Glimpse, Page 2

  “Could be the Reds, if you ask me,” Betty said.

  And yet, no one did, Cobb thought.

  Noticing Cobb, the clerk grinned and excused herself from Betty, who furrowed her brow at him. “Good afternoon, Father,” the clerk said.

  “My child, good afternoon to you as well,” Cobb said, ignoring Betty. His voice resonated with divine wholesomeness.

  “Have you seen ‘em?” Betty said, ensuring her place in the conversation.

  Cobb regretfully withdrew his gaze from the clerk and peered at Betty’s durable features. “I’m sorry, I don’t know to what you refer kind ma’am.” Cobb tilted his attention to the clerk before he even finished speaking to Betty.

  “The silvery discs,” Betty said.

  Cobb’s eyes bulged. But a soldier’s discipline kicked in quick, restraining his reaction. He aimed his poised features at Betty. “Discs?”

  “Folks are seeing some buzzing around,” Betty said, pointing up.

  “You don’t say?” Cobb paused while Betty nodded, and then he added, “Well, have you seen them?”

  Betty shook her head no.

  Cobb smiled at the clerk. “And you, child?”

  “Oh no. I don’t know what I’d do if I saw such a frightful sight,” the clerk said, trembling. She laid her hands on the counter.

  Cobb leaned in, resting one of his hands on hers, and enjoying the sight of her cleavage in the process. “There, there. Perhaps it’s merely the good Lord blowing leaves about. Or maybe tufts of harmless desert milk weed.”

  Betty rolled her eyes.

  “Or,” Cobb continued, “the planet Venus. I believe even I glimpsed that heavenly sight on my drive into town today.”

  The clerk relaxed under Cobb’s persuasion. He smiled again at her, and then he peered at Betty. “Maybe suggest those explanations to folks who see these things. May help to calm fears and lessen any mass hysteria.”

  Betty narrowed her suspicious gaze on him. “Humph. You stayin’ in town long, Padre?”

  “No ma’am, just passing through. Heading over Tuba City way to do the Lord’s good work among the… Among the… Uh…”

  “Navajos?” Betty said.

  “Yes. The Navajos,” Cobb said, smiling.

  “That’s so sweet,” the clerk said.

  “Well, when you’re called to serve, you go and do the bidding of higher authority wherever guided in the best way you can.”

  The clerk set free a sigh of love for Cobb’s apparent devoted holiness. But Betty just raised a wary eyebrow at him.

  After paying for the slightly used dark gray suit and bidding the pair adieu, Cobb sauntered through the thrift store’s parking lot to his government sedan. As he propped open the car’s door, he noticed the rustle of nearby leaves. His gaze followed them skyward.

  And that’s when his sight caught hold of something else.

  Cobb’s features slackened, he swallowed hard. While the wind fluttered the leaves in one direction, his eyes—which peered high above toward the altitude where wisps of cirrus flew—tracked the sky in entirely the opposite direction.

  <> <>

  “Been meaning to ask. Where’s the rest of the team?” Cobb said, back in the motel room with Knox and Giles.

  Knox rubbed his eyes and sighed. “Anticipated AOR for this glimpse is larger than past ones. From Dulce to Durango, Shiprock to here, we’re spread thin.”

  “Sounds like the boys in the lab might be getting a little carried away,” Giles said.

  “Like playing with matches just wasn’t enough for some of the kids,” Cobb said. “They add a gas can to their fun?”

  The flame from Knox’s lighter flickered high. He lit a cigarette, sucked in a deep drag, and then exhaled. “Two days, gentlemen, and we’ll be done.”

  Giles and Cobb detected Knox’s unusual strain again.

  “This one’s even got you on edge like no other,” Cobb said.

  “AOR and duration are all unlike past ones,” Giles added. “That it?”

  Knox clenched his jaw. Staring straight ahead and avoiding eye contact with both men, he said, “Giles. Get on the box. Transmit a spot report to Zenith. Advise aerial glimpse is confirmed and underway. Provide Cobb’s initial fine points.” He paused, took another drag, exhaled, and then said, “Target attribution unknown.”

  <> <>

  Farmington, March 16, 1950

  Giles sat surrounded by radio equipment inside the cramped panel van’s rear compartment. The gear hummed and spat out periodic crackle. He concentrated as he listened close to the traffic flowing through the earphones positioned on his head.

  It wasn’t long before his features intensified as spot reports from other team members concerning airborne phenomena zipped across the radio waves. His face twitched, and then his eyes bulged. He scribbled in haste a note on a paper pad. A map of the U.S. Four Corners region attached to the sidewall nearby drew his gaze. His eyes danced at multiple points around the map. He shook his head in disbelief and expelled a heavy sigh.

  An incoming transmission for him jerked his attention. Putting a hand to an earphone, he listened close and nodded his understanding. He scribbled more notes. After finishing, he transmitted a message.

  “Affirmative Zenith. Golf One will comply.”

  <> <>

  Inside the motel room, Knox sat in the wobbly chair and smoked a cigarette. Behind his faraway gaze, a long-suffering mind wandered down traumatic pathways. The rising ache in his chest—only one of several associated physical symptoms—always accompanied these horrifying journeys. He rubbed the space between his breasts without realizing it.

  An empty pill bottle rested on its side on the table beside Knox. The doctors—and their top-secret drugs—supplied by higher authority had seemingly failed to protect him from psychological sorties into a war that had ended almost five years ago. The battles for Knox most certainly still raged on.

  He twitched at the explosions rising inside his head. His mouth gaped open and his head shook in fright at the rageful wailing of diving Stukas unleashing their whistling bombs.

  Knox shot up a shaky arm to protect himself from the incoming Hell.

  “No!” he shouted.

  He stood, both arms protecting his head. The abrupt movements helped shake off the demons. He caught his breath and gained control of his limbs.

  But anger rose within.

  He squashed out the stubby bit of smoldering tobacco in the ashtray, then grabbed and flung it. The cheap brass container full of butts cracked against the wall. It plunged onto the worn carpet, sputtering its burnt out waste like a sick, insignificant contrivance.

  A knock on the door jerked Knox’s head toward it. Then his sudden concerned features targeted the pill bottle on the table. He concealed it before Giles entered the room, but the ashtray mess remained.

  Giles updated Knox on the radio traffic and latest instructions from higher authority. Knox took a deep breath and pondered the information in his subordinate’s notes. While Giles waited for a response, he spotted the clutter on the floor.

  Knox noticed, and said, “Missed the trash can.”

  Giles appeared unconvinced.

  “Make sure Cobb receives the latest protocol,” Knox said, checking his watch. He strode to the door.

  “And you?” Giles said, scrutinizing his superior.

  Waving the notepaper, Knox said, “Off to check the source of these radio signals Zenith provided.”

  Giles raised an inquisitive eyebrow. “You want help?”

  But Knox closed the door behind him, leaving Giles alone and with no response to his question.

  <> <>

  Armed with the latest disinformation protocol, Cobb cruised the boulevard in his government sedan probing for targets of opportunity. Intermittent sightings of drivers rubbernecking in their cars—parked and otherwise—undulated anxiousness through him. Increased daylight sightings held too much ambiguity over mission success.

  He soon spotted a small cr
owd gawking and pointing skyward. The group gathered in a parking lot adjacent to street-side businesses. Cobb parked around the corner and casually advanced on foot.

  Nearing the collection of muttering sightseers, Cobb took a cleansing breath and then allowed his dark, sunglass-shaded gaze to drift upward.

  “Never seen anything like ’em,” a postal carrier said.

  “Heard someone say it could be milk weed blowing about,” a middle-aged businessman said.

  Cobb allowed himself a grin at that comment.

  “Cotton fuzz is what a cop called it,” a young grease monkey said.

  Cobb cleared his throat, and then said, “You know gents, when I served in the Office of Naval Research…” He paused.

  The momentary lapse achieved the desired result. Folks around Cobb lowered and settled their eyes on him.

  “We launched these balloons,” Cobb said, continuing. “Called them Skyhook. High altitude research. Very high altitude. Sometimes, they’d fly so high, their envelopes would burst and fragment.” The quiet group around Cobb gradually ascended their views again. “Those falling fragments looked a lot like what’s up there.”

  The middle-aged businessman furrowed his brow at the sky, and then peered at Cobb. “A balloon gone to pieces?”

  “Just saying,” Cobb said, noncommittal. “May be a disintegrating Skyhook.” He waited a moment, and then sauntered away, saying, “Y’all have a good day now.”

  A wake of misgivings rippled behind him.

  <> <>

  The late afternoon sun draped its dusky rays over a stealthy Knox. On foot, he maneuvered among thick-trunked, barren trees near railroad tracks on the edge of town. Occasional pauses provided him with peeks through petite binoculars. One of those quick looks revealed an antiquated storehouse that appeared vacant.

  Hunkering down, he studied the structure and discerned a couple of broken windows. After several minutes, he noticed a familiar sight that prompted an addictive urge within him. What looked like cigarette smoke floated out one of the windows.

  Interior darkness failed to reveal a person, but the sight of occasional puffs of fleeting white vapor combined with the knowledge of Zenith’s intercepted radio signals confirmed all Knox needed to know.

  He allowed his gaze to drift upward, where he squinted into the heights far beyond spindly tree branches. His head tracked the sky, searching…

  But he saw nothing.

  Settling his sights onto the abandoned storehouse again, Knox heard the low rumbling of an approaching train. He nodded, granting silent permission to himself to proceed on this particular component of his mission.

  <> <>

  Farmington, March 17, 1950

  Apprehensive silence overwhelmed Giles and Cobb as they stood next to the panel van in the motel parking lot, gazing upward. The vast intrusion into the clear blue sky and its occasional wispy cirrus far exceeded the boundaries of their unique experiences.

  Lowering their heads to gain some relief, both swallowed hard. Their strained sideways glances at each other found shared ashen complexions.

  “My God,” Cobb said, muttering.

  “I should get on the box,” Giles said, tugging at discipline from the depths of his core.

  Cobb responded with a feeble nod.

  “You should get back to delivering your messages, too,” Giles said.

  Cobb tried to speak, but the words failed to flow from his half-open, dry mouth. After a moment, he shut it in defeat and peered away from Giles, ashamed.

  “Pull it together, Cobb.”

  Staring at the ground, Cobb said, “How can the protocols possibly work against something like that?” His voice trembled.

  Giles aimed his view skyward again. Shock restored itself on his face. His eyes panned a vast arc across the heavens. After finishing, he lowered his gaze and found Cobb’s anxious features again.

  Giles reached way down into his gut for that discipline again. “Lean on your training and just plant the seeds of doubt,” he said. “People will choose the prosaic over the profound. History and higher authority will help tend to it. These things will be dismissed, if not long forgotten.”

  Cobb glared at Giles, his faith still failing him.

  <> <>

  Knox drove his government issued, black Ford sedan with authority and resolution to address the wayward Calabacita. But a brief stop for a traffic light interrupted his clear-headed sense.

  He spotted several pedestrians gazing skyward, and much more than just curious expressions filled their features. Pain in his chest rose when he saw a little girl with curly hair press against her father’s legs. She reached up and clasped his hand with both of hers. Fright maligned her small, innocent features.

  Knox swallowed hard. He resisted the urge to glimpse the sight overwhelming the child and the others. Concerned he’d lose his capacity to act, Knox tore his eyes away from the terror-struck girl and focused on the road straight ahead.

  He drove on.

  Nearing the abandoned storehouse, he parked far enough away to prevent Calabacita’s discovery of his vehicle. On foot, he again resisted gazing upward, and he maneuvered using the clamor of a passing train to shield the sounds of his approach to the structure.

  As expected, puffs of smoke drifted out one of the broken windows. The breach hung on a side of the building opposite to Knox’s infiltration. But with the train’s ruckus diminishing, he opted for a quick dash across the final, short distance. Taking a quick breath, Knox rushed out from behind the cover and concealment of a thick tree trunk. Upon reaching the storehouse, he pressed his back up against its grimy, timeworn exterior wall near a rickety open doorway.

  His next movement was unintended. Just a reflex, really. But having stopped in his new position, Knox the soldier scanned his surroundings. And before he realized it, his eyes shifted skyward, and that’s when fear slugged him hard. The unbelievable sight filling the blue above plunged his mind into the war…

  In an instant, Stukas rained Hell onto him again. Horrifying death screams resounded in his ears. His fingers clawed into bloody soil in a desperate bid to escape. Shredded body parts hurled through the air and splattered onto the ground around him. Terror-filled faces of his buddies gawked at him. Until the dreadful engineering of war obliterated them all from the battlefield and they existed no more…

  Knox’s eyes danced, and he pressed harder against the wall. His head jerked back and forth. The sudden image of the frightened little girl on the sidewalk appeared to him. She clasped her father’s hand and pressed against his leg, seeking his salvation.

  Knox sucked in a deep breath, and exhaled.

  An inner sense of resolve ignited within the depths of his broken spirit in that moment. And as it propagated and filled his emptiness, Knox established a beachhead on reality again. He gazed upward, clenching his jaw. His gut sank, but he glared in defiance at the vision above.

  Tactical, stealthy movements followed. And he penetrated the dim storehouse unseen.

  <> <>

  Makar grinned and felt warm inside as he photographed the sky through a broken window. He had watched the firmament enough to glimpse something that actually evoked a sense of pride and honor. Although still uncertain to what he held witness, at least it may be Russian, he had thought.

  After snapping a few more photographs, he released his camera. It dangled from his neck by a strap. He blew a chill away from his hands with a few breaths. Stomping his feet for a bit returned circulation to his legs. He lit a cigarette, warmed his hands in his coat pockets, and admired the view again.

  The sound of Russian spoken from behind him, however, diminished his moment of satisfaction.

  <> <>

  “I have a message from the United States Government,” Knox said. He held a large manila envelope in his left hand. His right side and hand angled away from his adversary.

  Makar stood upright at the sound of Knox’s voice. He released his cigarette and squished it out. After a moment, he
responded in his mother tongue. “Your Russian is very good.” He sighed, and then turned around. Facing Knox, he said in impeccable English, “But unnecessary since we are in your country and not mine.”

  Knox stretched out his left arm. Makar’s gaze remained steady and level as he withdrew his hands from his coat pockets and retrieved the envelope from Knox.

  Before opening it, Makar said, “Have you seen the sky today?”

  A subdued grunt acknowledged the question.

  The Russian grinned. “There appears to be a red leader among them.”

  Stone-faced silence met the comment.

  “I don’t know what it all means,” Makar said. “But I do take comfort in that out of hundreds filling the sky, they follow a red leader.” Watching Knox’s unflinching features, Makar’s grin trailed off. He focused on opening the envelope and sliding out a photograph from within it.

  And that’s when Makar flinched, slight as it was.

  The image conveyed that of a suicide. It included graphic details of a certain bearded and bespectacled research scientist with unkempt hair whose brains and bone matter had splattered across a pillow from a single gunshot wound to his temple.

  “The pressures of top secret work can lead to rash and lethal behavior,” Knox said.

  Makar tucked the photograph inside the envelope. He handed it back to Knox, half-smiling.

  “You have twenty-four hours to depart my country,” Knox said. “Your gear and camera stay, of course.” Knox half smiled and stepped back a few.

  Makar gazed around at the dilapidated interior. After his eyes finished their journey, he said, “I like this old, worn out building. It reminds me of the war. The defense of Stalingrad. Did you fight in the war?”

  Knox stood silent.

  “That is fine, you do not have to answer my question.” Makar paused. He nodded and said, “You did. I can tell.”

  “Twenty-four hours, Makar.”