in his position as USAF Chief of Staff. This man, once he had accepted defeat, would be
particularly useful.
President Truman was studying Wilson at length, disbelieving, quietly outraged,
helplessly intrigued, but eventually he too was forced to raise his hands in surrender. ‘I
agree with General Vandenberg,’ he said. ‘We have no choice in the matter. We must
deal with this man.’
The ensuing silence was filled with dread and despair, until Nebe, finally speaking for
the first time, said in his deadly soft, oddly threatening manner: ‘This leads to the
delicate matter of security.’
‘Ah, yes!’ Wilson exclaimed softly. ‘I’d almost forgotten.’ Studying Fuller, he saw
Nebe's murderous double behind his urbane manner and knew that what Nebe was about
to say would be understood by him. ‘Go ahead, Nebe.’
‘Since it’s impossible to fly the saucers without being observed,’ Nebe said, his voice
as chilling as his demeanour, ‘whether they be our own highly advanced craft or your
crude US-Canadian prototypes, I suggest you implement the widespread use of ridicule,
harassment and confusion of UFO witnesses, official and otherwise.’
‘We’ve already done that,’ Fuller told him.
‘Correct,’ Vandenberg added. ‘When Project Sign was established in January 1948 it
was given a 2A classification and placed under the jurisdiction of the Intelligence
Division of the Air Force’s Air Material Command at Wright Field - later renamed the
Air Technical Intelligence Centre, or the ATIC. When Captain Dwight Randall of Sign
submitted his official, top-secret Estimate of the Situation in July of that year, I
personally rejected it on the grounds that it lacked proof, even though the proof was clearly conclusive. I then encouraged a whole new policy at Project Sign: in the future, Sign personnel were to assume that all UFO reports were hoaxes. They also had to check with FBI officers and with the criminal and subversive files of police departments, looking into the private lives of the witnesses to check if they were reliable. Most of the Project Sign team took this as fair warning that it wasn’t wise to raise the subject of UFO sightings. To encourage this fear, I first leaked the news that Captain Randall’s Estimate of the Situation had been incinerated, then renamed Sign as Project Grudge. As
anticipated, this was taken by all concerned as another indication of my displeasure.’ ‘Clever,’ Nebe whispered admiringly.
‘The function of Project Grudge,’ Fuller explained, picking up where Vandenberg had
left off, ‘was to shift the investigations away from the actual UFOs and on to those who
reported them. However, since a good twenty-three percent of their reports were still
classified as unknowns, this wasn’t easy. For this reason, Project Grudge launched a
CIA-backed public relations campaign designed to convince the American public that
UFOs did not represent anything unusual or extraordinary. As part of this debunking
effort, we encouraged the Saturday Evening Post journalist, Sidney Shallet, to write a
two-part article exposing UFOs as a waste of time; but when that backfired - by
increasing public interest rather than diminishing it - we got the Air Force to counteract
by stating officially that UFOs were either misidentifications of natural phenomena or
the products of mass hallucination. Project Grudge issued its final report in August 1949
- only six months after its inception. Put simply, its conclusion was that while twentythree percent of the UFO reports were still classified as unknowns, most had
psychological explanations and the investigation was therefore a waste of time and
should be downgraded even further. On December 27, the Air Force announced the
termination of the project. Shortly after, the Project Grudge records were stored and
most of its personnel were widely scattered.’
‘You can do more,’ Nebe said, ‘to encourage widespread confusion and fear of
ridicule when it comes to the reporting of UFOs. Your Air Force must be seen to be
supporting UFO investigations with Project Blue Book, while actually hampering them
behind the scenes and by otherwise making things unpleasant, or even dangerous, for
UFO witnesses and investigators. This can be done through the introduction of some
new, restrictive Air Force regulations. You should also form a supposedly secret panel
of leading scientists to investigate UFOs. However, this panel will also include CIA
representatives who will ensure that its official report ridicules the whole phenomenon
and then is leaked to the press.’
‘You’re asking us to turn our own, patriotic pilots and citizens into traitors,’ Samford
said angrily, ‘and, even worse, to do so while we’re fighting the war in Korea.’ ‘A small sacrifice,’ Wilson said, ‘and one you must make. Otherwise there can be no
agreement between us.’
Samford was about to make another angry retort, but was cut short by the stern
glances of President Truman and General Vandenberg.
‘As Head of Air Intelligence – ’ Nebe nodded at General Samford – ‘and USAF Chief of Staff’ - he nodded at General Vandenberg – ‘you two are in an excellent position to
do this, so please ensure that it’s done.’
Vandenberg managed to keep his peace, if with visible effort, but Samford practically
turned purple and even took a step forward. ‘I’d remind you that the last time we talked
you were relatively safe because we were in open countryside with your saucer hovering
right above us. This time, however, we’re in the Oval Room of the White House, so
what the hell can you do to prevent us from arresting you right now?’
Smiling, Wilson told Samford to turn off the lights. When this had been done, the
Oval Room was plunged into moonlit darkness. Wilson then removed a pocket-sized
electronic device from his jacket pocket and whispered coded instructions into it. A few
seconds later, a bass humming sound came from outside, seeming to fill the room, then
the room shook a little, as if from an earth tremor, and a dazzling, pulsating, silverywhite light beamed in through the windows overlooking the Rose Garden. When they all stared at the windows, they saw what appeared to be a row of portholes
in a metal body, with the light beaming out of them to form the single, blinding
brilliance that now filled the Oval Room.
The row of lights bobbed up and down, as if hovering just above the ground, while
the bass humming sound filled the room to exert a subtle, almost palpable, disturbing
pressure. Then the humming noise ceased and the silvery-white lights blinked out,
plunging the Oval Room back into moonlit darkness.
General Samford switched the room lights back on as Wilson stood up, preparing to
leave with Nebe.
‘I’ll be spending a few days in the capital,’ he informed them with confidence, ‘so
please don’t try any tricks while I’m here.’
‘We won’t,’ Fuller said.
General Samford glared at Wilson, General Vandenberg looked stunned, and
President Truman simply stared at the windows as if in a state of shock.
Without another word, Fuller led Wilson and Nebe out of the Oval Room, then down
to the White House garage, to drive them back to where they were staying, in the Hay
Adams hotel.
Chapter Sixteen Cold December winds were blowing dust across the desert when Fuller drove to the house of Mike and Gladys Bradl
ey, near Eden Valley, Roswell, New Mexico. The sun was starting to sink when he got out of his car and walked up the steps of the modest ranch-style house in the middle of nowhere, with only the El Capitán Mountain visible in the distance, beyond the otherwise featureless flatlands.
They sure like their privacy, Fuller thought as he rang the doorbell.
Neither Bradley nor his wife was expecting the visit from Fuller and the latter gazed at him suspiciously through the mesh-wire of the outer door when she opened the main door.
‘Gladys Bradley?’ Fuller asked.
‘If you’re here, you must know that already, so why bother asking?’
Fuller had heard she was a tough old bird, so he wasn’t too surprised by her tart response. Though now nearing her sixties, Gladys was still as thin as a whip and had a gaunt, suntanned face, under grey hair cropped as short as a man’s. She was squinting at him through the smoke from the cigarette dangling from compressed lips.
‘I want to speak to your husband, Mrs Bradley.’
‘He may not want to speak to you, mister. Just who the hell are you?’
‘Sam Fuller. CIA.’
‘Oh, one of those.’ She clearly disapproved. ‘You got an appointment?’ Fuller shook his head. ‘No,’ Gladys said, ‘I didn’t think so. Goodnight, Mr Fuller.’
She was just about to close the main door again when Fuller jerked the outer door open and used his foot as a doorstop on the other one. ‘Don’t close the door, Mrs Bradley. I might hurt my foot. If I do, I’m liable to get angry and that leads to trouble. You look like a woman of some perception, so you know I’m not lying. Now do I come in or not?’
Still a reporter to her fingertips, Gladys studied him for a moment, then nodded and opened the inner door. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I know trouble when I see it. You promise me none of that and I’ll let you in.’
‘No trouble,’ Fuller said.
Gladys nodded again, then stepped aside to let him pass. He entered a short hallway with doors on either side. Gladys closed the door behind him, then skipped ahead to lead him into the expansive living room, which had an open-beam ceiling, walls and floors of pine boards, and comfortable, old-fashioned furniture on Mexican carpets. As they entered, Mike Bradley looked up in surprise, then rose from his armchair in front of the flickering TV set.
‘Sam Fuller,’ Gladys said, waving a careless hand in Fuller’s direction. ‘CIA. He was very persistent. Wants to ask a few questions.’
Bradley nodded, understanding what she meant, then looked directly at Fuller. He didn’t extend his hand.
‘CIA?’
‘That’s right, Mr Bradley. I know you won’t want to answer my questions, but I’m afraid you’ll just have to.’
Just as Gladys had done, Mike Bradley studied Fuller carefully, then glanced inquiringly at his wife.
‘It’s been years now,’ Gladys said. ‘It can’t make too much difference. This one’s trouble and we don’t need that at our age. Just answer his questions, Mike.’
Bradley nodded, then held out his hand. ‘Hi,’ he said as Fuller shook it. ‘Can I get you a drink?’
‘I could sure do with a beer,’ Fuller replied.
‘I’ll get it,’ Gladys said.
As she disappeared into the kitchen, Bradley indicated that Fuller should take an armchair facing the TV. When Fuller did so, Bradley switched the set off - Milton Berle was hamming it up in the Texaco Star Theater - and took the comfortable armchair facing him. At fifty-eight years old, Bradley was still a handsome, well-built, silveryhaired man, though the skin on one cheek was slightly livid from what looked like an old burn.
The explosion at Kiel Harbour, Fuller thought. That’s what put him in hospital. Otherwise, the guy looks like Spencer Tracy. A dead ringer, in fact.
‘Nice house,’ Fuller said, glancing around the living room.
‘Yes,’ Bradley said, ‘we think so.’
The pine-board walls were covered with framed photos taken from the personal history of the two people who lived here. Apart from early family portraits, the photos of Gladys showed her as a reporter in Roswell in the 1930s, including some with Robert H. Goddard and his rocket team; then the Spanish Civil War, including some of Ernest Hemingway; plus London, England, during World War II; liberated Paris, France; then more journalistic encounters in Roswell after the war. Other photos showed Gladys and Bradley, both in uniform, also in London and liberated Paris during the war, or Bradley with other military personnel in France and Germany during the same period. Fuller assumed that the framed photos of a young man and strikingly similar young woman, sometimes alone, other times with children or Bradley, were of Bradley’s son and daughter and grandchildren. There were no photos of Bradley’s former wife, who had died at Pearl Harbour.
‘You two have obviously lived a full life,’ Fuller said.
‘If you’re in the CIA, Mr Fuller, I’m sure you know as much about us as we do.’
Fuller grinned. ‘Yeah, I guess so.’
Gladys returned with his beer, handed it to him, then took the chair between him and Bradley. Fuller sipped the beer, which was ice cold, then he licked his wet lips.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘times have sure changed since you two got together during World War Two. That was some damned explosion last week, right?’
‘It sure was,’ Bradley replied, his gaze steady and watchful. ‘And so was the one the month before.’
He was referring to Britain’s first atomic bomb test in Monte Bello Islands, off the northwest coast of Australia, which had taken place about eight weeks ago. Fuller, on the other hand, was referring to the obliteration of the whole island of Eniwetok, in the Pacific, by the US hydrogen bomb test of two days ago.
‘An awesome sight,’ Fuller said.
‘Some would call it terrifying.’
‘Yeah... And now we’re being plagued by these damned flying saucers. The world’s certainly changing.’
‘We both know why you’re here, Mr Fuller. You don’t have to introduce the subject in this roundabout manner. You want to know why I didn’t turn up at the Socorro UFO crash site on July 2, 1947, five years ago. You want to know what I know.’
Fuller sighed. ‘Yeah, that’s it.’ Glancing at Gladys, he met a measuring, grey-eyed gaze, so quickly turned back to Bradley. ‘Okay, you know why I’m here. From the day you returned from the war in Europe, you were obsessed with UFOs, or flying saucers, and kept in constant touch with the Flight Intelligence Officer of Roswell Army Air Base, First Lieutenant William B. Harris, hounding him for information on any sightings. Yet that night in July, 1947, when Harris called to inform you that a flying saucer had actually crashed on the Plain of Magdalena, near Socorro, inviting you to go and view the crash debris with him, you didn’t show up and ever since have refused to say why. You also stopped investigating, or even discussing, UFOs from that night on. What happened, Mr Bradley?’
‘What do you know about my activities during the war?’
‘You were trying to track down a brilliant American physicist who had once worked with Robert H. Goddard, right here in Roswell, before absconding to Germany and ending up in charge of a top-secret Nazi research project. He was called John Wilson. Born Montezuma, Iowa, in – ’
‘You know what that research project was, don’t you?’
‘We believe it was called Projekt Saucer. We also have grounds for believing that it involved the construction of a highly advanced, jet-propelled, saucer-shaped aircraft.’
‘Correct. Then you also know that my reason for being at Kiel Harbour just before the close of the war was to try and capture Wilson before he made his escape.’
‘By submarine?’
‘You must know that as well.’
‘No,’ Fuller lied, wanting Bradley to reveal as much as possible from his own knowledge. ‘The report on your World War Two activities has been heavily censored. I only know that you made it as far as Kiel, where you were badly wounded in an explosion on the dock. I wasn’t s
ure if you knew what had happened to Wilson.’
‘Yes, I knew. Wilson and some of his cronies were taken on board the Nazi submarine U-977, which I actually saw leaving Kiel harbour. Just before the submarine put out to sea, one of Wilson’s Nazi pals, an SS lieutenant, found me lying hurt on the dock, after my car had been overturned. He introduced himself, saying his name was Stoll, and confirmed that Wilson was on board the submarine. He also said that Wilson would remember my name. Then he blew up the nearby warehouses, which contained trucks stacked high with slaughtered SS troops: the only remaining witnesses, apart from myself, to Wilson’s escape. As you know, I was badly wounded by that same explosion and spent many months in hospital, first in Germany, then back here. When I was released, I became obsessed with flying saucers - not mere UFOs - because I knew damned well that they existed and I wanted to prove it.’
‘So why didn’t you go with First Lieutenant William Harris when he invited you to the site of the Socorro crash?’
‘Initially, I intended going,’ Bradley confessed. ‘In fact, I left here immediately and was heading for Roswell Air Base, to meet Lieutenant Harris, when I realised that I was being tracked by a flying saucer. It landed on the road ahead and made the engine of my car malfunction; then three men dressed in black dropped out of the base of the flying saucer and surrounded my car. One of them introduced himself as Wilson.’
‘Christ,’ Fuller exclaimed softly. Glancing at Gladys, he saw that she was still gazing steadily at him, not trusting him an inch. ‘So what did Wilson say?’ Fuller asked, turning back to Bradley.
‘He told me that the world we know is dying - a world of wasteful emotions - and that the new world, his world, was approaching and couldn’t be held back. His world, he informed me, would be one of truth, or pitiless logic, and his technology was going to take us there. He then told me to stop pursuing him. He threatened Gladys and my grandchildren. He explained that his flying saucers would fly the skies with impunity and that those who reported them - presumably including me - would be ridiculed and, where necessary, silenced. He told me again to think of my children. To enjoy my retirement. Then he bid me Auf Wiedersehen and took off in his saucer. I was frightened by the advanced capability of that flying saucer, by what Wilson had said, by the knowledge that he had managed to track me down, and so I stopped chasing UFOs.’
PHOENIX: (Projekt Saucer series) Page 18
