I wanted to move their remains, but I saw some headlights in the distance, moving quickly toward our location. I hated to, but I had to leave their bodies. If the vehicle was law enforcement, then we could kiss our futures goodbye. I had a little trouble finding my keys and more trouble getting X up and out of my way. By the time the motor started, the car was pretty close. I shoved my truck into gear and drove back toward town.
I didn’t just leave the remains of my friends on that hillside, I’m pretty sure I left a lot of my conscience and humanity there as well.
MEMO July 5, 1947
FOR: Captain Sheridan Cavitt, Senior CIC
Major Jesse A. Marcel, 509th Bomb Group
FROM: Roscoe H. Hillenkoetter, Director, Central Intelligence
SUBJECT: Command Transfer
Howard D. Ross will be arriving at the Roswell Army Air Field, and under my authorization, Mr. Ross will be taking the lead in the current debris field investigation.
Ensure that the area is secure, detain and isolate witnesses, and move all recovered debris into guarded storage at the base. Access to stored debris is expressly forbidden until Ross assumes oversight.
END
DCI
CHAPTER 32
Is this what passes for coffee in Chicago these days? Weak. Just like the FBI.
Howard Ross set the rejected cup on the far edge of the desk as he poured over a series of large photographs. He snatched a pen and continued to fill several pages in a thick legal pad.
Neal Schaeffer hurried in. “Hey Chief, the last delegation from Norfolk is about ten minutes out.”
The CIA boss appeared disinterested in the important update as he raised another photo. Project SATURN staff made it a point to not be offended at such times. With Ross it was often par for the course. You just had to learn his game, his style.
Neal hesitated and rocked on his heels. The Chief offered no response, and Schaeffer headed for the door.
Ross seemed to wait until his subordinate was almost in the hallway. “Ten years,” he bemoaned.
Schaeffer froze and eased back in. “Chief?”
Ross squinted and leaned forward onto his elbows. “It's been almost ten years.” He was in the mood for another CIA history lesson. “You probably didn't know that Magruder had recommended me to Truman during the phase out of the OSS.”
Neal smiled. “I was still getting beat up by the upperclassmen at the academy during that transition.” He dropped the smile. “I heard it was, uh...messy.”
Ross set all the photographs down. “Messy? No…cafeterias are messy. Divorces are messy. No, the formation of the agency was a political and logistical nightmare,” he rehearsed. “Everyone was grabbing for something, and no one knew for sure if they had anything. Political chaos.”
“Well, change is hard, Chief.”
Ross didn’t even hear him.
“Salvage and liquidation: that was the motto, along with the War Department's lawyers and the State Department's political maneuvering, and the rest is history,” Ross mourned. “Souers barely lasted six months, then Vandenberg...a lot of people, many talented people, were overlooked.”
“No offense, Boss, but there were a lot of mistakes made by the administration after 1945. Everyone was tired of the war. They just wanted to put it all behind them. It didn’t play well politically, either.”
Ross droned on. “When the Special Operations division was created, it went to Galloway. I had better experience, he had better connections.”
“Don’t forget, Chief, you were selected to oversee Project SATURN. That's—”
“Selected?” Ross blurted out. “Hillenkoetter tried to pacify me with SATURN. Listen—SATURN wasn't an appointment, it was…an apology.”
Neal stepped back. “You, uh, you can characterize it any way you want, but—”
“Characterizations are not the problem, Neal, results are. Next July will be exactly ten years since Roswell.” Ross stood and walked around to the front of the desk. “I have precisely eleven months to deliver on SATURN, or the opportunity to rectify the oversights of the past is over. Forever.”
There was a long pause, then Neal pointed at Denver’s photo. “Once we apprehend Collins, then forget Roswell, forget Nelson,” he said. “Project SATURN will potentially become the single most valuable asset in the agency. It's impossible to overestimate the national strategic advantage.”
Howard Ross hesitated for a moment, then started nodding. He spoke slow and deliberately. “You mean, it is impossible to overestimate my personal strategic advantage.”
Ross looked up. “Let's go get this son of a bitch.”
MEMO July 7, 1947
SECURITY LEVEL: TOP SECRET
FOR: Howard D. Ross
FROM: Roscoe H. Hillenkoetter, Director, Central Intelligence
SUBJECT: Project SATURN
Metallurgical and materials studies confirm the initial assessment of your field crew. Autopsies involving both specimens recovered from New Mexico conclusively indicate time displacement. Displaced Persons remains have been designated DP-1, DP-2.
President Truman has authorized the immediate creation of a new temporal studies division within the agency, codenamed: Project SATURN. Locating, isolating, and interrogating potential living time travelers is now a national security priority. Your former responsibilities with the Temporal Sciences Office of Project Phoenix have been terminated. Dr. Neumann has been notified.
You have four weeks, commencing 9 July, 1947, to assemble your team. No information regarding your activities or investigation is to be shared internally with Project Phoenix or externally with any other agency or department. Project SATURN will report directly to the office of the DCI only.
Regarding Roswell: contain, control, confuse. You are authorized to disseminate an alternate narrative implicating flying discs and alien involvement, through proper channels. Secondarily, release official statements implicating weather balloon experimentation to account for all phenomena.
END
DCI/PS
Journal entry number 188
Saturday, August 16, 1947
The crippling pain of the loss of Ken and Larry has only just now begun to subside, but my guilt on the other hand…it is as raw as ever. I had taken these strangers in and they trusted me to help them. But in the end, I hurt them in ways unimaginable. I may have given them temporary hope, but it quickly transformed into permanent failure. In my quest to make the best of times, am I creating the worst of times?
There are so many tired old questions and so many difficult new ones. The Ken Miller and Lawrence Etherington that will be yet born in the future: will it be their same consciousness, the same persons, the same “souls”? How does that work?
Does any of this work?
And then, how can I ever expect anyone else to trust me in the future?
Should they trust me? Am I trying to take on too much?
Should I tell anyone about Ken and Larry? Should I hide it?
If Grant ever returns, he will remember them, so what then?
If I do hide it, would it be to protect the fragile confidence of future Jumpers or merely to protect my own fragile ego and reputation?
I know that in a few decades the Roswell incident will become a hotbed of controversy. Many people will believe that it was about aliens and a government cover up. Actually, it wasn’t about aliens: it was about friends. Not from another world, just from another time.
And now, within our group, if we ever have a group again, ultimately it is my decision if there is to be a cover up. The problem with making complex decisions is that regardless of your own rationalizations of why you are willing to do something, the real reasons may be far deeper, far more personal, and far more selfish. In fact, they can be so deep, personal, and selfish that they are completely hidden from even YOU.
I have no illusions about the clever liar that lives within me.
MEMO July 10, 1947
SECURITY LEVEL: TOP SE
CRET
FOR: Roscoe H. Hillenkoetter, Director, Central Intelligence
FROM: Chief Howard D. Ross, Project SATURN
SUBJECT: Roswell
We have completed quarantine and purging of the Roswell Event location. I have included depositions from our interrogations of all known witnesses of the event.
All physical materials recovered from the event have been relocated to Los Alamos by C-54 (First Transport Unit), but I have reservations about the long-term security of that facility. In accord with the extreme sensitivity of Project SATURN, I propose the establishment of a new, remote base of operations. I am attaching a draft proposal of locations near Groom Lake, NV, and Rock Valley, NV, for your consideration.
The list of law enforcement, military personnel, and local officials exposed to varying degrees of information is sizable. A debriefing strategy is currently my utmost priority. Press releases with both flying disk and weather balloon accounts have been disseminated and retracted through RAAF Public Information Officer Walter Haut.
I recommend that General Roger M. Ramey, 8th Air Force, who was initially notified by Major Jesse A. Marcel, 509th Bomb Group, be transferred to DC for debriefing at CIG.
END
DCI/PS
CHAPTER 33
Helping Poison Ivy and the Boys (as he called them) to clean up and repair the reactor chamber in The Basement was an irritating interruption in Garrett Frazier’s work week.
And Terrance Gaines had grown tired of hearing about it. Tee had counted the complaint at least a dozen times in the last few hours. He noted that Garrett—who had jumped only six months prior—always seemed critical of any work performed in the lab below ground. But, to Terrance’s credit, he had also learned the secret about dealing with Frazier: Listen Without Comment.
It was almost a Fifth Accord.
Tee had found that communicating with Frazier was often a lose-lose proposition. If you ignored Garrett and his continual complaining, he would get louder and more annoying. If you listened to his unending grievances, and then either added to them, or countered them, he would predictably fly off the handle.
The best policy was Listen Without Comment, and today Terrance followed that policy to the letter. Garrett was in rare form, even for Garrett.
Terrance stabilized the last badly damaged capacitor onto the cart and he and Frazier eased the heavy load through the reactor door. It had been several days since the disaster, but a disturbing blend of burnt hair, rubber, and an odd electrical aroma still assaulted the senses. The morning’s cleanup had proceeded without major incident. That is, until one of the wheels of the cart jammed on a small piece of shrapnel on the floor.
Terrance could see the sickening cascade, the impending domino effect, but he could do nothing at all to abate it. Two of the large capacitors crashed to the floor with a metallic clank that reverberated throughout The Basement.
Papineau lurched from his own work. “Soyez prudent, idiots!”
That was all the fuel that a spark named Frazier needed. “Listen, French toast. Don’t get on to me when it's your stupid—”
“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” Doc Stonecroft mediated. “No need for scandalous verbiage in any language. We all just need to exercise extreme caution.”
“Don’t you think that’s a bit hypocritical, Doc?” inquired Shep as he finished jogging down the last few steps and bounded into the room. He was cradling a new piece of glass, presumably to replace the broken one in the reactor room door. “I mean, don’t go preaching to us about exercising extreme caution and all.”
Terrance tried to defend the aged scientist. “Doc is right. We all just need to be more careful.”
“Yo, Tee! Listen to me good,” Shep declared. “When I want your opinion, trust me, you'll be the last to know. So drop it!”
Stonecroft motioned toward Shep. “Robert, we need—”
“What we need,” Shep interrupted, “is a little inventory of recent events.” Shep relocated near the reactor chamber door and pointed at the broken glass. “Let's see. In the past several months, who's been responsible for one hundred percent of the accidents and screw ups around here?”
He glared at the scientists. Papineau shook his head and returned to his work.
“Well, it's safe to say that we haven't had any problems upstairs,” Shep said. “Hmm, go figure.”
Doc paused for a moment. “Scientific pursuit is not a perfect process, Mr. Sheppard.”
“Not a perfect process? You're damn right it's not perfect! Your little nuclear playground down here nearly killed a man! Nearly killed us all, actually.”
“Ellen saved him,” Terrance added.
Shep turned towards him. “You're kinda missing the whole point! He shouldn't have needed saving. The mad-scientists-three took us to the brink of a disaster last Friday.”
Papineau spoke up. “Ce n'etait pas notre—”
Shep silenced him with a raised finger. “I can promise you, the days of the blank research check are over.”
Doc nodded and placed a trembling hand on his chin. “Your point is well made, my friend. Well made.” He glanced up at Shep and adjusted his glasses. “But if I may.” A grave solemnity descended across his face. “The perilous path to progress has never been successfully detached from sacrifice, Mr. Sheppard. The altars of advancement have rarely been bloodless, but we can hope, we can pray, that our lambs have not, and will not, die in vain.”
Doc, having begun his point, walked away, noticeably lost in heavy introspection. “Of all the afflictions mortal man must face, it is the torment of guilt that cannot be diminished, neither will it be satisfied.”
He halted, misty eyes fixed upon Shep. “Trust me. I have lived with its scourge for nearly as long as you have been breathing, Mr. Sheppard. I do not take it lightly—especially as the scandalous day of my own indiscretion draws nigh.” Stonecroft fished out a handkerchief.
“May God above forgive these two hands that have shed innocent blood.”
Journal entry number 206
Monday, November 10, 1947
It’s a girl!
Actually, a woman. An older woman. Our first. Overall, the score stands at: Men: 4, Women: 1. Her name is Martha and she is a graceful, dignified lady. But her arrival to Normal, from all reports, was anything but dignified. I was helping X in the garage. It was midday, around 3 p.m. or so yesterday when FlaT happened. We didn’t see the flash, but the thunder (though not as loud as usual) let you know that something special just happened.
X looked up at me, startled. I motioned and said to him that I have to go out and look around. He nodded. We are making some language progress. We usually work on communication during meals (most words we’ve learned are related to food. He likes to eat, and is a decent cook).
I drove all over town, looking in all the usual places. It may not be like finding a needle in a haystack, but it’s not far from it. It was after 5 p.m., and I figured that it might have been another case of a jumpless-FlaT (lightning without a Jumper). As I was passing by the police station, I noticed some unusual activity. I parked the sedan and went inside, thinking that maybe Chief Brandenburg had heard about some out-of-towner. Someone out of place.
There was a small crowd inside. The Chief was there, three older women I didn’t know, another gentleman that was introduced as Doctor somebody, and Barb, the Chief’s wife. They were all crowded around an older woman who was sitting in a chair in a nightgown, looking completely lost.
The Chief walked over to me as I stepped in. He said the woman was found about 10 feet off the ground in an oak tree over on Gregory Street. He said that she had no idea how she got there, and that her name was Martha.
My heart and mind raced like crazy. I knew she was a Jumper, but I needed a way to extract her peacefully and convincingly from this predicament. It took all of three seconds. My idea was bold, and based more on desperation than cunning. I think I said a prayer and then rushed up to her, almost pushing a few of them aside. I k
neeled down and took her hand.
I called her by her name and then told the group that this was my Aunt (on my mother’s side). I said that she had been staying with me for a few days. I motioned for everyone to step away from her for a private consult. They gathered around me and I whispered that she has some mental issues. I told them that I had taken a nap and that when I woke up she was gone. I was even able to fake a few tears and thank them profusely.
I broke out of the group and went back to her, gently raising her up. She started to protest, but I calmed her, and started walking her out to the car. Barb followed us (I’m pretty sure I overheard a few “poor dear”s and “bless her little heart”s as we left). I leaned in to Martha and whispered “It’s okay, trust me.” She was clearly in shock.
The car ride home was horribly awkward, as I had to continuously rotate between driving, calming, and explaining. More calming than anything. I have rarely seen such raw terror in a person’s face. That was about 30 hours ago.
This one is all on me, since we lost Ken and Larry…and with the language difference, X can’t help at all. I don’t think she is a flight risk, but then again, the memories of Grant’s sudden disappearance tinges my optimism a bit.
Paradigm Rift: Book One of the Back to Normal Series Page 16
