The Eisenhower Enigma

By John Romero

The year, 1953. Science fiction is now secret and immediate reality. The toughest general who ever lived is president of the United States. His only weapons --The US Air Force, the mysterious Majestic 12, and Oracle Alpha, a young woman of strange gifts. Beyond them all, his own intellect and wealth of military experience must prepare him, must ready the world, for a confrontation and future never imagined. The Eisenhower Enigma.

I always wanted a soldiers life. The men I trained during World War I shipped to France immediately. My orders finally came in October, 1918. I longed to lead my unit into action. The war ended seven days before I was to sail for France. Now, my combat moment has come again.

President Dwight D. Eisenhower

Forty F-86 Sabrejet fighters stand ready to attack on Feb. 20. Since I gave the orders the dazzling capabilities of the enemy craft and the reach of their weapons has gnawed at my mind.

General Nathan Twining, USAF

My life changed in 1952, when General Twining sent me to Duke University to be tested for intuitive abilities by Dr. Joseph Rhine. On our last day I asked Dr. Rhine what hed tell the Air Force. Just what you intended, he said. I smiled. Free at last.

Oracle Alpha

The code word Valentine ripped through Colonel Torres earphones. Two ship integrity, he shouted. Kill the lights, follow me down to 500 feet. The Sabres moved as one. But against an enemy ship ten times as fast, his stomach tightened as he prepared for his own death.

Lt. Colonel Mike Torres, USAF

• Language: English
• Publisher: Abbott Press
• Release date: Jun 6, 2013
• ISBN: 9781458208088

John Romero

John Romero has written for AP, UPI and Sports Illustrated, and for ten years was sports editor of Nevada’s largest newspaper, the Las Vegas Review-Journal. He has written more than 400 magazine articles and columns, and his two hardcover books on selling have become twin bibles for the casino industry. He ran 16 marathons including Boston, and lives in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains. Las Vegas, The Untold Stories. is his third nonfiction book, soon to be followed by his first novel, The Eisenhower Enigma.

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Copyright © 2013 John Romero.

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Front Cover Image

Bob Orsillo, 2013

Used under license from shutterstock.com

ISBN:978-1-4582-0808-8 (e)

Abbott Press rev. date: 6/4/2013

Contents

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Prologue

1 Edwards Air Force Base, Mojave Desert, California 9:46 p.m., Sunday, Feb. 14, 1954

2 Washington, D.C. Monday, Feb. 15

3 Washington, D.C. Monday, Feb. 15

4 Edwards Air Force Base, California Monday, Feb. 15

5 Edwards Air Force Base, California Monday, Feb. 15

6 The White House Monday, Feb. 15

7 The White House Monday, Feb. 15

8 The Oval Office Monday, Feb. 15

9 The Oval Office Monday, Feb. 15

10 The White House Monday, Feb. 15

11 The Oval Office Monday, Feb. 15

12 Edwards Air Force Base, California The winter of 1952

13 General Twining’s office, Washington, D.C. 11:22 a.m., Tuesday, Feb. 16

14 North of Mountain Home, Idaho, AFB Tuesday, Feb. 16

15 The White House Tuesday, Feb. 16

16 The Washington Office, Dr. Vannevar Bush Tuesday, Feb.

17 Site R, Raven Rock Mountain, Pennsylvania 8:20 a.m., Wednesday, Feb. 17

18 Site R, Raven Rock Mountain, Pennsylvania Wednesday, Feb. 17

19 Site R, Raven Rock Mountain, Pennsylvania Wednesday, Feb. 17

20 General Twining’s Office, Washington D.C. Wednesday, Feb. 17

21 The White House Wednesday, Feb. 17

22 The White House Wednesday, Feb. 17

23 En Route to Palm Springs Wednesday, Feb. 17

24 Approaching Palm Springs Wednesday, Feb. 17

25 Smoke Tree Ranch Wednesday, Feb. 17

26 The Tamarisk Golf Club, Palm Springs 9:00 a.m., Thursday, Feb. 18

27 Smoke Tree Ranch Thursday, Feb. 18

28 Smoke Tree Ranch Thursday, Feb. 18

29 El Mirador Hotel Friday, Feb. 19

30 Edwards Air Force Base Friday, Feb. 19

31 The Eisenhower Field Office, Palm Springs 7:32 a.m., Saturday, Feb. 20

32 The Helms Home 6 p.m., Saturday, Feb. 20

33 En Route to Edwards Air Force Base Saturday, Feb. 20

34 Over Victor Valley, California Saturday, Feb. 20

35 George Air Force Base, California Saturday, Feb. 20

36 Edwards AFB Tower Saturday, Feb. 20

37 The Northeast Perimeter of Edwards Air Force Base Saturday, Feb. 20

38 Edwards Air Force Base, California Saturday, Feb. 20

39 The Map Room, Edwards AFB Saturday, Feb. 20

40 General Twining’s Office at Edwards Saturday, Feb. 20

41 George Air Force Base, California Saturday, Feb. 20

42 With the George AFB Sabres Saturday, Feb. 20

43 Aboard the George AFB Sabres Saturday, Feb. 20

44 The Map Room, Edwards Air Force Base Saturday, Feb. 20

45 General Twining’s Office at Edwards 12:02 a.m., Sunday, Feb. 21

46 James Hagerty’s office at the El Mirador Saturday, Feb. 21

47 The Map Room at Edwards Sunday, Feb. 21

48 Palm Springs, California 9:20 a.m., Sunday, Feb. 21

49 The Crash Site Near Black Hawk Wednesday, Feb. 24

50 The White House March 7, 1954

Epilogue

Author’s Note

The Players

Titles by John Romero

Las Vegas, The Untold Stories

Secrets of Casino Marketing

Casino Marketing

Dedication

This book is dedicated to Marian Pat Nice,

as sweet and gentle as fresh cut flowers,

stubborn when she’s protecting her man,

she can thrill the world when she smiles

Acknowledgments

Two of the many authors to write about Dwight D.Eisenhower were Stephen Ambrose, in 1949, with Eisenhower, Soldier and President, and Ike’s son, John S. D. Eisenhower in 2003, with General Ike, A Personal Reminiscence. The subtitle of the Ambrose book was The Renowned One-Volume Life. It contained 635 pages and drew praise from all the world and American leaders of Ike’s time. John’s book was smaller, but was written with a rare clarity and a more intimate picture of the president and general officer he became.

How did I make the president a resolute warrior unafraid to give his life to save his country? He simply showed up in my mind one day with a yearning to fight the battles he missed against men from the stars. On the front cover of The Eisenhower Enigma you’ll see how my wife Robin pictured the enemy, then discovered a perfect print from a terrific artist. She soon surrounded it with a macabre color that will scare your very breath away when you see it. She has been my editor from the beginning of our plunge into the literary world both of us have always wanted.

Yet another handsome lady, Sharon Weinberg, played a magnificent role in bringing the president and his administration into my life. She calls her Denver company Data Navigation, and I was unprepared for the volume of material she brought me. You could hurt your back just lifting it, because it contains not only the president’s own life, but those who surrounded him—cabinet members, senators, congressmen, generals, scientists, fighter pilots who fought in the Korean war, Ben Hogan, Winston Churchill, Wernher von Braun and twenty or thirty more.

Thanks as well to my former secretary, Ellen Toubail, who was always giving me little scraps and notes that for some odd reason always seemed to arrive when I needed them. Also thanks to several airmen who verified Ike preferred his commanders to call him General, just as my story reads. Finally, I decided the battles would be as authentic as I could make them. Since the F-86 fighter (in a number of versions) would be involved I started with the men who had flown them in the Korean war. I met most of them through the inquiring letters I sent, and they responded eagerly.

These remarkable pilots included Joe Baugher and his website on all F-86s including the F-86E-1-NAs. It seemed as if Bill Yoakley, Jim Yealy, Guy Kirkwood, Sam Jackson and Gary Siebold flooded me with mail. Ken Hagemann met Siebold at a Veteran’s Day lunch and immediately wrote me. Several writers sent me pages about the Sidewinder missile. Ken Ewing wrote to tell me he had flown all models of the F-86. Mark Worrick asked his buddy, J.B. Smith to write me. J.B. said he was shot down in an RF-80 before Sabres arrived, and called the 80 pretty primitive. Joan Sell, president of the Sijan Chapter, wrote to tell me her husband could hardly wait for the book. Her husband Bill wrote back that he’d flown the 86-A-B-F-D & H. And Kenny Haverly’s Call Sign was ZomBee.

Just before I began to gather info on the F-86, friend and writer Richard Haines wrote, Advanced Aerial Devices Reported During the Korean War. He graciously let me use a few paragraphs from one of the ground battle scenes in his book, as you’ll see. He made it clear, however, that he is not sold on UFOs as invaders of the earth. I made another big Find in Edwards AFB Historian Raymond L. Puffer, Ph.D. He even verified my writing that planes landing at Edwards usually made long approaches from the Northeast. And when I had a question about Edwards AFB, he had the answer. Thanks, Ray.

Prologue

Palm Springs, Calif. (AP) President Eisenhower died tonight of a heart attack at Palm Springs.

The Associated Press bulletin you’ve just read came from Syracuse, New York, and moved nationwide on the evening of Saturday, Feb. 20, 1954, according to The Diary of James C. Hagerty, Eisenhower’s Press Secretary.

A furious Hagerty wrote, Someone fooling around with teletype. Moved on open state wire. Caused some hell, but AP killed it two minutes later. Called AP New York offices for explanation and to demand a full report.

In Hagerty’s diary, which covered 1954 and 1955, there is no indication he ever received the full report he sought.

After a request from the author of "The Eisenhower Enigma, Associated Press searched its microfilm but found no record of the Eisenhower death bulletin."

End of story? Not quite.

On Wednesday, Feb. 17, 1954, President and Mrs. Eisenhower flew from Washington to Palm Springs, California, for a week-long stay. The president had returned only three days earlier from a vacation in Thomasville, Georgia. To leave almost immediately on a second, previously unscheduled vacation seemed odd to Washington insiders.

On Saturday evening, Feb. 20, following dinner at the Palm Springs home of Paul H. Helms, the president dropped out of sight for about six hours. The Associated Press bulletin announcing his death flashed across the open state wire during this period.

The AP retracted its bulletin at Hagerty’s demand and later issued the following:

Palm Springs, Calif., Feb. 20 (AP) - President Eisenhower chipped a porcelain cap from a tooth tonight and made a hurry-up trip to a dentist for a repair job.

It happened while the president was having dinner with Mrs. Eisenhower at their vacation headquarters at Smoke Tree Ranch. Paul H. Helms drove with the president to a Palm Springs dentist, Dr. F. A. Purcell, who quickly replaced the cap of an upper front tooth.

Eisenhower lost a cap on the same tooth during the presidential campaign.

Yet in 1989, a visit to the Eisenhower Library led respected UFO researcher William L. Moore to write he found no mention of such emergency dental work in the file labeled Dentists, and no follow-up Thank you note as was the president’s custom.

In the same story for the Hollywood, CA, Gazette, Moore said he interviewed Dr. Purcell’s widow, and she could not recall any details of Dr. Purcell’s dental repair work on the president. But she could relate precise details of an outdoor steak fry the following evening where Dr. Purcell was honored as the dentist who treated President Eisenhower.

Moore ended his Gazette story with this: Clearly, something unusual occurred involving the president on the evening of Feb. 20, 1954. Whether it was a trip to the dentist, a trip to see flying saucers or something altogether different, no one can say.

Is it possible Eisenhower was near death and the Associated Press got a tip and ran with the story? Or did Hagerty lie to his diary? And if Hagerty told the truth about the Feb. 20, Eisenhower death bulletin, who removed it from the AP files?

What really happened on the evening of Feb. 20, 1954?

The novel you are about to read began as a rumor in 1954.

Few Americans knew how close earth came to alien conquest.

1

Edwards Air Force Base, Mojave Desert, California

9:46 p.m., Sunday, Feb. 14, 1954

Sergeant Breneman peered into the star-laden evening, started to rise from his chair and stopped midway. What in the hell? he said, spacing his words.

He straightened and grabbed his binoculars. Just look at that son of a bitch. He tore his glasses away in disbelief and whipped them back to his eyes in one movement.

Master Sergeant French looked up from his radar screen. What you got?

Breneman kept his glasses jammed tight against his eyes. An unknown. Flat out movin’.

French said, Nothing on my screen. Then he stood and brought up his own binoculars. What is that thing?

High overhead a dazzling pinpoint of light moved with impossible speed. It flashed across the northeast evening sky past distant Leuhman Ridge—then halted in midair over Haystack Butte with an inexplicable suddenness.

Oh, my God! French whispered. The damn thing is hovering. He reached for the Base Operations telephone, knocked it to the floor and fell to his knees to recover it.

Hold it, man. Breneman’s voice gave way to panic. It’s moving again. Now the son of a bitch is coming right at us!

The light hurtled straight for the control tower at a speed no aircraft on earth could match. French felt his legs go weak. Beside him, Breneman’s binoculars clattered to the floor as the glow of the oncoming horror filled their field of vision with an incandescence more powerful than sunlight. They threw their hands across their eyes and spun away.

Get down! Get down! French shouted, and they hurled themselves against the concrete floor and buried their eyes in their arms. French braced for the impact he knew would rip away the top of the tower. Breneman had time to mumble, Our Father, who art in Heaven….

But nothing more than wind brushed the 60-foot tall tower.

Confused by the silence, Breneman raised his head a few inches. Stay down, French shouted. Don’t open your eyes. They kept their heads huddled in their arms for almost a minute. Only their breathing, raspy as wood saws, broke the silence.

French opened his eyes a crack, squinted at the floor and saw nothing of the brilliance he thought would destroy them. He opened his eyes all the way to a tower interior lit by a pair of 100-watt light globes, same as always. He squirmed on his belly toward the console, grabbed the edge of the desk with both hands and cautiously pulled himself to his feet.

Behind him, Breneman made it to his hands and knees, head down, heart racing. French raised a forearm to guard his eyes as his gaze swept the room, but the brightness had vanished. A glowing silver disc, suspended and silent, now hung just outside the tower window. He found the Base Operations phone again and dialed the number.

Sergeant French here, he said. We have a situation at the tower. You saw it? Yes, sir. We’ll stay put until you get here.

He turned his gaze back to the craft. The metallic outer skin trembled as if it were composed of newsprint taken from a child’s kite. French guessed the saucer to be at least fifty feet in diameter and twelve feet thick at the center, topped by an opaque dome that ballooned up three or four feet high from the midsection. The construction appeared seamless.

Sirens in the distance now. Gun Jeeps coming. A truck skidded to a stop and disgorged a dozen Air Force security police in blue uniforms with white Sam Browne belts, carbines at the ready. They advanced into a pool of light cast by the disc but stopped well back from its edges to form a rough circle about twice its size. The dark goggles that shielded their eyes gave their faces a bizarre, insect-like appearance in the soft glow from the craft.

French felt the sound then, a muted but rhythmic throbbing of well-tuned machinery that reverberated through his torso and echoed against his eardrums. Light from the disc brightened and dimmed every few seconds, as if the craft were alive and breathing.

Behind him the tower console sparked and burned. The pungent smell of ozone flooded his nostrils and salted his mouth.

Sweet Jesus, French whispered.

The White House

Washington, D.C.

Monday, Feb. 15, 1954

This is General Twining. Wake the President immediately. That’s an order.

The White House Secret Service agent who answered Twining’s unusual early morning telephone call sat stunned until Twining shouted, Oracle! Oracle! God damn it. He repeated the password that gained him immediate access to Eisenhower, any time, day or night.

Yes, sir. Right away, sir. The agent’s hesitation vanished. He held the receiver away from his body and turned to his supervisor. The Oracle code. Do you want to wake the president, or shall I?

The supervisor rose. I’ll go, but I don’t like it.

Twining heard the exchange. Just get him! he bellowed.

General Nathan F. Twining, Chief of Staff of the United States Air Force, glared at his telephone as if it were the problem. He never backed away from a fight, but this night his stubborn pride and unshakable conviction had deserted him. He had never felt so ordinary, so unarmed, so devoid of insight.

After a minute Eisenhower’s voice, coarse from fatigue, burst over the phone line. Jesus Christ, man, speak up. And don’t beat around the bush. I know it’s trouble when you get me out of a sound sleep at 2 a.m.

Twining paused, seeking the precise words. General, he began, using the title he knew Eisenhower preferred from his command officers. His voice faltered and broke.

Nate, Eisenhower said, Calm down, for God’s sake. Get your nerves under control.

Twining composed himself and started over. Sorry, General, I…I know you’re agitated. So am I. And you’re right about the trouble part of it. But we knew this day might come.

Eisenhower’s tone changed. You’re right, Nate, and I apologize.

Twining exhaled and his shoulders rose a notch. His brisk, military manner returned. They sent a ship into Edwards less than two hours ago, General, and relayed a message through Oracle Alpha. They want to see you in five days, face to face, at Edwards. And they didn’t ask. It was more like an order.

You lose anybody?

Got lucky, General.

What about their ship.

Biggest we’ve seen up close. About seventy feet across. They floated next to the control tower for about ten minutes, contacted Oracle Alpha, then got out. Or maybe vanished is a better word. It went straight up and out of sight in seconds. I think the bastards were showing off.

Anybody get a shot at it? Eisenhower said.

Security had men on the ground right below it but I never gave the order to fire. Their carbines would have been useless against that thing—and those inside the disc made no threatening moves.

And the Oracle is okay?

She was upset, General, just like last week when they demanded you come west. But she sensed their ship in advance this time. Knew right when it pulled in alongside the tower. That frightened her, but she recovered. A tough lady. She knows how much we need her.

Have you alerted the Majestic-12 people yet?

Not yet, General.

Then get on the horn. Now! Get them the hell out of bed. And tell Van Bush I want to speak to him right away. I’ll stay up waiting for his call.

Twining, in command of his nerves again, asked the one question he dreaded. Are you going to do it, General?

Nothing’s changed. You knew that when they made contact with Oracle Alpha last week. And stop worrying about me, for Christ’s sake. What choice do we have?

None at all when you put it that way, General.

‘Sons of bitches, Eisenhower muttered sotto voce, We may not know much about these people but I’m damn well not afraid of them. And even if I was I wouldn’t show it. Hell, Nate, I’d never let fear take over. The least little negativity goes right down the chain of command. I damn sure can’t have that."

Twining’s uncertainty returned. We’ve been through a lot together, General, but this time I can’t guarantee you protection. I’ll have every F-86 in the western states on alert—but so far we can’t match them or even come close to it. Truth is, we’re dealing with magic here.

Silence for another moment until Eisenhower said, There’s that word again—magic. I’ve heard it from the Majestic-12 people for two years now. And that’s about all I’ve heard from them.

Twining kept quiet. He was an MJ-12 member himself.

The general is right. For an elite group we’ve sure as hell been dumb bastards.

Nate, Eisenhower said, no one would ever hold you responsible if something happened to me. Anyway, I’m not concerned about it. You shouldn’t be, either.

Twining cleared his throat—a nervous habit he always used to buy an extra second or two. One more thing, General. There was something about their message I thought was odd. I double checked it with Oracle Alpha. They didn’t refer to you as President Eisenhower. They called you General.

General? Are you sure about that?

Oracle Alpha swears to it, sir.

Well, Jesus Christ. Sounds like we’re dealing with military, doesn’t it? Hell, these people know me. They must be listening in, maybe even reading our thoughts. That’s a bitch.

Twining mumbled agreement and silence descended as each man assessed the unexpected turn of the conversation. After a few seconds Eisenhower’s familiar confidence returned.

Great timing, isn’t it? The Russians build an H-bomb, Oppenheimer gets accused of spying, McCarthy runs around like a wild man looking for Communists under every rock, the economy is lousy, and the French want me to bail them out of Indochina. Now this.

Twining tried hard not to smile. I’ll get Dr. Bush for you, General. Then I’ll bring the rest of Majestic-12 up to date.

Good, and set up a meeting. Right away. Tomorrow.

Right, sir.

Eisenhower sighed, an audible sign that he wanted to end the conversation. What time was that on the twentieth?

In the evening, General. No definite time. Apparently they prefer to operate in darkness.

Fine. Now get Bush for me.

Right away, General.

Twining hung up and slumped in his desk chair, exhausted. On most days he bounded about his office. Now he felt as if his legs would give way if he tried to stand. No sleep for him this night. The fatigue persisted, even though he closed his eyes and tried to blank out all the unanswered questions.

Either back down or fight, you miserable son of a bitch, but quit feeling sorry for yourself.

Twining commanded the most powerful force of bombers and fighters in the history of the world. His men could deliver atomic bombs, dozens of them, anywhere on the planet. His superb Sabre jet fighter pilots scored a 10-1 kill ratio over Russia’s MiGs in the Korean War. And the stunning array of American supersonic aircraft gathered for tests at Edwards Air Force Base would guarantee him air supremacy against any enemy on earth for decades.

On earth, yes. That’s not good enough now.

He closed his eyes, leaned his head back against the soft brown leather of his senator chair and let the same familiar vision flow into his mind. Twenty millimeter gunfire from his jets ripped great chunks from the alien craft. The machine tumbled out of control, the crew dead. Then it splattered itself across the countryside in a gush of crimson fire. His mouth tightened.

Go ahead, you bastards. Screw with the Air Force.

Twining slammed his fist into the top of his desk. I’m going to get every damned one of you—and that’s a promise, he shouted into the stillness of his office.

The general struggled to calm himself but fury contorted his features. A knifepoint pain in his head forced him to his feet. The migraine burst upon him with no warning, no flashing aura, no cloudy peripheral.

Jesus. Just what I need. Tonight of all nights.

Twining clenched his teeth for a moment to fight back the pain and put his hands on his desk to steady himself. He swayed, then recovered as the old potency flowed back to his bloodstream.

No surrender.

He gathered himself and for a blessed moment his mind beat back the agony in his head. He had always found a way to kill the enemy. He would find one this time, too.

We’ll catch the bastards. They stayed at Edwards for ten minutes. Long enough for us to get a clear shot next time.

He picked up his phone and dialed Bush’s number.

2

Washington, D.C.

Monday, Feb. 15

Dr. Vannevar Bush swung his 64-year-old legs over the side of his bed and fumbled for the telephone. Bush, he said, his voice thick and unsure in the blackness of his bedroom.

It’s Twining. Ike wants you to call him. Now.

Bush groaned. Jesus Christ, Nate!

They want to meet him, face to face, at Edwards.

Oh…my…God. The moment Bush had foreseen for nearly seven years had come. He was as unprepared now as he had been in the beginning.

Van! Ike’s waiting up for your call.

What the hell can I tell him at 3 a.m.?

That’s your problem.

Bush was at his best when he controlled a conversation. He backed off and threw out questions he hoped would restore order. How did they get the word to us? Did they land? Did anyone see them?

They didn’t land. They hovered. More than a hundred of my men at Edwards saw the ship, a big one. They relayed their message through Oracle Alpha. She’s….

She’s a fraud.

Problem is, your scientific mind keeps getting in the way of your common sense. The woman hasn’t been wrong yet.

There’s absolutely no proof she can hear them.

Shut up for Christ’s sake! Ike believes her and so do I.

Bush paused. Okay. Have it your own damned way. I just hate to see you and Ike make fools of yourselves.

Very touching.

Bush changed speeds, acted concerned. So your people saw the ship. Anybody take photographs? Did you get any Sabres in the air?

Bush heard Twining exhale in disgust. No photos. No Sabres. Now call Ike—and don’t mention Oracle Alpha. I gotta go.

What the hell do you mean, you gotta go? I need more information. Answer me, for Christ’s sake.

The humming on the line told him Twining had ended the call.

Bush buried his face in his hands. A slender man, about five and a half feet tall with cotton-white hair and the hint of a pot belly, he was physically unimposing—but his eyes were relentless blue darts that could pierce a man’s soul. His eyes were his edge, his weapon, his advantage over those few who were his intellectual equal, and Bush had never hesitated to stare a man into silence.

But now a terrible fear gripped him in the sanctuary of his blacked-out bedroom. They had come, as he thought they would. And they had asked to speak to the wrong man—as he thought they would. Fools! That he would be deprived of such a monumental opportunity galled and depressed him.

But I still have time. Time to be the one.

He smiled at such superior opinion.

Bush padded on bare feet to his bathroom. He flicked on the light and stared in the mirror at his well-lined face and thinning hair. His shoulders rose and fell in a helpless sigh, then he turned on the tap, cupped his hands and splashed cold water into his eyes. Full consciousness returned as he toweled off, buying time to think before phoning Eisenhower. He had no idea what the president would ask him but he understood. The man needed his help. Simple as that.

Ike is smart, but mind-for-mind he can’t match our visitors. That’s my job. I can speak their language. If they want a meeting, it should be with me, not with Ike. But I can’t let him know my feelings, not yet at least. The man just wouldn’t understand. My time will come. I’ll make sure of it.

He returned to sit on his bedside, put his ambition on hold and dialed the president’s personal number. An impatient Eisenhower answered on the first ring.

Took you long enough, Van. Now let’s not waste any more time. You were right. They want to see me and I’m going. Now how in the hell do I open a conversation with someone from another world?

So I was right. Ike has doubts about his role in the meeting. But I suppose it’s a logical human reaction to reach out to your scientific advisor for assurance when dealing with creatures from another world.

You don’t open the conversation, Mr. President. You simply listen. And you learn.

The president chuckled and gave Bush the reply he expected. That’s why I like you. You cut through all the bullshit.

Bush said, I’m quite serious, Mr. President. From their standpoint you probably will add little or nothing to the conversation, except to make concessions. I’ve thought about this meeting for years, you know, ever since my first analysis of the situation. I knew they would seek a meeting with someone, either a world leader—or perhaps a scientist.

Bush hesitated, then added, Perhaps even one like me.

Eisenhower remained silent. Bush’s mind iced over.

Damn! Not now, you idiot. Too soon!

Bush hurried on. It appears they want a world leader, and there is no one more influential than you, Mr. President.

Eisenhower’s voice softened. My God, you don’t think they expect me to speak for humanity, do you?

That’s a possibility, sir, Bush said, but your powers of observation and your insight as a military man will serve you well. Perhaps even better than your intellect. We know nothing of their culture and the purpose that drives them. No doubt you will discover the second point in your meeting.

Yeah, they’re here for a reason. You have any ideas?

Right now, at 3 o’clock in the morning, not a one.

Eisenhower waited a moment before speaking. "Why do