David Golemon - Event

Early hadn't been bothered by the corpses as much as he had been downright afraid of that goddamn empty ten-foot-by-ten-foot container, or cage, as the rumors were saying. Lee had tried to keep the lid on all the talk going around, but what they were carrying to Nevada would haunt anyone who was there for many years to come. For Early, it was the image of that cage that kept slipping back into his thoughts like the flitting remembrance of a nightmare; he closed his eyes as he tried in vain to control a shiver.

"Who in the hell is this?" the lieutenant asked aloud.

Early opened his eyes and looked at the army officer. He watched as the man placed the radio handset down and pulled a Colt .45 automatic from the holster he carried on his belt.

Early looked up through the windshield and was shocked to see three men dressed in black. He narrowed his vision and adjusted the fit of his glasses in an attempt to peer through the sand that was washing across the side of the road.

"Are they wearing hoods and goggles?" he asked, but the lieutenant had already opened the door, allowing the howl of the wind to take the doctor's question and scatter it among the blowing sand.

"This is a United States government convoy. You men --"

That was as far as the young lieutenant got. As Early watched in horror, a black-clad man in the center of the three strangers raised what looked like a Thompson submachine gun and fired a burst of three rounds into the upper body of the army officer, slamming him first into the doorjamb and then to the roadway. The wind quickly took away the mist of blood that had exploded out of the lieutenant's back.

"My God!" Early screamed.

It suddenly dawned on him that the car was not the best place to be at that moment. He quickly slid across the seat and scrambled out into the wind and sand, slipping once and falling to one knee, then finally gaining his feet and using the rear quarter of the Chevy for a guide. He fought his way to cover, all thoughts of protecting the debris and bodies lost in his panic to escape. He hunched low and started to make his way to the first truck in line when five .45-caliber bullets slammed into him from behind. Early hit the windswept road and rolled into the side ditch. As his life's blood was soaking into the sand, he saw a tall man dressed in black combat gear standing, over him. The man looked around, then slowly leaned over, going to one knee and placing a gloved hand on Early's quivering shoulder. The man spoke apologetically, as if he had done anything other than to brutally end Early's life.

"I'm sorry for this, Doctor, but your boss doesn't understand what it takes to make this country safe from our enemies," he said loud enough to be heard above the blowing wind. A confused Early could only look up at him.

"Controlled violence, planned well and executed, is a valuable tool, a new one to be sure, but one our new enemies understand." The man looked around a moment and shook his head and leaned even closer to the doctor's ear. Gunfire had erupted up and down the line of trucks. "I'm just sorry it's you and these American boys that got in our way" the man said sadly, shaking his head. "A goddamn shame."

The killer in black lowered his head as he watched Dr. Early take his last breathy then he stood and started shouting orders.

The rest of the convoy personnel met the same brutal fate. And together with their cargo gathered from a small desert air base in New Mexico, they would all disappear into legend, and a mystery was created that would haunt the country for over sixty years, creating the largest cover-up in American history.

Among the blowing desert sands, now mixed with the blood of the dead and lost, the Roswell Incident was born.

The USS Carl Vinson sailed smoothly through the calm waters of the Pacific. Her huge mass parted the sea 320 miles off the coast of South America, leaving a wake of incandescent colors and sea life that rolled and churned after her four massive bronze propellers.

The Nimitz-class supercarrier was on her way home after a cruise of six months in the south-central Pacific. Her home port was Bremerton, Washington, and that was where most of the crew's families would be waiting anxiously for their men and women to return from their long voyage. Her huge engines pushed her through the Pacific at twenty-six knots.

Flight operations on the Vinson were in preparation for the fighter and bomber air wings to lift off the following afternoon for their home bases of Miramar and Oakland. The only planes flying this morning were the carrier's combat air patrol, better known as CAP, and they now cruised at twenty thousand feet and were one hundred klicks out. The morning had been calm and without incident for the two old but formidable Grumman F-14 Super Tomcats when the first radio call was transmitted from the Vinson , call name Ponderosa.

"Range Rider flight, this is Ponderosa. Do you copy? Over."

Lieutenant Commander Scott "Derringer" Derry had his visor down as he looked into the rising yellow disk of the morning sun, reminding him of the Persian Gulf and his many combat missions over Iraq. As he thumbed the transmit button on his joystick, he looked to his left and slightly behind, eyeing his wingman, satisfied he was still in position and no doubt hearing the Carl Vinson the same as himself. "Ponderosa, this is Range Rider lead, copy five by five, over."

"Range Rider One, we have an intermittent contact south at eight hundred miles and closing. Advise this information comes from Bootlegger and not Ponderosa. We have no contact at this time. Over."

Under the mask, Derry pursed his lips. Bootlegger was the call sign for the guided-missile cruiser riding shotgun for the Carl Vinson , The USS Shiloh , with her Aegis tracking and fire-control system, could supply better air intelligence than the huge carrier, so her information was always acted upon.

Derry once again took a quick glance over his shoulder at his wingman. His partner gave a small wag of the huge fighter's wings, indicating he had the gist of the call.

"Range Rider copies, Ponderosa. Inform lead of any target aspect changes, over."

"Roger flight lead, Ponderosa will advise. Stay alert to TAC 3, Bootlegger will monitor. Over," the Vinson answered.

Derry clicked his transmit button twice in acknowledgment. "Do you have anything yet, Pete?" he asked his radar intercept officer, or RIO, Pete Klipp.

"Negative, boss, I don't have a thing on scope at this time"

Derry raised the dark visor on his helmet and once again looked down and back at his wingman, Lieutenant J. G. Jason Ryan, call sign Vampire, who was flying smoothly as ever as he brought his F-14 level with his commander.

"Does your RIO have anything, Vampire?"

"Negative lead, we're clear," Ryan answered.

"Understood. Let's go see what we can see," Derry said.

The two navy fighters made a slow turn to the south and climbed.

The Combat Direction Center on the Carl Vinson was darkened to the point where the outlines of the operators were cast in a multicolored, luminous veil caused by the screens they monitored. On one of these screens was an air-search radar patch-through from the USS Shiloh.

"Still nothing?" Lieutenant Commander Isaac Harris asked.

The radar specialist adjusted the bandwidth on the monitor and looked over his shoulder at his commanding officer; a confused look crossed his features. "Comes and goes, sir, first solid, then nothing. Then on its next sweep it's there, big as a barn, and then vanishes."