Gloriously, the drought had finally ended a few months earlier. Sitting outside on Pete and Rosie's front porch late one evening, a small group of friends listened to the rain as it gently freshened and cooled the air. Ella, Jim, Nick Asher and his wife, Debbie, quietly sipped iced tea, discussing the emergence of all things good with a reporter from the Los Angeles Times. Jim had contacted the young pesky newsman, Mike Borsten last week and finally relented to an interview.
Writing down their words on a spiral pad, the reporter asked, “What do you say to people who are now beginning to question, after months of searching and not finding any evidence of a landing, that nothing ever will be found? It might have all been a hoax?”
“Well, I can see you're skeptical but there's no doubt about it; too many people saw it not to be real,” Jim emphatically stated. “It's true; this has been a saving grace for our little village. And curiosity seekers abound, just like Roswell. But over the last several months, business has grown by 350%.”
Ella joined in, “There's a new housing development planned down by the lake, which is quickly building up to its past levels . . . and many of those who have come to search, have decided to stay and grow with us.”
Rosie added proudly. “Our business is great and we're even thinking about adding on.” Then she pointed a finger at him and glared, “I know what I saw. Young man, you wouldn't be calling an old lady a liar now, would you?”
At this, Mike smiled sheepishly and shrugged, “No, but come on, admit it. This can't last, nothing at all's been found since you were visited by this unusual occurrence. People will get bored with a story and eventually go on to something else.”
“Perhaps, but the reward is still out there, available to anyone who believes they'll be the one to find it.” Pete proposed, “For heaven's sake, some people are still searching for that Lost Trader's Mine in California, with its reported millions of dollars in gold, yet to be found. People with a dream and a sense of adventure will still come here to search for it.”
Just as Ella was about to add her two cents, a low, thundering sound began in the west and continued to grow into a deafening roar. Overhead, not far away, a flash of light streaked across the sky for a few seconds, then spiraled downward, dropping behind the Superstition Mountains in the far horizon. Next, a tremendous explosion was heard, followed by a radiant and brilliant array of psychedelic colored lights.
“What in God's green acre . . . ?” Rosie gasped!
Nick immediately rose up. “What the . . .? Was that a plane crash? I've got to call this in . . . create a search team . . . might be survivors. Pete, comin’ with me?”
Ella touched Nick's arm, stopping him for a moment. “Nick, whatever it was, it sure didn't look like an airplane to me! This wasn't part of the plan. You be careful.”
By now, others were emerging from their homes and milling around in small groups, nervously questioning what had just occurred.
Mike ran for his car, ready to be the first one to cover the story. Grabbing his camera he jumped into his Subaru, calling out, “How far away are those mountains?”
“About ten miles, but you better wait for the authorities,” Rosie warned.
Looking one more time at her, he stated sarcastically, “I don't think so, lady.” and screeched away.
The crash site was lit up like the Metropolitan Opera House! Burning Joshua trees, scrub cactus and scorched earth kept casual observers away for hours. In the meantime, local county authorities, police and fire departments from two towns away were converging onto the site, awaiting orders from the local military personnel at Indian Springs Auxiliary Army Airfield.
Mike Burstein, already on his cell, was calling in a description of the crash site. “The crash vehicle looks to be about 50 feet in diameter and perhaps twenty feet high. I'll be honest with you; it looks like nothing I've ever seen before. It's silver metallic in color, there's some kind of door opening on the side but it sure looks smashed to pieces. It created a crater about 150 feet wide. I don't see how anyone . . . or rather anything, could survive this implosion.”
Ella walked up to Nick. “Whew,” she said. “Should this be filed in the, 'Be careful what you wish for' folder.” Folding her hands around her she asked, “What do you think it is? Because it sure wasn't Dan's light show or military lasers.”
“Beats the hell outta me,” he responded, shaking his head. “Maybe the Prosperity Times has a larger circulation than we knew,” he deadpanned. “Maybe some alien read your listings and wanted to drop in to see the new development.”
“Stop making jokes, Nick. This is kind of scary, don't you think?”
“Might be, if it turns out to be what we think it might be.”
When the Air Force arrived, they immediately took control of the situation. They sectioned off the perimeter to bystanders and began setting up a high portable fence around the crash site, stationing twenty-five guards to monitor personnel access.
“Sir,” Colonel Overton told Officer Asher. “We've got everything under control now and you are free to leave the premises. We'll inform you as to what is occurring on a need to know basis.”
“I don't think so, Officer. This is my district, not yours and I'm not going quietly.”
At this, the Colonel motioned for two burly MP's. “Off the record, the Air Force sent up a newly tested weather balloon yesterday and something happened. It’s simply an experiment gone wrong. Gentlemen, kindly escort Officer Asher beyond the perimeter, please. His work here is done.”
Ella noticed Travis deep in discussion with the Colonel. She ran over to him in relief as he approached her.
“What's going on?” she asked anxiously. “Did our plan backfire?”
Travis took a step back, looking deeply into Ella's eyes, “I'm looking into it,” he assured her.
The official announcement went out several days later explaining how an experimental Air Force weather balloon had been struck down by a stray meteor, crash-landed near Prosperity on Sunday evening and early reports of a UFO were erroneous.
It wasn't long before the press was out in force.
Pete McPherson, being interviewed on television once again, was angry. “I don't care what the Air Force calls it that was no weather balloon we saw! A weather balloon doesn't have a door!”
Beth added, “Out here, we see plenty of meteors streaking across our dark skies, so that was no meteor either! A meteor wouldn't explain those psychedelic lights we all saw.”
The reporter disagreed, “Actually, the Air Force has stated that if atmospheric conditions are just right . . .”
“Baloney!” Pete shouted and stomped off.
Nick added, “Yeah, I was right there at the crash site and no weather balloon ever looked like that either.”
Nevertheless, the Air Force stuck to its guns. They emphasized again that this was a new experimental prototype, therefore unseen or untested. It had been created out of metallic substances. Atmospheric conditions caused the psychedelic lights and the door was, they easily explained, the devise allowing the insertion of all those necessary technical instruments. Case closed as far as they were concerned.
But not for the media, the gold diggers or the weirdly-curious. They all converged onto Prosperity's soil as they headed out to the crash site. It was too much for some townspeople. They complained to the Sheriff that the helicopters filming overhead and the reporters with microphones in their faces all day requesting an interview was simply overbearing and limits had to be enforced. Others however, didn't object if tourist revenues increased the town's funds. New picnic tables, pavilions and playground equipment were added to Prosperit
y's lakeside park. Home building increased and business owners reluctantly put up with the congestion to pocket their surplus.
Chapter Five