“Hovering above everything was the old miner and his claims of seeing space aliens,” Holmes said.
“Correct. From the moment Abraham Carl made his outrageous claim of seeing two aliens at the crash site, his story took on a bizarre life of its own. Conspiracy stories started popping up everywhere.”
“To complicate matters, the boy and girl corroborated Mr. Carl’s version of events,” Mycroft said.
“That is partly true. What they saw out there that night was a pilot and copilot who had barely escaped with their lives.”
“Those were the reptilian creatures,” I said.
“Those bizarre flight suits both men were wearing are experimental. They are a full body rubberized material, green in appearance. The helmets have built in flight goggles designed for night vision. In the glow of the fire, they no doubt appeared unearthly.”
“We are quite familiar with them,” I said.
“Of course. Those details are highly classified.”
“Your weather balloon story becomes a ruse to cover an even more outrageous subterfuge,” Holmes said.
The Colonel smiled. “Outrageous indeed.”
“Your own program which has become an abysmal failure suddenly has new life because the Soviets are convinced the U.S. is in possession of an alien spacecraft and its two occupants.”
“The coupe’ de grace, Mr. Holmes.”
Mycroft nodded approvingly. “Brilliant. Once the story had reached the level of conspiracy, it has been kept alive through continued denials and secrecy.”
“The confusion and secrecy the night of the crash, the denials and revised stories, in addition to protecting Jenny Winston have played to our advantage. Clearly Miss Winston had seen something we wished to keep secret. That fueled growing speculation that what had really happened was an alien spacecraft had crashed to earth. And now we are in possession of a technology that reaches beyond our planet.”
“Are you not worried word of this deception will get out?” I asked.
“Once a lie takes on a life of its own, it no longer matters.”
“Never attempt to win by force what may be won by deception.”
“You know your Machiavelli, Doctor. You see, it’s all perception. We know their saucer will never fly, and they are convinced we have saucer technology that will. No matter that we both have worthless programs. We win as long as they believe we have something they don’t.”
“Do you have a position on alien spacecraft, Colonel?” I asked.
“None. As to the sightings that defy explanation, I have no position. Why waste time speculating about things that cannot be proved?”
Colonel Hawker rose and offered his hand to each of us. “On behalf of the President of the United States, our official thanks, gentlemen.”
As the three of us prepared to leave, Colonel Hawker reminded us of the confidentiality of the information he had shared with us.
“One last thing, Colonel. What will be the official version of what happened that night near Rapid City?”
“We will let that percolate for a bit, Doctor. I am sure we will come up with something that will keep the Soviets guessing for years.”
Loose Ends
Nome, Alaska
Saturday nights in Nome during winters were raucous occasions. Locals and visitors crowded into two saloons: The Dexter, built in 1889 by Wyatt Earp, and The Board of Trade, a holdover from the gold rush days. Both saloons were noisy, bawdy, and filled with revelers. Occasionally a fight might break out, but they were quickly settled. Nome more than lived up to its wild and woolly reputation as a final outpost of The Last Frontier.
A lesser known saloon a couple of streets over from Front Street was a broken down old place called The Blowhole. Few tourists found their way to The Blowhole. Mostly it was locals, most of whom preferred to drink alone in a quieter environment.
Over the past few months, Tom Westin had become a regular. Bessie Sampson, owner of the saloon and fulltime bar tender, had come to like Tom.
He was affable enough. Bessie figured he was like many newcomers to Nome; he was seeking a last refuge, a place about as far West as you could go, a place where one could disappear.
Bessie asked few questions, and Tom didn’t volunteer much. Over the years dozens of guys like Tom had appeared in Nome. One or two remained. Others eventually disappeared. Tom had once been a professional man. Bessie could tell that. He carried himself well and spoke with an authority that eluded most drifters. Tom had a story worth hearing, but she knew not to ask. Guys such as Tom didn’t like questions.
Tom’s story began with his name. His name wasn’t Thomas Westin, it was Wes Reed. Since ditching the FD3 in the mountains of South Dakota, Reed had been on the run, finally ending up on the western coast of Alaska. He had eluded Sherlock Holmes, the Air Force, and the CIA. Wes Reed was a man without a home or a country.
This was not the way things were supposed to turn out. Reed was supposed to deliver the FD3 to the Soviets, earn the highest of commendations, and then live a life of luxury. Those plans came to a crashing halt. It was easy to blame Sherlock Holmes for the crash, but the truth was he had pushed the FD3 beyond its limits. As far as the Soviets were concerned, Lt. Wes Reed was no longer of use to them. His attempt to defect to seek asylum was rejected. He hadn’t delivered as promised. There was nothing else they wanted from him. At home, he was considered a traitor. His trek to Alaska was an attempt to lose himself. He had grown a full beard and let his hair grow long until he no longer bore any resemblance to the clean shaven, crew cut all-American pilot he had once been.
Reed took a stool and tapped on the bar. Instead of his normal glass on tap, Bessie poured a pitcher and walked it along the bar to the man she knew as Tom.
“I didn’t order a pitcher,” Reed said.
Bessie nodded toward a man seated by himself at one of the tables in the back. “He’s buying,” she said. She reached under the bar and set down two empty glasses.
Reed turned to the man behind him. His first instinct was to bolt. Then practicality got the better of him. Why bother? There was nowhere to run to in Nome. Your choice was frozen tundra or frozen sea.
Reed carried the two glasses and pitcher to the table.
“Small world,” he said, pouring two glasses of beer.
“The beard suits you,” Mark Daniels said.
That night at Buffalo Gap, South Dakota, Reed’s orders had been to walk Daniels into the woods and kill him. The fewer witnesses, the better. Reed couldn’t bring himself to do that. He and Daniels had been partners too long. Instead, he had knocked his partner unconscious. Once the Soviets were in possession of the ship, why would they care what had happened to Mark Daniels?
“How did you find me?”
“You talked about seeing Nome once. You don’t fly with a guy for four years without learning something about him. It was worth a shot.”
“Yeah, I suppose.” Reed stared into his beer. He was at the end of the line and he was tired. “Are you here to arrest me?”
“If that’s what it takes.”
“Does that mean I have a choice?”
“We all have choices. Sometimes you make good choices, sometimes you don’t.”
“What is mine?”
“You finish your beer, and then you walk out on the ice headed west.”
The night was clear and cold, the temperature well below zero. A belly full of beer would make things easier.
The two men finished the pitcher. Daniels did not ask Reed why he had done it, and Reed didn’t volunteer his reason.
Before leaving, Reed tipped Bessie with all the money he had on him.
He and Daniel’s exchanged a farewell nod.
The Northern Lights were out and dancing, illuminating the ice pack covering the Bering Sea. We
s Reed pulled his parka tight and began his walk west.
* * *
Kasputin Yar
The decorators finished ahead of schedule. Yuri Olenev could not have been more pleased. He was anxious to move into Sokolov’s old office and to begin work as the new head of Kasputin Yar. Promoted to the rank of major, Olenev had been amply rewarded for his testimony against Major Dmitri Sokolov. Kremlin officials had been sympathetic to Olenev’s story that he had been a helpless underling doing the bidding of his treacherous superior. Threats of demotion and possibly even death had prohibited the young lieutenant from speaking up earlier.
Olenev’s first order of business was to kill The Olympus Project. Too much time and too much money had already been wasted on that white elephant. Time to look ahead. There had been talk of launching an orbiting satellite. Major Yuri Olenev was ready to assert Soviet dominance in the race to space.
* * *
Moscow
Four Soviet agents broke down the door of the tiny apartment and immediately set about destroying the place. A short time later Arkady Shubin arrived. Although Shubin no longer had direct authority over them, the agents tossed the apartment as a favor to their former boss.
“Well?”
“Nothing,” one of the agents said.
“What about the girl?” Shubin demanded.
“By the look of things, she’s cleared out. Long gone.”
“Can you find her?” Shubin asked.
“No, we have done all we can. It is up to the new First Chief Directorate.”
The four agents left Shubin alone to walk through the shambles of what had once been the home of Tatiana Andreyev. He sat on the small sofa and pushed his hands through his thinning hair. How had this happened? Why had that sniveling wretch been so disloyal? He looked up. On the mantle was a small, framed photograph. Shubin rose and held the photo frame in his hand. It was a photograph of Tatiana Andreyev, smiling. Was it a smile of defiance, ridicule, victory? Written across the photo were the words To Arkady, With Love.
* * *
Yaniv
It wasn’t Siberia, but it might as well be. A taxi dumped Dmitri Sokolov and his belongings in front of the ruin that had been his home as a boy. He had been told he should feel lucky he was not being sent to a gulag. What would have been the difference he wondered? What kind of life would he make for himself here? He sat on his suitcase and lit a cigarette. Had he been so stupid, so arrogant to believe he could have been passed top-secret plans for years without the Americans catching on? When had they discovered the truth? The truth. What about the American saucer program? Had it been a failure from the start? And Roswell, damn Roswell! What was the truth? There was plenty of blame to be spread around, but it was the pompous ass Shubin who had created most of his problems. And for what? It was all over that silly English girl he had met in Paris. His harebrained scheme to use Sherlock Holmes as a means of getting even with his brother had led to this. He should have left well enough alone and focused solely on the Winston girl. Yet even that was all bollocks, as the English would say. The Soviets had been played for fools from the start. Operation Dead Loop he chuckled to himself. More like Operation Dead End.
* * *
Bel Air, Los Angeles
A portly man sat at his writing desk in his home office absorbed with a newspaper article. It was the story of a shooting and a mysterious crash in the mountains near Mt. Rushmore. The man removed a pair of scissors from his desk drawer and carefully cut out the article, which he then placed in a folder stuffed with various newspaper clippings.
A voice called to him from an adjoining room. “Alfred, tea time!”
The man didn’t respond. He was lost in thought imagining a scene based upon the story he had just read.
* * *
London
As Tatiana Andreyev arrived on the platform at Elephant & Castle, she was taken aback. She had been prepared for a crowd of waiting passengers. There were almost no passengers waiting for the next train. Oh well, she said to herself, I will have a train to myself. She was positively giddy over the thought of being in London and seeing the sights. It was so liberating to be free of the cold and gloom of Moscow and the prison basement she had been working in for years. Moscow was home. It was all she had ever known. But now she would never return. She had been given the rare opportunity of a new life and she had every intention of making the best of it. She had gone to the British consulate in Moscow and presented herself as the one who had dropped the unaddressed envelope into the British ambassador’s letterbox. The ambassador had been more than willing to help.
A sudden blast of wind pushed through the tunnel, followed by the light of a train entering the station. The steel wheels screeched as the train came to a stop. Tatiana waited for passengers to disembark before entering the carriage. She chose a seat at the end of the carriage. There was only one other passenger, a young woman sitting at the opposite end, reading a London newspaper. Tatiana glanced up at the station map. She would disembark at the next stop. The doors hissed closed, and the train pulled away from the station on its way to the next stop. Tatiana couldn’t help but smile. She was scared for herself, but it was a good kind of scared. She had no idea what the future had in store. Her life was now in the hands of chance. As the tube train slowed on its approach to the next station, Tatiana rose and held onto the support rail by the door. As the doors hissed open, the girl at the opposite end of the carriage, put down her paper. She smiled at Tatiana, as if to say hello. Tatiana returned the young woman’s smile and stepped onto the platform. Suddenly she froze. Her mind whirred through its vast photo file. She turned back just as the doors closed. Tatiana hammered on the glass and waved frantically. The tube train began pulling away.
The young woman on the train smiled again, only this time curiously. The girl on the platform seemed to know her. What did it matter if she didn’t know the girl on the platform? Ellen Sharpe waved anyway.
* * *
New Mexico
BY THE AUTHORITY OF THE HOUSE OF REPRESENTATIVES OF THE CONGRESS OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
To Victor R. Cherepanov:
You are hereby commanded to appear before a sub-committee of the Un-American Activities Committee of the House of Representatives of the United States.
The agent who went by the name Cherepanov stared at the summons in disbelief. His hand shook so violently he could hardly read what was written. How had this happened? Had his cover been blown? Why hadn’t his calls been returned? Wasn’t there somebody inside to protect him? Why hadn’t the Soviets responded to his calls for help?
He read the letter again. He had one week. In one week he would have to appear before Joseph McCarthy.
* * *
Nice, France
Ariel Starling missed her old name. It would take time to get used to her new one. It was part of the job. She had been Jenny Winston, Clare Simmons, and Piper Sands. Lying on a chaise in the lazy afternoon sun on the French Riviera, the job wasn’t without certain advantages. How long she would have to remain a part of the identity protection program was anyone’s guess. Today was her birthday. She had reached a birthday milestone, not her twenty-fourth birthday as the Americans believed, but her thirtieth. Ariel was much younger looking than her age allowed. It was precisely because of her youthful appearance and resemblance to Jenny Winston that the Americans had been persuaded that she could pass for Jenny. The Americans had no idea they were training a seasoned British agent. After the mess created by Roswell, the Americans were more than willing to allow the British to handle all matters related to arranging a new identity for Piper Sands. As far as they were concerned, they had one less matter to clean up.
As Ariel had yet to make new friends in Nice, she would be celebrating alone.
Friends would come, but for the time a birthday alone felt bittersweet.
�
��May I?”
A shadow fell across Ariel. The man in the preposterous hat was holding an ice bucket and a bottle of champagne.
“One really shouldn’t celebrate one’s birthday alone,” he said.
Ariel smiled and gestured for Mycroft Holmes to take the chaise beside her.
“Thank you,” she said. “You have made my day.”
“The least I can do.” Mycroft popped open the champagne and poured two glasses. “Her Majesty sends you birthday greetings.”
“Her Majesty? That’s right, I almost forgot. I wasn’t there for the coronation. Does she really send birthday greetings?”
“No, not really. But I believe I may speak on her behalf. Your nation owes you a debt of gratitude.”
Ariel rubbed the fresh scar on her right shoulder. “I don’t know about that, but your brother does. How is Sherlock?”
“Well.”
“Of course, I owe him for saving my life, so I suppose we are even. I should like to thank him. I never did that properly.”
“I am sure he knows.”
“Will you ever tell the Americans?”
“About?”
“Me.”
“Oh, you mean how you were one of the moles they could never find?”
“Not that, silly goose. I am speaking of my birthday. You won’t tell them how old I really am, will you? I rather enjoyed reliving my twenties.”
“Your secret is safe with me.” Mycroft tapped his glass against Ariel’s. “Cheers!”
Thereby Hangs a Tale
London
Following our return to London, life returned to normal. Holmes and I settled into our familiar routines. I scaled back my medical practice to devote additional time to my writing.
Holmes would have none of it.
Sherlock Holmes and The Roswell Incident Page 17