by Dayton Ward
“Same here,” the woman replied, aiming her servo at Mestral’s handcuffs. The device hummed again and the cuffs opened, falling from his wrists. Satisfied with her work, Lincoln smiled.
“You’re a hard man to find, you know that?”
Thirteen
Wilford Hall Medical Center—Lackland
Air Force Base—San Antonio, Texas
May 26, 1971
Despite James Wainwright’s best efforts to ignore him, the orderly was still there.
“You need to start getting ready for your next session, sir,” said Robert from where he stood just inside the doorway, and Wainwright heard the note of annoyance in the other man’s voice.
“I’m ready,” he replied, without looking up from the paperback novel he was only half reading. Wainwright had found the dog-eared book in the day room’s lending library. It was labeled as an action-adventure thriller, the fourth in a series about which he knew nothing, and focused on a Vietnam veteran fighting organized crime elements in various cities around the country. This book had brought the character to Miami, and every other page seemed to be filled with vivid descriptions of gunplay and other violence meted out against what Wainwright supposed were deserving individuals. Though not terribly deep, the story was entertaining enough, and certainly more enjoyable than the orderly at the door or the upcoming therapy session.
“You planning to go like that?” asked Robert.
Looking down, Wainwright surveyed his current attire, which consisted of the same light blue pajamas issued to all patients, a dark blue terry cloth robe, and slippers. With one hand, he reached up to rub his chin and felt stubble. His hair, which was longer than he would have preferred and definitely out of air force regulation, had to be disheveled, as he had done nothing about his appearance since rising from bed two hours earlier.
“Yeah,” he said. “I think I am.”
Robert released an audible sigh. “Doctor Silverman’s not going to like that.” He stood in the doorway to Wainwright’s room with his muscled arms folded across his chest. The man possessed an athletic build, more of a gymnast or wrestler than a weightlifter, and Wainwright had seen him handle himself when confronting unruly patients who decided to get physical with him. He harbored no illusions about being able to take the other man in a similar situation.
“What’s he going to do?” Wainwright asked. “Shave my head and ship me overseas? I’m twice his age, for crying out loud. Does his mother even know he’s down here playing doctor?”
“They might shave your head and send you to clean latrines,” Robert said. It was obvious to Wainwright that the orderly had either never seen the humor to be found in their little bouts of verbal jousting, or else had grown tired of the exchanges. Wainwright realized he should not be hassling the man in this way, as Robert was just trying to do his job, but he found that minor rebellions of this sort were one of the few defense mechanisms at his disposal for dealing with his present situation.
Wainwright and Robert went through this routine, or some variation of it, every Wednesday morning. It had become something of a game, at least for Wainwright, beginning several months earlier, after deciding he had been subjected to more than enough of the air force’s misguided ministrations over his so-called well-being. He had been a guest here for nearly two years, following a diagnosis of what one military physician had termed post-traumatic stress, which to Wainwright had sounded like a fancy name for a nervous breakdown. That the apparent condition had manifested itself after more than two decades spent in service to a top-secret military program and the fatigue, anxiety, and sheer terror that had come with that assignment, seemed not to matter to those who had put him here.
He had spent his fifty-third and fifty-fourth birthdays here, treated to a slice of chocolate cake provided by the hospital’s cafeteria. All of the other days had been spent either being subjected to tests, participating in one-on-one or group therapy sessions with a rotating roster of psychiatrists and other mental health professionals, or desperately seeking anything to help fill the hours. He felt no ill effects, but was told that was a symptom of someone suffering from deep emotional or other psychological issues. The boredom was alleviated by visits from friends and family, most notably his son, Michael, and of course Allison Marshall, his longtime friend, partner, and lover. Having recently retired from the air force, Allison had moved to the San Antonio area to be close to him, and her visits were frequent and anticipated. She was the one bright spot in all of this, giving Wainwright something on which to focus in the hopes that the military in its infinite wisdom would one day see fit to discharge him from his veritable prison.
As for the condition from which he supposedly suffered, Wainwright in a way felt as though he was undeserving of such a judgment. Instead, he, like many others, felt the diagnosis more aptly described the shock, pain, and suffering endured by soldiers who had faced combat or other disturbing experiences. Being handed such a determination, at least to him, seemed to dilute the real problems with which those scarred by battle were coping. Wainwright had not seen war, at least not for more than twenty-five years. Were some of his own experiences during the past two decades on par with the brutalities of actual war? There might be those who agreed with that notion, but he was not one of them.
“I’ll be back in an hour, sir,” said Robert stepping backward through the open door. “I recommend shaving, combing that mop you call hair, and I definitely suggest brushing your teeth. You know the doc’s got a thing about people and their breath.”
“Is he expecting me to kiss him or something?” Wainwright offered a small smile to show that this was still part of their banter. In truth, he held no bad feelings for Doctor Silverman, who had only been working at the hospital for the past three months. Unlike his predecessors, Silverman seemed content to let his patients talk at whatever length suited them, only asking questions to guide discussion when the other party seemed unsure as to how to proceed. One thing that definitely worked in the doctor’s favor was his reluctance to use medication in place of actual sessions with his patients. For that reason among several others, Wainwright had come to respect the man, and if anyone was going to see to it that he was freed from this place, it was Silverman.
Seeing that Robert was getting antsy, Wainwright offered a mock salute. “I’ll be here,” he said. The orderly said nothing else, but instead just shook his head before exiting the room and leaving Wainwright to his book.
He managed to read two pages before he was interrupted again.
“Mister Wainwright?”
Startled by the voice behind him, Wainwright bolted from his chair, turning to see a man standing just outside the doorway leading to the bathroom. The new arrival was dressed in a dark gray suit with matching tie over a plain white shirt. A gray fedora rested atop his head with the brim pulled low, and Wainwright noted the man’s pale, almost yellow skin. The eyes were dark, and there was no mistaking the intelligence behind them.
Even with the hat in place to cover what he knew were pointed ears, Wainwright recognized him at once.
“Mestral?”
The man—no, Vulcan—nodded. “It is agreeable to see you, again, sir, though I am distressed about your present living arrangements.”
How long’s it been since I last saw him? At least three years, if Wainwright’s recollection was correct. “What happened to you? The last I remember, you were on your way to New York City. We were investigating those . . .”
He stopped short of saying the word aliens aloud. For more than two decades, he had worked and lived under a strict veil of secrecy, tasked with investigating things the government wanted kept from the public while at the same time helping his superiors to devise ways to defend those same people from things about which they remained blissfully ignorant. It had been tireless, thankless work, at least to those who might most benefit from such effort, but Wainwright and others forev
er connected to the covert organization known as Majestic 12 knew that they had been a part of something important to the safety of every living thing on this planet.
Until they decided they didn’t need me anymore, that is.
As though sensing his desire for vigilance in the event unwanted ears might overhear their conversation, Mestral nodded. “You are correct. I ran into some . . . difficulty . . . while in New York, which resulted in a rather remarkable detour. I’m afraid I cannot share the details of that incident with you.”
“Can’t share?” Wainwright made no effort to disguise his surprise. “With me? You were working with us, remember?” He still recalled that day in the summer of 1958 when the Vulcan walked into the office he had shared with his assistant, Allison Marshall, at Wright-Patterson Air Force Base in Ohio. The two of them were in the midst of their nearly twenty-year association with MJ-12 and Project Blue Book, which to that point had consisted in large part of unconfirmed sightings and unverified reports of contact by various people with extraterrestrial beings. Though Wainwright and Marshall had seen with their own eyes that such things were real, attempting to monitor the movements and activities of alleged aliens from other worlds had proven a daunting task.
“The Certoss,” Wainwright said, keeping his voice low. “You were helping us hunt the Certoss.”
Mestral nodded. “And it was while assisting you with that effort that I became aware of another effort to monitor and even influence events here on Earth, though in this case it was for benevolent purposes.”
“Well, that’s a nice change of pace.” The Certoss had been a problem for Wainwright and Marshall for several years, even before the Blue Book agents had even known who or what they were hunting. It was Mestral who had arrived on their doorstep, bringing with him information he had acquired about the aliens after his own firsthand experiences with them. The Vulcan had told Wainwright and Marshall how a small group of these aliens had traveled through both time and space to Earth at the height of World War II. Even as the United States was battling German forces in Europe while at the same time waging a campaign in the Pacific against Japan, these Certoss agents had come to destroy all of humanity. It had been a lot for Wainwright to accept, but Mestral had convinced him through an extraordinary technique that had allowed the Vulcan to join their minds. Through this process, Wainwright had become convinced of Mestral’s sincerity and desire to assist them. That was what he was doing when he traveled to New York City, ostensibly to investigate a lead on a possible location for the Certoss, who to that point had done a remarkable job of concealing their whereabouts and activities.
“So, who are these other people you’re talking about?” asked Wainwright, his attention shifting between Mestral and the door. He half expected Robert to come barreling into the room again. A look at the clock on his nightstand told him it had only been a few minutes since the orderly’s last visit, but that did not discount the possibility of him or another member of the hospital’s staff wandering in to bother him for any of a dozen reasons.
“They are friends.” Mestral stepped closer. “They’re humans, working for an agency that is not affiliated with your government or any other organization born of this planet.”
Wainwright frowned. “How is that even possible? Who funds them? How do they operate? Where are they?”
“They wish their location kept secret,” said Mestral, “and I have promised to honor that request, but they have sent me to talk with you because they believe you possess information about certain alien activity on Earth.”
Moving to his bed, Wainwright placed a slip of paper into the book to mark his place, then laid the novel on his nightstand. “What sort of alien activity?”
“My friends are searching for beings who call themselves Iramahl. What we don’t know is whether you or any of your fellow agents may have encountered members of this race during your investigations of extraterrestrial activity.”
“I don’t recall ever hearing that name,” Wainwright said, shaking his head. Ferengi, Certoss, and Vulcan were the ones he himself had encountered and for which he had a species name. Mestral himself had offered hints about dozens—no, hundreds—of other races inhabiting planets throughout this “quadrant” of the galaxy.
Mestral replied, “It is entirely possible that you met such beings and either did not realize it, or else any memories of a particular incident may have been suppressed.”
“Suppressed?” Wainwright did not like the way that sounded. “You mean like brainwashing?”
It seemed to take the Vulcan a moment to ponder what Wainwright had said, before his right eyebrow rose. “An interesting choice of phrase. Informally expressed, but essentially correct. Do you recall how I joined my mind to yours?”
“Of course.” It had been a bizarre experience, to say the least, but it had not been painful, and Mestral had even expressed concern about having performed the task, or that he may have crossed some sort of ethical line.
“I would like to repeat that act, if you will permit it.”
Wainwright nodded. “Sure. I don’t suppose you can take me somewhere else to do that?” He gestured around the room. “I’m getting pretty tired of staring at these same walls all the time.”
Instead of replying, Mestral approached him. As he had done all those years ago, the Vulcan pressed the fingers of his right hand to key points along Wainwright’s face. Wainwright immediately felt the odd tingling sensation beginning to well up from his subconscious.
“Our minds are merging, James,” Mestral said, his voice almost a whisper. “Our minds are one.”
• • •
Wainwright was staring out the window when he heard the door open behind him, followed by the voice of his favorite orderly.
“You’re kidding me, right?”
Shifting in his chair, Wainwright turned from the window to see Robert standing in the open doorway, staring at him with a disapproving expression.
“What?”
“Doctor Silverman, remember?” asked the other man. “You’re supposed to be meeting with him in ten minutes.”
What the hell?
Looking down, Wainwright saw the paperback novel resting in his lap. Had he fallen asleep? The piece of paper he had been using as a bookmark was stuck inside the book’s back cover, meaning he must have dozed off and let the book fall from his hand, losing his place.
“I must’ve . . . wasn’t I just talking to . . . ?” There was a fleeting image of another figure standing before him, but Wainwright couldn’t bring the odd thought or memory into focus. He looked to the clock on his nightstand and saw that it had been nearly forty-five minutes since his last conversation with Robert. Had he really fallen asleep, that quickly?
Stepping into the room, Robert offered an expression of restrained irritation. “Yeah, whatever. Come on, sir. We need to get you ready. You know the doc hates to be kept waiting.”
“Mestral.”
That was a name he had not heard or said aloud in a while, and yet there it was, bubbling up from the depths of his memory. Why would he give thought to the Vulcan now, after all this time? How long had it been since he had last seen him? Two or three years.
“I’m sorry?” asked Robert, and when Wainwright looked at him the orderly was staring back in confusion. “Who or what is Mestral?” Of course Robert would have no idea to what Wainwright was referring. Other than himself, there were only two other people on the planet who even knew of Mestral’s existence. Wainwright had not even told Doctor Silverman, who had been briefed into many of the aspects of Project Blue Book—but not Majestic 12—so as to have a clearer picture of what he was dealing with while treating his patient.
Shaking off the odd sensation, Wainwright made a dismissive gesture. “Sorry. I was just lost in thought.”
Maybe I am crazy.
Fourteen
New York City
May 26, 1971
“It is unfortunate that he has to remain in that facility.”
Sitting at the oversized desk in Gary Seven’s office, Roberta Lincoln nodded as she swiveled the desk’s high-backed chair to face Mestral. The Vulcan stood at the windows, hands clasped behind his back. He had removed his fedora, exposing his pointed ears, and he presented quite the image, dressed as he was in the charcoal-gray suit that was similar to so many others Roberta might encounter on the streets of her home city.
“I agree with you,” she said, “but pulling him out of there would just raise questions and alarms. Considering everything he knows, the military would waste no effort trying to find Wainwright and make sure he wasn’t blabbing government secrets to the newspapers or the evening news.” Though Roberta did not think that a likely scenario, it was easy to imagine the top-secret Majestic 12 organization sending agents on a hunt to find one of their own who they believed may have “wandered off the reservation,” as the saying went. For better or worse, she knew that James Wainwright was safer in the care of the air force, at least for the time being. In that way of his that was both vague and infuriating, Gary Seven had told her that his stay at the hospital in Texas would be a temporary one.
“Did you not have similar concerns when you liberated me?” asked Mestral, turning from the window.
Roberta shrugged. “For a minute, but your case is a bit different.” She smiled. “You’re an alien, after all.”
“I am aware of that, Miss Lincoln.” Mestral punctuated his reply with an arching of his eyebrow.
“So, Majestic can’t just throw out an all-points bulletin to local police departments and news outlets, warning everybody to be on the lookout for the man in the sharp suit and pointed ears.” Roberta had instructed the Beta 5 to monitor government and military communications for any mention of Mestral or anything that might relate to an escaped prisoner or a simple hunt for a person of interest, but the supercomputer had so far found nothing of note. This actually surprised Roberta, in that she would have expected chatter within the first hours of the Vulcan’s mysterious disappearance from the classified facility in California. Was it embarrassment on the part of Majestic, or was the secretive group proceeding with even greater stealth and deliberation as they tried to figure out what happened? If there was one thing MJ-12 knew how to do with great effectiveness, it was to remain cloaked in shadow. Very little of what they did was recorded anywhere on paper or in a computer file, at least not anywhere accessible to anyone outside their compartmented, protective veil of security.
