Glimpse

  Glimpse

  Daniel P. Douglas

  Copyright © 2016 Daniel P. Douglas

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without prior written permission of the author/publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  ASIN: B01A66ST6E

  Geminid Press, LLC, Albuquerque, New Mexico

  Author Note

  For those of you who enjoy conspiracy thrillers with science fiction elements, I hope you enjoy reading my short story, Glimpse.

  I’ve also included an excerpt from my debut novel, Truth Insurrected: The Saint Mary Project. In Truth Insurrected, I tell the story of ex-FBI agent turned private investigator, William Harrison, who becomes embroiled in an attempt to reveal a sinister, decades-old government cover-up. What are they hiding? The truth about UFOs and alien contact. Will truth be mighty and prevail?

  Thanks again for giving Glimpse and the Truth Insurrected excerpt a read! I hope you enjoy them.

  It is part of my responsibility as Commander in Chief of the Armed Forces

  to see to it that our country is able to defend itself against…

  Any possible aggressor…

  – President Truman regarding his decision to develop the hydrogen—or super—bomb.

  IN DARKNESS, an aged, worrisome married couple rested by a sturdy door in a cramped bomb shelter built for just a few many decades ago during the 1950s.

  “Do you think it’s safe?” Therese said. Her shaky voice resonated against concrete and metal coldness.

  “Safe or not, we have to leave,” Liam—her husband of fifty years—said, coughing “Air’s no good no more.”

  Therese reached out and grasped Liam’s hand. “What do you think we’ll find?”

  Living in the shadows had whitened their skin. Despite the dimness, Liam perceived his wife’s face. It bore the expression of a mother who long ago realized her children were among the dead. He kissed Therese’s forehead, and then said, “Can’t be sure about anything. We’ll just take it one step at a time.”

  Therese nodded. “Maybe help has arrived?”

  In the darkness, Liam wiped a tear from his cheek. “Only one way to find out.”

  “I love you, Liam.”

  “I love you too, sweetheart.”

  “No matter what waits for us out there…”

  “At least we’ll have each other.”

  Liam’s crooked fingers found the slack battery in the overhead light fixture and pressed. The battery clicked into place and the bulb above it flickered on.

  The pair’s timeworn faces flinched and their eyelids danced. Soon, their wrinkled hands joined together on the secure door’s wheel-like handle. Only through their combined feeble strength did they succeed in turning the beast.

  And in so doing, a vertical sliver of pallid illumination expanded in their midst…

  <> <>

  Washington, DC, 1949

  Several people filled the dim, smoke-filled conference room. The most important of them sat around an imposing table. Others of less stature assembled in shadowy concealment behind them.

  “Quite by chance, Mr. President, scientists at Los Alamos have cracked a secret out of the recovered technology from the four crashes,” a lieutenant general said. His three stars entitled him to a place at the table, of course, but not next to President Truman.

  His reference to the four crashes held classification as follows:

  TOP SECRET//MAJIC/ELECTRIC FROST EVENTS

  1936 - Black Forest, Germany

  1941 - Vicinity Cape Girardeau, Missouri

  1942 - Coastal Los Angeles, California

  1947 - Vicinity Roswell, New Mexico

  TOP SECRET//MAJIC/ELECTRIC FROST EVENTS

  Scoffing erupted at the table in response to the general’s comments, complete with a Bavarian accent. “Quite by chance. Huh. We've been at this for quite some time,” said a scientist who American forces had snatched up in a German research lab during the waning days of World War II. His chair sat a few removed from the President.

  The three-star cleared his throat before continuing. “Under sufficient power, sir, a synthesizing device in the electro-magnetic and gravitational propulsion systems can… Can—”

  The German scientist cut him off. “Can be deployed to create a fissure—”

  “Perhaps a window is a better term?” the three-star said.

  “Fine,” the former Nazi scientist said.

  “Its properties provide a view,” the three star said.

  Steady, unruffled Talbot, a civilian in his fifties who occupied a spot right next to President Truman, said, “Some refer to it as a ‘glimpse,’ Mr. President.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Talbot,” the former haberdasher who dropped the atomic bomb, said.

  “It provides a view into future space-time awareness,” the general said, not wanting to miss out on a possible complimentary annotation too.

  But, the German scientist headed off any opportunity of it—slim that it was anyway—when he said, “There’s a preliminary run-up period that provides rough location, size, scope, and duration data.”

  “Giving us time to position assets,” added the general without missing a beat.

  “And the Russians too, no doubt,” the calm Talbot said.

  “Your branch will handle that as always, Mr. Talbot,” President Truman said. Solemn silence gripped him and the room. He peered at the faces around the table, most of which appeared anxious. Feeling the same, the President said, “Is it dangerous?”

  The three-star hesitated, then said, “Doesn’t seem so.” His voice wavered.

  “No, no…” the German scientist said. His eyes and bottom shifted side-to-side.

  The President’s contemplative gaze found the tranquil Talbot, who said, “What we glimpse could be dangerous, I suppose.”

  “How so?” Truman said.

  “Depends on what we see, and how we interpret it,” Talbot said. He paused, and then added, “And what we decide to do about it.”

  The President nodded and said, “There is nothing new in the world except the history you do not know.”

  A subdued chorus of, “Yes, Mr. President,” arose around him.

  “Or, apparently, the future you do not know,” the President said.

  <> <>

  Santa Fe, New Mexico, Late February 1950

  Counterespionage types in the know referred to Makar by his code name, “Calabacita.” They had discovered his suspected activities only of late, and had christened him such because they hoped to squash him one way or another. And the sooner, the better.

  A lit cigarette rested in an ashtray beside Makar, who sat alone at a booth near the exit inside a restaurant of old-world charm that served authentic New Mexican dishes. He much preferred red chile on his fare, but made an exception for green chile stew, which he enjoyed at present.

  A lone bespectacled customer with unkempt hair sitting elsewhere finished his meal and paid. He stroked his lengthy gray beard and smiled at the gracious waitress as she gathered his payment.

  Makar continued to spoon up his stew when the bespectacled customer, while exiting, plopped a small envelope onto the seat next to him. Without interruption to savoring the flavorful blend of spices mixed with pork, green chile, potatoes, onions, and bell peppers, Makar’s free hand retrieved the covert message and concealed it among his warm outerwear piled beside him.

  Makar decoded and read the information later. The note’s few simple phrases about significant increased power needs in a particular building at Los Alamos and interest in the Four Corners region told him all he needed to know.

  <> <>

  Northern Virginia, Late February 1950

  Under dusky grayne
ss, dense snow crunched beneath Knox’s boots as he lumbered closer to a pond’s still, dark waters. His deliberate pace appeared cautious, as if he watched for land mines.

  Knox’s crew cut and mid-thirties age indicated to most people that he had likely served his country in the “Big One,” World War II. People’s assumptions stood correct, although never confirmed by Knox. He didn’t discuss his service, not even with his wife, and he forbade his young son from playing “Army” with the neighbor boys.

  The pond’s slushy, frigid water floated mere inches from a bench on which the always-relaxed Talbot sat. The sky could be falling all around Talbot and there he would remain, seemingly half-asleep.

  Knox found Talbot’s tracks and followed them the rest of the way to the bench. The crunch of snow creeping up behind him prompted Talbot to speak. “Last time I saw you, Knox, you were worrying about how the Russians were coming or some such nonsense.”

  “It’s my job to worry,” Knox said, brushing away snow from the bench before sitting beside Talbot. “Yours too.”

  “I miss the ducks,” Talbot said, placing his bag of bread slices aside. “I worry about where they’ve all ventured off to. Think they know something we don’t?”

  Knox gave the empty pond, then Talbot, a curious glare. “They’re in their dens where it’s fucking warm.”

  “I don’t think it’s called a den.”

  “I don’t –”

  “I’m not sure. Maybe roosting place?”

  “I don’t care.”

  “Then why mention it?”

  “You did.”

  “I brought up my concern for their whereabouts, yes. But you mentioned the den, carrying forth the conversation, suggesting you held interest.”

  Knox restrained his frustration best he could.

  “You always manage to give me a chuckle, Knox. I appreciate that. God how I appreciate that.”

  “You don’t make me laugh,” Knox said.

  “No. But I do make you work. And you seem to like that.” Talbot paused and regarded Knox carefully before saying, “The doctors say the work and their prescribed remedies are good for you.”

  Knox offered a subdued nod and grunt. “Where is it this time?”

  “Preliminary data indicates New Mexico. You been to the tailor?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the others?”

  “Working on it.”

  “Good. Good.”

  “Not sure this dark, identical look is the way to go.”

  “And yet the bosses have decided. It will help to confuse and frighten they say.”

  “Saying it doesn’t make it true. And holding a higher pay grade doesn’t mean you’re smarter.”

  Talbot offered a knowing nod. “Time will tell on the new uniforms. In the meantime, they’ll be very slimming if anything. Besides, truth isn’t what people really want.”

  Knox pondered the gray clouds for a moment before saying, “Los Alamos, then?”

  “At first. And as such, do anticipate a certain level of understanding from our primary adversary.” Talbot withdrew an envelope from his coat and handed it to Knox.

  “Place needs a better plumber,” Knox said, tucking the envelope away.

  “Yes, some scientists do love to share knowledge,” Talbot said, sighing. “You have authority to address wayward individuals outside the fence line as needed.”

  A far off stare met Talbot’s reference to Russian infiltrators and their support network external to lab property.

  “From Los Alamos,” Talbot said, “you’ll head to parts northwest for an aerial glimpse.”

  Knox inflicted another curious glare at Talbot.

  A half smile curled up on Talbot. “And allegedly, it’s much more than the Russians who we anticipate catching sight of this time.”

  Knox lit up a cigarette while he contemplated the subtext of Talbot’s words. “Truman’s special group divining celestial messages again?”

  Talbot retrieved his bread slices, tucked them away, and then stood. His gaze drifted out over the empty pond and beyond. “I do hope the ducks are okay.”

  “Perhaps all this debate about building the super frightened them off to somewhere safe from thermonuclear vaporization.”

  Talbot chuckled and peered down at Knox. “See. You make me laugh yet again. With the super, nowhere will be safe.”

  <> <>

  Farmington, New Mexico, March 15, 1950

  An hour earlier inside the cut-rate motel room, Knox had opted for an upright nap in a beige upholstered chair with dried stains of various shades. He had chosen this over resting on the bed, which also held its own share of stains.

  Knox twitched. Subconscious war horrors provoked him. His face contorted. He heard battle shouts and clamor rise in his head: Soldiers ran, his own hastened breathes, the whistle of incoming artillery shells, orders to take cover, explosions, the zip of a German MG-42 machine gun, men dying…

  Knox jerked awake, out of breath.

  A knock on the room’s thin wood door finished its quick rapping.

  Knox stood in haste and—lightheaded from rising too fast—gripped the chair to gain stability. The knock rattled again.

  “Hold on,” Knox said.

  He straightened his stylish black suit, white shirt, and black tie. A quick glance at the table confirmed his fashionable black hat and sunglasses remained nearby.

  On his way to the door, he spotted himself in a mirror. He halted, looked himself up and down. “Men in black,” Knox said, mumbling. “That’s what they’ll call us.”

  Answering the door, he found two of his associates—Giles and Cobb—standing outside. Both wore the new black attire required by higher authority.

  Well, sort of…

  “The box?” Knox said, stone-faced and subdued.

  “Under lock and key and right nearby,” Giles said, shoving a thumb at the motel’s parking lot where a panel van sat nearby.

  Knox spotted the van. Then, his gaze drifted toward the sky. The pair on his doorstep noticed. They followed Knox's lead, and peeked upward, uncertain.

  Nothing but empty blue sky stretched above them.

  Moments later, Knox locked the door and turned to the men who now stood inside his room. His eyes inspected Giles first. “Nice suit,” he said.

  “Custom made to my gorgeous specifications,” Giles said.

  “Uh-huh,” Knox said, moving on to Cobb. The man held a shit-eating grin. Knox returned the gesture. “Not sure what to do right now,” he said, examining Cobb in his black, priestly garb. “Part of me feels compelled to kneel before you and ask for Godly forgiveness. The other part—which is mostly comprised of my right hand and its trigger finger—feels compelled to grab my forty-five and unload on you.”

  “Suit wasn’t ready,” Cobb said, in a southern drawl. “Borrowed the next best thing. My cousin’s man-of-the-cloth garb. All black but for this here white fleck thing at the collar.”

  “Could represent a separation of church and state issue if you ask me,” Giles said.

  “And yet no one did,” Cobb said, getting in Giles’s face. “I improvised. At least I’m smart enough to do that.”

  “Stop,” Knox said, intervening. “Cobb?”

  “Yes, my son?”

  “Go somewhere in this podunk town and buy something off the rack. I don’t care if it’s black, white, pink or green. Just get yourself in a fucking suit. And may the good Lord have mercy on your wretched soul.”

  “Thy will be done,” Cobb said, bowing out toward the door.

  Giles reached for a newspaper on the table and started reading it.

  “And make it quick,” Knox said, lighting up a smoke. “We’ve got an aerial glimpse coming.”

  Giles and Cobb halted their actions. They both noticed how Knox’s hand trembled when he took a drag off the cigarette. The pair exchanged concerned glances before going on about their business.

  Neither one of them had ever seen Knox tremble before.

 
; <> <>

  Makar peered around the ragged interior of an abandoned, dilapidated storehouse on the outskirts of town. The aged structure stood adjacent to railroad tracks and amid bare deciduous trees. An unopened portable radio set waited for his use on the floor next to him. It looked like a sturdy suitcase.

  A gratifying sense of nostalgia gripped Makar. The place reminded him of his glorious role in the defense of Stalingrad. How he had loved killing Germans. And Russian cowards who fled from battle. The clamor of a passing train rattled the building some, but this just seemed to please him even more.

  Stepping up to a blemished window that held no promise of budging open, Makar opted for the next best way to view the outdoors from its location. He retrieved a short segment of sturdy metal pipe from the grubby floor and smashed away the window’s upper portion of tarnished glass.

  Blue sky now revealed itself. Satisfied with his work, he tossed the pipe aside and dusted off his hands. After Makar lit up a cigarette, he used a pair of binoculars to aid his unsullied view out the window.

  Other perimeter windows still awaited Makar’s special touch. Once he tended to them, he expected their gaps would further contribute to him witnessing reported American technological advances first hand.

  <> <>

  Cobb found what he sought in a nearby thrift store. Not quite black, charcoal gray would have to do. Approaching the counter to pay, he cast an eyeball on the barely twenty-year-old stacked clerk with a classy chassis. Cobb felt sympathetic—among other things—for the hottie who seemed to endure with all the politeness in the world a shopper named Betty, a white haired intermeddler who sang about some strangeness “Chuck and the boys had just seen up in the sky.”

  “Oh my,” the clerk said.

  Her sexy, breathy voice aroused Cobb’s interest in her even more.