Imperium Heirs: Conspirator’s Odyssey, #1

Opening Quote

Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.

~ Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

PART I – The Emergence?

Chapter 1

At 4:38 PM, President Truman had just completed his meal for the evening when he received an urgent call from General Roger Ramey, as he had requested should there be any new Intel to report. He’d given this order based on the preliminary reports he received from the Pentagon after the electrical storm that took place the evening of July 3, 1947 over Roswell, New Mexico.

It was more than a blip on our radar screens that we witnessed yesterday evening, Mr. President, the general reported.

Classification Falcon Sweep is signed, General! There’s no room for error. Disinformation and concealment agents have been mobilized to piggyback the ruse that has already been established, and you are to carry out your orders under the umbrella. Is that clear?

Yes, Mr. President!

At this time, neither our security sections nor members of my cabinet, from the Vice President on down, will be privy to this discovery—

Oh my God! the general shouted.

What is it, General?

Mr. President, contact has been made. We have living alien subjects in our possession.

Taken aback by the unbelievable news, Truman leaned back in his chair, momentarily out of breath, his eyes wild. He then called for a staffer using the emergency line.

The staffer hustled into the room with a look of urgency about him. What is it, Mr. President?

Ready Air Force One.

The destination, sir?

Roswell, New Mexico.

Truman refocused his attentions back on the general as the staffer quickly left the room to see to his order.

General, no one is to know that I’m enroute, nor of my arrival.

Affirmative, Mr. President.

Upon arriving, President Truman was greeted by the General on the tarmac. They traded quick solutes, their movement towards the hanger never breaking stride.

Welcome to Roswell, Mr. President. As ordered, we’ve taken every precaution to shield your visit. You—

General, I didn’t fly here under the cover of night to have smoke gently blown up my ass. You sent me a pressing telegram shortly after Air Force One took flight, reeling on about a message one of the visitors divulged to you. As your telegram omitted the details—I’m sure because of the sensitivity and needed secrecy—what was the message, General?

You have to hear it for yourself, Mr. President.

In the area where they kept the visitor, the general positioned Truman at a safe distance from it.

Mr. President, General Ramey said, the other visitors have taken ill, and our doctors say they may be dying. This one before you seems to be in good health, and he’s the one with the message. We’ve named him EBE, short for extraterrestrial biological entity.

The being, EBE, looked at him curiously before it took a step towards him, staring at him rather intensely.

Truman felt rather uneasy during this moment of silence, and felt the need to speak. Uh, I’m President Harry S. Truman, the premiere representative of the United States of America. I wish—

Humanity!

Without warning, the thing’s thoughts suddenly rung in his head. The general and he traded a quick glance, and instantly he knew the general heard it too.

Well, I represent a rather large proportion of our world’s human inhabitants, but if there’s a message you’re looking to divulge to our world’s peoples, I can assure you, you’re speaking to the right person. What is it you’re trying to convey?

War is upon you!

He stepped rather stealthily closer to the glass enclosure that held the thing, and spoke directly. War! he shouted. "What do you mean, war?"

Truman paced back and forth in General Ramey’s office.

The general stood at a distance from him and seemed to be impatiently awaiting his orders. Mr. President, the general said, interrupting his thoughts. Per your expressed orders on this matter, and given the core parameters of Classification Falcon Sweep, I’d be remiss in my duties if I didn’t inform you that time is of the essence, sir.

For the first time in nearly half-an-hour, he stopped pacing the floor. "General, you heard what that thing said?"

I did, Mr. President.

He sighed long and deep before getting into the general’s face. "Immediately, you are to gain preliminary Intel from this disclosure, with a prime focus on military and technically advanced application. You, and you alone, will then spearhead the agenda, bringing it to the attention of our National Security Council no later than the 5th of next month with your recommendations.

By July 28th, I want to receive an outline of your findings so that I may officially brief the NSC on the matter. Be so advised that the power of the presidency will be flanking your every move, General, assuring unlimited funding for such a brazen endeavor.

Mr. President, given what the EBE told us, we’re completely outmatched—outgunned in every way. He sighed. Sir, what it described to us was an invasion!

This reality came over the president like a wet blanket. He was petrified at the notion, and he knew the general was too, but, as he peered into the man’s eyes, he wanted to convince him that he had it together, that he was the Commander-in-Chief and the strength of this nation.

In that moment, he told himself that he was the 33rd President of the United States of America and, like the heroic characters so often found in the comic strips, novels, and film reels that he’d been in love with since his childhood, he was meant to be the hero in this story. He would be the one to protect the human race, by any means necessary, from a malevolent force bent on our destruction.

Tell me something I don’t know, General.

What’s the overall objective of this endeavor, Mr. President?

Survival! He placed his right hand on the general’s shoulder. "Humanity’s survival!" he emphasized, channeling the type of trademark directness he’d used when he led men during his 37-year tenure in the United States Army.

Chapter 2

PHELON PROVINCE

560 LIGHT YEARS FROM EARTH

PLANET YATTRHA

MEETING OF THE CEL’JUL HIGH COUNCIL

I’m no fool, Councilman Tos’illlcoo! General Eisenhower stated firmly before the council and the gathered squadron Commanders of the Royal Galactic Alliance. I’m very much aware of the reasons this council saw fit to allow this human a representative role on the Council of Galaxies.

The one hundred members of the Cel’jul High Council began to look over at each other from their seating, which towered high above the stage on which General Eisenhower stood.

Is that so, General? Head Councilman Tos’illlcoo said, rising to his feet and tossing his caped garb over his shoulder before beaming a cool stare at Eisenhower.

That is so, the general replied confidently.

The room came to life with laughter. The only ones in the room with the same steely military disposition as the general were the squadron Commanders, who just looked upon the general with a calculated gaze. The roar of the council was quite deafening, but in that very moment, as Eisenhower glanced over at the squadron Commanders, he knew that they were of the same stripes as he himself.

They, too, understood that the members of the high council were nothing but politicians, cut from the same basic cloth as those from Earth, for which both they and the general had great disdain. Like all politicians, no doubt, spanning the furthest reaches of the universe, the Cel’jul High Council were oblivious to any reality beyond the power they wielded.

Pray tell, General Eisenhower, spat Tos’illlcoo.

A cold grin formed on the general’s face before he proceeded. It was the demonstration of the United States nuclear strength over the cities of Hiroshima and Nagasaki in Japan. An abrupt hush fell over the room, and Eisenhower fancied that he’d slapped the laughter from the thin orifices that made up their mouths. This bold action on the part of the human race, which I represent, indeed acted as a counterbalance, and ultimately led me to assume a representative role on the Council of Galaxies. The hushed gathering held firm. As I said, Councilman Tos’illlcoo, I’m no fool.

Head Councilman Tos’illlcoo, having slumped down in his chair, stared angrily over at Grand Squadron Commander Gilli’victcill and shouted, "Why did you bring this human before us, Commander Gilli’victcill, and without forewarning, as is accustomed? And to our home world, for that matter? The councilman wagged his finger at the commander in a belittling gesture. You clearly know that representatives of the Council of Galaxies are to meet on matters of importance on the planet—what these humans call an asteroid—Oo’lils, between Mars and Jupiter, in the neutral galactic quadrant of Zoosail’tcx?"

Commander Gilli’victcill appeared beside General Eisenhower to address the high council. "Councilman Tos’illlcoo, I brought General Eisenhower here for reasons that gravely go beyond the parameters of the Council of Galaxies. This business is of our species, and matters of the universe, in keeping with a promise General Eisenhower made to me in the Earth year 1942. At that time, on orders by this very council, my squadron leaders and I were to lay waste an American city in order to force the humans into divulging Intel that would lead us to the sovereign family, for whom this body suspected humans to know their whereabouts—"

He’s found them? Councilman Tos’illlcoo shouted.

The entire council now appeared to be on the edge of their seats.

It’s much more complicated—

Complicated? Councilman Tos’illlcoo shouted again, rising from his seat. No, Commander Gilli’victcill! It is not! Taking his eyes off of the commander, the councilman stared menacingly at General Eisenhower. Has he or has he not found the sovereign family?

General Eisenhower spoke up. Yes, Councilman Tos’illlcoo, I have found Queen Tili’kiloos and King Bosh’licolo.

A groundswell of voices arose from those gathered, like the roar of an angry lion.

Councilman Tos’illlcoo shouted, Quiet! As the concentration of noise died down, he asked, What of the children, the heirs to the throne?

Your Grand Commander Gilli’victcill, here, told me about two seedlings—Princess Tali’sislo and Prince Sisla’vul—that were lost to you in 1917. My Intel tells of two of your species from the downed craft who happened to escape carrying a package of sorts, but that is all I or anyone at the top echelons of the United States government knows of them, or of what they carried, as they were never found.

Enough, Councilman Tos’illlcoo shouted. Commander Gilli’victcill, I hereby order you to retrieve our queen and king this instant.

Councilman Tos’illlcoo, as Grand Commander of the Royal Galactic Alliance, who, by order of this very council is under a targeted fiat to ascertain the fate of the sovereign family by any means, I believe it to be in our best interest for General Eisenhower to lead this campaign, and for us to retrieve our queen and king in solidarity.

"Solidarity? These humans have taken, and might I add, held hostage for eighty plus years, our queen and king—the heart of our collective universe—setting off a series of events that may have permanently crippled our standing and given unfettered rise to the Imperial Reptilian Voli’icill."

"It’s solidarity, Councilman Tos’illlcoo, or it’s war with the humans, in which we will all surely perish. Need I remind you that the signing of the treaty was an event of immense importance, negotiated in good faith by both our species? It was a daunting task led by General Eisenhower himself, and which greatly benefits the universe in whole. No doubt the Imperial Reptilian Voli’icill has manipulated certain factions of the human race, bringing us to where we stand today, but the fact remains that the general is not only a staunch advocate for his species, he stands as a grand ally of ours. This reality is one I, unequivocally, can vouch for."

Councilman Tos’illlcoo sat back down and carelessly waved off Commander Gilli’victcill, who returned to formation with his squadron commanders. So, General Eisenhower, just what do you have in mind? the councilman said reluctantly.

As surely as it must be the case with your planet’s politics, Eisenhower said, I’m but a soldier, buried under the weight of a powerful bureaucracy that refuses to see the error of their ways. They will not, under any circumstance, release your queen and king, especially now that they know just who and what they are—and more importantly, their significance to your species.

"And I take it that you were the one who told them of our queen and king?"

Yes, I told them, Councilman Tos’illlcoo. It was the only way I could prevent my government’s science divisions from dissecting them and performing god-awful experiments, as my species is accustomed to doing when it comes to anything they do not understand. The general looked over his shoulder and at Commander Gilli’victcill, who gestured for him to continue. "As spokesman for the human race, not to mention a member of the Council of Galaxies, I was naively optimistic in thinking that my position in advocating the plight of the Cel’jul species would move them to atone for this grave error in judgment.

"However, seeing as it is your species that are the very Gods we humans, since the dawn of mankind, have worshiped from all corners of planet Earth—while we, as with the many other species that span the universe, are only products of a mere science project—and with the knowledge of your species being our creators, the bureaucracy I deal with just assumes that they’ve gained an upper hand on God himself and, therefore, refuses to let go.

And, might I add, you didn’t help yourselves a bit when, in the Earth year 1942, this very council flagrantly ignored the mutually agreed upon parameters highlighted in the treaty of 1939, when you sent an overt threat directly to President Franklin Delano Roosevelt of your plans to destroy an American city—

Now that we’ve established the fact that you, General Eisenhower, like to hear yourself speak, the councilman said to him dismissively, again, I ask you, just what do you have in mind?

A well-calculated amount of seconds ticked by as the General looked upon the council members, confident he’d gotten their attention, as they seemed to be hanging on his every word. You just can’t, as was the case in Earth year 1942, when you abruptly and without a plan sent your destroyer and armada to Los Angeles, California, make another bold threat of laying waste an American city. A move such as that, with all due respect, council members, could only have come from politicians such as the one hundred of you in this body who know absolutely nothing of military strategy. The general’s tone, though passionate, was sharp.

A wave of murmurs swept through the body of council members, but none dared to interrupt the general for what he spoke was a truth they couldn’t dispute.

"I asked Grand Squadron Commander Gilli’victcill of the Galactic Royal Alliance to bring me before you. I wanted to personally make clear to this high council that this human is not only ranked General of the Army, a five-star general officer that is the second highest possible rank in the United States Army, but that I am a strategist of the highest order. I wanted to personally inform this body that my intentions are honorable, and that they’ll yield the results for which your species has been waiting far too long.

With your permission, he said with a cleverly disguised amount of disdain, "phase two of the mission both Commander Gilli’victcill and I have discussed will begin at 11:40 PM on Saturday, July 19th in this very Earth year 1952. Your royal brigades will begin their strategic maneuvering around Washington, D.C., with an even heavier presence around our U.S. Capital building—the location at which both Queen Tili’kiloos and King Bosh’licolo are being held. In January of this Earth year, I threw my hat into the ring for the presidency of my country, as phase one of this operation.

"Under the guise of the covert relationship I’ve had with your species since Earth year 1939, this will be the platform where I’ll stand as I begin brokering the deal to prevent an all-out assault by your species on Earth. The overt threat Commander Gilli’victcill will make, to the United States’ top military brass and echelons of government, will be that your intentions are to annihilate Washington, D.C. before your global strike. This provocation will be stated without any specific demands.

During the purposely drawn out negotiations, your royal brigades will keep up their show of force until the talk’s end, which Commander Gilli’victcill and I have planned to conclude on July 27, 1952. I will be, though covertly, hailed as a hero in the United States of America and around the world, and will subsequently and literally be gifted the presidency, where I will use the power of the office to shake loose your queen and king.

You, General Eisenhower, will also be hailed as a hero here on Yattrha and throughout the universe, if this plan of yours is successful, Councilman Tos’illlcoo said earnestly.

After a brief moment of sincere nods to and from the general and the council members, Eisenhower went on to say, Once your queen and king are again united with your people, I have no doubt that you, using the weight of the Royal Galactic Alliance, will further seek the whereabouts of both Princess Tali’sislo and Prince Sisla’vul on Earth. I only ask that any amount of force as grand as what took place on 24/25 of February 1942 in Los Angeles, California, or the type of force I’m suggesting to be displayed with this strategic operation, will never again be visible to the inhabitants of Earth.

Agreed! The entire council said in unison as if they were one.

The general sighed deeply before saying, "There is one more thing I must mention at this time, for transparency’s sake, and I ask of you all to hear me out."

What is it, General? Councilman Tos’illlcoo shouted.

"The highly coveted title of President of the United States of America, unbeknownst to any given citizen and/or candidate, is fraught with delusions of grandeur. Though the towering goals of these Americans, many of whom are mere activists seeking to use politics to move forward grand ideals, are admirable, they’re misguided.

All who seek the title truly believe they would have a hand in fundamentally shaping our nation, when, in fact, the tumultuous line of succession from one U.S. President to the next does not undo clandestine operations established beforehand, whether large or small, moral or immoral, of our world or beyond. Yes, the delusions of grandeur continue unabated, as the true history of the office is lost on the people it was established to serve.

What are you getting at, General Eisenhower? Councilman Tos’illlcoo was seemingly becoming wary.

I’m not, nor do I wish for you to be, disillusioned as it relates to the power of the presidency. Upon a successful operation, and I become President of the United States of America, it will take a considerable amount of time before I’ll be able to safely have Queen Tili’kiloos and King Bosh’licolo delivered to your people, as I must further wade through the bureaucratic waters of the U.S. government.

How much time, General?

"Councilman Tos’illlcoo, the definitive Earth year will be 1954, a little over a year after I’m sworn into office, and the location I’ve chosen for the transfer will be Holloman Air Force Base. Holloman is located in New Mexico’s Tularosa Basin, between the Sacramento and San Andres mountain ranges.

The base is about 10 miles west of Alamogordo, New Mexico, on U.S. Route 70/82; 90 miles north of El Paso, Texas; and 70 miles east of Las Cruces, New Mexico. The base covers 59,639 acres and is located at an altitude of 4,093 feet. The locale, I believe, is quite fitting for such an unprecedented endeavor.

General Eisenhower, you seem to have earned the trust of Grand Squadron Commander Gilli’victcill, Councilman Tos’illlcoo said. He stood, and the entire council followed suit. He then turned to the thick gathering of squadron leaders and asked, Do you all feel the same?

Again, Commander Gilli’victcill appeared beside the general with eyes affixed on the council head, and like a powerful wave, every one of the squadron leaders piled in behind them both in a premier show of solidarity.

Again, and speaking in one unified voice, the council members said, General Eisenhower, you may proceed with this operation.

As the roar of celebratory cheers erupted out of the squadron leaders, General Eisenhower turned to face Commander Gilli’victcill with his hand extended. The commander, whose stature towered high over the general, firmly took hold of his hand like any human would, and shook it.

It is your bravery that I admire, General Eisenhower, he said.

And from one soldier to another, the general said with a sincere smile, it is your trust, Commander, which I cherish.

With this being your first trip to our dear planet Yattrha, I would like to extend an invitation to feast with my squadron leaders and I to celebrate.

"I would love to, Commander Gilli’victcill, but it is imperative I get back to my home world with all due haste. Given the intensity of the lightning and rain pelting the massive NATO exercise we’re conducting in the North Atlantic, suffice it to say that all hell would surely break loose if the seamen of the USS Franklin D. Roosevelt were to discover that their dear General Eisenhower was missing. Especially after that unidentified light show you and your squadron displayed before I was ferried away.

Commander Gilli’victcill nodded his understanding. "What is the saying on your planet? Rain check?"

The general smiled. Yes, Commander, rain check.

Well then, General, let’s get you back.

The two of them began exiting the council chambers, but paused.

Eisenhower patted at his left chest pocket and let out a subtle sigh of relief, then pulled out his pack of Lucky Strike cigarettes. My friend, I’m going to need a minute before you put me back in that cryogenic sleep thingamajig.

Is there a problem, General?

Not at all, Commander, he said with a chuckle. I look at this nicotine habit of mine as nothing but a simple chink in the armor.

Oh. The commander nodded. We all have our vices, General.

Indeed!

After a moment of silence had separated the two, the commander leaned over and said, I’m curious... just how did you know that the high council wouldn’t piece together the fact that it’s now September back on Earth, and that we’d already gone ahead with the second phase of the operation in July?

Well, Commander, Eisenhower said, pausing in his stride and looking over his shoulder at the now empty council chamber. As is the case with politicians on my world, they continue to remain oblivious to any reality beyond the power they wield. He smiled, eyeing the sharp detail of his peaked cap before saying, "I used a strategy akin to stroking one’s ego, regaling them with details so moving that even these politicians would want to be a part of it rather than be oblivious to it. Especially an operation of this magnitude and importance to the Cel’jul species."

General Eisenhower, you may not care very much for the likes of politics and politicians, but you sure do have a knack for their arena.

The general smiled.

But, from one leader to another, the Commander said, staring deep into the general’s eyes with a sudden and unexpected concentration of seriousness. "What you’re doing is tantamount to treason in undergoing this operation, whereas I’m wholly in line with my targeted fiat to ascertain the fate of the sovereign family by any means. My having not first brought the full details of the operation to the attention of the Cel’jul High Council is minuscule, in comparison to your actions against that which you serve and have sworn to protect.

And though you haven’t, as I most certainly do, any operational boundaries to adhere to on this end of the universal spectrum, I do believe you have a code of conduct you are sworn to adhere to on your world—

Is there a question you want to ask me, Commander Gilli’victcill?

General, you seem quite eager to go against the wishes of your command structure. And though my asking this of you is counterproductive to my overall objective... as your friend, I’m curious to know why that is.

The General sighed and looked off in the distance, admiring the detailed magnificence of the grand council chamber, which reminded him of the imagery captured in Odd John: A Story Between Jest and Earnest—a 1935 science fiction novel by the British author Olaf Stapledon that the general very much enjoyed. He fancied that he was but a character playing out his part in a grand tale, one where he was meant to be the hero.

After a moment of silent contemplation, he turned his gaze back toward the commander. I have my reasons, my friend.

PART II – The Fortified Shroud

Chapter 3

Roswell, New Mexico, July 3, 1947

Dan Wilmot and his wife enjoyed the evening sitting on their front porch, admiring a fast-approaching storm. Thick dark clouds rippled the night sky and flashes of lightning brightened the fields.

In the middle of the spectacular light show, a long streak of lightning tore through the sky. Dan and his wife sat up in alarm as six seconds of daylight illuminated the town, and then the lightning vanished as quickly as it had arrived. A cracking noise came from above, sounding exactly like a firecracker had been set off near the house.

At that moment, a bright, saucer-shaped object moved across the sky, its lights glowing.

Mac Brazel, foreman of the J. B. Foster Ranch, rode his horse out to check the sheep after a night of intense storms. While he was there, he discovered a large amount of strange debris scattered across one of the ranch pastures.

What in the hell, the old foreman said to himself.

Spooked by the debris, Mac’s horse began galloping back and forth, turning violently around, and leaping into the air. With the horse finally calmed, Mac gathered pieces of the debris to carry home with him.

The next morning, he called George Wilcox.

The silence of the empty sheriff’s station was cut by a ringing telephone. Sheriff Wilcox ran from the bathroom to answer the call. Sheriff’s office. This is Wilcox.

George, it’s Mac Brazel. Look here, I found some stuff out on the ranch that’s really thrown me for a loop.

Sheriff Wilcox looked around his empty office. I’m a little shorthanded today, Mac. What is it that’s got you spooked?

"My horse is spooked, Sheriff. I’m more amazed than anything. I showed it to a couple of close friends of mine before I called, and they can’t figure it out either. If you don’t mind, I’d like you to see it for yourself."

If you’re not being robbed or chased by a knife-wielding madman, I’m sorry to say I’m not leaving this office.

I’m on my way to town to pick up some supplies anyway. I’ll just stop by, if that’s all right with you.

The sheriff sighed. All right, Mac. See you later.

Within the hour, Mac came bursting through the main door of the sheriff’s station clutching a large, dirty rag filled with strange debris. Mac must have been really anxious to find answers, because he’d left the engine running in his old Chevy pickup, which he’d double-parked beside Wilcox’s mud-coated police cruiser. He held the rag in one fist while dinging the counter bell with the other.

Hold your horses, Wilcox said, making his way around the corner to see Mac Brazel breathing heavy, beads of sweat on his brow. He glanced at his watch. Damn, Mac! You run a footrace?

Take a look for yourself. Mac placed the rag on the counter with the same care he would give a newborn.

Wilcox looked out the front window at Mac’s double-parked pickup, and removed the toothpick from out of his mouth. I knew you were one of those fancy UT scholarship boys, but I didn’t realize you were above the law in my town.

George, since you got elected sheriff, you’ve turned into a real asshole. Mac slid the rag over to Wilcox. Just take a look at this stuff. I’ve got better things to do than fight you all day. He turned and left, slamming the door behind him.

Look here, you called on me, not the other way around! Wilcox shouted out the window as Mac returned to his truck.

In that case, do your damn job! Mac called back.

After placing the toothpick back in his mouth, Wilcox snatched the rag and its contents off the counter and headed for his office. Halfway there, something fell out of the satchel and hit the floor, sending a hollow metallic sound bouncing off the walls for about ten to fifteen seconds. He’d never heard a sound like that before, and bent down to see the culprit was a flat seven-inch piece of metal no wider than a fingernail file. It weighed about as much as a standard envelope. With no idea how such a small object could make so much noise, he picked it up hesitantly, and took a seat behind his desk.

The sheriff placed the object on his desk and unwrapped the rest of the material to find two more objects. One was a solid, foot-long piece that resembled a dull hook. Strange markings looped around the entire curved material, but when he touched it, the markings vanished, only to reappear when he let go. The last item resembled a smooth piece of aluminum: two feet long, a foot wide, and less than an inch thick. The panel was incredibly light and felt like a cushioned slab of marble. He could fold and unfold this piece, and found that it didn’t become wrinkled, dented, or creased.

The sheriff leaned back in his chair, studied a fighter pilot poster tacked to his wall—a typical marketing gesture care of the Roswell Army Air Base—picked up his phone, and dialed the number listed at the bottom of the poster.

Major Jesse Marcel, intelligence officer for the 509th Bomb Group, spearheaded recovering the Roswell wreckage. A team of fifty soldiers gathered the debris into trucks and transported it out of sight and onto the Roswell Army Air Field.

Acting as spokesperson, Major Marcel briefly answered questions for a group of reporters gathered outside the blockade. The aforementioned wreckage, which I’m sure you’ve heard about by now, no longer resides in New Mexico. At this time, it’s not clear as to what the wreckage is compiled of or where it came from. Thank you, that’s all.

As he spoke, a dozen trucks behind him moved out, leaving the entourage of reporters shuffling on the pavement.

The headline story of the Roswell Daily Record revealed that the wreckage of a flying saucer had been recovered from a ranch in the area. When questioned, Major Marcel disclosed the wreckage was flown from New Mexico on to higher headquarters.

Colonel William Blanchard, commander of the 509th Bomb Group, issued a press release stating the wreckage of a crashed disk had been recovered.

A second press release came from the office of General Roger Ramey, commander of the Eighth Air Force at Fort Worth Army Airfield, within hours of the first. The second statement rescinded the first and claimed officers of the 509th Bomb Group had incorrectly identified a weather balloon and its radar reflector as a crashed disk.

In the Daily Record office, reporters scrambled to make print in light of the new information. The lead reporter, Jeff Begals, spoke to his fellow reporters.

The shit’s going to hit the fan! he said. These military boys aren’t covering this one up. We need to get an ear to the Pentagon—to the White House, for that matter. I’d bet my last nickel those Washington boys are fully aware of what happened here in Roswell. They’re slipping! What is it, a flying disk, weather balloon, what? The stories don’t make sense because they’re lying! I know they’re lying to us.

Jeff, goddammit, that’s nothing new, said Todd Richards, the newsroom’s chief.

But this is a big deal, Begals persisted. You know how these boys operate better than any of us. I’m going to yank out the truth. After this, that Pulitzer won’t pass me by again.

Richards tried to stare Begals down, but finally waved to the group. All right, you lowlife losers, let’s get a goddamn ear to the Pentagon and the White House. See if there’s any chatter. Get me a goddamn story to print. Now move, move, move, move—

The Ballard Funeral Home in Roswell had a contract to provide ambulance and mortuary services for Roswell Army Air Field. Begal had a contact there in Glenn Dennis, a young mortician.

Dennis had received several telephone calls from the mortuary officer at the airfield before the wreckage was recovered. The officer had asked about using small, hermetically-sealed caskets, and requested a recommendation on preserving bodies that had been exposed to the elements for several days.

His curiosity piqued, Dennis visited the base hospital that evening, but was forcibly escorted from the building. This behavior only incited his curiosity, so he arranged to meet a nurse from the base hospital in a coffee shop the next day.

So, tell me, what was the big secret at the hospital last night? Dennis asked, sipping his coffee. They practically threw me out on my ear.

The pretty young nurse lit a cigarette with trembling hands, and glanced nervously over her shoulder. Then she leaned in and whispered urgently, They brought in small, non-human bodies.

She told Dennis she’d attended the autopsies performed on these creatures, and as she spoke, she sketched what she’d seen on a napkin.

Dennis kept the drawing.

This meeting would be their last, and Glenn Dennis would learn no more about the alien bodies, as the nurse was abruptly transferred to England within the next few days.

August 5, 1947

At the offices of the National Security Council, General Roger Ramey stepped up onto a well-lit podium equipped with a microphone, and began to speak.

Gentlemen, forty thousand years of evolution and we’ve barely scratched the vastness of human potential. Until today, that is. We have found that the extraterrestrial bodies and their unique infrastructure, metabolism, and regenerative characteristics may be of great use to the United States, given the time and resources for further research.

What is it you want from us, General? a voice echoed from the shadows.

The items we collected at the crash site need to be broken down and analyzed for future military use. Given what we’ve already learned, we have the potential to create soldiers who will perform in the field like nothing the world has ever seen.

November 22, 1963

In the Oval Office, pages and assistants moved in all directions around President Kennedy as he prepared for his trip to Dallas.

At the start of this day, the president took time in his already hectic schedule to call a secret meeting of his counsel. Eight men, including Vice President Lyndon B. Johnson, sat in the Oval Office, watching their leader pace the room.

Kennedy addressed the men. Now, gentlemen, the Vietnamese council stands strong in their convictions. I don’t want an all-out war.

The men glanced at one another.

It is crazy to sacrifice the lives of our boys, Kennedy said. This is a new era. Diplomacy will be our initial weapon, and so help me God, war is our last resort. He picked up the war decree from his desk. These documents will be filed indefinitely. Furthermore, I will order our troops out of Vietnam, effective noon on November 25, 1963. I ask you to bear with me as we show the world a different side of our great nation.

Minutes after the meeting, a White House representative cornered First Lady Jacqueline Kennedy’s personal secretary, Mary Gallagher, and handed her a capsule filled with an ashy white substance, accompanied by a note.

"You are to give this package directly to René Verdon," the representative demanded in a shielded whisper.

The president’s Executive Chef?

That is correct!

Why? She paused, looking at the package in her hand. What is it?

Questions are for those without blood on their hands, Mary. He paused. Did you really think the First Lady’s wishes came without strings?

She gasped. Is this about Monroe?

There you go again with those questions, Mary. A thin smile worked itself upon his face. We more than came through for that debutante, preventing her from experiencing the embarrassment of exiting the White House in utter shame in this, our president’s first term in office. He paused again. The First Lady made a conscious decision to send you to make the murderous arrangements on her behalf after finding out that Marilyn was not only whom the president wanted at his side, but that she was also pregnant with his lovechild.

But.... She fiddled with the package nervously. What is it for?

Again, questions are for those without blood on their hands. He said it more forcefully this time, and moved closer to Mary, grabbed hold of her wrist, and applied enough pressure that her mouth twisted into a grimace. All you have to do is pass off the package in the next thirty minutes. That Frenchman, whom ironically the First Lady herself hired as the Executive Chef, belongs to us. He smiled. "He will do his duty... as will you. Got it?"

You’re hurting me! The pain was excruciating.

Say the words, Mary! he ordered.

"All right... I got it... I got it!"

The representative let go and casually straitened his suit. Again, you have but thirty minutes to make this happen. He calmly walked away from her.

Twenty-three minutes had passed when Mary set her eyes on the chef, who was busy preparing a meal. She approached him and thrusted the package toward him with disdain.

Chef Verdon uncaringly smiled at her as he casually read the attached note, making no attempt to conceal it. It read: IT’S A GO.

She took note of the meal being prepared. Is this for the president? she asked.

Without responding, Chef Verdon spun the top off of the capsule and poured the foreign powder into a fresh hollandaise sauce—she knew the president liked Baked Eggs Napoleon. The chef’s disposition was so bold and uncaring that she looked around the kitchen and at the faces of the four Secret Service agents overseeing the meals preparation. They had misplaced smiles on their faces, and she couldn’t help but to assume that they, too, were in on whatever this was.

She moved closer to the chef, tears pooling in her eyes. Chef Verdon, she whispered, what is going on here?

Again, he said nothing.

She watched as he held the note in his gas burner, where it crinkled into ashes.

President Kennedy’s secretary, Evelyn Norton Lincoln, entered the room as he finished breakfast to inform him it was time to go.

The president stood and brushed himself off. Evelyn? He flashed a charming smile that she just adored.

Yes, Mr. President?

I tell you, I love people with everything I’m worth, and as strange as this may sound, I also fear them.

Evelyn, the devoted personal secretary who’d served the president since the day he entered the Senate, knew the answer, as this back and forth was not unfamiliar to her. If the relationship between an executive and a secretary can be likened to a marriage, the one between Jack and Evelyn was a bond forged in political heaven.

"Why