by A. D. Winch
A tear ran down his cheek along the lines of his wrinkles.
“Why did we stay here so long together?” he asked himself silently.
The answer followed his question the moment he had asked it, “Because they had been making more scientific discoveries every year than all the other scientists on the planet, and enjoying doing so.”
His next question he could not answer, “Why did I stay so long after...?”
Parts of the Army Air Field had been open to tourists for a few years, but the majority of it was still a functioning base. ‘UFO Veterans’ gave tours around those places that were no longer ‘no-go’ areas and this included Hangar 84.
Near the entrance to the base, Professor Schwarzkopf saw a large sign stating, ‘Hangar 84 Tours HERE!’ Three solitary men, one in a ‘Close Encounter of the Roswell kind’ T-shirt, the other with a flag stating, ‘I survived Hangar 84’ and the last wearing a red cap embossed with ‘UFO,’ stood below it.
The car drove past the base, continued onto a lonely highway further out of town and into the barren wasteland that best resembled a desert. Mountains grew bigger as they drove on, and sandy rock rose up beside the road. As they approached a lonely cactus, the driver slowed down and carefully checked his mirror. Once he was satisfied that nobody was behind them, he sped up towards a line of billboards by the side of the road. Each one of them was the size of a cinema screen, and all had similar messages - ‘Visit Roswell,' ‘Come to the capital of UFOs’ and ‘Welcome to Alien Country.’ Around them were adverts for cigarettes, fuel-guzzling cars and electrical goods that no one really needed. The driver took a black credit card from his pocket and pressed it. He slowed down again and pulled off the road. The car bounced over the uneven ground as they approached the billboards. A door, previously invisible, slid open underneath a gigantic picture of an alien and the Yukon drove through it. Looking through the rear window, Professor Schwarzkopf watched as the door shut behind them. In the front of the car, Agent Angel had not taken his concentration away from his cigarette.
They were now driving along a rough track between two rocky banks, towards the jagged mountains. The Yukon was hidden as it bumped along, unseen by anyone on the road as if it had simply vanished from the highway.
After half an hour, they reached the foothills, and the banks were replaced by sharp rocky inclines on both sides of the jeep. A little further along the Yukon approached a roadblock manned by two soldiers in desert fatigues. A dry and branchless tree trunk blocked the road, and the Yukon stopped in front of it. On seeing Agent Angel and his ID, the tree was immediately lifted. They drove under it, slalomed through concrete-filled barrels and were away. The narrow road turned a corner and all at once they were on a large plain surrounded on all sides by mountains. The road became a very long runway, much longer than a typical one, and Professor Schwarzkopf knew he was back on an air force base.
At the end of the runway, he could see soldiers marching and jeeps driving around purposefully. Some soldiers, who were obviously off duty, were drinking long, cool drinks underneath camouflage nets and outdoor air conditioning units. It amazed Professor Schwarzkopf to see how much energy was being wasted by these units when soldiers could simply sit in the shade. As they drove closer to the soldiers, it dawned on Professor Schwarzkopf that there were no buildings. No offices, no sleeping quarters, no hangars, only the camouflage nets. It wasn’t until the jeep drove towards the bottom of a mountain that he realized why. The base was underground.
Thirty metres above the entrance into the mountain was a long, overhanging rock. It prevented the entrance being seen from the air, in spite of its size. The Yukon slowed down, drove into it and disappeared into the mountain. After a few hundred metres, it pulled up beside a rocky wall and stopped. Professor Schwarzkopf opened his door gingerly; a vague feeling of excitement beginning to grip him, and got out.
The vast space in which he now stood was a hangar, at least three times larger than Hangar 84. Five Raptor jet fighters stood on the far side, missiles gleaming below their slick wings. Mechanics crawled over the jets busily checking the fuselage and engines. In the centre were two sinister looking Aurora jets, the fastest fighter planes in the world. Professor Schwarzkopf knew that they could reach speeds of Mach six, two kilometres a second, but officially they did not exist. These storm grey planes were triangular in shape, and obviously had their roots in technology discovered in Roswell in nineteen forty-seven. Beside the Aurora stood three Black Hawk helicopters and behind them was a sealed off area. Tall, blank screens shielded, from the rest of the hangar, whatever was not for public viewing.
Beside a temporary door in the screens were two soldiers, guarding the entrance. Professor Schwarzkopf knew what they were protecting. As he looked at the guards, he realized that they had no American flag on their desert fatigues. Carefully, he looked around the hangar, at the mechanics and soldiers, but he could not see a flag anywhere. They all seemed American; over the banging of tools and firing of jet engines he could definitely hear American accents. They also seemed very confident and...and...
There was something else, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. Something that reminded him of the last time he was at Roswell.
Agent Angel came up behind Professor Schwarzkopf and woke him from his thoughts with a hefty slap on the shoulder.
“It’s good to be back, isn’t it John!” and he lit another cigarette.
For a moment Professor Schwarzkopf said nothing, he just looked around.
“I don’t know yet, Buddy.”
His comment was ignored as a soldier in plain uniform approached. He saluted the two older men and gave two white, clip-on badges to Agent Angel. There was nothing written upon them. Agent Angel put one on his suit and passed the other to Professor Schwarzkopf.
“It doesn’t look like much, but this could keep you alive,” said Agent Angel.
He paused to let Professor Schwarzkopf think about what he had said.
“It gives off a different heat pattern to your body. We have a heat monitoring system over the whole base. If you are wearing one of these things,” he tapped his ID badge with his cigarette, “you’ll appear as a white blob on our computers. If you are not wearing it, you’ll appear red or orange or yellow, depending on your real temperature. Within fifteen seconds of us spotting this you’ll be staring down the barrel of an automatic weapon.”
“I’ll wear it,” replied Professor Schwarzkopf. There was nothing else to say.
“Swell,” applauded Agent Angel and slapped Professor Schwarzkopf hard on the back again, “come on, I’ll show you to your quarters.”
He led Professor Schwarzkopf away from the Yukon towards a door that resembled a submarine hatch. It was embedded in the wall behind the helicopters and had a metal wheel in its centre rather than a handle. As they walked, Professor Schwarzkopf tried to find something on the clothing of any soldier which indicated their unit or regiment or rank. Nothing was visible except for the white badges. All the uniforms had been stripped of anything that would make the soldiers easy to identify.
“You’ll find the facilities have improved since we were at the Army Air Field, 509th, John. In your quarters...”
Professor Schwarzkopf interrupted, “Is this part of the 509th?”
“No.”
“A military base?”
“Not technically,” replied Agent Angel mysteriously.
Professor Schwarzkopf, who was used to working in secret, was unflustered by this response and asked, “Then whose base is it? Who am I working for? I assume that it is a government base, and I am working for the government?”
“Yes and no.”
Professor Schwarzkopf stopped, pulled back Agent Angel and faced him. He did not appreciate Agent Angel’s ambiguous answers and Agent Angel did not appreciate being touched.
“On the plane you said we know each other too well. You said we’re too long in the tooth; we should get straight to the point and other baloney. Well let’s
get to the point now. What does ‘yes and no’ mean, Buddy? Who exactly am I working for?”
“You’re working for me,” Agent Angel answered directly.
“And, in other words, I’m working for?”
“The Office for Strategic Services.”
Professor Schwarzkopf tried not to look too shocked, but his mouth still fell open like a hungry fish.
“The OSS! The OSS ceased to exist before I arrived in this country. It was replaced by the CIA.”
“You’re right, John” agreed Agent Angel. “I don’t want to bore you with details but publicly you are right. In September nineteen forty-five, President Truman disbanded the OSS. But, well how should I put this?”
He finished off his cigarette, threw it on the floor and crushed the butt under his foot.
“You see, we felt our great nation needed an agency that no one knew about.”
“But it’s impossible to keep an organization secret,” stated Professor Schwarzkopf firmly. “Politicians, military leaders, department chiefs, they would all need to know. There would be leaks; people would find out. You know that as well as I do.”
Taking a fresh cigarette packet from his pocket, Agent Angel asked, “How do you stop leaks, John?” He did not wait for a reply and continued, “You make sure everything is water tight and secure. And how do you do that? I’ll tell you.”
He leant forward and whispered in Professor Schwarzkopf’s ear, “You make sure the Heads of the Army, Navy and Airforce, CIA and FBI, the Secretary of Defense, Secretary of State and the President are all your guys. One team playing for you or, in this case, me. As I said on the plane, I don’t work for the government anymore. The government works for me. And everyone here knows it.”
Despite the pleasant temperature in the mountain hanger, Professor Schwarzkopf felt a chill run down his back.
“Let’s walk and talk,” suggested Agent Angel and moved away.
Professor Schwarzkopf joined him.
“But this base isn’t invisible. People must be able to see it?”
His throat itched and, unable to contain it, he broke into a fit of coughing. When he had finished Agent Angel answered the question.
“You always did ask lots of questions, John. I guess that’s what made you such a damn fine scientist.” He paused and then spoke as if he was telling a bedtime story to a small child. “This base is in the middle of a desert state. It was built while you were still at Roswell, and I bet you didn’t even know.”
Professor Schwarzkopf shook his head, “But what about passing planes or wandering tourists or Google earth or spy satellites, surely someone must have seen it?”
“No planes are allowed in this air space because of the Army Air Field base at Roswell and any that do come this way are instructed to turn around before we blow them out of the sky. Tourists don’t walk into the desert, and over mountains, in hundred degree heat. We control Google Earth, in fact, we control the internet. And lastly, spy satellites ignore this area because all the false UFO sightings have made it a joke. You wouldn’t believe how many people send remote control, home-made UFOs into the sky around here in an attempt to become famous. Especially when they receive anonymous money and instructions on how to do it.”
They arrived at the door, and Agent Angel turned the wheel to open it.
Professor Schwarzkopf asked, “One last question. What about the media - TV, radio and newspapers and others?”
The door opened, and Agent Angel answered, “News is controlled by very few people, the media moguls. You should know that. Control these people and you control the news. Any minor, local, news channel or newspaper can easily be discredited if you get the nationals on to it.”
They walked through the doorway and into a halogen lit passage. Agent Angel led Professor Schwarzkopf a little way along to a closed door. As Professor Schwarzkopf stepped towards the door, it slid open.
“From the outside, it will open for you, and only you, but you must be wearing your ID badge,” said Agent Angel by way of explanation.
The two men entered a small but well contained room. It was like a ship’s cabin; a computer dominated a small desk, and Professor Schwarzkopf’s two suitcases had been placed next to his bunk.
“Have a rest, John,” urged Agent Angel strongly. “You’ll be collected at o-eight-hundred hours for a full briefing.”
Before Professor Schwarzkopf had a chance to ask any more questions, Agent Angel left, and only the smell of his cigarette remained. The door slid silently shut, and Professor Schwarzkopf laydown on the regulation size bunk. He felt tired, but his head was buzzing with so many thoughts that he could not rest. In less than a day, he had met a man he thought was dead, discovered an organization he believed had been disbanded was thriving, and he had returned to a place he thought he would never see again. Perhaps the thought that most worried him was the one involving Agent Angel. If what he said was true then Buddy Angel was the most powerful man in America, which in turn made him possibly the most powerful man in the world and a man whom Professor Schwarzkopf had never fully trusted. Another cold chill crept down his spine, and he began to cough.
At o-eight hundred hours, Professor Schwarzkopf was collected as promised and taken to the briefing room. It was big enough to seat twelve people at six desks. At the front of the room was a large whiteboard and a computer screen. Standing beside them, slightly hunched and holding a pointer like a sword, was Jean Kurtz. She was an average looking woman with average build, average face and average hair. She was, in Professor Schwarzkopf’s opinion, truly unmemorable.
Jean was one of five scientists on the base and perhaps, felt Professor Schwarzkopf, the one with least social skills, and he had yet to meet the rest. It was a struggle to listen to her loud, whiney voice and watch her ‘I know everything’ attitude, but he did his best. He suspected that Jean had been given the briefing job to get her out of everyone else’s hair for a while. She spoke for almost an hour, but Professor Schwarzkopf could summarize her speech in four short sentences.
Firstly, the ‘new’ silver craft appeared to have the same properties as the ‘old’ alien dart. Secondly, it came from the vicinity of the European Space Station. Thirdly, the USA knew it had landed in Europe over ten years ago but its exact location was only discovered recently. Lastly, they couldn’t open it. In other words, nothing in the briefing was new to him.
Jean spoke to Professor Schwarzkopf as if he was a child and when she asked if he had any questions he almost put his hand up. Instead, he simply asked if he could see it.
The two soldiers stopped laughing as Professor Schwarzkopf and Jean Kurtz approached the screened off area of the hangar. Instantly their faces became serious; they scanned the ID badges and then let the scientists pass.
Immediately behind the entrance there was a preparation chamber which felt like being in a room-sized plastic bag. The chamber contained white body suits, surgical masks and plastic socks which hung neatly on coat stands. Professor Schwarzkopf, much to the annoyance of Jean Kurtz, walked straight past them, and towards a door that was zipped shut.
“We’ll contaminate the craft,” she whined.
“I didn’t contaminate it in nineteen forty-seven and I won’t contaminate it now,” answered Professor Schwarzkopf gruffly as he unzipped the door and stepped through.
The screens were dark and imposing, and it was like walking into a funeral parlour. Along the far screen was a table, but instead of flowers and photos it had a computer and a microscope. A selection of technical equipment lay against the other screens like urns and in the centre of the space, like a coffin, lay the craft.
It was a lot smaller than the ‘old’ dart and on first impressions he thought it looked more like a shell found at the seaside. Professor Schwarzkopf looked slowly around it.
“This wasn’t designed to fly,” he muttered to himself quietly.
Jean Kurtz, who was hovering by his shoulder like a shadow, overheard.
“I’m sure you�
��re mistaken. Whatever makes you think such a stupid thing?” she asked.
Professor Schwarzkopf bit his tongue and tried to answer politely, “Because my craft, the ‘old’ dart was just that, a dart. This is different; it is all curves. My dart was all triangles so it could speed through the air. This looks to me like a shell, no not a shell, but a..., a...., a pod. A seed from that tree...”
He paused, unable to find the word, “I’m sorry, my English still has gaps even after all these years. I don’t know the names of all flora and fauna. It looks like the end of the seed that floats down from the tree like a helicopter.”
“The Sycamore tree,” stated Jean as if the answer was hardly worth her breath, “but surely professor, the Sycamore has a wing which turns it into a helicopter. There is no wing here.”
Professor Schwarzkopf stopped pacing around the silver pod, “That doesn’t mean it couldn’t grow one, as and when it needed it.”
He put out his hand slowly, appreciating the moment, and then knocked his knuckles against the pod’s hard surface.
“With all due respect, Sir, I do not...”
To stop Kurtz saying anymore Professor Schwarzkopf placed his hand gently in front of her mouth.
“Don’t you ‘with all due respect’ me. If you have a question or a statement, you ask it or say it. But you do not patronize me. I may be old, but I still have all my faculties, and I have much more experience in this area than you,” and he began to cough.
Jean Kurtz looked annoyed and uttered under her breath, “It’s just a machine, Professor.”
The coughing gradually stopped, and Professor Schwarzkopf answered, “Is it?”
That night, as he lay on his narrow bunk, the same thought came back again and again. A thought that bothered him very much: the truth. The truth was that there was nothing he could physically do to open the pod and he knew it.
