An Extra-Ordinary Beginning (The Adventures of Eric and Ursula Book 1)

by A. D. Winch

  Before nightfall, the massive floor of Hangar 84 was littered with remains of the disk. Later, as the sun set behind the mountains, the silver dart arrived. An observant troop of soldiers had found it forty-five miles, or about eighty kilometres, away in a place called Corona. It had been hidden in the shadow of a very large rock. A little while later, the Roswell Sheriff, George Wilcox, along with a ranch hand, Max Badham, arrived at the Army Airfield. In their possession, they had a piece of twisted metal from the flying disk. Around it was wrapped a curled sliver of silver. The professor’s collision theory now had concrete proof. His Foo Fighter had hit the other craft, an unidentified flying object - the silver dart.

  The loss of their two colleagues brought Ingrid and him closer together. A blossoming romance became an engagement which quickly led to a loving marriage and, throughout all, a strong professional partnership. Badham’s piece of twisted metal had convinced all the witnesses that evening that there had been no fault with the flying disk. The disaster had been caused by a simple collision which nobody could have predicted. Attention quickly turned from the pieces of debris to the silver dart.

  Orders from Washington were clear and direct.

  1. What is it?

  2. Where has it come from?

  3. How can we make use of it?

  The answer to the first question seemed easy enough - it was a ship of some kind. From the way it moved across the sky; it could best be described as an aeroplane crossed with a rocket. However, there were no windows, no obvious means of propulsion, no lights, no tail and no wheels. It looked like a piece of flint on a medieval arrowhead and was made up of triangles - two on top, two on the bottom, two smaller ones at the rear. All six triangles were joined seamlessly together. From ‘tip to tail’ it measured five metres. The ‘wing span’ was four metres, and it was three metres high. Only one imperfection could be located on the craft. Underneath its tip, an area of silver looked thinner, as if it had been stretched to a point where it was almost see through. The size of this area could have matched the Badham piece if stretched.

  The second question was much harder to answer. It didn’t belong to the Army, the Air Force or the Navy. If it had been one of the allies from World War II, especially the Brits, they would have known. In fact, it was highly unlikely to be from any of the nations involved in the War and those who weren’t involved did not have the resources to build such a craft. Of all the countries in the world, the Soviet Union seemed most likely. However, he felt that the Soviets were too busy with Berlin and the Eastern European countries to send spy craft to America. With all the other possibilities exhausted, he was left with two options: either it was someone’s private project untracked by governments or it was not from the Earth.

  Rumours had been circulating around the base since the crash of mysterious bodies which had been found with the silver dart. Some of these had come from reports in the local paper, the Roswell Daily Record, and included rough sketches. Others had come from eyewitnesses who claimed to have collected two non-human forms from an area near-by.

  He and Ingrid ignored all the rumours. Instead, they concentrated on the third question, ‘could it be used?’ The answer lay in whether they could open the silver dart and investigate what it contained. They approached the problem scientifically, testing out theory after theory.

  Knocking the silver dart by hand, hammer or battering ram did not even cause a dent. All liquids from water to oil through to molten iron simply ran off it. Blow torches and flame throwers failed to mark it. X-rays, ultrasound, sonic waves and the music of Glenn Miller failed to penetrate it. Bullets bounced off it; grenades failed to detonate and, though the army wanted to place a small nuclear device underneath it, Ingrid and he successfully advised against this.

  Their attempts had taken more than six weeks. While they found their lack of success both baffling and exciting, the government took a dimmer view. One morning they were summoned to General Grant, the commander on the base. His office was airless and buckled blinds kept most of the sunlight out. General Grant asked them to sit and tell him what had happened. Luckily for them the General was also an amateur scientist. On hearing about their failed attempts, he scratched his chin and thought.

  Finally, he said, “Then I had better grant you clearance,” and he handed them two passes marked, ‘Access all areas.’

  Major Marshall escorted him and Ingrid out of the General’s stuffy office and away from Hangar 84. They crossed the burning hot runway and continued towards a disused bunker jutting out from a rocky, desolate hillside. Inside, the bunker was virtually empty. It only contained a small room, in case of an air attack, that had been built using a combination of bricks and the rock face. On the bare slabs of rock, names had been chiselled by soldiers who had wandered in. At the back of the bunker, where the light had been swallowed by the darkness, there was a wooden door. If Major Marshall had not led them, they would not have noticed it was there. He opened it, and the three of them entered a cage elevator. It descended rapidly, stopping with a jolt after Ingrid had quietly counted forty-seven seconds.

  They were marched out of the lift into a bright white corridor. Major Marshall led them down the passage and through the underground maze. He stopped at a room with a sign which read, ‘Laboratory B - Top Level Security Clearance Personnel ONLY.’

  The lab’s metal door opened slowly, and a scientist exited. He gave them each a white suit which covered them from head to toe, a mask for their mouth and a pair of goggles. Pushing the door open, he beckoned them in.

  “Professor, we’re here.”

  The sudden voice brought Professor Schwarzkopf back to the present. The Cadillac had pulled up beside a black Falcon 7X jet. The car’s rear door was opened, and Professor Schwarzkopf was helped out onto the warm tarmac. As he got out he marvelled at the jet. He was filled with pride and, curiously, a sense of wonder at one of the many things he had helped to invent. Admittedly, he had not designed the cigar fuselage and tipped wings, but his work had influenced the position of the wings, and the three engines were bound to rely on his propulsion research and findings.

  His baggage was handed to another, even bigger man, whose bulk had been squashed into a suit, and Professor Schwarzkopf followed him on board.

  The interior was luxurious. Dark wooden cabinets with glass fronts stood opposite the entrance. Bottles of high-quality bourbons and whiskeys, glasses, tumblers and fine crockery rested securely on special shelves. Beside them were two comfortable looking chairs sat opposite each other with a small table between them. Further, down the plane, towards the tail, were four large airline chairs, in cream leather and with wide, wooden arm rests. They were arranged in a circle, fixed to the floor and all facing inward. As Professor Schwarzkopf walked towards them, one chair spun casually around, and a thick cloud of cigarette smoke followed.

  “Hello John, it’s been a long time,” greeted Agent Angel, “too long.”

  Professor Schwarzkopf froze and stared at Agent Angel. He was unsure as to how to respond.

  “You’re supposed to be dead,” he finally said.

  “You know how stories get exaggerated,” replied Agent Angel with a smile.

  “But I was invited to your funeral, it was somewhere in Europe.”

  Agent Angel shook his head from side to side slowly. “Things were becoming difficult, shall I say. Anyway, the subject is closed.” He lifted his hand to signal the end of that conversation and as he dropped it again he asked, “How long has it been since I saw you last, John?”

  There was a long pause while Professor Schwarzkopf stared at the man who had come back from the grave.

  “Thirty-three years I believe Buddy,” he eventually replied, “and you still insist on calling me John rather than Johan.”

  “That long John, well doesn’t time fly?” said Agent Angel with a touch of menace. “Please, have a seat. We’ll be taking off as soon as you are buckled up.”

  Professor Schwarzkopf sat opposite Agent Ange
l and took a long look at him. Apart from going grey and acquiring soft wrinkles he had hardly changed in the years since they had last met. His body was still the size of a bear; he still looked to be covered in hair, and he still seemed as strong as ever.

  “Death obviously suits you, Buddy. You’re looking well. I assume you’re retired,” commented Professor Schwarzkopf, suddenly painfully aware of how old he must look.

  “I’m not retired John, could never find the time.”

  “But I thought all government employees had to retire at a certain age. Especially when they are supposed to be dead!”

  “Depends if you work for the government or if the government works for you,” replied Agent Angel with a twisted smile and a wink.

  Not knowing what else to do, Professor Schwarzkopf laughed.

  Their conversation stopped until the plane was at altitude. Agent Angel lit another cigarette during the ascent and Professor Schwarzkopf contemplated the man in front of him, whom he had thought dead. He was worried by what he saw.

  When the plane levelled out both men were served, for old times’ sake, bourbon on the rocks. Professor Schwarzkopf took one mouthful, and as the cold liquor hit the back of his throat, he was forced into a coughing fit. Agent Angel watched with interest, the tumbler of whisky resting in the palm of his hand. After the coughing had finished Agent Angel began to speak.

  “In the last thirty-three years I have not changed John and, from what I hear, nor have you. We’re both too long in the tooth and too set in our ways. I know you, and you know me, so I am just going to get straight to the point. Five days ago we completed a successful rendition, or should I say recovery, of a craft from Romania. It was silver in colour, looks metallic and has no signs of an entrance on it. Ring any bells?”

  Professor Schwarzkopf’s shoulders drooped, “You know it does. You were there too, many years ago.”

  “Well, this one is definitely not extra-terrestrial, it was jettisoned from the European Space Station some years ago but it is almost identical in every other aspect.”

  He stopped, swirled the dark liquid and ice-cubes around in the tumbler and waited for his words to sink in. He did not have to wait long.

  “The European Space Station blew up over ten years ago.”

  “I know. A most unfortunate accident. Thank the Lord no one was on board at the time.”

  “But if it was that long ago why has it taken until now to find it?”

  “It’s a big planet, John, things get lost. And funnily enough those flakey Europeans knew nothing about it.”

  Professor Schwarzkopf thought about the enormity of the discovery. Another silver craft, over sixty years later. Why? There must be a reason. Why did Agent Angel need him? The question spread across his face in puzzled wrinkles and Agent Angel answered it before he asked.

  “We want you to open it.”

  He stubbed out his cigarette and in one movement lit another one.

  Leaning forward in his chair and staring Agent Angel straight in the eye, Professor Schwarzkopf asked, “Why me? With all the technology you possess, surely you can do it?”

  “We can’t and you opened one before...”

  Professor Schwarzkopf interrupted, “That was a long time ago Buddy, and you know as well as I do, that it wasn’t me that got it open, it was Ingrid.”

  “But you were there, you saw her do it,” he paused. “If anyone knows, you do. She was your wife.”

  “Let me think about it,” but he knew that he didn’t really have a choice.

  “Take all the time you need. We have a while before we land.”

  Professor Schwarzkopf tried to relax back into this chair as more memories came flooding back to him.

  The white-suited scientist had led Major Marshall, Ingrid and himself into a white tiled operating room. It was sparkling in its cleanliness. Two metal operating tables stood in the centre and upon them, covered in white sheets, were two child-sized bodies.

  “Don’t worry,” reassured the scientist through his mask, “they are quite dead. Come closer, have a look.”

  But Ingrid had stopped; she was frozen. She did not approach the table and just stayed near the door, staring at the covered bodies.

  “They’re not dead,” she announced in a whisper and left as quickly as she could.

  He followed, and Major Marshall followed him. The sheets on the operating tables had not been touched.

  They found her waiting nervously by the lift. She was pacing up and down biting her nails, repeatedly touching her forehead and refusing to talk. As Major Marshall opened the caged door, she pushed past him and stood with her back to the two men.

  By the time, they arrived back on the surface her hands had returned to her sides. She was less agitated, and a look of determination had appeared on her face. When they left the bunker and emerged into the daylight, he felt it was safe to talk to her again.

  “What did you mean down there?” he asked, holding her hand lightly.

  “Women’s intuition,” she replied, kissed him on the lips and walked off assertively towards Hangar 84.

  It was probably the most memorable kiss he would ever receive.

  Behind him, Major Marshall sniggered, “Broads, I’ll never understand them.”

  Ingrid was in Hangar 84 when he caught up with her. She was in the area shielded by temporary, wooden boards, sitting on a fallen gas cylinder, at the tip of the silver dart. Her eyes were closed, and her head was bowed. He laid his hand gently on her shoulder, but she shook him off and said nothing. Seconds turned into minutes which became hours. She did not move, and he just stood and watched her.

  After seven hours, he uttered the words he would come to regret. “I’ll go and get you a drink.”

  When he returned with two cups of steaming hot coffee the silver dart was open. Ingrid was standing beside it. He could not work out if she looked victorious or defeated.

  “We’ll be landing soon gentlemen,” said a voice over the jet’s speaker system. “Better buckle up.”

  Professor Schwarzkopf made sure his seatbelt was fastened and faced Agent Angel.

  “Why are we going back to Roswell, Buddy?”

  Agent Angel blew out some cigarette smoke and smirked, “The place is so full of UFO nuts that even if someone did see something nobody would believe them. But don’t worry no one will see anything.”

  “I didn’t mean that, I meant why are we going? Why now? Why me? Why you?” Professor Schwarzkopf looked and sounded tired.

  Staring intently at the Professor, Agent Angel replied seriously, “Because whatever is, or was, inside that silver craft could change our way of life forever.”

  Back to Contents

  ***

  Chapter 10 - Prague Anglo-International School

  The day before school began Eric and Ursula found they had something in common; something they could finally agree upon.

  It was Sunday evening, and they were eating a late dinner out on the terrace. The sun was setting and the vineyard, which they overlooked, was bathed in glorious orange. Moths fluttered madly around the terrace lights, and crickets could be heard serenading each other around the vines. Andrea placed a selection of salads on the table in front of the children, who were trying to ignore each other.

  Since the cellar incident, they had not communicated. Even when Ursula got her revenge, by pouring the contents of the compost heap over Eric in his bed, they said nothing. Normally the only communication at dinner time was with Andrea, whom Ursula had come to trust and whom Eric relied on.

  They ate in silence and then Eric, hunched over his food, grumbled to himself, “I hate going back to school.”

  Ursula, who was staring at the train track at the bottom of the vineyard, replied through a mouthful of salad, “So do I.”

  “I can’t do what I want,” continued Eric.

  “I get told what to do,” followed Ursula.

  “And when to do it.”

  “And how to do it.”


  They both paused, playing with their food absent-mindedly and watching a passenger train pass by.

  “The worst thing of all is...,” began Eric.

  “...I can’t just be free,” finished Ursula.

  The train chugged out of sight, and they were pulled back to reality. For a split second, they looked at each other and then went back to eating.

  When they arrived at school the next morning, Andrea dropped them at the main entrance. Eric ran off, to rid himself of Ursula, as Andrea drove away. Ursula stood alone on the brick path looking up at the building. It was a different world to her old school. For a start, it was definitely not old. Her Parisian school had existed for over eighty years; it was in need of repair, was dirty and covered in graffiti. This school looked brand new. The school sign glistened in the sunlight, and the yellow paint looked fresh.

  Children were arriving at the front of the building every few seconds, but none had walked to school. Instead, they were dropped off by adults driving Jaguars, Mercedes, BMWs and other expensive looking cars. All the children were dressed the same as Ursula. They wore black trousers or skirts, red polo necks and blue V-necked sweaters which were taken off the moment they got out of the air-conditioned cars. They all hurried past her into the school while Ursula stood and stared. She felt she was watching a car show, not that she had ever been to one. After watching a Rolls Royce drive by a ‘normal’ car came around the corner, it was a small, green Škoda. Back home it would have seemed quite new, and a target for car thieves, but here it just looked out of place.

  The Škoda stopped right beside her and three similar looking girls piled out, laughing and joking. All three of them were smaller than Ursula.

  “Hello,” said the oldest looking one, approaching her, “are you waiting for someone?”

  “Er, no,” replied Ursula and not knowing what else to say, said, “I’m new.”

  “I’m old,” said the girl, “and my name’s Molly.”