"We have substantial forces worldwide," Eisenhower said. "These forces can be raised to a higher level of alertness, with an increase in ground security and air patrols. It is a matter of casting your net, and you will get your fish."
Truman set his jaw. "I don't want to fail. I don't want to see a situation where we shoot and miss."
Van responded. "Mr. President, we will shoot and miss. But we will also shoot and hit."
"The metal is strong," Dr. Rosensweig cautioned.
"The things are made out of tinfoil, sticks and paper," Van said. "This is what they have. The foil is formed out of millions of tiny, absolutely uniform welds, according to Darby's telex. Amazing. They have good tinfoil, good sticks, good paper. But we have bullets that travel a thousand miles an hour and are made of hot lead.
We will have some success."
"I want to know generally if you are opposed to armed action or for it," Truman asked.
Forrestal replied, "I'm very uneasy, frankly. If it wasn't for this communist thing—"
"Yes or no!"
"Well, yes, given the situation. But proceed with caution."
"Hilly?"
"We must show that we are in control."
Will's heart sank. He knew that he should be speaking out. He knew that the President was making a terrible mistake. But he still remained silent.
"Dr. Rosensweig, what does your committee think?"
"Gentlemen," Rosensweig said as he looked around him, "does any scientist here want to shoot?"
The other scientists were silent. The President shuffled his notes.
"As you requested, sir, we discussed this at length before we came here," Rosensweig continued. "We feel that you should wait for developments. An effort should be made to make contact before shooting. There are those among us who believe that certain factors of human history would repeat themselves elsewhere.
Throughout history we have been getting more ethical. We think that this will also prove to be the case with our visitors."
Truman leaned far back in his chair. "More ethical? Now you've really scared me. I fear men who don't know history. Auschwitz is more ethical than something we did before? I would say that we are getting less ethical.
If they are more advanced than us, I can make a case that they will be monsters."
He looked from man to man in the room. The depth of his cynicism amazed Will. How did he go on, thinking as he did? And yet his eyes twinkled. No matter how serious the situation, Truman was always bursting with good humor. A complex man.
"Gentlemen, I am ordering armed confrontation. And I want a service co-ordinated response along the lines that General Eisenhower appears to have suggested. Worldwide, every U.S. base is to be alerted that they will rise to meet any and all unusual aircraft, and they will shoot first. Now, it's late and young Mr. Stone is obviously dead on his feet. Thank you."
He abruptly left the room. Will stood there blinking, surprised, confused. It was over. We were going to shoot.
And fail. Of course we would fail.
There was a low buzz of conversation as papers were gathered and briefcases snapped shut. One of Van's men began pulling the photographs off the easels and putting them in a large portfolio.
Van came over to Hilly, motioning Will to join them. "The President wanted me to tell you that the disk is being moved to Muroc in California for military analysis. We've got to find the weak points."
"What about MJ-12, the scientific group," Hilly asked.
"That'll have to wait. Everything is military right now. Until we regain control of our airspace."
Will thought then that we were never going to regain control of the skies—or of the dark night, or even of our own minds.
He had the feeling that we had just made a catastrophic mistake, and were lost.
Headquarters, USAAF
Top Secret Eyes Only!
7/13/47
ARMY AIR FORCE
ORDER NO. 677833
SUBJECT: UNCONVENTIONAL AIRCRAFT
TO: All Operational Commands, Continental US, Generals Commanding.
1. Sightings or reports of unconventional aircraft such as glowing objects, flying disks or airships will receive immediate scramble emergency response.
2. Such aircraft will be attacked and shot down without warning.
3. Gun cameras are to be turned on during encounters.
4. Combat flight rules are the order of the day.
5. There will be a report to higher command the moment any sighting takes place.
6. No public announcements are to be made without authorization from higher command.
Chapter Twenty-three
It was not long before the Air Force had its first engagement with a flying disk. Subsequently there were a number of such engagements, the most famous of which took place near Godman Air Force Base on January 7,1948. In this incident Captain Thomas Mantell was killed after flying toward what he described as "a metallic object. . . tremendous in size." There are substantial public indications that Captain Mantell's body was never found.
In February 1948 Brigadier General Cabell, chief of the Air Intelligence Requirements Division, asked that each air base in the U.S. be provided with one interceptor on a continuous alert basis, to be equipped with
"such armament as deemed advisable."
Will told me that no disk was ever shot down, and the program was abandoned in the early fifties because of the high casualty rate and the zero success level.
The first engagement took place in July of 1947, barely a week after the "shoot to kill" order had been issued.
This incident occurred over central Kansas.
Tech Sergeant Eddie McConnell was almost but not quite napping over his radar screen at approximately three-thirty A.M. when his half-closed eyes detected a blip and he heard a beep as the antenna of his radar swept through 160 degrees. He hit his mike and announced, "Traffic incoming one-sixty."
"Incoming one-sixty," the traffic controller replied.
Neither man was particularly excited. The American Airlines Skysleeper sometimes passed overhead at this hour. Or it could be a private aircraft.
The radar operator watched his screen. "Traffic at flight level five approximate. Speed seven-sixty."
Now the controller sat up in his chair. "Verify that speed, please, sir."
"Seven-six-zero."
The controller was aware of order to engage unusual craft, they all were.
He thought that he might have a scramble situation here, and so informed the officer in charge. "We have a bogey three o'clock at level five incoming seven-six-zero."
The officer jumped up from behind his desk in operations and vaulted up the steps to the tower. "Lookout, what do you see at three o'clock," he yelled as he ran.
"A star, sir."
"Give me those binocs," he said. "Get radar."
The voice of the radar operator came through the loud-speaker. "Radar here, sir."
"Is it exactly one hundred and sixty-two degrees at this moment?"
"Yes, sir, speed now seven-eighty."
One of the men in the tower whistled. Everybody was watching the star now. "I'm calling a scramble," the operations officer said. "Hit the button."
The claxon sounded. Seven pilots were in the ready room drinking coffee and telling stories about girls they'd bedded or failed to bed. "I hate unannounced drills," one of them shouted over the blaring of the airhorn. "Your coffee gets cold."
The flight line lit up as the pilots ran toward their planes. Mechanics were hauling quick starters for the powerful Merlin engines that drove the P-51's. The pilots hit their seats, buckled in and started their checklists.
"Flaps extended. Turbochargers on. Coils on. Heat. Prepare to turn over." One after another the engines sputtered and coughed and charged to full power. The ground crews pulled the starters away and signaled with their flashlights that the planes could proceed to the active runway.
"Wing abreast formation," sai
d Major Jack Mahoney, the squad leader.
Headsets crackled. "You will attack incoming bogey," said the ground controller. "This is not a drill. Hoprat, this is not a drill."
"Oh, boy," one of the pilots said.
"We gonna get ourselves some action right out here in apple pie country." "No chatter, men."
Control ordered them to seven thousand feet so that they would come in above their quarry.
"Arm cannons." No test firing was allowed off the range area, so they didn't carry out that procedure.
Lieutenant John "Lucky" Luckman fingered his firing button, wishing that he could have a test volley. He watched the altimeter. "Passing three," the flight leader said, just as his instrument indicated the same. Right on the money.
"Heading eight-two," ground control announced. "Wide turn. Mark. Execute," Major Mahoney said. Luckman began a wide turn to the right. Combat rules meant no lights, so he couldn't see the position of his flight mates without looking hard for the blue flames of engine exhaust.
"Two-two-one. I have a faulty compass." Without his compass at night Joe Lait was flying half-blind. He could easily lose his bearings.
"Turn back, two-two-one."
"Roger. Two-two-one leaving formation. Returning to base."
Now there were six of them.
"Two-two-three. Instrument failure. My board is dead."
"Drop back emergency two-two-three."
"Lights on at base," the controller said. His voice was now high with nervousness.
A dead board was an odd malfunction. Lucky Luckman had never heard of such a thing. He'd never seen it on the simulator. He surveyed his own instrument cluster. Everything was perfectly normal.
"Level seven."
"Continue heading eight-two until you have visual contact."
"Two-two-four. I have a hot manifold. Returning to base."
"Affirmative," the flight leader said.
That was a more/normal problem, Luckman thought. He didn't like the idea of being without a board at night, but a hot manifold was something you could deal with.
"Two-two-three. Cannot see base. Repeat, cannot see base."
"Two-two-three, your heading is zero-five-six. Make a slow right turn."
Herbie Nelson in 223 would be lucky to get back. If he hit any cloud he was going to drop a wing and spin for sure.
"Two-two-two. I have lost my compass. Lost my board. Turn—"
"Repeat, Two-two-two. Two-two-two?"
There was no answer from Ev Wiley. "Call him, Lucky."
"Two-two-two. Do you hear me? Two-two-two?"
Silence.
Lucky thought to himself that there was total electrical failure on that airplane—or worse. He was scared now.
Only three aircraft remained.
Then he saw it, suddenly huge and dead ahead, and not where it was supposed to be at five thousand feet.
"I have visual. Twelve o'clock."
"I do not see, repeat do not see." That was his wingman, handsome Bobby Virgo. Why the hell didn't he see it, was he blind?
"What is our position?"
Ground answered. "Approximately fifteen miles from target. Flying abreast in ragged formation. Separation four thousand feet."
"That thing looks closer than fifteen miles."
"I just lost my engine," Bobby announced.
Lucky broke into a sweat. Not Bobby. He loved his friend, loved him too much. "Jesus, Bobby."
"Leaving seven. Spin!"
"Bail out, Bob!"
There was no reply.
"Bobby! Jesus, Bobby!"
"Hey, Luckman! Snap out of it!" Lucky twisted his head around, looking for some sign of another plane. He didn't know who had spoken. "Two-two-five," he announced. "What is my position, control?"
"Calling two-two-five. Two-two-five come in."
"This is two-two-five! What is my position, ground?"
"Two-two-five is off the board with two-two-one. Calling two-two-one, calling two-two-five."
"Bobby's in a spin, you jerks!"
"Calling two-two-seven. Two-two-seven?"
That was the major. Where was he? Luckman was closing on the disk fast.
"Two-two-seven. State your position."
The major didn't answer ground. He was gone, too.
"This is two-two-five! I'm still closing! Can you hear me? Can anybody hear me?"
No reply. So his radio was out. He was on his own.
The disk was now huge, filling his gunsight. He had no more time to scream uselessly at ground control.
Luckman dropped his nose to keep the disk in his gunsight. He cut in his supercharger and increased revs to the maximum. The airframe screamed. Exhaust flickered past the cockpit. Airspeed passed through four hundred. Four-fifty. The disk grew larger and larger and larger.
He got as close as he was planning to get. His hands were shaking. At the least sign of trouble he was getting the hell out of this thing. He suspected that he had dead friends out there. Somehow the thing had shot them down.
He pressed his firing button and watched his tracer disappear into the disk. "On target and still closing," he said automatically. "Firing. I observe tracer hits."
It has been universally true that the others have remained passive unless attacked. Even when they are attacked it takes a powerful weapon and an aggressive man to get a reaction. According to Will absolutely nothing we have thrown at them has ever had the least effect.
Will coached me very carefully before I began to write about what might have happened to Lucky Luckman after he pulled his trigger. He believes that he met both Luckman and the missing soldier, Charles Burleson, under very extraordinary circumstances, so his speculations about their fates may not be without foundation.
Of course we cannot be certain that it went as we have surmised. But it most likely did, or very close.
Lucky's story also gave me a chance illustrate the visitors' most astonishing capability, which is certainly their mastery of the soul.
A soul is part of the physical universe, and can be affected by appropriate technologies. It can get sick and be nursed and even medicated. Often the visitors say that they are doctors. They are, but it is the soul they wish to heal.
Souls can die, in the sense that they reject all identity and become simply an empty mote of potential.
Sometimes Will seems to think that the visitors are like farmers, and they are here harvesting souls.
One moment Luckman was flying an airplane. The next he was tumbling totally disoriented through a hell of wind. For an instant his mind was blank. He did not register what had happened and went on trying to push a firing button that wasn't there. Then the wind spread his arms and he saw light flash past his goggles.
He realized what had happened: he was outside of his plane.
A rush of adrenaline made his heart start hammering. His vision cleared for a moment, then curtains of black started coming in. Lights were shooting past like meteors. Tracer? Stars? Ground lights? He couldn't tell. He tried to get his right arm in to pull on the ripcord, but he was spinning so fast his arms were like iron bars extending away from his body.
He couldn't see at all. Was he blacking out? Couldn't tell. He was sick. He hurt, shoulders, legs. He was pissing, goddammit.
Falling! You are falling!
Tomorrow he was going to wash his car. How would he ever wash his car? Goddamn, it was so sad.
His throat hurt. He couldn't close his mouth. The wind was tearing his cheeks open, ripping at his lips. It was so cold it felt like his skin was burning. He tried to get his arms in. He had to. God, this was death. This was what it meant to die!
Why the fuck did I ever join the Army Air Force? Oh, God help me. Momma. Momma!
I didn't mail your letter, Momma! I'm going to miss you, Bobby.
There was blue light here. With a slamming thud his arms wrapped around his chest. He was in a blue tunnel. He tried to pull the ripcord but it was no good. His hands looked like wet masses of bloo
d-soaked cotton. There was blood all over him, too, sloshing inside his flight suit.
He tried to talk, couldn't. His throat hurt awful bad and he wasn't breathing. Straining, his chest bursting, he fought for air. Then there was something dark blue and covered with tubes and things, and it was coming toward him. Dark blue. He saw it vaguely, out of agonized eyes. He was smothering. He felt his bowels give way.
Then he was naked. He was a baby. His mother was carrying him on her shoulder. "Rockabye baby in the treetop, wind will blow and cradle will rock. ..."
Momma always sang it like that, in her bell-perfect voice, "Wind will blowwwwww. ..."
What's going on here, I'm not a baby! He squirmed, trying to see around him.
That woke him up.
He was lying on a table in a featureless gray room. Aside from stiffness he didn't feel bad. He could breathe.
The air stank of sewage. He sat up. "I've gotta wash my car," he shouted, "My friend and I—Bobby—" A hollow feeling filled him.
What the hell had happened? Bobby had been in a spin! He swung his feet off the table. This was the goddamn infirmary. He could smell the iodoform. Out the window you could see the base parking lot and the maintenance hangars beyond.
He got up. "What the fuck'd you do, fill me fulla morphine? Hey! Nurse! Somebody!"
The door was funny. At eye level it had a round, shiny black thing embossed on it. No knob. "Open up! You got one pissed-off pilot in here! Hey!" Again he thought of his friend. "What the hell happened to Bobby Virgo?
I've gotta know!"
He ran to the window. What the fuck, he'd go out that way. He could see his own damn car not a hundred feet away, his dusty-green DeSoto.
He raised the window. Now what? The outside looked double-exposed. There was a ghost DeSoto hanging over the real one. He blinked, shook his head. Somebody behind him said his name. The voice was an eager, hissing whisper, nasty. It sounded like a vicious fag, like those bastards he'd gotten tangled up with in St.
Louis . . . and he saw their greasy pale bodies . . . lying where the DeSoto had been.
He whirled around. "Nurse!"
There were three men standing there in pale uniforms with crossed Sam Browne belts. They were about four feet tall and they looked as though they were made of puffed-up marshmallow. They had big, black eyes. A smell of sulfur had been added to the medicinal stench of the room.