Thin Air

by George Simpson

"Then why keep these records at all?"

  "To fulfill our function. We can say we have something on file. There's enough here to indicate the project did exist, but no more than that. There doesn't have to be."

  "If the Chief of Naval Operations ordered you to produce the complete file on Thin Air, could you comply?"

  "I'd hand him this," said Canazaro, waving the file.

  The pattern was repeating. The file on Thin Air and the strange computer linkup at BUPERS that nobody could trace. The road went just so far, then hit a blank wall.

  "Who would you suggest I ask?" Hammond said quietly.

  A tight little smile creased Canazaro's face. "I'm just as much in the dark as you. The information is simply not available."

  Hammond took a deep breath then blew it out. "What about some of the names?" he sighed. "Kurtnauer, Rinehart, Traben? Ring any bells?"

  Canazaro leaned back in his chair with a frown. "No," he said. "Sorry..."

  Hammond thanked him. "If you have any more thoughts on this, I'd appreciate a call."

  "Absolutely."

  "And if anybody else gets in touch with you about Thin Air, let me know right away."

  "You bet."

  Hammond returned to the Pentagon, went straight to his office, and closed the door. He felt a lump rolling in his stomach as he telephoned the safe house in Herndon. Nerves. Excitement. The sense of getting closer.

  "MAGIC," answered a low voice.

  "Up your fairy godmother with a—"

  "Okay, Hammond," breathed the voice. It was Ike Menninger. He scolded, "You could follow the rules once in a—"

  "Just put our guest on the phone, Ike."

  Yablonski took the line. "Hello?"

  "How's it going, Cas? Treating you all right?"

  "Just great Momma loves it"

  "How's your leg?"

  "Better." There was an expectant silence.

  "Feel up to answering some questions?"

  "Fire away."

  Hammond read from his notepad. Everything he'd written down. When he finished, he asked Yablonski if it meant anything to him.

  Another silence.

  "'You mentioned Rinehart before, Cas. We've got it on tape."

  "I'm sorry...I just can't remember," Yablonski said, agitation creeping into his voice. "Is it that important?"

  "Yes."

  "Well, damnit, I'm sorry—"

  Hammond cursed to himself. Things kept going in and out of Yablonski's memory: it had been tampered with so much.

  "I'm going to send Cohen and Slater down to work with you again," said Hammond. "We've got to have the benefit of what you know. It's not going to be pleasant but at least you won't be left with the residual effects you've had in the past. No more nightmares, Cas."

  The pause got even longer, then Hammond heard him growl back, "Hammond, I don't want to end up like George Olively."

  "You won't. Sure, there's a risk. But remember, these two men are on your side."

  "Where are you going to be while all this is happening?"

  "I don't know yet. I'll be with you if I can. Will you do it?"

  There was an audible sigh, then: "Yes."

  "Ten a.m. tomorrow, then. And thanks. My regards to Momma."

  "You're a real politician, Hammond."

  Hammond laughed and hung up. The rolling lump had become a knot in his stomach. This was the rotten part of his work: manipulating people. And for what? Jan Fletcher was right. He was a bastard who set himself no parameters. He hadn't the faintest idea how Yablonski's mind would react to further tinkering, yet he was prepared to go ahead and tinker.

  And there was a risk. There most certainly was. Hammond could only hope it was minimal. He already felt responsible for Harold Fletcher: he didn't need a second helping of guilt.

  Cohen agreed to work on Yablonski, but he wasn't happy about it. "I don't like it," he said flatly. "We're rushing him."

  "Then do it without liking it," said Hammond, just as flatly. "We don't have time to cock around. There's a maniac on the loose: McCarthy. You and Slater handle this end of it, tomorrow morning at ten." Hammond slammed down the receiver.

  His foul mood was interrupted by the arrival of a messenger from ONR. In the bulky envelope were Xerox copies of the Thin Air file, and something else: a worn book with a tattered dust jacket and a note from Canazaro clipped to the front. The note said simply, "Call me when you get this, H.C." Hammond lifted the paper and stared at the book cover. A Station in Space, it was titled...by Whitney Rinehart.

  Hammond's throat started to pulse with excitement. His hand shook as he dialed Canazaro.

  "Commander Canazaro?"

  "Hammond? You got the book?"

  "I got the book."

  Canazaro took a deep breath. "It occurred to me after you left that the name Rinehart was familiar, but I couldn't place it. Had the feeling I'd seen it on a book cover. So I called my wife and asked if we had a book by a Whitney Rinehart. She laughed, said I should remember it. It was the one thing she had when we got married that I'd wanted to throw out."

  "What's it about?"

  "UFOs. It's old, written in the fifties. Tears the government apart. Tells how proof was being suppressed, the public kept in the dark, and why. That's just chapter one. It goes downhill from there. I don't think it's your cup of tea, Hammond. The guy who wrote it wasn't playing with a full deck."

  "Canazaro—I owe you a steak."

  "Hey, listen, I'm not saying this is the same guy, but it is the same name."

  "Leave that to me. Thanks. And thank your wife."

  "Just return the book someday or I'll never hear the end of it."

  Hammond skimmed through A Station in Space. It was indeed the work of a crackpot—loaded with illustrations, gimmicked-up photos, and half-baked theories. Some of Hammond's wild burst of enthusiasm subsided while reading this stuff. From his own writings, Rinehart didn't sound too promising as a key figure in this case.

  Hammond called the publishing house and inquired about contacting the author. He was directed to the publicity department, where a young man listened politely as he identified himself and stated his request. "We're unable to give out home addresses and phone numbers of authors," the man said, "but if you'll give me some time to verify your credentials, I'll see what I can do."

  Hammond agreed grudgingly and hung up. Thirty minutes later, he was called back. "Commander Hammond?" the voice said.

  "Yes," Hammond answered.

  "Good. You're for real, I had to do some checking to track you down. Thanks for cooperating.

  "No trouble. Would you like a job?"

  The young man laughed, and then got serious. "I spoke with Mr. Rinehart at his home—"

  "Where?" interrupted Hammond.

  "One second, sir. He doesn't want to speak with anyone connected with the Navy, so I'm afraid I cannot give you his number."

  Hammond ground his teeth silently. "Look," he said, "call him back and tell him I'm a Naval investigator working on a special case and there are lives at stake. Ask him to call me back, collect!"

  "Okay, sir...I'll try."

  Hammond sat for another hour, not daring to leave. Finally the phone rang. It was the receptionist with a collect call. He told her to have it traced, then waited eagerly to be connected.

  The scratchy voice sounded like a cross between Gabby Hayes and Walter Huston. "This is Rinehart speaking."

  "Mr. Rinehart, my name is Hammond. I appreciate your calling—"

  "Make it quick, will ya?"

  "Yes, sir." Hammond took a breath. "What can you tell me about Project Thin Air?"

  There was a pronounced silence, then Rinehart snarled, "Why are you people still hounding me? After all this time?!"

  Hammond winced. God, he was loud. "The government moves slowly, sir. I would like to hear your side."

  "You're too late to change anything!"

  "Change what, sir?"

  Rinehart chuckled dryly. "Sonofabitch—why don't I just
hang up?"

  There was a significant silence, and Hammond suddenly knew why. "Because you'd like someone to find out what really happened."

  "Oh? Would I?'

  "For instance, how about the first head of the project—Dr. Emil Kurtnauer?"

  "Never heard of him. Anything else?"

  Hammond didn't know whether Rinehart was being cantankerous or cagey. Whichever, he had to play along. "Well then, how about—?"

  "Back off, sonny!" Rinehart snapped. "Not over the phone!"

  "Yes, sir. What if I brought you to Washington—at government expense?"

  "There's not enough money in the world to get me back in that town, Hammond."

  "Then I'll come out to see you."

  "I might not be here."

  "I'll take the chance, sir."

  The line abruptly went dead.

  Rinehart was obviously a kook of the highest order and Hammond had little hope about the sort of information he would get from the man. But it was still his first firm lead—and the only prospect who might talk with authority about Thin Air.

  The receptionist called back with the results of the trace. She had gotten the phone number and area code from the operator and had pinpointed the area as Taos, New Mexico. Hammond contacted the FBI computer and in ten minutes had Rinehart's address.

  He went down to the Pentagon Transit Center and picked up maps of New Mexico. It took him twenty minutes to plot his route from Kirtland Air Force Base to Rinehart's backwoods home outside Taos.

  Five minutes after Hammond took off alone in another F4 from the MATS terminal, a Navy Lieutenant Commander walked into Base Ops and casually checked the status board. He was a big man and the uniform was a tight fit. He took off his cap and scratched his crewcut black hair. Probing eyes noted Hammond's departure time and destination: Kirtland AFB, Albuquerque, New Mexico.

  The hand froze on his head for just a second, then he relaxed and leaned over the counter, winking at the Air Force dispatcher.

  "That flight to Kirtland," he said. "That's a friend of mine. Guess I just missed him. Is that an RON?"

  The dispatcher obligingly checked his papers, looking for "rest overnight" on Hammond's departure. He shook his head. "Didn't file a return flight plan, sir. Could be RON, could be anything. Hope he makes up his mind."

  The Navy officer returned his smile. "Me, too," he said.

  He left the building, walked to the parking lot, climbed into a Navy staff car and drove to a pay phone on the base. He called a number in Los Angeles, California, waited for an answer, then spoke one short sentence:

  "He's on his way to see the old man."

  12

  Taos was on a high flat plain at six thousand feet, under the massive red rims of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. As he drove across the plateau toward town, Hammond passed rows of cottonwoods twinkling with fresh-fallen snow, illuminated by sunlight streaming through black clouds. Ancient adobe churches were dusty-pink and ranch spreads stretched across acres of sparse grazing land.

  Hammond was delighted: he'd never seen this part of the country before. He could easily understand why an old recluse might choose to live out his life here.

  He drove swiftly through the plaza, spotting one of Taos' Pueblo Indians standing in a doorway, wrapped in a blanket and clutching a shopping bag. He passed a young couple shuffling through mud at the side of the road, both dressed in ragged jeans and sporting long, stringy hair. The old and the new, living in harmonious proximity.

  He stopped to ask directions at a broken-down gas station. He was sent about five miles out of town, then east up the lowlands into the Sangre de Cristos. Rinehart lived in a low adobe house on one of the back roads beside a stream lined with cottonwoods. In the yard was a battered '58 Ford. Smoke curled from his chimney. A light snow was still falling, piling up in the patches left over from the last fall."

  Hammond parked his borrowed Air Force staff car and stepped out. He was struck by the intensity of the fresh air—and the chill. He zipped up his flight jacket. Clutching Slater's Uher tape deck under his arm and with cassette tapes stuffed in his pockets, Hammond jogged over to the house and banged on the door.

  A long moment later, the old wooden door creaked open and warm air rushed out. He stared at the suspicious old man glaring at him from inside.

  "Mr. Rinehart, I'm Hammond." He stuck out his free hand. Immediately, a ball of fur between the old man's legs scooted back out of the way. Another cat strolled up and sniffed the threshold, trying not to seem too interested in the stranger. Rinehart regarded Hammond warily, then opened the door and motioned him in.

  Hammond stepped into a long, low room cluttered with old books and periodicals. Bookshelves covered every available space on the walls. There were no pictures; everything seemed to overflow into piles on the floor and against the walls, even behind the few sagging pieces of furniture....

  Cats and dogs were everywhere, roosting in beds of magazines, moving quietly or ranged about the room in sleep. The place reeked of dog and old newsprint.

  Hammond managed a wan smile at Rinehart, who still hadn't said a word, but stood at the closed door, studying him.

  "Tea?" the old man finally croaked, and had to clear his throat with loud rasping hacks. Obviously, he did very little talking up here in his hideaway. But it was the first sign of civility and Hammond made delighted sounds.

  "Beautiful country up here, Mr. Rinehart. Never seen anything like it." Hammond followed him out to the kitchen. Filthy, cracked dishes were all over the counter. Rinehart shuffled to the tap, filled his kettle and put it on the fire. He held up a box or crackers, which Hammond declined. He didn't know how he was going to drink that tea.

  He strolled back into the living room followed by a dozen pairs of eyes. The cats and dogs quickly grew accustomed to him, except for one skinny Siamese who bolted every time Hammond moved. He watched Rinehart shuffling around in the kitchen—a thin, stooped old man with a patch of wispy white fur on his head, his skin parchment yellow and drawn tight over a skull face. His broad expression could be as easily mistaken for displeasure as a smile.

  He returned with a pot of herb tea and poured it into chipped mugs. Hammond noticed his hands shook slightly. A couple of fingers were missing and a couple were stubbed. Rinehart sat down in a fluffy old chair and sipped his tea, quietly regarding his collection of garbage. Hammond also sat down and placed his tape recorder on a stool.

  "Know anything about UFOs?" croaked Rinehart.

  "A little."

  "A little, huh? Won't do you much good. Makes you one of the great uninformed. Gotta know a lot. It's important."

  "I'm sure it is, sir."

  Rinehart grunted, agreeing with himself. Then his eye fell sharply on Hammond. "Never seen one myself. But I know they're around. How's that for faith, son?"

  "Commendable."

  "That's what it takes to accept things: faith. Knowledge through faith—the certainty that something can exist—against all odds." Rinehart spoke with a hurried tone and a chuckle at the end of every sage comment He smiled—at least Hammond took it for a smile. "Sounds like religious hooey, don't it, son?"

  "Remarkably." Hammond grinned back.

  "Hah!" Rinehart hooted, then cackled to himself and regarded Hammond with less suspicion. "Time to time, maybe you'll get up and poke them logs, would you?" he asked.

  Hammond glanced at the fire, then nodded. "You know why I'm here, Mr. Rinehart. It has nothing to do with UFOs."

  "Oh, yes it does. Everything has to do with UFOs."

  "Excuse me, sir, but according to your book, you were drummed out of government service because you believed that," Hammond said. "I would have thought..." He stopped.

  "That my tune had changed? Hah! They booted me out all right—called me an embarrassment. And it was because of my theories on UFOs. At least, that was the excuse they used."

  "There was another reason?"

  Rinehart sipped his tea and looked at Hammond with shrouded ey
es again. Hammond was still for a moment, then put down his tea and made a show of loading the Uher. "If you don't mind, sir, this conversation will be useless if I don't record it."

  "It'll be useless either way, son, because you're not equipped to believe any of it."

  "We'll see, sir."

  Rinehart sniffed in contempt but added nothing. Hammond set up the mike and switched it on. "The fire, son," mumbled Rinehart. Hammond rose and poked the fire. He heard the question snapped at him from behind: "Why do you want to know about Thin Air?"

  Hammond propped the poker against the wall. "I was brought into it by someone who claimed to have been involved," he said, "and who has since died under peculiar circumstances."

  "What circumstances?"

  "He was murdered."

  There was a flicker of concern. "What was his name?"

  "Harold Fletcher. He was one of the crewmen aboard the Sturman in 1953."

  Rinehart shook his head. "Doesn't ring a bell." But he put down his tea and sank deeper into the chair, his parchment brow furrowed in worry. "Who murdered him?" he asked.

  "His psychiatrist, a man who had been brainwashing him since 1955 to forget his involvement with Thin Air." Rinehart stared at him, expressionless. "And I have a second former crewman under wraps who tells the same story. Quite a coincidence. Same psychiatrist, too."

  Rinehart's eyes lowered to a point across the room. When he spoke again, his Gabby Hayes accent was gone. "Brainwashing is not uncommon where security is concerned, Hammond. You should know that."

  "Brainwashing, okay. But murder?"

  "Perhaps as a...last resort..."

  "Not in this country, Mr. Rinehart!" Hammond snapped.

  "No...you're right..." He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. His head shook in sorrow or regret, Hammond wasn't sure which. "It's still going on," he mumbled

  "What is?"

  He jumped up suddenly and bellowed an obscenity. "It was a stopgap measure," he growled. "Psychologically vital!"

  "Are you talking about the brainwashing or the murder?"

  "They're both ugly terms, Commander!"

  "No, sir. Ugly acts."

  "I'm well aware of that!" he shouted. "We called it fear control. It was a form of hypnosis. Without it, they would have gone insane and probably died or committed suicide! As some of them did. It was a necessary expedient!"