by Mike Jenne
In the course of his career, Yost had seen virtually every aircraft in the Air Force inventory, but this was unlike anything that he had ever witnessed. Its black fuselage was roughly thirty feet long, with short delta-shaped wings that curled up sharply at the ends. Its sleek nose was shaped like a dolphin’s.
Suddenly he realized that the stubby vehicle lacked any air inlets that would be associated with jet engines. Obviously, it had to be powered by something, perhaps some sort of anti-gravity propulsion system or other mysterious technology. As he pondered the strange vehicle, the men struggled to manhandle it from the platform onto the bed of the trailer. As they strained to load it, several other men worked to cover it with canvas tarps. Yost saw an obese man standing off to the side, shouting instructions. Periodically, the fat man swore loudly in German; Yost had met Gretchen while stationed near Frankfurt, so he clearly recognized German curses when he heard them, since he had been on the receiving end so many times.
In a few minutes, the truck and its strange cargo were gone. As the hangar’s doors were closing, Yost realized that the hangar’s interior lights had been switched off the whole time, obviously to prevent anyone from seeing what else was within the structure.
Since starting this job, Yost had been extremely curious about what occurred inside that particular hangar. Hangar Three wasn’t used as a warehouse, like the three other decrepit hangars in the same row. From his observations, approximately forty men worked inside the facility. With the exception of some machine gun-toting guards who periodically emerged to walk around the building’s exterior, none of the workers wore uniforms. Most of the men appeared to be civilians, possibly engineers or scientists, and they obviously were busy night and day, even on weekends.
Rumors abounded that Wright-Patterson was home to dozens of Soviet bloc aircraft that were being examined and reverse-engineered, and there were pervasive tales—constantly denied by the base’s leadership—that a secret hangar housed the wreckage of crashed UFOs—and possibly the remains of their alien pilots—recovered at Roswell, New Mexico, and other locations. Now, he was convinced that he had stumbled upon a highly classified facility—perhaps even the fabled UFO hangar—that the facility’s operators had elected to hide in plain sight rather than burying it behind barbed wire. It all looked rather innocuous. In front of the big brick hangar, an almost unobtrusive sign vaguely declared “Aerospace Support Project – United States Air Force.”
Yost’s head spun with the possibilities. Could he have just witnessed an alien spacecraft? All things considered, it certainly seemed that way. Now he was even more curious and decided that he would keep a close eye on Hangar Three, particularly since he was already spending so much idle time in this parking lot.
Aside from the otherworldly craft, there were other strange occurrences that aroused his suspicions. Just yesterday afternoon, some sort of accident had occurred in the hangar; sleeping soundly, Yost had been jarred awake by an ambulance’s siren. An old friend, a former poker buddy from Germany, was now assigned to the base hospital. Yost thought he might ring him up to perhaps glean some juicy details about what happened yesterday. At this point, there was no way of knowing where his curiosity might lead him, but certainly it had to guide him to a better place than where he was now.
The Falcon Club, Dayton, Ohio; 8:30 p.m., Friday, July 19, 1968
They drove to the Falcon Club after a dinner of spaghetti, meatballs, and small talk. Bea found a parking place in a secluded area of the lot, next to a light pole. This red VW Kharmann Ghia convertible was her baby, and she didn’t want anybody swinging their car doors into it or leaning against it. Apparently uncertain of the correct protocol, Ourecky climbed out and awkwardly ran around to her side to open her door.
“Thank you, Scott. You’re such a gentleman,” she said, climbing out. She smoothed her blue dress and took his arm. “I hope you don’t mind about the driving. I’ve only owned this car a few months, and I don’t dare let anyone else drive it.”
“It’s okay,” he replied. “I really don’t mind.”
Gravel crunched under their feet as they made their way to the entrance. Car horns blared in the distance, and a pair of moths fluttered madly in the flickering glow of a buzzing streetlight. The humid night air smelled of stale beer and a nearby factory. Several people milled around in the parking lot; more than a few men openly ogled Bea as she passed by.
“Are you sure about this club, Scott?” she asked. “This just doesn’t seem to be the kind of place where you would hang out. Have you ever been here?”
“No,” answered Ourecky. “One of the pilots recommended it, so I’m sure it’s okay.”
“Don’t take it wrong. It’s fine, but I just couldn’t picture you here. Let’s go in.”
They walked inside; the interior was only slightly better lit than the parking lot. They went to the bar and ordered drinks. The club mostly catered to Air Force men from the base and the sort of women who gravitated to such men. Black-framed pictures of obsolete airplanes and long-dead pilots filled the paneled wall behind the bar. At the far end of the club, a four-piece house band played Elvis Presley’s “Suspicious Minds.”
Fumbling with his wallet, Ourecky counted out bills to a frumpy barmaid and then handed Bea her drink. As he sipped his Schlitz from the bottle, he noticed Carson walk up. “Bea, this is Major Carson,” he said, introducing the pilot. “Uh, we work together on the base.”
“Bea? Please call me Drew,” said Carson suavely. His right eye was still purple and slightly swollen. “Wow. When my friend Ourecky here told me he had a date for tonight, he sure didn’t let on that it was with a gorgeous fashion model. How in the world did you two meet?”
Bea felt more than slightly uncomfortable as Carson scanned her up and down, as if he were a butcher appraising a hanging slab of beef. “We met on a plane,” she explained, forcing a polite smile. “I’m a stewardess for Delta Airlines.”
“I should have known,” observed Carson, rolling his eyes.
Bea motioned to a vacant table and two chairs on the other side of the room, next to the dance floor. “Scott, I think that table’s open. Would you mind? I would dearly love to sit down. These new shoes are still hurting my feet.”
Ourecky escorted her to the table and held her seat. “Uh, Bea, I need to visit the little boy’s room,” he mumbled. “I’ll be right back.”
“Go ahead. I’ll be right here, waiting for you.” She pulled a compact from her purse and checked her makeup in the mirror. She clicked the compact closed, slipped it back into her purse, and took a sip from her drink. She noticed that Carson had drifted away from the bar and was now standing with two other men. He kept gazing in her direction, obviously trying to make prolonged eye contact.
Curious, Bea watched the three men. She was surprised that Scott knew them and was even more surprised that he worked with them. She had been in this club before and had been conscious of their clique for several weeks. As the daughter of a pilot and stepdaughter of another, she had been around all manner of aviators her entire life and was familiar with their idiosyncrasies.
But even among pilots, this close-knit group seemed somewhat different; although they shared virtually nothing about what they did or the planes they flew, they seemed to carry a certain mystique that set them apart from the multitude of other pilots who came and went at Wright-Patterson. To her knowledge, none of them were married or had even the slightest inclination toward matrimony or any other semblance of permanent attachment to another human being. Rather, based on the comments of some of her girlfriends, they used and discarded women like so many Kleenex.
From her observations, if there was a dominant leader among their little pack, it was Drew Carson. As Ourecky sauntered toward the restroom, Carson swiftly descended upon her, like a raptor swooping—talons outstretched—to scoop up an unsuspecting prey. “Gosh, baby, you look ravishing tonight. Simply delectable,” he declared, swinging into Ourecky’s chair and casually pushing his
beer to the side.
She smiled politely. “You’re in my friend’s seat,” she observed. “He’s coming right back.”
“Oh yeah, babe,” he replied. He made a show of checking the time, pushing up his paisley shirtsleeve to reveal a grossly oversized chronograph. “I know him. He works for us, but only in an engineering support role. Me, I’m a pilot.”
“I know precisely who you are, Drew Carson. My friend Jill went out with you a couple of times. It would have been about a month ago.”
“Jill?” He looked up at the tiled ceiling, as if looking for Jill’s face there. Bea half-expected him to pull out a little black book to check his notes. Of course, his little black book probably comprised many volumes, far too many to carry.
“Jill Osborn. She’s in a steno pool at the base. About my height, long black hair.” Bea looked down and added, “Much bigger on top than me. Sound familiar?”
“No. Sorry, honey. I still can’t place her. I guess she just wasn’t that memorable, huh?”
Bea sampled her drink. She pursed her lips and wrinkled her nose; the bartender had made it much too sweet. “Well, Drew Carson, your memory may not be that great, but Jill sure remembers you. In spades.”
He grinned. “I suppose she wants another date?”
“Not really. She didn’t have anything particularly nice to say about you. By the way, what happened to your eye? Run into a doorknob?”
Self-conscious, Carson massaged his black eye. “Accident at work. Speaking of eyes, did I tell you that yours are absolutely dazzling?”
She grinned. “Funny you should say that,” she crooned, fluttering her eyelashes. “Since you don’t seem to be looking anywhere near my face very often, I wouldn’t think you would be much dazzled by my eyes . . .”
Carson glanced up and spied Ourecky approaching from the restroom. “Hey, baby, life is short. Wouldn’t you much rather be spending your precious time with a real aviator instead of some egghead?” he asked. “My Corvette is parked out front. Why don’t you jettison Ourecky so you and I can go for a ride? It’s a perfect night. I’ll put the top down; maybe later you could return the favor.”
“Oh, that’s okay. I think you would probably be a lot more comfortable by yourself. I’ve ridden in a Corvette before, and I don’t think there would be enough room for me to squeeze in there with you and your ego.”
Ourecky returned from the restroom. He stood beside the table, trying his best to act nonchalant. “Uh, Major Carson,” he muttered. “Uh, thanks for keeping Bea company.”
Carson ignored him, focusing all of his attention on Bea. “A good-looking woman like you shouldn’t be hanging around a guy like this. An engineer,” he said, sniffing. “You should be with a pilot. I’ll go start the car. Black Corvette, right outside.”
Bea laughed softly. “Oh, that sounds so tempting! I have my own car, though. Now, Drew Carson, why don’t you just run along and leave us be?”
Undaunted by her rebuff, Carson stood out of the chair and leaned over the table. “Last chance,” he declared. “Pilot or loser?”
“Pilot?” sneered Bea, dismissing him with a casual wave of her hand. “I’ve known plenty of pilots, men who could out-fly you any day of the week. Why don’t you just jump into your fancy little Corvette and take a drive with yourself? I’m quite content right here, thank you.”
Chagrined, Carson turned and left.
Ourecky sat down and they chatted. Fidgeting, he was obviously uncomfortable. He looked like he didn’t know what to do with his hands, like he would have been more at ease if they were occupied with a slide rule or a compass.
“Are you okay?” implored Bea, leaning toward him and gently touching his forearm. “You seem a bit distant.”
“Just work,” he answered. “It seems like I can’t ever leave it completely behind. There’s always one or another thing that has to be done, and it’s always running through my mind.”
“Oh. I thought it was me. To be honest, I was waiting for the ‘I don’t think this is going anywhere’ speech. I was curious to see which version you were going to recite. I think I’ve heard them all.”
His eyes opened wide, accompanied by a surprised look spreading over his face. “Oh no, that’s not it at all, Bea. Look, I’ll be honest. I really haven’t been out with any girls since college, and even then I didn’t date too much. I’ve just been too busy. I’m still sort of stunned from Monday. I thought you were playing some sort of trick on me when you gave me your number.”
Bea looked at the table and smiled modestly. “So you’re not used to being around girls then? Now, be honest, Scott Ourecky.”
“Honestly? Not really. I work long hours, usually seven days a week, and it’s hard to meet anyone,” he answered. He took a sip from his beer and then gently swirled it in the bottle.
“Well, isn’t this a horse of a different color,” she said. She sat quietly and looked at him. He seemed so sincere and innocent, but she had been around plenty of guys who were masters at feigning sincerity and innocence. But maybe there was a chance. “Dance with me, Scott. I’m really tired of sitting here.”
Ourecky took her arm and escorted her to the dance floor, joining four other couples. He faced her, slipped his hand into the small of her back, and held her close. He was a little clumsy, but at least he was polite enough not to step on her feet. The house band performed a reasonably good cover of Aaron Neville’s “Tell It Like It Is.”
The song wasn’t even halfway done when yet another interloper arrived. He looked to be in his late thirties, with a puffy face and sunken eyes. He was dressed in a wrinkled white shirt and gray slacks, with a plaid tie loosened at his neck, as if he had come to the club straight from his office. He obviously had been drinking for a quite a while and looked to be well into his second drink past too many. He tapped Ourecky on the shoulder and mumbled, “Mind if I cut in, buddy?”
“Rather you didn’t,” said Ourecky.
“Oh, c’mon, baby,” insisted the loathsome stranger, pawing Bea’s shoulder. “Just one dance. What can that hurt?”
Bea whirled out of his grasp and faced the man. “I think you heard what my friend said. I only want to dance with him, so why don’t you find someone else and leave us be?”
The man stared at her, and then suddenly a flash of recognition came to his face. “Hey, I thought you looked familiar,” he ranted. “Aren’t you on TV? No, no, wait . . . I know. You’re a stewardess, aren’t you? Delta, right? You fly the Atlanta to Dayton route, right? Am I right? I’m right, aren’t I?”
Stepping in front of Bea, Ourecky confronted the man. “Uh, I think the lady asked you to leave her alone.”
“I wasn’t talking to you, pal,” slurred the man, now getting irate. “Why don’t you mind your own beeswax?” Wobbling side to side, he leaned toward Ourecky and balled his fists.
Almost in a blur, a man appeared next to Ourecky. He was short, stocky and wore a denim jacket over a blue T-shirt. He looked slightly foreign, maybe a Caucasian and Oriental mix. “Wilson!” he declared, subtly clutching the drunk’s shoulder with his right hand. “Baby, it’s been a while! How are things?”
Bea couldn’t help but notice that the obnoxious drunk winced like he had suddenly been slammed with a baseball bat. She was sure she had seen the stocky man just a few minutes before, lingering in the shadows by the bar.
The stranger turned his eyes to Ourecky and said, “Hey, man, Wilson and me have some catching up to do. You don’t mind, do you?” Ourecky shrugged his shoulders; then he and Bea drifted away to dance again.
“Who was that guy?” asked Bea. “The short one? Do you know him? Is he on the base?”
Ourecky couldn’t help but notice that the stranger faded away just as quickly as he had appeared—and had taken the drunk with him. “Not that I know of. I think I’ve seen him around some, but I’m really not sure where. Did you know the other guy from somewhere?”
“The drunk? Yeah, but I don’t really know him. He’s a
salesman, I think. Flies in here about every two weeks. He’s asked me for my phone number a few times, but I’ve kept him at bay. I’m pretty sure he’s married, not that I would be interested anyway. I’m just grateful that his friend took him away.”
10:05 p.m.
Ourecky hadn’t said anything during the drive back to his quarters. She cut off the car, and switched off the headlights. “You’ve been so quiet,” she said. “Cat got your tongue again?”
“Uh, Bea, I have some bad news,” he confided. “There’s something I need to tell you.”
“Let me guess. You’re married, right?” She groaned softly and shook her head in dismay. “I suppose I should have known. Why am I always so damned stupid?”
Ourecky looked startled. He hadn’t expected her response. “No, no, nothing like that, Bea. I’m just not going to be seeing you much anymore. I won’t be on your flight.”
“Really? So this means you’re not coming up to Dayton anymore? Is your project over?”
“No, I’ll still be coming up here. They’ve just worked out a way for me to fly directly from Eglin to here without going commercial. I’ll be flying on military aircraft instead. Sorry.”
“Well, I’ll sure miss seeing you, Scott Ourecky.”
“Me, too.”
“But you still have my number, right?”
“I do.”
“Then call me,” she said, kissing him lightly on the cheek. “Anytime.”
15
DOUBLE NOUGHT SPY SCHOOL
Apex Minerals Exploration Inc., Dayton, Ohio
8:15 a.m., Monday, July 22, 1968
On paper, Matthew Henson and the other nine men were the latest employees of Apex Minerals Exploration. In reality, except for a rented building in a rundown industrial park near the Dayton airport and a phone picked up by an answering service, Apex Minerals Exploration did not exist. Henson recognized four of the other men from his stint at Aux One-Oh; two had voluntarily dropped from the course while the other two were academic failures like him. He assumed that the five others came here from previous training cycles.