Roswell Diary

By M.E. Brines

Stuart Mackenzie doesn't want to be a hero, just an ordinary guy with a wife and a job and a mortgage, but Destiny had other plans. A decorated hero in the Second World War, two years later Stuart is nothing but a washed up short order cook estranged from his war-bride wife. Walter, an old army buddy he hasn't seen since the war offers him a job with the newly organized Central Intelligence Agency doing the same things he was so successful at during the war. But Stuart turns him down until when his wife leaves him, he reconsiders. His first mission: investigate the crash of a flying saucer at Roswell, New Mexico, The Air Force claims it was nothing more than a simple weather balloon, but what are they trying to hide? Join Stuart as he uncovers the truth behind the rash of saucer sightings, their origin in the occult laboratories of Nazi Germany and their influence on the events of the Cold War. Humanity needs a hero. But will Stuart accept his destiny?

• Language: English
• Publisher: M.E. Brines
• Release date: Nov 21, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463251836

M.E. Brines

M.E. Brines spent the Cold War assembling atomic artillery shells and preparing to unleash the Apocalypse (and has a medal to prove it.) But when peace broke out, he turned his fevered, paranoid imagination to other pursuits. He spends his spare time scribbling another steampunk romance occult adventure novel, which despite certain rumors absolutely DOES NOT involve time-traveling Nazi vampires! A former member of the British Society for Psychical Research, he is the author of three dozen books, e-books, chapbooks and pamphlets on esoteric subjects such as alien abduction, alien hybrids, astrology, the Bible, biblical prophecy, Christian discipleship, conspiracies, esoteric Nazism, the Falun Gong, Knights Templar, magick, and UFOs, his work has also appeared in Challenge magazine, Weird Tales, The Outer Darkness, Tales of the Talisman, and Empirical magazine.

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Book Three

Roswell Diary

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2010 Michael Brines

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Part I: The Threat

The nations of the world will have to unite, for the next war will be an interplanetary war. The nations of the earth must someday make a common front against attack by people from other planets.

--General Douglas Macarthur in a speech to West Point cadets, October 8, 1955

Chapter One

Tuesday, September 30, 1947

Darkness descended like a curtain as the sun wandered off behind the thick, low-hanging clouds that threatened snow all day but failed to deliver. But the play wasn't over yet; this was merely a pause between acts and if I had anything to say about the outcome, it wasn't going to end as a tragedy.

Around me my men clutched their weapons and stole fearful glances at the woods surrounding the cattle pen we were using for cover. The dozen or so remaining was but a fraction of the number Major Parker and I had begun the day with. The major and the rest were dead or captured. Although, if the reputation of our opponents held, the fates of the prisoners would not in the end differ greatly from those killed outright in combat, because for the soldiers of the 2nd SS Panzer Division, executing captured prisoners of war or hapless civilians was just business as usual.

An overweight Negro sergeant scrambled over to my side, his movements surprisingly deft for all his bulk. His hand made a furtive move, the beginnings of a salute, choked off in deference to possible snipers in the surrounding trees.

Suh, them paratroopers from de crossroads say dey is the only ones made it out. Ain't nobody else lef.

You told everybody what we're going to do, right?

He nodded.

I picked up my submachine gun and checked the load, a full twenty-round magazine. You bring up the rear. Try to police up any stragglers if you can. If we're separated, make your way to Manhay. It's not far, only a few miles up the road.

Callahan smiled, his white teeth contrasting strongly with his dark brown face in the waning daylight. Nothin' to it, suh.

Snorting, I added, "Nothing but a few miles of dark forest swarming with panzergrenadiers."

You got us dis far, suh. You'll get us home.

I wasn't so sure about that. But daylight was fading. It was time.

Climbing to my feet, I shouted over at a pair of soldiers on the far side of the herd of unhappy cattle in the pen. You two! Knock the planks off that side of the fence.

As they stood and began clubbing at the boards with their rifle butts, I wondered again about the farmer who'd abandoned his herd in such a panic at the news of the German breakthrough. Considering what little was left of his house and barn at the crossroads, he'd made a wise decision. But his sacrifice was going to be our salvation. In a few moments the men had knocked down a couple sections of fence. I waved them off.

Stand clear and follow the herd, I shouted. Don't get in front of them. Then I pulled off my wool scarf and waved it over my head. Hee-yah! Hee-yah! I shouted, as if I was Tom Mix on a Saturday matinee cattle drive.

A couple of the cows looked idly in my direction with the usual dumb, bored expression common to beasts that smell better cooking than they ever do alive. If they were thinking at all, it was probably only to ponder whether my green camouflage-colored scarf was edible.

Bugger. I thought it might come to this.

I flicked off the safety on my submachine gun and emptied the entire magazine into the treetops over their thick, bovine skulls.

It turned out we needn't have bothered knocking a hole in the fence. Once they got started they took out the whole opposite side of the pen, fence posts and all. We followed the stampede into the woods.

The forest was a dark nightmare, a frosty vision of a Viking's idea of hell, full of darkness, snow, the maddened cries of terrified beasts and dying men. Soon I was alone, cut off in the stygian darkness of an overcast night. Around me came screams, shouts of orders or pleas for help, punctuated by bursts of gunfire and the crack of grenades. Rough branches tore at my face and jacket as I fled through the night, heading in what I hoped was the right direction. To the north lay the possible safety of the American lines. But in every direction lay an endless swarm of enemy soldiers who took no prisoners.

A burst of gunfire to my right lit the night with a reddish jet of muzzle blast. It was immediately answered by gunfire from other directions. Those shots triggered more return fire in an escalating spiral of chaos.

Bullets splintered the bole of a tree nearby.

Tripping over someone crouched beneath it, I fell sprawling into the snow.

I dropped my weapon, but it was useless in this darkness anyway. The man I tripped over tried to swing a rifle to bear, but I pushed it aside.

He dropped it and seized me by the throat with both hands. As I grappled his sinewy arm with one fist, my other drew my commando knife and plunged it into his torso.

He tightened his grip, choking me. My left hand scrabbled about searching in the darkness for his eyes as my other arm plunged the knife in again and again.

My lungs strained for air, but his muscular thumbs had me by the windpipe. I kept stabbing ineffectually at his bulky woolen greatcoat.

His head turned under my questing fingers, and then I felt a sharp pain as he bit my thumb.

Well, if his mouth was there, then his eyes were... here.

With a cry of pain his hands released me and clawed for his eyes. I swung my knife around and jabbed it deep into his neck. My other hand struggled with his as I twisted the knife. Leaning forward for the finish, I heard his voice for the first and only time.

He gasped...

*****

What's a guy gotta do to get some service around here?

My eyes blinked at the unexpected brightness. The air was strong with the unmistakable scent of overcooked coffee. I was standing in front of a hot grill, dressed in stained cook's whites. Instead of a bloody combat knife, I was holding a spatula in a death grip. Through the little pass-through window in front of me I could see a man in a gray civilian overcoat sitting on a stool at the lunch counter and glaring back at me.

I... uh, sorry sir, I stammered.

"Forget it. I'll just go across the street. I know I'll get service there." He waved one hand dismissively at me as he grabbed his hat off the rack by the door.

No, wait! I'll...

The closing door cut off my reply. Great. I'd dozed off again and lost another customer. They were few and far between without me driving them away by ignoring them. He probably thought I was drunk. At least that would have been a more plausible excuse than the truth.

I set the spatula down and walked around from the kitchen to the service side of the counter. A glass-globed coffee carafe on a hot plate was in the process of boiling down a pot of coffee into a gooey blackened paste. I rinsed it out and started a new pot. It was almost six. Callahan would be here soon to relieve me.

Six o'clock -- the dinner rush.

I looked around. Spotlessly clean counter, shiny chrome décor, gleaming red leather booths, a glass pedestal topped with a fresh chocolate cake under a Plexiglas cover, the aroma of fresh coffee brewing, the very model of a modern urban diner with only one thing lacking -- paying customers.

Leaning on the counter, I glared across the street at the White Castle hamburger palace on the corner: the one with the full parking lot and the line of patrons out the door. Apparently Callahan's was a poor choice of name for a diner. I'd turned away more people today looking for a beer than I'd served a burger to.

The diner seemed like such a foolproof idea when we got out of the army. I'd told my wife, Everybody's got to eat. Owning a restaurant is like having a license to print money. And boy, she never let me forget it now. I'd come staggering home after my 12-hour shift and she'd call out, How's the license holding up? How much did you print today?

At least she used to. Now all I got was silence. I think I preferred the mocking.

A voice cut into my daydream, Hey, Mack, howsabout a cuppa joe?

I scrambled to grab a clean white china mug and fill it with hot coffee before I lost this customer too. In my haste, the hot coffee slopped over the edge of the mug, scalding my fingers and splattering on the floor. I stifled a yelp and managed not to drop the cup or the carafe. Setting the pot back on the hot plate, I turned to reach for a bar towel to wipe off the mug, but my shoe slipped on the spilled coffee and I almost fell. More coffee slopped out of the mug. I finally staggered over to the counter and set the dripping, partially-filled mug on the counter in front of the customer.

His expression was as if he'd been watching a particularly badly executed circus trick, perhaps an attempt at a juggling act by a drunken clown. Looking down into the half-empty mug he asked, Any chance of some cream?

Oh, yeah, sorry. I turned and took a step towards the reach-in, slipped on the spilled coffee again, flailed around trying to grab something to keep from falling, and managed to knock over the cake pedestal with a clunk. The Plexiglas lid bounced twice before it rolled under a table. The cake just sat sideways on the counter in a sad, egg-shaped mess.

I expected an outburst, for him to leave disgusted at my antics. But he just shook his head sadly and said, You were the best agent I ever knew. During the war you pulled off missions I thought were impossible. But you're the worst waiter I've ever seen. I told you it would be a waste of your talents to open this stupid diner.

Pulling myself erect, I really looked at him for the first time. In my haste to pour coffee all over the place I hadn't recognized him: Captain Walter Thompson, formerly of the Office of Strategic Services. I remembered the last time we'd spoken. It'd been two years ago at the end of the war and he'd offered me a job. Back then I'd made him a counteroffer that I reminded him of now.

I'm sorry, but you'll have to talk to Callahan if you still want the dishwashing job. He's the boss now, not me.

Walter shook his head. No, I already have a job, doing the same thing we did during the war.

How? They shut down the OSS as soon as the war was over.

It's called the Central Intelligence Agency now. Same mission, same people, different name. And your country still needs you.

That's a laugh. I glared at Walter, standing there in his new pinstripes, sporting a silk tie. The war had probably been the best thing that ever happened to him. You'd think two world wars would have been enough for you people. I'm done with that. I'm just a normal guy now. I got a business to run.

Walter looked slowly to the left and then to the right, taking in the entire diner. Then he replied, Yeah, I can see you're busy; pretty big dinner crowd. You probably wear yourself out every night just counting the take.

Things will pick up. Besides we're open 24 hours now.

Sure. I get it. You're losing money every hour you're open, but you're going to make it up in volume.

I just glared at him.

After a moment, he took out his wallet and laid a business card and a dollar bill on the counter. When you come to your senses, give me a call. He stood and headed toward the door.

I picked up the dollar.

He called back, Keep the change. You need it more than I do.

*****

Callahan was late.

An hour later I let myself in the back door of my own home, dreading the reception I'd probably receive. The only thing worse than having to deal with Noreen if she was in another of her moods was trying to play referee between her and my mother during a title bout for Heavyweight Screamer of the World. No matter which of them won, I always came up the loser.

Inside, the air was rich with the aroma of my mother's cooking. She was standing at the stove, stirring a big kettle with a long-handled wooden spoon.

"Stuart, you're just in time! I've made you a big pot of bouillabaisse." Her French-Canadian accent was thick and melodious.

I already ate at the diner, Ma. Maybe Noreen would like some?

You know that woman won't eat my cooking. She carefully tasted the big wooden spoon, then measured salt into her palm and stirred it into the pot. Oh, Stuart, some man was here to see you earlier. He said he was from the government. I sent him over to the diner.

I nodded. Yeah, Ma, he was an old army buddy.

She gave me a look that only mothers have in their arsenal, an equal mixture of pity and accusation. I'd hoped he was here to offer you a nice government job.

Changing the subject I asked, Is Noreen around?

She left.

Did she say when she'd be back?

I don't think she's coming back. She took a suitcase.

What!

That woman's been nothing but trouble since you brought her back from the war. Why couldn't you have found a nice French farmer's daughter instead of that stuck up English lady? She twirled her fingers around one ear and pronounced lady as if it were a three-syllable curse word.

But I wasn't listening. I was headed upstairs to our room to see if she'd left a note. I'd heard the Chinese symbol for trouble was two women under the same roof. That was certainly accurate in my experience.

The room was spotlessly neat, the blankets of the bed tight with the hospital corners Noreen insisted on. The only thing out of place was a folded piece of notepaper tented on the dresser. I snatched it up.

Dear Stuart,

I have taken a well-paying job in another city. I will send money to help with the mortgage. Don't worry about me. Everything will work out for the best.

Sincerely, Noreen

I re-read the note twice, then just stared at it a while before sagging onto the bed. It hadn't started Dear John but it may as well have. There was no reason for her to leave town to find a job. There were plenty of them here in Detroit. We'd discussed it often enough. But she hadn't felt as if a job as a salesclerk or waitress was a proper use of her talents.

No, she hadn't left to find a job. My wife had left me.

I guess being the wife of a short order cook hadn't been what she had in mind when she'd married me back in London. I could see that now. I had a fancy captain's uniform then and a chest full of medals. Maybe if we'd spent more than a few days getting to know each other before rushing off to get married, things would have been different. My life had certainly changed. Back then I'd had a future. Now I was two months behind on the mortgage. But what could I do?

From downstairs, my mother's voice cut through my gloomy thoughts. Stuart! Hurry and wash. The food is getting cold.

I stood up and tossed the note onto the bed. I supposed I ought to change out of my greasy clothes before I went down and feigned interest in the soup. As I emptied my pockets onto the nightstand, the card Walter had given me caught my eye. I picked it up and really looked at it for the first time.

What did I have to lose?

Chapter Two

Wednesday, October 1, 1947

The little traveling bag I'd used in France was open on the bed and I was tucking my shaving things into the last free corner when my mother spoke from the doorway.

They're hiring down at the plant your father used to work at. He was a good man and well respected. They'd give you a good job, with a regular paycheck.

Yeah, tightening lug nuts on the new '48 Fords, no doubt. No, I've got to do something with my life. I've got to have more of a future than just looking forward to someday being trusted enough to screw in sparkplugs, otherwise I'll never win back Noreen.

My mother crossed her arms. Oh, don't speak of that terrible woman. She's no good for you. Why, to leave like that without even saying goodbye. She probably left you for another man.

Ma!

She stepped over to me and took one of my hands in hers.

Oh, Stuart, let her go. She's no good for you. Besides I have a friend whose daughter Marie is just your age. She's very pretty and she speaks French.

Noreen speaks French, too, Ma.

She threw me a sour look. Yes, but that woman learned it from a book in a fancy boarding school, not growing up on a nice farm in Quebec like Marie.

I'm not interested.

But you haven't even met her.

Ma, I'm already married.

You could get it annulled. After all, she left you.

I snatched up my bag and headed for the door.

Stuart, don't go. Don't leave me alone again.

Looking back I saw a single tear run down one cheek. She was pulling out all the stops, but I wasn't falling for it anymore.

Ma, you weren't alone. Dad was still alive when I left for the war. And I'm not going away permanently. It's just a job. I'll be back. Don't you worry.

Even so, it took me almost as long to disengage from her last clingy, tearful embrace as it had taken to break contact with the 2nd SS Panzer Division during the war. Just like Hitler's black-uniformed fanatics, my mother never knew when to quit. But eventually I escaped and made my way to the train station.

*****

Standing by the information kiosk in the train station and feeling like a fool, passersby kept giving me curious stares. I was wearing khaki trousers left over from my old army uniform, a white cook's shirt (the one with the fewest stains), and a Detroit Tigers baseball cap. My spare clothes and shaving things were in a tattered and much patched musette bag slung over one shoulder. I was too sloppy to be a traveling businessman and too well dressed for a bum.

Well, maybe not. I noticed a cop down the way keeping an eye on me. He probably thought I was a panhandler and was just waiting for me to hit somebody up for spare change before he ran me off.

A finger tapped me on one shoulder.

I whirled around, checking my free hand midway through a disabling blow.

It was Walter. He nodded approvingly. Hey, nice moves. You still got 'em.

You're late. Maybe next time I'd go ahead and see what he thought about my moves after I shoved his front teeth down his throat.

Yeah, well, I had to buy you a ticket. He looked me up and down. The expression on his face was the same my mother had when I told her I was going away for a while. What kind of get up is that? He gestured at my khakis, then pointed to a stain on the front of my shirt. Well, at least you've already eaten.

This is all I've got, okay? I've been working as a fry cook since I got out of the army. It was either this or the uniform.

He muttered, The uniform would have been better. Then louder, Okay, we got a couple hours when we change trains at Chicago. We'll get you a suit, something decent. Right now we've got a train to catch.

*****

An hour later we were sitting in the club car sipping hot coffee and watching the scattered farms and woodlands of southwestern Michigan fly past at fifty miles an hour. As I savored my drink, Walter looked thoughtfully into his.

I wonder if I could get some rum put into this?

For heaven's sake, Walter, it's not even noon, yet.

So?

So, why don't you tell me about this job you've dragged me into? What are we supposed to be doing besides kicking Commie butt and making the world safe for democracy?

He glanced around the deserted car. I wasn't sure if he was checking to see if it was safe to talk or just looking for the bartender. He set his mug on the table between us.

I didn't drop by to see you because I happened to be in Detroit. I came here to recruit you specifically.

Why? Is it that hard to find suckers in Washington?

He gave me a dirty look, the same one he always used when I'd mocked the OSS and their anti-Soviet paranoia during the war. Then he leaned forward and dropped his voice.

I'm involved in a special operation right now, assigned by the Director of Central Intelligence himself. And I happen to know you have a great deal of expertise in the same sort of thing.

I told you I'm done with killing people.

He shook his head. No, no, no, nothing like that. Good grief, we're not allowed to do things like that anymore. Not yet, anyway. No, I'm talking about the mission you were involved with at the end of the war.

Pilsen?

Yeah, Pilsen. I bet the beer there was fantastic.

I don't know. There were other things besides drinking on my mind, Walter.

Yeah, but Kammler still got away.

I ignored the jibe and took another sip of coffee. Headquarters had never believed my report of what happened.

Swallowing, I stared at him over the rim of my cup. So you're still looking for him two years later?

Maybe.

What do you mean, 'maybe'? You're either looking for him or you're not. And I can pretty much guarantee he wasn't headed for Russia the last I saw of him.

Walter pulled a small notebook out of his inside coat pocket, exposing a glimpse of a pistol in a shoulder holster as he did so. He flipped the little book open.

June 24th of this year, civilian pilot Kenneth Arnold was airborne over Mount Rainier, Washington searching for a missing C-46 transport plane when he spotted a formation of what he described as 'flying saucers'.

Flying saucers?

He nodded, turned the page and continued. June 28, the pilot of an Air Corps P-51 fighter reported a formation of six circular unidentified flying objects over Lake Mead, Nevada.

My hand began trembling. I set down my coffee cup before I made another fool of myself.

Walter kept reading. June 29, a naval rocket expert at the White Sands testing grounds in New Mexico observed a silvery disc hovering over the test area.

Did these flying discs have no apparent engines, wings, or propellers?

Walter closed his little notepad and looked me in the eye. I don't know. You tell me.

I slammed my fist on the table, sloshing coffee over the rims of both cups. "I told you people about those discs two years ago. But nobody would believe me."

Yeah, I know. I laughed at you too. And I, at least, should have known better. I laughed when you went on about that magical dingus in Nuremberg the Nazis were using to keep the war going. But when you captured it the war ended in less than a week, winding down like you'd thrown a switch. If anyone should have believed you after that, it should have been me, but I didn't.

He had a look on his face like a penitent seeking absolution.

So I said, From what I saw, Kammler and those renegade Nazi scientists escaped from Czechoslovakia in a dozen or so of those flying discs. They headed in a southwesterly direction at a high altitude. Higher than my little, snub-nosed sub-machinegun would reach, not that I hadn't tried. Do you have any idea where they might be operating from now?

Walter shook his head as he idly mopped at his spilled coffee with a napkin. No, we have no idea what range the discs might have or even what powers those saucers.

Vacuum energy, I said.

What?

They're powered by something called 'vacuum energy'. It's something I ran across chasing Kammler all over Germany. I forget where, from one of the scientists we interrogated, or maybe from some of the specifications or blueprints we captured and shipped back. I don't remember now.

Vacuum energy, he muttered as he scribbled in his little book, that sounds familiar, somehow.

Yeah, it's probably why they're so good at hoooovering.

The look on his face was as blank as the next page in his notebook. I tried to explain my joke.

Vacuum energy -- Hoover vacuums?

He looked at me long and hard before asking if I was serious.

The vacuum energy part is real, the rest is a lame joke about vacuum cleaners.

Humph. Apparently his sense of humor hadn't improved in two years, whatever else had happened to his opinion of me.

I asked him, So if these flying saucers, as you call them, are really the work of renegade Nazis under General Kammler, what are they up to? What seems to be the target of their flights?

He referred to his notes. Well, in the last four months or so there have been dozens of sightings of the flying discs all over the country. A lot of them get reported in the papers, and people are demanding to know what's going on. Some have turned out to be hoaxes or mistaken identifications of mundane things, like the planet Venus or weather balloons, for example. But I have here a list of unidentified sightings by reliable witnesses. For example, on the Fourth of July this year in Portland, Oregon, numerous police officers and civilians saw formations of flying discs pass overhead. The same day a United Airlines pilot and his entire crew reported seeing nine such discs flying in formation near Boise, Idaho.

He pulled a photograph out of his briefcase and shoved it across the table to me, careful to avoid the spot of wetness near our cups. The photo showed a dark round dot on a light background.

A Coast Guard yeoman took that on the same Fourth of July off the coast of Seattle when the disc buzzed his cutter. His commander reported the object changed direction to do so and moved into the wind. It was obviously a powered vehicle, not some renegade weather balloon.

I handed the picture back. It wasn't very impressive by itself, but what it represented was ominous.

He tapped his notebook with the back of his hand. I got more sightings by reliable people, a Navy Commander, Air Corps pilots, test pilots, aviation engineers, technicians, police officers: people who are trained observers. Those things are real, they're out there, and they're up to something.

So what's the government doing about it?

President Truman wants to get to the bottom of this. We can't have strange aircraft flying around all over the country and causing a panic. About a week ago he set up a committee of a dozen very important men to coordinate the response to the flying saucer problem. But they have to know who and what the discs are before they can do anything about them.

So who's on this committee? I asked.

I don't know. Admiral Hillenkoetter, my boss, is one. As to the rest of them, he wouldn't say, okay? It's all a big secret, bigger than the A-bomb. All I know for sure is that the Air Force and Central Intelligence and a bunch of scientists are in on it. But the admiral thinks the Air Force is holding out on him, so he sent me to check out some of their reports of sightings. The problem is, nobody but me remembered your report from the end of the war. They all seem to think the saucers are piloted by little green men from Mars, but I figure that bastard Kammler defected to the Russians and sold them the technology for the flying discs.

That sounds highly unlikely. In the war, the Germans went to a great deal of trouble to surrender to us rather than fall into the hands of the Russians. And the Soviets weren't the only buyers of what Kammler had to sell. Von Braun and his fellow scientists got a pretty warm welcome from you guys when they defected with all the paperwork and prototypes of the German rocket program. Kammler could have done the same with the flying disks and the OSS would have overlooked his war crimes just like they seem to have forgotten Von Braun's membership in the SS. You guys seem pretty forgetful of things like that when it's convenient.

Walter threw me a sour look. Well, Kammler had to have gone east. We don't have him or the flying disks. Where else could he go?

I shrugged and finished my coffee, but he continued.

All that advanced technology in the hands of the Soviets is dangerous. There's no telling what they might try.

You have to be kidding. Do you think Stalin is another Hitler, or something? The Russians are incapable of challenging us. Most of their army still walks into battle or rides horses, for heaven's sake. Half the last war was fought in their country. They lost twenty-million people. No sane Russian leader would contemplate risking another war like that for generations, if ever. I set my empty cup on the table.

"Stuart, I don't think you really understand. It's not the Russians I'm worried about; it's the communists. They want to destroy the entire worldwide capitalist system. They want to do away with everything: freedom, religion, and even social customs like marriage. World conquest is their avowed goal -- complete and total conquest so they can destroy the past and remake everything anew. They're more like a cult religion than a political movement. They have their own 'scriptures' written by the prophets Marx and Engels, with a prophecy of ultimate victory over the evils of capitalism and the eventual establishment of a worldwide communist paradise.