Glenn Cooper - Secret of the Seventh Son

Curiously, within an hour of Blanchard’s official release, General Ramey was on the phone with United Press changing the story. It wasn’t a flying disc or anything like it. It was an ordinary weather balloon with a radar reflector, nothing to get excited about. Could the press take pictures of the debris? Well, he replied, Washington had clamped a security lid on the whole thing but he’d see what he could do to help them out. In short order he invited photographers into his office in Texas to snap shots of an ordinary foil weather balloon laid out on his carpet. “Here it is, gentlemen. This is what all the fuss was about.”

Within a week the story would lose its national legs. Yet, in Roswell, there were persistent rumblings about strange happenings in the early hours and days after the crash. It was said that the army had indeed been at the crash site before Brazel arrived; there was a disc, largely intact; and that five small nonhuman bodies were recovered early that morning and autopsies conducted at the base.

An army nurse present at the autopsies later talked to a mortician friend in Roswell, sketching drawings on a napkin of spindly beings with elongated heads and massive eyes. The army took Mack Brazel into custody for a while, and afterward he was considerably less talkative. In the days that followed, virtually every witness to the crash and recovery either changed their stories, clammed up completely, or were transferred away from Roswell, some never to be heard from again.

Truman answered his secretary’s line. “Mr. President, the Secretary of the Navy is here to see you.”

“All right, send him in.”

Forrestal, a dapper man whose large ears were his most prominent feature, sat before Truman, his spine ramrod straight, looking every bit the pin-striped banker he had been.

“Jim, I’d like an update on Vectis,” Truman began, eschewing small talk. That was fine with Forrestal, a man who used as few words as possible to make a point.

“I’d say things are going to plan, Mr. President.”

“The situation down in Roswell-how’s that doing?”

“We’re keeping the pot stirred just the right amount, in my opinion.”

Truman nodded vigorously. “That’s my impression from the press clippings. Say, how’re the army guys taking to getting their marching orders from the Secretary of the Navy?” Truman chuckled.

“They are not best pleased, Mr. President.”

“No, I’ll bet they’re not! I went for the right man-you. It’s a navy operation now so folks’ll just have to get used to it. Now tell me about this place in Nevada. How’re we doing over there?”

“Groom Lake. I visited the locale last week. It is not hospitable. The so-called lake has been dry for centuries, I would think. It is remote-it borders our test site at Yucca Flats. We will not have a problem with visitors but even if someone purposely sought it out, it is well-defensible geographically, with multiple surrounding hills and mountains. The Army Corps of Engineers is making excellent progress. They are very much on schedule. A good runway has been constructed, there are hangars and rudimentary barracks.”

Truman clasped his hands behind his neck, relaxing at the good news. “That’s fine, go on.”

“Excavation has been completed for the underground facility. Concrete is being poured and the ventilation and electrical work will commence shortly. I am confident the facility can be fully operational within our projected time frame.”

Truman looked satisfied. His man was getting the job done. “How’s it feel to be general contractor to the world’s most secret building project?” he asked.

Forrestal reflected on the question. “I once built a house in Westchester County. This project is somewhat less taxing.”

Truman’s face crinkled. “’Cause your wife’s not looking over your shoulder on this one, am I right?”

Forrestal answered without levity. “You are absolutely correct, sir.”

Truman leaned forward and lowered his voice a notch. “The British material. Still high and dry in Maryland?”

“It would be easier to get into Fort Knox.”

“How’re you going to move the goods across the country to Nevada?”

“Admiral Hillenkoetter and I are still in discussion regarding transport issues. I favor a convoy of trucks. He favors cargo planes. There are pros and cons to each approach.”

“Well, hell,” Truman piped up, “that’s up to you fellows. I’m not gonna manage you to death. Just one more thing. What are we going to call this base?”

“It’s official military cartographic designation is NTS 51, Mr. President. The Corps of Engineers has taken to calling it Area 51.”

On March 28, 1949, James Forrestal resigned as Secretary of Defense. Truman hadn’t spotted a problem until a week or so earlier when the man suddenly became unglued. His behavior began to be erratic, he looked ruffled and unkempt, he stopped eating and sleeping, and was clearly manifestly unfit for service. The word spread that he had suffered a full-blown mental breakdown from job-related stress, and the rumor was confirmed when he was checked into the Bethesda Naval Hospital. Forrestal never left confinement. On May 22 his body was found, a suicide, a bloody rag doll sprawled on a third-floor roof under the sixteenth floor of his ward. He had managed to unlock a kitchen window opposite his room.

In his pajama pockets were two pieces of paper. One was a poem from Sophocles’s tragedy, Ajax, written in Forrestal’s shaky hand:

In the dark prospect of the yawning grave-

Woe to the mother in her close of day,

Woe to her desolate heart and temples gray,

When she shall hear

Her loved one’s story whispered in her ear!

“Woe, woe!” will be the cry-

No quiet murmur like the tremulous wail

Of the lone bird, the querulous nightingale.

The other piece of paper contained a single penned line: Today is May 22, 1949, the day that I, James Vincent Forrestal, shall die.

T hough he lived in New York, Will was no New Yorker. He was stuck there like a Post-it note that could effortlessly be peeled off and pasted somewhere else. He didn’t get the place, didn’t connect to it. He didn’t feel its rhythm, possess its DNA. He was oblivious to all things new and fashionable-restaurants, galleries, exhibitions, shows, clubs. He was an outsider who didn’t want in. If there was a fabric to the city, he was a frayed end. He ate, drank, slept, worked, and occasionally copulated in New York, but beyond that he was a disinterested party. There was a favorite bar on Second Avenue, a good Greek diner on 23rd Street, a reliable Chinese take-away on 24th, a grocery and a friendly liquor store on Third Avenue. This was his microcosm, a nondescript square of asphalt with its own soundtrack-the constant wail of ambulances fighting traffic to get the flotsam of the city to Bellevue. In fourteen months he’d figure out where home was going to be, but he knew it wouldn’t be New York City.

It was no surprise that he was unaware that Hamilton Heights was an up-and-coming neighborhood.

“No shit,” he replied with disinterest. “In Harlem?”

“Yes! In Harlem,” Nancy explained. “A lot of professionals have moved uptown. They’ve got Starbucks.”

They were driving in a torpid rush-hour mess and she was talking a blue streak.

“City College of New York is up there,” she added enthusiastically. “There’re a lot of students and professionals, some great restaurants, things like that, and it’s a lot cheaper than most places in Manhattan.”

“You ever been there?”

She deflated a little. “Well, no.”

“So how are you so knowledgeable?”