Independence Day: Silent Zone

by Stephen Molstad

  “… it was just before our alien vehicle crashed,” Cibatutto finished the sentence.

  “Yup.”

  “And you think there’s a connection between the two events?”

  Freiling interjected. “That test was halfway around the world in the Southern Hemisphere. How would that affect something in the skies over New Mexico?”

  “I have no idea,” Okun lied, “but it’s too much of a coincidence not to investigate.”

  Dworkin glanced at Lenel, and said, “I seem to recall seeing a report on that rocket’s failure.”

  “Of course there’s a report,” Lenel groused. “Anytime you blow up several million dollars’ worth of government equipment, you end up writing a report. Finding it is going to be a different matter.”

  Okun gestured grandly in the direction of the stacks. “After you, gentlemen.” The old men let out a collective groan, realizing they would spend the rest of the day thumbing through old documents. Reluctantly, they allowed themselves to be herded toward the stacks.

  A day and a half later, they found what they were looking for. The staff members opened a bag of pretzels and passed them around the kitchen table as Okun read from the report.

  *

  “We have returned to the Garden of Eden with the intention of blowing it up. The beauty of this tropical island is so astonishing one senses everywhere the hand of God in its creation. We can only pray He will forgive us.” So wrote an English electrician of the Bikini atoll. He was one of over two hundred men employed by the Manhattan Project for a series of rocket and bomb tests to be conducted in the Marshall Islands. Although the tests were classified experiments conducted by the United States, half of the conversations took place in German. A large contingent of technicians who had been working for the Nazis a year earlier now formed the backbone of the U.S. rocket program. In the closing days of the war, Wernher von Braun and his crew had been ordered to return from the northern island of Peenemunde to a country inn near Berlin. Hitler, determined to prevent them from joining the allies, sent a team of SS agents to execute them all. By sheer luck, a cousin of von Braun’s learned of the assassination plot and led the engineers into American-held territory, where they surrendered. Within weeks, these talented scientists were reunited at the White Sands Proving Grounds in New Mexico.

  During the war, they had developed the deadly V-2 rocket, the world’s first ballistic missile, which was capable of reaching altitudes of seventy-five miles. But the new rocket they were preparing to test at Bikini, the first of the Redstone weapons, would reach higher still. It would soar three hundred miles above the earth before making a controlled reentry and exploding a small bomb in its nose cone on the nearby island of Kwajelin. The film crews and reporters who had come to the island ignored the Germans, focusing instead on the upcoming test of the first hydrogen bomb. Nevertheless, these engineers felt their experiments were just as significant as those being conducted by Oppenheimer and company. If the launch was successful, it would mark the beginning of the space program.

  State-of-the-art equipment had been brought to Bikini in order to monitor the rocket’s flight. Highspeed cameras with newly improved telephoto capacity, ultrasensitive radar equipment along with infrared and radio tracking systems were set up under thatch huts not far from the launchpad. After a final check of all systems, the countdown began. Liftoff occurred without complications at 4:18 P.M. local time. With an earsplitting roar, the forty-ton assembly lifted into the cloudless sky, leaving the graceful arch of a contrail in its wake. The ground crew watched it rise until it disappeared from view, then gathered around the banks of monitors. Without warning, the rocket disintegrated at 185 miles. Until that moment, everything had gone exactly according to plan—a rarity in highly complex tests of this kind.

  Radar watchers reported seeing something in the rockets vicinity flash across the screen a split second before the blast. The “ghost” had appeared out of nowhere and vanished just as suddenly. The consensus among the technicians was that it had been a false reading caused by energy related to the explosion. There was just one troubling aspect to the way the shape had moved. It seemed to accelerate. As one of the observers put it: “It was like a fish resting in the sand that darts away a moment before you step on it.”

  The report advanced several explanations for the cause of the explosion. One of these concerned “a layer of radiation in the atmosphere at an altitude of 185 miles.” The authors of the report were puzzled and somewhat alarmed by the discovery of this layer. Okun would have read right past this section if Cibatutto hadn’t interrupted him.

  “The rocket ran into one of the Van Allen belts, that’s what they’re talking about.”

  Lenel grimaced. “Hogwash! The belts wouldn’t cause a rocket to explode.”

  “Actually, since this rocket carried a signal bomb in its nose cone, the sudden shift in magnetism could have activated the detonator cap.”

  Lenel disagreed and began explaining why when Freiling interrupted with views of his own. Soon all the old men were talking at once, shouting to be heard over the others. Just as the argument began degenerating into finger-pointing and name-calling, Okun held his hand high in the air and screamed over the top of the noise.

  “Excuse me! I have a question!” The room went suddenly quiet. “What is a Van Allen belt?”

  Cibatutto recited from memory. “The Van Allen belts are two rings of high-energy-charged particles surrounding Earth, probably originating in the Sun and trapped by Earth’s magnetic field. The lower, more energetic belt, is at an altitude of 185 miles from Earth’s surface while the outer belt is at ten thousand miles. They were discovered by physicist James Van Allen. Their shape and intensity vary significantly with fluctuations in the solar wind.”

  The older scientists stroked their beards in contemplation. Okun, with no beard to stroke, came up with an idea. “These variations, do they follow any kind of a pattern?”

  Again, Cibatutto had the answer. “Yes, they do. The belts experience seasonal fluctuations, but these do not correspond directly to Earth’s seasons. The energy level of the inner belt remains low for several months, then erupts into short periods of intense activity.”

  “Hmmm, would it be possible to find out what season the belts were in on July 4, 1947, between the hours of 10 P.M. and midnight in New Mexico?”

  “I don’t see why not.” Cibatutto brought a thick reference book into the kitchen and began working through a series of mathematical equations. Okun was too eager to let the man work in peace.

  “How often does this inner belt thingie erupt?” Brackish asked.

  “About five consecutive days each year, sometimes twice a year. You have to run each date through the equation.” When he was finished crunching the numbers, Cibatutto stared down at the results, nodding in an unconscious imitation of one of his colleagues. “On the date in question, the energy was at its peak.”

  Okun grinned and turned to the others. “Anybody up for a wager?” The scientists, accustomed to taking money from men who asked them such questions, were all ears. “You guys choose whichever alien encounter you think is the most real, the one you think really happened, and I’ll bet you a month of washing the dishes that it happened during one of these flare-ups.”

  “Eau Claire, Wisconsin,” Lenel said without hesitation. The other men agreed. Next to Roswell, this was the case with the most convincing physical evidence.

  In the Eau Claire case, a policeman claimed to have “surprised” an alien saucer hovering over a farmhouse. When the craft moved away, he pursued at high speed until it fired a blue ray, which struck his vehicle and knocked him unconscious. An examination of the car revealed it had undergone a massive failure of the electrical system. Everything from the ignition to the taillights was ruined. The spark plugs and points were melted. The officer involved lived through the experience, but died six months later of nervous depression. His vehicle was taken to the UFO evidence compound at the Air Force Academy.r />
  Cibatutto worked the date of the Eau Claire event through the equation, then made an announcement. “The good news is we seem to have found a connection between the alien visitations and the activity of the Van Allen belts. The bad news is each of us has to do the dishes 1.55 extra times this month. I propose we go in reverse-alphabetical order.” The old men cheered and slapped Okun on the back.

  “Progress of this magnitude deserves more than dirty dishes,” Dworkin declared. “It calls for champagne!”

  *

  If the group’s new theory was correct, it would be the single most important discovery about the aliens since their ship had crash-landed twenty-six years before, more important than Okun’s unproved discovery that the ships must fly in groups. If the visitors only penetrated Earth’s atmosphere during these short bursts of radioactivity, it would mean two things. First, researchers could weed out the many bogus sightings and reports of contact in order to concentrate their attention on the real McCoys. Second, it would give them the power to predict when the creatures would come again.

  While the older men set to work finding all the files that fell into one of these windows, Okun checked the dates of the case studies he’d already looked at. To his surprise, only one of them turned out to be true—the Bridget Jones incident. The lying girl had been telling the truth after all.

  It turned out to be a long day of pulling reports, but their enthusiasm was high. They brought a radio into the stacks and sang the songs they knew the words to. Even Lenel was cheery. As they searched, Okun had the bright idea of calling Radecker and telling him what they’d learned. Dworkin called him over and explained why that might not be such a good idea. “Yesterday in Los Angeles, as we were parked in front of your house, I watched your expression change when we learned your mother wasn’t at home. It occurred to me then how much I’d like for you to be able to leave here when your contract is finished. I think that’s what you want for yourself. So call Mr. Radecker if you like, but remember this: the more you know, the deeper you’re buried.”

  9

  Mrs. Gluck and Her Daughter

  Okun didn’t understand the precise relationship between the Van Allen belts and the arrival of the spaceships. And he didn’t much care. What was important to him was that the dates matched. Now he had a way of sifting through the rubbish and finding the gold. But he was dismayed by two discoveries. First, there were hardly any real reports. Lenel hadn’t been exaggerating when he said 99.9 percent of everything in the stacks was a bunch of hooey or bullpucky or whatever he’d called it. After several days of combing through the files, they had found about four hundred case studies occurring during the specified five-day periods. Then came the long process of poring over them and throwing out the fakes that happened to have been reported during those times. The scientists ruled out all but sixty-two of the reported sightings and encounters. Only twenty of these had occurred later than 1960. And four of those were mere sightings. That left only sixteen good reports.

  One of them was the Eau Claire, Wisconsin, incident.

  One was the Bridget Jones case, where the central witness was dead.

  Then there were thirteen people who claimed they had been abducted. And that’s where things got interesting. All told very similar stories. They had been driving along lonely roads or at home engaged in some quiet activity when they suddenly stopped whatever they were doing. The drivers pulled to the side of the road. The people taken from their homes sat down or stood still. All the abductees described being surrounded by short, quick-moving creatures with enlarged heads. Many claimed they had been flown to a spaceship, where various experiments were performed on their persons. Six of them described a leader who was much taller that the others. Okun knew from other reading he had done that mentions of a much taller leader were common.

  But there was one report that stood out from the others. It was about a woman who claimed she had been interrogated about a Y-shape. Her file said she was a person in the public eye, and care was taken to expunge any clue to her identity. But Okun knew her name was Trina Gluck and she lived in Fresno. In fact, he knew her street and house number. Scrawled onto the front page of the document in a handwriting style he was learning to recognize was the woman’s name and address.

  Two weeks later, he rode into Las Vegas with the boys. As always, the van dropped them off in front of their bank, Parducci Savings. Nothing on the outside of the building let on that it was a bank. There was no logo, no place to park, no slot for night deposits. Inside, the lobby looked like someone’s living room, with lots of family photos on the walls and too much furniture. There was a counter with two teller’s windows and behind that a couple of doors leading to private offices. These doors were never open. Salvatore Parducci, a heavyset man with an appetite for fine suits and gold bracelets, was the manager. He spoke in a luxuriously soft voice punctuated by sudden bursts of loud, braying laughter.

  Okun knew there was something unusual about the bank on his first visit. Moments after opening his new account, Salvatore came around the counter with his arms spread wide and embraced him. While he was being squeezed against the powerful man’s girth, Salvatore looked down, and purred, “Welcome. My family thanks you for trusting us with your money.” On another occasion, Okun watched a helicopter land beside the building. An old lady stepped out of it carrying a casserole dish and came inside. It turned out to be Signora Parducci, delivering lunch to her son. She flirted shamelessly with Cibatutto in Italian before disappearing into one of the back offices. Very shady.

  This morning’s transaction had been uneventful except for Okun withdrawing an unusually large amount of cash, three hundred dollars. “Feeling lucky,” he explained with a grin.

  It was a sunny morning, and the old fellows were in high spirits. They were marching down the boulevard toward a cafe that offered one-cent breakfasts. After that, it was onward to the casinos for a day of cards. Okun seemed preoccupied. He kept to the back of the pack, fingering the wad of cash in his pocket. “Hey, you guys,” he called. The old men stopped walking and turned around. “Nothing personal, but I think I’ll try my luck at one of the smaller casinos today. By myself.” His friends were visibly disappointed.

  “Hey, what happened to all for one and one for all?” Freiling asked. “We’re supposed to play as a team.” When that approach didn’t work, he tried another. “We’ll let you win a few.”

  “It’s not the money. I just feel like being alone today.”

  “Completely understandable,” Lenel declared. “I’m tired of looking at these ugly old coots myself. It wouldn’t hurt to have a break.”

  “Dr. Freiling,” Cibatutto cried. ‘This man called you an ugly coot!”

  Freiling put up his dukes. “Who said so? I’ll knock his block off.”

  As the two men began sparring, Dworkin came a step closer to his young friend, and silently pronounced the words, “Be careful.” Okun wondered if he knew.

  An hour later, he had rented a car and was heading west.

  *

  Brinelle Gluck was the girl he’d always wanted to meet—nerdy, artsy, and, in her own way, beautiful. It was love at first sight. She was a couple of years older and a couple of inches taller than him and as slender as a microscope. From her moccasins to her perfect miniature breasts to her long straight hair, she was, for him, a vision of loveliness. He immediately regretted having dressed like a total square.

  “Do I know you?” she asked when she opened the door.

  Hating to begin anything with the word “no,” he answered, “Maybe in a past life. Were you ever a monkey in Tibet?”

  Instead of slamming the door in his face, she actually thought about it for a second before she answered. “Yes, now that you mention it, I was.”

  They both laughed at her reply and spent the next thirty minutes rambling through one topic after another. After reincarnation, they talked about Brinelle’s poetry and modern dance, the Beatles, Bangladesh, biointensive gardening, the w
orld’s scariest roller coasters, and the Carlos Castaneda books. Okun felt his heart racing with excitement when she reached out and briefly touched his chest. She fondled his ankh.

  “I don’t usually like jewelry, but that is the most outtasight piece. Where’d you get it?”

  The question caught him off guard. “Um, I can’t remember. I’ve had it for years.”

  When she asked him his name, he blurted, “Bob. Bob Robertson.”

  “I’m Brinelle Gluck. I wish I had a nice normal name like yours. You have no idea what it’s like to get teased about your name all the time. So, Mr. Bob Robertson, what do you do? Got a job?”

  “Yeah, I guess you could call it a job.”

  “What is it you do?” Okun was starting to get uncomfortable with this part of the conversation.

  “I’m a scientist.”

  “Really? What branch of science?”

  “Boring stuff, planes, rockets, just a lot of technical stuff.”

  “I see. Where do you do all this boring stuff?”

  “Labs, mainly.”

  “No duh. I mean what’s the name of the lab. My dad knows hundreds of people who work at Livermore and Stanford and UCLA.”

  He really liked this girl, and he wanted desperately to tell her the truth or at least to explain that he wasn’t allowed to say. But he’d been coached a thousand times never ever to give that response. It aroused suspicion and curiosity, two things to which Area 51 was allergic. He had been told to turn and walk away or, if that wasn’t possible, to lie.

  “I work at JPL in the microcircuitry division. We do the circuit boards and harness wiring for the space program, mostly satellites.”

  Then she did something that broke his heart. She nodded. It was a big dopey nod with an expression on her face that showed how impressed she was. She had just gotten around to asking him why he’d knocked on the door when the phone rang.

  “I gotta get that. Come in and sit down.” Brinelle disappeared into another room.

  The house was impressive. It was a small palace built in the Spanish style, with lots of exposed wood and high, whitewashed ceilings. He wandered into the sunken living room and examined a painting. It looked vaguely familiar, and he wondered if it might be the work of a famous artist. It was that kind of house.