A dozen thoughts quickly ran through Jim Patterson’s mind. What could be so urgent that Charlene had to call him at home?
“What’s going on, Charlene?”
“Sherlock Holmes called me.”
“Charlene, this isn’t funny. I don’t appreciate your calling me at home.”
“This isn’t a joke,” Charlene bristled. “Why he called me, why he had my telephone number, I don’t know. All I can tell you is he said it was urgent. He left a telephone number and said he hoped you would call him. That’s it. Goodbye, Jim.”
“Charlene, wait!”
The line went dead.
Jim’s wife came back into the room. “What was that about?” She asked.
“Something has come up at the base. I’ll be back shortly.”
“What about your dinner?”
“Keep it warm. This won’t take long.”
Moscow
Arkady Shubin was awakened in the middle of the night.
“Good God,” he barked into the telephone. “Have you any idea what time it is?”
“Apologies, Comrade Director, we have just received an important communique from our agents assigned to monitor telephone calls in America. It concerns the American, Colonel Patterson stationed in Roswell. Sherlock Holmes placed a call to Patterson’s mistress in Texas.”
“Holmes?” Shubin threw off the covers and sat on the edge of his bed. “Go on.”
“He said it was important he speak with Colonel Patterson right away. It was a matter of extreme urgency.”
“What else?”
“That was all. A few minutes later the woman called Patterson to relay the message.”
“Nothing about what this urgent situation is?”
“Nothing!”
Shubin hung up the phone, slipped into his robe, and went into the kitchen. He sat at the table and lit a cigarette. So, Holmes was alive. The Caretaker had reported Holmes had been taken care of. And now this. What did Holmes want of Patterson? No doubt Holmes was on the trail of the girl, but how did Patterson fit into this picture?
Roswell
Jim Patterson drove out of town to make his call.
“Mr. Holmes?”
“Speaking.”
“This is Colonel Jim Patterson. We met several years ago in Las Vegas.”
“Colonel, thank you for returning my call. I do not have time to go into the details. An American agent by the name of Piper Sands has been abducted by the Soviets and I fear she is in great danger.”
“Go on.”
“Can you help me find Agent Sands? The men who have taken her hostage flew from the Salt Flats yesterday. I assume they are headed for a safe location. Do you know where?”
“Mr. Holmes, what makes you think I would know that information?”
“Colonel, the telephone number I was given was provided by a cooperative Soviet agent. It is not difficult to imagine why a beauty salon operator in a small Texas town would have the telephone number of an Air Force colonel in New Mexico. Need I say more?”
Patterson did not respond.
“A life is at stake here. When the Soviets discover the young woman cannot provide the information they are seeking, they will most certainly eliminate her.”
Jim Patterson knew he had no choice.
“Very well, Mr. Holmes. Write down the following coordinates.”
Holmes quickly jotted down the information provided by Colonel Patterson.
“Be at this exact location at 6 p.m. the day after tomorrow.”
“Go on!”
“That’s it. You have it. More than that I cannot say.”
“Colonel, you have provided me with nothing but a location on a map. Will the girl be at this location?”
“I can’t say. Perhaps. I have no way of knowing.”
“Colonel, I cannot imagine the purpose of your game.”
“Mr. Holmes, I assure you I am not playing a game. I have already put both my career and my marriage at risk. How you proceed will likely determine my future. You have no choice but to trust me.”
The line went dead.
Jim Patterson felt both unburdened and uncertain. He was tired of living a lie and tired of being manipulated by the Soviets. This evening, he would have dinner with his wife, confess everything, and beg forgiveness. Whatever happened next would be entirely up to Sherlock Holmes.
Salt Lake City
“That seems not to have gone well,” I remarked after Holmes rang off.
“The Colonel has given us very little to go on. We will need a map.”
Twenty minutes later Holmes stabbed his finger onto a map we had appropriated from the motel manager.
“There! Pyrite Lake, New Mexico.”
“Good God, Holmes. It is in the middle of nowhere. If the Colonel cannot be sure the girl is there, might we not be on a wild goose chase?”
“Indeed, but as the Colonel said, we have no choice but to trust him.”
“From the moment we accepted this case, we have been lied to. Trust is a commodity in very short supply.”
“By my calculations, Pyrite Lake is 410 miles from Salt Lake City. I believe our best course is to drive. We will hire a car tomorrow morning.”
“In that case, I am going to pour myself a brandy and go to bed.”
Closing In
Before dawn Holmes and I were up and on our way from Salt Lake City, Utah to Pyrite Lake, New Mexico. The clerk at the auto hire agency wanted to know when we would return the vehicle. As we could not determine how long we would be engaged, we said a week. As for a local address, we provided the name and telephone number of the local motel in which we had been staying. With map in hand, we hunkered down for a long journey. We would alternate drivers every two hours. I volunteered to take the first shift.
“Holmes, don’t you think there’s a certain element of folly involved in this journey. We have no idea what we are headed into, what to expect.”
“No question, old chap.”
“We are depending on the good faith of Colonel Patterson, a man clearly of compromised integrity.”
“I quite agree. We have been lied to, misdirected, and manipulated from the outset. Dark forces are at play, yet we cannot abandon our faith in humanity.” “Holmes, you sound like a man of the cloth. Such stirring sentiments. One could almost believe one is in chapel.”
“What have we left, Watson, if we cannot continue to believe in fundamental decency?”
“That seems to be more of a challenge by the day.”
“I cannot state with a certainty that Colonel Patterson is trustworthy; I pray my instincts will not fail me.”
A vast stretch of deserted highway lay ahead of us. I hoped Holmes was right.
* * *
After several stops for petrol and refreshments, we arrived at Pyrite Lake eleven hours later. From the nearest main road, the lake was located almost ten miles in, accessible only by dirt road. The remaining half mile to the lake could only be traversed by foot along a rarely used path. The lake itself was hidden deep in the woods. According to a brochure we acquired at a petrol station, Pyrite Lake had been created millions of years ago by a giant meteor that had crashed to earth. Due to the arduous task of getting to the lake, few visitors made the trek in. Once we had punched through the dense brush growing over the footpath, we entered onto the lake itself surrounded by trees, save for an open area along the western shoreline farthest from our location. The open area was a curiously large clearing, noticeably absent of the trees lining the rest of the lake. Holmes removed a pair of field glasses from the knapsack he was carrying. After a moment, he handed the binoculars to me. While mostly green in appearance, the clearing showed signs of scorching, as if a fire had recently occurred there.
“What do you make of it?” I asked.
“A major fire would have blackened the entire area. From all indications, the scorching appears to have been made by several smaller fires.”
“Campfires perhaps?”
“Inconclusive.”
“To the matter at hand, where precisely are we to meet whomever or whatever for our six o’clock rendezvous tomorrow night? Here? The end of the road we drove in on? Or the clearing?”
The wind lifted and blew our direction. Holmes sniffed the air. “Do you smell that?”
“No, I smell nothing.”
“A smoky smell.”
“I see no smoke.”
“The smell of something recently burned. It is drifting from the clearing.”
“From the scorched spots, of course.”
“An old fire would not continue to give off a burnt smell. No, Watson, those fires were recent. A week old at the most.”
“Our meeting place will be the clearing based upon a smoky smell?”
Holmes turned to me and lifted his eyebrows.
“No,” I stammered. “I do not have a better suggestion.”
“The clearing,” said Holmes. “We shall return tomorrow evening.”
* * *
Holmes and I spent the night and following day in Aztec, New Mexico. He spent most of his day at the local library, while I toured the town and took in the tourist sites. Later that afternoon we took a late lunch at a local café and then set off again for Pyrite Lake. We arrived at the clearing shortly after 5 p.m. We wished to allow plenty of time to survey the surroundings and note the presence of others who might be anticipating our arrival. Unsure of what to expect, we took up a position well away from the clearing.
Dusk had already settled in when the first sign of something about to happen occurred. First came the hum of a craft coming near, followed seconds later by a large disc hovering above the clearing. It was as if a huge storm cloud were moving overhead.
“Good God, Holmes, what is that? Is that what Colonel Patterson sent us here to meet?”
“We are about to find out.”
The disc began descending slowly. Approximately twenty feet above the ground, the craft hissed, and four struts appeared from small panels below the belly of the craft. The disc touched down. Lights from the perimeter of the ship illuminated the surrounding area. Another panel opened. This time a staircase slowly slid to the ground. Light from the interior of the craft illuminated the stairs and the ground immediately below. Two shadows projected onto the staircase from the interior lights of the craft. Occupants were about to disembark.
I glanced at Holmes. He raised a finger to keep quiet.
It was all I could do not to gasp. Two figures emerged, unlike any beings I had seen before. They were green with disproportionately large eyes. The pair of creatures descended the steps, entered onto the ground and began examining the exterior of the craft. Holmes and I watched with fascination. I could almost have convinced myself we were hallucinating. After concluding their inspection, the creatures moved away from the ship into the clearing. The lights from the ship provided enough illumination to observe the actions of the creatures. One reached into what I presumed to be a flap or fold in his skin and produced a small packet.
I elbowed Holmes. “What do you think they are doing?” I whispered.
Holmes pressed the field glasses to his eyes.
“Unless I am mistaken, I believe they are about to smoke a cigarette.”
“What?”
Holmes handed the glasses to me.
“Good lord! Smoking a cigarette? What creatures are these?”
“Watson, we must get aboard that ship.”
“Holmes, have you taken leave of your senses?”
“Colonel Patterson directed us here for a reason. Miss Sands may well be on board.”
“Aside from the absurdity of such a suggestion, how can we manage that?”
“We create a distraction.”
“Such as? Throwing a stone into the bushes and hoping they will investigate instead of returning to their ship?”
“Never mind, it appears that won’t be necessary.”
One of the creatures appeared to say something to the other. Both flicked away the remains of their cigarettes and disappeared into a clump of trees.
“This is our chance, Watson. Now!”
Holmes leaped from our hiding place and raced toward the ship. I had no time to consider our position and fell in behind. We raced up the stairway into the interior of the ship.
“Holmes, might there not be other creatures on board?”
“We shall find out. We must act quickly.”
The interior of the craft was organized like a honeycomb containing a series of small compartments with sliding doors. Inside each compartment were flight seats and safety harnesses. The bridge that housed the pilot’s controls was empty. Holmes and I made a quick search of the compartments. Piper Sands was not on board. At the point we were about to disembark, we heard movement on the stairs below. Holmes and I retreated to a cubicle, cracking the door enough to provide a view of the stairway. A single creature came up the steps and depressed a button which retracted the stairs. Immediately he went to the bridge.
“We need to get off now!” Holmes said.
We made our way to the exit stairs. Before we could press the button to engage the stairs, the ship’s engines whined, and the craft slowly lifted. The landing struts hissed and retracted into the belly of the ship. The gravitational force was almost too much to bear. Holmes and I were practically paralyzed for what seemed an eternity. Within minutes the ship reached altitude and the environment within the saucer became stable, allowing us to move freely and to plot our move.
“Watson, are you all right?”
“Don’t worry about me, what about you?”
“We are no worse for wear.”
“What about the other pilot? Where is he? What happened?” I asked.
“It is pointless to speculate.”
“Aren’t two pilots necessary to operate this ship?”
“Clearly not, which may well be to our advantage. We need not worry about an extra crew member moving about the ship.”
Now that the nervous excitement of the moment brought on by a burst of adrenaline had passed, the reality of what we had done was sinking in.
“Holmes, do you realize what we have done? We may be on a trip to outer space, another planet, or another galaxy. We may never see Earth again.”
“Somehow, Watson, that is not my sense.”
A Face in The Clouds
Buffalo Gap, South Dakota
After two days of being locked away, Piper Sands finally saw daylight. She had been blindfolded and brought by car to a makeshift runway in the middle of nowhere. Her guards removed the blindfold and shackles. The spot was safe. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. It was late evening; the sun was going down.
The Caretaker sat in the front passenger seat with the door open.
“Where are we?” Piper Sands asked.
The two Soviet agents assigned to guard the young woman ignored her question.
“Where are we?” She demanded again.
“Buffalo Gap, South Dakota,” The Caretaker said.
“What are we doing here?”
“Waiting.”
“Waiting for what?”
Piper Sands knew her chances of escape were minimal. Her training had stressed that asking questions was important. The more she could get from her captors, the more she had to work with, anything that might prove an advantage.
“We are waiting for a ride. Now be quiet, otherwise you will be bound and gagged. What is it you Americans say? Put a sock in it!”
Piper Sands decided it wa
s best to keep her mouth shut. Being bound and gagged would do her no good.
Three quarters of an hour later, a flying saucer swooped from the clouds and landed on the dirt runway, raising dust and debris from the force of its engines.
A jumble of thoughts ran through Piper Sands’ mind, none of which made sense.
“Our ride,” The Caretaker said sardonically.
After the ship touched down, the stairwell descended.
The Caretaker produced a pistol and pointed it at Piper Sands.
“Get aboard.”
The two Soviet agents grabbed the young woman and dragged her up the stairs, locking her into one of the honeycombed rooms. After disembarking, the two agents waited at the bottom of the stairs as The Caretaker climbed aboard.
The Caretaker turned to the two agents standing below. “This is where we part ways, gentlemen.”
The Caretaker fired two shots from the pistol, killing both agents instantly. He activated the control button to retract the stairwell and joined the pilot on the bridge, taking the empty seat usually occupied by the copilot.
“Welcome aboard, General Lukin,” Wes Reed said. He detached the alien looking helmet from his flight suit.
“Will I need a headpiece?” Lukin asked.
“Headpiece? Is that what you Russians call these things?” Reed chuckled. “No, we won’t be reaching the kinds of altitudes that require flight suits.”
* * *
“Headpiece?” I said.
Holmes and I had managed to hear all that had transpired between Lukin and the creature piloting.
“As I suspected. Our pilot is no alien. He is wearing a special flight suit designed for high altitude missions. At night those suits can easily be mistaken for something otherworldly.”
“You suspected that, did you?”
“At first glance, the sight of those two individuals is arresting. Recall the eyewitness report of the old miner. This picture is becoming much clearer, Watson.”
“You still haven’t answered my question. Why did you suspect the pilot and copilot were humans?”
“Recall the smoke break and the discarded cigarette you failed to observe by the stairwell. The discarded butt was a Camel, a distinctly American brand. Wouldn’t one assume an alien intelligence would have its own brand of cigarettes?”
Sherlock Holmes and The Roswell Incident Page 15