Arrival of the Seekers

1

It could have been lightning, although it didn’t seem to have the usual expected jerky characteristics of lightning. But it was a bolt of light, that much was certain. Or maybe even a beam of light. The bright blue-white streak flashed across the early morning New Mexico sky, lasting nearly five seconds.

There was something definitely strange about it, rancher Jake Logan thought as he peered from his bedroom window. Recalling the evening weather forecast, there had been no mention of storms for the day. If there were, he would have known. One thing all ranchers had in common was listening to the weather forecast on radio station KOB in Albuquerque. But, just to make sure, Logan would also check the daily newspaper, studying the weather forecasts for northern Santa Fe County.

Curious, Logan watched as the bright bolt of light struck the ground a short distance away and listened to the accompanying slight thud. Most likely, it was not noticeable to others who were awake this time of morning. Certainly not enough to disturb those who were still asleep.

At three in the early morning, not many folks would have seen the light. Those who did probably also had a sobriety problem. Some residents were probably still celebrating the Fourth of July, which had been a Saturday night at that.

Perhaps the flash of light had simply come from leftover firecrackers. With the war over, fireworks were again fairly common in the skies above Santa Fe. Still, it didn’t seem quite right to Jake Logan.

The four-hundred-acre Logan Ranch was located just off County Road 592, nine miles north of Santa Fe. The family spread bordered the smaller Rancho Santa Cruz on the west and the larger Sullivan Ranch to the north. Jake wondered if his neighbors noticed the flash. Probably not, he decided. Even most ranchers did not awake as early as he had.

Still a little puzzled, the young rancher stretched, yawned, and headed out onto the front porch of the adobe ranch house that Grandfather Logan had built two generations earlier. He allowed the squeaky wooden screen door to slam behind him. He wanted to look around and check the sky again.

Inhaling deeply, he scanned the empty skies. All around, the horizon was perfectly tranquil; as he had thought, there had been no storm. The night and early morning were still, the only sound the crickets working tirelessly next to the porch. Stars shone clear against the sky.

With the exception of one high stratus cloud, the sky was a clear, pale turquoise. Whatever the bright blue flash was it must have been close. Standing on the porch while he inspected the peaceful sky, he sensed something eerie around him. Apparently, even the animals noticed too because they were restless. Something did not feel right.

~~~

Broad-shouldered young rancher Jake Logan was a World War II veteran, a former aviator and ace pilot in the Army Air Corps to be exact. He had been stationed in Great Britain from 1943 through 1944. After the armistice, Logan returned home to his beautiful New Mexico ranch that lay nestled in the Tesuque Valley north of Santa Fe. Life was gradually resuming normalcy, or so he assumed.

By the summer of 1947 the country was starting to prosper once again. To Jake Logan, busily renewing old acquaintances with fellow ranchers and old friends, life seemed wonderful in the growing community of Santa Fe. It had been a long four years, but their hardships and difficult memories were now behind him.

In June of that year, he bought a brand-new pickup truck from the Ford dealer in Santa Fe. It was a vineyard green and tan 1946 Ford, with Logan Ranch proudly displayed on the driver’s door. Trucks especially remained hard to come by since the end of the war. Well into 1947, he felt lucky to get this one, the first new vehicle he had ever bought.

Slowly, the ranch was also getting back to normal; life was good for the young bachelor who had inherited the ranch from his grandfather several years earlier.

Young Jake Logan had grown up on the family ranch in the Tesuque Valley. He attended school thirty minutes away in the city of Santa Fe, where he graduated from high school in the spring of 1939. A star football and baseball player, he was known simply as Logan. The tall, sandy-haired captain of the football team was popular with his peers and teachers. He was a take-charge type of a student, a born leader. His coaches always called upon him to set an example for others on the team, and his teachers often dubbed him the perfect student. Even with time spent playing sports and working the ranch, he maintained a straight-A record throughout high school.

After graduation, he would have been content to stay on the ranch and continue the family legacy started by his grandfather, Frank Logan. Frank had immigrated to Santa Fe from Texas around 1900 and purchased the four hundred acres of land establishing the Logan Ranch.

Logan loved the legacy of the historic land, everything about it. The ranch was where his Grampa Frank taught him the ways of the land, how to ride, and how to raise livestock. Now alone, he was determined to carry on the family tradition.

But then 1941 rolled around with the looming specter of inevitable war. Like so many other Santa Feans, he saw and understood what was happening around the world. He felt compelled to enlist in the Armed Forces, hoping to help safeguard home and country.

After making the monumental decision, Logan had shared his feelings with his close neighbors and longtime friends, the Sullivans, who agreed to watch over his ranch and his small herd of livestock, including his prize chestnut horse, Dandy.

In late August of 1941, Logan made the short trip to the Army recruiters’ office on Manhattan Street in Santa Fe. Within a week, he had traded his traditional jeans and cowboy boots for a crisply starched khaki uniform. He was duly sworn in, receiving orders to report for basic training at Fort Bliss, Texas.

At Fort Bliss, his instructors took note of his leadership abilities and charismatic personality. He graduated at the top of his class, scoring a high aptitude for aviation. Within days, he was en route to Air Corps Flight Training at the newly opened Higley Field in Mesa, Arizona.

Again Jake Logan’s leadership abilities brought him to the top of his class and to the attention of the commanding officer. He was proving a natural in the cockpit of a fighter plane. While others were struggling to master the basics, he would head out over the Superstition Mountains and execute barrel rolls before returning to the field. He was certain he had been born to fly.

By mid-December, shortly after the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor, he graduated first in his class. Solemnly, his squad leader pinned the shiny silver wings above his left breast pocket. Following December 7, the country was formally at war. By March of 1942 Lieutenant Logan was assigned to the 82nd Airborne Fighter Squadron, preparing to ship out for a land base in England. Quite an accomplishment for a young rancher from Tesuque, New Mexico, a place most people had never heard of. He was headed for Goxhill Airfield in Great Britain.

Once again, those around him looked to Logan for guidance and reassurance. Over the next two years, the devoted young airman flew twenty-five combat missions over Germany and France, quite a few more than his fellow pilots—and more than the minimum the military required of him.

He was at home in the skies and always volunteered for extra missions whenever the opportunity presented itself. He flew a Curtis P-40 Warhawk that he nicknamed Dandy, after his prize horse back home in New Mexico. The colt was born on his ranch, and young Jake had nurtured and trained him. Much like his horse, the trusty P-40 brought him back safe and sound after each combat mission.

When not flying, Jake Logan often found solace at an English pub known as the Fox & Hound, located near the front gates of the base. He and his crew mates fought hard and partied hard, living each day as it came. During his time there, many of the pilots Logan knew failed to return to base. It was a stressful time—would he be next?

By the time he had flown his last mission, the young fighter ace known to his buddies simply as Logan knew he was blessed to be going home and going home in one piece. With that part of his life behind him, it was great to finally be home once more. Even his horse Dandy acted excited to have him back.

2

Logan remained on the porch staring up into the sky. As long as he was already up and awake, he decided to get ready for the day ahead. He set his decade-old tin coffee pot on the potbelly stove that also provided heat for the small ranch house. Sometimes, he decided, there were few things better than sitting on the front porch with a good cup of bunkhouse coffee and watching the sun come up over the Sangre de Cristo Mountains on the other side of Chupadaro.

Mug of coffee in hand, he eased down into the old rocker and thought back over the last few years. He was fortunate to have survived the war and the tribulations of Army life. He considered himself one of the lucky ones, since many of his fighter pilot friends had failed to return. Although he had enjoyed Great Britain and his occasional trips to the English countryside, he was most happy to be back on the ranch in good old New Mexico, a world away.

When daylight started breaking over the mountains, he decided to have a look around. He’d try to determine whether there had possibly been a microburst or lightning strike earlier that morning. It wouldn’t hurt to check the well up on the hill that supplied water to the ranch and his growing herd of cattle over in the west sector of the property along the Rancho Santa Cruz fence line. He could probably drive back there without much difficulty, but he didn’t want to take his new truck on those rough trails and risk getting it scratched. Instead, he opted to hike, a round trip of probably no more than forty-five minutes. Besides, he loved to get out and walk the ranch, soaking up his legacy just as his grandfather, Frank Logan, had done for many years before.

Logan laced up his favorite hiking boots and tucked in the worn jeans. As always, he strapped on his pistol, the .45 caliber Colt that had accompanied him throughout the war. He grabbed a canteen of water and slung it over his shoulder.

He checked the morning’s turquoise sky—it was a glorious day to get out and about, although the summer day promised to be unusually warm. Several hawks circled lazily overhead as he started hiking up the sandy arroyo toward the well located on a small rise about a mile from the house. Arriving at the well, Logan carefully examined the pump house and well casing; there were no visible signs of a lightning strike or any other damage. That was a bit of good luck, because repairing a well pump far off the main road would be expensive.

Relieved, he proceeded down the road, stopping for a long drink from the canteen. Wiping the perspiration from his forehead, he continued further west toward the flat pasture that bordered Rancho Santa Cruz. This was his favorite part of the ranch. He passed a large outcropping of rock on which his grandfather had etched his initials in 1910. When he was a teenager, he had carved his initials directly below and inscribed the date: June 15, 1935. He always thought of Grampa Frank when he passed this point.

He had always looked up to and greatly depended on his grandfather. His parents had tragically died in an automobile accident when Jake was only ten. His Grampa Frank, who was a widower, stepped in to raise young Jake. His grandfather died shortly after Jake graduated from high school, leaving the ranch and its responsibilities to him. These were memories he usually kept far back in his mind. Fortunately, the Sullivans, who owned the ranch next door, had also kindly looked out for Jake Logan as though he were their son too.

Logan hesitated before moving on, smiling to himself as he patted his grandfather’s initials. Heading west, he topped the plateau above the pasture. Squinting against the rising sun, he could see that most of his herd was huddled in the arroyo below. At the fence line, about seventy-five yards away, two of his cows lay motionless on the ground. The fence looked as though it had been broken or cut. Cursing under his breath, he worked his way down to the pasture and cautiously approached the two animals. The closer he got, he could clearly see they had met with severe trauma. Something had hit them with such great force they must have died on the spot. Whatever it was careened off the rocky ground, sheared the fence, and continued into the ravine on the other side.

Logan studied the debris and the dead animals for at least another minute, trying to visualize what might have happened. If it had been lightning, there surely would have been a burn area, but there was nothing. He knew lightning strikes and they had specific characteristics.

Studying the surrounding area, he noticed the total stillness: no sounds from insects, no chirps or calls from birds, not even the hint of a breeze. The earlier circling hawks had disappeared from the sky, and there were no other birds anywhere in sight. He took another hearty drink of water from the canteen before proceeding downhill toward the broken fence. What had caused all the damage? Drawing closer, he could see more scattered debris. Something had struck the ground with great force, taking out the animals, and then bounced over the ridge into the next ravine. The deep scars on the boulders were obvious. Whatever had struck was nothing small.

Logan sighed in resignation, swearing and muttering to himself. Now he would have to hike back to the barn and haul in enough wire and fence posts to secure the area. That job alone would take the rest of the day and most of tomorrow. He shook his head in disgust.

Cautiously, he stepped across the fallen fence onto Rancho Santa Cruz property. He stopped in his tracks and stared down into the ravine, unable to believe what he was seeing. Pulse racing and hot all over, he could feel perspiration dripping down his neck. His military training told him to grab his .45, but he did not—or perhaps could not.

My God, he gasped and stepped back from the edge. This can’t be real! Fifty feet ahead lay an intact, shiny metallic object at least forty feet in diameter and twenty feet high. He tried to better gauge its height, but the glare off the rounded top nearly blinded him.

Inhaling deeply, he crouched down beside one of the larger boulders. He studied the object for several minutes, watching for any activity around what he now perceived to be a vessel of some kind. Was it a spaceship? Since he’d been an aviator, he was familiar with what some pilots called foo-fighters during the war. He had never seen one himself, but stories were rampant around the base. He was skeptical about the entire matter and chalked up the stories to fatigue and imagination. Now, he wasn’t so sure.

Five minutes passed; there was still no activity around the object. Anxiety mounting, he fidgeted and tried to remain calm, but his mind was racing. Who or what was inside? Whatever it was, was it alive? Or had the occupants died in the crash? Overall, the ship did not appear badly damaged. After another few minutes, he decided to try for a closer look before going back to the ranch to summon the sheriff. What a development. This strange object must have caused the flash of light in the morning sky. There was no other explanation.

Cautiously moving forward, Logan navigated the rocky terrain. He hoped he would not be detected. At twenty-five feet from the vessel, he again crouched down behind another large boulder and remained there for several minutes. Since there was still no activity around the object, he finally decided it was time to return home, get his truck, and drive down to the general store. That would take at least an hour. At the general store, he would call the Sheriff’s Office. It would take at least another hour before he could return with