by Dayton Ward
Intrigued by his colleague’s rebellious comments, which the other man had not expressed before today, Adlar asked, “You don’t believe what we’re doing is important?”
Cushman snorted. “Figuring out how to put a bunch of nukes in orbit just so they can rain down on us is just about the last thing this world needs right now, Allen.”
The United States was moving with haste in this regard, attempting to keep pace with the Soviet Union as both countries raced to be the first to place a working nuclear weapons platform into orbit. According to Gejalik, Russia was preparing to launch into orbit its own version of such a package. She had seen to it that information on the American initiative found its way into the hands of Russian spies, who in turn saw to it that the data was delivered to the proper authorities and put to use by their own cadre of scientists and engineers. While Jaecz continued in his role as a technician working for NASA in Houston, Gejalik for the past year had been working undercover in Star City, Russia, also masquerading as a civilian engineer. The assignment, though necessary to monitor Soviet progress, also precluded any form of frequent communication given the severe security restrictions blanketing the entire city. Gejalik’s last contact with Adlar had been via a brief article inserted into a recent edition of the Communist-controlled Russian newspaper Pravda, copies of which were translated and distributed among the American intelligence community, with information relevant to Soviet aerospace efforts also provided to NASA for its review. It was an imperfect line of communication, and only worked one-way, but it was enough to let Adlar know that his companion was alive and well, and working at the center of the Russian space and military weapons programs.
“Allen?”
Blinking, Adlar realized he had allowed his thoughts to consume him to the point that he had all but ignored his surroundings. He turned in his seat to see Cushman staring at him, concern evident in his features. How long had the human been trying to gain his attention? Had Adlar said or done something that might raise suspicion or cast doubt on his identity?
“Yes?” He made a show of clearing his throat and shifting in his seat. “I’m sorry. I guess I’m just tired.”
Cushman nodded. “I know. Long day, right?” He pointed at his workstation. “I’m just about ready to upload the diagnostic program to the targeting system. You want to see what it has to say?”
“Let’s take a look,” Adlar replied, rising from his chair and moving to join his colleague. “Hopefully, there’s no damage.”
“Keep your fingers crossed,” Cushman said, punctuating his comment with a whistle. “Otherwise, it’ll be at least three months before we get another shot, and that’s assuming they don’t send everything back to the drawing board to figure out what went wrong up there today.”
It was a point of valid concern, Adlar conceded. The next American manned spaceflight, Gemini 9, was at present scheduled to launch in two months. That now hinged on whatever determinations were made after a thorough investigation of the Gemini 8 capsule following its recovery later today. No doubt American government and military leaders—well aware that their Soviet counterparts also were working at a feverish pace—would be pushing for resolution of the issues plaguing NASA, all while urging for the finalization of the weapons technology. Even with the current issues, Adlar predicted that at the present rate of progress by both powers, the successful deployment of a fully armed and operational platform would occur within the coming year.
Who would be the first to achieve this feat? For the moment, that remained a mystery. Adlar had no preference as to the victor of this particular competition. After all, one advantage held by weapons of mass destruction was that they could be used to eradicate their creators and their targets with the same brutal efficiency.
Soon, he reminded himself. Soon.
TWENTY-FOUR
Wright-Patterson Air Force Base, Dayton, Ohio
July 17, 1967
“What do you mean, ‘it’s gone’? Where the hell did it go?”
James Wainwright looked up from yet another in the unending series of reports that had come to dominate his very existence in recent years, eyeing Colonel Stephen Olson with what he hoped was not an expression of disdain. Conversations like this one were becoming more common, it seemed, and Wainwright’s tolerance for them decreased with each new occurrence. Standing before him with his customary expression of irritation, the colonel already was getting on his nerves despite being here less than two minutes.
“When I say ‘it’s gone,’ Colonel, I mean it’s no longer there. It may have been there at one time, but it wasn’t by the time we got there. The eleven witnesses we interviewed all gave us the same story. They thought they saw a shooting star crashing in the forest in the High Sierras on the night of June eleventh. However, none of them described anything like a fire trail you might see when we’re talking about a meteorite or other natural object coming down through the atmosphere, or even one of our own space capsules on re-entry.”
From where she sat behind her own desk, Allison Marshall added, “Five witnesses also said they thought the object was moving in a straight line across the sky before it fell to the ground. That’s definitely inconsistent with any meteorite. All eleven said they saw it crash in the mountains, but their reports varied as to probable location, which is why it took us so long to pinpoint the crash site.”
“But there was a crash site,” Olson said. It was not a question. “You found where it came down, but it was gone when you got there.”
Wainwright replied, “We found it, all right. Definite signs of something coming down, but no evidence of a meteorite, at least according to the forensics team we sent to sweep the area. They did find a few small metallic fragments. We’re having them analyzed now, but so far everything points to an aircraft or spacecraft of some kind.” Pursing his lips, he added, “Whatever it was, it was moved. Whether by whoever or whatever was flying it, or somebody else getting the jump on us, we don’t know.”
“Maybe if your teams had moved more quickly,” Olson offered.
“It took our people four days on foot to find the site,” Marshall replied. “And that was after we received the first reports of the sighting, which came almost a full week after it supposedly happened.”
Olson frowned. “Why did it take you so long to get up there?”
This man is a moron. As one of the senior case officers working within the Majestic 12 organization, Colonel Stephen Olson had become something of a de facto liaison between that group and Project Blue Book. His position saw to it that he exerted authority over those officers still conducting UFO sighting investigations, including the project’s current director, Major Hector Quintanilla. Wainwright and Marshall, being civilian agents working within the MJ-12 envelope, were not answerable to Olson, a situation the colonel found frustrating and one in which Wainwright took no end of delight. The only problem was that his duties still required him to speak with the son of a bitch.
Forcing himself not to give voice to such thoughts, Wainwright cleared his throat. “Have you ever been to the High Sierras, Colonel? It’s not like taking a stroll around the base golf course, after all. It’s pretty rugged country. Cars can’t get up there. Come to think of it, golf carts can’t get up there, either.” Though he did not smile, Wainwright still was able to take some pleasure in watching Olson’s jaw clench.
“Fine,” the colonel said, his voice tight. “Then where is the craft?”
Wainwright shrugged. “It didn’t leave a forwarding address.”
“I don’t appreciate your attitude, Mister Wainwright,” Olson snapped. Placing his hands on the front of Wainwright’s desk, he leaned forward, closing the distance between the two men. It was an intimidation tactic that likely worked for most of the people with whom the colonel interacted, but all it did was annoy Wainwright, who made a point to stand up in such a way that it forced Olson to pull back and straighten his posture.
“I get that a lot,” Wainwright said, affecting a
relaxed stance even though his gaze never left Olson’s. “And yet, they keep me around here for some reason.”
The colonel sneered. “I might be able to do something about that.”
“If you could, you’d have done it by now,” Wainwright countered, “so let’s quit pretending you’ve got power you don’t have, all right?” That was enough to make the colonel bristle, but Wainwright pretended not to notice. “As for where the craft is, to be honest, Colonel, I was hoping you could tell us. After all, this smells a lot like the kind of thing you’d have your hands in.”
Olson’s vexed reaction appeared genuine, and Wainwright saw real anger flash in the other man’s eyes. “Are you suggesting a cover-up?”
“Suggesting?” Wainwright shook his head. “No, that’s a waste of time. You and I both know that sort of thing’s happened before, with Magestic leaving Blue Book holding the bag and looking like idiots. There’ve been at least, what, three incidents where you swept in and took the legs out of a Blue Book investigation, making off with the evidence they’d found and forcing the case officers to dismiss the initial sighting or other report? I know Carlson would never screw us like this, but you? Yeah, I can see that, easy.”
With a grunt suggesting he was growing irate at the discussion’s turn, Olson glanced over his shoulder at Marshall before returning his gaze to Wainwright. “Perhaps you and I might continue this conversation in private.”
“Miss Marshall has full clearance,” Wainwright countered. “So whatever you’re going to say, you might as well say it now.”
As though sensing an opening to get in his own jab, Olson turned to Wainwright. “Yes, I’ve heard those . . .” He stopped when Wainwright held up a hand.
“Whatever you’re thinking might be a smart thing to say next? Rethink it, Colonel.” He let a hint of menace lace the words. “Those birds on your shoulders or the fact that I’m old enough to be your father won’t stop me from knocking you on your ass, right here and right now.” Though he and Marshall had endured gossip over the years regarding their personal relationship, this was the first time anyone had seen fit to confront them about it in such a direct manner.
“I’d have you arrested,” Olson snapped.
Wainwright nodded. “Sure. After they let you out of the hospital.”
“Gentlemen,” Marshall said, her exasperated tone giving them pause. “With all due respect, I’d like to go home at a decent hour tonight, so can we please get on with this?” She crossed her arms, offering an expression conveying restrained annoyance. “You can fight over my honor after I’ve gone.”
Drawing a breath as though to calm himself, Olson placed his hands in his trouser pockets. “Fine. What else can you tell me about the crash site?”
“The damaged area wasn’t that large,” Wainwright replied. “No felled trees, no signs of fire, though there was some disrupted dirt and rock from where it touched down. That suggests a controlled landing, to some degree. We also don’t think the object was very big, probably the same size as a single-seat fighter jet, more or less.”
Olson said, “We can assume it wasn’t a Russian rocket or missile, and China’s only just sticking their toe into the water so far as that’s concerned.” A month prior, China had detonated its first hydrogen bomb, and now joined the U.S., Russia, and Great Britain in the fraternity of countries possessing the ability to construct nuclear weapons.
Another day, another headache.
“If it was some kind of craft,” Marshall said, “and it didn’t just fly back out of there under its own power, then we’re thinking something that small could be disassembled and removed from the crash site. There’ve been no further reports of unidentified craft in that area—or meteor activity, for that matter—since the initial sighting. Of course, that sort of thing suggests a group like us.”
“Or just someone with time and resources,” Olson countered, “which is alarming on a number of levels.”
Wainwright said, “We’ve thought about ways to look into that. For example, if it’s a private group, then maybe one of the UFO organizations or clubs out there might come across some information. We’re going to be paying more attention to things like the newsletters and magazines these groups publish, checking for hints of someone bragging about a great find in the California mountains, that sort of thing.” Indeed, Wainwright already had dispatched Mestral to Los Angeles to speak with Cal Sutherland, who still was publishing his Watch the Skies magazine. If anyone was going to come across juicy information about somebody claiming ownership of a flying saucer, it would be Sutherland. Olson, of course, did not know about Sutherland, thanks to the efforts of Professor Jeffrey Carlson, who had cultivated the tabloid journalist as a resource.
What he doesn’t know won’t hurt us.
Appearing to mull over this notion for a moment, Olson nodded. “It can’t hurt, but we definitely need to explore other avenues. This is the kind of thing that poses a threat to our operational security and as a consequence, there are going to be some changes with respect to other activities.”
Uh-oh, Wainwright thought. Here it comes.
“What do you mean?” Marshall asked.
Olson removed his hands from his pockets. “For one thing, it’s been decided that we’ve collected more than enough credible evidence proving aliens have been here and they’re curious about us. We need to guard that information, to say nothing about the other . . . artifacts . . . we’ve obtained, not just from outsiders but even those in our own government.” He turned so that he could look at Wainwright. “You as much as anyone knows we’ve been doing this long enough that we have military and civilian leaders overseeing our work who’ve never actually seen what we’ve done. Most of those people either don’t believe, or else they’re living in denial.”
Nodding, Wainwright sighed as he realized this was one of the few things on which he and Olson agreed. “You can say that again.” The simple truth about Blue Book, and even more so with Majestic 12, was that the compartmentalization of the information gathered by both groups over the past twenty years had become so labyrinthine that only a select few individuals even had knowledge, let alone access to everything.
“MJ-12’s efforts going forward will be focused on better understanding the information we already have,” Olson said, “and following leads that support our defense against specific threats for which we have solid evidence.”
“What about us?” Wainwright asked, already knowing the answer.
“You’ll keep to your current role, but the priority is finding connections to these threats,” Olson said, lifting himself from Wainwright’s desk. “Meanwhile, Blue Book will continue its downplaying and discrediting of other UFO sightings and witnesses as appropriate.”
For the first time, Wainwright considered mentioning to Olson the Certoss aliens he and Marshall had been tracking with the clandestine aid of Mestral and with the support of Professor Carlson. It was a secret the four of them had kept to themselves for a decade, believing that the fewer people who knew of their effort, the better the chances of being able to hunt for the mysterious aliens from the future without attracting their attention. To that end, Mestral had been working on constructing what he called a “sensor device,” which would allow him to scan for and locate indications of advanced or otherwise “non-terrestrial” activity—communications signals or other energy readings not achievable by current human technology, for example. The Vulcan had been experimenting with such devices for some time now, limited as he was to equipment and other materials available to him.
No, Wainwright decided. Olson doesn’t need to know. Not yet.
“That sounds like a misuse of our resources,” he said, eyeing the colonel. “We know the threats are real, so why can’t we get the support we need?”
Olson sighed. “Look, I might not like you, Wainwright, but I can’t argue that you and Marshall haven’t produced results. Carlson and the rest of the MJ-12 committee know the real deal, but the truth is that right
now the United States has bigger, more immediate problems. We’re upping our commitment of resources to Vietnam, and that means more money needed to fund it. Now, if we could brief Congress on what we know, I’m guessing we could get a blank check, but until such time as the president gives us the green light, we make do with what we have.”
“And what if the Ferengi or somebody else comes knocking?” Marshall asked. “What then?”
Turning to head for the door, Olson replied, “Then I imagine the meetings with Congress will go a hell of a lot quicker.” He reached the door, but instead of leaving the room, he looked back at Wainwright and Marshall. “Unless, of course, you can find something concrete before that happens.” Without waiting for a response, the colonel exited the room, the door closing behind him.
“Idiot,” Marshall said, shaking her head.
“But he’s not wrong,” Wainwright said. “Until we can wave something irrefutable in front of Congress, we’re never going to get full support.”
“What more do they need?” Marshall asked, rising from her chair and moving around her desk. “Some Ferengi or Certoss to come down here and stick a probe up his butt? Maybe we could get Mestral to demonstrate that to Olson. You know, to help him dislodge his head.”
Chuckling, Wainwright smiled. “You’ve been reading too many of Cal Sutherland’s magazines.” Some accounts of “abduction” carried with them varying degrees of legitimacy, such as the case involving a New Hampshire couple who claimed to have been studied by aliens aboard their ship in 1961. Their story even was turned into a book published just last year, and many government officials believed it was the book that had launched a spate of similar claims, with witnesses or “victims” being subjected to all manner of obscene medical examinations and other procedures after being taken aboard spaceships. Such accounts were an interesting contrast to the plethora of books Wainwright had read over the years from more “trustworthy” sources, such as Morris Jessup, an astronomer who had made something of a name for himself in the UFO enthusiast community after writing a handful of books detailing stories and theories regarding extraterrestrial activity. Though Jessup enjoyed no mainstream recognition for his efforts, his books all were required reading within the MJ-12 and Blue Book organizations, and Wainwright and Marshall even had followed up on accounts recorded in a few of the books.