1947

Book 1

1

July 8, 1947

The Stratosphere

The deck dropped beneath their feet and the attitude thrusters roared to compensate. When the disc leveled, the commander let go of the rail and smoothed his tunic. Atmospheric turbulence. Nothing to worry about.

Reflections from the scanner crisscrossed the co-pilot’s face with glowing lines of color. It’s going to get worse. The atmosphere becomes thicker the farther down we go. She looked up. It’s not too late to turn back.

He recognized the concern in his copilot’s eyes. Before he could reply, the comlink crackled to life. Report, he said in his command voice.

Getting a little rough, radioed the pilot of the second ship.

Any damage? the commander asked.

No, but we have another problem. Two fliers just lifted off from the surface on an intercept course.

I have them, said the co-pilot. One alien aboard, gaseous propulsion system, not space-worthy…but they could still be a threat.

Should we abort? radioed the second ship.

The commander glanced at the navigational display. Maintain course. We’re almost there.

The copilot glanced up from her scanner. Instead of spying on them, maybe we should say hello?

In his heart, the commander felt the same, but he’d followed the chain of command all of his life and wouldn’t stop now. No.

They continued descending, passing mountaintops like skeletal fingers reaching up for them through the clouds. Two shapes glinting in the sun raced to meet them.

They’re accelerating, radioed the second ship.

Steady. Continue the mission profile and begin scanning, the commander said.

Are you sure? the copilot asked with alarm.

Before the commander could reply, streaks of light lanced from one of the alien fliers impacting the second ship. Its silver skin began tearing away. Pull up! he shouted.

Losing power! With a sizzle of static, the comlink went dead. The commander and his copilot who was also his mate watched in horror as the stricken spacecraft plunged towards the ground followed by a trail of debris and the alien flyers circling like predatory birds.

Do something! the copilot yelled.

The commander lunged for the controls and engaged full power. We don’t have any weapons! The deck trembled beneath their feet with the sudden release of energy. Within seconds, they were safe in the blackness of space.

When it was night over the crash site, they descended beneath the clouds. I have a position fix, said the commander. No energy emissions. His hands balled into fists. Only one life sign. It’s the cryopod.

The copilot looked stricken. Their beacons could be malfunctioning. I’ll start the landing sequence.

Not yet. He glanced at the fuel indicator.

We can’t leave them there. The aliens are barbarians! She reached for the controls.

He grabbed her arm. If we land now, they’ll attack us too.

She stared back at him with tears in her eyes. What are we going to do?

We wait.

They took turns manning the scanner. After one full rotation of the alien planet, the copilot shook him awake. They moved the pod.

He bolted upright and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Where?

To a structure in a nearby settlement. I don’t detect any flyers in the air. Now’s our chance.

The commander checked the scanner. There’s a hill a short distance away. If we reduce our emissions and land behind it, maybe they won’t see us.

She tried to sound reassuring. If they do, we’ll lift off. They can’t follow us outside the atmosphere.

He pointed at the fuel level display. Assuming we can find her and escape, a rescue wasn’t part of the mission profile. We may not have enough fuel to make it home.

We have to try!

As soon as the craft’s landing legs touched the ground, the commander cut power plunging them into darkness. Minutes passed, and the temperature inside began to rise. See anything? he asked. His tunic clung to his back with sweat.

No alien life signs or active machinery on the ground or in the air within a thousand diameters, the copilot replied.

Then it’s time to suit up.

She started toward the locker with their ground suits.

You’re not going with me, he said.

Of course I am, she scoffed.

He barred her way. You have to stay here with our son. If I’m not back in one hundred cycles, take off without me.

I won’t abandon you.

Then we all die. Promise me!

But…

He grabbed her shoulders and looked at her beseechingly. You were right. I should have given the order to turn back. Please, don’t make this any worse. He pulled her into a fierce embrace, then released her and went to his locker. His hands shook as he took out the suit of silver ceramic material. He shoved it back.

What are you doing? she asked.

The air’s breathable outside. The suit will slow me down. He grasped the ladder leading to the airlock hatch.

She dried her eyes. What’s your plan?

Snatch the pod and run back here faster than they do.

Won’t be a problem. She tried to sound reassuring.

How do you know?

Our world has double the gravity. You’ll be the fastest thing on legs.

He forced a smile. What if the door’s locked when I get there?

Use your superior muscles and break it down.

I love you. He started up the ladder.

The first thing he noticed was the smell carried on the breeze, a cloying mixture of odors that reminded him of rotting food. The stench of his sweat added to it and he struggled not to vomit. Holding his breath, he peered out from behind the structure hiding him. His senses were immediately under siege, stunned by a cacophony of sights and sounds, and most of all, the sheer wonder of what he saw—sentient life on another world. For an instant, he forgot why he was staying out of sight. Then he remembered the image of their sister ship falling from the sky and used his rage to focus.

He swept the vicinity with his hand scanner. Where are you? he whispered. Sweat dripped off his brow to the scanner’s display and he hurriedly wiped it away with his sleeve. He saw several ground vehicles with aliens approaching and ducked out of sight. The vehicles brought a new set of sounds and smells, a low rumbling and the odor of hydrocarbon vapors. He waited for them to pass and tried not to cough.

The rumbling faded and he risked using his scanner. When he found the structure with the pod he tensed to run, but caution made him increase the sensitivity of the scanner and make one more sweep. At the higher gain, the scanner registered multiple aliens moving inside in addition to the ones arrayed outside. Without weapons, he knew he’d have only the element of surprise, and if his mate was correct, his superior speed and strength to have any chance of rushing past them. That brash and possibly suicidal strategy didn’t include finding the cryopod and escaping with it. Besides the significant probability of failure, he knew that his family’s chance of making it home would significantly diminish without him. For an instant he thought about abandoning the rescue and running back. But his sense of guilt proved overpowering and he readied himself for a desperate dash.

As he re-fastened the scanner to his utility belt, he noticed his hand glowing. Before he could process the strange image further, he heard a sound behind him and spun around. An alien stood only steps away. For a moment, both froze. He found it chilling how similar they looked. The alien issued a series of loud vocalizations and brandished a metal tube. Stop! the commander shouted, but he quickly realized that the alien didn’t understand. Believing the alien’s tube to be a weapon, he used his hand to parry it. This caused an arc of electricity that coursed down the metal tube into the alien's body. The alien dropped to the ground twitching, and within seconds, was dead.

No! the commander moaned. Panicking, he burst from hiding and sprinted for the cryopod, but skidded to a stop when he saw multiple aliens moving his way holding the same metal tubes. Loud popping sounds spat at him. I don’t mean you any harm, he said with his hands outstretched. The wall behind him shattered and the ground exploded near his feet. Please, give her back to us and we’ll leave! he shouted. After more popping sounds, he felt pain sear his arm. He grabbed it and saw blood ooze between his fingers. After a last glance at the structure with the cryopod, he ran back to his ship easily outdistancing his pursuers.

When he arrived, his entire body was glowing. He reached for the ladder but an eruption of sparks threw him backwards onto the ground. Dazed, he got to his feet and fumbled his way up to the hatch, then dropped down into the disc’s control room.

His mate rushed to him and saw blood on his tunic. She blanched. You’re hurt!

No time for that! he shouted. Help me start the launch sequence.

No! We have to go back and try again. I’ll go with you.

We can’t go back, the commander exclaimed. They’ll kill us too!"

They heard the pings of multiple impacts to the disc’s skin. While he rushed to secure the hatch, she focused on their survival and prepared for take-off. Seconds later, a sonic boom rent the air as the silver disc shot into the sky and disappeared.

2

July 9, 1947

Roswell, New Mexico

A colonel dressed in camo-fatigues with a newspaper tucked under his arm walked briskly into the Walker Air Force Base Command Center. A much taller man wearing a black business suit and dark glasses followed him. Sweating profusely despite the air conditioning, an Air Force general waiting for them snapped to attention and saluted. Debris from the crash site lay on a table in the center of the room. The diminutive colonel picked up a piece of the alien disk’s skin, crumpled it into a ball, and dropped it on the table. The foil quickly assumed its original shape with a perfectly smooth surface. He slapped a copy of The Roswell Daily Record on the table and shoved it towards the general. Make this go away, he growled. The man dressed in black whispered in the colonel’s ear. The colonel nodded and looked again at the general saying, Tell them it’s a crashed weather balloon. We haven’t used that one in a while. The colonel pointed at the door.

The general took a step towards the exit and turned. Colonel Dietrich, shouldn’t we confer with the White House?

No! Colonel Dietrich growled. Follow my orders. With his jaw clenched, he pointed at the door. The general hurried from the room. Did you remove everything? the colonel asked the man in black when they were alone.

The man in black nodded. All the debris will be at the base by noon tomorrow.

I want every last scrap accounted for. No more leaks.

There may be a problem.

The colonel grimaced. Explain.

One of the items from the wreck is a cylindrical container about the size of a five hundred pound bomb. It was sealed when we found it—now it’s open.

What’s in it?

Nothing, except for a red foamy material that glows in the dark when you hit it with a light.

Does anybody outside this hick town know about it?

No.

Then what’s the problem?

One of the funeral home’s technicians, a nurse who was present during the autopsies, is missing. We found a trail of the foam leading out to where she parks her car.

Two weeks later…

He was a tall man to the point of being gaunt, with a prominent Adam’s apple and piercing gray eyes behind wire rim glasses. Charles Rockford was the godfather of America’s electronics industry and one of the world's richest men. He nodded at Colonel Dietrich.

The colonel straightened the papers in front of him and stood. The other members of the secret group included some of the wealthiest men in America, several high-ranking politicians, and a coterie of key scientists with the same hardline political views. Thomas Jefferson wouldn’t have been invited.

The colonel cleared his throat. We have a few loose ends.

Rockford’s expression remained bland. Would you care to elaborate?

There were two flying saucers and one escaped. We assume it went home, wherever the hell that is.

But you’re not sure, Rockford interjected.

That’s correct. An undercurrent of tension existed between the two men.

Go on, Rockford said evenly.

One of the items from the crash site is a container. It was sealed when we discovered it, but now it’s open. He handed Rockford a photograph. A red foamy substance was inside. Our scientists are still trying to figure out what it is. There’s a problem with one of the funeral home technicians too, a former Air Force nurse who assisted with the alien autopsies. He held up a photograph. Her name’s Naomi Marie Self. She’s missing, and we found a trail of the red foam leading out to where she parks her car.

Rockford sat back. I understand that the information officer from the local Army Air Force base, a General Ramy, announced the capture of a flying saucer in the local newspaper a day after the crash. What have you done about it?

He retracted the story the next day. Said he was mistaken and the debris came from a crashed weather balloon.

Rockford leaned forward. That deception won’t work if any of the residents of the charming hamlet of Roswell New Mexico or a member of the military say otherwise.

Nobody’s going to talk, replied the colonel.

Rockford settled himself again. Because of the intimidation of your private goons wearing black suits?

That’s right.

Rockford’s expression hardened. What about the missing nurse who saw the aliens and stole something from the wreckage?

The colonel struggled to hide his discomfort. We’ll find her and whatever she took.

I certainly hope so. Rockford ignored the colonel and addressed the others in the room. I’m told the aliens have weapons.

The colonel stood stiffly and cleared his voice. Some kind of death ray that fried one of my soldiers. Melted his rifle and cooked him.

What kind of weapon?

Don’t know yet. Still working on it.

That’s becoming a tiresome phrase, Colonel. Frowning, the Colonel Dietrich took his seat. Rockford looked at someone farther down the table. What revelations are there from the autopsies?

A noted pathologist stood and waited while an aid handed out ghoulish black and white photographs taken during the alien autopsies. Based upon the preliminary post-mortem exams conducted at the funeral home, we know that the aliens are remarkably like us in appearance. The superficial differences are a shorter stature, heavier musculature, more complex eyes, and an unusual blood pigment with five times the iron content of hemoglobin. Now that we’ve had the chance to study their tissues at the lab, we’ve made some interesting discoveries.

Rockford sighed. Don’t keep us in suspense.

There’s an odd organ in the abdominal cavity of both the male and the female. It’s connected to the central nervous system and to dense nerve plexuses in their fingertips. Closest thing to it on Earth would be the Sach Organ of the electric eel where the eel stores its charge.

We have a busy schedule, doctor. Have you found anything else?

Their tissues incorporate iron the way ours use calcium and their bones are as strong as steel. If that abdominal organ generates an electric charge, all the iron in their bones might store the charge like a capacitor. This is just speculation, but if the aliens were totally charged up, the discharge might be like a miniature lightning bolt.

Could that be the cause of the soldier's death?

Possibly. We’d have to study a live alien to know for certain.

Thank you, said Rockford. The pathologist sat down. Have we learned anything useful from the wreckage?

A scientist stood next. Nearly as tall as Rockford, the man wore thick glasses and a bushy mustache. Unlike the others, he seemed eager to speak. The saucer’s structural components are made from titanium alloy similar to our latest jet interceptors, he began, but the skin is made from a silver metallic-ceramic polymer that functions like a super conductor. We haven't a clue how it’s engineered. And the technology behind the propulsion system—he shook his head—so far, it’s unfathomable.

Rockford’s frown turned menacing. You must have found something useful by now.

Oh yes! The scientist bounced on the balls of his feet. The aliens have solid-state power transfer and switching, and we’ve figured out how it works.

Rockford leaned forward again. What does that mean?

It means the end of vacuum tubes and the birth of fully integrated circuits. The scientist beamed with excitement. Should advance our electronics capabilities by decades. The possibilities are endless!

No one else has it?

People have talked about the possibility for years. We call them transistors. So far, nobody’s pulled it off.

Excellent. We’ll keep it a secret for now. Rockford was the major stockholder in the electronics company that employed the scientist.

The enthusiasm drained from the scientist’s face. Of course.

Rockford stood, signaling the end to the meeting. We'll reconvene in two weeks.

The members began filing out.

A word with you, Colonel, said Rockford.

They sat across from each other in Rockford’s office. Rockford poured two glasses of brandy from a crystal decanter. He glanced at the colonel’s army green coat decorated with rows of medals as he handed the colonel his glass.

The colonel took a sip and slammed it down. That bastard Stalin has the bomb. We have to take him out before it’s too late.

President Truman doesn’t agree, Rockford replied.

Truman needs to go too, the colonel grumbled.

Rockford sipped his brandy and turned his chair to face the Capital's façade. Will your military friends continue to back us if we make another attempt?

Yes.

Rockford glared at him. That’s what your taller predecessor, Colonel Butler said seven years ago.

Colonel Dietrich’s face reddened. I’m in charge now, and this time we have our own security. He tried to keep his contempt for Rockford buried.

Rockford looked thoughtful. A prudent man profits from his failures as well as his success. Tell me Colonel, why did our first coup attempt fail?

We were sold out by that traitor Butler. He should have been shot. The colonel spat out the words.

Rockford chuckled. Nonsense. Your so-called warrior’s code of honor died in the Middle Ages. The only true power is money.

The colonel glared back. Tell that to the Japanese.

Rockford’s face reddened. Without money, there wouldn’t have been an atom bomb! He calmed himself and pointed through the window to the White House. We didn’t have enough money in 1934 to successfully overthrow the government, but if our electronics expert is correct, that may change. The two men stared at each other, each masking his thoughts.

Rockford spoke first. It’s imperative that you find the missing nurse and whatever she took from the flying saucer before anyone else does. We need time for our scientists to properly exploit the alien technology before our competitors realize what we have and copy it. If you can’t capture her alive, make sure there’s nothing left of her and what she stole from the wreckage.

3

October 21, 1962

Washington, DC

Charles Rockford appeared thin and frail and he walked with a cane, yet the fire in his eyes seemed even more intense. He took his customary seat at the head of the table. So Colonel, he began, was it our old friends from outer space again?

The colonel scowled. That’s the prevailing theory. He moved to a covered easel at the head of the table. The alert B-52s were on the runway armed and waiting for the signal to erase that bastard Castro and Havana from the map. Radar showed only friendlies for fifty miles out until 6:52 a.m. Eastern Standard Time when an unidentified flying object appeared off the coast. The fighter cap had visual contact in less than two minutes. Here’s the picture brought back by one of the pilots. He uncovered the easel revealing a large black and white photograph.

Isn’t that a cloud? asked Rockford. The photo appeared to show nothing but a cumulus cloud.

Clouds don’t suddenly appear on bright sunny days when there isn’t another one in the sky! The colonel sounded frustrated. Both pilots reported seeing flashing lights inside that cloud, the same damn flashing lights we’ve seen before. It’s them alright.

You’re sure it wasn’t a Russian airplane, some technology we’re unfamiliar with?

Not a chance. We have a trace on everything Ruskie down to a can of caviar within a hundred miles of Cuba.

Rockford didn’t appear amused.

That cloud flew straight towards the base at four-hundred miles an hour, hovered over the runway and zapped everything, then shot straight up and disappeared.

You said two interceptors were following it. Did they attack?

One of them lost power and ditched. I ordered the other one to disengage.

What about the base defenses? Don’t they have anti-aircraft rockets? If I’m not mistaken, Rockford Defense Industries supplies them.

All the missile tracking radars went down. Can’t aim a damn thing these days without plugging it into a light socket.

Do you have a back-up plan before President Kennedy convinces the Kremlin to remove its missiles from Cuba?

Prepping now.

"Let’s move on to another item, our still missing nurse."

A high-ranking official of the CIA moved to the easel. When the colonel stepped aside, the CIA official uncovered a sheet of paper with five names printed on it. Four of them were crossed off. Her name is Naomi Maria Self. She’s an Air Force nurse dishonorably discharged for drinking. She was working as a technician for the Roswell mortician Glenn Dennis when we used his funeral home to perform the alien autopsies.

I assume by now that Mr. Dennis has become one of his establishment’s clients, Rockford said matter-of-factly.

We let him live because he’s kept his mouth shut, and his disappearance would heighten the conspiracy theories.

Have you uncovered any new leads on the nurse? asked Rockford.

None. Miss Self has vanished.

Isn’t vanishing difficult these days?

Very, which is why we think she’s had help.

Do you have a list of suspects?

The Russians, the Red Chinese, the Cubans…the usual.

I see you’ve crossed off the names of the other nurses, Rockford said.

The CIA man didn’t change his expression. They never existed. That includes service records, credit card receipts, laundry lists, close relatives and friends.

Rockford gestured with his hand. That will be all, gentlemen. The members filed out, except for the colonel.

They shared their customary glass of brandy.

"We need war now, Colonel, before Kennedy and his fashion-plate wife reduce this country to a second-rate power that can be intimated by a lunatic like Khrushchev. The fool pounded his shoe on the table at the U.N. to make a point! Rockford sipped his brandy to calm his nerves. You said you have a back-up plan."

Colonel Dietrich’s face broke into a self-satisfied smirk. A Titan missile with a nuke ready to launch on Havana in three days.

Rockford nodded. Interesting. He leaned closer. What if the aliens show up again?

Got a surprise waiting for those bastards, some old-fashioned antiaircraft guns that don’t need electricity to pull the trigger.

Three days, you say?

The colonel nodded. Three days to Fidel’s last cigar.

They clinked glasses.

One of Rockford’s secret confidants left the meeting and returned to his State Department office. He consulted the day’s remaining schedule. The French Military Liaison at six o'clock, the debrief on the Yemini civil war at seven thirty, and a secret CIA briefing on the Congo afterwards. With any luck, he'd be back at his apartment by one a.m., then back at the White House again by six a.m. No wonder my wife left me, he mused. He heard a knock at the door and said, Come in.

A portly woman entered the office and stopped before his desk, her trembling hands holding a sheaf of papers. She cleared her throat and stuttered his name, Mm…Mm…Mister Secretary?

Yes, Madeline, replied the Secretary of State.

Placing the briefing papers onto his desk, she took a deep breath and rapidly sputtered, The President has called an emergency Cabinet meeting for six p.m.

The Secretary picked up the first page marked Top Secret and read the summary. The Bay of Pigs fiasco wasn’t enough for him? Disgusted, he shoved the papers aside sending several pages fluttering to the floor.

Madeline dropped to her knees and began scooping them up.

He swiveled his chair with his back to her. Tell the President I’ll be there.

Yes sir. Madeline placed the disorganized sheaf of papers back on his desk and hurriedly left.

The Secretary of State poured himself a brandy, turned on the television, and flipped through the channels. The Evening News offered the same primetime fare as every other night, East versus West. Cuba was the current battleground, in reality one of many. Politicians continued to market the defeat of communism as the path to world peace, which required the continued affirmation of their agenda and a healthy defense industry. Paid handsomely for their efforts, the news media aired this pabulum daily. The Secretary of State downed his brandy in one gulp and turned off the television.

Returning to his desk, he opened a drawer and removed a small photograph from his college days at Yale dated 1945. He couldn’t remember the name of the young lady sitting beside him in the photograph, Betty something? He’d also forgotten what it felt like to be the man in the photograph, except that he remembered being naive and carefree. The Second World War had ended leaving Hiroshima and Nagasaki in radioactive ruins. He was a senior at Yale planning a career in law and politics to follow in the footsteps of his famous father who belonged