Max Collins - Majic Man

And it was signed, with a flourish: “Harry Truman.”

“This doesn’t say anything about flying saucers,” I said.

“Indeed it doesn’t. But a Pentagon source has informed me that Operation Majestic Twelve is a government research and development project formed with exploring the ‘flying saucer’ problem as its mandate.”

I reread the letter, then asked, “Who’s this Dr. Bush?”

“Dr. Bush is, with Forrestal, one of the twelve-the ‘Majestic Twelve’-that is, key government, scientific and military figures. Bush is former dean of MIT; he led the development of the atomic bomb, radar, the proximity fuse, the analog computer, and much more. The top government science mind.”

I tossed the photostat back on his desk. “Do you believe your source?”

“You know what they say-in Washington, if your mother says she loves you, get a second source to corroborate it.”

“Glad to see you checking your facts, for a change.”

He sighed rather heavily. “Nathan, as I said, I suspect this may be an effort to make a colossal boob out of me. But if what I’ve been told does prove correct, our government may have in its possession technology from another planet, which they are intending to capitalize upon for military purposes.”

“I’m gonna vote for the colossal boob theory on this one.”

Pearson was shaking his head. “I know, I know-it sounds incredible, even bizarre … but it all seems to stem from one incident-the crash of an unidentified flying object in Roswell, New Mexico, in July of ’47.”

I shifted in my chair. “Not a sighting-a crash….”

“Yes-a crash by an alien spacecraft.”

“And Forrestal is nuts? Drew, you thought about trying a smoking jacket that buttons up the back?”

“The Air Force base at Roswell-the 509th Bomb Group, who incidentally are the only squadron in the world armed and ready to drop atomic bombs-issued a public statement to the effect that a flying saucer had crashed, and its wreckage been recovered … a statement that was, within hours, withdrawn by the powers-that-be.”

“You’re making this up.”

“No. I’ll give you my clipping file to take with you, on your way.”

“My way where?”

“To talk to the Air Force major who says he found the saucer. Sure you won’t have a cookie?”

Due west of the white-marble temple of the Lincoln Memorial, and bordering the low-slung but formidable granite-and-concrete Arlington Bridge, yawned a convex arc of granite steps known as the Water Gate. A couple hundred feet wide at the top, fanning out gently to maybe another thirty feet wide at bottom, these steep steps formed an ornamental buttress between the bridge and the roadway ramp angling from the memorial toward Rock Creek Park. The Water Gate was designed, in part, to serve as an outdoor amphitheater; in the summer, a barge outfitted with a band shell would be anchored at the foot of these forty or so steps as a stage for concerts by the National Symphony Orchestra, among others. But late March was too early for the band-shell barge and the only stage that stretched out in front of the scattering of Sunday-afternoon loungers seated there was the sun-shimmering gray-blue Potomac itself, where pleasure boats-mostly canoes streaking by-were the featured attraction.

He was easy enough to spot, as I came down the steps: seated alone, a third of the way down, a small, even mousy-looking man in a light tan short-sleeve sportshirt with a wide pointed collar and brown corduroy slacks. His hair was dark brown and cropped short, his forehead high, and-I noted when he turned to see who’d sat down next to him-his eyes were buggy, nose beaky, chin rather weak.

Major Jesse Marcel would have been unimpressive if I hadn’t read the material in the file folder Pearson had given me, a combination of newspaper clippings and background check, which I’d perused when I parked the rental Ford over by Honest Abe’s memorial.

Marcel had entered the U.S. Army Air Force in 1942; he had both studied and taught at the Air Intelligence School at Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, where his civilian experience with Shell Oil, making maps from aerial photographs, soon developed into a much-valued expertise in mapping, and photographic reconnaissance and interpretation. His duties in the South Pacific had included serving as squadron intelligence officer as well as flying several combat missions in B-24s, winning two Air Medals.

Promoted to group intelligence officer and transferred stateside, Marcel was involved with radar navigation study at Langley Field when his unit, the 509th, dropped the bomb on Hiroshima. Shortly thereafter he was named intelligence officer for the bomb group; his first assignment: observer at the atomic tests at Bikini.

Right now Major Marcel was assigned to Strategic Air Command headquarters here in Washington: the officer in charge of the War Room, Intelligence Branch Operations Division, AFOAT-1. Apparently this mousy little guy was head of something called the Long Range Detection Program, intended to alert the U.S. to any atomic explosions elsewhere in the world, in particular the Soviet Union.

This latter information was probably classified, at least, and possibly top-secret; and I had to wonder if Pearson had gotten it from Marcel himself-and why a guy so tied to intelligence work would share it with a muckraker like Pearson.

Also, my neck was getting prickly with apprehension at atomic bomb stuff turning up again, even in this sidebar to the Forrestal investigation: first Frank Wilson of the Atomic Energy Commission, and now SAC’s atom bomb watchdog, Major Marcel.

Who said, in a husky tenor, “Jesse Marcel, Mr. Heller. You are Mr. Heller?”

His tan sportshirt was a print design of cartoony representations of vacation spots: Miami, Cuba, Rio, palm trees, volcanoes, hotels.

“Nathan Heller, yes,” I said, shaking the hand he offered.

His smile was friendly but nervous. “Mind if I see some identification?”

“Not at all.” I got out my wallet, showed him my Illinois private operator’s ticket.

“No offense,” he said, and sucked on the stub of his cigarette. “Can’t be too careful. Swell day, huh? Nice breeze-my wife and son are over at the park, so we should have plenty of time to talk.”

“Major,” I said, slipping my wallet back in my hip pocket, “I read the newspaper accounts about the incident at Roswell, but considering the inconsistencies … I’d really like to hear your version of it.”

“Call me Jesse,” he said, dropping the spent cigarette to the granite, heeling it out. “We seem to be pretty much by ourselves here, but let’s keep it un-military, all right? You prefer Nathan or Nate?”

“Nate’ll do. Jesse, if you’re planning to reveal anything of a classified nature, I’ll have Pearson send somebody else over to talk to you.”

He shook his head, as he plucked a Camel out of a half-used pack. “Smoke?”

“No thanks.”

“None of this is classified, Nate, or top-secret or anything. But it’s military matters just the same, and I’m in intelligence, and I might get a tit in the wringer if it was known I was a damn source for ‘Washington Merry-Go-Round.’”

“Understood. I just have no desire to see the inside of Fort Leavenworth.”

“You’re comin’ in loud and clear on that one.” He fired up his Camel with a silver Zippo, which he snapped shut. “No, they clamped the lid on this thing, but oddly, I never got any kind of serious debriefing or orders to clam up or anything. But, understand, this deal blew over real quick.”

And it had. One day the headlines were trumpeting AIR FORCE CAPTURES FLYING SAUCER ON RANCH IN ROSWELL, the next ARMY DEBUNKS ROSWELL FLYING DISK AS WORLD SIMMERS WITH EXCITEMENT and GENERAL RAMEY EMPTIES ROSWELL SAUCER. These had been the headlines of Roswell’s own Daily Record and Dispatch, but the story had been carried via the Associated Press and United Press, and spread worldwide-the Pearson file had clips from Rome, London, Paris, Hamburg, Hong Kong, Tokyo-creating a momentary sensation, only to be laughed off as a fluke of the flying saucer “craze.”