PHOENIX: (Projekt Saucer series)

by W. A. Harbinson

  ‘The UFO question has cost the US government a lot of money, so that may be an understandable reaction. And for that matter, particularly regarding your conspiracy theories, if the US government is concerned with the UFO problem, why would it want to bury those searching for answers?’

  ‘Because certain members of the US government already know the answers,’ Jackson said. ‘The UFOs are their own.’

  Up to this point, Fuller had been mildly amused by Jackson’s quiet belligerence, but hearing that last remark, he turned deadly serious, though without actually showing it.

  ‘The man-made UFO theory is bullshit,’ he told Jackson. ‘The unveiling of the Avrocar proved that conclusively.’

  ‘A red herring,’ Jackson said.

  ‘Oh, yeah?’

  ‘Yeah. We have a researcher – I won’t give you his name – who came up with some interesting info about the construction of US-Canadian flying saucers.’

  ‘The Flying Flapjack, the Omega and the Avrocar,’ Fuller said without hesitation. ‘They’ve all been declassified and shown to the press and, therefore, the public. No mystery there, pal.’

  ‘No? We have reason to believe that the flying saucers you showed publicly are red herrings; that the real saucers are a lot more advanced and kept in various secret hangars on US Army, Air Force or Navy bases. Certainly we know for a fact that one of them is housed in a top-secret hangar in Cannon AFB, Albuquerque, New Mexico. Indeed, I personally saw it.’

  ‘You personally saw it?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘May, 1954.’

  ‘Eight years ago. Are you sure you remember that far back? Maybe, like Marlon Clarke, you were drunk that night.’

  ‘No, I remember it well. And I was stone cold sober, believe me. I was driving to a motel on the road that runs right past the base and I saw a hangar at the far end of it, rising above the barbed-wire fence of a top-security area. That UFO, which was no piss-take Avrocar, descended and landed as I braked to a halt to study it more carefully. Then it was wheeled into the hangar. What I saw – clearly and at length - was a highly advanced, saucer-shaped aircraft.’

  ‘That sure is some story,’ Fuller said, deliberately sounding sceptical, though he was shocked by what he was hearing. May 1954, as he knew, was the night that the present APII stringer, Dwight Randall, then a USAF captain, had paid a visit to Cannon AFB in the company of fellow USAF captain, Andrew Boyle. Unfortunately, the latter had been observed on camera a few nights before, watching the descent of a US version of Wilson’s Kugelblitz II as it did, indeed, descend onto its landing pad in the base, before being wheeled into the hangar that Jackson was clearly talking about. As it was believed that no-one would have believed Boyle’s story anyway, he was left alone for a few days; but when he put a call through to Project Blue Book’s Dwight Randall, inviting him to Albuquerque, a close watch was placed on him. Then, when he drove Randall straight from Albuquerque airport to Cannon AFB, followed all the way, and stopped on the road that ran right past the top-secret hangar at the far end of the base, well away from the main gate, it was decided to follow Randall, also.

  When Boyle handed over the photo of the US Kugelblitz II to Randall, both men were observed by the Air Force intelligence men following them. It was those same Air Force intelligence men, all dressed entirely in black to propagate the myth started with Wilson’s original men in black, who burst into Randall’s room, scared the hell out of him, and stole the flying saucer photo from him. A few months later, when Randall was falling apart from fear, confusion and drink, Boyle, who had been transferred post haste to Alaska, was terminated in an airplane ‘crash’ over Mt McKinley.

  Now Randall’s other friend, this Bob Jackson, was claiming that he was the one who had seen that flying saucer descending on Cannon AFB. Fuller didn’t believe so. He believed that Jackson had heard the story from Dwight Randall and was using it to try and screw information out of him while protecting his good friend. Well, that was his mistake.

  ‘You have anything to add?’ Fuller asked, ‘before I drop this phone?’

  ‘Yes,’ Jackson said. His breathing sounded more nervous now, too harsh, stop-andstart. ‘We have reason to believe that the flying saucers are being used mainly for work in sub-arctic areas. Since I personally specialise in the analysis of flight patterns and have worked out that most of the saucers appear to be flying on northernsoutherly routes, I believe the saucers are mainly flying between here and Antarctica.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Thank God for that, Fuller thought. He was silent for a moment, then said, quite deliberately: ‘This sounds like Jules Verne to me.’

  ‘Don’t be facetious, Mr Fuller. You know I can’t be too far out.’

  Still sounding slightly mocking, though in truth he was deadly serious, Fuller said: ‘So what if this fantastic tale is true? What’s it got to do with me?’

  ‘We’re going a long way back here, Fuller.’

  ‘So go a long way back.’

  ‘Given all the evidence now at hand,’ Jackson said, ‘the Socorro crash of 1947 almost certainly involved a man-made flying saucer. And if that’s true, you knew just what you were doing when you talked to Marlon Clarke before he disappeared. You’re in on it, Fuller.’

  There was an uncomfortably long silence while Fuller considered what to do about this man, who was trying to be a hero while protecting his friends.

  ‘So what am I supposed to say?’ Fuller finally asked, having decided exactly what he would do.

  ‘Am I right or wrong?’

  ‘Right and wrong,’ Fuller told him.

  ‘Will you tell me more?’

  ‘Only under certain conditions.’

  ‘What are they?’

  ‘Let’s meet and work out an agreement. I need some protection here.’

  ‘When can we meet?’

  ‘The sooner the better, Mr Jackson. What about this evening?’

  ‘When and where?’

  ‘I know this little bar in M Street. It’s not very nice, but at least no one from Langley or the Capitol is likely to be there. A bit low-life, don’t you know? It’s called

  – ‘

  ‘Wait. Let me write it down.’

  Fuller waited patiently until Jackson said he was ready, then he gave him the name and location of the bar in M Street, down near the Canal, and told him to meet him outside at nine that evening.

  ‘I’ll be there,’ Bob Jackson said.

  Dropping the phone, Fuller kicked his chair back, placed his feet on the desk, clasped his hands behind his head and whispered, ‘I’ll bet you will.’

  Back at his flashy Dupont Circle apartment, which had contemporary art on the white-painted walls, artificial-antique furniture, concealed lighting, off-white carpets and a total lack of idiosyncrasy or human warmth, Fuller mixed himself a dry Martini, then turned the TV on to the news. He rarely actually watched the news; he only listened to it. As he had no ear for music, it was all he listened to.

  As he was having another sip of his Martini, his cat, a seventy-five percent Russian blue named Doc Savage, padded into the room, rubbed itself against Fuller’s left ankle, then stood on its hind legs to gaze into the dimly lit goldfish bowl. Distractedly stroking the cat’s head, Fuller reached into the bowl, pulled out a wriggling goldfish and held it just above the cat’s twitching nose. When the cat saw and smelt the goldfish, he leaped up, snatched it out of Fuller’s fingers with his teeth, then ran back into the kitchen with the goldfish wriggling frantically in his jaws.

  Amused, sipping more of his Martini, Fuller entered the subdued lighting of the bedroom, from where he could still hear the news on TV. Setting his Martini glass on the bedside cabinet, he stripped off his clothing, threw his shirt, tie, underclothes and socks into the laundry basket (his housekeeper came every day) and draped his suit with fastidious care over the coat hanger, which he hung to air on the closet door.

 
Naked, he glanced at himself in the mirror, noticed that his belly was still flat, given his advancing years (he’d soon be all of forty-two), then made his way into the bathroom. After emptying his bladder, he meticulously washed his hands, filled the sink with hot water, and soaped and shaved himself, using a gleaming strop razor. With the remains of the shaving cream still on parts of his chin, he went to the shower, turned the water on, adjusted it until it was steaming hot, then stepped under it. As his skin turned pink from the heat, he thoroughly soaped and cleaned himself, taking particular care with his anus and private parts, then let the hot water wash the soap away. When he had finished this cleansing process, which had left him with an erection, he turned the water from hot to icy cold, braved it for a minute or so, thus losing his erection, then turned the water off and stepped out of the shower.

  He dried himself vigorously with a rough towel that further reddened his skin. Dried, he applied talcum powder to his private parts, anus and feet, then sprayed deodorant under his armpits and patted after-shave lotion onto his chin and throat.

  Returning to the bedroom, he sipped more of his dry Martini, then studied his naked body in the full-length mirror. As he did so, his erection rose steadily again and he imagined a woman on her knees, slipping painted lips over it. Proud that he could still manage this at his age, he picked up his glass of Martini, carried it to the artificial-antique table where the telephone rested, and sat down on a soft, highbacked chair. After resting his Martini glass on the table, he telephoned his latest acquisition, a twenty-five year old secretary besotted with men of some authority. He enthusiastically stroked his erection while whispering arousing obscenities to her, but finally arranged to meet her at Clyde’s, also located on M Street, at 9.30pm.

  When the girl had rung off, Fuller stretched out on the sofa, half propped up on one arm, sipping his Martini, listening to the babble of the TV and letting his erect penis return to normal, prepared for better things. Finishing off his Martini, he stood up again and returned to the bedroom. There, he dressed meticulously in a finely cut Italian grey suit, shirt and tie, with black patent-leather shoes. After transferring his billfold, loose change, keys, notebook, pen and small leather pouch from the jacket of the suit he had worn that day to the pockets of the fresh jacket, he checked himself once more in the mirror and left the apartment.

  Lacking patience for the parking difficulties of Georgetown, he caught a cab to the bar located where M Street ran into Canal Road, which was dark at this hour. It was not dark at the front door of the bar, which was brightly illuminated by the street lights, enabling him to see the well-fed, middle-aged Bob Jackson standing uncomfortably beside a group of Georgetown University students, who were having their beer on the sidewalk.

  Disembarking from the cab at the far side of the road, Fuller paid the driver, tipping him handsomely, then stood there for a moment, in the relative darkness by the bank of the Canal, watching Bob Jackson and recalling the many other times that he had either personally tailed him and Dwight Randall when they were together or had them tailed, photographed and recorded on tape by other CIA or FBI agents. From his personal observations, as well as from the audio and visual material supplied by his fellow agents, he had learned that Bob Jackson and Dwight Randall were very good friends, deeply fond of each other, with wives who also liked each other as well as their husbands. They were decent, good-hearted people who had shared a lot together and would, Fuller knew, be devastated if anything happened to any other member of their group.

  Pity about that, he thought. Crossing the road, he stepped up on the sidewalk and held his hand out to the portly Bob Jackson.

  ‘Hi,’ he said. ‘I’m Jack Fuller. Have we met before?’

  ‘No,’ Bob said. ‘So how did you recognise me?’

  Fuller grinned and indicated the young students bunched up all around Jackson. ‘You’re the only person here over twenty-one,’ he said, ‘so it didn’t need much deducing.’

  ‘Oh.’ Jackson looked a bit embarrassed, but was also clearly amused by Fuller’s comment. ‘Right, I see what you mean.’ He glanced again at the students, listened to the rock ‘n’ roll music pounding inside, and said, ‘You really think we can talk in there?’

  ‘Not really,’ Fuller said. ‘This used to be an adults’ place, but it’s changed with the changing times. Come on, let’s go to this other place I know, just a couple of minutes away. Just up the side of this bar, adjoining the building.’

  He walked Jackson around the corner and into the road that climbed steeply up the side wall of the bar. They soon left the lamplight behind and stepped into a short, unlit strip where the darkness was deep.

  Maybe Jackson sensed something, because he stopped and turned around to face Fuller, preparing to speak.

  He never got the words out.

  Fuller brought the hard, cutting edge of his right hand down across Bob Jackson’s neck, striking the jugular vein precisely enough to cut off the flow of blood to his head without actually damaging the vein itself. Instantly rendered unconscious, Jackson fell back against the wall and slid down it until he was resting with his back against it and his knees raised in front of his face. After glancing left and right, to ensure that no-one was coming, Fuller removed the small leather pouch from the inside pocket of his jacket, opened it, withdrew an already loaded hypodermic, and sank the needle into the back of Bob Jackson’s hand. Even as Fuller was placing the emptied hypodermic back into the leather pouch, slipping the pouch back into his pocket and walking back to the front of the building, Bob Jackson was suffering the violent spasms of a drug that would induce fatal heart arrhythmia without leaving any traces behind.

  As Bob Jackson was going into violent convulsions, Fuller turned the corner of the bar, brushed past the students, and walked along M Street, to enter the noisily pleasant ambience of Clyde’s, where he found his latest acquisition waiting for him. A five-foot, four-inch blonde in a skin-tight dress and high heels, she threw her arms around Fuller when he entered and gave him a long, sensual kiss.

  ‘A good meal and a bottle of wine,’ Fuller said when he had managed to disengage. ‘Then we’ll make love all night. Life’s for the living, right?’

  Chapter Thirty-Four These days Dwight’s mood was one of almost constant depression. For three months after Bob Jackson’s sudden death by heart attack outside the student bar in M Street, Georgetown, Dwight had felt himself torn between shock, grief and deep suspicion. The inexplicable death had been bad enough, followed by the usual horrors of seeing the grief of Bob’s wife and two kids, not to mention Beth, then the funeral, the wake and the subsequent dreadful days of numbed disbelief. Making matters worse, however, was Thelma’s bewildered insistence that Bob wasn’t supposed to have been in Georgetown that particular night, that he was supposed to have come home for dinner with friends, but phoned at the last minute to say that something urgent had come up and he would be late home. Added to this, thus to Dwight’s deepening depression, was his own fearful conviction that no matter what the coroner said about Bob dying from a heart attack, he had in fact been murdered.

  This conviction grew in Dwight over the months as he tried to adjust to life without Bob and spent a lot of time consoling Thelma, who, with her blonde hair now streaked with grey strands, her formerly lush body filling out into middle-aged maturity, remained bewildered as to what her loving husband had been doing up a dark alley outside a student bar when he should have been home. This didn’t make sense to Thelma; and nor could she understand what had made Bob so excited that he would leave a group of friends sitting around his dinner table, rather than hurry home to join them.

  ‘That just wasn’t in his nature,’ she told Dwight, ‘so it must have been something pretty important – something big.’

  ‘Well, nothing was found on him, Thelma, so now we’ll never know.’

  Another cause of Dwight’s deepening depression was the knowledge that ever since last year’s cancellation of the Congressional hearings on the U
FO phenomenon, which should have opened the whole debate up for the first time, Dr Frederick Epstein’s APII, along with the other major UFO organisations, had been suffering an unprecedented series of financial and personal catastrophes, including a dramatic loss of subscription-paying members, due to lack of public discussion of the phenomenon, the abrupt withdrawal of funds from long-standing support groups and individuals, repeated investigations by an IRS desperately trying to find discrepancies in the organisation’s accounts, and the damaging loss of a large number of staff through inexplicable illnesses, marital problems, and alcoholism brought on by various kinds of UFO ‘hauntings’, including nocturnal visits from the ‘men in black’. Through all of this, Dr Epstein had battled on with admirable fortitude, but the exhaustion was beginning to show on his lined face, in his prematurely greying hair and beard.

  Last but by no means least, Dwight’s depression was deepening because his increasing work-load for the understaffed APII was keeping him away from home more often and placing the marriage under strain, even as Beth, who’d had a couple of years of peace after the terrifying weeks leading up to the public showing of the Avrocar at Fort Eustus, Virginia, had started being tormented as before. Once more she was having dreadful nightmares about UFOs and men in black, actually seeing men dressed in black following her, either in a black limousine or on foot, though always at a safe distance. Also, this time, to add to her deepening fear, she was receiving numerous crank calls, some from people sounding mentally unstable and whispering insults down the line, others from ‘deep breathers’ who refused to say anything or simply chuckled before hanging up. Eventually, though no poltergeist manifestations were evident in the house, as they had been the week before the Avrocar viewing, Beth had become convinced that her car was being tracked by a UFO that often came down practically on top of her, yet somehow managed to always stay out of sight.

  Dwight could not forget that the previous ‘hauntings’ had finished the day before the press showing of the Avrocar and had started up again the day after Bob Jackson’s death. These facts convinced him that the hauntings, in both cases, were being organised by the same people, human or otherwise.