by Steve Peek
Forrestal encountered the visitors again the next night, and the night after that, and every night. It didn’t take long before it was difficult for him to tell whether a particular visit was real, a hallucination, or a dream. At some point he stopped trying to differentiate. It didn’t really matter. They were in his head, and he knew who they were and what they wanted.
Sometimes, as he watched them float outside a window, he could see they no longer attempted disguise. The hats that helped hide the size of their heads were gone. Their large, black eyes no longer appeared as sunglasses. Instead, black pools—sometimes reflective like polished, black stone, at others times opaque—became windows into a black void.
At first he understood they wanted to communicate directly with his mind, but he quickly realized their communication contained subtle, manipulative elements geared to make him agree with what they wanted. Forrestal found the episodes repugnant and frightening. He focused his considerable will and determination on resisting the visitors.
He knew who they were, of course, and what they wanted. They were the aliens who had invaded America’s skies. We had shot down some of their ships and now they wanted a treaty. Then things became much worse for Forrestal.
Forrestal was always frightened and uncomfortable with the occurrences. He never saw them unless he was alone or asleep, and it made it difficult for him to discuss even obliquely with his staff. The change involved two major elements. They were no longer trying to communicate, they were trying to control his mind; and he began to see them in daylight when he was around others, but back in their disguises, trench coats with turned-up collars and hats pulled low in front.
Entering a car headed to a meeting he might see three of them watching from a distance as the car pulled away. Exiting the car he might see three more a block away standing on the sidewalk as if in conversation.
Several times he tried to bring the aliens’ presence to the attention of someone with him. He would say something like, “Do we know those fellows?” Most of the time the person or people with him saw nothing unusual, and often the aliens were gone when Forrestal looked back. Sometimes the person with Forrestal would see the trench-coated group walking away or entering a building, but have no clue what is was about them that prompted Forrestal to call attention.
After several weeks, the effects of sleepless nights, fatigue, and fear visibly manifested, and people close to Forrestal noticed a change in his behavior. He began losing weight, and his face took on a dark, hollow appearance. People who had been with him during the ‘look at those guys over there’ episodes compared notes, and it wasn’t long before the Washington rumor mill cranked up and Forrestal’s behavior and physical appearance collided with whispers he was emotionally spent and that he thought Israeli and Soviet agents followed him day and night.
Forrestal decided it was time to share his misadventures, and called one of only two people he could talk to: General Nate Twining. They met at Forrestal’s office.
Twining knew the rumors. He opposed Forrestal’s policy with Israel. He also understood the Jewish people were just coming from the holocaust and Israel was in a Nazi-hunting, lynch-party mood. They felt if you were not for them—the symbol of them being Israel—you were against them. The newly formed government of Israel had no intention of allowing anything like concentration camps (whether in Germany, Russia, or Arab nations) to open again. Their spy network grew exponentially, and Twining had no doubt that because of Forrestal’s position limiting aid to Israel that he was probably under some sort of surveillance. So Twining entered Forrestal’s office knowing that the Secretary of Defense had some basis for his paranoia. Even so, he respected Forrestal as one of the toughest men he ever met, and was surprised it was a topic for discussion, and especially curious why Forrestal asked him as he had little to do with America’s position on foreign aid.
He was shown into Forrestal’s office almost too quickly. Forrestal was standing by a window, the drapes drawn. He looked gaunt, thin. Sleepless hollows around his eyes created a desperate, frightened appearance. Twining knew whatever this was about it was serious, and calling the meeting had robbed Forrestal of his strong pride.
“Nate, they are after me,” Forrestal said, dispensing with pleasantries.
Twining finished crossing the room and extended his hand to shake. Forrestal took it automatically and said, “I know it sounds insane, but they want something from me and I am not sure how long I can keep them out of my mind.”
“What in the hell are you talking about, James?” Twining asked, searching Forrestal’s face.
“The aliens from the flying saucers,” Forrestal spat out, a ‘for better or worse’ look of relief flooding his body. “You know I saw the bodies in Alamogordo. I don’t know why or how, but I believe that is why they want me, because I saw their dead.”
Twining said, “Why don’t we sit down and you tell me everything.” His voice was unusually soft, even warm, and his mind was racing at the implications. Even if only a fabrication of Forrestal’s imagination, the consequences of what Forrestal knew being leaked would be catastrophic.
Forrestal told him everything. It poured out of him. As relief and color came to him, he told Twining about the first meeting and paralysis, the windows, them following him. He told the general how at first they tried to communicate with him, and he felt them attempting to mine information from his mind, and he fought to close his mind to their probing. He told Twining how, soon after, it became worse. They stopped trying to communicate and were constantly trying to invade his mind. Forrestal felt like they were studying him, practicing, developing techniques to break past the barriers he erected against them.
“Who knows about this, James?” Twining asked, keeping his soothing tone.
Forrestal looked at Twining as if he were the one with mental issues. “I’m not crazy, Nate. You and I are the only two. I wanted to talk to you before telling the president. I don’t know what might happen to me, as they seem to come and go as they please, and I need to warn everyone involved with this thing.”
“Thank you. I know this is tough for you, but you did the right thing. How can I help?” The general’s faced was filled with concern—for a number of reasons.
Somewhere in the conversation, Forrestal’s ramrod posture had returned and now he sat looking into Twining’s eyes. “I think the two of us should meet with Truman, tell him what is happening to me, and find out if anyone else is having,” he paused, then finished, “experiences.”
Twining agreed. Forrestal made a phone call and was able to obtain a meeting with Truman the next afternoon. They said their good-byes. Twining left with worried thoughts, and Forrestal hoped that somehow sharing his horror would provide relief from his visitors. In a way, it did.
After the meeting with Truman, Forrestal agreed to have a full physical (Truman intentionally avoided any hint of psychologists). Truman expressed serious concern for Forrestal’s physical condition.
A week later they met again, and with the candor for which he was famous, Truman told Forrestal it was time for him to resign his post as Secretary of Defense. His politics had kicked up a hornets’ nest, making it difficult for Forrestal to fulfill his duties, and now Truman felt, in his physical and mental state, Forrestal had to step down. Truman insisted the Secretary of Defense continue to have his health monitored. By early March, Forrestal was persuaded to check into Bethesda. Truman told Forrestal that once he regained his vigor, they would meet with all the illuminati and sort out the aliens’ intrusions into Forrestal’s mind.
Forrestal’s letter of resignation, though given to Truman in February, was not made public until 1949. The rest, as they say, is history. Well, not quite recorded history.
The train pulled into Lisbon and I woke lying on the narrow bed with the book on my chest. Surprised at myself for falling asleep, I felt oddly refreshed and unusually happy to be alive.
I checked into the Holiday Inn, emptied my suitcases, and turned on my co
mputer. After a shower, I went online and transferred $8,500 Euros to Mr. Audrey Sproul’s debit card and headed out with little concern for Ex-BND Agent Gunther No-Last-Name in Bamberg. By the time he realized I wasn’t coming back, my trail would be cold. Here you go, Gunther, eat the Queen of Spades.
Of course, I was wrong. The BND are pretty badass when it comes to heating up cold trails. In less than two weeks I was forced to flee the Holiday Inn without time to even collect my clothes. I took a bus out of Lisbon. For the next two months I went into deep undercover, risked spending time in Lebanon, then lost myself in Cairo, and finally wound up in Argentina. My stomach was sour the whole time, and I lost more than the weight I had gained drinking German beer.
This experience made me believe it was time to play one of my aces and take the next trick. I began courting a stranger I had discovered in chat rooms. It was time the SUV drivers understood there are consequences if the roadkill survives their bumpers.
CHAPTER NINE
When the gold-plated clock struck midnight, the plainclothes White House policeman—Joseph Downs, who guarded the Blair House’s second floor—knocked on the study door. It was not like the president to stay up this late. When no answer came from the room, he quickly opened the door.
Slumped in his chair, chin on his chest, Truman looked either asleep or dead. Downs, who in two months would be wounded foiling an assassination attempt at this house, sprinted across the room and checked the president’s neck for a pulse.
Truman stirred, raised his head, startled by the touch. His vision was clear, the nausea was nearly gone, and he was desperately trying to remember something—something strange, terrifying—something worse than the unleashing of the atom bomb.
“Are you…?” was all Downs could say before Truman rose from his chair.
“I’m fine Joe, fine. I just fell asleep at the helm. I’ll go get in bed now.”
“Yes, Mr. President. Can I get anything for you? You look a little green behind the gills,” Downs asked in a concerned voice. He liked Truman. This president seemed like an honest man, not so political as most of the people who passed him in the halls.
“No Joe, really, I’m fine. Just need to get some sleep,” Truman said, walking to his bedroom.
“I’ll be outside your door if you need me, sir.” Downs positioned himself, back to the wall, just outside Truman’s bedroom.
Truman robotically changed into pajamas and crawled into bed, desperately trying to remember the events from the study.
He fell asleep quickly. The dreams began almost immediately. He was with Forrestal discussing a treaty. He could make a deal that would win the Cold War, but at a horrific price. Forrestal wanted nothing to do with it. Truman, who had decided to drop the first atomic bomb, knew about paying a price to save lives. He thrust his face inches from Forrestal’s and yelled at him to shut up, and the tough-as-nails first Secretary of State began to cry like a frightened toddler.
Twining stepped out of the shower to answer the phone. The president wanted to see him right away. He had not slept well. He suffered bad dreams that made him think of Forrestal. In fact, he had been thinking about Forrestal since he woke up. This must have been how it started for Forrestal. But if he was going batty, why go the same way Forrestal did? Twining put the dreams and Forrestal out of mind and finished dressing.
When Twining arrived at the Blair House, he was taken immediately to Truman’s study. The president stood at a window, straight backed, hands together behind his back. He turned and walked across the room to his desk.
“Have a seat, Nate,” Truman offered, seating himself. Truman, the “Buck Stops Here” President, was not one to beat around the bush, yet today he seemed hesitant. Finally, after an uncomfortable twenty seconds of Truman gazing at Twining, he asked, “What do you know about DNA, Nate?”
CHAPTER TEN
Truman and Twining met for forty minutes. Truman remained hesitant about some of the details of the previous night’s encounter and ensuing dreams. Practical as he was, Truman believed the trench-coated men in the study had not been a dream. He did not know how they had come and gone, but the experience had been real. Twining perked up when Truman mentioned Forrestal, and in the last ten minutes they shared what they could remember of their experiences and dreams.
Truman, as do all US presidents, enjoyed ‘off the record’ lunches. These are essentially meetings that are logged into the Presidential calendar simply as LUNCH. On Friday, 8 August, 1952, Truman, Twining, Robert Lovett, the Secretary of Defense, and Averill Harriman shared a lunch of barbeque sandwiches, baked beans, and potato salad. Though as good as the best barbeque in St. Louis, no one ate much. They talked about everything, beginning at Roswell, and leading to this moment. Then, Truman speaking first, they moved from person to person, revealing dreams and visitations. After all spoke, Truman revealed the final pieces of his encounter: he was to meet with the owners of the UFOs to negotiate a peace and commerce treaty. He handed Harriman a piece of notepaper with longitude and latitude coordinates, and said, “Find out the nearest base with an airstrip and arrange a car. You and I are attending a very important summit.”
The lunch ended a little after 3:00 PM, and Truman tried to clear his mind for a 3:30 meeting with Perle Mesta, American Minister to Luxembourg. He couldn’t remember why Mesta was insistent on meeting, something to do with easing restrictions on importing tulip seeds or something equally important.
Truman left the Blair House after 5:00 PM in the passenger seat of a white 1945 Super Deluxe Tudor sedan given to Truman by Henry Ford on 3 July, 1945 as the first post World War II car to roll off US assembly lines. While not up to the standards of the presidential limo, it was of the same body style as the 1942 Fords and blended well in traffic.
At Andrews Air Base, Truman boarded a C-118 Liftmaster—the same type of plane as the Independence, the current presidential aircraft. Harriman was already aboard, and the plane took off for a destination known only to the people aboard.
The pilot, Colonel Frank Williams, stood in the doorway to welcome Truman. Colonel Williams was President Truman’s pilot. It did not matter to him if he flew the lush Independence or not. His job was to take Truman where he wanted to go, safe, on time, and keep his mouth shut. If he ever wanted a story to tell, the flight back from Truman’s meeting with MacArthur on Wake Island in 1950 provided every ingredient of a best seller. Truman rode copilot for six hours. Furious, the president vented about that ‘arrogant asshole.’ Frank never said a word.
Harriman already told Frank the flight plan was to be cleansed, that this flight never officially happened. Fine with Frank.
The particular Douglas C-118 was a model R6D-1Z, converted to a staff transport. It was a four-engine plane that maintained a speed of over 300 miles per hour at 20,000 feet for up to 3,000 miles. This one carried extra fuel bladders.
Configured to transport staff, the seats were functionally comfortable—nothing like the comforts on the president’s plane—but, like Truman, it would get the job done.
Frank made sure his passengers were secured and turned on the reading lamps affixed to their seats before vanishing into the cockpit.
The plane was louder than the Independence, and the passengers were offered earplugs. Truman and Harriman read the briefs Harriman brought summarizing the new science of DNA. Thorough as the documents were for their time, the two men about to engage in the most important negotiations of human history would not live long enough to discover how ill-prepared they were to decide the future of the world.
Six hours later the plane landed at an air base in New Mexico where another Ford was waiting.
Harriman drove, Truman rode shotgun. They had their briefcases, a full tank of gas, a road map, and primal feelings about their rendezvous with things not human. Truman closed his eyes, pretending to sleep.
The movie Close Encounters of the Third Kind depicts the first official arranged meeting between aliens and Earthmen. If it was supposed to repres
ent Truman’s and Harriman’s meeting, it was way too spectacular in that Hollywood way of sights and sounds. In other ways it was not nearly spectacular enough.
While the first meeting between humans and off-worlders may have been in desert terrain, it was most likely nine or ten thousand years ago in Egypt or maybe earlier in Sumeria or possibly even further back in Bharat, now India. Wherever it was, it was not on Devil’s Tower framed by dozens of cameras and facilitated by a corps of government scientists and military. Nor was the encounter Truman had in New Mexico in 1952.
Truman’s encounter was on a flawless, high-desert July night not far from where it seemed to have all started five years before. They sat in the car, windows down, looking at the star-filled sky. Among the billions of stars in the sky, Truman thought he saw something and pointed it out to Harriman and Baughman. Things were about to become interesting for the rest of us.
Everything in this book up to this point is verifiable. The next part, the actual meeting between Truman and the aliens, is reconstructed based on evidence that is inadmissible in court: hearsay. A great storyteller would fill the text of the coming encounter with tense dialog, terrifying descriptions, and the excitement that comes when the leader of the Free World meets aliens for the first time. As it is, I will convey only what I believe to be true.
The account, what there is of it, has been pieced together from a story told by Averill’s second wife, Marie Norton Whitney Harriman.
Marie Harriman’s first husband, Cornelius Vanderbilt Whitney, was a successful businessman who had inherited a tidy sum from his parents, Harry Payne Whitney and Gertrude Vanderbilt. To prove money isn’t everything, Marie divorced Cornelius to marry Averill. As the Beatles said, “Money can’t buy me love.”
In 1970, Marie was a patient in Georgetown hospital. The day before she died of a heart attack, she enjoyed a long visit with her daughter from her first marriage, Nancy Marie Whitney. The conversation began naturally enough about why Marie was in the hospital. She had a chronic case of nerves, which led to diarrhea, which led to dehydration.
