Majestic by Whitley Strieber Page B
Authors: Whitley Strieber
Tags: Fiction, General, Suspense, Science-Fiction, Media Tie-In, Life on other planets, Unidentified flying objects, Body; Mind & Spirit, UFOs & Extraterrestrials, Space Vehicles
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his right foot out with a loud smack.
The concrete apron of the runway started just the other side of a chain-link fence. On it were six jeeps lined up in a neat row, waiting to ferry crew to the planes, which stood in the distance shimmering with heat. There were no flights planned for this afternoon, and the line was quiet.
Hesseltine fitted his aviation glasses to his face and looked longingly toward the rows of planes. Slowly he walked toward the car. In his mind he was, no doubt, running down a checklist, starting motors.
The car was hot to touch, hotter to sit in. With a long sigh he started it and nosed it out of the lot.
Walters's Jeep pulled in behind them, driven by a grim-faced PFC Winters, who had been dragooned into the job.
Once they were on the two-lane blacktop that led over to Roswell, Hesseltine lit a cigarette and tuned in a radio station. A show called Sundown Roundup was on, and they listened in silence. He knew that Gray didn't particularly like country music, and also that he was too polite to twist the dial if Hesseltine appeared to be enjoying himself. Hesseltine snapped his fingers in time to the thin caterwauling of a lonesome cowboy.
He hated the goddamn West. He would gladly have given an entire paycheck for a hoagie.
They drove through the town, past the restaurants, the bars, the general stores, the offices of the Daily Record. Hesseltine glanced buck with longing as they left the last of the bars behind. He was a man for a tall, cool one. He had a possibility of a date tonight, and he was damned if he was going to waste time out on some godforsaken ranch with Gray and Walters when he Could be dancing with a WAAF at the Nixon Bar.
He nosed the Chevy wagon to the sidewalk in front of Wooten's. The Jeep came in beside them. Gray got out of the wagon and trotted into
the store.
Hesseltine sat staring after him. Soon Walters came up to the car and leaned his head in. "Whaddaya think?"
"Wild goose chase. Some private plane went down in a storm."
"Funny place for a private plane to be. Middle of nowhere." "Flying Albuquerque-Roswell. Blown off course a few miles. Makes perfect sense."
Walters regarded him, nodding slowly. Compared to Walters, Gray was a real card. "Could be Russian," he said in dark tones. "Up from Mexico, or even from the coast. A recce plane launched from a sub. After a look at the 509th." "Didn't make it."
"How do we know? Maybe it had a good look and radioed everything back to the sub."
It struck Hesseltine as damned unlikely and he said so. "Well, Lieutenant, you may be right. But look at the stakes. Stalin wants, more than anything else in the world, to know exactly where the 509th is located, and its immediate orders." "But he can't get here. Surely not, Mr. Walters." "That isn't a CIC problem. You S-2s are supposed to be savvy in that department."
Major Gray came out of the store. "That's a good man, that Bob Ungar. I like men like him. Honest as the day is long. Friendly as hell." He held up a hand-drawn map. "He can't lead us out, he's got too much to do here in town. But he gave me very explicit instructions to his house. His wife and kids are there."
The tiny convoy started up again. A thought crossed Hesseltine's mind. "What kind of kids?"
"Daughter, he mentioned. Son he has with him." "Daughter?"
"A kid, Lieutenant. Twelve years old."
Hesseltine got quiet.
Beyond the clutch of Mexican shacks that ended the town Hesseltine picked up speed. Unable to stand any more of the whining music he spun the dial. A bad dance band pounded away at "Begin the Beguine." Father Coughlin screamed over waves of static. A woman explained that certain cactuses were edible. Somebody talked about how the DuBarry Success Course could bring more dates, more fun. You followed at home the same methods used at the Richard Hudnut Salon in New York.
Hesseltine spoke longingly about a girl in a pale gray suit tapping along in heels. He wanted that sweet and anonymous image with an
The concrete apron of the runway started just the other side of a chain-link fence. On it were six jeeps lined up in a neat row, waiting to ferry crew to the planes, which stood in the distance shimmering with heat. There were no flights planned for this afternoon, and the line was quiet.
Hesseltine fitted his aviation glasses to his face and looked longingly toward the rows of planes. Slowly he walked toward the car. In his mind he was, no doubt, running down a checklist, starting motors.
The car was hot to touch, hotter to sit in. With a long sigh he started it and nosed it out of the lot.
Walters's Jeep pulled in behind them, driven by a grim-faced PFC Winters, who had been dragooned into the job.
Once they were on the two-lane blacktop that led over to Roswell, Hesseltine lit a cigarette and tuned in a radio station. A show called Sundown Roundup was on, and they listened in silence. He knew that Gray didn't particularly like country music, and also that he was too polite to twist the dial if Hesseltine appeared to be enjoying himself. Hesseltine snapped his fingers in time to the thin caterwauling of a lonesome cowboy.
He hated the goddamn West. He would gladly have given an entire paycheck for a hoagie.
They drove through the town, past the restaurants, the bars, the general stores, the offices of the Daily Record. Hesseltine glanced buck with longing as they left the last of the bars behind. He was a man for a tall, cool one. He had a possibility of a date tonight, and he was damned if he was going to waste time out on some godforsaken ranch with Gray and Walters when he Could be dancing with a WAAF at the Nixon Bar.
He nosed the Chevy wagon to the sidewalk in front of Wooten's. The Jeep came in beside them. Gray got out of the wagon and trotted into
the store.
Hesseltine sat staring after him. Soon Walters came up to the car and leaned his head in. "Whaddaya think?"
"Wild goose chase. Some private plane went down in a storm."
"Funny place for a private plane to be. Middle of nowhere." "Flying Albuquerque-Roswell. Blown off course a few miles. Makes perfect sense."
Walters regarded him, nodding slowly. Compared to Walters, Gray was a real card. "Could be Russian," he said in dark tones. "Up from Mexico, or even from the coast. A recce plane launched from a sub. After a look at the 509th." "Didn't make it."
"How do we know? Maybe it had a good look and radioed everything back to the sub."
It struck Hesseltine as damned unlikely and he said so. "Well, Lieutenant, you may be right. But look at the stakes. Stalin wants, more than anything else in the world, to know exactly where the 509th is located, and its immediate orders." "But he can't get here. Surely not, Mr. Walters." "That isn't a CIC problem. You S-2s are supposed to be savvy in that department."
Major Gray came out of the store. "That's a good man, that Bob Ungar. I like men like him. Honest as the day is long. Friendly as hell." He held up a hand-drawn map. "He can't lead us out, he's got too much to do here in town. But he gave me very explicit instructions to his house. His wife and kids are there."
The tiny convoy started up again. A thought crossed Hesseltine's mind. "What kind of kids?"
"Daughter, he mentioned. Son he has with him." "Daughter?"
"A kid, Lieutenant. Twelve years old."
Hesseltine got quiet.
Beyond the clutch of Mexican shacks that ended the town Hesseltine picked up speed. Unable to stand any more of the whining music he spun the dial. A bad dance band pounded away at "Begin the Beguine." Father Coughlin screamed over waves of static. A woman explained that certain cactuses were edible. Somebody talked about how the DuBarry Success Course could bring more dates, more fun. You followed at home the same methods used at the Richard Hudnut Salon in New York.
Hesseltine spoke longingly about a girl in a pale gray suit tapping along in heels. He wanted that sweet and anonymous image with an
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