Fade Out

by Patrick Tilley

  The President looked at Connors. ‘Jesus, that’s all we need. An invisible spaceship…’

  Wedderkind hastened to reassure him. ‘But if it was fluorescing on ultraviolet or infrared wavelengths, we could photograph it on film sensitive to those forms of radiation – X rays too.’

  ‘So why can’t the Air Force use this film?’

  ‘They may not have thought of it yet,’ said Connors. ‘Not everyone has Arnold’s imagination. But we can certainly recommend that they try.’

  ‘They still may not get a picture,’ said Wedderkind. ‘The atmosphere only lets in a small amount of the longest ultraviolet waves – which gives the girls a nice suntan. We normally refer to them as near ultraviolet. The shorter wavelengths, or far ultraviolet, are pretty unhealthy. Fortunately, like a lot of other nasties, they’re blocked off by the ionosphere. There’s a larger infrared window, as we call it, but most of the infrared wavelengths are blocked off too. If the spacecraft is fluorescing on any of the blocked wavelengths, its photographic image won’t reach us on the ground.’

  ‘Unless it comes down lower – or lands,’ said Connors.

  ‘Right,’ said Wedderkind. ‘Until we get the readings from the sounding rocket, we can only guess at what has happened up there. You can jam radar and radio transmissions by transmitting a more powerful signal on the same wavelength. The spacecraft could be an immensely powerful source of radio waves – like a quasar – ’

  ‘A what?’ asked the President.

  ‘A quasar – quasi-stellar radio source.’

  ‘Uh-huh…’ The President decided to let it go.

  ‘On the other hand, it was cosmic radiation that knocked out Telstar One in 1962. Either way it’s quite a problem. If this thing is fluorescing on far ultraviolet, X rays, or anything shorter, and it decides to land, we’ll need to carry geiger counters and dress up in lead suits.’

  ‘Christ, Arnold, you’re turning into a real doom merchant.’

  Wedderkind turned to Connors. ‘Not at all. It’s a fascinating problem.’ He waved to the corner of the President’s desk. ‘I’m just trying to work out what would happen if there was an object standing there, fluorescing on, let’s say, an infrared wavelength. We would be able to sense it as a heat source. Basically, that’s what infrared radiation is. But if it was invisible, would we be able to see the part of the desk it was standing on?’ Wedderkind frowned thoughtfully at the imaginary object.

  ‘Pick it up and take it with you, Arnold,’ said the President. ‘I’ve got work to do.’

  Friday/August 10

  THE WHITE HOUSE/WASHINGTON DC

  It hadn’t been a good week for the President. Ever since he had got back to Washington, he had been trying, without success, to concentrate on the day-to-day problems of government. Time after time as he pored over papers, or listened to briefings from his aides or members of his Cabinet, he had found himself morbidly distracted by that orbiting, two hundred and fifty ton question mark.

  Even his wife had guessed he had some extra problem on his mind. As always, she had waited for him to share it with her. But this time, he had said nothing.

  The President swung his chair round to face Connors. ‘What the hell is it going to do, Bob? Even more to the point, what the hell are we going to do?’

  It was a rhetorical question. The ball had already been set rolling.

  Soon after his return to Washington at the beginning of the week, Connors had reached an agreement with McKenna on the setting up of a CIA cover company for the project if a landing took place within the United States, and if the location and circumstances of the landing permitted the project to proceed in secret.

  Air Force General Clayson had been asked to assemble a mobile military component to provide a security screen for the landing site, the basic manpower for site operations, electronic specialists, technicians and engineers. The personnel chosen would be seconded to the CIA as ‘civilians’ for the duration of the project.

  Via Clayson, Connors had established a hot line to the Air Technical Intelligence Center at Wright-Patterson AFB, just north of Dayton, Ohio. Way back in March 1952, the Center had begun Project Blue Book, a compilation of all material evidence and eyewitness reports relating to sightings of unidentified flying objects within the USA and elsewhere.

  The project had been officially terminated in 1969, but following a mysterious rash of airborne and undersea radar contacts and the unexplained disappearance of several military aircraft in the early seventies, the Blue Book had been quietly reopened. If there was any visual contact with the spacecraft within the United States, or via the worldwide network of US bases and communications facilities, ATI at Wright-Patterson would get the word.

  Arnold Wedderkind, who was to head the research group, had already begun to contact the scientists he needed. As and when they were recruited, their assembly point would also be Wright-Patterson.

  On Tuesday and Wednesday, Connors and Wedderkind had been in Russia. The trip had been made in secret, and without the knowledge of the US Embassy staff in Moscow. Hitching a ride on a routine supply flight from Andrews AFB, the C-5A Galaxy of Military Air Transport Command had set them down at Rhein-Main AFB outside Frankfurt. From there a car had whisked them straight on to the ramp at Frankfurt-am-Main where they had boarded a scheduled Polish Airlines flight via Warsaw to Moscow.

  There they had talked with the Soviet Premier, Alekseii Leonovich, and Marshal Rudenkov, the Soviet Defence Minister. Leonovitch, a Georgian who had risen to power via the ranks of the KGB like his one-time boss Andropov, had also retained his post as First Secretary of the Communist Party. Since the presidency was largely a ceremonial position, it meant he was the man with the most clout in the Kremlin. Rudenkov was a tough, square man, with a ditchdigger’s fists, who looked as if he could still be bad news with a mess tin. General Wills would have liked him.

  At 9:05 A.M., the President and Connors were joined by Clayson, Fraser and Wedderkind. As they sat down around the desk, the President made minute positional adjustments of the framed portrait of his wife, his notepad, blotter, and pen set. His eyes met Connors’. He clasped his hands together, then began.

  ‘This is the deal we’ve fixed up with the Russians. Since they have complete control over their communications media, they’ve agreed to let us name them as owners of the spacecraft, just so long as it stays out of trouble. To be more precise, we can say it’s theirs, they won’t deny it.’ He paused to let Connors come in.

  ‘What we intend to do is to get Jerry Silvermann to refloat the Jodrell Bank story – this is the large robot spacelab that the Russians intended to put into orbit around Jupiter and which as a result of the unexplained twenty-minute burst of radiation has suffered a major power failure.’

  ‘Which explains the total lack of radio transmissions,’ said Wedderkind.

  ‘And so they’re saying nothing,’ said the President. ‘Which is fine, because that’s what they usually do when things go wrong.’

  Fraser gave a noncommittal grunt.

  ‘We’ve also managed to steer Jodrell Bank off this thing,’ said Connors. ‘The only two stations tracking it now are under Air Force control.’

  ‘With a small amount of encouragement from me, a group of my academic friends are continuing to push solar-flare radiation as the cause of the fade-out. That should keep the press happy.’ Wedderkind smiled. ‘Of course, none of them know what we know.’

  ‘The important thing to remember,’ said Connors, ‘is now that this thing has been identified as another Russian loser, nobody out there is going to give a damn what happens to it. They’re all going to be watching baseball.’

  ‘What happens if it comes down?’ asked Fraser.

  The President replied for Wedderkind. ‘If it comes down, that’s another problem. As I understand it – correct me if I’m wrong, Arnold – to descend, it will have to switch on its propulsion system. That means we will get another radar breakdown, so until we make visual contact
, no one will know where it is.’

  ‘Correct,’ said Wedderkind.

  ‘Arnold,’ said Fraser, ‘how are we going to make visual contact? At the beginning of the week you were saying that this thing was invisible to the human eye.’

  ‘I said that could be one of the reasons why the tracking cameras hadn’t been able to pick it up. If I may remind you, I also agreed with the suggestion Chuck put forward – which was that the spacecraft must have a dark, non-reflective surface that absorbs light. It’s as equally valid as the theory that the craft may be fluorescing on a wavelength beyond visible light.’

  ‘And easier to understand,’ said the President.

  ‘But we’re not going to announce we haven’t made a visual sighting.’ Connors looked at Fraser. ‘Since the Air Force controls all the tracking cameras, all you have to do is think of a reason why the Defense Department is sitting on the pictures. Would you like us to draft a press release?’

  ‘No, that’s okay,’ said Fraser. ‘I think we might just be able to manage that.’

  ‘I think – just to co-ordinate things – we ought maybe to have a look at any statement you plan to put out, Mel.’

  Fraser looked at the President. ‘Of course.’ His eyes switched briefly onto Connors.

  The message was clear – and had been for a long time. Like a lot of his predecessors, Fraser tended to regard the Defense Department as his personal fief, a bastion of freedom whose role was to protect America from the passing folly of the temporary residents of the White House and their jumped-up con-men assistants. The Department knew how to stonewall unpopular directives, and if it didn’t get the kind of Secretary it wanted, then the three armed services rendered him powerless with the subtlest kind of mutiny.

  ‘The problem is this,’ said Wedderkind. ‘The spacecraft is orbiting at an angle of eighty degrees to the equator, virtually pole to pole, with the Earth rotating beneath it. If we do get another period of fade-out, it could mark the beginning of the spacecraft’s entry into the atmosphere. As we know its flight path, we could make a guess at its trajectory – and where it would be likely to land. But only if it stays on the same course. I think in the case of this vehicle, we have to postulate an unlimited power capacity, which would give it total directional freedom. And there’s something else – it may not begin its descent at the beginning of the fade-out. It may continue to orbit for a while and then come down, under cover, so to speak. If it does that, then the problem of locating it becomes very difficult.’

  Fraser turned to the President. ‘Do the Russians have any ideas on this?’

  The President headed the question over to Connors.

  ‘Well, first,’ said Connors, ‘they want to maintain a total news blackout on the whole operation. Second, we’ve made a tentative arrangement on setting up a joint search operation to locate the spacecraft in the event of a presumed landing, then a Joint Study Group to follow up the sighting and evaluate whatever they find. The problem is, when that motor starts working – and assuming that is the cause of the fade-out – we won’t have any idea whether the spacecraft’s gone up or come down.’

  ‘Until someone trips over it,’ said Fraser. ‘Hell’s teeth, how can we get organized on that kind of basis? The fucking thing could be anywhere!’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Wedderkind. ‘But despite what I’ve said, I’m hoping that we may get some kind of sighting report if it does decide to land.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Connors. ‘But before we all get excited, I think we ought to remember one thing. The proposed two-nation search and Joint Study Group is a great idea, but there’s absolutely no guarantee that this thing is going to land in territory that we or the Soviet Union have jurisdiction over.’

  ‘That’s true,’ said Wedderkind, ‘but we both have access to a big area of the map – and we’re the only ones who have any idea what we’re looking for.’

  ‘Granted, but we can’t just put our wagon down and our tents up anywhere, Arnold. If it lands in Saudi Arabia, okay, we have access. There’s a chance we can contain the situation. But if it were to land in France…’ Connors shrugged. ‘They could lock us and the Russians right out of the whole deal.’

  ‘If it comes to that,’ said Fraser, ‘how do we know that the Russians will stick to their promise – all right, tentative agreement – should it come down inside the Soviet Union?’

  ‘We don’t,’ said Connors. ‘We’ll just have to trust them.’

  ‘And if it comes down inside America?’

  ‘Then I guess they’ll just have to trust us,’ said the President. He looked at Connors first, then the others. Everybody got the message.

  Connors saw Wedderkind’s raised eyebrows and replied with a slight shrug of his shoulders. So much for Détente…

  ‘Mr President, could I make one final comment?’

  ‘Sure, go ahead, Mel.’

  Fraser looked at Connors and Wedderkind. ‘I’ve already stated this clearly before, but I’d like it to go on record one final time. I think we ought to go back to the Russians and tell them that we are going to blow up this craft before we get any deeper into this whole deal. They can either agree to join in the attack or stand back and watch. If they don’t go along with us, it will be because they think they can make something out of it. We have to show them we’re not going to fool around.’

  The President looked at Connors. ‘What do you say, Bob?’

  Connors eyed Wedderkind and Fraser. Scientific curiosity apart, it didn’t seem such a bad idea. As the old adage went, “What the eye doesn’t see, the heart doesn’t grieve for”. Connors sensed Wedderkind’s silent scream of anguish and felt like Cassius. Not Muhammad ex-Clay – the other one, in the play by Shakespeare.

  Marion Wilson came in with a typewritten message for the President. It was only a half sheet of blue paper, but it was big enough to get Connors off the hook.

  The President scanned the message with a frown, then passed the paper to Connors. Some of it was good news and some of it was bad. The good news was they didn’t have to fire off any missiles. The bad news was they couldn’t – even if they wanted to.

  ‘Do you want me to read it out?’ asked Connors.

  The President nodded.

  Connors exchanged a glance with Wedderkind. ‘This information is issued jointly by the Air Force Communications Service, the Federal Aviation Authority and the Federal Communications Commission –’ Connors saw Clayson lean forward expectantly. ‘For the last twelve minutes there has been a steadily increasing disruption of all radar surveillance, navigation and air traffic control systems, and high-frequency radio transmissions.’

  Fraser and General Clayson shot up in their chairs as if they had a bullet in their backsides.

  ‘Not just us,’ said the President. ‘The Russians too – everyone.’

  Connors read on. ‘The breakdown is now complete, worldwide and continuing. Air Traffic Control Centers are diverting flights to the nearest airports. All civil airliners and private planes have been temporarily grounded. Military flights are continuing in areas of clear visibility.’

  ‘Give them the capper, Bob.’ The President’s voice was flat and unemotional, but Connors, who could read the signs, knew just how worried he really was.

  Connors tried to sound casual too. ‘The same source of interference is already affecting TV transmissions and appears to be spreading through the commercial shortwave channels. Medium- and long-wave channels are at present unaffected.’

  Fraser shot a loaded glance at Connors, then looked at Wedderkind. ‘What in hell is going on up there, Arnold?’

  Everyone else was looking at Wedderkind too.

  Wedderkind gave a shrug like a sick owl and retreated behind his heavy-framed spectacles.

  At least we still have the telephone, thought Connors. He made up his mind to call Charly. To tell her not to worry. To say that everything was going to be all right, but that he wouldn’t be going with her to the Schumans’ for dinner. Co
nnors pushed the piece of paper towards the middle of the table. Nobody picked it up.

  CROW RIDGE/MONTANA

  Highway 22 runs northwest from Miles City, in Custer County on the Yellowstone River, up through Cohagen to Jordan, in Garfield County. Between Miles City and Cohagen, the highway slices through the northeastern tip of Rosebud County. On the map, the land is coloured brown and the contour lines start at over two thousand feet and go up over three. On the ground, the overall colour is brown too.

  North of Miles City, the land is known as ‘The Big Open’. Bare, rolling, high plains country with as few trees as there are people. For mile after mile on either side of the two-lane hog-backed highway, there is nothing but endless stretches of buffalo grass and sage. Cattle country, scarred here and there by poisonous salt pans, and the intertwined, weathered clusters of gumbo and sandstone buttes that make up the eastern Montana badlands. Every so often, the buffalo grass gives way to alternating strips of spring or winter wheat and ploughed earth that ripple outward from the highway towards the horizon like the waves on some vast inland sea. What trees there are – cottonwoods, dwarf cedar, and pine – shelter in the creeks and draws, or hug the slopes of the rising buttes that break the smooth line between land and sky.

  Hard up against the northern edge of the Rosebud County line, some four miles after a winding dirt road leaves the highway, is a place called Broken Mill – a handful of houses and trailers huddled around a post office, gas station, and general store. Of the twenty-two people listed as living there in the 1960 census, only twelve now remained. Most of these were under fifteen or over forty. Close to the gas station two graded roads, topped for part of the way with flakes of red scoria, run right and left off the highway in a straight line for as far as the eye can see. The only indication that there are people living beyond the emptiness are two hand-painted boards attached to the fences at the crossroad, bearing the names of the isolated ranchers and their distance in miles from the highway.