Blue Darker Than Black

by Mike Jenne

Setting his bag of crumbs on the bench, Morozov examined the prints. The sequence showed six identical pale blue boxes, perhaps a meter long by a half-meter wide, being unloaded from an Air Force station wagon into a hangar or warehouse. “You seem to have a fixation with boxes, Mr. Yost,” he noted. “These aren’t much different from the four pictures that you sent us by post. These containers are smaller, perhaps, but they’re still just boxes.”

  “They’re not just boxes,” insisted Yost, still slurring his words. “Those are obviously caskets. So were the others I sent you.”

  “Hah!” sniffed Morozov, picking up his paper bag and sowing more crumbs. “If these are caskets, they’re for children, maybe. They’re much too small for—”

  “Look,” urged Yost. “There are armed men guarding them. You want to tell me that those are just simple boxes? And do you see those civilians standing here? I’m guessing that they’re doctors, getting ready to do some sort of autopsy or dissection.”

  “Well, I’ll concede that it appears a little unusual,” commented Morozov, examining the details again. “But when we talked on the telephone, did you not assure me that you had photographs of an alien spacecraft?”

  Pressing another set of photographs into Morozov’s hands, Yost chuckled and said, “Feast your eyes on these snapshots, comrade.”

  Morozov sorted through the prints. They showed a series of crates, of various shapes and sizes, being unloaded from trailers. He was mystified why Yost seemed so convinced that they had anything to do with alien spacecraft. “These are just crates, Mr. Yost. Granted, they’re unusual, but they are still crates.” Morozov sniffed, handing the prints back. “Nothing more. Nothing of note.”

  Jabbing a stubby finger at a print that depicted an enormous flat circular crate being hoisted by a massive forklift, Yost declared, “Look, this crate is the perfect size and shape for a flying saucer! Do you think it’s just a coincidence that I saw some sort of alien spaceship being moved out of here one night, and then a few weeks later, these circular crates are being moved in? And the coffins? You don’t think that this hangar is a holding area for UFO stuff?”

  “Keep your voice down!” snapped Morozov, glancing from side to side, almost as if he were concerned about inadvertently waking the dead. “Let’s take this one step at a time, Mr. Yost, and not be so hasty to jump to conclusions. You claim that you saw an alien spaceship. Describe it to me.”

  Yost described the details of the bizarre vehicle he had witnessed in July of last year. “And that’s it,” he stated. “Obviously, it had to be powered by some sort of anti-gravity machine.”

  Morozov clicked his tongue quietly and shook his head. “I’m confused, Mr. Yost. You go to the trouble of documenting all of these mysterious boxes and crates, but when you saw this object, this space vehicle that you’re so adamant about, you didn’t see fit to photograph it as well? How do you explain that discrepancy?”

  Yost groaned and blurted, “Because I didn’t have a damned camera yet. I started carrying one after that. Plus it was nighttime when I saw it, so the pictures probably wouldn’t have developed. But I’ll bet you this: sooner or later, I will see that damned thing again, and when I do, I’ll be ready.”

  Morozov sat quietly, pretending to scrutinize the photos as he contemplated the situation. Although Yost’s claims were farfetched, Morozov didn’t doubt him. The GRU officer considered himself an accomplished judge of character, and while the American was clearly a drunken buffoon of marginal moral fiber, he did appear to be entirely forthright about the strange object. He had obviously seen something that he sincerely believed to be an alien spacecraft.

  Whether Yost’s claims merited further pursuit was another matter entirely. Morozov was authorized a fairly sizeable purse for the initial recruitment if he genuinely thought that Yost could furnish something of value, but a more pronounced effort would require approval from his bosses back in Washington. At this point, the temptation to walk away was great, but the temptation to exploit Yost was greater. If he elected not to recruit Yost as a source, Morozov could probably accomplish his espionage chores and write all of his reports in short order, probably a couple of weeks at most. But if he convinced his GRU superiors that Yost was worthy of prolonged exploitation, then Morozov might be here indefinitely. Moreover, if the American sergeant’s claims did pan out, it might be the coup that finally lifted Morozov’s fortunes so he could matriculate to a more prestigious assignment, like Vietnam.

  Even if his outlandish claims of aliens and UFOs were taken out of the equation, there was yet another reason to exploit Yost. Unlike most sources that the GRU ran, where they routinely solicited Americans under the guise of a false flag, Yost had made a conscious effort to be recruited by Soviet intelligence. If Yost ever eventually proved to be obstinate, Morozov could exert a tremendous amount of leverage; because a genuine traitor had something to truly be afraid of, they were subject to great manipulation. Since he had a Top Secret clearance, he had to possess access to some useful information, even if it didn’t concern UFOs.

  He had no doubt that the brash American was of value, but it was critical that he dominate the haggling that would ensue. He contemplated his negotiating options as he flicked more bread crumbs to the pigeons. A cardinal rule of developing unsolicited sources was to convince them that their information was only of marginal value, regardless of what they knew or suspected.

  “And how about that pilot who went over the cuckoo’s nest last year and then just vanished?” asked Yost, interrupting Morozov’s thoughts. “The pilot who was working in this hangar? Do you suppose that was just some kind of coincidence also?”

  “How can you be so sure that he was a pilot?” asked Morozov.

  “My friend is an orderly at the base hospital. He saw this guy’s records before he disappeared. There’s a special code on the folder for pilots. That’s how he knew.”

  “Who is your friend, the hospital orderly?” queried Morozov. “Tell me his name.”

  “I can’t do that. If you contacted him, then …”

  “I have no intent to contact him, Mr. Yost. I just want to verify that such a person exists and is actually assigned to the hospital. Certainly, you can understand that until we authenticate this information, it’s all hearsay. I’ll tell you what: give me his name, and if your information checks out, I will give you a two-hundred-dollar bonus the next time we meet.”

  Yost penciled a name on the back of one of the photo prints. “His name’s Carr,” he noted. “Bob Carr. He’s been assigned to Wright-Patt for the past three years. He transferred here from Rhein-Main Air Force Base in Germany, near Frankfurt. That’s where we met.”

  Morozov turned his head away and examined the photos again. Before them on the sidewalk, one of the pigeons walked around in a small circle and then keeled over. The others, seemingly indifferent to their fellow’s plight, continued to peck at Morozov’s crumbs.

  “One of your holy pigeons is sick,” observed Yost, chuckling. He tipped up his flask, emptied it, and replaced the cap. “Maybe your bread is moldy.”

  “No. Sometimes they become greedy and eat too much,” said Morozov, placing the photos on the folded newspaper between the two men. “And then they become easy fodder for cats and foxes. Such is the nature of greed, Mr. Yost.”

  “So how much are you going to pay me for the pictures?”

  “I’ll tell you what, Mr. Yost, since I’m in a generous spirit today, I’ll pay you one thousand dollars for these photos, under one condition.”

  “Just a thousand bucks?” groused Yost. “Whatever your condition is, it had better be good.”

  “I want more information about what’s in that hangar,” said Morozov curtly. “So here is what I propose: If you can provide me with a name and contact information for someone who works in that facility, I will pay you another thousand dollars, plus a substantial incentive if we’re able to recruit them. They have to be reliable, though, and must have routine access to the hangar.”
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  Grinning, Yost bent over to scratch his ankle. “I work close by,” he answered. “I am pretty sure that I can scratch up some names.”

  As Yost pulled down his sock, Morozov noticed that the skin around his foot was pale and puffy, like that of a corpse that had been submerged under water. “Let me make something clear to you, Yost—you will be paid only if their information checks out. Do you understand?”

  Yost nodded. “The names should be easy, but the phone numbers might be difficult. What could I tell them if they get suspicious?”

  Morozov pondered the American’s question, and then replied, “Let me think on that. I’ll send some instructions to your post office box. One more thing: How about this agency called Project Blue Book? And the Aerospace Support Project? Can you acquire information about people who work there as well?”

  “I’ll see what I can dredge up.”

  “Good,” said Morozov, handing Yost two rubber-banded stacks of ten dollar bills. “As a show of good faith, I will pay you two thousand dollars for your photos today. Later, I might also issue you some special equipment, like a miniature camera, and special training. We will also compensate you for your time during training. Does that sound fair enough to you?”

  “Now we’re starting to talk turkey,” declared Yost, quickly counting the cash.

  Morozov handed Yost an envelope. “Here are instructions on how to contact me. Do not contact me unless you can provide me with reputable information about someone who has routine access to the interior of the hangar. Do you have any questions, Mr. Yost?”

  Satisfied with his tally, Yost stuck the money in his pocket, grinned, and shook his head.

  “You know your way out of here, I assume,” said Morozov, tucking the pictures in the interior pocket of his jacket. “We’ll be in touch.”

  Morozov waited patiently as he watched Yost slowly hobble away and then shifted his attention to the throng of pigeons. A few more of the gluttonous birds had fallen victim to his vodka-laced bread crumbs; they lay on their sides cooing in docile confusion. Morozov collected four of the fattest ones, snapped their necks, and then rolled them up in the newspaper.

  Never knowing where his next assignment might be, the pragmatic officer made a point of maintaining the survival skills he had honed as a child of Stalingrad. Like Yost, most Americans perceived pigeons as nuisances, but Morozov knew that the birds’ breasts were delicious when breaded and fried. He would enjoy these tonight, cooked on a hot plate in the dreary boarding room he rented by the week.

  As he strolled out of the cemetery, he mused that few Americans would ever stoop to consuming pigeons, but probably fewer still would ever know the taste of human flesh. Recalling the horrific days when his family huddled in the shelled-out remains of their Stalingrad apartment, Morozov only wished that he could forget.

  Simulator Facility

  Aerospace Support Project, Wright-Patterson Air Force Base, Ohio 9:54 p.m., Sunday, August 10, 1969

  Drenched in sweat, almost too numb to move, Ourecky sprawled on the lower steps of the stairs leading to the Box. His hands ached and elusive numbers danced in his thoughts, refusing to be confined in orderly equations. He had been tired before, but rarely this drained, even during their marathon runs earlier in the year. They had been at it all weekend, even after spending the entire week immersed in a seemingly endless round of intelligence and technical briefings in Colorado Springs.

  Bea left for Atlanta this afternoon; he hadn’t seen her all week and hadn’t spoken to her since last Sunday. On a positive note, she was due to come off flight status after this round of flights; grounded, thankfully, she would work gates at the airport until the baby arrived in March. As yet, because of Bea’s concerns that she might not even be able to carry the baby to term, Ourecky had not shared the news with anyone, not even Carson.

  “Let’s go again, Gunter,” declared Carson, swaggering in from the suit-up room with a Coke bottle in his hand. “T-Minus ten minutes to orbit, and then let us cycle through IVAR and the post-insertion routine. Just another hour, and then we can call it a night after that.”

  “It’s nearly ten o’clock, Drew,” lamented Heydrich, looking at the clock on the wall. “And it’s Sunday.”

  “But I still want to make sure we’ve polished off the rough edges.” Carson sipped the last of his Coke before tossing the empty bottle into a nearby trashcan.

  “There are no rough edges left to polish.” Wearing a rumpled white shirt and coffee-stained tie, Heydrich looked even more disheveled than usual. “My guys are exhausted, Drew. They’re on their last legs. I really don’t see what we’re going to accomplish with another run. You two are more than proficient on everything. We’ll be back first thing in the morning. Please let my men get some rest.”

  Carson shook his head as he tore open a pack of chewing gum. “If my memory serves, Gunter, Virgil directed you to keep the Box operating until I felt confident that we were ready. I don’t feel entirely confident, so I want to make another launch run. I don’t want to pull rank on you, but if I have to call Virgil, I will. Please don’t make me do that.”

  Heydrich nodded glumly, sighed, and slowly pivoted to face the far end of the hangar. A gaggle of controllers were gathered at the coffee urn, apparently grumbling over their lost weekend or perhaps drawing up plans for a mutiny against Carson’s tyrannical reign. With a wave of his hand, Heydrich beckoned them back to their stations.

  Zipping up his flight suit, Carson met Ourecky at the foot at the stairs. “Saddle up, buddy. We’re going again.”

  “Gunter says we’re ready,” mumbled Ourecky, slowly clambering to his feet. “Don’t you trust his judgment?”

  “Gunter’s fat ass isn’t going to be strapped on top of that rocket on Johnston Island,” answered Carson, speaking over his shoulder as he swiftly scrambled up the stairs. “Yours is. And I think we’ve covered this ground already. We’re ready when I say we’re ready, and not before. So quit griping and start moving.”

  “But …”

  “Scott, I don’t know if you’re getting too cocky or whether you’re just getting lackadaisical, but either one will get you killed,” said Carson fervently. “One more round. Let’s go. Mush! ”

  Following him, Ourecky slowly scaled the four metal steps like a condemned man headed to an appointment with the gallows. He observed Carson as he climbed into the simulator and squeezed into his seat. Ourecky hated the Box, but the spry pilot seemed to relish in it. If he didn’t know any better, he might suspect that Carson was just a glutton for punishment, but there seemed to be something far deeper at play. Carson became an almost different person in the simulator, intensely focused and resolute. Now, as the pilot lay on his back cinching his harness while simultaneously verifying switch settings, his outward demeanor changed as he slipped into that determined persona.

  Recalling their pre-dawn sessions at the base boxing gym, Ourecky realized that he had witnessed the same pained but resolute expression on Carson’s face, when the pilot pummeled the heavy bag or endured a brutal sparring session against a much larger opponent. He suspected that the Box was like a penance or cleansing ritual that Carson felt compelled to inflict upon himself, a torture he must suffer until his personal demons were exorcized or at least temporarily diminished. Ourecky knelt down before his open hatch and allowed a technician to assist him as he wriggled into place in the snug cockpit. As he slipped on his headset and adjusted the microphone, he looked to his left to watch Carson review a pre-launch checklist. If the Box truly was a rite of purification, he only hoped that Carson was sufficiently purified before it also destroyed him and his marriage in the process.

  5

  THE FOURTH WORLD

  Cap-Haïtien Airport, Haiti

  2:35 p.m., Tuesday, August 12, 1969

  Just arriving from Miami, emerging from the DC-3, Matthew Henson was immediately awestruck by the sweltering heat. It was almost overwhelming, like someone had thrown open the door to a massive blast fu
rnace. Gabon had been hot, but not anything like this.

  After the passengers collected their luggage at planeside, a pair of Haitian soldiers cajoled them into a file and walked them inside. The one-story terminal was constructed of unpainted concrete cinderblock. It was dirty and loud, jam-packed with waiting families and curious on-lookers. Shouting vendors hawked trinkets, wood carvings, fruits, vegetables, and unlabeled bottles of local rum.

  The handful of disembarking Haitians melted into the bustling crowd; the soldiers paid them no mind, instead focusing their attention on Henson and the dozen Americans and Europeans arriving with him. As they queued up for their passport stamps, Henson breathed a sigh of relief as he realized the new arrivals were only subjected to a cursory inspection of their luggage and a quick screening of their travel documents.

  “You American?” asked a man waiting in line behind Henson. Appearing to be in his mid-thirties, he was deeply tanned, chubby, of medium height, and had graying brown hair. He wore a wide-brimmed Panama straw hat, khaki chinos, old work boots, and a faded brown work shirt. His meager luggage consisted of a well-travelled gym bag and a banged-up cardboard box labeled “Re-Built Carburetor & Spark Plugs—Hold for CT.”

  Henson nodded. “I am. Matt Henson. I work for Apex Exploration Services in Ohio. We do mineral exploration and supporting work for mining companies.”

  “Sure you do. I’m Craig Taylor. Missionary Air.”

  “Missionary Air?” asked Henson. “You’re a missionary?”

  Taylor chuckled. “Not hardly,” he answered, lifting the brim of his hat and wiping sweat from his brow. “I work a Maule M-4 bush bird out of here. I fly for missionaries scattered all over the country. All denominations. I shuttle people around, deliver supplies, mail, fresh food, medicine, you name it.”

  Nudging his gym bag forward with the toe of his boot, Taylor added, “Their stuff comes in here, I receive it, fork over the requisite bribes and handling fees, and then fly it around the island. It’s a righteous gig, especially considering that I lost my flying ticket back in the States.”