by Matt Eaton
Part of the reason the foundation was trusted for the task was that Clarence Paulson was a man who held himself beyond external influence. He didn’t even have to answer to the Pope. Paulson worshipped only at the Tree of Knowledge.
“I’d like you to meet David Donovan,” said Paulson. “He’s our man in Washington.”
“A pleasure, David.” Menzel held his hand out to the other man. “A war hero, I’m led to believe.”
“Navy Lieutenant Commander, retired. Highly decorated,” said Paulson.
“Like father, like son,” Menzel replied.
Wild Bill Donovan was the colourful founder of the Office of Strategic Services, the precursor of the CIA. Some people called him the father of US intelligence. His son was not so much of a known quantity, although in the years before Wild Bill’s death in 1959, his mind slowly falling victim to the corrosion of dementia, he had insisted that David was the only person he trusted to replace him at the Verus Foundation.
“An honour to meet a member of the original MJ-12,” said Donovan, shaking Menzel’s hand vigorously with a vice-like grip.
Menzel smiled half-heartedly. It always made him nervous to hear mention of Operation MAJESTIC-12, the top secret research and development group originally answerable only to President Harry S. Truman, now so highly classified that no president since Eisenhower had even been informed of its existence.
“I don’t usually speak about such things,” Menzel told him quietly.
“You can relax,” Paulson assured him. “We’re 30 feet underground and there’s four feet of concrete above your head. Nobody can hear a word.”
“That’s comforting… I think.”
Unless the room itself was bugged, although Menzel knew this would be highly unlikely. Paulson had succeeded in keeping all Verus operations very much under the radar.
“Father told me a lot about you,” said Donovan. “I think he was jealous as hell Truman never included him in your dozen.”
Menzel smiled again. “Your father was a fearless warrior for his country, you should be proud of him.” He looked away, once more examining his surroundings. “What is this place, a nuclear shelter?”
“Very good, doctor,” said Paulson. He held out an arm, urging Menzel toward the lounge. “Please, take a seat.”
“I assume this a Verus facility,” said Menzel.
“It’s our primary research station. I won’t trouble you with the location — need to know and all that,” said Paulson.
Menzel noted a reel-to-reel tape recorder and a 1940s vintage omnidirectional microphone standing on a coffee table between the chairs. Paulson clicked the machine’s dial to the record position and the tape wheels began to turn.
“For transcription purposes,” said Paulson. “So what can you tell us?”
“The crew of Apollo 8 are catching up on some sleep,” said Menzel.
“Have you finished your debriefing?” asked Donovan.
“Not to my satisfaction. They haven’t told me about their encounter. Borman is playing his cards close to his chest. He won’t let the others speak about what they saw.”
“That’s a good thing, isn’t it?” Donovan suggested. “Are you confident they will keep their mouths shut?”
Menzel’s eyes widened. “Confident isn’t the word that springs to mind. I’ve delivered all of my best material as the sceptical man of science, but to be honest I just don’t think they’re buying it. They’ve seen too much. Right now they’re itching to talk, I can see it in their eyes. They were clearly blown away by what they saw. Who wouldn’t be? But both Anders and Lovell want to fly on future Apollo missions, which is the best leverage we have on them. Borman will be the key to that. The others trust him and look up to him. He and Lovell have a strong camaraderie from their time together in space.”
“I take it, then, you haven’t procured the photos,” said Donovan.
Menzel shook his head. “I haven’t asked Borman for the camera. And for security reasons I won’t do so while he’s in the company of the other two astronauts, although it might prove challenging to get him alone. But they’re at sea for more than a day before they arrive back in Hawaii. I’ll make it happen.”
“It’s all a bit exciting, isn’t it?” said Paulson.
“It’s delicate,” warned Donovan. “We still don’t know how far the Anunnaki are willing to go.”
“This is just a warning,” said Menzel. “A shot across the bow. They are merely playing the game. Let me remind you this has all taken place on the far side of the Moon — it’s not like they’ve landed on the White House lawn. They appear to be as keen to remain invisible as we are to keep their presence a secret.”
“An alien base on the far side of the Moon. One can only imagine the sort of blind panic the news would be greeted with,” mused Donovan.
“I’m not sure we can assume that to be inevitable,” said Menzel. “They have, after all, maintained a presence on Earth since before the time of Christ. However, there is much to be said for the precautionary principle. The Anunnaki know this. They’ve seen us at war with each other. They must understand the risk they face from open antagonism, for this is almost certain to be the response from any number of nations once they step out from behind the veil. Not every nation on Earth is as reasonable as the United States.”
“So what is the point of them coming out of hiding like this?” asked Paulson.
“Like I said, they’re warning us to leave them alone,” said Menzel.
“He’s right,” said Donovan. “They’re defending their territory. They’re telling us to stay away from the far side. They know we’re going to land on the surface of the Moon, they’re telling us to stay on our side of the fence. To stay out in the open.”
“But we would never consider landing on the far side,” Paulson pointed out.
“The Anunnaki play a long game,” said Donovan. “They’re not thinking about the Apollo moon landings, they’re thinking about 20 years, 50 years from now when we’re contemplating permanent lunar settlement. Those photographs of their fly-by, about which they notified the relevant authorities in advance, represent a political statement. For us, however, it is a unique opportunity to ensure the evidence doesn’t simply disappear.”
