Chapter 9
You Said Something About Aliens?
As former FBI agent William Harrison begins to investigate his anonymous informant's claims of an extraterrestrial cover-up, he quickly realizes that he needs help. He decides to call his former partner at the FBI, Special Agent Arthur Holcomb.
This excerpt tracks their initial phone conversation, one where Harrison has to broach the subject of his investigation with the hopes that Holcomb can keep an open mind.
But really, this is where we meet Art Holcomb, who is very much like a rumbling volcano - something you experience with awe, curiosity, respect, and some fear. To Harrison, Holcomb is also a trusted colleague and friend, one whom he undoubtedly enjoys. He also feeds off Holcomb's energy.
Maybe you have met someone like Holcomb? If you have, you may never want to see that person again or you may have become the closest of friends…
“Washington FBI, Special Agent Grier, may I help you?”
“Ah, yes, I apparently have the wrong number. I was trying to reach Special Agent Art Holcomb. I’m pretty sure he used to be at this number.”
“Agent Holcomb, yes. Uh, is it something I might be able to help you with instead?”
“No, no, I appreciate that, but Art’s the guy I need to talk to. We used to work together.”
“I see, well, I’m sorry to hear that. He’s in Baltimore these days. Try calling their main number. The receptionist should be able to put you in touch.”
Harrison knew that Holcomb could rub people the wrong way, but he was nevertheless disappointed with Agent Grier’s apparent disdain for him.
After a quick Internet search, Harrison found the Baltimore FBI’s main number. A few transferred calls later, someone finally connected him with the right number. Apparently, Holcomb occupied space at a little-known location away from the Baltimore FBI’s main office. In all the confusion, Harrison picked up that his former partner worked alone at the facility.
After several rings, a familiar loud and impatient voice answered Harrison’s call.
“Holcomb, go.”
“The moon shines like a freshly unwrapped cheese ball at the holidays.”
“Mongolian women eat Chinese food after cleaning their husbands’ assault rifles,” Holcomb said, laughing. “About time you called me, Bill.”
“How’d you know it was me?”
“Duh. The only other person I know of, besides myself, who gets a kick out of using silly made-up code speak is that former special agent, now bum PI, Bill Harrison.”
“Yeah, well it’s good to talk to you too.”
“Thanks for keeping in touch.”
“Hell, I’ve tried a couple times lately and no one seemed to be able to put me in touch with you. I figured you were probably just blowing me off for one of your preoccupations. But then I remembered that you still had at least one hand typically available to dial the phone.”
“I guess you didn’t hear about the accident.”
“No, sorry, what happened?”
“Lost both hands and all my fingers in a terrible masturbation mishap. The intense frictional heat led to spontaneous combustion.”
“Wow, I thought that kind of thing only caused blindness.”
“I’m wearing glasses nowadays too. I should have stopped while I was ahead. Actually, I’ve been shuffled around from here and there over the last couple of years or so. I don’t think people like me very much. Right now, I’m working with Baltimore PD on gang and narcotics stuff.” The first hint of genuine strain entered Holcomb’s voice. “Nasty shit out there. I’m only a year shy of fifty, and then I will take my retirement and run for the hills.”
“I’m sure whatever assignment you have, you will carry it out in the utmost professional manner.”
“Oh yeah, you know me. I’m surprised the bureau hasn’t assigned my professional butt to Yemen or some other garden spot like it.”
“They like to keep their best and brightest in the capital area. You know, as an example of what others should strive for in that city.”
“We definitely have the best and brightest here in the greater DC area. They all work in that domed building or at some other Pennsylvania Avenue address.”
“I’m glad to hear you haven’t changed.”
“God knows I’ve tried, but the bureau wouldn’t approve my time off request for me to have that sex change operation in Sweden.”
“Maybe when you retire you can take care of that.”
Despite Holcomb’s irreverent attitude, Harrison knew he was one of the best agents at the bureau. Hearing his voice made Harrison realize, more than ever, how lucky he had been to work with him.
“What are you working on these days?” Holcomb said.
“Lately, insurance fraud and marital infidelity stuff. It pays the bills and keeps me busy.”
“Yawn.”
“I know, not as exciting as chasing down gangbangers, but it’s still a chance to beat the bad guys.”
“There’s the stalwart American hero I once knew. I think I’m going to be sick,” Holcomb said, chuckling.
“Actually, I think it’s the excessive amount of alcohol you drink that makes you feel sick.”
“Could be. In fact, I could use a hit about now. Oh, that’s right, my supervisor said I couldn’t drink on duty anymore. He actually removed my vodka stash and poured it in the toilet.”
“I’ll send you a fresh bottle in the mail right away. Think of it as an early Christmas gift.”
“Could you? That would be great. My gambling debt detracts from my discretionary income, so I haven’t been able to buy much booze lately. So, what other cases are you working on?”
Holcomb would want to know—and deserved to know—details about this unique case if he were to assist with it. Harrison cleared his throat, and then said, “It’s kind of difficult to accept if you don’t have an open mind?”
“I’m listening.”
Here it goes.
“The case involves extraterrestrials and a government conspiracy to prevent knowledge of their existence from becoming public.”
Silence detonated in Harrison’s ears. The shockwaves razed his surroundings, sucked away the oxygen supply, and compressed his eardrums. He heard ringing too, a high-pitched whine that reverberated through his gray matter.
“I’m sorry, Bill, I thought you said something about aliens? Did you give up the menthols for marijuana? Or maybe they now have flavored joints as well?”
Harrison rubbed his temples. “I’m serious, Art. I’m speaking to you confidentially, by the way.”
“Oh, you’re right about that. I’m not going to say anything to anyone about aliens and a government conspiracy. They’ll think I’m nuts for sure.”
“I know it’s difficult to accept. Hell, I haven’t accepted it either. But the informant is paying me well, and I’m going to follow up on the leads he provides. I called because I know I can trust you and I hoped to get a little assistance.”
“You don’t call me for God knows how long, and when you do call me, you ask for my help proving that little green men from outer space exist?”
“More or less.”
“What do you need me to do? Buy a telescope? Become an astronaut?”
“I need to have independent corroboration of what the informant provides me. I’m also trying to figure out his identity, so I want you to access some of our old aerospace cases and give me the names of the military liaison officers.”
“You think this guy might be military?”
“That’s my impression right now.”
“Is that all?”
“For now it is. Can you help me out?”
Harrison only heard a quiet sigh. He hoped his request appealed to Holcomb’s sense of adventure or, at least, that the bonds of their old partnership were strong enough to gain his assistance.
“Only because it’s you and I need a break from reality,” Holcomb said.
“You’re the best.”
“Most would disagree. Give me the names of the project cases. I’ll need them to do a search.”
Before he provided Holcomb with further details, Harrison realized he had just entered a new phase of the investigation. “This must remain confidential. The informant believes this assignment is dangerous.”
“Do you feel that way?”
“I don’t know for sure. He did inform me in a cryptic way of Harold Groom’s demise before it happened.”
“What does Groom have to do with this?”
“Nothing directly as far as I know, but according to the informant, Groom had been a government assassin since the 1960s, and he needed to be knocked off because he was going to start talking. I think the informant was using the Groom reference as a way of establishing credibility with me, along with some other details about traffic accidents from the late forties and early fifties.”
“This is definitely spookish.”
“Just like old times.”
“Well, hell, your secrets are safe with me. What are the names of the project cases?”
“Aurora, Silver Star, and Black Hole.”
“I remember working those with you now that you mention them. Of course, those were my heavy drinking days, so it’s all a bit fuzzy.”
“Can you also search FBI records for any unusual cases pertaining to Roswell, New Mexico, circa July, 1947?”
“Anything else?”
“I need verification of some Air Force discharge records.”
“I’ll need the names at least, but preferably both the names and service numbers.”
“I have both.” Harrison provided Holcomb with the names of the five traffic accident victims along with their service numbers.
“So what’s important about these guys?”
“All of them died in traffic accidents.”
“So?”
“My informant says they were military policemen assigned to Roswell Army Airfield when the crash of two UFOs occurred there in July, 1947.”
“And who killed them? The aliens?”
“Right,” Harrison said, laughing. “I’m glad to see you’re keeping an open mind.”
“I’m trying.”
“I know this stuff is way out there, but we have got to deal with it professionally.”
“Always keeping me in line, aren’t you?”
“It makes me wonder how you’ve gotten by without me.”
“I’ve been banished, exiled from the main office. No one comes around. That should tell you how well I’ve managed.”
“Then it sounds like you could definitely use a break from the routine. So, to answer your question, the informant says these were no accidents and the men were killed by a government entity responsible for covering up the whole alien thing. The MPs were weak links in the chain of secrecy and were eliminated in the name of national security.”
“I think I like my own answer better than that one.”
“I know what you mean, pal.”
A brief uncertainty crossed Harrison’s mind when he hung up the phone. The anxiety caused his muscles to tighten, creating a noticeable ache in his right thigh. He rubbed it, helping the pain subside. He trusted Holcomb, but one lesson he had learned long ago was that sometimes, secrets eluded concealment.
Truth Insurrected: Declassified Page 10
