by A.D. Winch
Chapter 9 – Back to the Desert
KNOCK, KNOCK.
The noise from the lion door knocker echoed through the house.
KNOCK, KNOCK.
Professor Schwarzkopf stirred from his sleep and tried to figure out what had woken him. A few seconds later he had his answer.
KNOCK, KNOCK.
“Henry! Martha!” he croaked.
Nobody replied.
KNOCK, KNOCK.
He put out a wrinkled hand and fumbled for the reading lamp. Light filled the room. He fumbled some more, found his oval framed spectacles and put them on his pointed nose. The wind-up alarm clock, a retirement present, pointed to twelve minutes past three.
“Who the blazes would call at this hour in the morning?” he said to himself, clearly irritated.
“Henry! Martha! The door!” he shouted loudly.
The exertion forced him into a coughing fit which took him a while to contain.
KNOCK, KNOCK.
“Don’t worry,” he grumbled, “I’ll go.”
Professor Schwarzkopf lifted off the heavy sheets and got out of his empty four-poster bed. He was a man who had been shrunk by age. His striped pyjamas swamped his bony frame, and his veins could be seen clearly on his hands, feet and head. Whereas his body had shrivelled, his skin had not and gave him so many wrinkles that his face looked like a prune. Across his virtually bald scalp were a few remaining black hairs.
Whenever anyone commented on his lack of grey he would reply, in no uncertain terms, “I came into the world a Schwarzkopf, and I will leave this world a Schwarzkopf.”
It was a reply that normally killed the conversation dead.
After putting on a pair of tartan slippers and matching dressing gown, he shuffled downstairs.
Henry and Martha arrived at the front entrance at the same time.
“Sorry, Professor,” they apologized, “we were asleep.”
“So was I,” Professor Schwarzkopf grumbled. He put his spectacles on his head and his eye to the peephole.
Two big men in dark suits stood on the brightly lit porch. One of them reached into his pocket and took out a plastic wallet which he thrust at the door. Professor Schwarzkopf looked briefly at the three blurred letters and stepped back from the peep hole. After a resigned sigh, he sent Henry and Martha back to bed and opened the door. Without a word, he led the two men into his study.
The study was his favourite room in the house. A large, mahogany desk dominated the room and upon it was a small flagpole, flying the stars and stripes, and a plain, free-standing picture frame. Above the desk, hanging neatly on the emerald green wall, was an enlarged photograph of himself shaking hands with an ex, and now deceased, President. Neatly arranged on the other walls were other, smaller picture frames. Some held photos of him receiving awards, others held certificates or letters signed by important or powerful people, and the rest were designs for new and old inventions. Under these frames and around the desk were three red leather armchairs. Two were placed symmetrically in front of the desk and the larger one behind. Professor Schwarzkopf sat in this one and invited the two men to sit. They declined and stood between the chairs with their hands clasped behind their backs. The taller man opened his mouth to speak, but Professor Schwarzkopf cut him off.
“Do you know how long I’ve lived in this country?” he asked picking up the flagpole.
Before the men could reply, he slammed the ornament back on the desk and answered, “Sixty-two years!”
He ran his fingers around the base of the flagpole.
“And do you know when I bought this house here? In Vienna? In Fairfax County?”
He looked at them with eyes as alert as when he had first arrived in America and he dared them to speak.
“Forty-nine years ago! During which time I worked night and day doing exactly what was asked of me, and I helped turn this country into THE world power!” His voice was raised, and he looked like a head teacher telling off two naughty schoolboys, “And all I asked for in return, when I retired, was a little peace and quiet. So I could enjoy this house and try to turn it into a home. But have I got it?”
The two men looked at each other with wide, questioning eyes. They had been told to go to the Professor’s house, collect him, brief him and transport him. They had not been told what to do in the event of finding a cranky old man. Unable to think of an appropriate answer and unable to think of a way to shut the Professor up, that did not involve shooting him, they remained silent. Hoping that, like a hurricane, he would blow himself out.
“No, I haven’t got it,” roared Professor Schwarzkopf. “Every few years some new jocks drag me out of my home and my peaceful retirement. Another problem to be solved, another national emergency, another job you cannot handle without my advice. Well, I won’t be here forever you know!”
He paused; his lungs were empty, and he was forced into another coughing fit which turned his face red and made his veins pulsate.
The two men looked at each other again, both wondering what it would do to their chances of promotion if the Professor died. It wouldn’t look good on their records; that was for sure. They stepped forward to help, but Professor Schwarzkopf put out a wrinkled hand to stop them approaching. From below the desk he picked up a metal bin and spat. A phlegmy globule flew through the air and landed in it with a moist splat. One of the men visibly retched.
“The least you can do is show me some respect!” ordered Professor Schwarzkopf.
Confused, the men replied, “Professor?”
“Well, you could tell me what this is all about.”
The slightly taller man spoke, “With all due respect, Professor, you haven’t...”
Professor Schwarzkopf interrupted, “Don’t you ‘all due respects’ me. A small summary would have been enough, a sentence or two, even one word. So, in one word, tell me what this is all about.”
“With all due...”
“There you go again. One word, that’s all I ask.”
There was silence. The two men looked at each other and the one who had been doing the speaking ummed and erred before saying, “Roswell.”
Fear and excitement ran down Professor Schwarzkopf’s spine in equal measure, but his face remained unchanged and he continued to look annoyed.
“That’s more like it. It wasn’t so hard, was it?” He paused before asking, “I take it I’m coming with you?”
The men nodded slowly.
“I thought as much. Why else would you disturb me in the middle of the night? There are two leather suitcases in the cupboard, in the hallway. They are packed with everything I may need. Please take them to your car. I will join you in fifteen minutes. Dismissed.”
Unable to think of a reply, the two men left the study. Professor Schwarzkopf leant over the desk and held his head in his hands. In front of him, in the plain picture frame, a black and white photo of a young woman gazed up at him.
“You’re never far away Ingrid,” he told her and, after kissing the photo, left.
In the black, unmarked Cadillac, Professor Schwarzkopf only spoke twice. The first time he asked if he could open the windows as the car was stuffy. The driver responded by turning the AC on. His second question concerned where they were going.
“We were going to Langley, but our orders have changed, and we’ve been told to take you straight to the airport. You will then board a private jet which will take you to Roswell, New Mexico.”
For the rest of the journey, Professor Schwarzkopf stayed silent, lost in memories from many years ago.
The near hurricane winds tossed the twin prop Boeing 247D around in the air like a rag doll. After a battle between the pilot and the gusts, which the pilot almost lost, the plane touched down on a military airfield just outside Washington D.C. He, a young Professor, stepped out from the plane with nine others, walked down the unsteady staircase and almost kissed the ground the moment he stood on it. The year was ninetee
n forty-five, and his plane was one of thirteen involved in Operation Paperclip. He felt remarkably fortunate to be there. World War II had just ended and by all rights he should have been dead.
The Americans placed him in a small room, in a holding house, in a pleasant little town called Vienna.
On entering the town, he read the sign aloud, “Welcome to Vienna, Fairfax County, Inhabitants 1016, Have a nice day.”
Only a few of the other scientists on the bus could read English, and he had helped with translating when he was needed. He was the youngest scientist in the group and had learnt English at the Humboldt Universitat zu Berlin while studying Physics and Physiology. His English accent was weak, but his knowledge of the language was very strong.
After a week of staring at mustard coloured walls, in a house he was not allowed to leave, he was visited one afternoon by two men. Major Jerry Marshall was a squat man with army regulation length hair and a head that retreated into his shoulders whenever he spoke. Agent Cavett was taller; his hair was slicked back with Bryl cream and his head remained aloof. His sharp chin pointed up while his eyes looked down, and all his movements were angular and calculated.
Agent Cavett stood by the door with his arms crossed. Major Marshall pulled up the one chair in the room and motioned to him, the Professor, to sit on the bed opposite.
Major Marshall was friendly but relentlessly questioned him about his work with Victor Schauberger. It went on all afternoon without any breaks. Agent Cavett took out a small notebook and a pen and wrote down all his answers.
“Had he worked with Victor Schauberger? What had he worked on? Had he used liquid vortex propulsion or LVP? Did he understand the concepts behind it? Did he use LVP in a flying disc craft, otherwise known as a Foo Fighter? Had he done some of this work in Czechoslovakia, outside Prague? Did he and Schauberger send an unmanned flying disk craft measuring six feet in diameter to a height of forty-five thousand feet, in only three minutes, on nineteenth February nineteen forty-five?”
During the interview, he puzzled over why they were asking him questions to which they already knew the answers. At the end, they discussed the physics behind LVP and how it could be used to accelerate objects. Then he was asked a question which would change his life, and thinking, forever.
Major Marshall moved forward and asked, “Could you replicate this technology here?”
Following a brief pause for thought, he answered, “If I had the right people to work with me..., yes, I could do the same work here.”
The next day he was flown from Fairfax County to Roswell Army Airfield, 509th Division, New Mexico. For the next fifty years, the base was more of a home than the house he bought.
Getting off the plane at Roswell was like walking into a wall of hot, dry heat. New Mexico was mostly a desert state and the earth was baked hard and barren. The land was made up of rocks, sand and little else. Pathetic looking bushes, barely green in colour, were scattered around; their roots desperately searching for water under the sun-cracked earth. Ragged mountains rose up around various parts of the state. Rivers, if they had not dried up, trickled rather than flowed. People, like greenery, were scarce and most of them who lived there worked for the army. In other words, it was perfect. A perfect place for conducting secret experiments in flight and hidden away from too many curious eyes.
Within one week, Professor Schwarzkopf had the team he requested. Ted from Stanford, Archie from Yale and Ingrid from Europe. He worked closely with all of them but especially Ingrid, who he found much more open to his ideas than the others, and much more attractive.
It was a hot July day in nineteen forty-seven. There was no wind in the sky and, according to the weather balloons, no sign of change. The flying disc, measuring a little over eight metres in diameter, was wheeled out of Hangar 84 and along the runway. It was followed by a select group of spectators. Major Jerry Marshall was there, along with more senior Army and Air Force officers. Bringing up the rear was a bear of a man who, at that point, he did not know. Only those who were needed had been invited.
After twenty-one months of hard work, they were ready to launch a manned prototype. Ted and Archie had agreed to pilot the flying disk on its maiden flight. He could still remember their expectant faces as they sat in the centre of the metallic saucer. Ted scrawled ‘Roswell’s Foo Fighter’ around its centre, like on an Air Force plane, and then a plastic dome was bolted down over their heads.
Archie started the flying disk and then he, the leader of the project - the professor – put on his awkward headpiece and counted down from ten. On five, the three legs supporting the saucer were retracted, and it hovered, swaying ever so slightly above the ground. On three, it began to spin, going faster and faster. On zero, it shot into the sky so quickly that half the people in the crowd thought it had vanished. He received only eight seconds of speech through his headphones.
“Geez Professor, this thing goes some,” reported Ted.
Followed by Archie exclaiming, “Oh my God! What is...”
Then there was nothing, only static.
At first he assumed that the two-way, radio headset had been unable to cope with the speed and distance and had shut down. A short time later he saw bits of debris raining down from the sky, towards the desert and around the military base. He didn’t need to see anymore to know that something terrible had happened. The saucer had exploded or, and this seemed a crazy idea at first, it had hit something.
A few seconds later, weaving drunkenly through the bits of flying disk, they saw a craft that looked like a silver dart. As the bits of debris hit the desert, and sent plumes of sand into the air, the dart flew like a silent rocket, just above them, and into the distance. No plane could have matched its speed, but two P-80 Shooting Star fighters, which could fly at almost one thousand kilometres an hour, were scrambled. Parts of the disk continued to fall for a further two minutes, and he held Ingrid as close as he could. All he could think about was Ted and Archie, whom he knew had been killed. After the last visible piece had hit the barren terrain troops were sent to locate and retrieve all pieces of debris, and to hunt for any survivors. The bodies of Ted and Archie were never found.
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 Angel 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 colou
r, 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.”
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