Sherlock Holmes and The Roswell Incident

by Michael Druce

  “She is hardly out of her teens. What could she know?”

  “She knows something about Roswell. There can be no other explanation for her disappearance. Assemble a team and plan an operation to locate this young woman. I want to know once and for all what happened at Roswell. There are those who believe the Americans have an alien ship in their possession. I never believed in that conspiracy nonsense. I have always believed the crash was a Project 1794 prototype. Our knowledge of their secret programs is no secret. They have been feeding us worthless plans for years. So why continue to shroud Roswell in mystery? There has always been something more to this. We have always been convinced of that. What this girl knows may be the only way to turn down the heat on us. The time has come to find out.”

  “Major, we are risking our reputations, perhaps our lives, on a young woman whom we cannot be sure knows anything.”

  “I think that is a chance we must take. Otherwise we have no choice but to turn on each other.”

  Sokolov’s pronouncement was a knife in Yuri’s heart. Betrayal of a friend and comrade could cut both ways.

  * * *

  Three days later Yuri returned with a plan of action. Sokolov read through the elaborately detailed scheme. When he reached the end of the report, he glanced up at Yuri and removed his reading glasses. He poured each of them a glass of vodka.

  “No one can accuse you of not being ambitious, Yuri. Cheers!”

  Both men drank up.

  “We need a codename,” Yuri said. “How does Operation Roswell sound?”

  Sokolov shook his head. “We need something that will appeal to Shubin’s childish sensibilities. We will call it Operation Minnie Mouse.”

  “Why Minnie Mouse?” Yuri asked.

  “Shubin has the face of a rodent. It is also American. Shubin loves things foreign.”

  “Minnie Mouse it is,” Yuri said.

  All operations required a seal of approval from Director Shubin. His agency would be responsible for funding the operation and setting the plan in motion.

  “This will be on its way by courier to Moscow first thing in the morning.”

  In kind

  Moscow

  First Chief Directorate of Foreign Espionage Arkady Shubin puffed on a cheap Turkish cigar. It was a filthy tasting thing, hardly worth the waste of a match. In the current climate of a post-war Soviet Union, premium booze and premium cigars were luxuries no longer available. The Americans were the only ones who had benefitted financially from the war. Everyone else was broke. Still, you could get good cigars and good liquor, especially in Paris, if you were willing to pay. The only way to get such luxuries in the Soviet Union these days was by leaving the state on official business, an opportunity he was no longer afforded. Was it any surprise that travel budgets for his subordinate intelligence officers were through the roof?

  In his day Shubin had once cut a dashing figure. He was well-educated, refined, and sophisticated. Prior to the war he had been given free rein to travel. He was the prize of the KGB. He had orchestrated assassinations, embedded moles, and successfully oversaw the theft of so many foreign secrets they were impossible to enumerate. As often happens with success, it came with a terrible price. Two years after the war, Arkady Shubin was promoted with rank and provided with an impressively appointed office in the Kremlin. His days of travel came to an end. These days he was a virtual prisoner of success and Soviet bureaucracy. How he missed those carefree days of rollicking in the great cities of Europe.

  He stared at a mound of files on his desk. Every day an ambitious staff of junior officers sorted a stack of reports and recommended intelligence operations from both agents abroad and officers within the Soviet Union. Reports deemed worthy were then forwarded to Director Shubin.

  Shubin casually sorted through the file folders. As was his habit, he pulled those files with unique sounding names. Otherwise there was simply too much paperwork to read through and far too many ridiculous schemes. Too many of these young post-war officers planned operations that seemed better suited for motion pictures rather than the actual business of espionage. Shubin pulled a file folder from the pile with the name Operation Minnie Mouse written across it. An interesting name, he thought. It was not necessarily original, but it was amusing. He opened the file folder. The report had come from Major Sokolov at Kapustin Yar. Sokolov was a well-respected soldier. Operation Minnie Mouse concerned the incident that had happened at Roswell, New Mexico, four years earlier. Sokolov’s interest in the Roswell event was well-known among senior intelligence officers. It was an interest Shubin himself did not share. As far as he was concerned, Roswell was a case of collective lunacy. Shubin thumbed through the file. It contained clippings from American newspaper accounts, a brief analysis of the incident, and copies of the communiqués from a variety of agents. Sokolov had also supplied an extensive narrative that drew together all the separate strands of information. As always, Sokolov was thorough. Acknowledging both the hysterical aspect of the story and the possibility of hoax, Sokolov clearly and logically laid out arguments for and against an operation. In his final analysis, Sokolov recommended a full-scale operation be undertaken to infiltrate and extract. The appearance of the girl near Wright-Patterson Air Force base was too much of a coincidence. She had disappeared from Roswell and now she was near the secret facility known as Hangar 18. The Roswell event was simply shrouded in too much secrecy for the Soviets to ignore.

  One item drew Shubin’s attention. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson had been on site the night of July 7, 1947. Sokolov noted that the presence of the English detective and his companion may have been entirely insignificant, or it might be further evidence of a much more involved matter and cover up.

  Shubin closed the case file and turned his attention toward a framed photograph on his desk. The photo was of a smiling young woman on a sunny afternoon. Behind her, in the distance, stood the Eiffel Tower. From inside his desk drawer Shubin withdrew a rubber stamp. He flicked away the filthy tasting cigar and smashed the rubber stamp against the cover page of the file. In bold, red ink, the fresh imprint read APPROVED!

  Shubin stared at the red APPROVED imprint for several minutes. He then set about amending details of the plan.

  The Tuesday Man

  Kapustin Yar

  Yuri Olenev was impatient for the overnight satchel to arrive. The courier from Moscow was overdue. Yuri plied himself with cigarettes and coffee. He had to admit to himself he was a nervous wreck. Yuri was young, but he was also ambitious. He felt most fortunate to have been assigned to Kapustin Yar. In his two years at the top-secret aviation site, he had quickly moved through the cutthroat business of promotion and achieving rank. His current assignment as personal aide to Major Sokolov was the cherry on top of the icing. He was fiercely loyal to Sokolov, one of the few Soviet officers Yuri regarded as a man of integrity. Even in a well-earned position such as his, one could never get too comfortable. There were always those who would slit your throat in an instant for an advantage. Trust lasted no longer than it took for one to better one’s position. Yuri knew he was surrounded with equally ambitious junior officers. Envy was an elixir that fed treachery. Yuri’s relationship with Sokolov was a source of jealousy in the ranks. He was careful never to overstep the bounds of propriety in his publically viewed dealings with the Major. But there were those who saw beyond Yuri’s strict observance of protocol. If one took the time to observe, one could see Sokolov treated his personal aide with uncommon equity. Thus, it was always important to remind those of higher rank of one’s worth. Hopefully the tardy courier would bring with him such a reminder.

  Two hours after he was expected, the courier from Moscow finally arrived.

  “Don’t ask,” he said, dropping his pouch onto Yuri’s desk. “Weather and mechanical difficulties. One day, Yuri, we will do everything electronically. How? I have no idea, but I predict it.”r />
  Yuri laughed. Oleg Yermilov was The Tuesday Man. Each day of the week a different courier flew in from Moscow with a sack of mail, official correspondence, and communications designated as eyes only. Of the seven couriers, Oleg was Yuri’s favorite. He was always good for a laugh. Over coffee Oleg would share the latest gossip from Moscow, smoke a cigarette, and then be on his way back to Moscow with a satchel full of documents for the Kremlin.

  Yuri opened the pouch Oleg had arrived with. Inside was the cover page of Operation Minnie Mouse. As this operation had been Yuri’s idea, it was most important the plan receive the blessing of Director Shubin. Yuri breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of the bold red imprint. His first operation had been given a go.

  At the bottom of the page Director Shubin had added a brief handwritten note.

  A commendable plan. We will contact Cherepanov to advise him when to expect a visit from babushka.

  “Babushka.” Yuri chuckled and shook his head. “These old guys.”

  Yuri went to The Hangar to share the news with the Major.

  Lights, Camera, Action!

  London, 1952

  “Cut!”

  At once all action on set came to an abrupt halt. The authoritative voice had echoed across the giant sound stage of Shepperton Studios. The lights flooding the vast interior set extinguished. The whir of motion picture cameras wound down. Sound recorders were set to pause. A moment later Lawrence Meddings strode angrily onto the spacious interior set meant to represent a stately English manor in the latest Sherlock Holmes film adventure, Moon Over Baker Street. Attired in a high neck jumper, jodhpurs, and riding boots, Meddings cut a preposterously ridiculous figure. In place of a riding crop, the fuming director carried a megaphone. “Who in hell yelled cut?”

  Silence descended over the scene. “I did,” the previous voice said.

  “Who is that?” Meddings asked of his assistant. “Who said that?”

  Meddings’ timorous assistant pointed to the group of onlookers.

  The man standing to my side stepped forward.

  “Sherlock Holmes.”

  “Mr. Holmes,” Meddings said, putting down the megaphone and placing his hands on his hips. “I am the director of this film, the only director. I say lights, I say camera, I say action, and I say cut. I am the only person who says those things. I am the voice of God. You and Dr. Watson are here as technical advisers only. When I wish your advice, I shall ask for it. Could I be any clearer?”

  “Quite right,” Holmes said, belying no hint of apology in his voice.

  “Thank you.” Meddings turned to his crew of actors, cameramen, and lighting technicians. “Take twenty-seven. Mark. Lights.” The scene lit up immediately. “Camera.” Camera motors spooled up to speed. “Action.” A tall fellow in a deerstalker entered the set, followed by a chubby fellow.

  The actor playing Sherlock Holmes walked center and hit his mark. “This must be the place, Watson.”

  “Oh?” Said the actor playing my role.

  “Yes, Monmouth Manor.”

  “Cut!” The commanding voice said again over the lines of the actors.

  Immediately all action stopped once again, and lights dimmed.

  “Bloody hell!” Lawrence Meddings rushed furiously onto the set. “Good God, man. Did you understand anything I said earlier?”

  “As a matter of fact, I did. You were quite clear.”

  “Then why do you continue to disrupt this production?”

  “Because you have it all wrong.”

  “Have it all wrong? Have what wrong?”

  “Me. Watson. Do you think we would enter Muskrat Manor without knowing it was Muskrat Manor?

  “Monmouth!” Meddings corrected. “It is Monmouth Manor.”

  “Whatever the name, an exterior establishing shot would have already conveyed that fact. Previous dialogue would already have established where Holmes and Watson were going. Why waste precious screen time repeating what everyone already knows? Sherlock Holmes does not walk into a manor and say, “This is the place.” Of course, it is. Sherlock Holmes investigates. He discovers. He is not Lestrade. He does not waste time stating the obvious.”

  “Are you quite finished?” Meddings fumed.

  “No. The chap playing Holmes is all wrong.”

  Meddings looked from Holmes to me.

  “I must agree.” I said, adding fuel to the fire. “The chap playing me is all wrong as well. He seems doughy.”

  “Doughy?” The actor portraying me said. “Are you saying I am fat?”

  Before I could answer, Holmes chimed in. “That is exactly what Dr. Watson means, only he is too much the gentlemen to say it.”

  “Well, I never,” the fictional Dr. Watson said.

  “If you mean you have never missed a meal, I quite agree,” Holmes said.

  “Out!” Meddings screamed. “You are fired. Both of you.” Meddings sought his timorous assistant. “Jacob, have these gentlemen shown out and escorted off the property.”

  Holmes glared at the nervous assistant. “Don’t bother, we shall find our own way out.”

  And with that Holmes and I ended our short-lived careers as technical advisers for the next Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson adventure.

  “I much preferred Basil Rathbone,” Holmes said once we were off studio property and in search of a taxi.

  “He has retired from playing Holmes,” I reminded my colleague. “He and Nigel Bruce are on to other projects now.”

  “I can’t say I blame them. The series was getting a bit long in the tooth.”

  “Do I look portly to you?” I asked.

  Holmes ignored my question. He was preoccupied with locating a taxi.

  Behind the heavily guarded gates we had just passed through were soundstages filled with forests, city scenes, and all manner of fictional settings. Outside, I could not help but note the ordinariness of our surroundings. No longer were we in Monmouth Manor, now we were just two chaps waiting for a taxi. Near the studio entrance stood two men each reading a copy of The Times, a milk dolly puttered by, a lorry stopped to unload its cargo at a nearby pub, and pedestrians came and went. It was a perfectly normal London day.

  “Here comes a taxi now,” Holmes said, waving his hand.

  Before we could enter the waiting vehicle, a woman called to us from the main gate of the studio. She had been on set busily taking notes. “Mr. Holmes, I am so glad I caught you in time. Could you spare a moment?”

  “We have a pressing engagement,” Holmes prevaricated.

  Other than my delivering a manuscript to my editor, Holmes and I had nothing on the docket. For weeks Holmes had been champing at the bit for a new case. As nothing had come our way, he reluctantly agreed to our serving as technical advisors for the latest Sherlock Holmes film adventure.

  “Is this a matter of urgency?” I asked.

  “Not urgency, Dr. Watson. But it is a matter of importance. If you could spare a moment of your time.”

  “Very well,” Holmes acquiesced.

  I waved the taxi on.

  “There is a teashop around the corner,” the woman said.

  A few minutes later we were taking tea and coffee at a little teashop called Scenes. As the name of the establishment implied, the main clientele were employees of the film industry.

  “Now, how can we be of service, Miss ...?” I asked.

  “Ransom. Abigail Ransom. I am continuity coordinator for Moon Over Baker Street.”

  “Should this have something to do with the film, Dr. Watson and I are no longer in the motion picture business. It was all rather short lived, I am afraid. Most unsatisfactory.”

  “I saw what happened on set. I can’t say I blame you. Larry Meddings is an insufferable bore. No Mr. Holmes, my request to meet with you ha
s nothing to do with the film. It is an unrelated matter concerning an incident that happened five years ago. You have heard of the UFO incident in Roswell, New Mexico, during the summer of 1947?”

  Holmes sighed wearily. “No pun intended, Miss Ransom, but this is not our cup of tea.”

  “Mr. Holmes, hear me out. Please.”

  Over the years Holmes and I had encountered no shortage of alarmists, conspiracy theorists, and individuals who had claimed to have seen flying saucers or had been abducted by aliens from space. All were immediately shown the door. Holmes had no patience for such tripe.

  “We are familiar with the incident,” Holmes said as a courtesy.

  A great deal of time had passed since that night Holmes and I were diverted to the crash site. Other than a spate of wild rumors and conspiracies, nothing conclusive had ever been determined. Officially the crashed object was a weather balloon. The metal fragment Holmes had retained created some doubt in his mind, but most of what we currently knew we had learned from the newspapers. As Holmes would be first to say, doubt is not proof.

  “Mr. Holmes, I am not prepared to say what did or did not happen that night. I was out of the country at the time working on a film. The incident made all the papers. Wildly varying accounts have emerged and frankly much of it sounds ridiculous, more akin to a Hollywood science-fiction film.”

  As if to indicate he wished our guest to get to her point, Holmes forestalled any further narrative on her part. “Miss Ransom, you do not seem the type to engage in conspiracy stories, thus I gather your concern relates to some other matter.”

  “Yes, that is correct Mr. Holmes. A young man and young woman went missing that night.”

  “Information that wasn’t disclosed to the press until a few days later,” Holmes said.