Event (event group thrillers)

by David L. Golemon

  Las Vegas Army Airfield (Nellis)

  July 3, 1947, 03.00 Hours

  The former OSS general watched the silver-haired president as he stood just aft of where the dragon's-head prow used to be attached to the ancient hull. He placed a hand where the ancient carving used to sit it and drawled, "I just can't believe they sailed this thing across the Atlantic Ocean all the way up the Mississippi River! Damn it, that's amazin'!"

  Garrison Lee removed his brown fedora and stepped up to the edge of the gunwale. The scaffolding that surrounded the vessel was a little shaky, and with only one eye he had to be more careful than most.

  "We believe the voyage may have been made as early as AD 856, Mr. President. We have a team in Norway now, researching some information we came across last year that indicates it was an entire village uprooted by civil war that came across and tried to settle in the New World over six hundred years before Columbus. We should know more this time next month. Right now we believe this is the largest longship ever to be constructed, and that there may have actually been six on this voyage. According to some rune stones discovered nearby, each carried close to a hundred souls and their supplies."

  Truman looked over at Lee and just shook his head. "Son, your people have done one hell of a job here, one hell of a job! This is absolutely magnificent!" He ran his fingers along the jagged edge where the headpiece had once been attached. "To think about the voyage they must have endured and the spirit they had to have shown to make it. Goddamn, they weren't Vikings, son, they were just as American as you or I with the spirit of adventure they'd shown."

  Garrison Lee smiled at the simple way Truman put it. It may not have been the spirit of adventure, but perhaps desperation that drove them from their homeland, but he didn't correct the president. He then watched as Truman grinned at the technicians looking up at him from the scaffolding surrounding the ancient ship. The visiting president had drawn a large crowd at three in the morning.

  "Didn't think you would be doin' this back in '41, did you, Lee? Just like I didn't think I'd be president, but I guess we both got our hides nailed to the barn wall with jobs that sometimes go beyond the ability for a man to believe." Truman looked at the men and women around and above him as he spoke. "This man"--he gestured with his hat outstretched at the much taller Lee and looking at Lee's Event Group-- "had a record with the OSS that read like a damn adventure novel, one of them serials they have at the by-God movies. I met the young Mr. Lee when he was just out of law school, knew he was going to be something different from the bloodsuckers that usually hold to that particular profession." A sad look clouded the man from Missouri's features and he looked down for a moment. "Then the war came, and off he went."

  Lee touched the eye patch and the scar that ran under it. Yes, he thought, off I went.

  "I just wanna tell you all that this is one hell of a piece of work." Truman patted the ancient and stone-hardened wood again. "It's nice to see that the entire federal government isn't made up of people that fear the future and scoff at the past. I can see you people here are trying to make it better for us all, and it's appreciated, I assure you."

  His predecessor had warned Garrison that it would take something like this to get a president to come around and support this hidden branch of government. If that was true, then he should receive funding for at least the next four years. Lee smiled as he looked at Harry Truman.

  "Mr. President, this wasn't only a ship of exploration, it was also a warship, one of the most technologically advanced and swiftest afloat at the time. And as I'm sure you know, the United States has the right of salvage to her, and thus she can be renamed. Which is not an uncommon occurrence in a situation such as this."

  Truman stood there silently with his hands on his hips, the gray suit now a little muddy from his crawling around the interior of the great longship.

  "I wasn't aware of that, no, sir. Right of salvage, huh?"

  "That's the truth, sir. Even if it weren't, it's ours, an American vessel on American soil."

  A smattering of applause came from the people observing the president and his first Event.

  "Well, sir, it's our honor to present to you the longship USS Margaret Truman."

  The president let his hands fall to his sides and he looked astounded. He watched as a white cloth was pulled from the vault's rear wall. The name of the ship was inscribed in gold on carved wood with a dragon's head fronting the words. The president looked at the plaque a moment, then slapped his hat against his thigh and broke out clapping with the rest of the men and women. He shook his head and stepped deftly to the scaffold and took Lee's hand in his own in a powerful grip.

  "Goddammit, son, I'm proud of you and your people. And this"--he gestured to the nameplate--"is a real honor that I can only say is thrilling to me and would be to my wife and daughter, if I could just tell them about it." He winked and laughed as they shook hands.

  Lee's young new assistant, Alice Hamilton, walked up and gave the grinning Lee a Teletype message. The woman had come to work at the Event Group because Lee felt he owed her something. Her husband had been with him in South America after the end of the war, and he was still there, buried in an unmarked grave.

  Lee read the message she had given him, trying not to be thrown off-balance by the president's overzealous handshake and trying to keep the Teletype in focus as he was jostled. When he was done, he leaned over and whispered in the president's ear. Truman's face wrinkled into a puzzled look, and he took the yellow paper. He too read it, then asked a question, to which Lee nodded his head in response. Then they both hurriedly left the top of the scaffolding and used the stairs to reach the bottom of the newly installed vault.

  The men and women, all security or technicians of the Event Group, watched in curiosity as their boss and the president of the United States left with looks on their faces that told them something wasn't right in the world.

  Garrison Lee saw the president to a secure area lining the new level of vaults so he could call the Pentagon situation room.

  The president hung up the phone and joined Lee in the corridor outside the secure communications room.

  "Mr. Lee, I'm very pleased with what I've seen here today." He paused long enough to place the now crumpled fedora on his head, and Lee helped the older man into his coat. He noticed that the president had a distant look on his face. "After the things you've shown me, I think I can guarantee your current budget and maybe a little more, although I know for a fact that the brass-hat sons of bitches are going to scream that I'm stealing from them. To hell with them, I say. What's a couple of overpriced bombers when it comes to doin' good for the American people?" Truman walked toward the main elevator. "After all, who am I but a country boy just following in the footsteps of great men? Tell your people, Lee." He turned and shook the senator's hand again. "I'll talk to you soon."

  Garrison Lee took President Truman's hand and firmly shook it, pleased by the minimal promise of the Group's current budget. But he had to risk the next question, which was burning him up inside.

  "Mr. President, I believe the Event Group may be better equipped to handle the situation in New Mexico, if you would allow us."

  A Secret Service agent cleared for the Event Center held the elevator doors for Truman. The president turned and gave a quick shake of his head.

  "Sorry, Lee, I have to stick with the boys who won the war on this one. I have to assume they know what they're doing." The last words were almost cut off by the closing doors.

  Lee stood at those same doors for a moment and watched the green indicator light glow. He felt as if he was being left out of the biggest event since the coming of Jesus Christ, and there was nothing he could do about it.

  Garrison Lee hadn't heard from the president of the United States for almost five days and was assessing field assignments when Alice stepped into his office. She quickly opened the right bottom drawer of his desk and removed a bulky red phone. There was a small handle on the top that she practic
ally punched with the palm of her hand, instantly freeing the device from its security holder. She lifted the receiver and held it out to Lee.

  "It's the president and he doesn't sound happy," she said quickly.

  "Mr. President, this is Lee."

  "Mr. Lee, I want you to get your ass with your best security team and science people and get control of that goddamn situation in Roswell."

  "What do I need to know, Mr. President?"

  "Know? Know, Lee? Haven't you read the goddamn papers?"

  "Been busy here, sir"

  "Well, damn, man, the Army Air Corps just released a press statement that they have a flyin' damn disk in their possession. I had General LeMay, General Ramey, and Allen Dulles on the phone and all they gave me was the runaround! Sons of bitches don't know who they're dealin' with!"

  "LeMay and Dulles will do that, Mr. President, if they think you're treading on their turf." Lee knew Allen Dulles and knew the man always had ulterior motives for everything he did. Every move was calculated for what good it would do him and whatever group he was working with.

  "Let me tell you something, Mister Lee"--Truman spread the word mister out for a month--"it's all my goddamn turf, you get me, son?"

  "Yes, sir, I hear you and agree, Mr. President, it's your backyard."

  "Damn right, mine and the people of this nation who pay our salaries. I think sometimes the damn generals and spooks need to be put in their place, no offense, Lee. I take it you have an aircraft available to you?"

  "We have twelve, four converted C-41 Dakotas, three P-51 Mustangs, and several scout craft, sir."

  "P-51s! Who in the hell gave you those? Ah, never mind. As I was saying, you and a team of scientists or whatever eggheads you need get there and get control of that crap in the desert, now!"

  "Yes, sir."

  "And, Lee?" The president sounded as if he was grinding his teeth. "I've sent you a letter with my signature on it, authorizing you to do what you think is right, and I'll back you one hundred percent. If you have to hang someone, I'll supply the rope!"

  "I'm on my way, Mr. President, and thank you, sir."

  "Thank you nothin', get there and find out what's going on. You tell them if I have to come down there and fire some butts, I will."

  "I'll pass along the message, Mr. President," Lee replied, but found that the call had already been terminated.

  Alice handed over a sealed envelope. "This was just wired over from the White House," she said.

  Lee opened it and scanned the words. It did indeed authorize him to do anything just this side of murder to gain the cooperation of the air corps and army.

  "What's going on, Garrison?"

  "Well, Alice, I guess that's what I'm flying to New Mexico to find out."

  FIFTEEN

  Roswell, New Mexico

  July 8, 1947, 20.00 Hours

  The four converted C-41 war-surplus Dakotas touched down on the runway at Roswell Army Airfield at eight that night. They passed row upon row of Boeing B-29 bombers lining the runway and taxied to a small hangar, all the time under the watchful eyes of air police, who escorted them in four jeeps. Lee wasn't concerned with their presence. As he looked out his window, he saw the giant Boeing bombers and noticed how the aging birds still looked lethal. The 509th Composite Bomb Group was world famous for a plane that was once listed among its ranks, named the Enola Gay.

  The bomber-group intelligence officer, Colonel William Blanchard, stood at the bottom of the staircase after it was rolled into place by the base ground crew. The high wind was flapping the bottom of the officer's trousers, and he held on to his hat as he waited for Lee to descend.

  "General Lee, I had heard you were a private citizen after your service during the war." The colonel extended his hand. The offered handshake was ignored by Lee. He was followed down the staircase by men who carried bags and boxes full of equipment. The second, third, and fourth Dakotas were unloading larger pieces of equipment, and the Event Group's security teams exited through the rolling side door used for cargo. Garrison wasn't at all surprised the base's intelligence officer knew of him and whom he used to work for.

  Lee looked at the base roster sheet he had studied on the plane ride over. "You must be Colonel Blanchard?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Colonel, where is your commanding officer?"

  "The base com--"

  "I don't need the base commander, Colonel, I mean the man that's in charge of"--Lee once again looked at his clipboard and flipped a few of the pages that had been wired from Washington--"Operation Purple Sage."

  Blanchard seemed taken aback by this. "I don't think you know the way army intelligence works any longer, sir."

  Lee smiled and tilted his hat back, fully exposing his eye patch. "Colonel, two years ago I was still a brigadier general on active duty in the OSS. I now hold a civil rank equivalent to that of a four-star general, so don't you dare pretend to tell me how the army or its intelligence apparatus operate. Johnson! Bridewell!" he called over his shoulder.

  Two men broke away from the Group's security team and ran to where Lee and the colonel were standing. They wore army fatigues and were carrying sidearms.

  "If the Colonel says anything other than 'Yes, sir' and doesn't lead us to where they either have the wreckage, or to the gentleman in charge of this investigation, arrest him on charges of disobeying a direct order from the president of the United States and obstructing an official presidential inquiry."

  The two men moved to either side of Colonel Blanchard and stood at parade rest.

  "Very well, if the president wants amateurs running this show, it's his funeral," the colonel said into the rising wind, then abruptly turned and started for the hangar entrance.

  They followed Blanchard as if they were in a parade. Garrison had assembled the largest field team since the Lincoln Raid on Ararat in 1863. He had metallurgists, language experts, paleontologists, atomic and medical-research scientists, quantum theorists, structural engineers, machining experts, and sixty security personnel. The quantum theorists were on loan from his friend at Princeton, Albert Einstein. They had been flown from New Jersey into the dirt runway at Las Vegas by his P-51s and weren't at all happy about it. He knew Albert would charge him a huge favor in the near future for the loan.

  Blanchard walked over to one of the huge hangars that held sway over Roswell Army Airfield. It was large enough to house two B-29s side by side. Military police had surrounded the building, and they all carried Ml carbines or Thompson submachine guns. The colonel glanced over his shoulder at Lee and gave him a sour look as he saw the Group's security personnel advance on the MPs and give them new orders. He scowled and then opened a small door just to the left side of the large hangar doors. Lee followed him into a spacious office with several people in the smoke-filled room. Colonel Blanchard walked over to a surprised man in a white shirt and whispered something to him.

  Lee scanned the faces in the room as his security team followed him into the office. They closed the door behind them, shutting out the noise of the blowing wind, and totally surrounded the men in the office.

  The men standing around in mild shock were the intelligence types Lee had come to know well during his hitch in the Office of Strategic Services. But it was the one man who was seated all alone at a table that caught Lee's immediate attention, as he definitely looked as if he didn't belong there. He was sweating profusely because of the huge light they had trained on him. The disheveled man looked at Lee with a dull gaze, then quickly looked away. Garrison spied an officer standing against the far wall. He recognized this man from the roster and briefing material, which included his photograph. Major Jesse Marcel. He held Lee's gaze, then slowly shook his head.

  "Can I help you... General Lee, is it?" asked the man with whom Blanchard had spoken. He stepped forward and held out his hand and said, "I'm Charles Hendrix, Army Intelligence, and special adviser to General LeMay."

  Lee continued to look at the man in dungarees and sweaty
denim work shirt sitting with head lowered at the table. He handed the letter from the president over to Hendrix instead of shaking his hand, not sparing the man a glance while doing so.

  Hendrix read the letter, first frowning, then with a shrug of his shoulders. "The president shouldn't be too concerned with what we have here."

  Lee knew the type of man who faced him. He had run into a few during the war. Their favorite saying, "For the good of the country," was a phrase this man would use to justify everything from torture to murder.

  "Would you like to tell President Truman he shouldn't be concerned, personally, Mr. Hendrix? And if you're looking for a title to use in connection with me, try The Man in Charger

  "The point I'm trying to make is, I think the president has little understanding of what has happened here," Hendrix said, taking a Camel cigarette out of the pack in his shirt.

  Lee smiled. "You may be surprised by what he understands, and if he has little understanding of this situation, it's because someone is not passing on the adequate amount of intelligence. Don't ever play word games with me again." Lee pulled out a chair next to the man sitting at the table and slowly sat down. He removed his hat and placed it on the table. He gave the man what he hoped was a comforting smile to try to relax him, knowing at the same time his scar might have just the opposite effect.

  "This man is being detained for questioning," Hendrix said calmly as he paused with the match held an inch from his cigarette.

  Garrison turned and looked at the man from Army Intelligence, then back at the scared gentleman with his head lowered at the table.

  "Sergeant Thompson, remove this light, please."

  One of the security men in the detail walked to the wall and pulled a plug. The area of table where it had been shining darkened to a more comfortable setting from the soft fluorescent lighting from the ceiling.

  "Don't know about you, but bright light hurts my eye."

  The man at the table didn't respond; he just raised a shaking hand up to his face and touched a bruised spot on his cheek.