by Dayton Ward
Pressing a control set into the table near his left hand, Spock replied, “Thank you, Commander. Please alert Captain Wyatt that we will be requesting Doctor McCoy’s assistance.”
“Aye, sir. Admiral Kirk, we’ve also received an update from Starfleet Command. Initial sensor sweeps of Earth show no indications of Iramahl life-forms or technology, though Admiral Nogura stresses that the effort is less than half completed.”
Kirk said, “Please give the admiral my thanks, Uhura.”
As the connection was severed, Spock clasped his hands atop the conference table. “The logical conclusion is that the Iramahl died either of natural causes from some other event, or else they found a way to leave the planet. The first scenario would not explain the failure to detect any sign of their vessel, however.”
“Assuming Nogura’s report holds up,” replied Kirk.
“Given estimated Iramahl life spans,” Spock said, “they could have survived for nearly three hundred years after their arrival. This would depend on a number of factors, of course. They could have been discovered or killed, though there likely is no way to corroborate this theory, given the fragmentary nature of historical records prior to the twenty-first century.”
“There is another possibility,” said Jepolin, her expression one of sadness. “The Ptaen could have found them.”
Eight
Oceanport, New Jersey
September 13, 1951
Closing his notebook, Captain James Wainwright returned it and his pen to his briefcase before looking once more to the elderly couple sitting across from him on their living room couch. Their expressions were near mirrors of each other’s, regarding him with interest as well as skepticism.
“I want to thank you again for your time,” Wainwright said, lowering the lid of the briefcase, which sat on the small oval coffee table between his chair and the couch. “It’s very much appreciated, I assure you.”
The man, Henry Clarke, released a grunt that Wainwright took to be an offering of amused disbelief. His wife, Martha, seemed content to say nothing else. She had been quiet during most of the interview, allowing her husband to answer each of the questions posed by Wainwright and only providing occasional commentary when prompted. It ended up not being much, as she apparently had not been witness to the strange craft that had captured the attention of so many people in this area.
“What do you all do with these reports you collect?” asked Clarke, gesturing toward the briefcase. He had the large, callused hands befitting a farmer, something Wainwright had noticed upon their initial handshake. They were the hands of a working man, someone who had little time or patience for anyone in a suit, even if that suit belonged to a military officer. The interview had taken the better part of two hours, time Henry Clarke likely would have spent finishing up whatever chores he had set out to complete this day. It was getting dark, and for the Clarkes it also was getting late. Mrs. Clarke had already made subtle hints about needing to get on with feeding her husband, and her more recent suggestive nod toward the closed door leading to the kitchen had not even been that understated. In fact, Wainwright had harbored a faint yet still perceptible sensation since arriving here that he was not welcome. The Clarkes had been polite, of course, but there remained the odd feeling that he was not wanted there. It was a suspicion strengthened by Mrs. Clarke not inviting him to join them for their evening meal. Not that he was hungry, but the obvious lack of hospitality seemed unusual for a traditional rural couple.
You’re imagining things, but that doesn’t mean they want you here all night. Finish up and leave them to their supper.
“The reports I’ll be writing about my visits with you and your neighbors and officials from Fort Monmouth will go into a case file we’ve created for this incident. We’ll continue to update the file as we get more information, and after a time, a final determination will be made as to what we think really happened here.”
Grunting again, Clarke stared at him, his eyes narrowing. “And what do you think happened here, Captain?”
“It’s not my job to speculate, sir.” Wainwright patted his briefcase. “I conduct interviews, take statements, organize facts and other information I’m given or find on my own, and then organize it so that someone with stars on their shoulders can make a decision. By the time they get around to doing that, I may well be on the other side of the country, talking to another couple just like you about what they think they saw.”
Damn it.
The phrasing was bad, and he knew it. Henry Clarke knew it too, as was evident by his hardening expression.
“You don’t believe I saw what I saw? You’re the one who came looking to ask a bunch of questions, and you obviously know more about this thing than I do, so why’d you bother coming here at all?”
Holding up a hand, Wainwright said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for that to sound the way it did, sir. I truly believe you saw something. You don’t know what it was, and I certainly don’t because I wasn’t here to see it.” He patted the briefcase again. “My job is to gather information from you and the other witnesses, try to make sense of everything said by everyone, and submit a report. People smarter than me will figure out what to do after that.”
That seemed to mollify the farmer, at least enough to reduce the tension that had suddenly filled the room. It was a practiced answer, and one he had developed for dealing with situations just like this one. He already had lost count of the number of times he had delivered some variation of it to people just like the Clarkes. Sometimes offering such a rehearsed response bothered him, because the truth was that Wainwright wanted to believe them and everyone else with whom he had spoken over the past four years.
Where the hell did the time go?
Was it not only yesterday that he was sitting in a drab office at Wright-Patterson Air Force Base, which at the time was still called Wright Field before that installation was merged with neighboring Patterson Field, when his world changed around him? In actuality, his perceptions had already been shifted just months earlier, while he was stationed at Roswell Army Air Field in New Mexico and had come face-to-face with actual aliens from another planet. At the time, Wainwright had been of two minds about the incident. First, he was worried that these aliens, Ferengi, as they had called themselves, were but the first of uncounted invaders who would soon be coming to conquer Earth. At the same time, he had been fascinated with the technology they seemed to possess. Could humans develop such things? Spaceships? Machines to create almost anything a person needed from nothing? Traveling to other worlds the way humans drove between cities? It was the stuff of stories he had enjoyed since childhood.
He was not alone with such feelings. Another person with similar thoughts was Jeffrey Carlson, a civilian professor Wainwright had first met just a few months earlier at Roswell. It was Carlson who, in September 1947, had invited him to join a top-secret government organization, Majestic 12, with a single mission: search for evidence of extraterrestrial activity on Earth, and develop strategies to combat any aliens who were proven to pose a threat. As part of that, Wainwright, along with a handful of air force officers, had been detailed to another initiative, Project Sign, which was tasked with investigating the growing number of people coming forward to report seeing unidentified flying objects, or UFOs. Were they flying saucers, rockets from Mars, or other alien invaders from distant galaxies? It was Wainwright’s job to determine the veracity of such sightings.
And here we are.
“So you don’t think we’re crazy,” said Clarke, still eyeing him with suspicion, and Wainwright again felt that odd sensation of unease. It seemed to lurk at the edges of his subconscious, like someone standing just beyond the limit of his peripheral vision but whose shadow could still be seen. Despite his best efforts, he could not shake the odd feeling.
Instead, he forced a smile. “Of course not. It certainly helps that so many people saw
the same thing. Even soldiers over at Fort Monmouth have made reports.” That much was true, and two more Project Sign case officers were at this moment conducting interviews with officers and enlisted personnel assigned to the small army base not too far south from the Clarke farm.
What had separated the sightings of the strange, unexplained craft in the skies above the New Jersey coast from the number of “eyewitness accounts” Wainwright had investigated since joining Carlson, MJ-12, and Project Sign? In this case, it was the sheer number of people who had called the local police as well as radio and television stations to report on the mysterious lights in the sky to the east. There was also the wrinkle of this craft having been detected by military radar, in the person of a young soldier undergoing Army Signal Corps training at nearby Fort Monmouth. According to the account provided by the man, he had picked up a low-flying target while manning a radar set, all while several officers stood dumbstruck and watched him attempt to track the source of the radar return, which had been clocked at speeds in excess of seven hundred miles per hour. The object quickly disappeared from the soldier’s screen, but a military pilot on a training flight later spotted the thing while conducting his final approach to Mitchel Air Force Base in New York.
The army angle already elevated this incident above most of the others Wainwright had investigated just during this past year. Reports of sightings of strange ships, along with the occasional encounter with mysterious, inhuman beings, were on the rise. Many of these could be explained as confusion with legitimate aircraft or other mundane phenomena, or simply the blathering of attention seekers. This one, however, with so many credible eyewitnesses, begged for greater scrutiny, which made Henry and Martha Clarke’s reluctance to be interviewed so intriguing.
During his canvassing of the area that included the small Clarke farm, Wainwright had noted that while most of the people from the surrounding homes and properties had called the police or someone else to report what they had seen, no such call had come from here. When he had knocked on the door and introduced himself, Wainwright was somewhat surprised by how disinclined the Clarkes had been to answer his questions. They had relented after a few moments’ resistance, but during the entire interview had acted as though they would rather talk about anyone or anything else. Their answers to his questions were adequate but not remarkable, as Henry Clarke claimed to have seen the mysterious object for only a couple of moments before it flew away. Of course, Henry Clarke was a working-class man, with things to do and an earning to make. Since he was the lone laborer on the farm that he had taken over from his father, who in turn had inherited it from his grandfather, daylight was valuable, and Wainwright’s presence and questions had wasted part of that precious commodity.
He glanced first at his wristwatch and then a clock on the mantel over the living room’s fireplace. Both timepieces told him the same thing: it was late.
Just past nineteen hundred hours on a Friday. You sure know how to have a good time, don’t you? It was getting dark earlier now, as the end of Daylight Saving Time for the year approached with month’s end. At this point, he had lost whatever hope there might have been to catch a flight out of McGuire Air Force Base and back to Wright-Patterson. Instead, he would have to spend one more night in the visiting officer’s quarters. How many similar evenings had he experienced? More than a hundred in the past nine months, if his memory served him, but in reality he had given up keeping count. He was sure his wife, Deborah, knew the exact number. It had been the subject of yet another in an increasing string of conversations regarding his job and the long hours and separation it required. The latest such animated discussion had occurred earlier that afternoon, which he had washed away with a drink at the officer’s club before the drive to Oceanport and the day’s interviews. Both the bourbon and the argument had left a bad taste in his mouth.
Don’t start with that.
Clearing his throat, Wainwright said, “I’ve taken far too much of your time, and I apologize again for calling on you unannounced.” He rose from his chair, reaching for the briefcase and his service cap. Mr. Clarke stood, extending his hand.
“Good luck with your reports,” he said. “I don’t know that I’d wish those things on my worst enemy.”
The deadpan delivery was enough to make Wainwright chuckle, and he was thankful for the sudden lightening of what was becoming an awkward moment. He took the proffered hand and shook it, just before he heard the sound of the kitchen door opening behind him and saw Henry Clarke’s eyes widen in surprise.
Wainwright felt himself pulled off his feet, across the coffee table and onto the couch, which the Clarkes had vacated. Both of them were lunging around the table and away from him, much faster than any couple in their fifties had any right to be moving. Rolling onto his side, he was in time to see them crossing the living room toward the kitchen, where in the doorway stood . . .
. . . something.
Two figures crowded the doorway, both of them garbed in dark clothing that covered them from neck to feet. Their heads were elongated, with light violet skin, protruding chins, and broad foreheads atop which sat long, dark hair that reminded him of a horse’s mane. Pronounced brows featured odd, narrow ridges or creases extending from the top of their thin noses up and over the top of their skulls. As Wainwright tried to process all of this in the few seconds afforded to him, one thought overrode everything.
Not human.
The Clarkes threw themselves at these new arrivals, but even as they moved, Wainwright saw their bodies changing. Clothing and flesh seemed to shift and blur together. Skin turned yellow, arms and legs stretched, and then four unrecognizable beings were fighting one another. The thing that had been Henry Clarke slammed into the first intruder, driving them both back into the kitchen, where they crashed past a wooden chair and onto the floor. Wainwright heard plates or glasses shattering on the tile even as the second intruder lunged toward whatever had been Martha Clarke. She—or it—lashed out at the opponent, landing strikes at the throat and face almost too fast for Wainwright to follow. The intruder also got in one or two hits, but it was obviously outmatched.
From the kitchen came the figure that had been Henry Clarke, and Wainwright saw that it now held in its hand a long carving knife. Without breaking stride as it reentered the living room, the creature moved in behind the remaining intruder and plunged the knife into the back of its neck. The creature’s body went limp and it fell forward, toppling to the floor and just missing the coffee table.
Then the things that had been the Clarkes turned to look at Wainwright.
“What the hell are you?”
It was all Wainwright could say before one of the creatures, holding something he did not recognize, stepped closer and aimed the strange object at his face.
Nine
McGuire Air Force Base—Wrightstown, New Jersey
September 14, 1951
Wainwright’s eyes opened at the sound of someone knocking on a nearby door, and he jerked himself upright, immediately regretting the sudden movement. He looked around, seeing the familiar surroundings of the room in which he had been staying for the past three days. Or was it four?
What the hell day is it? Where the hell am I?
“Captain Wainwright?” said a muffled male voice through the door. “Sir, are you all right?”
“Yeah,” he called out, his voice raspy. “Yeah, I’m fine. What is it?”
“You’ve got a call at the front desk, sir,” replied the man on the other side of the door, who Wainwright realized was probably the enlisted airman on duty at the VOQ’s front office.
Visiting officer’s quarters, he reminded himself. McGuire. That much made sense, at least.
“Tell whoever it is I can’t come to the phone,” Wainwright said. “Please take a message and let them know I’ll return their call in thirty minutes.”
“Yes, sir. Right away, sir.” Footsteps
moved away from the door, growing distant before fading altogether and leaving Wainwright in relative peace.
His head hurt. His hair hurt. What was wrong with him?
Then he saw the half-empty bottle of bourbon on the table by the door. When had he bought that? The only drinks he had consumed during his stay at McGuire had been with dinner in the officer’s club, and only one with each meal. He tried to remember the events of the previous evening, which had to have included a stop at the Base Exchange or an off-post liquor store, but he had no recollection of that. Indeed, his memory seemed like a jumbled mess this morning. What the hell had happened?
His gaze fell upon the briefcase sitting on the credenza along the room’s far wall, and bits and pieces of half-recalled details began to coalesce in his alcohol-addled mind. Interviews, in town. Not here, though, but rather Oceanport, and Fort Monmouth Army Base. The sighting. The UFO. A number of people had seen the thing, and he had been tasked with obtaining statements from military personnel and civilians. That was it.
But where had the booze come from?
There was something else, some half-forgotten thought that seemed to tickle the edges of his mind, but Wainwright could not pull it into focus. Grunting in irritation with himself, he eyed the bourbon with disdain. Had he really drunk himself into a total stupor? Why?
Deborah. Their last phone conversation. No, their last argument.
Oh, you are such an idiot.
• • •
Standing in the far corner of the small, sparsely furnished room, Drevina and Glorick waited in silence until the human military officer finished dressing and exited the quarters, closing the door behind him. Only then did Drevina allow herself a moment to relax in relief.
“Your skills are improving,” offered Glorick.
“I have had more than sufficient time to practice.”
“He suspects nothing,” said Glorick, gesturing toward the door. “You did well.”