by Dayton Ward
Marshall smiled, rising from her chair and stepping toward him. “I’m thinking I don’t care about that right now. I’m also thinking we have an extra day on our travel orders, and the next case will still be there tomorrow.”
As she pressed her body against him and her lips met his, Wainwright decided he liked the way she thought.
• • •
Cal Sutherland glanced at his watch. It was coming up on six thirty, and he had not slept at all the previous night, but he was still firing on all cylinders.
“So, faithful readers,” he said, dictating his thoughts as fast as he could relay them into his tape recorder’s microphone, “the question that should be foremost on our minds is why the government isn’t telling us the truth about the aliens. UFOs are crash-landing right here, in the very heart of our great nation!” Pacing the width of his small motel room, he reached the wall and turned to walk in the other direction. “Not only is the military concealing that information from the public, but they’re also willing to kill innocent civilians who happen to see them as they carry out their cover-up!”
Sutherland’s next thought was interrupted as the cord connecting his microphone to the tape recorder went taut and he realized he once more had to turn and pace back the other way. Grunting in irritation, he held up the mic and continued. “That’s right, knowledge seekers! Even this intrepid reporter who risked life and limb in pursuit of the truth. While investigating reports of a sighting in the small, sleepy little town of Carbon Creek, Pennsylvania, I certainly got more than I bargained for. I followed two Air Force officials into the forest, having no idea what might be waiting for us out there, but I think they were as surprised as I was when they made what could be the discovery of a lifetime. Proof, readers! Actual proof that the aliens are among us!”
It had taken him no small amount of effort to track the Project Blue Book investigators Major James Wainwright and Staff Sergeant Allison Marshall from their headquarters at Wright-Patterson Air Force Base in Ohio here to Pennsylvania. Trickier still was doing so without tipping off the military to his own skulking and digging about in search of information. His connection inside the project, a person whose identity remained a mystery to Sutherland even after more than five years, had warned him that Wainwright and Marshall were aware of an information leak. They, in turn, had on a few occasions provided Sutherland with false reports and other data in a bid not just to hamper his own investigations but also in the hopes of luring out his source.
To his own irritation, Sutherland had fallen for the ruse the first two or three times, acting on the information supporting alleged UFO sightings in various locations around the country. After traveling to the remote town of Hermann, Missouri, the scene of a sighting as recounted in the report left for him by the mysterious visitor to his office nearly three years earlier, Sutherland began to suspect he had been set up. He had been unable to find the witness cited in the report, and neither had he been able to get any of the town’s other residents to corroborate the story. At first, he thought the small, tight-knit community simply was protecting itself from exploitation by an “outsider,” but then his anonymous though trusted source at Wright-Patterson had alerted him to the ruse. It was then that Sutherland knew that not only was the alien threat real, but also that his own government was taking an active role in keeping that information sequestered from an unknowing public.
“That’s right, my friends,” Sutherland said into the microphone, his other hand gesturing wildly in the air before him, “despite the military’s best efforts to throw me off the scent, I’m still on the case, and not only did I see it with my own eyes, but I’ve got lots of nice, juicy pictures to share with you. It’s like I’ve been telling you for years, boys and girls. The aliens are here. They’ve been here, and they’ve landed right in our own backyards, hiding under the cloak of darkness and the veil of secrecy thrown over them by our own government.”
Sutherland smiled, pleased with how smoothly his oratory sounded to his ears. He had labored on the writing all night, working as fast as his fingers could fly over the keys of his Royal typewriter. Unable to keep his thoughts at bay long enough to transcribe them onto paper, Sutherland had abandoned the typewriter and had taken to rattling off entire passages into his tape recorder, supplementing that effort with hastily scrawled notes on the back of the typewritten pages. Wadded-up balls of paper littered the bedspread and the floor, and the place smelled of cigarette smoke, old coffee, bourbon, and his own sweat and wet clothes, but he ignored all of it. He was certain his pulse had not slowed since the first moment he had laid eyes on the crashed ship.
Pausing just long enough to drain the last of the cold coffee in the chipped mug that had been in the cabinet of the room’s small kitchenette, Sutherland grimaced at its foul taste. “Just wait until you see this beauty, friends. It’s big, it’s sleek, and there’s just no telling what sort of crazy alien doodads it holds. You and I don’t know anything, but you can bet the Air Force will know. Mark my words, friends: They’re tearing that bad boy apart as we speak, making that ship give up its secrets. And don’t even get me started on what might happen if they’ve managed to put the bag on whoever—or whatever—was flying the thing.”
In truth, Sutherland had no idea what would show up on the pictures he had taken. For obvious reasons, he had been unable to use a camera with a flash. Film for use in low- or no-light conditions was something he always included in his kit, but he still had been forced to shoot his pictures at some distance away from the ship. His vantage point had given him a clear view of the alien craft, more than enough to show off its smooth, curved, and angular lines standing in contrast to the surrounding trees and rocks. He tapped his left trouser pocket where he carried the small cylindrical canister. Only after he was able to develop the film it contained would he know if his efforts were successful.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Sutherland said, continuing his half-rehearsed recital. “This sounds too good to be true, and maybe it is! Only time and evidence will tell, but I can say one thing, faithful readers: The Air Force means serious business when it comes to keeping their secrets. It was only by the wildest stroke of luck that I avoided capture or even being shot!”
He never had been in any direct danger, either of discovery or injury, having concealed his movements while practicing good, sound discipline, just as his infantry training instructors had taught him a lifetime ago before he was sent to France. Wainwright and Marshall had never suspected his presence as they and their guide, Roberts, examined the crash site before something or someone else found their way to the remote clearing. More military people? A curious onlooker from town, or perhaps even other UFO enthusiasts who had figured out there was something to see here? Sutherland had no idea, and he had ceased caring when Roberts fired the first shot into the forest. Whatever had spooked the older man had drawn his attention, along with Wainwright and Marshall, toward the trees on the clearing’s opposite side, giving Sutherland the opportunity he needed to get the hell out of there and back to his car.
Of course, his readers did not need those details. Technically, he was not lying, so for the purposes of style and entertainment, he could live with the slight aggrandizement.
Sutherland turned off the recorder, setting the spools of tape to rewind so that he could listen to his first attempt. With the bulk of his thoughts now saved, he could revisit them for transcription—and further embellishment—once he got back to Los Angeles. And after he married up his punchy prose with the photographs he had taken? Pure gold, he decided. He would be able to write his own ticket.
But first? I want breakfast.
He had been working all night, subsisting on lousy coffee and bourbon, and he was long since past needing some decent food, or whatever passed for that in this backwater town. There had to be one person capable of rustling up a steak and some eggs, right?
As if in response to his unspoken question, there was a knock at the door.
“Huh?” Sutherland grunted, frowning in confusion. Who would be calling on him at this early hour? Then, a knot of anxiety formed in his gut, as he wondered if Wainwright and Marshall somehow had learned that he was here in Carbon Creek. For a moment, he considered the .45 tucked under his pillow, but brandishing the pistol now might create more problems than it solved. “Who is it?” he called out.
“The manager, sir,” replied a female voice, which was muffled by the thick wooden door. “You have a phone call at the front desk. They say they’re from Los Angeles, and that it’s important.”
Throwing the bolt and unhooking the small chain lock, Sutherland opened the door, expecting to see the middle-aged yet still attractive blond wife of the motel’s manager. Instead, a young woman stood on the porch, illuminated by the dim bulb mounted on the wall outside his room. Its feeble light reflected against something in the woman’s right hand, and he saw the pen just before a strange metallic snap echoed in the early morning air.
FIFTEEN
Washington, D.C.
November 11, 1957
Swirling blue-black fog parted for her, and with the high-pitched, almost musical hum of the energy field ringing in her ears, Cynthia Foster stepped forward and emerged into the office. She released a small sigh of relief as she took in the familiar surroundings. It was good to be home.
Or something close to it. I’ll take what I can get.
Cynthia turned back to the open closet, the interior of which contained all that remained of the dissipating haze of energy as generated by the translocator device installed behind the concrete wall. The last of the fog disappeared, leaving only the shelves and racks lining the inside of the walk-in closet. Stacks of office supplies as well as rows of clothing were all that were visible, concealing all traces of the otherworldly technology that had just allowed her to travel hundreds of miles in little more than a handful of heartbeats.
“Good morning, Agent 6,” a voice called out as she closed and locked the closet door, and she looked over her shoulder to see her fellow agent, Ian Pendleton, smiling at her from where he sat at his desk. “Welcome back.” Consisting of a black suit with matching tie and a white shirt, Ian’s ensemble was for all intents and purposes the male counterpart to her own outfit. As always, his short blond hair was groomed with almost mathematical precision, the light application of Brylcreem he used reflecting the office’s overhead lighting. He was reclining in his high-backed leather chair, resting his feet atop his desk, and holding what Cynthia presumed to be that morning’s edition of The Washington Post or the Times-Herald. A cup sat in a saucer on the desk, and she caught the scent of Ian’s preferred blend of hot tea.
“And a good morning to you, Agent 42,” she said, smiling at the use of their code designations. Like Ian, her own moniker had been as much her identity as her given name for so long that she scarcely remembered a time without it. Indeed, the designations were more comfortable and familiar than the surnames provided by her supervisor just a few short weeks ago at the start of their assignment here on Earth.
She unbuttoned her jacket as she moved across the open, carpeted area at the office’s center. Behind her desk, a pair of windows offered a view to the north, which was dominated by the western half of the National Mall. To her left, the Washington Monument stood above the trees, its dark silhouette catching the first rays of the morning sun. Lights were on in a few of the windows of the neighboring buildings, but at this early hour most of the offices and other businesses in this part of town were dormant, their occupants not due to arrive for another two or three hours. A special composite on the glass of this suite of offices presented the outward appearance of the lights being off during nighttime hours, affording her and her partner a measure of privacy as they went about their various tasks, many of which would be nothing short of shocking to average, everyday humans. Because of that, they operated behind the façade of the Pearson-Thorne Corporation, a private company specializing in military defense contracting. With the resources at their command, Cynthia and Ian were able to present to the smallest details the appearance of being a legitimate firm. One part of the illusion that amused Cynthia was that contemporary sociological realities required her to pose as a secretary, an administrative subordinate to Ian’s authoritative senior executive officer.
That could change, she reminded herself, in a decade or four.
“You’re here early,” she said, eyeing him with suspicion. Though he was clean shaven and groomed, and his suit was fresh, there still were dark circles beneath his eyes. “Or, did you sleep here again last night?”
Ian turned the page of his newspaper. “I know you said it would be a routine mission, but I wanted to be here, just in case you needed anything.”
Shaking her head, Cynthia frowned at him. “That’s the third night in a row you’ve slept on that couch. You need to go home and get some real rest. Even you can’t keep up that kind of pace forever.”
“I know,” Ian replied, sighing. “But this situation with the Vulcan ship is exhausting. This is what? The fifth time we’ve had to go there to keep someone from letting the entire world know that a spaceship from another planet has crash-landed in the middle of nowhere? How much longer will we have to keep doing this?”
Cynthia moved to the chair behind her desk. “Until the ship is retrieved, or our orders change.” Unfortunately, their superiors were being frustratingly tight-lipped with regard to details about this, Cynthia and Ian’s first major assignment since their arrival on Earth. It was not unexpected; indeed, their instructors had driven the point home throughout their training. The Aegis’s interest in this planet was motivated by a desire to protect it from annihilation at the hands of its own people, and in doing so ensure that humanity received the opportunity to evolve into a technologically and sociologically advanced civilization. Rather than taking an active, public role in Earth’s affairs, the Aegis instead preferred a more benign approach, for reasons known only to them. Like her fellow students, Cynthia had pondered those motives, weighing them against the knowledge that her sponsors—already possessing wondrous technology that would make them appear almost as gods to the people of this world—also harbored at least some insight into Earth’s future history. As explained to Cynthia and her fellow students during their training, such knowledge must be used with caution, wisdom, and restraint, in order to help the human race find the path leading to what her instructors called “its proper destiny.” To that end, when faced with taking actions that might affect humanity’s future, field agents were given only enough information required to complete a particular task. This, their instructors had repeated over and over, was to prevent any agent from taking matters too much into his own hands, whether for righteous purpose or while pursuing his own ignominious agenda.
At first, Cynthia had wondered if that might just be coded speech for the Aegis manipulating humanity for its own purposes, but time and her own experiences, as a student and later an apprentice observer working with an experienced field agent on her first foray to Earth, had shown her the organization’s true intentions. Humanity was fast approaching a volatile turning point in its history, and soon would face a number of challenges, issues, and crises. A wrong decision for any one of those situations, no matter how well-intentioned, could spell disaster for a civilization that still was centuries away from realizing its true potential. However, guiding the people of Earth through the hazards to safety and prosperity was not the answer; instead, they would have to find the path for themselves, and in many cases learn harsh lessons along the way. The Aegis, Cynthia had come to realize, was acting as something of an unseen mentor to the human race, taking quiet, measured action behind the scenes in certain situations, but otherwise allowing events on Earth to unfold without interference.
And then, there were situations like the Vulcan ship, which seemed designed to test the Aegis’s “appropriate intervention” philosophy.
Closing his newspaper and folding it in half before laying it do
wn upon his desk, Ian rose from his seat and moved to where Cynthia now was reclining in her own chair, facing the windows overlooking the Mall. “So, how did it go this time?”
“To be honest?” Cynthia sighed as she shifted to a more comfortable position. “It ended up being more complicated than we anticipated.” Upon learning of the Vulcan ship’s unexpected arrival on Earth, the agents had traveled to Carbon Creek to investigate witnesses to its crash-landing. The number of people who had seen the scout vessel descend from the night sky into that remote region of the Pennsylvania mountains was small, and suppressing their memories of the incident had proven straightforward if time consuming. That accomplished, they had installed a sensing device that would transmit a signal to their office here in Washington if anyone came close enough to the craft to see it for what it was. With the aid of the translocator, Cynthia and Ian had traveled back to Carbon Creek in order to similarly “handle” those interlopers. Having done this on four previous occasions, Cynthia had opted to take care of this incursion herself, advising Ian to get some much-needed rest. “It turns out we missed one of the original witnesses. A hunter. He led the Blue Book officers out to the crash site. And it gets better.”
“There was somebody else?” Ian prompted.
Cynthia replied, “Exactly, including a reporter for one of those tabloid magazines.” He had been an unanticipated complication of her plans to deal with the two Air Force investigators and their civilian guide, but she was able to handle him with relative ease. “It’s a shame I had to destroy his film. He managed to get some pretty good pictures.”
“So, we’re in the clear again?” Ian asked, pausing to kiss her forehead before leaning against the edge of her desk. He reached up to cover his mouth in a vain attempt to stifle a yawn.