by Philip Chen
Adams conjectured that they could have been coordinated attempts. "None of the assailants carried personal identification, which suggests that the attack on Mike and the Marines was well planned. As far as we can tell at this moment, all of the attackers have been American or European, at least the one killed by Mrs. Swensen and the ones killed during the fire-fight yesterday."
The terrorism expert, who had been listening quietly, added, "We've run checks on all known terrorist cells, so far we're coming up with nothing. Everything seems unusually quiet. Even the Iranians have been silent. None of the known groups have shown any indication of gearing up for these kinds of attacks."
"Have you run identification checks on the dead?" said Mike.
Smith nodded. "Prints were taken off the female attacker at National Airport. It was a difficult search, but finally we were able to get a correlation through, of all places, the National Association of Security Dealers. Apparently, our would-be assassin was a Julie Davenport. She was a stockbroker in Des Moines. Worked for a small brokerage firm, Reedy Securities."
"You mean that I was almost killed by a stockbroker?" said Mildred.
"Now, wait a minute, Mildred. Not all stockbrokers are assassins," said Mike, smiling.
"Sure, some are merely vivisectionists. Oh, by the way, Mike, I met a nice young man who's going to be working with you in New York. Eric Johanson from St. Olaf College."
"You didn't kill him, did you? You know you have a habit of doing that, Mildred. I need that boy to help out around the shop."
Mildred blushed. "Oh, hush now, Mr. Liu."
"Come on guys, flirt on your own time," said an exasperated Smith. "We've got some serious issues here."
Adams took up the report. "Under the pretext that Ms. Davenport was killed at a federally licensed airport, I had a background check run on her. We should get the results within a week. Early information is that she lived alone, was a history major at Grinnell College and came from a small rural town in Iowa near Des Moines. One interesting thing is that she graduated from Grinnell at age twenty-eight."
"So what's the matter with that?" said Mildred. "A lot of women have to go back for a degree."
"I didn't mean that as an insult, Mrs. Swensen. It's just that Ms. Davenport doesn't seem to have much of a history before Grinnell."
"What significance does that have?"
"If this Ms. Davenport turns up in Cedar Rapids as an adult without any traceable history, it could get interesting," said Adams.
Mike who, having finished his tea, was methodically tearing his Styrofoam cup into tiny pieces.
"What about the attacks at NAVFAC and on Huntersville Road?"
Smith scanned a sheet of paper in front of him.
"The NAVFAC attack left four dead bodies and a burned-out hulk of a stolen Toyota sedan. The Catonsville Furniture Bedding truck was reported stolen yesterday morning. All the weapons at both sites were either American made or available through local gun shops or mail order houses in this country. All the weapons had their serial numbers filed off, professional. Even neutron analysis won't be able to detect any numbers. Real good job disguising the attackers."
Smith looked up from the report. "No identification was found on any of the dead. The stiffs could have been anyone, some looked like Yuppies. The helicopter was reported stolen this morning from a flying school in Aberdeen, Maryland. The black panel truck was registered to a Jerry Mitchell of Severna Park, Maryland. Herb is going over to Severna Park today to see if that truck was stolen as well."
"What about the Warthog?" said Mike.
The terrorism expert had checked into that matter as well.
"The Maryland Air National Guard reported that the Warthog was missing, but Pautuxent didn't get the report until the Marine pilots had actually intercepted the attacking craft. It was confusing. The early morning shift just thought that a flight request and flight plan had been misplaced. Didn't institute a search until it was too late."
"The Coast Guard is now searching for clues at the crash site," Smith added.
Mildred frowned. "Doesn't anyone think it's pretty weird, all these attacks by no one in particular?"
Smith shrugged, "There have been a bunch of strange things happening. Remember that attack in Langley where someone went car to car blowing away CIA agents stopped at a light? There hasn't been any rational explanation for that attack yet."
"How would these people know what our travel plans would be?" Mike said. "Has anyone got any ideas? By the way, Herb, I'd like to go with you."
Smith shook his head. "Travel arrangements were all made separately by the CSAC office initiating the trip, so we can discount a connection there. Mike, the old man doesn't want you to travel, just in case you're a target. The same applies to you, Mildred."
"Did Winslow's body have the cylinder?" said Mike, ignoring Smith's comment.
"Yes," said Twoomey. "But the heat of the fire may have destroyed any hope of recovering the message. Nonetheless, the cylinder has been sent to Laurel for decoding."
"What about the other messengers?" said Mike.
"Three cylinders have now been retrieved: Mildred's, Winslow's, and the one from Station One," said Smith.
"What about Station Three?" said Mike.
"We should hear today."
"What is all this about?" said Adams.
Smith looked up. "Now that the old man has authorized your participation, I'll be able to fully brief you after the meeting. For now, all you need to know is that we have some extremely sensitive underwater watch posts in four locations around the continental United States. Each of those posts is presumed to have transmitted a message to CSAC within the last forty-eight hours. We received one, Mildred's. A second one was brought by a courier from Watch Station One. He bummed a ride on a military plane.
"The third message is hopefully in the cylinder extracted from Winslow's body. The last message, which was to come from Watch Station Three, about 100 miles off Santa Catalina Island, on the coast of California, has apparently not been generated. We're in the process of trying to communicate with them now."
"Why are they called 'Watch Stations'? What are they watching?"
"I'll tell you later."
Mike leaned toward Mildred conspiratorially. "McHugh can't hold us, Mildred. Let's make a break for it."
Mildred smiled.
Addressing the others in the conference room, Mike added, "Seriously, let's get the old man on the phone, George. It doesn't make sense for Mildred and me to be on ice during something this serious."
"Wait a minute. I retired years ago," said Mildred.
"Come on, Mildred. Do you really want to sit this one out?" said Mike.
"Well -- no. Count me in."
"Let's make the call," said Mike as he turned to Smith.
Smith, reached for the green, push-button telephone.
A harried McHugh picked up the telephone, "Yes?"
"Admiral, this is George Smith. I've got two agents chafing at the bit. If you don't let them fly, they're going to leave on their own. Kind of out of my league, thought you might want to know. Could be one hell of a firefight if you insist I keep them under wraps."
McHugh chuckled softly. "Put Mike on the phone."
"The old man wants to speak to you, Mike."
Mike took the telephone. "Hello, Admiral."
"Mike, what do you want to do? Wasn't target practice two times in two days enough for you? By the way, tell Smith if I ever hear him refer to me again as the 'old man', he's going back to gum shoeing. If you and Mildred really want to stick your necks out, just be careful."
Mike put the receiver back on its cradle and turned to Smith. "The old man says don't call him the 'old man' anymore. Do you have any civvies?"
The meeting concluded, the participants went their separate ways. Mildred went straight to the weapons manager to get her gear. She hoped that CSAC had kept her favorite pistol in working order. It was a small, lady-like one.
Sm
ith disappeared to round up some civilian clothes for Mike to wear. Mike picked up a regular telephone and dialed his computerized voice mailbox system.
"This is your VoiceCall message center, if you have a mailbox on the system please dial your number now," intoned the metallically androgynous voice that answered the telephone. Mike dialed the number of his mailbox. The robotic voice announced that he had one message.
The message was from Mike's secretary. "Mr. Liu, you had many calls, but I was able to get some of your staff to address them. Mr. Wickerspoon would like you to call him when you have a moment. Also, a Richard MacLaren called; he asked that you call him as soon as possible. His number is 505-978-3344." Mike punched the asterisk on the handset and the VoiceCall message computer switched off.
Mike called Seth Wickerspoon.
"Mr. Wickerspoon's office," answered a pleasant female voice.
"Hello, Elizabeth. Is Seth in?"
"Hold on, Mr. Liu. He'll be right with you."
"Mike, sorry you can't attend lunch. What's up?" said Seth.
"I'm doing something for Bob McHugh."
"Oh. When will you finish?"
"Don't know."
"O.K., but keep in mind I still have a business to run."
"Yes, sir."
Mike then dialed McLaren's number.
"MacLaren residence," answered a young female voice.
"Is Richard MacLaren in?"
"One moment, sir."
"Dick MacLaren," said a deep voice.
"Mike Liu here."
"Hello, Mike, I'm afraid I've some bad news. My father-in-law is dead."
"How, when? Gosh, I'm really sorry." Mike was shaken. What a week for the telephone. As if the call from the young Navy Lieutenant wasn't enough, now Mike would have to deal with the death of his old friend. The coincidence of the two events was mystifying and strangely frightening.
"Johnny joined the Great Spirit in his sleep, Thursday night. The formal ceremony is set for weekend after next, can you make it?"
"Why so late?"
"It was his wish; we found it written on a sheet of paper. Apparently the sun is at a certain point on the horizon on that day. Johnny was pretty insistent.
Despite his grief, Mike was mystified why Johnny Thapaha had specified a date certain. "Did he say anything? Any messages?"
"There was something, but I have to see you."
"Was anyone with Johnny?"
"No, but my littlest, Jimmy, was with him that morning for his last visit to the mesa."
"Dick, I'll be there."
Mike replaced the handset on its cradle. His thoughts rushed back to those long-buried memories.
1970: The Navajo
1000 Hours: Tuesday, July 7, 1970: National Security Agency, Laurel, Maryland
"Mike, can I see you for a moment?" said McHugh over the secure telephone.
"I'll be right there, Sir."
Mike walked down the narrow corridor in the National Security Agency building in Laurel, Maryland, to McHugh's interior office.
Unlike his office in Port Hueneme, California, with the trophies of his successes and achievements, McHugh's office at NSA was strictly utilitarian. The standard office furniture was gray metal desk, chair and metal bookcase. In one corner sat a metal, three-drawer file cabinet with a metal angle iron holding the drawers closed. The metal angle iron was locked with combination locks on the top and the bottom.
The fluorescent lighting in the office gave off a harsh white light that washed out the deep tan that McHugh normally sported.
McHugh looked up from the manila folder that he was reading from as Mike walked into his office.
"Hi, Mike, take a seat. I think we have stumbled on to something a lot larger than we ever thought. Here, take a look at these reports." He dropped several folders labeled "Top Secret" in front of Mike.
Mike picked up a manila folder and opened it. Inside the folder were carbon copies of typewritten reports from the late 1940s. Also included were photographs taken by Army Air Corps investigators at the site of a crashed flying vehicle of unknown origin. The crash described in the reports involved an alleged alien spacecraft near Socorro, New Mexico, in July 1947.
"I've read about such things," said Mike. "But this -- this is proof positive that the United States has been visited by UFOs."
"Read on, Mike. There's more."
Silently, Mike continued to read the reports. The crash involved a craft of unknown origin. In the wreckage of the spacecraft, investigators had found the bodies of three aliens who had perished in the crash. The wreckage and the three bodies were secretly transported to the Army's Wright-Patterson Field in Dayton, Ohio.
Finishing the file, Mike looked up at McHugh, who had been quietly sitting back in his chair, drawing on his corncob pipe, observing his young protégé's reactions to this mind boggling information.
Awkwardly, Mike said, "Sir, what does this have to do with us?"
"Here," said McHugh as he took something out of a manila envelope and tossed it to Mike. The object was a silvery colored sheet of paper-like cloth material.
The strange markings on the sheet of material were indecipherable and looked as if they had been imprinted with a device that had fused the image's pigmentation directly into the fibers of the material. Also fused into the material was a map of what looked like the United States of America. At four locations on the sheet were what appeared to be coordinates and a locator in hieroglyphics of an unknown language. The sites coincided with the locations of the four Sentinels.
"Holy shit, Sir. Does this say what I think it says?"
McHugh shrugged and sighed. "Our eggheads can't decipher the information as yet. By the way, this map is so classified that knowledge of its existence must be denied by all who have seen it. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir."
"My guess is that the spacecraft was on a mission involving the objects that have been found around the United States. I'd like you to check out the Socorro incident firsthand."
"When do I leave?"
"Tomorrow," said McHugh. "Go through this file in detail and let's talk before you go,"
0900 Hours: Wednesday, July 8, 1970: Holloman Air Force Base, New Mexico
"Welcome to Holloman Air Force Base, Lieutenant Liu," said Captain Edward McIntyre as Mike climbed down from the F-4 Phantom that had just brought him from Andrews Air Force Base, near Washington, D.C.
"Thank you very much, sir," said Mike, as he saluted the senior officer.
"What brings Naval Intelligence to the Southwest to investigate an old alleged UFO crash site? Not much water in the New Mexican desert."
"I'm really sorry, sir, but my orders are clear. I can't discuss anything. I'm to be given access to all information you may have," said Mike to McIntyre, whom he knew had been assigned to Project Blue Book, the successor Air Force group to Project Grudge. Project Blue Book had continued to officially investigate extraterrestrial activity well into the sixties, until its activities had been taken over by CSAC.
"Sorry, just idle curiosity," said McIntyre. "Anyway, welcome." He extended his right hand to Mike. "By the way, drop the formalities, okay? My name is Ed."
"Okay. Call me Mike. It does seem unlikely, I guess," said Mike as he shook McIntyre's hand.
Only a few people in the government had been given the opportunity to link the Watch Stations with the events in New Mexico and Wright-Patterson Air Base. Inside the CSAC, only a small control group hand-picked by McHugh was aware of the terrible consequences that could occur if, in fact, the Wright-Patterson secret were linked with the secrets of the Watch Stations. One of that group was McHugh's junior officer, Mike Liu.
Mike got his duffel bag, tossed it into the back of the dark blue Jeep, and climbed into the back seat. McIntyre got into the right front passenger seat. As soon as the two were barely in the vehicle, the driver threw the jeep into first gear and roared off. The jackrabbit start threw them back into their seats. Both Mike and McIntyre clung t
o whatever part of the jeep that provided a handhold as the Jeep bounced along the flight line.
The stiff suspension of the Jeep accentuated the airman's hell-bent method of driving. At the end of the flight line, he swung the Jeep into a sharp right turn and roared past an opening in the chain link fence on to the blacktop road. Arriving at the base commandant's headquarters, the driver slammed on the brakes and came to a screeching stop. Both Mike and McIntyre were thrown forward by the sudden stop. As soon as both McIntyre and Mike alighted from the Jeep and Mike had retrieved his duffel bag, the airman once again threw the Jeep into first and with a squeal was gone.
"What's that guy in training for, jet fighters or New York cabs?" said Mike.
With a laugh, McIntyre said, "One of our best mechanics. Doesn't know how to drive worth a damn."
The base headquarters was the typical three story stone aggregate panel and windowed building found on countless military bases around the country. The uninspired architecture was both functional and cost effective. However, the sand-colored panels seemed to fit well with the desert location of Holloman Air Force Base.
McIntyre and Mike walked to the reception counter, manned by a young airman in a dark blue uniform. The airman inspected their Department of Defense identification badges and asked both to sign the register.
"Let's go up to my office," suggested McIntyre.
Climbing up the three flights of steps to McIntyre's office, Mike wondered why McHugh had sent him to Holloman. This seemed to be a well-documented situation.
The Socorro incident involved only one spacecraft and was not as widely known as the earlier crash of a flight of three spacecraft near Roswell, New Mexico. Examination of the four spacecraft had revealed similarities in design and structure. Some analysts had speculated that the four shared a common origin.
Unfortunately, like the nine occupants of the three vehicles in the Roswell incident, the three crew members of the sole Socorro craft had died in their crash. The remains of the vehicles and their crews had been taken to the medical center at Wright-Patterson Field for further forensic and medical examination.
