cancer…” Here Beck paused dramatically—he was very good at dramatic pauses. “And,” he continued, “prevent or cure obesity, prevent aging … How about a skinny pill, or a pill to keep you young? Would you take such a drug? If so, how much would you pay to get it?”
After another little pause, because he was a trained broadcaster, Beck added, almost as an afterthought, “Of course, the government had the Roswell saucer under lock and key at Area Fifty-one, a top-secret base in Nevada, since 1947, and apparently did not investigate the database. Or did they? Would they tell us ?”
So it was that Glenn Beck lit the fuse and tiptoed away, out of our story.
The stolen saucer went right back onto Page One.
The air force denied mining secrets from the Roswell saucer’s computer, but no one believed them. Members of Congress demanded an investigation. The AARP filed a Freedom of Information request. Packs of hungry trial lawyers began running ads on television and radio, searching for diseased plaintiffs for lawsuits against the government. The old and the fat also felt better now that they might be victims; class-action lawsuits were filed by the dozens all over the nation.
Watching the frenzy on television, the president asked, “Who is Adam Solo?”
* * *
The FBI soon found that nothing was happening on the Cantrell farm in Missouri, except the Cantrells went to the grocery store occasionally. Either Egg or Rip drove Egg’s old pickup and came with a list. Once Charley Pine went to the beauty shop for a haircut and ’do. Rip dropped her off, went to the grocery store, and picked her up after she was beautified.
The St. Louis FBI office was up to its eyeballs investigating the usual bank robberies and corrupt politicians, plus a local Yemeni illegal immigrant who wanted to commit an act of jihad that would earn him a ticket to paradise, and two financial advisers who had been running little Ponzi schemes, enriching themselves at the expense of dentists and car dealers who wanted at least a ten percent return on their investments. The special agent in charge of the FBI office was never told that the Cantrell farm surveillance had been ordered by the White House, but even if she had been, the Cantrell surveillance didn’t have a case number, and no Justice Department attorney was breathing down her neck about it. So, after reading reports about grocery store and beauty shop visits, she assigned her agents elsewhere.
Consequently, two weeks after the Roswell saucer was stolen from the deck of Atlantic Queen, no one was watching when Adam Solo walked up to the gate of the Cantrell farm, climbed over and, with his backpack slung over one shoulder, continued on along the well-worn gravel road toward the house. He was wearing jeans and a set of leather hiking boots, a sweater and, atop the sweater, a jacket.
Solo swung along with a steady, miles-eating gait, one that had carried him along the roads of the earth for a long, long time. Today the earth smelled rich and pungent. The trees still had a few brown leaves remaining on their stark, dark limbs. Squirrels fought for territory amid the fallen leaves on the ground. A high, thin cirrus layer diffusing the sunlight promised a change in the weather.
There had been other trails through the forest, and he and his companions had run along them, free as only wild creatures can be.
One such day he recalled vividly, because it had also been in autumn, after the leaves had fallen and before the snows came. They were after elk, big animals with lots of meat that would keep them through the long, vicious winter when the rivers and streams froze and the forests were choked with snow.
The sky promised snow then too, so they were in a hurry to reach the elk meadows. Consequently they ran into an ambush; two men were dead in as many seconds as arrows filled the air, and war cries, unexpected howls of glee that froze the blood and paralyzed the nervous system
After another little pause, because he was a trained broadcaster, Beck added, almost as an afterthought, “Of course, the government had the Roswell saucer under lock and key at Area Fifty-one, a top-secret base in Nevada, since 1947, and apparently did not investigate the database. Or did they? Would they tell us ?”
So it was that Glenn Beck lit the fuse and tiptoed away, out of our story.
The stolen saucer went right back onto Page One.
The air force denied mining secrets from the Roswell saucer’s computer, but no one believed them. Members of Congress demanded an investigation. The AARP filed a Freedom of Information request. Packs of hungry trial lawyers began running ads on television and radio, searching for diseased plaintiffs for lawsuits against the government. The old and the fat also felt better now that they might be victims; class-action lawsuits were filed by the dozens all over the nation.
Watching the frenzy on television, the president asked, “Who is Adam Solo?”
* * *
The FBI soon found that nothing was happening on the Cantrell farm in Missouri, except the Cantrells went to the grocery store occasionally. Either Egg or Rip drove Egg’s old pickup and came with a list. Once Charley Pine went to the beauty shop for a haircut and ’do. Rip dropped her off, went to the grocery store, and picked her up after she was beautified.
The St. Louis FBI office was up to its eyeballs investigating the usual bank robberies and corrupt politicians, plus a local Yemeni illegal immigrant who wanted to commit an act of jihad that would earn him a ticket to paradise, and two financial advisers who had been running little Ponzi schemes, enriching themselves at the expense of dentists and car dealers who wanted at least a ten percent return on their investments. The special agent in charge of the FBI office was never told that the Cantrell farm surveillance had been ordered by the White House, but even if she had been, the Cantrell surveillance didn’t have a case number, and no Justice Department attorney was breathing down her neck about it. So, after reading reports about grocery store and beauty shop visits, she assigned her agents elsewhere.
Consequently, two weeks after the Roswell saucer was stolen from the deck of Atlantic Queen, no one was watching when Adam Solo walked up to the gate of the Cantrell farm, climbed over and, with his backpack slung over one shoulder, continued on along the well-worn gravel road toward the house. He was wearing jeans and a set of leather hiking boots, a sweater and, atop the sweater, a jacket.
Solo swung along with a steady, miles-eating gait, one that had carried him along the roads of the earth for a long, long time. Today the earth smelled rich and pungent. The trees still had a few brown leaves remaining on their stark, dark limbs. Squirrels fought for territory amid the fallen leaves on the ground. A high, thin cirrus layer diffusing the sunlight promised a change in the weather.
There had been other trails through the forest, and he and his companions had run along them, free as only wild creatures can be.
One such day he recalled vividly, because it had also been in autumn, after the leaves had fallen and before the snows came. They were after elk, big animals with lots of meat that would keep them through the long, vicious winter when the rivers and streams froze and the forests were choked with snow.
The sky promised snow then too, so they were in a hurry to reach the elk meadows. Consequently they ran into an ambush; two men were dead in as many seconds as arrows filled the air, and war cries, unexpected howls of glee that froze the blood and paralyzed the nervous system
Similar Books
