Majestic

by Whitley Strieber

  "What the fuck war is that?"

  "You don't know about the fuckin' Civil War, Sweetie? You must be some kind of moron."

  "Who're you callin' a moron, Mastic, you corn-holin' homo."

  "Fuck you, you big puff! Them cigar butts is just a act."

  "Knock it off, you guys."

  The men settled down.

  The night returned to its rustlings.

  The light reappeared directly above them, covering the central three-quarters of the sky. The squad was caught in its glow. At this point they came under the direct influence of the others—in fact, entered their control.

  As elsewhere in this book, I have constructed the interactions between ourselves and the others on the basis of the secret psychological studies I have read, as well as my own interviews with witnesses and astute UFO

  investigators. Will has contributed virtually all of what understanding I can claim. Always I have adhered to his admonitions, "This is about the soul, the body is secondary," and, "The others are so old that they have rediscovered innocence. That is what makes them terrible."

  I have also watched about a thousand feet of eight-millimeter film that Will says was made by the others at the request of the United States government, of a group of people they had taken into their possession.

  In this strange, pale environment the people look like great, fleshy bags. The others flit around, fragile and almost invisible on the film. People scream, they pound their fists on the walls, they try to dig through the floor. The fear and terror are impossible to describe. Every so often a pair of those black alien eyes will glare into the camera.

  Is it rage or fear I see there, or desperation?

  In addition, in the case of the 2nd Squad I had the advantage of reading transcripts of the hypnosis sessions of Corporal Collins, PFC Lucas and Private Mastic.

  On that night back in 1947 the men looked up at the huge object that was now directly above them. They saw the faint lines and rivets of the underside of the great ship. There would have been sobs, muttered prayers.

  Some probably went to their knees.

  Jim Collins called the radio operator, who sat frozen, staring. "Lucas!"

  "Momma says no."

  "What the fuck!"

  "Momma said no turn on radio."

  "What the hell is this?" Collins stood up. His men were lying on their sides or hunched or kneeling. "Hey you guys!"

  As is typical of the others' methods, a human being they had contacted before remained in a more-or-less normal state. Only later would his memory be affected.

  Under hypnosis Collins recalled seeing three children in white suits hanging back at the edge of the light, watching him. "We won't hurt you, Jimmy," a voice said. Collins stared hard at them. How had they done that? The voice sounded like it was inside his head.

  "Hey," he said. "You kids." In reply there was a sneering giggle, also inside his head. "This is a military area.

  You kids aren't supposed to be playing around here." "Come with us, Jimmy. We won't hurt you."

  "Who are you?"

  One of the "kids" pointed upward toward the object. Collins had never heard of foo-fighters, flying disks or aliens, and had only the sketchiest knowledge of outer space. His first thought was: a blimp. Immediately the voice answered, "No." Then what is it, Collins thought.

  He began to receive instructions subliminally. They sounded to him like somebody whispering in his ear. He cocked his head to listen, but couldn't quite understand.

  He was aware that a group of about half a dozen of the children in white had just floated down out of the craft and were touching the foreheads of his men with little sticks.

  A shaft of blue light hit him and in a moment he was completely changed. He was no longer the dumb creature he had been, a dull kid leading a bunch of other dull kids. Another, extremely secret life had returned to memory. He knew these people, knew them well.

  Why it would be like this it is difficult to know. Apparently certain people are leading double lives, unknown even to themselves. They are the facilitators, the ones who help the others with the rest of us, who are much wilder and more difficult to handle.

  "I remember," he said.

  "It's been a long time, Jimmy. You were a baby. Now look at you!" The voice that spoke was old—ancient -

  and came from the night wind. And it was feminine. "I grew up, ma'am." "Yes. You are a strong boy."

  She came close to him, and he looked into her dark, dark eyes. "I am preparing these soldiers. They belong to me now, Jimmy. They are part of the Good Army."

  These words filled Collins with a happiness he could not contain. He smiled from ear to ear and clapped his hands like an excited infant.

  In response he was flooded with love. Meanwhile the ones in white went about their work. The ship came slowly down until it was no more than five feet above the group. One by one the 2nd Squad was lifted onto stretchers, which then floated up to the ship's softly glowing surface and disappeared.

  She put a thin arm around Jim's shoulders.

  "They will receive insertions like the one you got when you were a boy."

  Together the two of them rose on a stream of light.

  Jim went to the familiar cabinet at the end of the room and took out the tiny gray boxes he knew would be there. He knew exactly what to do—he'd seen it done it before and he remembered every detail.

  He removed a long needle from the first box and inserted it into Sweet Charlie's brain. "Not him," she said softly. "Withdraw the implement." He pulled out the needle.

  She did not interrupt him again, remaining silent until he had completed the operation on each squad member. "Now I will test them," she said. One by one the squad members opened their eyes and sat up.

  Then they slumped over, rendered once again unconscious.

  "You have done your work well."

  When she spoke in his mind it was like melody. "You will be married soon, Jimmy. The union will be with your childhood mate Kathy. Together you will conceive five new ones. The last two of them will be for you, the first three for me. Is this understood?"

  He nodded.

  "These soldiers are from the nation that has used the atomic bomb?"

  "Yes."

  "The earth grows heavy with her burden of men. She calls out to me to midwife her. She tells me that her yuni is opening to the stars."

  "Yes."

  "Do men want to go among the stars, Jimmy?"

  "We don't think about that."

  "You will raise the children I give you. That is your primary task. Now take those little ones back to their encampment, and be mindful that they have all suffered this night."

  "Yes."

  She sent them all back, all except the one she had not implanted. This one was suitable for another purpose, and she gave him over to the ones who wanted him.

  "We love you, Sweet Charlie," they said. It sounded to him like a group of children speaking in rough chorus.

  Their faces were pale and soft. They looked as pretty as babies.

  - Smile, Charlie.

  - I don't want to.

  - Smile!

  - I ain't got no reason!

  Charlie decided that it was time to get out of here. He thought he'd gotten up, but his body didn't work. It just didn't do anything.

  He struggled, pulled, tried to stand. He didn't move an inch. Now his breath came in gasps. His throat practically closed. He couldn't breathe. They were watching him, drawing close, leering at him.

  Why did it seem so right? Was it somehow connected with the life he had lived? He wanted another chance.

  Then he saw Clara. "I was carrying the baby for them," she told him.

  How was this possible? Clara was dead! He knew because he'd killed her.

  She'd let him knock her up, she'd goddamn well known she was doing it, she was trying to hang him on a fucking meathook! "They would have taken the baby before it was even born."

  And then he was in the woods, dee
p in the pines and Sweet Charlie had that little shotgun and he was hunting Clara down, and he caught hisself that lyin' little vixen while she was gathering pinecones.

  To decorate her Christmas tree.

  - I was drunk.

  - You can repay your debt to Clara by helping us. Charlie saw something horrible, something he did not want to face, to think about, ever ever to see. There are mirrors that reflect the soul. There are mirrors in which we see ourselves as we are.

  - Momma, help me, Momma!

  The other squad members were gone, only Jim was here. Jim also saw Sweet Charlie, saw the black, knotted ugliness that was the very essence of him.

  "We can help you." The voice was as sweet as spring wind.

  Charlie had understood that he was seeing his own soul. "Please, please . . ."

  They took him then into the darker depths of their ship.

  A moment later the screams started and they were wretched with a despair unlike anything Jim Collins had ever imagined. He was made to hear them for only a moment. Then somebody closed a door.

  A girl came, walking toward him across the broad room. She was wearing a thin summer nightgown with yellow flowers down the front and a lace collar. With her she brought a beautiful scent, the odor of gardenias, and there was a gardenia in her hair.

  Tears of recognition sprang to Jim's eyes. "Kathy," he said, "Kathy O'Mally!"

  Then darkness filtered down into him, and with it the forgetfiilness of deep, deep sleep.

  The next thing Jim knew he was hearing the birds. He opened his eyes, stared up into a pink and fragile dawn. He was cold, his face covered with dew. He coughed, then slipped out of his bedroll.

  He felt incredible. The world around him, the sweep of land, the distant hills, the deep morning sky—never in his life had he seen such beauty.

  What had they done last night? He remembered voices, laughter, excitement.

  A party?

  No, something else. Something incredibly beautiful. They'd seen a flare and then turned in and he'd dreamed.

  Yes, a dream.

  Some sort of justice had been done in his dream. He remembered a judge telling him about Sweet Charlie, that creep, and saying he was free, he had paid his debt.

  Collins looked around him. Where was the big lug, anyway? Well, he'd turn up. He moved off toward the latrine area.

  There he thumped himself to get rid of an oddly persistent erection. He was so damn excited he could barely stand it. His knees were weak. He wanted a woman. In fact, it was a specific woman: Kathy O'Mally from back home. Kathy of the sandy blond hair. Kathy of the soft voice, of the laughter in the dark, of the welcoming arms.

  He was feeling waves of longing for Kathy so great that he could barely endure them. And here he was out in the middle of West Texas thousands of miles from her. But, God, she was a wonderful girl. He had to write her more letters, to let her know how much he cared for her.

  God forbid she wouldn't realize and she would get married before he came back. Once he had kissed her at Emmeneger's Drugstore. She'd presented her cheek and laughed.

  Her laughter echoed. Had he dreamed about her last night? No. He'd had a nightmare about an owl, a huge owl carrying him off into the dark. He shuddered to remember it. A creepy sort of a dream. And then Charlie -

  what had Charlie had to do with it?

  Nightmare or not, he knew one thing. Somehow in his sleep he had made a final and absolute decision. He was going to marry Kathy O'Mally.

  When he got back from the latrine he called his men out of the sack.

  Sweet Charlie had gone AWOL in the night. "We'll find him back at the goddamn mess gobbling steaks,"

  Lucas said.

  "I'll put him on report," Jim Collins replied. He didn't like that mean cracker any more than the others.

  He was listed AWOL.

  By the next afternoon an entire company was searching for him. But Sweet Charlie was never seen again.

  Chapter Ten

  The Chronicle of Wilfred Stone

  The President was uneasy, I could hear it in his voice. Had I been interrogating him instead of participating in a meeting, I would have thought it time to make my move.

  Before him on an easel sat six excellent aerial photographs of a debris field, a crashed disk some sixty miles from it, and two small bodies near the disk. One was clearly visible; the other hardly more than a shadow.

  "I don't see any relationship between this crashed object and disappearing people," the President said. There was the snap of challenge in his voice, and beneath it the quavering disquiet. More accurately, he should have said that he didn't want to see any relationship between the object and the earlier disappearances.

  General Vandenberg knew Truman well, far better than I did. He sat on a couch across from the President, his knees comically high, a cigar stuffed into the corner of his mouth. Even sunken into that ridiculous couch, Van was an imposing man. He also admired Harry Truman, for which reason I did not like the look he sent me as the President spoke. It was almost a plea, as if he was asking me to somehow soften the blow of my estimate, and not to be too hard on his hero.

  Did he fear that Truman would crack? Surely not the man who had dropped the bomb.

  Admiral Hillenkoetter was standing at the windows overlooking the rose garden. Some of Bess's roses were still blooming, and the windows were thrown open to the fragrant summer air. Now he committed himself and CIG.

  "I'm a hundred percent behind the intelligence estimate." "This is crashed hardware and bodies. It isn't disappearing people. I want evidence of a direct relationship. Otherwise where the hell do I stand with this thing, Hilly?"

  If the President appeared uneasy, Secretary of Defense Forrestal was absolutely appalled. He sat staring at the pictures like a man looking into the face of death. From time to time he would sip noisily from a cup of cold coffee. "Of course there's a relationship," he said. "That's the whole point." "Goddamn it, nothing's proven! It's speculation." The secretary glared at the President. "There is no question in my mind but that we should shoot one of these devilish things down forthwith."

  Van leaned forward. "I concur, Mr. President." Hilly still stared out the window. "I think it's too soon for that,"

  he said. The President looked toward him, his eyes flashing behind the famous glasses.

  "Hilly's right. We don't need to shoot one down. We've got one, plus the little fellas that drove it."

  "Mr. President, it would be a show of force. I think it's vital that we come on strong in this. These people must possess tremendous power. God knows what they might do." "Exactly my point, Van," Hilly said softly.

  Vandenberg chewed the cigar. Forrestal sighed. He knew when a point had been won or lost with Truman.

  "Any order to take aggressive action comes from me," the President said. "Is that clearly understood, Van?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "For now I want all AAF orders of the day to include a statement that there will be no hostile action taken against any unidentified flying craft entering or being found within U.S.-controlled airspace anywhere in the world, until such time as said craft is specifically identified as enemy aircraft or acts in an overtly hostile manner, which means shooting first."

  My own obsession with secrecy alerted me to the flaw in this order. "Say aircraft, Mr. President. We don't want to draw any attention to our level of concern over this."

  "Yeah, okay. Just bleed it into the standard orders. Nothing unusual. Aircraft."

  "It's dented," Forrestal said. He had taken up the magnifying glass and was peering at the object.

  We waited, expecting him to make a point. At that moment Blanche Deisinger came in with a note for the President. He looked at it and then at Van.

  "The AAF base at Roswell has issued a press release about the disk."

  Secretary Forrestal's face drained of color. He dropped the magnifying glass on the President's desk and bowed his head. He reminded me of a mourner at a funeral.

&n
bsp; Van just sat there, obviously too shocked to speak.

  There was a small, ironic smile on the President's face. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, leaning far back in his chair. He seemed swallowed by his office.

  Hilly broke the silence. "We'll correct this problem forthwith." His voice sounded calm, almost indifferent. I knew what that meant, though: he was feeling off-balance. When he got a really bad shock was when he appeared most calm.

  "I think it's obviously my baby," Van said.

  "Yes," Forrestal agreed. "Your damn problem. There's never been enough discipline among those airmen of yours! My God, the things they get away with, cutting up the way they do. Van, this is outrageous!" He looked toward the President for approval.

  Truman was simply listening. His eyebrows were raised. He was expectant, waiting for the suggestion that would solve the problem.

  "I'll issue orders to silence them," Van said. It sounded weak, and it was. You can't silence the press with orders.

  "They must be pleased as punch out there," the President said. "Think of it! They've put their goddamn base on the map." He laughed mirthlessly, in a way that told me heads were going to roll. God, Truman was a frightening man.

  "To control the press, you're either going to have to use me or Hoover," Hilly said.

  "Oh, brother, not him," Forrestal muttered.

  Hilly smiled. "I'll agree that I'm the best of two evils, Jim."

  "For God's sake, Harry, don't bring that old pansy in on this," Van said.

  "Is he really a pansy?" Forrestal asked.

  Truman's eyes twinkled. "I pity the President who doesn't know Hoover's weakness. Thank God FDR told me.

  Kindest thing he ever did." He laughed. "But if I ever get beaten by that goddamn Tom Dewey I'm taking the Hoover file home with me."

  Forrestal snorted. "I don't like Hoover either, but the man runs a goddamn good department."

  "As long as you have his balls in your hand," Truman said mildly. We all laughed. Truman's remark meant that Roscoe Hillenkoetter had just been given control' of what would become the largest, most important and most secret activity in the history of the United States or any other human nation. Vandenburg didn't realize what Hilly had accomplished, but Hilly did. He flushed so red that he turned to the window. I wanted to clap the man on the back, but Truman suddenly eyed me and my blood went cold.