by Dayton Ward
Wainwright continued inspecting the ship, which lay at the forward end of the scar it had carved into the hillside, and he now saw that a significant portion of the vessel in fact was buried beneath the soil it had displaced. It was difficult to gauge its true dimensions, though Wainwright guessed it was similar in size to . . .
. . . to the ship at Roswell?
Moving his flashlight beam over the ship’s exterior, Wainwright saw that it was somewhat angular in shape, with enough curves and sweeping angles. The remnants of what might once have been stabilizer fins were positioned near the vessel’s rear section, and Wainwright let his flashlight linger over what looked to be an engine exhaust port at the stern. Enough of the ship was visible that he was able to study features like seams between hull plates as well as ports and other openings. The metal was almost rust in color, and the configuration of the individual plates was unlike anything else he had ever seen. Shining his light across the craft’s smooth surface, he noted what looked to be an access hatch. Embedded in the hull plating to one side was a small, recessed pocket with a series of backlit controls. Several small panels across the ship’s surface bore what might be labels, their markings unlike any language with which Wainwright might be familiar.
“This is incredible,” Marshall said, adding her own flashlight to aid in illuminating the ship. “Sir, do you think this could be a Ferengi ship?”
“A what?” Roberts asked.
Concentrating on the ship’s exterior, Wainwright said, “Hard to say. There are some similarities.” If this were a Ferengi vessel, it would be the first solid connection to the events in Roswell. Might the threat of eventual invasion conveyed ten years ago by one of the aliens finally be coming to pass?
He turned to Roberts. “Was the hatch open when you found it?”
Roberts shook his head. “It’s been this way the whole time, so far as I know.”
“So,” Marshall said, “you didn’t see anyone come out of it, or walking around it or anywhere nearby?”
“Never saw nobody anywhere near it,” Roberts replied. “I don’t know too many people who come out this way, even to hunt. It’s too far from the road, and they don’t like all the hills and gullies.” He smiled. “That’s one of the reasons I like it out here.”
Wainwright shook his head. “Hard to believe no one else has found this thing or, if they had, that they’ve kept it a secret.” He envisioned treasure hunters and glory seekers descending on the crash site. “We need to get our own people out here. Maybe even take this thing back so they can really study it.”
“I hope Professor Carlson gets to see this,” Marshall said. “The look on his face would be priceless.”
Wainwright nodded in agreement. “You mean if they let him out of whatever hole they buried him in?” As years had passed and the Air Force’s efforts to locate, verify, and study alien technology increased, the mysterious Majestic 12 committee, including Professor Jeffrey Carlson, had become ever more secretive. Its members had been scattered to various top-secret installations across the country, and a few were working abroad with American allies to track reports of alien activity around the world. Carlson, as one of the committee’s senior and most respected members representing the project’s scientific interests, was in great demand. Wainwright had only spoken with him a handful of times in the past three years, during which the professor had spent much of his time at the Air Force’s high-security installation in the mountainous Nevada desert north of Las Vegas—it was so secret it did not even appear to have an official name. There also were rumors of Carlson’s involvement in another clandestine project, an extensive, long-term research and development effort taking place somewhere in the Pacific Northwest and employing hundreds of military and civilian science and engineering specialists. Wainwright’s discreet inquiries on that front had yielded nothing but quiet warnings for him to quell any such further curiosity.
Stepping closer to what he now presumed was some form of access hatch, Wainwright examined the recessed control pad. Tempted as he was to try opening what he hoped might be an entry into the craft, prudence won out over curiosity. Could its occupants still be in there? Aside from the dim illumination behind the keypad, the vessel emanated no sounds, lights, or other signs of power or habitation, but that did not stop Wainwright from considering the possibility of someone monitoring them from inside the ship.
Well, there’s a comforting thought.
The sound of snapping wood—a branch or twig on the ground—from behind them made Wainwright turn in that direction, swinging his flashlight so that its beam played across the trees at the edge of the clearing. The light reflected on something metallic before whatever it was vanished behind the trunk of a large oak.
“Who’s there?” he shouted, bringing up his pistol and aiming it toward the forest, all while trying not to dwell on just how exposed they were here in the clearing. “Allison,” he prompted, gesturing with his .45 toward the tree line and stepping to his right in an attempt to get a better look at whatever it was he had seen. To his left, he saw Marshall mirroring his movements toward the other side of the tree. Though they had not faced down extraterrestrials since that night in Yuma five years earlier, Wainwright knew that she was more than capable of handling herself if the situation called for it.
Roberts was a different matter, and the first clue Wainwright had that their guide might complicate things came when the older man chose that moment to fire his rifle. The crack of the high-velocity round echoed through the surrounding trees, the flash from the rifle’s muzzle making Wainwright flinch. “Damn it!” he shouted, jerking his head in Roberts’s direction only to see the man working the rifle’s bolt to chamber another round. “Hold your fire!”
“Sir!”
Turning toward Marshall, he saw her jogging toward the trees, her pistol and flashlight held before her. “They’re running!”
“Wait for me!” Wainwright warned, already moving to where he could see someone darting between trees, using the forest for cover. It took him an extra moment to realize that their visitor was not retreating. “He’s over this way!” Despite his best efforts to catch the other person with his flashlight beam, his quarry eluded him.
But he can still see your light, idiot!
Wainwright doused the flashlight and halted his advance to the trees, looking and listening for signs of movement. The prowler likely had stopped as well and perhaps was figuring out his or her next move, but there was no way he could have run very far in just that handful of seconds. He had to be close, Wainwright knew; very close.
“See anything?” Roberts asked from behind him, and Wainwright nearly jumped out of his skin. The man had appeared as if from the very air, the barrel of his hunting rifle aimed toward the trees. “He went this way.”
“I know,” Wainwright replied, keeping his eyes trained on the forest; to their left, Marshall was moving closer, and he saw her body go rigid as though something in front of her had caught her attention.
“Freeze!” she yelled, setting her feet and aiming her pistol at something Wainwright could not see. “Put your hands up!”
Still not seeing who she had found, Wainwright ran toward her, aiming his own weapon at the trees and with Roberts right on his heels. As he moved past a large oak, he saw a figure standing alone and bathed in the beam of Marshall’s flashlight, with both hands raised. It took Wainwright an extra moment to realize it was a woman, dressed in heavy civilian clothes similar to theirs. She appeared unarmed, but he did not discount the possibility of a weapon concealed beneath her jacket.
“Who are you?” Wainwright asked, switching on his own flashlight, and the beam caught the reflection of something in the woman’s right hand. It was silver, and far too small and thin to be a firearm, and she was not holding it as one might wield a knife.
A pen?
Then, an odd buzzing sound filled the air, and everything went dark.
FOURTEEN
Carbon Creek, Pennsylvania
November 11, 1957
Wainwright’s eyes opened and he jerked himself upright, his ears ringing with the unholy clatter of the alarm clock’s bell. Reaching for the nightstand, he slammed his hand down on the clock’s stopper and ended the assault on his hearing. The room’s near-silence returned, broken only by the sound of the clock continuing to tick. He turned on the bedside lamp and saw that it was 6 a.m., his normal waking time, but he did not even remember setting the alarm.
Swinging his body so that he could rest his feet on the floor, Wainwright stretched his muscles, forcing away the lingering tendrils of sleep. There were none of the usual aches and pains that greeted him on most mornings, and now with greater frequency than in previous years. In fact, he could not remember the last time he had awakened feeling this well rested.
It was just as well, he decided as he stood and reached for the robe cast across the end of the bed. He and Marshall were in for a long day of travel, first driving back to Olmsted Air Force Base where they would—with luck—catch a passenger or cargo flight heading for Wright-Patterson that day. Their orders specified a return date of tomorrow, but Wainwright was hoping to convince the officer in charge there of getting him and Marshall moved to an earlier flight. After all, he had been doing this long enough now to have learned a few tricks for getting where he needed to be.
As long as there’s coffee, I’ll get by.
Pulling on his robe as he made his way to the window, Wainwright pushed aside the heavy curtain. It was still dark, but the first hints of pink were visible over the trees beyond the roadside motel’s other set of buildings. Parked outside his room was the dark blue sedan he and Marshall had checked out of the motor pool at Olmsted. At the building that housed the motel’s main office and reception desk, the owner was posting a short wooden pole into a mounting bracket affixed to the wall outside the front door. He then proceeded to unfurl the American flag wrapped around the pole, which now extended at a forty-five-degree angle from its holder. Other businesses across the street that were visible from his window also had flags displayed, and it took Wainwright an extra moment to remember that today was Veterans Day. He wondered how the federal holiday might interfere with travel.
He turned at the knock on his door and he angled his head to see Marshall standing outside his room. Already dressed in her uniform, she held what looked to be a coffee cup in each hand. Seeing him looking at her through the window, she smiled. After pausing to make sure his robe was secured about his waist, Wainwright unlocked and opened the door.
“Good morning, sir,” Marshall said, offering him one of the coffee mugs.
“Morning,” Wainwright replied, accepting the cup. He held it in both hands, enjoying its warmth as he smelled the coffee’s aroma. “Where did you get this?” he asked, stepping back from the door and gesturing for her to enter the room.
“Front office,” Marshall said, walking to the small table set before the window and taking a seat in one of its two straight-backed chairs. “I went looking for a diner that might be open this early, but the manager insisted on making it for us. It’s Veterans Day today, you know.”
Wainwright nodded. “I know. You’re up early.” He figured she had to have been awake at least an hour, given her forthright, professional appearance.
“I had a good night’s sleep, sir,” Marshall said as she settled into one of the chairs. “Best one I’ve had in I don’t know how long.”
Wainwright grunted in agreement. “Funny. I was thinking the same thing when I woke up. I slept like a baby.” Pausing, he frowned at his own statement. “Why do people say that? I don’t think I slept more than two hours a night for the first six months after my son was born.” That made him stop again. How long had it been since he last had spoken with Michael? The boy had recently celebrated his eleventh birthday, for which Wainwright had called to congratulate him. There was much to talk about, of course; school, sports, friends, and other important activities which so consumed boys of Michael’s age. Wainwright had opted to refrain from asking about Deborah or her new husband, not wanting to put his son in the position of thinking he might be betraying his mother’s confidence. Though the divorce had been amicable and both he and Deborah had pledged to remain friends for Michael’s sake, Wainwright knew she eventually would find someone else with whom to share her life. She had done so, becoming involved with a civilian engineer in California. Wainwright had met the man and his gut instinct told him he was good for Deborah, someone who would be home most nights and would treat her and Michael with the respect and love they both deserved.
“Sir? Are you all right?” Marshall asked, and Wainwright realized he had been quiet for several moments. His coffee, now somewhat cooled, remained undisturbed in his cup.
Wainwright cleared his throat and shook his head. “Sorry. I guess I drifted away there for a minute.” After tasting the coffee and deciding it would have been better if he had tried it when it was still hot, he set the cup on the table and moved to where his suitcase sat in a small nook near the bathroom. “I should probably get it into gear. No sense making you wait around on me. We can get some breakfast before we head back to Olmsted.”
“We have an extra day on our travel orders,” Marshall offered, taking a sip from her coffee.
Tossing the suitcase on the bed and flipping it open, Wainwright smiled. “Sure, but the sooner we get back, the sooner we can get started on our incident reports.”
“I can hardly wait,” Marshall replied, holding her cup between her hands. “I think I’m finally starting to run out of ways to describe how a witness didn’t really see what they thought they saw.”
“Just do what I do,” Wainwright said, removing assorted clothing articles from a bureau drawer. “Go back to the older reports and copy from them.”
“I’ve been doing that for years, now,” Marshall countered without hesitation, eliciting a chuckle from Wainwright. After a moment, she added, “So, what do we call this one? Reflected moonlight? Weather balloon? Fighter jet?”
Shrugging as he placed his clothes in the suitcase, Wainwright said, “The jet, once we get final confirmation from Olmsted.” They already had obtained a report from the base commander that Air Force jets had been flying training missions on the night of the sighting reported by Hugh Roberts, a local hardware store owner and avid outdoorsman. Though sightings also had been reported by other people in the vicinity of Carbon Creek, this sleepy rural town, nothing of any substance had come from any of those accounts.
“I really wanted to believe him, sir,” Marshall said. “He sounded so sure of what he’d seen. His descriptions were so specific compared to what we usually get.”
Wainwright nodded. “I know.” Roberts’s report, with its unusual details with respect to the alleged craft’s movements and possible size, had looked promising. However, an interview with the older gentleman had convinced Wainwright that he, like his fellow witnesses, had seen nothing more spectacular than an F-102 interceptor on routine maneuvers over the Pennsylvania mountains. An excursion led by Roberts into the cold, damp forest where his sighting had taken place had yielded no additional evidence or anything else of value. His report, like so many others, would be yet another unsubstantiated and refuted entry in the Project Blue Book case files.
And yet, something about the whole thing still bothered Wainwright.
“What are you thinking?” Marshall asked, and when he turned to look at her he saw that she was studying him with one eyebrow raised.
“I’m thinking I want to go back out there and have another look around,” Wainwright replied, pausing in his emptying a second bureau drawer and tapping his fingers along its top. “Maybe we’ll see something in the daylight that we missed last night.” Even as Wainright spoke the words, he heard the lack of conviction in them, and he sighed. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “There’s nothing out there.” He offered a dismissive wave. “Let’s just get our reports done, and put this one to bed, and move on to the n
ext case.” There was always a next case, he knew. That was one of the constants of this job. Somewhere, out there, the truth waited. It had not and would not be easy to find, but they had to keep looking. To stop searching was to invite disaster. “All we can do is just keep plugging along.”
“Yes, sir,” Marshall said, “but you know what I’m thinking right now?”
The odd question made Wainwright turn, and he saw that she had settled into her chair and once more was studying him. Now feeling self-conscious, he cleared his throat. “I think I’ve more than proven over the years that I never know what you’re thinking.”
“I’m thinking we’ve been doing this together for six years,” Marshall said, “and I don’t remember the last time you took a vacation, or even a long weekend. I’m thinking we’ve been doing this for six years, and you’ve never made a pass at me, or said anything that might even remotely be considered inappropriate or ungentlemanly.”
Frowning as he sensed a knot of anxiety forming in his stomach, Wainwright said nothing for a moment, the ticking of his alarm clock the only sound in the room. Then, shifting his feet in a sudden bout of nervousness, he replied, “Allison, don’t think I haven’t considered it, but I’m your superior officer. It wouldn’t be right.” As years passed and the group working for Majestic 12 and Project Blue Book grew more insulated, Marshall long ago had evolved from her role as a simple clerical assistant. By necessity as well as her own skills, she was his trusted partner, regardless of the rank on her sleeves and despite the Air Force choosing not to recognize her contributions or those of other female personnel as being on par with their male counterparts. More than once, and with greater frequency as their professional and personal relationship continued to strengthen, he had given serious thought to throwing caution to the wind but had held back, not wanting to risk jeopardizing the trust and friendship they had built during their years working together.