“Mr. Holmes, are you certain?”
“Certainty is for the gods. Play the girl off against the accomplice with the gouge in his heel and you will have your answer.”
“But the camera. How do you know a camera was involved?”
“Tiny slivers of glass in the pile of the carpet, consistent with that of a flash bulb. Too small to be easily vacuumed up. A porter would have easy access to a Hoover. The accomplice with the flash camera caught the senator with the young woman In flagrante delicto and threatened blackmail. When the senator resisted, he was killed. As the plot to blackmail the senator failed, the scene was staged to make it appear the young woman was an innocent victim.”
Holmes turned his attention to me.
“Come Watson, let us try our luck in the casino. I am sure that calculating the odds of a jackpot will prove far more of a challenge than solving this crime has been.”
Later that evening Holmes and I boarded a military plane with Colonel Patterson for Dulles Airport in Washington D.C. From there we were scheduled to board another transatlantic fight for London. Shortly after lifting off from Las Vegas, Colonel Patterson received a message from Army Air Forces Intelligence.
“My apologies, gentleman, but this flight has been ordered to divert to Roswell, New Mexico. H.Q. assures me they will be able to make alternate arrangements for your travel once we touch down at Roswell Army Air Field.”
Half an hour later our plane landed in Roswell, New Mexico. Holmes and I exited the aircraft. We were led to a ready room. Colonel Patterson joined two other men in an adjoining room. The men were easily visible through the windows separating the two rooms. Colonel Patterson appeared to be listening attentively while the other two men engaged in an animated narrative, the content of which was impossible to discern. Periodically glances were directed toward Holmes and me and then the conversation resumed with much shaking and nodding of heads. As we were anxious to resume our journey back to London, whatever was taking place seemed to require an inordinate amount of discussion. Holmes had little patience for standing and doing nothing. At last some sort of resolution was reached and the two men exited. Colonel Patterson stood alone for a moment massaging a spot between his eyebrows, and then he rejoined Holmes and me in the ready room.
“I am afraid we have a situation.”
“We gathered as much,” Holmes said dismissively.
“It’s all hush-hush, top-secret, if you know what I mean.”
“Yes,” I said quickly, wishing to forestall Holmes giving voice to his feelings. “We are familiar with that sort of thing, Colonel. We have consulted on numerous cases of utmost secrecy.”
“It seems some sort of craft has crashed about seventy-five miles from here.”
“A craft? What kind of craft? A plane. A helicopter? What?” Holmes asked.
“I can’t be sure. There’s a great deal of conflicting information. Possibly some casualties.”
“Any eyewitnesses?” I asked.
“Possibly,” the Colonel replied.
“How long ago?” Holmes inquired.
“At least two hours. It will take us at least an hour to arrive on scene.”
“Us?” Holmes inquired.
“Yes, a helicopter is being readied for us now. I regret the inconvenience, but the brass thought you might be of use.” The Colonel thought better of his word choice and changed use to help.
“We’ll miss our flight to Washington,” I protested.
“Sorry, Dr. Watson, you have already missed your flight.”
I glanced at my watch. “We depart in six hours.”
“Not tonight, Doctor. All outbound flights have been cancelled for the next several hours.”
“Very well,” Holmes demurred. “It seems we have no choice.”
“I hoped you’d see it that way, Mr. Holmes.”
An hour later the helicopter we had boarded circled the crash site, which was now little more than an orange glow of dying embers. Occasionally the flash of a camera would appear as lightning. Military personnel and vehicles were scattered about the perimeter of the crash site. A red warning light blinked to inform us that we were landing. On the ground makeshift landing lights outlined a temporary landing spot. A man with flags waved us in.
“Remain with me,” the Colonel said, as we exited the helicopter. “Don’t ask questions and don’t touch anything.”
“We know how to conduct ourselves, Colonel,” Holmes said.
“Sorry to be so blunt. This is a highly classified area. The guards you see posted all around are carrying live ammunition.”
Holmes and I followed Colonel Patterson to the smoldering remains of the object that had crashed. Whatever the object had been was essentially disintegrated. Scattered about the scene was a fair amount of twisted metal, which looked to me like thin sheets of aluminium, or as the Americans say, aluminum.
“Wait here,” the Colonel ordered. “I need to speak with those officers over there.” He pointed to a group of men standing several yards away.
“Is it alright if I smoke,” Holmes asked, pulling his pipe from his pocket.
“Fine, just don’t touch anything.”
“Thank you,” Holmes said, turning abruptly and stumbling into me with such force that the collision of our bodies knocked his pipe to the ground.
“Good lord, Holmes, you almost knocked me over.”
“Sorry, old chap.” Holmes bent down to retrieve his pipe. “I must have rolled my foot on a branch.” He slipped his pipe back into his coat pocket.
“I thought you were having a pipe.”
“Couldn’t find my matches.”
“I have matches.”
“Change of mind.”
A quarter of an hour later Holmes and I had yet to be brought in on the matter. From our position well away from the men who had gathered in a small circle to assess the scene, we did manage to catch the odd word and phrase here and there of increasingly angry voices. “What the hell!” “The press!” “Orders!” “Damn it!” “Security!” “Head on a platter!”
“Holmes, I’m not sure why we were brought along. Not much good we’re doing. What do you think is going on?”
Holmes shook his head. “Hard to say, old boy.”
“Complete waste of time, if you ask me.”
The angry voices subsided and turned to whispers as the small group of military men drew closer together. Heads nodded as if to indicate a consensus had been reached. The group broke apart and Colonel Patterson returned to the spot where Holmes and I were standing. “Sorry for keeping you waiting, false alarm.”
“False alarm?” I said, barely able to conceal my surprise.
“Yes, Doctor, there’s been some confusion.”
“How so?” Holmes asked.
“Some misinformation made its way to the press. It turns out this is a big misunderstanding. This is not what it seems.”
“Then what is it?” Holmes asked pointedly.
“Well, that is--” Colonel Patterson began, seemingly at a loss for words. “At the moment I am not at liberty to share any more information. An official statement will be issued.”
“Then our services will not be required,” Holmes replied.
“I am sure you and Dr. Watson would like to be on your way.”
“Yes, we’ve had rather a long day,” I said.
“Again, my apologies for the inconvenience. We’ll have you back in Roswell as soon as possible.”
A myriad of scheduling issues delayed Holmes and me an additional day. Instead of departing for Washington, Holmes and I would now be leaving from New York. We overnighted in Roswell and then flew nonstop the next day by military transport to a base near New York City. From there we were driven to La Guardia to await our long flight home to London
. While awaiting our flight, I availed myself of several complimentary newspapers, each carrying the remarkable story of the incident we had been witness to two nights previously. According to one account, the Army Air Forces were in possession of a flying saucer that had crashed onto a ranch in New Mexico.
“Flying saucer, indeed,” I chuckled to myself.
Upon our return home, we discovered the papers in London had also devoted a fair amount of coverage to the Roswell story. As I had been at the scene of the crash, I paid little attention. I was too immersed in my writing to allow myself to become distracted.
Dreams take flight
Kapustin Yar, Soviet Union
July 9, 1947
As a young boy living in the small village of Yaniv, some sixty miles from Kiev, Dmitri Sokolov determined early on to make more of his life than his parents had made of theirs. Dmitri’s parents were poor, but not destitute. They managed to eke out a living farming and selling produce at the local market. At age seven Dmitri was expected to work the farm and then help transport the goods to market. Unlike most children in the village who had little formal education, Dmitri could read and write, thanks to an uncle who taught in Kiev. Whenever Dmitri visited his Uncle Maxim, Maxim always made sure Dmitri returned home with a book in hand. With little in the way of prospects, reading ignited Dmitri’s imagination and dreams of success. At age seven perhaps he was naïve and unrealistic, yet he believed something better awaited. How his dreams would materialize he could not foresee. Then on a weekend visit to Kiev to celebrate his birthday, Dmitri’s future unfolded before his eyes. The date was August 27, 1913.
“I take you someplace special,” Uncle Maxim said.
“Tell me,” Dmitri begged.
“You’ll see. Is surprise.”
Dmitri and his uncle boarded a bus for Syretzk Aerodrome located on the outskirts of Kiev. Upon arriving at the aerodrome young Dmitri’s face lit up. He had never seen airplanes up close before. He had only ever seen them fly over his tiny village on occasion. Dmitri and his uncle joined a crowd of spectators that had gathered.
“It is wonderful, Uncle, so many airplanes. But why are all these people here?”
“You have heard of Pyotr Nesterov?”
Dmitri thought hard and shook his head.
“For shame,” Uncle Maxim teased. “Pyotr Nesterov is the most famous pilot in all of Russia. You see that plane over there?” Uncle Maxim pointed to a plane standing apart from the others. “That plane is a special plane. It is a French Nieuport IV monoplane. They are flown by the best pilots of the Imperial Russian Air Service.”
“Is Pyotr Nesterov going to fly that plane today?”
“Now you are catching on. Yes, that is why all these people are here today. Pyotr Nesterov is going to do something special.”
“Is that he?” Dmitri cried out, pointing to a leather clad man walking toward the Nieuport IV.”
“Yes,” said Uncle Maxim.
“But what will he do?” Dmitri asked.
“You will see.”
As Dmitri and his uncle moved to join other spectators seated in a makeshift grandstand, Pyotr Nesterov climbed into his plane and gave a thumbs-up to a crewman awaiting the signal to spin the prop. After a couple of spins and putts and smoke, the monoplane roared to life. With another thumbs-up for the benefit of the spectators Nesterov steered the plane onto the landing strip, powered up, and sped down the runway. Within seconds the plane lifted off. The spectators applauded. Nesterov made several passes over the aerodrome.
“Is that it?” Dmitri asked.
“Watch,” Uncle Maxim replied.
After flying level for several minutes, the Nieuport made an incredibly steep climb to an altitude of 1000 meters. The spectators gasped as the plane nosed almost straight up. The engine whined as if it could give no more power. And then the impossible happened. The plane pitched backwards, rolled upside down, and the engine stopped. Onlookers screamed. At least two people in the grandstand fainted. Something had gone terribly wrong. The plane was suddenly falling back to earth. Dmitri’s heart jumped into his throat. He covered his eyes. He could not bear to watch as the plane rolled and tumbled back to earth. “Will he parachute to safety?” Someone screamed. “Jump, jump!” Others screamed. Tragedy appeared unavoidable. The plane tumbled for an unbearably long time. Then, impossibly, the Nieuport’s engine came to life. The plane came out of its dive, leveled off, and Pyotr Nesterov landed safely and triumphantly in front of a stunned crowd. Pyotr Nesterov had just performed the first dead loop in aviation history.
The spectacular stunt made an immediate national hero of Nesterov, but not before he spent ten days under arrest for recklessly risking the destruction of government property.
From that day forward Dmitri knew what he wanted to do. Not only did he want to fly, he wanted to learn everything he could about aviation. That one could do such things with an airplane seemed impossible. How had Nesterov undertaken such a feat? Why hadn’t the plane broken apart? He had to know and so he began reading everything about aviation he could get his hands on. Whenever he visited Uncle Maxim, a trip to the aerodrome was always expected. By the time Dmitri was old enough to enlist in the Soviet Air Force, he knew more about aviation than most of his instructors. Dmitri Sokolov rose quickly through the ranks and attained the rank of major general, something that impressed others more than he. Should it be necessary to address Sokolov by rank, he preferred major. He was a man of science and aviation; he did not consider himself a military man. The military had been a vehicle for obtaining an education.
Now, at age forty-four Dmitri Sokolov had succeeded far beyond his boyhood dreams. He had been named Director of Aviation Science and Technology. Through dogged determination and hard work Sokolov had been awarded the greatest gift of all. He was charged with overseeing a top-secret program at Kapustin Yar, a missile test range that had been developed under the supervision of Vasily Voznyuk to test and develop missile technology that had been appropriated from the Germans after the war. Sokolov’s department was entirely separate from the missile program. It was housed in its own facility at the expansive Kapustin Yar missile launch site. As head of Science and Aviation Technology, Sokolov had an unlimited budget and a staff of the finest aviation scientists in the country to develop technologies that would propel the Soviet Union toward its goal of being first into space. That goal was years away, but Sokolov had little doubt his country would succeed.
As he stared at the bleak Russian landscape through his office window high above Kapustin Yar, Sokolov felt ambivalent about what he had achieved professionally thus far. He had accomplished much, yet one’s value to the state was rarely judged by past accomplishments. More was always expected. Since the end of the war, his country’s relationship with the West had soured. Suspicion and mistrust were apparent on both sides, particularly with the Americans. Yet to be fully realized by the citizens of either nation, a race in aviation and arms technology was well underway between the Soviets and the Americans. Hiroshima and Nagasaki had released the genie from the bottle. There was no turning back. Was this really the best of all possible worlds?
Sokolov’s thoughts were interrupted by a knock at his office door.
“Come,” said Sokolov.
Yuri Olenev, a trusted junior officer, entered.
“Major, we have received some interesting information from the U.S. It is in all of the newspapers.”
“Go on,” Sokolov said, continuing to stare through the window.
“Two days ago, there was an incident near Roswell, New Mexico. A flaming object streaked across the sky and then crashed to earth. It was witnessed by hundreds of citizens.”
“A meteor, no doubt.”
“According to the local newspaper, an eye witness claims it was a flying saucer. A spokesman for the intelligence agency housed at Roswell confirmed the
story.”
Sokolov turned to his aide. “U.S. intelligence is confirming a saucer crash?”
“Initially. The story has since been retracted. The official revised version now reports the object was a weather balloon. The individual who confirmed the original story was confused.”
“Weather balloons do not streak across the sky.”
“Apparently it exploded and burst into flames.”
“Flaming weather balloons also do not streak across the sky. They fall from the sky.”
“Washington’s response is curious.”
“What are you thinking, Yuri?”
“The Americans could easily pass this incident off as a meteor. That they did not suggests something did indeed crash. It would have been easy enough to deny.”
“Why not deny?”
“Too many witnesses?”
“The question becomes, what are they concealing and why?”
“An experimental aircraft perhaps?”
“Possibly,” Sokolov agreed. “There could be another possibility. The Americans may be further along on Project 1794 than we have been led to believe. If what crashed is a prototype that means the Americans are very close to succeeding with anti-gravity propulsion. It would make sense to create a cover story, no matter how implausible.”
“I cannot think the Americans are that far along.”
“Who is our agent in the region?”
“Cherepanov,” Yuri said. “According to Director Shubin’s office, he is fairly new. He was recruited by our operative for the Western Region.”
“He is a Russian?”
“Most likely an American of Russian extraction. Foreign Intelligence has had little success placing native Russians in America. They tend not to adapt well. These days we rely mainly on sympathizers. I know nothing about this agent. Director Shubin shares little.”
“Since Comrade Shubin was promoted to Director of Foreign Espionage, intelligence - I use that word loosely - has been a roll of the dice. The only thing Shubin did well was to chase women. The Kremlin should have left him where he was, stumbling around Europe playing the role of international spy.” Sokolov waved a hand. “Enough of Shubin! How do we know we can trust this Cherepanov?”
Sherlock Holmes and The Roswell Incident Page 3
