The Children of Roswell (Book One) The Swift Chronicle

by Alan James

The Children of Roswell

  (Book One)

  The S.W.I.F.T. Chronicle

  By

  Alan James

  *****

  PUBLISHED BY

  The Children of Roswell

  Book One; The S.W.I.F.T. Chronicle

  Copyright 2011 by Alan James

  Other books by Alan James

  The Children of Roswell

  (Book Two)

  The Homestead Incident

  The Children of Roswell

  (Final)

  Ergosphere Reset

  Jonathan Parker

  and the Moan T’aye Ghost Dance

  (A SteamPunk Tale)

  Butcher Butcher

  The Case of the Butcher-Paper Butcher

  Preface

  You have all (no doubt) read the countless stories of the Roswell saucer crash in 1947. The truth is you probably bought this book because the title contained the name of that once sleepy little town lost in the desert of Chaves County, New Mexico. If you are like me, you grab at every chance to garner as much new information about that day in July (and the important days and years thereafter) trying to squeeze as much truth as is possible from the falsehoods that have been perpetrated by our government in their efforts to keep that very truth from you.

  Please rest assured, I will not bore you by rehashing the stories you have already heard. This is not another Roswell book per se; for there will be no mention of the Roswell rancher and the tale of what he found on his property. Nor will you find pages of repeated dialog from witnesses (military or civilian) about the pieces of debris and its unusual properties. You will not hear again: the story of the grey creatures; their autopsies; testimony from Officers (or their children) as to what they saw, heard, or knew.

  What you will read (in the pages that follow) is the story developed from testimony given to me by a long retired Air Force pilot whom I befriended many years ago while we participated in a mutual hobby. This was a solid, God fearing man (military to the core) but, he was a man with a burning need within, to tell his story before he passed on.

  I am not quite sure why he chose me as his confessor, for there was a great disparity in our ages. Perhaps it was that he saw a copy, or two, of the many books on UFOs that were constantly littering my desk in my shop. Whatever the reason, he sat me down, early one Saturday morning, in a secluded hangar at the local airport and began a one sided verbal journey that wouldn’t end until late in the evening-hours of the following day.

  His hands shook and his voice cracked as he forced himself to break the vows he had taken as an officer in the service of his country. He was risking, in his mind (for he was well indoctrinated) being thrown into prison and losing what little time and retirement pension he and his wife had left. I could tell that this bothered him greatly and I asked him several times if he would rather stop.

  “No, No, just let me finish,” he would reply. “Someone has to tell this story. I have to tell this story.” And then he would whisper, “Before I die.”

  Then, he would wipe away a tear with curled, shaking fingers and continue.

  What follows, is the story (as accurately as I could pen it) told to me over those two days (some four decades ago). It is the story of a young officer, caught up (and lost in) the bureaucracy of a military machine that was fresh out of World War Two, and later the Korean conflict (war). It was a military that now found itself burdened by the pressures and the threat of communism and the cold war. It was a military divided by pomp, ego, and a sense of self inflicted grandeur.

  I have changed names and a few places to protect my storyteller and hiding places now scattered around the country. Many of the places named in this book still exist (some nearly intact) and readers are welcomed to search them out. I myself have stood in a couple of the very places mentioned in these pages, and believe me, the ghosts of the past only add to the mystique.

  Those of you who are already believers in the conspiracy that began in the New Mexico desert on that July day in nineteen forty-seven, will understand (but maybe not agree with) the moves made by our government and some of the individual players in the days, weeks, and years that followed the original crash. Some of you, who have found yourselves on the fence (not knowing whether to believe or not) may be pushed off your precarious perch (in one direction or the other). My only hope is that my storyteller finds some modicum of peace in knowing that: His truth is now “out there.”

  Alan James

  To my wife Linda and son Jonathan.

  Thank you for giving me the time

  and the support.

  The Children of Roswell

  (Book One)

  The Swift Chronicle

  by

  Alan James

  TAILLIGHTS

  Kelly stood with his back to the trailer, a briefcase in one hand and his service cap in the other. His uniform was damp with sweat.

  The long ride from town had been hot and uncomfortable, and the cold desert wind that had made cracking a window seem the worst of two evils, now began to chill him. Squinting his eyes against its dryness, he watched as the car from the motor pool disappeared over the rise at the end of the runway; the dust from its tires giving extended life to its taillights. The red glow increased, then fell back, again and again, as the drivers foot bounced on the brake pedal. Another three or four miles and it would reach the highway that would take it back under the light dome that was hanging over the horizon to the southeast. Kelly’s eyes stayed on the red glow until it disappeared.

  He was alone now. He felt alone. He had spent the last two weeks in Tucson waiting for his orders. He had felt alone there too, but not like this.

  “Tucson,” he muttered to himself, half chuckling, half longing. As much as he had disliked what had seemed to be a loosely guarded internment, he felt sure he was about to gain a new perspective on what little amusement he had found there.

  As he turned toward the trailer, the outlines of aircraft caught his eye. They were black against the darkening Paynes-grey sky to the west; row after row of tail-sections tapering into the darkness. A closer look in tomorrow’s light would show only skeletons, for few had escaped the hand of Mother Nature, or vandals. Beyond the row of castaways he could see an old control tower, its antennae broken and swaying in the wind. Its once glass façade was filled with empty spaces refusing to shine in the moonlight. Kelly finished his turn toward the trailer, and with his head down to assure his footing, he walked slowly in the direction of the only light he could see. The weeds, blown by the wind, cast faint, flickering moon shadows where they poked through the crumbling asphalt taxiway. He continued until his path was finally blocked by an old, loosely hung, chain link fence.

  ‘Strange,’ he thought. He hadn’t noticed the fence on the ride in. It was strung along its top with rusty concertina wire. As he moved along the fence to his left, away from the trailer at a slight angle, he eventually came to an open gate. It creaked softly as the occasional gust pressed against the large NO ADDMITTANCE sign wired across its front at eye level. He pushed his way through, and as the gate swung shut behind him, a second thought made him turn and reach. He was too late. It closed with a soft but solid clank. Even as he was reaching, he was sure the gate would lock itself if he missed it. He was right.

  He turned, once again, toward the trailer and the light. Walking slowly, he imagined hearing noises from every direction. ‘Just the wind,’ he kept telling himself. Another few steps and then from behind: he was startled by a sharp ‘crack.’ He spun quickly, but there was not
hing. As his eyes moved up to the top of the old control tower, there, as he watched, he heard another loud ‘crack.’ It was one of the old antennae; broken near its top and hanging by a thin strand of wire. He continued to watch as every other arc brought it into sharp contact with one of the rusty walkway railings. ‘Jumpy!’ he thought, ‘ … why so jumpy?’

  He was full of questions now. Two weeks ago he had been pulled from a position he had struggled years to achieve. He’d been living every young pilots dream: working as a test pilot; civilian status; and more flight time than he had imagined possible in the post war Air Force. In the last year and a half he had flown nearly everything to come off the boards. And now, he was back in uniform, stuck in the middle of a hole in the southwest American desert called Marana.

  In years past this place had been alive with aircraft, both military and commercial. Old F-80s from the Arizona Air Guard once plied the skies here. Even then, the commercial companies, and the military, had started using the vast open areas beyond the runways to store old, mothballed airplanes. Now, that is all it was used for. The dead and dying airbuses now served as attractions for the occasional history or photography buff, or as luxurious stopovers for Mexican nationals making their way north, looking for work.

  Kelly stood motionless, watching the moon’s reflection move slowly across one of the few unbroken panes of glass in the old tower.

  “Lieutenant?”

  The muscles in his Kelly’s stomach tightened so violently that he appeared to duck, as if trying to avoid an imaginary blow from behind. With his head down he turned slowly. Expecting to see nothing less than the ghost of a long dead airline pilot, he was somewhat relieved when his glazed eyes saw only a small handgun. A gun he could deal with, but he had no wont to tackle an apparition on its own grounds.

  “Lieutenant Kellerman?” the voice behind the gun said. Then, after seeing the name tag above Kelly’s breast pocket, the man said, “Didn’t mean to startle you. We didn’t recognize you.”

  Kelly stood with his eyes still frozen on the gun. He hadn’t moved since he first saw it.

  “Oh!” the man said, then, half heartedly chuckling as he looked down at the gun, “ … it was my turn to play cowboy.”

  The gun was gone and an open hand was offered in its place.

  “I’m Brickman … Cory Brickman.”

  Kelly, with many unrelated thoughts racing through his head, reached for the handshake and quickly filled the man’s open hand with his service cap. Brickman smiled but held back another chuckle.

  “Fair enough,” he said, “from cowboy to valet … consider it an apology … for the scare I just gave you.”

  Brickman grabbed the briefcase from Kelly’s limp left hand, guided the cap back into a sweaty palm still outstretched for a handshake, turned and headed for the trailer.

  “C’mon,” he said, “meet the others.”

  Kelly stood there for a moment, watching the stranger move away. His shoulders shuddered slightly from a half developed shiver that tried to climb his spine. He reached up, closed the collar of his coat, tried, and then thought better of, taking a last look behind.

  He didn’t like this place. He didn’t like the childhood fears it was conjuring either. As far back as he could remember he’d been afraid of things that went bump in the night. Now, in adulthood, his fears final manifestations were usually little embarrassments scattered around his various duty stations. He knew, inside himself somewhere, there was an ability to control situations like the one he had just been through. But that ability always seemed to elude him. In fact, he’d never been able to stop himself from getting into these kinds of situations. He seemed drawn to all the darkened rooms and unlit alleyways he had passed in his lifetime, especially if they hinted of opportunity.

  Brickman had left him standing in the dark, in more ways than one. He wanted a few answers before they reached the trailer, but for now, he would have to wait. Cory was already standing atop the small porch at the end of the trailer. The light, mounted on a pole over the roof, threw a hard white cone down on him. He was wearing a ball cap and the shadow from its bill blackened his face. He was looking back at Kelly as he passed his open hand across his body at waist level, gesturing toward the door. Kelly couldn’t see his smile. What he did see was the vision of a harbinger, offering entry into yet another darkened room.

  THE TRAILER

  Brickman closed the door behind them. He was still smiling. “This way,” he said, pointing to the opening at the end of the short hallway.

  It was warm inside, and Kelly could smell coffee. He reached up before anyone was looking and wiped the sweat from his upper lip. As he entered the room, four faces turned to meet him. The men were seated at a long row of tables placed end to end. They faced a narrow, uninterrupted window that ran nearly the length of the trailer. The paperwork at each man’s station was neat and uncluttered, and each had his own radio-headset, telephone, coffee cup, and what Kelly thought was a typewriter and television screen.

  “This is Lieutenant Kellerman,” Brickman announced as he sat Kelly’s briefcase on the floor.

  The man sitting second from the right-end of the tables stood to introduce himself. Raising his hand to Kelly, he gave his name:

  “Lieutenant, I’m Ken Matson.”

  As Kelly tried to hand Matson his cap, Brickman quickly grabbed it away and the two men shook.

  “He’ll be alright in a bit,” Brickman said as he tossed the cap onto a table against the front wall, “he’s still a little rattled from my cowboy act.”

  “Well,” Matson chuckled, “if we are all very lucky, you won’t get another turn at that for quite awhile. Here, let me have that,” he said using two fingers to pull the gun from Brickman’s belt. With the toe of his boot he nudged a small box from under his table, set the piece in it, and pushed it back under. “I’m team leader here,” he said turning to face Kelly again. “If you’ve got any problems or questions that these yahoos can’t handle, you come and see me.”

  “This is Dr. Forest,” Matson said, nodding to the slightly overweight and fastly balding man now standing to his right. He handles all the incoming biological telemetry and makes sure the life support systems keep our pilot …” he paused, as if searching for a word, then finished with, “ … alive. See that he gets your medical record. The information will have to be loaded if you’re going to fly for us.”

  “Ben Perkins,” Matson next motioned to the man just beyond Dr. Forest, “is our radio man. He handles what little voice communication we use.”

  Kelly nodded. As he reached for the handshake, Perkins quickly withdrew his hand and pressed his headset tight against his ears. The screen in front of Dr. Forest suddenly came to life. As the doctor turned to attend it, a long bank of tape reels, mounted against the back wall, began spinning.

  “What’ya got Ben?” Matson asked.

  Perkins raised a forefinger to his lips, asking for silence; his free hand continuing to press his headset to his ear.

  Matson’s excitement was now obvious. He could wait no longer for Perkin’s reply. In a hurried attempt to seat himself, he juggled his headset halfway to the floor. Finally getting a grip on the piece of equipment, he placed it over his ears. With both elbows on the table and both hands pressing the ear-pads tight against his head, he sat, quiet and motionless; his mouth hanging open. He stared, without focusing, at an empty spot on the long window in front of him.

  As Brickman took the chair on Matson’s right and began keying his typewriter, Kelly heard someone calling his name. Looking down the length of the trailer he saw a man sitting at a separate table positioned across the short end-wall. He motioned a “come here” with an outstretched hand. As Kelly approached, the man tapped the seat of the empty chair next to him.

  “Sit here,” he said, “they’re going to be busy for a few minutes.” The man then offered his hand and his name: “Will Johnson,” he said.
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br />   Kelly shook the man’s hand and then grabbed the chair and turned it around. He sat in it backwards, folding his arms over the backrest.

  Both men were seated sideways to the row of tables. Facing back down the length of the trailer, Kelly looked at each man in turn. He couldn’t help but notice how casual they were. It was apparent that things were happening very quickly now, but everyone, despite Matson’s anxiety attack, looked like they were old hands at whatever it was they were doing. Kelly turned to Will, who had just glanced at his own screen. “They don’t let you work with them?” he asked.

  Will smiled. He had the look of a man holding back the punch-line to an inside joke. Staring again at his screen he said, “You noticed, huh?” Then, nodding his head in the direction of the others, “They call me easy money. My screen has been just like you see it for the last … ” he hesitated for a moment then continued, “ … for as long as I’ve been here.”

  Kelly looked at Will’s workstation. He paused, studying each object in turn, then nodded toward the screen, “ … that’s not a television, is it? … and that’s not a typewriter,” he said, pointing to the keyboard.

  Will gave him a puzzled look. “No,” he paused, “they’re not.” He paused again, as if trying to decide whether to finish answering. Then, after glancing at the men at the other end of the trailer, he pointed to the keyboard. “That is a computer input terminal,” he said quietly, “and that, while it is actually a television, has been modified so we can read the computer’s output.”

  “Computer?” Kelly questioned as he turned his head to see the tape reels still spinning against the back wall. “Computer?” he said again. “You mean like that Enivac or Uniac thing I read about awhile back.”