Phobos

by Steve Alten

  It was there in 1977 that I was contacted by Miss Marsha Smith, who was the director of the Science and Technology Division of the Congressional Research Service. She [ … ] informed me that President Carter, upon taking office in January 1977, held a meeting with then director of Central Intelligence, George Bush, Sr., and demanded that the director of Central Intelligence turn over to the president the classified information about unidentified flying objects and the information that was in the possession of the United States’ intelligence community concerning the existence of extraterrestrial intelligence.

  This information was refused to the president of the United States by the director of Central Intelligence, George Bush, Sr. The director insisted that the president, in order to have access to this information, needed to have clearance to contact the Congressional Research Service, to contact the United States House of Representatives’ Science and Technology Division, to have them undertake a process to declassify this information.

  Because the DCI suspected that the president was preparing to reveal this information to the American public, the Congressional Research Service’s Science and Technology Division, under the directorship of Marsha Smith, was contacted by the House Science and Technology Committee and instructed to undertake a major investigation of the existence of extraterrestrial intelligence and the relationship of the UFO phenomenon to this.

  I was contacted by Miss Smith, and asked, in my capacity as general counsel to the United States Jesuit Headquarters, National Social Ministry Office, to see if we could obtain access to the Vatican Library to obtain the information that the Vatican had with regard to extraterrestrial intelligence and the phenomenon of UFOs. I pursued that with the permission of Father William J. Davis, the director of the National Office, and we were refused access as the United States Jesuit Order, to the information in the possession of the Vatican Library.

  When I reported this to Miss Smith, she then later subsequently asked me to participate [ … ] as a special consultant to the United States Library of Congress Congressional Research Service, to the classified portions of the “Blue Book Project” of the Air Force [ … ].

  In May of 1977, I went to the Madison Building of the United States Library of Congress [ … ] and was directed to a basement office, where there were two guards at the door, and a third, sitting at the table, who took my identification, verified that I had been designated as a special consultant to the Congressional Research Service of the United States Library of Congress, and was admitted to the room. I thereupon found some dozen photographs of what is unquestionably an unidentified flying object on the ground that had crashed and plowed a furrow in a field of snow, and was embedded in an embankment. There were United States Air Force personnel surrounding this craft, taking photographs of the craft.

  On one of the photographs I could see that there were some symbols on the side of the craft [ … ]. I had been instructed that I was to take no notes and had to leave my briefcase and all my identification outside of this room. But I had brought with me a yellow pad. And [ … ] so I opened up the yellow pad and refocused the overhead projector to the same size of the cardboard backing of the yellow pad. And I physically traced the copies of the symbols on the side of this craft, closed the yellow pad back, put the microfiche back into the canister, reclosed the box that I had, and I said, “It is time for me to leave.” And I took this and proceeded to leave the office. At which point the security guards stopped me and one of them said, “What is that you have there, Mr. Sheehan?” At which point I handed the yellow pad to him and he flipped through all the yellow pages and never found the copy that I had.

  And so I took that with me and brought it to the United States Jesuit Headquarters, had a meeting with the staff and Father William J. Davis, reported this to them, was authorized at that time, by the United States Jesuit Headquarters, to make a report to the National Council of Churches, and to request that the entire fifty-four major religious denominations of our country undertake a major study of extraterrestrial intelligence—which they declined to do. I was subsequently asked to deliver a three-hour, closed-door seminar to the top fifty scientists of the Jet Propulsion Laboratory of SETI—the Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence—which I did do in 1977. I am more than happy to testify under oath to these details to the United States Congress, and would be happy to meet with any members of the press [ … ].

  —Daniel Sheehan,

  attorney and Disclosure Project counsel

  Used by permission of the Disclosure Project

  18

  NAZCA, PERU

  Laura Salesa watches her nephew tend to the stranger, adjusting his IV drip, covering the unconscious man lying on the torn leather La-Z-Boy chair with a light shawl.

  She joins Julius at the picnic table, the archaeologist’s attention absorbed in an ancient text. “Does Sam always pass out after one of these memory bouts? Hello? Earth to Julius?”

  “Sorry. What was the question?”

  “Your houseguest … when he gets a sudden memory rush—”

  “—the blackouts, yes. The doctor called it sensory overload. It shuts everything down. He’ll sleep for the rest of the day.”

  “What’s in the IV?”

  “Nutrients, mixed with a mild sedative. When these sensory overloads happen … well, he can get a bit excited.”

  “Mick’s incredible with him.”

  “Michael? Yes.” Julius returns to the text.

  “What is it you are reading?”

  “One of the nine books of Chilam Balam. A rare edition. It includes original photographs taken of the Mayan glyphs. At least the ones that survived.” He removes his glasses, clearing the smudges with a handkerchief. “Chilam Balam was the greatest prophet in Maya history, a seer who lived during the first decades of the 1500s. He foretold the coming of Cortés and his armada and warned his people that the strangers from the east would bring violence and a powerful new god. His nine books are considered the sacred texts of the Yucatan Maya. They include passages from his dreams, the images of which he recorded in his writings. Many of them describe the 2012 Doomsday Event.”

  “Then you know what’s going to happen?”

  “Unfortunately, no. There are tremendous gaps in the codices, most of which were burned by the Spanish priests.”

  “And your sudden interest in this dead prophet?”

  “Our friend over there didn’t just sprout wings and land on Nazca, he came here seeking something. He’s either an archaeologist following ancient Doomsday clues or he’s Majestic-12. Either way, I intend to flush out the extent of his knowledge about the Doomsday Event.”

  “How are you—” Her eyes widen in recognition. “You bastard. You’re going to play along with his delusion in order to pick his brain.”

  “It’s no big deal.”

  “Yes, Julius, it is! By encouraging him to adapt to a false identity, your actions will not only retard his recovery, it could be detrimental to his long-term well-being.”

  “What about my well-being? What about four decades of research and toil? What about my son and all the people who may perish on the 2012 winter solstice because of our ignorance?”

  “So your plan is to convince the poor guy he really is the incarnation of a five-hundred-year-old Mayan prophet in order to milk him of his research? You’re pathetic.”

  “Hey, if I believed the guy could lay eggs, I’d convince him he was a chicken.”

  MAJESTIC-12 (S-66) SUBTERRANEAN FACILITY

  15 MILES SOUTH OF GROOM LAKE AIR FORCE BASE (AREA 51)

  NORTH LAS VEGAS, NEVADA

  The bunker door leads into a small storage area illuminated by a single bare bulb. The walls are windowless, the floor concrete. There is nothing inside but dusty file cabinets and a pile of surplus office furniture.

  Joseph Randolph moves to a pair of eight-foot-high maple bookshelves holding stacks of old Army manuals yellowed with age. He waits for the reinforced steel door to click shut behind them
before he tugs on one of the Army manuals stacked on the bookshelf—triggering a toggle switch.

  The bookshelves part on unseen hinges, revealing the interior of a freight elevator.

  Pierre Borgia follows his uncle inside. Randolph slides his identity card into the security slot, causing the button marked LEVEL 15 to light on the interior panel. Knowing the deeper they descend, the higher the security, Borgia wonders what secrets might be tucked away on LEVEL 29, the lowest floor of the most covert underground installation on the planet.

  The elevator drops a quarter of a mile to LEVEL 15. They exit to an antiseptic white corridor and a security checkpoint. A guard instructs them to empty their pockets, placing their possessions in an envelope.

  Passing through an X-ray machine, they proceed down the hall to a set of double doors. An electromagnetic bolt clicks open, and they enter a large conference room.

  Ten men and a woman are seated around an oval table—a mix of white lab coats and business suits, along with two members in military dress. Two end chairs are vacant. Randolph motions to his nephew to sit.

  The woman, rail-thin in her sixties and wearing a blue lab coat, is the first to speak, her English flavored with an Italian accent. “Welcome to Majestic-12, Dr. Borgia. My name is Dr. Krissinda Rotolo, and I am in charge of personnel at S-66. Do you understand why you are here?”

  “You had a vacancy, and I came highly recommended.”

  “The vacancy was a suicide. We average one every sixteen weeks among a staff of 170, not including security. Stephen Peterson was the fourth member of our interrogation team to kill himself in the last three years. Since you were selected to replace him, I felt it important that you should know.”

  “I’m very wealthy and I get laid a lot, so suicide’s not on my ‘to do’ list, Doctor. At the same time, you should know that hunting little green men is not a long-term gig for me either. I’m doing this because my uncle says you can assure me of winning the senate seat when I run in 2000.”

  “As a first step to the White House … provided you respect our agenda.”

  “I take it Stephen Peterson had a problem in those regards.”

  A heavyset Caucasian man in a lab coat shoots Borgia a disparaging look. “Dr. Peterson’s issues were morality-based, something it appears you’ll have little difficulty with.”

  “Listen, big fella, I didn’t put up with two months of background checks and around-the-clock surveillance to be insulted. We both know I’m not the best anthropologist available; I am, however, one you can trust to maintain your secrets. The fact that I’m here in this underground tomb means you feel confident I can do the job, whatever it may be. So let’s dispense with the psychological bullshit and show me what you want to show me, or else fly me back to Vegas.”

  “Fair enough.” Dr. Rotolo touches a control box situated on the table before her.

  The lights dim, revealing a holographic image of the moon, the three-dimensional sphere hovering above the center of the conference table.

  “In 1961, President John F. Kennedy challenged our space program to land a man on the moon and return him safely. Apollo 11’s crew accomplished that feat on July 20, 1969. The last lunar mission, Apollo 17, landed on the moon on December 11, 1972. That was eighteen years ago, and we’ve never been back since.

  “When President Nixon abruptly ended the Apollo program, he told the nation he did so in favor of funding the space shuttle and eventually the International Space Station. Nearly two decades, Dr. Borgia, and our manned space program remains confined to Earth’s orbit. Care to venture a guess why?”

  “Three Republican administrations, an oil crisis, and another war looming in the Middle East. To conservatives, exploring the moon is a waste of time and money.”

  “Spoken like a typically misinformed politician. In fact, the entire cost of the Apollo mission amounted to less than one percent of the annual federal budget. Unfortunately, while ignorance may be bliss in your chosen profession, in ours it cannot be tolerated. What the Apollo astronauts discovered is that they were not alone on the lunar surface, that every NASA launch and subsequent action was being observed.”

  Before Pierre Borgia can utter a response, the holographic moon magnifies by three hundred percent and rotates to its dark side—revealing craters concealed beneath artificial domes and small vessels moving rapidly above the surface.

  “The real reason Nixon ended the Apollo program is the same reason space agencies across the world have agreed to a secret moratorium on all future lunar missions. Simply put, the far side of the moon is being used as a lunar base for extraterrestrials. The threat of a court martial or far worse has kept most of NASA’s astronauts and personnel from talking. The others are dealt with on an individual basis.”

  “You wanted the truth, there it is.” Joseph Randolph massages his nephew’s shoulder. “Welcome to Wonderland, Alice.”

  Borgia feels the blood drain from his face. “What are they doing up there? Are they aggressive? Are they planning an invasion?”

  “They’re not aggressive,” blurts out a scientist in a lab coat.

  “That’s yet to be determined,” a suit responds. “We’ve had numerous reports of abductions—”

  “Prove one! Everyone at this table knows the CIA are using mind-control techniques to foster fear about these E.T.s.”

  “Agreed,” says another scientist. “The reality is, if they wanted to destroy us, they could have done so at any time.”

  “Enough.” Krissinda Rotolo looks up at Borgia, concern in her weathered eyes. “As you can see, the issues are complex on our side as well as theirs. Unfortunately, when you’re dealing with so many different species—”

  “Wait … are you saying you’ve actually captured some of these aliens?”

  “Why do you think you’re here, Dr. Borgia?” She turns to Randolph, her look chastising. “You were supposed to brief him.”

  “Show is always better than tell. What time is today’s session scheduled for?”

  “We had to push it back an hour, we’re short an EMT. This time make sure Dr. Borgia is properly briefed; his first session begins at fifteen hundred hours.”

  NAZCA PLATEAU, PERU

  The hot air balloon soars a thousand feet over the desert pampa, its orange and blue nylon panels visible for miles in every direction.

  Michael Gabriel operates the burners, the flames of which are fueled by several propane tanks stacked by his feet. Laura stands next to her nephew in the wicker basket, counterbalancing Julius and their mysterious friend, whom the archaeologist insists on calling Balam.

  “There’s the spider, Balam, definitely another one of the earlier, more sophisticated drawings. Anything look familiar to you?”

  “This is not the valley of the Hunahpu. Our valley was covered by a dense rainforest, fed by many mountain streams. Our valley led to the ocean.”

  “The ocean’s west. I want to continue east to the icon where we found you. See, there’s the Panamericana Highway, we should be coming to the glyph … right there. See that spiral? That’s where we found you. Does it jiggle any memories?”

  “Jiggle?” Mick bursts out laughing. “His brain’s not a toilet handle, Julius.”

  Laura covers her mouth.

  “Ignore them, Balam. Focus on the glyph. It’s a clue about the Doomsday prophecy, isn’t it?”

  Immanuel Gabriel stares at the Spiral, his injured brain fighting to spear an image blinking in and out of the ether now consuming his memories.

  “You’ve seen this image before, haven’t you, Chilam Balam?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t force it. Close your eyes and let it come to you.”

  He clenches his eyes shut against the sweat beads rolling down his face. In the blunted orange light behind his eyelids, the spiral glyph appears and disappears, replaced by a round object surrounded by darkness.

  Laura is about to speak. Julius raises his index finger, warning her to remain silent.


  Day becomes night. Night becomes space. His mind’s eye latches onto a round object. Gelid. Spiraling into colors.

  Laura watches as Sam’s muscles begin trembling, the movement vibrating the wicker basket beneath their feet.

  Night returns to day. The desert glyph reappears, only this time he finds himself focusing not on its spirals, but on the singular straight line that slices across the circular engraving to intersect with its center.

  Day becomes night, the stars blotted out by a singular straight line—brown dust inhaled across space into the vacuous gelid eye … a hole in the physical reality, surrounded by a pattern of swirls as large as the moon, hovering a thousand miles beneath the Earth’s southern pole.

  His heart pounds, the blood draining from his face. He is paralyzed with fear, desperate to open his eyes, only the monster is moving, its gelid halo circling over Antarctica.

  “No … oh God, no!”

  “Balam, what do you see?”

  “Julius, enough! Michael, land the balloon.”

  “Quiet! Balam, tell us what you see.”

  “I see the Earth … disappearing into silence—into oblivion.”

  “How is it disappearing? What’s causing it?”

  “The Spiral.”

  “Describe it to me.”

  “Cold emptiness. A hunger that cannot be quenched. It’s gone.”

  “What’s gone? The Spiral?”

  “The Earth.” His eyes snap open, his expression crazed. His mind consumed in fear, he grips the edge of the basket, ready to hurl himself over the side—

  “—no.” Laura’s face is in his face, her turquoise eyes radiating a sense of calm into his being. “You are no longer Balam. You are Sam. You are Sam and you are safe. Tell me your name.”