David Golemon - Event

"Sorry, Lee, I have to stick with the boys who won the war on this one. I have to assume they know what they're doing." The last words were almost cut off by the closing doors.

Lee stood at those same doors for a moment and watched the green indicator light glow. He felt as if he was being left out of the biggest event since the coming of Jesus Christ, and there was nothing he could do about it.

Garrison Lee hadn't heard from the president of the United States for almost five days and was assessing field assignments when Alice stepped into his office. She quickly opened the right bottom drawer of his desk and removed a bulky red phone. There was a small handle on the top that she practically punched with the palm of her hand, instantly freeing the device from its security holder. She lifted the receiver and held it out to Lee.

"It's the president and he doesn't sound happy," she said quickly.

"Mr. President, this is Lee."

"Mr. Lee, I want you to get your ass with your best security team and science people and get control of that goddamn situation in Roswell."

"What do I need to know, Mr. President?"

"Know? Know, Lee? Haven't you read the goddamn papers?"

"Been busy here, sir"

"Well, damn, man, the Army Air Corps just released a press statement that they have a flyin' damn disk in their possession. I had General LeMay, General Ramey, and Allen Dulles on the phone and all they gave me was the runaround! Sons of bitches don't know who they're dealin' with!"

"LeMay and Dulles will do that, Mr. President, if they think you're treading on their turf." Lee knew Allen Dulles and knew the man always had ulterior motives for everything he did. Every move was calculated for what good it would do him and whatever group he was working with.

"Let me tell you something, Mister Lee"--Truman spread the word mister out for a month--"it's all my goddamn turf, you get me, son?"

"Yes, sir, I hear you and agree, Mr. President, it's your backyard."

"Damn right, mine and the people of this nation who pay our salaries. I think sometimes the damn generals and spooks need to be put in their place, no offense, Lee. I take it you have an aircraft available to you?"

"We have twelve, four converted C-41 Dakotas, three P-51 Mustangs, and several scout craft, sir."

"P-51s! Who in the hell gave you those? Ah, never mind. As I was saying, you and a team of scientists or whatever eggheads you need get there and get control of that crap in the desert, now!"

"Yes, sir."

"And, Lee?" The president sounded as if he was grinding his teeth. "I've sent you a letter with my signature on it, authorizing you to do what you think is right, and I'll back you one hundred percent. If you have to hang someone, I'll supply the rope!"

"I'm on my way, Mr. President, and thank you, sir."

"Thank you nothin', get there and find out what's going on. You tell them if I have to come down there and fire some butts, I will."

"I'll pass along the message, Mr. President," Lee replied, but found that the call had already been terminated.

Alice handed over a sealed envelope. "This was just wired over from the White House," she said.

Lee opened it and scanned the words. It did indeed authorize him to do anything just this side of murder to gain the cooperation of the air corps and army.

"What's going on, Garrison?"

"Well, Alice, I guess that's what I'm flying to New Mexico to find out."

The four converted C-41 war-surplus Dakotas touched down on the runway at Roswell Army Airfield at eight that night. They passed row upon row of Boeing B-29 bombers lining the runway and taxied to a small hangar, all the time under the watchful eyes of air police, who escorted them in four jeeps. Lee wasn't concerned with their presence. As he looked out his window, he saw the giant Boeing bombers and noticed how the aging birds still looked lethal. The 509th Composite Bomb Group was world famous for a plane that was once listed among its ranks, named the Enola Gay.

The bomber-group intelligence officer, Colonel William Blanchard, stood at the bottom of the staircase after it was rolled into place by the base ground crew. The high wind was flapping the bottom of the officer's trousers, and he held on to his hat as he waited for Lee to descend.

"General Lee, I had heard you were a private citizen after your service during the war." The colonel extended his hand. The offered handshake was ignored by Lee. He was followed down the staircase by men who carried bags and boxes full of equipment. The second, third, and fourth Dakotas were unloading larger pieces of equipment, and the Event Group's security teams exited through the rolling side door used for cargo. Garrison wasn't at all surprised the base's intelligence officer knew of him and whom he used to work for.

Lee looked at the base roster sheet he had studied on the plane ride over. "You must be Colonel Blanchard?"

"Yes, sir."

"Colonel, where is your commanding officer?"

"The base com--"

"I don't need the base commander, Colonel, I mean the man that's in charge of"--Lee once again looked at his clipboard and flipped a few of the pages that had been wired from Washington--"Operation Purple Sage."

Blanchard seemed taken aback by this. "I don't think you know the way army intelligence works any longer, sir."

Lee smiled and tilted his hat back, fully exposing his eye patch. "Colonel, two years ago I was still a brigadier general on active duty in the OSS. I now hold a civil rank equivalent to that of a four-star general, so don't you dare pretend to tell me how the army or its intelligence apparatus operate. Johnson! Bridewell!" he called over his shoulder.

Two men broke away from the Group's security team and ran to where Lee and the colonel were standing. They wore army fatigues and were carrying sidearms.

"If the Colonel says anything other than 'Yes, sir' and doesn't lead us to where they either have the wreckage, or to the gentleman in charge of this investigation, arrest him on charges of disobeying a direct order from the president of the United States and obstructing an official presidential inquiry."

The two men moved to either side of Colonel Blanchard and stood at parade rest.

"Very well, if the president wants amateurs running this show, it's his funeral," the colonel said into the rising wind, then abruptly turned and started for the hangar entrance.

They followed Blanchard as if they were in a parade. Garrison had assembled the largest field team since the Lincoln Raid on Ararat in 1863. He had metallurgists, language experts, paleontologists, atomic and medical-research scientists, quantum theorists, structural engineers, machining experts, and sixty security personnel. The quantum theorists were on loan from his friend at Princeton, Albert Einstein. They had been flown from New Jersey into the dirt runway at Las Vegas by his P-51s and weren't at all happy about it. He knew Albert would charge him a huge favor in the near future for the loan.

Blanchard walked over to one of the huge hangars that held sway over Roswell Army Airfield. It was large enough to house two B-29s side by side. Military police had surrounded the building, and they all carried Ml carbines or Thompson submachine guns. The colonel glanced over his shoulder at Lee and gave him a sour look as he saw the Group's security personnel advance on the MPs and give them new orders. He scowled and then opened a small door just to the left side of the large hangar doors. Lee followed him into a spacious office with several people in the smoke-filled room. Colonel Blanchard walked over to a surprised man in a white shirt and whispered something to him.