Star Trek: The Original Series: From History's Shadow

by Dayton Ward

  The man’s elevation to management in the wake of Elliot’s leaving was just one of the reasons Sutherland had opted to change jobs when the opportunity presented itself.

  That, and the job really was crap on a cracker.

  A combat correspondent for the United States Army in Korea after serving as an infantryman in Europe during World War II, Sutherland had seen and reported on the best—and worst—aspects of the latter conflict. Ready for a definite change once his time in uniform had concluded, he found his first real writing job thanks to Chuck Elliot at the Tattler. It had taken him a while to get used to the very different approach to “journalism” the magazine practiced. Still the best selling of all the Schlitz publications, the Tinseltown Tattler delighted in filling its pages with lurid pictures and gossip about the actors and actresses flitting about Hollywood. After a year spent toiling away for that magazine’s editor, during which he had photographed and written about all manner of drug busts, sex parties, shady business deals, tragic romances, and even a few unfortunate deaths, Sutherland came to realize that while he liked working for Elliot, the Tattler was eating at his soul.

  Then, Watch the Skies came along.

  A skeptic from the outset, Sutherland at first had accepted the offer from his publisher to write for the newest title in the Schlitz arsenal with the idea—and challenge—of approaching the work from a pure investigative journalism standpoint. He treated the subject with the same objectivity he believed to be practiced by another writer with whom he had become acquainted, Donald Keyhoe. Sutherland had read the other man’s books, including the notable Flying Saucers from Outer Space, which Keyhoe, who originally had professed doubts as to the possibility of UFOs being actual alien craft, had written using interviews and official Air Force reports as source material. Though appearing to possess at least as many critics as he did supporters, Key-hoe’s reputation was hard to impugn, standing as it did on the foundation he had built as a writer with an eye for detail and accuracy. Many of his more vocal detractors, including some from inside the Air Force, tended to point to his career as a writer of outlandish fiction stories featuring characters with superhuman or even supernatural powers as evidence of his overactive imagination and propensity for embellishment.

  After digesting the book and spending untold months corresponding with Keyhoe via mail about the effort invested to write it, Sutherland became convinced the other man firmly believed every word he had written. With that in mind, he vowed he would hold himself to the same standards Keyhoe had exhibited when researching his books. Unlike the nonsense that fueled gossip rags around town like the National Register, Hush-Hush, and even the Tattler, Sutherland wanted Watch the Skies to be different; a lone voice of truth amid a mob of people content to be fed a diet of derivative fantasy and even outright lies, some of which were printed in yet another of the magazines bearing the Schlitz Periodicals banner.

  Down the hall from the Watch the Skies offices were those of sibling publication Startling Universe, which specialized in science fiction stories of the sort Sutherland had come to see as a hindrance to his own job. His irritation at the two magazines’ seemingly contradictory goals was only furthered by his publisher’s decision to use the same in-house artist to provide illustrations for both titles. In some instances, the same picture of a bizarre creature from outer space had graced pages in issues of each magazine, done solely as a cost-saving measure. Sutherland routinely fought this practice, but was overruled every time.

  Remembering that he wanted to check to see if anything had come for him in the afternoon mail, Sutherland pointed toward the office mail room as they started down the hallway. “I’m expecting a package,” he said by way of explanation.

  “Another top-secret delivery from your mole inside the Air Force?” Larkin asked, grinning again.

  Sutherland scowled, glancing over his shoulder and then toward the lobby to see if anyone may have overheard the other man’s remark. “Why not just run downstairs and yell up at me from the sidewalk,” he said. “Not everybody needs to know who or where I get my leads.” Satisfied that no one was eavesdropping, he added in a lower voice, “But, yeah. I’m hoping for some new stuff.”

  His passion for wanting truth, professionalism, and objectivity for Watch the Skies and the work he was doing only deepened when he began receiving help from a most unexpected source. One day, the afternoon mail had brought with it a large brown envelope with no return address but a postmark indicating it had been sent or at least dropped into a mailbox from Dayton, Ohio. The envelope contained dozens of pages of mimeographed documents that Sutherland recognized as being military in nature, with each of them carrying the same single code name designation: PROJECT BLUE BOOK.

  The package also contained a letter with no signature or other clues as to the sender’s identity, who purported to be someone placed within the Blue Book hierarchy and wanting to ensure that the truth continued to flow out from beyond the cloak of secrecy enveloping the project. Sutherland’s unknown benefactor—assuming he was not lying for some reason—seemed to share the same concerns harbored by those who denounced the military’s efforts as either insufficient, apathetic, or deceitful. To that end, he was providing the enclosed documents, and would continue to pass on other information if and when he was able.

  Struggling to contain his excitement, Sutherland spent the rest of that night poring over the documents contained in that initial package. He read with disbelief the accounts of what really had happened in Roswell, New Mexico, in 1947 as well as other sightings in the following years about which little more than rumor was generally known, particularly the controversial light sightings in Lubbock, Texas, in 1951 and the odd craft reports from Yuma in 1952. From the copious notes he assembled from his research as well as other information he obtained from interviews he conducted with witnesses to back up the supposed official reports, Sutherland produced what would be the first in a series of stories detailing the Air Force’s ongoing investigation of UFO sightings as well as the results of those efforts. Driving the meat of his feature were the details of the reports he had received from his anonymous sponsor, which often differed to a great extent from the information disseminated to the public.

  After the publication of the issue containing that piece, Watch the Skies began to see an increase in newsstand sales as well as subscription requests. Reader responses came in all forms, from telegrams to letters mailed here to the office, and most of the reaction seemed positive. Sutherland also learned that the military was reading the magazine when two officers from Edwards Air Force Base arrived at the Schlitz Periodicals offices for a visit. Their demeanor was cordial, no doubt designed to put him at ease, and they never accused him of possessing unauthorized information, but Sutherland’s journalism and interview training told him they were snooping and hoping to learn about his sources.

  Expecting some form of military response to his writing, he had taken steps to ensure that the prized Blue Book information provided by his nameless source was protected, hidden away in one of a dozen safe deposit boxes at different banks around town, each held under a false identity he had created for preserving such valuable materials. Now aware that the government might have someone monitoring his activities, he remained vigilant, working to make sure the Air Force never learned of his enigmatic inside man or the information he provided.

  Sorry, flyboys.

  The only thing waiting for Sutherland in his mail room inbox were a few interoffice memos he likely would never read, along with two pieces that—judging by their handwritten return addresses—he took to be fan mail or other reader correspondence. Those he enjoyed reading, and he tucked the envelopes into his jacket pocket. He frowned at the lack of any package for him.

  “Guess your secret admirer forgot about you again,” Larkin said, smiling. “Think he found someone better? You know, someone who takes him to dinner once in a while?”

  Laughing at the none-too-subtle hint, Sutherland held up his hands in mock
surrender. “Okay, okay. Sorry. Let’s get some grub.” Turning to leave the mail room, he reached for his back pocket and did not feel the expected bulge there. “Hang on. I forgot my wallet.”

  “Mabel’s going to run out of cherry pie if you keep stalling,” Larkin said.

  Sutherland snorted. “Trust me, Mabel’s cherry pie isn’t going anywhere.” As he expected, Larkin chuckled at the crude joke, shaking his head. “I’ll just be a minute.”

  Jogging back up the hallway, Sutherland fumbled for his keys as he reached his office door and let himself in. His wallet was waiting for him on his desk, and he was crossing the room toward it when he detected movement out of the corner of his eye. Looking up, he fixed his gaze on the frosted glass window of the door leading to his office’s second, adjoining room.

  Beyond the glass and the single word—“Private”—painted in black letters upon it, someone moved past the door.

  ELEVEN

  What the hell?

  Someone had broken into his office? Sutherland used the other room as meeting and storage space once he had come to understand that writing for Watch the Skies required voluminous research. It also was something of a personal study area, and usually was where he inspected any files or other information he acquired and which he preferred to treat with caution and secrecy. While he had long ago turned to concealing the most sensitive materials away from the office, he did keep some of the juicy bits here in his files, just in case the government or someone else came snooping. He figured that if they found something of interest here, they might be thrown off the scent of the really eye-opening stuff he had elected to store elsewhere. Was that happening now?

  Looks like somebody’s curious.

  In addition to the door leading from his main office, the room had a second point of entry from the hallway, but like this door it featured a lock for which he possessed the only key. The only way someone could be in there is if they had picked a lock on one of the doors, or climbed through the sixth-story window. Standing next to his desk, Sutherland listened for telltale signs of movement from the other room, but heard nothing. Had he imagined the movement?

  No, he decided. Whatever caught his attention had for the briefest of moments blocked the light of the desktop lamp he could still see through the glass. His imagination was not playing tricks on him. Keeping his eyes on the door, he moved so that he could open his desk’s upper right drawer, from which he extracted the pistol he kept there.

  The Colt M1911 .45 caliber semiautomatic pistol felt even heavier than usual in his hand. Though he maintained it in good working order and made a point of taking it to a nearby firing range at least a few times a year, it had been a long time since he had even considered aiming such a weapon at another person. He even had questioned the wisdom of keeping the gun here in his office, but left it there after the aggrieved husband of the woman he had been dating showed up one evening to “discuss” the relationship. Though other, smaller pistols might seem a more prudent choice, the simple truth was that the .45 was the one weapon aside from the M1 Garand rifle that Sutherland still could break down and reassemble while blindfolded. He trusted its reliability and stopping power. What he had to wonder about was himself. Though he lifted weights to stay in shape, he still was several years removed from the young, lean man who had waded ashore in Normandy against the hellish onslaught of German machine guns. During his tour in Korea, he had never so much as drawn his pistol from its holster except to clean it. Would the old training and instincts come back?

  Hell of a time to start doubting yourself.

  Ignoring the slight tremor in his hands, Sutherland pulled back the pistol’s slide to verify that the first of the magazine’s seven rounds had been chambered. He tightened his grip on the weapon as he stepped around his desk and toward the door. For the first time, he was seized by the nagging sensation that the party in the other room—whoever they might be—now knew that their presence had been detected. He was wondering when a bullet with his name on it might come screaming through the glass when he heard the sound of another door opening, and Sutherland realized that the intruder was exiting into the hallway. Lunging forward, he grabbed the doorknob and turned it, only to curse upon realizing it was locked. He could hear running footsteps echoing beyond the wall, heading toward the rear of the building, and he sprinted for his main office door. By the time he emerged into the hallway it was to see a man dressed all in black, rounding the corner at the end of the corridor. The stairwell lay at the end of that short passage, which meant escape for the interloper.

  “Hey!” Sutherland shouted, running toward the intersection. Upon reaching the corner he slowed, leading with the .45 as he turned into the shorter hall and leveled the pistol at the door leading to the stairs. The door was swinging shut, and he heard the sounds of shoes on stairs, heading downward.

  “Cal!” a voice shouted from behind him, and he looked back to see Larkin lumbering into the hallway from the mail room, an expression of confusion clouding his round features.

  Holding up his free hand, Sutherland called out, “Stay there!” before running to the stairwell door and yanking it open. Footsteps were clapping on the stairs below him, and he went to the railing in an attempt to spot the escaping stranger. Seeing the figure two flights below him, he stuck his pistol over the rail and yelled again.

  “Stop right there or I’ll shoot!”

  The intruder did halt his descent, but Sutherland’s eyes went wide as he saw the man, who wore some kind of ski mask to cover his face, raise his arm and point a pistol of his own. The gun’s muzzle seemed massive even from this distance, aimed as it was at his face. Sutherland jumped back from the railing, anticipating a shot and even flinching in expectation. It took him an extra moment to realize that the other man had not fired. Instead, Sutherland heard the renewed sounds of the intruder making his escape down the stairwell.

  Clever. Very clever, asshole.

  Switching the pistol to his left hand, he took the steps two and three at a time, keeping his hand on the railing and using the heavy wooden anchor post at the bottom of each landing to swing him around to the next flight of stairs. His quarry was damned fast, though, having already made it to the first floor and through the door leading out of the stairwell. By the time Sutherland reached the bottom landing and burst through the door into the building’s foyer, he appeared to be alone. He kept his pistol ready, but a quick check of the room confirmed his suspicions. Inspecting the building’s front and rear street-level exits, he saw no clue as to which direction the other man may have gone. Outside the building’s front entrance, he noted that street lamps had come on as dusk approached.

  “Damn it,” he grunted, realizing for the first time that he was breathing hard. He reached up to remove his fedora before using his jacket cuff to wipe dampness from his forehead. It would do no good to attempt giving chase, even if he knew which route the intruder had taken to make his getaway. Whoever he was, he doubtless had made it to a nearby alley or a waiting car, and now was gone.

  The only question now is: What did the bastard take?

  Sutherland opted for the elevator to return him to the sixth floor, and when the doors opened he saw Tom Larkin waiting in the lobby, his worried expression only deepening when he noted the pistol in his friend’s hand.

  “What in the name of holy hell was that all about?” Larkin asked.

  Blowing out his breath, Sutherland shook his head. “Damned if I know. Somebody broke into my office.” Ignoring the confused stares of those few coworkers who had not yet left for the day, he moved from the lobby and through the bullpen that served as a common workspace for the staffs of Watch the Skies and the other magazines with offices on this floor. He was walking toward the hall leading to his office when a new thought—something that should have occurred to him well before now—came to mind. “What I don’t understand is how he got in there in the first place, and how he managed to do it so fast. You and I weren’t out of there but for a coup
le of minutes.”

  He was waiting for an opening.

  “Son of a bitch,” Sutherland said, feeling his jaw tighten as realization dawned. “He had to be casing the place, just hoping for a chance to get in here, which means he was after something specific.” Quickening his pace with Larkin on his heels, he ran up the hallway until he came to the open door leading into his office’s second room. With his pistol still in his hand, he took an extra moment to clear the interior before stepping through the doorway.

  “Anything missing?” Larkin asked from where he stood at the entrance.

  Moving around the room, Sutherland eyed the filing cabinets lining the walls. Each was secured with a padlock and a metal bar running through the drawer handles. Without a key like the one on the ring in Sutherland’s pocket, there was no easy, fast way to access the cabinets’ contents. None of the file boxes stacked on top of the cabinets or even under the small, square table occupying the room’s center appeared to have been disturbed.

  Then, Sutherland’s eyes fell on the large brown envelope sitting on the table, positioned before the chair in which he almost always sat when working in this room, and he realized that his unknown visitor had not come to take anything.

  “I’ll be damned,” he breathed. Engaging the .45’s safety, he placed the weapon on the table as he moved to get a better look at the envelope. With only the dim illumination from the small corner lamp, he had almost missed the package.

  Behind him, he heard Larkin stepping into the room. “Damn it, Cal. What’s going on?” When Sutherland looked up, it was to see his friend’s attention focused on the envelope. “Is that what I think it is?” he asked.

  “Only one way to find out,” Sutherland replied. The envelope bore no mailing information. There was no clue as to who had delivered it, and indeed only two words were handwritten on the envelope’s front: “Cal Sutherland.” He opened the envelope and slid its contents onto the table. As had been the case on previous occasions when he had received packages of this sort, it was a collection of official-looking documents—mimeographed copies—and a typed cover letter bearing no clue as to its writer’s identity. Like the other such letters he had been given, this one also was short and to the point.