few hours the troops had picked through the site, loaded a bunch of debris onto their tarp-covered trucks, and driven off. Brazel watched the convoy disappear over the horizon and took a piece of metal out of his pocket. It was as thin as the tinfoil in a pack of cigarettes and just as light. but there was something strange about it. He was a strong man with hands like vises, but as hard as he tried, he couldn't bend it at all.
Over the next two days, Brazel observed army personnel shuttling back and forth to the crash site. He was told to keep his distance. On Tuesday morning he was sure he spotted the star of a brigadier general hurtling by in a jeep. Inevitably, most of the town knew that something was going on up at the Foster Ranch, and by Tuesday afternoon the army couldn't keep a lid on the story any longer. Colonel Blanchard issued an official USAAF press release acknowledging that a local rancher had found a flying disc. It had been recovered by the base Intelligence Office and transferred to a higher headquarters. The Roswell Daily Record blasted out a special edition that evening and the media frenzy was on.
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
Over the next two days, Brazel observed army personnel shuttling back and forth to the crash site. He was told to keep his distance. On Tuesday morning he was sure he spotted the star of a brigadier general hurtling by in a jeep. Inevitably, most of the town knew that something was going on up at the Foster Ranch, and by Tuesday afternoon the army couldn't keep a lid on the story any longer. Colonel Blanchard issued an official USAAF press release acknowledging that a local rancher had found a flying disc. It had been recovered by the base Intelligence Office and transferred to a higher headquarters. The Roswell Daily Record blasted out a special edition that evening and the media frenzy was on.
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
Similar Books
