Max Collins - Majic Man

Blanchard said, “Welcome to Walker, Mr. Heller.”

“Thanks for inviting me. How is it you know my name?”

Leaning back, he took a couple of puffs at the pipe, then said, “I know a lot about you, Mr. Heller-your war record, including your Silver Star. Honor to have you in my office.”

“That’s kind of you, Colonel. But why am I in your office?”

Now he sat forward. “I understand you’ve been asking questions around town, about that …” He chuckled. “… flying saucer flap we had around here, while back.”

“It didn’t take you long to find that out,” I said. “I’ve only been in town since this morning.”

“Well, we pride ourselves on our intelligence here at Walker.”

“You talking smarts, Colonel, or spies?”

“Both.” Blanchard grinned a winning grin; he had the look of the most popular guy at the frat house. “If you have any questions about that incident, perhaps I can answer them for you.”

I blinked a couple times. “You’re willing to be interviewed?”

He gestured expansively with pipe in hand. “Certainly. By the way, who is this interview for, Mr. Heller? My understanding is you’re working for a well-known journalist.”

“I’ve been asked to keep his name confidential.”

Half a grin, now. “Why, does he have a bad reputation?”

“Let’s just say he has a reputation, Colonel. You, uh, mind if I take notes?”

“No, no … not at all.” His pipe had gone out; he used a kitchen match to get it going again-the smoke was fragrant, sweet. Maybe too sweet-like Blanchard’s attitude.

Notepad out, pen ready, I asked, “What can you tell me about the incident, Colonel?”

“A local rancher found some debris out on a pasture; with all this saucer hoopla in the air, I’m afraid we jumped the gun.” Blanchard shrugged gently, smiled the same way. “Turns out it was just a weather balloon, trailing a Rawin radar target.”

“Who authorized the press release?”

“I did.”

“On whose authority, Colonel?”

“Mine.”

“… I guess you didn’t anticipate the public’s reaction.”

He laughed through teeth that clenched the pipe. “I sure as hell didn’t. Phones were bombarded; I couldn’t even get an open line to make my own outgoing calls.”

I kept my tone light as I asked, “Were you reprimanded, Colonel, for ‘jumping the gun’ with that press release?”

The grin disappeared. “No. It wasn’t a big deal, Mr. Heller. We all had a good laugh.”

“Who, you and General Ramey? Did Major Marcel find it funny? He was the one who looked like a sap.”

“We all thought it was funny,” he said tightly. “Is there anything else, Mr. Heller?”

“What about accusations of the military threatening citizens into silence? Cordoning off the Brazel place? Calling the local mortician, asking for small caskets?”

Blanchard leaned back, took a long draw on the pipe, released a cloud of smoke. “Mr. Heller, Roswell’s a small town, and this base has a big responsibility. Sometimes the simple people of a farm community can make something out of nothing.”

“Mountain out of a molehill?”

“Exactly. This is ancient country, a land of myth, of superstition … add to that the kind of gossip that makes any small town go ’round, and you can come up with some really wild tall tales.”

I beamed at him, sitting forward. “Well, then, if you don’t mind … I’ll get back to town and see if I can find some more whoppers for this article. I mean, my boss is trying to do something fun, after all, about the saucer fad.”

The handsome face went blank; the pipe was in his teeth, but he wasn’t drawing on it. “The Air Force would appreciate it if you didn’t.”

“Didn’t what? Stick around, or give my boss the makings of a story?”

“Either. Both.”

“If there’s nothing to this, Colonel, what’s the harm of me staying around, and seeking out some more tall tales?”

Blanchard rose slowly, placed his pipe in an ashtray, and quite dramatically rested both his palms on the desk and leaned across, almost whispering, “You have a distinguished war record, Mr. Heller. You served your country faithfully and well. I’m asking you, as one patriot to another, to leave this be. To pack your bag and leave the Roswell area.”

There’s a stage out of town at noon ….

I shook my head, grinned at him-not as winning a grin as his, I’m sure, but it was all I had. “First of all, Colonel, my war record isn’t all that distinguished-not unless you consider a Section Eight something worth framing and putting on the wall. Second, I get real nervous when people talk patriotism. It’s like when somebody says they expect you to do the ‘Christian’ thing.”

Blanchard stood erect. “That was not a threat, Mr. Heller. This was an embarrassing incident, and we’d prefer not to have it dredged up again.”

“Even if you could have another good laugh over it?”

He sighed, shook his head, wearily. “I had hoped you’d cooperate.”

“You mean, go home, and quash this story?”

“Yes.” He pointed at me with the pipe stem, emphasizing certain words. “Let me say off the record … hypothetically … that if the Air Force were presenting a story to the public that did not represent the true facts, in this or any instance, there would be a good reason for it. Having to do with security considerations, and the public good. And I would hope a loyal American would respect the wishes of his government. Loose lips, as we used to say, sink ships.”

“Including flying saucers?”

“Mr. Heller, you disappoint me.”

I leaned back in my chair and folded my arms. “Say, Butch-did they ever find that pilot who crashed that plane loaded down with whiskey?”

Blanchard blanched. “How did you …”

“I pride myself on my intelligence, too, Colonel.” I stood. “Can you have somebody give me a lift back to Roswell? Or maybe have your men take me out in the desert and shoot me?”

“I don’t find you very amusing, Mr. Heller.”

“Sorry-I’m fresh out of weather balloons.”

Blanchard picked a receiver off one of his phones, said, “Send Kaufmann over here.” Then he hung up, and said, “No MPs, Mr. Heller-a civilian will take you back to town. Now, would you mind stepping out of my office? Step outside the building, in fact. I think I’ve seen quite enough of you.”

The colonel kept his word: no MPs waited to accompany me off the base. My driver was a rather grizzled-looking, brown-haired, square-headed, broad-shouldered civilian in his thirties, in a short-sleeved plaid shirt and chinos. He’d already been behind the wheel, waiting outside, when I’d climbed in the front seat; and we were outside the gate and tooling toward town before he took one blunt-fingered hand off the wheel to offer it in a handshake.

“Frank Kaufmann,” he said, in a low-pitched, slightly graveled voice.

His handshake was firm. My straw fedora was at my feet; traveling in the open-air jeep was making my hair stand up, if what I’d been hearing today hadn’t already done that.

“Nate Heller,” I said, adjusting my sunglasses.

Kaufmann glanced over at me, raising eyebrows that were as brown and wild as the brush streaking by us; his eyes were a light, clear brown and he had a sly smile going.

“Jesse Marcel’s friend,” he said.

“Now how do you know that?”

There seemed to be a twinkle in those amber eyes. “Maybe it’s ’cause I’m in charge of security out at the base.”

“A civilian in charge of security?”

He shrugged, still smiling, a private smile. “Well, I wasn’t always a civilian. Used to be a master sergeant. During the war I was the NCOIC under General Scanlon.”