capitol Limited, Texas Eagle, Sunset Limited.” A smirk emerged on Holcomb’s face. “Speaking of trains, I had a little problem with one in Wichita.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, buddy, but the records and skull are still ours, correct?”

  “Yep.”

  “And what does Maggie say?”

  “She’s working with a colleague, Sherman Teague, in Richmond and is waiting for us to contact her. The code phrase is ‘Rock around the clock.’”

  “‘Fangs and Gums’?” The guy who always dressed as Dracula at the Halloween parties?”

  “The one and only.”

  Harrison grew somber and he lit another cigarette. Smoke drifted and swirled into a cloud near the ceiling. “Nick Ridley is likely dead.”

  Holcomb tilted his head back and closed his eyes. A few seconds passed, and then he opened his eyes and jerked forward. “Dead?”

  Harrison flicked ashes from his cigarette again. “A weak link, just like the rest of us.”

  <> <>

  The FBI agents remained in their sedan, not even offering to roll down their window and exchange a friendly greeting. James knew why; their feelings were so obvious to him. He repulsed them. One of them kept thinking how creeped out James made him feel. That did not stop James from flipping open the back door and jumping in.

  “Howdy guys,” James said, watching the driver eye him in the rearview mirror. James held up his hands and said, “No, don’t say it. I know what happened. You’ve lost him again, didn’t you?”

  The driver averted his gaze. The agent in the front passenger seat spoke without turning around. “We followed Holcomb’s taxi from Union Station, but lost him after he got out near here.”

  “Yes?” James said.

  This time, the driver, an older man with white hair and a white moustache, said, “I know Art. We’ve trained together. He is one of the best agents in the bureau. I find it hard to believe he’s a traitor.”

  James looked at the driver again in the rearview mirror. “Well, amigo, take comfort in your beliefs all you want. In the meantime, Comrade Holcomb is out there somewhere selling secrets to the Russians. Don’t you know why this country is going down the tubes? Because you can’t trust anyone anymore.”

  James stared at the back of the driver’s head.

  Oh really? You think I’m a faggot? Hmmm, guess you’ve never told anyone about your own experiments in that area. Shall I mention it now?

  The driver coughed, and then said, “He could have left the area entirely.”

  “That’s possible, but so is staying at one of the area hotels,” James said. “He’s been homeless and needs a home, at least for the night.”

  “We’ll need additional help if you want us to cover all of them in the area,” the driver said. He typed a quick search into his smartphone. “There are at least three around here.”

  “Call for back up, but in the meantime, you two get set up on the one just down the block,” James said, opening the door.

  “Where are you going?” the driver said.

  “For a walk.”

  <> <>

  A knock at the door startled Holcomb. He sat up, while Harrison moved across the room. “Are you expecting someone?” Holcomb said, standing and gripping the concealed 9 mm pistol inside his waistline.

  Harrison peered through the door’s peephole. When he allowed General Edward Taylor to enter, Holcomb drew his 9 mm and aimed it at Taylor’s chest.

  Taylor stood still, quiet. His face was sunburned, and he wore clothes that suggested he had just finished playing a round of golf: navy-blue slacks, a white knit shirt with pale blue stripes, and a green windbreaker.

  Harrison double-locked the door and said, “It’s okay, Art, this is Echo Tango.”

  Holcomb held his aim on Taylor. “What? Are you sure?”

 
; “I am. Besides, I need him alive for just a little while longer.” Harrison walked between the two men, waving off Holcomb’s intensity. The agent holstered the pistol and returned to sitting in the nearest chair.

  Harrison turned around. The general’s clear green eyes looked rested, perhaps signaling relief that enough of the secrets contained behind them had finally seeped through. Harrison’s muscles tightened. He put his strong leg back, angled his foot, and faced his hips forward. “I ran your errand,” Harrison said, waiting for the right moment to present itself.

  “Yes. And you made it back safely.”

  The moment came. The green eyes blinked.

  Harrison’s fist made a firm connection with the side of Taylor’s mouth. The solid impact against soft lips and hard teeth filled the room with a quick, fleshy snap. As Taylor floundered, colliding into the wall behind him and then collapsing to the floor, Harrison saw the blood on his knuckles and felt…no better for his actions.

  “And you’re sure he is ET?” Holcomb said.

  “He’s the son of a bitch all right.”

  Taylor slipped a white handkerchief from a back pocket of his golf pants and wiped away some of the blood before pulling himself up. He balled up the moist rag and held it under his lower lip. “I take it you retrieved the item.”

  “I retrieved it all right. You’ve got a lot more explaining to do.”

  “Item? What item?” Holcomb said.

  “The reason I was in Moscow, Art.”

  Taylor looked like he just swallowed a mouthful of salt water. “It was important to take this one step at a time.”

  “Maybe that’s how you’d describe it. I’d call it manipulation. I don’t like to be manipulated.”

  “Can someone please tell me what’s going on?” Holcomb said.

  “Yeah, that’s a good idea,” Harrison said. He lifted Taylor up and then pushed him into a chair next to the coffee table. “General, it’s time for you to tell your story again. Start from the beginning, and don’t leave anything out. Frankly, I wouldn’t mind hearing it again, and I know Art would enjoy it as well.”

  Taylor dabbed at his chin. He winced, but soon, the words came. Roswell, the cover-up, Saint Mary, the hybrids, the whole damn story again.

  “Which brings us to that,” Harrison said, pointing at the thick blue folder. He instructed Taylor to give it to Holcomb. “Look toward the bottom of the first page.”

  Holcomb’s left middle finger followed the list of names. It stopped, then tapped a few times. He looked up. “Your father?”

  “Apparently so,” Harrison said, standing over Taylor. He did not want to hit the general again. He just wanted the truth. “And the witch hazel?”

  Taylor set the handkerchief aside. “Saint Mary knows many things about its employees. It was just a method to bolster your interest in the case, and jog your memory.”

  Harrison restrained his desire to shout. He clenched his teeth. “Did they kill my parents?”

  Taylor sat still and answered the question in a calm voice. “Yes. As for those in the report who are still alive, there’s a reason for that. They are not weak links. Saint Mary determined otherwise for Bernard Harrison.”

  In the silence that followed, Taylor picked up the handkerchief and wiped the last trickle of blood from his face. He tossed the once-white rag into a trash can. “The CIA recruited your father in graduate school. The agency needed to fill scientific positions with well-educated and loyal individuals. Your father accepted the job. He was a patriot and believed he could make a difference. It was an incredible opportunity for young and old scientists alike. It was a chance to serve the American government, to have access to advanced equipment and technology. Seemingly unlimited resources poured into research and development in the name of national security. Many scientists believed they were the front line of defense against tyranny and injustice from abroad. It was an idealistic time, and your father fell right into their trap.”

  “Then my mother didn’t meet him until after he started work for the CIA.”

  “She knew him as you did. At least, the scrutiny your father was under never determined that he told any nonessentials about his work. Of course, it didn’t appear like he would continue to do so near the end.”

  “So, my father wanted out? And by the way, like all mothers, mine was essential.”

  “Some of Saint Mary’s security branch records indicated that he not only wanted out, but threatened to go public if they didn’t let him out. The pressure of secrecy had become an overwhelming burden. They considered him unstable and a weak link, and so, they killed him.”

  “Along with my mother.”

  “It was a Protocol One ordered by the Circle. They reasoned an accident, such as what occurred, would be the least suspicious. Your parents took vacations to Palm Springs?”

  Harrison nodded.

  “This kind of knowledge was routine. Where people took vacations, where they shopped, who their friends were.”

  “What they used to cleanse shaving nicks?” Harrison said, clenching his fists.

  “And whether their sons became FBI agents or insurance agents. It all goes in their files.”

  “What else is in my dad’s file?”

  Taylor hurried his speech. He seemed anxious to answer the question. Even his hands shook, so, he clasped them together and rested them on his lap. “Your father was a member of a team of scientists that researched the propulsion systems of the crashed Roswell craft. His team examined a component that gave the ship, and its systems, power.”

  “I read that in the report,” Harrison said.

  “Now, there were two of these power cells. One was intact, and the other was damaged. In the early 1980s, Saint Mary scheduled flight tests of the repaired, rebuilt craft for the first time. All of the studies and reconstruction had reached a point that allowed this to occur. But then, a problem arose.”

  “A problem?” Harrison and Holcomb said, in unison.

  “Yes, a problem. One of the propulsion scientists defected to the Soviet Union. When he left, the intact power cell also disappeared.”

  “So, the Russians have it?” Harrison said.

  “Initially, that’s what we believed. But Saint Mary didn’t take any chances. All of the project’s scientists were put under tight surveillance, including your father. This scrutiny revealed nothing. The findings seemed to suggest that our defector was the one responsible.”

  “I’m sure Saint Mary had the means to determine this for certain, even if the guy was behind the Iron Curtain,” Holcomb said.

  “It took time. After a few years, we confirmed that he had taken some things with him.”

  Taylor’s smoldering nervousness sparked a fuse in Harrison. The faint, flickering light burned past a tight corner of his mind, where instinct and knowledge intersected. “But not the power cell.”

  “He took his research notes, a few documents, but not much else of consequence. This brought relief and disappointment to Saint Mary all at the same time. It was a relief because we knew the enemy did not have the power cell. But it was a disappointment because the project didn’t know where to look for it next. The defection prompted the Soviets to begin an intensive espionage effort to find out more about our UFO technology, but thanks to some of your work on sensitive aerospace cases while in the FBI, they were never able to get enough of what they really wanted.”

  Harrison pointed at the thick folder. “They managed to get that to Father Petrov. That’s pretty damn close. Must have someone inside Saint Mary itself to get their hands on that.”

  Taylor remained silent, staring at Harrison, apparently not ready or willing to admit that he had been harboring a spy.

  The fuse hissed onward. “The cell has never been recovered?” Harrison said.

  “It’s still out there.” Years of suppressed hope surfaced in Taylor’s expression. His features softened. Eyes grew round. He tilted his head to one side and looked up, his calm voice lifting his words toward H
arrison. “But I think we can find it.”

  Harrison scowled at Taylor, impatient for an explanation. “How?”

  Taylor paused while he straightened himself in the chair and grasped the armrests. “By the time Saint Mary determined the defector had not taken the cell with him, your father had already been killed. It is my belief that the defector and your father worked together.”

  Harrison shook his head. “That doesn’t make sense. If they had collaborated, the investigation would have revealed it.”

  “But not if your father wasn’t involved until later, when the aggressive scrutiny had been lifted from the scientists, and before our findings in the Soviet Union.”

  “You mean he was duped by the Soviets?” Holcomb said.

  “No, not at all. I am not saying your father was a traitor, willing or otherwise. I think he had his own plans, but collaborating with the enemy was not part of them.”

  The fuse split and accelerated. “Then what are you suggesting?” One fuse burned a trail to the past, while the other went forward, into a realm where the future was formed.

  “Since the Soviet collapse, thousands of KGB documents continue to filter their way into American intelligence organizations, including Saint Mary’s network. One of those documents crossed my desk. It was a letter written in 1988 and addressed to Marshal Akhromeyev, who was Gorbachev’s military advisor. In the letter, which Akhromeyev soon forwarded to Interior Minister Pugo, the writer—our propulsion scientist—described remorse over his decision to defect. He said that his plans to retrieve a special component did not succeed because the assistance he hoped to get was never forthcoming. The assistance was to come from ‘a good man on the inside’ whom he tried to contact through cryptic measures.”

  “Cryptic measures?” Holcomb said.

  “He didn’t elaborate. I can only assume it was some sort of trail that the insider would be able to find and follow on his own.”