The chairman, Fowler, and Nez made it to the hogan by ten thirty, dismounted, tied their horses to the sheep pen and greeted George Etsitty.
The chairman, Fowler, and Nez arrived at the foot of the Chuska Mountains just after eight fifteen and started on horseback to Mary Yazzie’s hogan. By ten thirty, they made it to the hogan, dismounted, tied their horses to the sheep pen, and greeted George Etsitty.
“Yá’át’ééh, George,” greeted Captain Fowler.
“Yá’át’ééh, my friend.” He nodded respectfully to the chairman and Lieutenant Nez. “Mary has been expecting you.”
The matriarch didn’t know who was coming, but with the aircraft crash, she knew there would be more than just one policeman. The men knew they should respect the matriarch, so they entered the house and greeted her.
“Yá’át’ééh, Ama’ Sa’ ni?” asked Chairman Jones.
“Yá’át’ééh,” responded the matriarch. “I have food and coffee for you all.”
“Later when we return, we will sit a spell and visit, and have some food. Now I have to get George to show us the bilagaana flying machine. They say the ship crashed, and all are dead. If they are bilagaana, it is probably a military ship, and they will want the bodies and ship back. Keep the coffee on and the stew warm. We will be back.”
“I will,” she promised.
George saddled his horse and led the men to the crash site. This is a beautiful day for a horseback ride, thought Nez. It is a shame that this kind of business is ruining harmony of it. The men arrived at the clearing of grama grass where the object rested. None of the men had ever seen anything like this. They approached the craft, and Nez pried the door further open with a wind broken branch of an oak tree. All three men looked in, and their worst suspicions were confirmed. The craft smelled as though something had died, but it was no smell they recognized. The beings looked unlike any race they had ever seen. Their lifeless bodies were hairless and earless, the color of campfire ash. They were the size of ten-year-old children. No one said anything for at least two minutes. Each man was sorting out in his mind what the existence of these beings implied in his life’s view. The police captain had deferred to the chairman, as this didn’t appear to be a police matter. Chairman Jones spoke.
“This could be very bad. If this is made common knowledge, we will have skin walker or Yei Bechei stories, possibly curses or witching by tomorrow. This is fertile land. Our father Barboncito called the Chuskas, the ‘goods of value range.’ I do not want any skin walker or dead Yei Bechei talk cursing this mountain. I also want to control how and to whom we tell about this vessel. The worse thing that could happen is some shaman might decide these were Yei Bechei, holy beings, and George or Mary witched them and they died. I think I can get the government to trade us something for it, but if we report this to the local authorities, they will just come take it, and not too quietly.
I assume we are all in agreement that no laws have been broken?” All the men nodded in agreement. The chairman continued. “Since these are not human, there is no law that says we have to report this accident. Captain, may I have your camera?”
Captain Fowler retrieved his camera from his saddlebag and handed it to the chairman. “Could you men uncover the flying ship?” asked the chairman.
George and the two officers worked to remove the juniper branches covering the top of the vessel. The chairman had the Dooley brothers remove two of the dead crew members, and stretch them out on the ground. The chairman took pictures of the aliens and the vessel from several angles until he had no more film. One by one, he peeled off the backing of each picture and handed it to Captain Fowler, who in turn, wiped the photos with the print coater appliqué and laid them out on a rock to dry.
“Now would you men please cover the vessel back up?” asked Jones. To the Dooley brothers he said, “They have no relatives, and they deserve to be buried. Please bury all of them with respect in a secret place and speak of this to no one.” He pointed to the dead bodies. “I know that this is particularly disturbing, but this could be big trouble to the Diné if it were made public.” He handed each brother a twenty dollar bill from his wallet, and they assured him they would comply with both requests.
Satisfied the pictures came out all right and were dry, Jones handed the camera back to Fowler, put the pictures in a manila envelope he brought and put it in one of his saddlebags. “I think I like this camera of yours. It can develop pictures without leaving a negative behind, and without the help of an outsider.” The men had already finished covering the vessel.
“I think we should go back to see Mary Yazzie and reassure her that everything is all right,” said Nez.
Turning to the chairman, Fowler asked, “Exactly how much do we tell her?”
The chairman looked thoughtful. “Tell her as much truth as we can, but nothing to incite her imagination.” He inhaled, and then exhaled slowly, carefully choosing his words. “We tell her this. A flying ship like nothing we’ve ever seen before has crashed, and all are dead. We think the government will want this vessel, and we intend to give it to them. The crew of the ship did not look like soldiers, so we arranged for their burial, to prevent predators or skin walkers from taking their bodies. We will ask her to make sure no one goes up there until after the government has removed their vessel.”
The men all nodded in agreement.
“I like it. All you said is true and we will not tell her anything about these beings,” commented Fowler.
“Chairman, what do you think these beings were?” asked Nez, asking the question they were all thinking. All of the men except Chairman Jones were ex-military and policemen. None of the men were given to fearful displays of emotion, but they were all in shock. All eyes were on the older man. Instead of answering right away, he asked a question.
“Captain, George, when you went to Japan, had you ever seen Japanese before?” Both men shook their heads no.
“Were they gods?” Again they shook their heads no.
“Just because you had never seen them before, did not mean they were gods. They could be some other mortal race we have never seen, or Yei Bechei. I do not think they are skin walkers. From what I have heard about them, they do not need a flying machine to fly. Even if we turned them over to the bilagaana, our land would not have rest from crazy white people, all wanting to see where they landed. In any case, they are all dead. They deserve to be buried, not left for the coyotes to eat, or skin walkers to use their corpses for witchcraft.”
The four men mounted up and rode back to Mary Yazzie’s hogan, and it went rather well. She was not suspicious they were withholding anything. The men all looked uneasy, but that was normal for Navajos after viewing death. The men ate lunch and drank a couple cups of coffee, observing the right amount of socializing that good manners required. The chairman charged Mary to keep everyone away from the wreck for the sake of the chindi, and to speak of it to no one. She solemnly promised to do so and the chairman was relieved. It was five o’clock by the time had reached the Chapter House. Roanhorse put George’s horse in the corral behind the Chapter House, where George would retrieve it later.
Captain Fowler addressed the chairman. “I guess this one is all off the books, right?”
“Yes. I’ll drive down to Gallop area office of the Bureau of Indian Affairs tomorrow in my pickup truck and see if I can negotiate a trade for the ship. The reservation is in need of many things.”
Chairman Paul Jones left Shiprock before daylight the next morning, arriving in Gallop around sunrise. He’d skipped breakfast, so he stopped at a local diner and had the special of sausage, eggs, hash browns, a biscuit and hot coffee. The tribe’s lawyer offered to come, but Jones wanted as few people knowing about this as possible, so he refused. Besides, he was a very shrewd negotiator, and was not afraid to speak with the BIA chief alone. He was remarkably fit for a man sixty-eight years old. He wore his gray short hair in the style of the modern world, which helped in dealing with outsiders. Dres
sed in a dark suit and tie, he was ready for the meeting with the bilagaana BIA chief. Finishing breakfast and a second cup of coffee, he paid his tab and drove over to the bureau’s office. BIA Chief Hal Wallace was going over his budget and estimating projected spending for the next quarter, when his secretary buzzed him.
“Chief, Chairman Jones is here to see you.”
“Thank you Betty, send him in.” Chief Wallace rose to meet the older man, and greeted him in customary fashion as one would a business associate.
“Good morning, Chairman Jones.” Chief Wallace never tried to honor the Navajo leaders by learning their customary greetings or social manners. It was mostly because of the bureau’s attitude that the Navajos were best served by being assimilated into American mainstream culture. He wasn’t malicious in his thinking. He honestly believed Washington’s policy that replacing the Navajo culture with modern American culture was good for them.
“Good morning, Chief Wallace.”
The men exchanged courtesies, shared local news, and discussed the weather. Finally the elevator talk exhausted, and Wallace knew it was time to get to the point.
“Chairman Jones, to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”
Jones retrieved an envelope from his shirt and slid it to the younger man. Chief Wallace removed the contents, studying each photo carefully. He looked up at the older man, ran his hand through his thinning hair, carefully considering.
“Looks like a military prototype. The government will want it back.”
The Navajo retrieved a second envelope from his shirt and offered it to the agent, who examined each photo. As Wallace studied the photos of the aliens’ bodies, the realization dawned on him that this was something more—much more than he’d anticipated.
“This is no military prototype. I’m sure the government will want it, though,” the chairman stated.
“Where did you find it?”
“On Navajo land,” he flatly stated. “Salvage laws favor us, but then the whole thing would be hard to keep quiet if it went to court.”
The tribe had a lawyer to handle lawsuits, but the Navajo came alone, without his lawyer. Wallace knew the government would not want this to be made public. Jones wouldn’t be here unless he wanted to deal. The question was not if he wanted to deal, but how much would he settle for?
“What do you want for the ship?”
Jones made an offer, and Wallace knew he was going to need deeper pockets than he had to close the deal. It was time to play his ace card. Wallace had spent a lot of money to get his only son into an Ivy League school, where he majored in government studies. Jesse lent his youthful energy and enthusiasm to the Eisenhower presidential campaign and was rewarded with a white house job as an aide to the president himself.
“Chairman Jones, would you excuse me while I make a call? I don’t have the authority to agree to your asking price.”
The older man smiled, took his hat in hand and walked to the front office. Betty offered the chairman a cup of coffee, which he accepted. The White House switchboard put the chief through to his son.
“Hi, Dad, how’s God’s country?”
“Jesse, an alien spaceship crashed on the Navajo reservation. The Navajo Council Chairman is in my office, and wants to sell it to us. I need authorization to negotiate a price.”
“Okay, Dad, hang on.” His father waited for a few minutes.
“Chief Wallace, this is the President. Is this real, or a hoax?” He recognized the president’s voice from television.
“It’s real, sir. I’ve seen the pictures, and the chairman has never lied to me. In any case, we’ll not pay them unless our experts verify the disc is genuine.”
“Okay, but keep a lid on this and report only to me. Try to get a good deal on the disc. I need men to work for me who are loyal and discreet. When this business is concluded, I’ll have a job lined up for you here in Washington.”
“I appreciate it sir, but bestow any favor upon my son.”
“Very well, I’ll find a good job for Jesse that will last beyond my administration.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Goodbye and God bless.”
Wallace thought of walking to the front of his office and personally inviting the chairman to accompany him back, but reconsidered. Negotiating was sometimes as much posturing as anything else. His desk was his symbol of authority; he would have Jones approach the seat of his power.
“Betty, send Chairman Jones in.”
“Yes, sir.” To the chairman she said, “Chief Wallace will see you now.”
Two pots of coffee later, at noon, they stuck a deal. The white man had never negotiated with anyone who drove so hard a bargain. He tried once in the negotiation to stall some road improvement projects on the reservation, but it didn’t faze the Navajo a bit. The elder man held all of the cards, and he knew it. It was a sweet deal for them. It cost them only forty dollars so far to bury the sky travelers, and it held great value to the bilagaana government. The government would authenticate the find, transport it out, and then pay the council. The price was four backhoes, twelve GMC pickups, well-drilling equipment for each district, road improvements for the reservation, and twenty college scholarships to a United States college of their choice. A mutual agreement of secrecy was agreed to by both sides. Neither the Navajos nor the government would profit from public disclosure. Ben continued to have recurring dreams of space and aliens, but told no one.
CODE NAME DESERT JEWEL
GEN Carter F. Colson, the commanding officer of Presidential Nuclear Command Center 4 in southwestern Utah, had been summoned to see President Eisenhower. The general thought he might be given new orders concerning his facility. One of the fighter aircraft covering his facility flew him into the nation’s capital. He arrived in his dress greens and was escorted to the Oval Office.
“The president will see you now, General,” said the president’s secretary, a cute brunette with big brown eyes and a heart shaped face, pert and very polite.
“Thank you, miss.” He opened the doors to the Oval Office to find his old army buddy standing to receive him. He clasped his old friend’s arm warmly.
“General, how have you been?”
“Good, how’s Mamie?”
“Good, as always.”
“And John?”
“He’s as well as can be expected. He never liked the restrictions his military career took on once I ran for president. He’s now serving in division headquarters. It isn’t easy being a soldier when your father is the president.”
“Well, he’s still serving his country, and you both know it can’t be helped.”
“I know. How are Esther and your daughters?”
“Well, thank you. I’m a grandfather now for the fifth time.” The two old friends visited for a while, reliving their glory days as young officers, then settled down to business.
“Mr. President, you didn’t call me here for a social visit. What’s on your mind, old friend?”
The president walked over to his desk and retrieved a file marked Classified and handed it to him. The cover read TOP SECRET–OPERATION DESERT JEWEL. The general opened it up and looked through the material, stopping to examine the photographs of the aliens very carefully.
“I have a large disc that needs transported discreetly to your command center, and I don’t want any outside paper trail. It’s probably a spacecraft of an alien race. America cannot afford to have its public engrossed with an extraterrestrial infatuation. We have enough trouble worrying about the possibility of the Soviets developing a nuclear bomb. The object is too large to drive down the highway in a crate, and I don’t want any other military involved in its transport. It will be taken to the edge of Navajo land through the Shiprock district. You’ll need to assist the transport vehicle to cross the San Juan River west of Bluff, Utah. I want you to use a tank to tow the flatbed and crate through the desert, avoiding any contact with people if possible.
“That’s a lot of land t
o navigate across quietly.”
“If you need assistance closing down any roads or highways, we will assist you, though we’d prefer to do so at night. You must, of course, arrange for refueling along the way, and you’ll need aircraft from your facility to provide air security for the trip. Other than that, I don’t want this discussed or reported to anyone save me. You’ll take possession of the disc for study and possible repair. Only necessary eyes should view the disc. If you can salvage any technology of any value to help us against the Soviets, let me know. As of now, I’m decommissioning Presidential Nuclear Command Center Four. Your main function there will be to study the disc and keep it secure and secret. The new name for the center will be the Alpha One Test Center, maintained as a top-secret and high-security facility. You’ll answer and report only to me, and only through dispatched courier with sealed letters. This file must be kept under lock and key, and any correspondence is to be destroyed.”
“Understood, Mr. President.”
The two men chatted about the implications of the file&rsquos photographs and the possible trouble if the information reached the wrong hands. GEN Colson left the Oval Office with a new job and purpose.
Captain Fowler oversaw the crew of white men that took the spaceship down from the mountain. They had to cut a few trees at the crash site, put the disc on skids and pulled it with log skidding mules to a dry wash. From there, they used twelve teams of mules, six in front and six in back, to pull the disc down the wash to the base of the mountain. The mules in the back of the disc controlled the sliding in places so the disc couldn’t run over the mules pulling in front. More white men were waiting at the base of the mountain, where they had a very large trailer with large tires and high clearance. The mules pulled the disc up the ramp, where the white men constructed a large crate around it and strapped it down to the trailer. They hooked up a large tow truck to the trailer, likewise built high off the ground with huge tires. The NTP closed the roads in front of the procession and they hauled it north to the Utah border.
Warzone: Nemesis: A Novel of Mars Page 3