Secrets In the Desert: Only a Select Few Know What the Government Is Hiding

By James Traylor

Paul Jackson is embarking on a career as a war correspondent for the Washington Post. He pictures himself following in the footsteps of Edward R. Murrow or Ernie Pyle. But he’s wounded while reporting in Iraq and is sent home to recover. When he returns to work, Jackson receives an assignment to cover the UFO convention in Roswell, New Mexico. He doesn’t believe in the UFO phenomenon, and he’s not pleased with the prospect of spending his time with every lunatic in the hemisphere. Jackson is joined by Sara Greenberg, a freelance photographer. Together, they document the stories of a variety of convention-goers. But as the two hear a succession of unusual and odd tales, they become part of something much more sinister. The shadow government, which answers to no one, is involved with extra-terrestrials fighting over the earth’s minerals. Will Jackson and Greenberg, two skeptics, become believers?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: Apr 29, 2019
• ISBN: 9781684701315

Book preview

Traylor

Copyright © 2019 James Traylor.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief excerpts used in critical articles and reviews. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

ISBN: 978-1-6847-0132-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6847-0131-5 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2019904252

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Lulu Publishing Services rev. date: 04/19/2019

To my wife, Sylvia, who doesn’t believe in all that UFO crap

The arrogance that we humans have had for centuries of being the dominant species of our planet will one day be shattered when we find out that we are not alone in the universe. We are about to be visited by beings possessing technology and weapons that we have yet to dream about.

Chapter 1

I stepped off the plane at a military air base near Baghdad Iraq. I am Paul Jackson reporter for the Washington Post embarking on a career as a war correspondent. I picture myself following in the footsteps of Edward R. Murrow or Ernie Pyle. This may be my life’s calling. Immediately a blast of hot desert air assaulted me. I’m used to heat being from the east coast of the United States, but there it is mixed with humidity; here I felt like I was stepping into a large pizza oven. Everything was covered with sand. All of the buildings and tents were a tan color. There was no green. No green trees, grass or any other plants. What have I gotten myself into?

Play up the human side, my editor had told me. All those soldiers volunteered to be in uniform, so find out the reasons why they joined and what they miss most about back home. You know—wife, kids, girlfriend, mom, apple pie, and baseball. Hey, there are a lot of enlisted women too. Find out what makes them tick, why they joined the military.

Later, after interviewing soldier after soldier, I couldn’t care less why they joined the armed forces. That was their business, and a lot of them didn’t want me sticking my nose in it. By then, all I wanted to do was go home, take a two-hour shower, burn my clothes, and never see sand again—unless an ocean was attached.

It was to be my last week in this sun-and-fun vacation paradise. The morning sun had begun its rise in a cloudless sky, signaling the making of another hot, dry day with sand blowing in my face. No matter which direction I stood in, sand always blew in my face. I think it was an omen telling me that I did not belong here. I found myself longing more and more to see some green plants. Many times, I wondered what the Iraqi people ate. I was guessing it was mostly sand. I had eaten at least a bucketful since I’d been there. That morning, in the mess tent of the Second Battalion Engineers, Delta Company, First Brigade, I had a chance to interview a young marine private named Billy Sims before he had to report for duty.

Well, I joined because the pay was real good and I wanted to serve my country, he said while drinking his coffee. Also, my buddy Bob Morrison was already in the marines. When he came home on leave, we talked a lot about the military, and the next thing I knew, he had talked me into joining.

Personally, I thought, I would cross old Bob Morrison off my buddy list.

Later, I interviewed a tank driver from the motor pool: Staff Sergeant Fred Weaver, who was helping to refit an army tank’s treads. It looked like hot, dirty work as they tried to get the heavy treads into the right position on the tank.

I joined the army for advancement opportunities and the valuable skills it offers that I can use later in civilian life after I’ve completed my tour of duty here in Iraq, Sergeant Weaver explained. I guessed there was a big demand for tank drivers back home that I was not aware of.

Later that day, as the sun was setting, I headed for the mess tent to get something to eat. I’d had another exhausting day interviewing the soldiers in war-torn Iraq. I started to cross the road at a well-known checkpoint. An older-model car pulled up to the guard station. Two marines stopped the car and walked over to speak to the driver. Suddenly, there was a bright flash of light, and then a thunderous boom knocked me to the ground. At first, I thought I had been struck by lightning, but it rarely rained there. Then a cloud of dust engulfed me.

I heard people running, and someone yelled, It’s a car bomb! I remember feeling an extremely sharp pain in my right leg, but I don’t remember anything else except being put on a stretcher and someone telling me to stay very still. Then I must have passed out.

The next afternoon, I awoke in a medical tent. While I was still groggy from the anesthesia, a beautiful female nurse, clad in fatigues, with a medic’s armband, was taking my blood pressure.

Good. Your blood pressure is coming down, she said.

Where am I? I asked.

You’re in a MASH unit post-op ward. You were injured, and we had to operate on your right leg, she answered. You are a very lucky man, Mr. Jackson! Three people died in that car bomb attack: two marines and the Arab driver.

A doctor in fatigues with a stethoscope around his neck walked in and said, Hello. I’m Dr. Hawkins, and this is Nurse Andrews.

He picked up my chart from the foot of my bed, made a few notations, and then said, I see that you are being shipped out today to an army hospital in Hamburg, Germany. When you get there, they will have to operate on your right leg again and insert some pins and screws to properly repair the damage. We’re only a field hospital here, but I was able to patch up your leg well enough so you can be transported to Hamburg. Now don’t worry. You’re going to be just fine. Thankfully, we were able to save your leg. With some physical therapy, you’ll soon be walking without the use of a cane. You may always have a slight limp, but otherwise, you’ll be just fine.

He replaced my chart and moved on to the next patient.

Later that day, they shipped me out as planned in an army transport plane to the medical facilities in Hamburg. At least I was in a real building and not in a tent.

The nursing staff was very good, and the surgeon visited me in the ward that very night.

As you probably know by now, Dr. Meredith said while pointing to an x-ray of my damaged leg, We are going to put in some screws here and a couple of screws there to help secure this bone so that you will be able to walk again without using a cane. You will be just fine.

After extensive surgery and four weeks of rigorous therapy at the army hospital, they finally sent me home. The only bright spot in this recurring nightmare was that the army paid for everything. Since I had been assigned to their unit, I guess they figured I was part of the equipment and they were partially responsible for me.

When I first got home, I lived with my parents for a while. I felt like a complete invalid. My mother treated me like I was a ten-year-old child. I thought, Why me? The continuing physical therapy was particularly grueling and in itself was another story. I went to therapy five days a week, six hours a day. This was not a fun time.

Contrary to Dr. Hawkins’s and Dr. Meredith’s predictions, I was still using a cane and far from being just fine, although I was grateful to be back at my own apartment and finally out of the wheelchair.

When I returned to work at the Washington Post, they had me writing obituaries and helping Chef Pierre with his Gourmet Cooking column. Thank God I still had plenty of painkillers.

I was just finishing an exciting narrative on the proper way of making crêpes suzette as an entrée when my editor wanted to see me.

Mr. Solomon Lederman was the editor of my section by position, perpetual grump by disposition.

Come in, Jackson, he said through a mouthful of reuben sandwich. Look at this. He pointed to his sandwich. "Does this look like a reuben to you? Why is there no decent kosher delicatessen outside of Brooklyn? Huh? Why? This is the nation’s capital, for crying out loud. You would think there would be at least one decent deli here. But no!"

He then picked up his pickle that came with the sandwich. And look at this pickle. Does this remotely look like a kosher dill? He was acting like a lawyer in a courtroom as he held it up as exhibit A. Hey, did I tell you that in my old neighborhood in Brooklyn, Bergman’s makes their own kosher dills in the back of their delicatessen? That’s right! A rabbi would come in and bless the whole works. He gave the pickle a disgusted look. But this pickle was probably made by some Gentile in Iowa. He gave me a quick glance. No offense.

I was Catholic. None taken. Look. Would it help if I went out and found a rabbi to bless your lunch? It might make it taste better, I said rather sarcastically.

Sol peered over his glasses at me. He was not at all amused.

I know this Reuben sandwich is going to give me heartburn, he said as he took another bite of his sandwich.

What did you expect? Sunburn? I said, trying to be funny. Again, he was not amused.

I’d been working with Sol for almost three years, and I couldn’t recall ever having seen him smile, much less laugh. Sol Lederman was five feet four, balding, with gray beginning to creep into his black curly hair. He wore horn-rimmed glasses halfway down his large nose, giving him that look of librarians just before they tell you to be quiet.

Lederman was slightly overweight but not really fat, though it’s a wonder because he had very bad eating habits. You rarely saw him when he wasn’t munching on something, mostly junk food that would have killed most normal people years before. I figured that Sol had a cholesterol count high enough to kill a bull moose, but he was still going strong. Since he stopped smoking the previous year, I guessed his only real pleasure came from eating.

I had the great distinction of being one of the few people at work who had actually met Sol’s wife. Sol and Rose had come to visit me at my parents’ house when I first got back from Germany. It had to have been her idea because Sol never showed any signs of compassion or concern. Now I knew why he acted like a dictator at work; he couldn’t get away with it at home. I figured his wife, Rose, must call all the shots; in fact, she did most of the talking while he just sat there. Secretly, I was sure he knew that I could see through his act, so he didn’t ride me very much at work. It wasn’t because he liked me, because I don’t think Sol liked anyone. I think very few people actually liked Sol either.

Not to brag, but I did good work, and more than once I covered his butt in front of his boss. So let’s just say he tolerated my sarcasm.

Okay, wise guy, you’ve been milking this disability thing long enough. It’s time for you to get back into the field, Sol said as he took a sip of his soda.

Loosely translated, this was as close to human kindness as Sol Lederman could muster up. I think this was his way of implying that he hoped I was feeling up to doing work that was better suited to my talents. He pointed to a folder with his half-eaten sandwich.

I opened the folder and read the assignment. You’ve got to be joking! I exclaimed.

Have you ever known me to joke? he said with a mouthful of sandwich while peering over his glasses.

But, Sol, it’s a UFO convention in Roswell, New Mexico! I don’t believe in that UFO crap! I protested.

Hell, I don’t either! Look, big guy, the way I see it, if these little green men are so smart to build flying saucers that can go from one planet to another, traveling millions of miles zipping around in outer space, why bother to come down to Earth and make designs in wheat fields? I mean, what the hell’s with that? Sol said, chewing another mouthful of sandwich.

But, Sol, every lunatic in this hemisphere will be there, I complained.

Hey, buddy, that’s what the public wants to read about. Come on, Jackson. Have some fun with this assignment. With what you’ve been through, it ought to lift your spirits listening to all those fruit loops talking about flying to some secret base on Venus or Mars. Who knows—you might talk to a little green man in disguise and not even know it, Sol replied with almost a smile.

I looked at him in disbelief. Had I heard him correctly? Had he actually said, With what you’ve been through? I was actually touched. That was a show of compassion that I, or anyone else who knew him, had ever seen in Sol Lederman.

Could this man actually be human enough to show emotions like this? Truly, it was a Kodak moment. I was sorely tempted to put a mark on the wall. Then I looked at the plane ticket.

It’s tourist class? I said, disappointed.

Hey, hotshot, we’ve got budget cuts here. You’re lucky you’re not riding a bus! Your plane leaves Dulles at 2:45 p.m. tomorrow, so have a nice time, but don’t go overboard on the expense account; I’ve got enough paperwork to fill out already, Sol said as he ended our little meeting.

I walked out of his office confused as to why I’d been picked to go to this UFO thing. After I returned to my desk, it suddenly dawned on me: nobody else wanted to go, so he picked me. He was probably tired of looking at me in the office, so he pretended to be doing me a big favor. I should have seen this coming from Sol. That guy is a real work of art.

Chapter 2

Two weeks earlier, late one afternoon in New York City, it was starting to rain. It was one of those cold steady downpours that chill you to the bone. The city took on a gray hue as people with their umbrellas hurried to get indoors.

Well, this is just perfect, muttered Tony Baldacci to himself in the back seat of a cab as it pulled up to the La Roma Restaurant. The Little Italy section of New York City was still busy in spite of the miserable weather. He paid the driver and rushed inside. He quickly made his way to the bar.

He needed a strong drink of whiskey, not only because of the cold rain but also for what he was going to face. Make it a double, he told the bartender.

He downed that shot and was about to order another round when a large hand touched his shoulder. He turned to see Bruno Big Boy Ragusa’s massive