Fire's Point: Part One

By Michael H. Rogers

Michael H. Rogers is well known as foreman of the crew with whom he lived through the chaos and terror of the UFO abduction of Travis Walton in ‘75.
Rogers successfully defended this landmark event against every sordid attempt of skeptical obliteration, to emerge as the world’s most famous and certainly best documented occurrence of close encounter ever recorded.
Realizing that he was uniquely qualified to find the unfeigned facts of UFOs, mass sightings, clandestine government agendas, etc., Rogers set about a highly risky, determined, and extremely unusual quest for the absolute truth of it all.
Twenty years later, after investing essentially every aspect of himself and personal fortune, too often a threat to his life, he finally sat down to inscribe the excitement of “Fire’s Point”.
This large and informative, yet provocative, surprisingly well illustrated novel exists in three prodigious parts; the first of such to be born of fire in years.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Perception Press
• Release date: Mar 7, 2016
• ISBN: 9780692577530

Book preview

WAY

CHAPTER TITLES:

PART ONE

FIRE FROM THE SKY

PERCEIVING THE FIRE

BEFORE THE FIRE

THE ELOQUENCE OF FIRE

COMES THE FIRE

FIRE WALKING

FIRESTORM

CLEANSED BY FIRE

THE EMPYREAN OF FIRE

FIRING ON ALL EIGHT

LIKE WILDFIRE

FIRE’S PURSUIT

IGNITING THE FIRE

*THESE CHAPTERS NOT INCLUDED IN PART ONE*

PART TWO

CONFORMATION OF FIRE

A FIERY DEBUT

FANNING THE FIRE

FIRE-RED CHRYSLER 300

FIRE SPREADS INTERNATIONAL

BURNING RINGS OF FIRE

FIRE DANCE

EYES OF FIRE

HELL HATH NO FIRE

THE PHOENIX FIRES

PART THREE

FIRE ON THE MOUNTAIN

TRIAL BY FIRE

TOO MANY IRONS IN THE FIRE

THE ETERNAL FLAME

FIRE PLAN

RECREATION OF FIRE

THE IMMACULATE CONCEPTION OF FIRE

THE FIRE WITHIN

THE FIRE OF LIFE

FIRE’S POINT

by

Michael H. Rogers

PREFACE

IT IS IMPORTANT TO KNOW THIS WORK IS PRESENTED FOR SKEPTICS AS WELL AS BELIEVERS, AND EVEN FOR THOSE WHO STRADDLE THE FENCE WITH INTENT OBJECTIVE; NOT MEANT TO MERELY PROVIDE THE READER WITH FOOD FOR THOUGHT, BUT A BANQUET LAVISH FOR CONTEMPLATION.

THE FOLLOWING NARRATIVE IS SO CATEGORIZED ALONG WITH ITS FLAG OF FICTION: NO MATTER HOW REAL THESE PAGES MAY READ, NO MATTER HOW KNOWN THE NAMES MAY SEEM, NO MATTER HOW ROUSED YOU MAY ULTIMATELY BECOME TO PROCLAIM THIS STORY A TELLING TALE OF PAST AND PRESENT WORLD EVENTS, ITS LABEL OF FICTION IS CLEARLY AFFIXED. THIS AUTHOR ADMITS, WITH SOME CONTRITION, TO A DELIBERATE ATTEMPT AT VERISIMILITUDE.

ONLY UP UNTIL THE NEW ERA, WHICH FIRST BEGAN IN JUNE OF 1947, BELIEF IN VISITORS FROM OTHER WORLDS WAS ALMOST NONEXISTENT. HOWEVER, THROUGHOUT THE MANY YEARS THAT HAVE FOLLOWED, COUNTLESS RECORDINGS OF CLOSE ENCOUNTERS; SPECTACULAR EVENTS OF MASS SIGHTINGS, AND MULTITUDINOUS DISCOVERIES OF PHYSICAL EVIDENCE HAVE GRADUALLY CHANGED HUMAN THINKING. AS OF TODAY, BELIEVERS COMPLETELY OUTNUMBER THE SKEPTICS BY ALMOST TWO TO ONE. [The Gallup Organization]

AND WHETHER YOU BE TITLED AN AVID SKEPTIC OR TRUE BELIEVER; SCIENTIST OR OCCULTIST; OBJECTIVE THINKER OR ONE WHO OBJECTS TO TOO MUCH THINKING, TRUE IQ IS DIRECTLY PROPORTIONAL TO ONE’S COMPREHENSIVE ABILITY TO PERCEIVE REALITY CORRECTLY. ACCORDINGLY, WHAT SHOULD BE A PREREQUISITE TO THE ULTIMATE QUESTIONS: JUST HOW ACUTE ARE YOUR PERCEPTIVE ABILITIES? ARE ALL YOUR BELIEFS OF TRUTH, OR DOUBT, SOLIDLY BASED ON ACCURATE, UNBIASED PERCEPTION? ARE YOU ABSOLUTELY POSITIVE AND UNEQUIVOCALLY, MORE THAN QUITE CERTAIN?

EXCEPTIONAL. READ ON, AS YOU SHOULD HAVE NO FEAR OF MORTIFICATION, OR ANY THE LIKE, JUST BY ASSIMILATING THESE SIMPLE PAGES? IT IS HOWEVER A FOREGONE CONCLUSION THAT A SPECIFIC AND CLANDESTINE AGENCY OF THE U.S. GOVERNMENT DOES NOT PARTICULARLY WANT YOU TO READ, OR EVEN KNOW, OF THIS MATERIAL. AND THAT IS ONLY ONE OF THE REASONS THIS INFORMATION IS PRESENTED IN THIS MANNER.

3PicturesquesouthernEnglandAugust242016.jpg

The picturesque fields of southern England, August 24, 2016.

FIRE’S POINT

by

Michael H. Rogers

PART ONE

FIRE FROM THE SKY

August 25, 2016, 2:10 am, Southern England:

With a listless sigh, John opened his hands and dropped the night vision glasses from his eyes, letting them flop against his chest at the end of the straps: "Damn it Wadsley, give me the bloody scope. Can’t see a bloomin’ thing with these. You aren’t tendin’ the fields anyway—’and over the scope."

Wadsworth did not respond.

John stepped up from the slope and sat down on the grass next to Edgar. He lit a cigarette and pulled his shirt collar up around his ears as if he were feeling a freeze.

It was ten past two in the quiet a.m. in the vapid farmlands near Upavon; only a stone’s throw from old Stonehenge, but a journey southwest of London.

The crew had a roost on the gentle crest of a long and grassy chalk ridge, high over the fields of the Cobbett and Cotswold farms. The new harvest air wasn’t chilling, just haunted with the whispers of eventide breeze.

John turned to Edgar and more softly spoke: ’Ordes ‘em like ‘e ‘ad to shuck out the shillin’s, ‘e does. Then louder over his shoulder at Wadsworth: Another minute you stingy bastard, I’ll rip ’em off your face, I will.

You guys argue like this all the time? Edgar questioned.

Only when ‘e’s in love, John jeered. Whenever Wadsley gets non-responsive—know ‘e’s found somethin’—somethin’ way out in the dark. Then again at Wadsworth: "Like every bloomin’ night…" and back to Edgar, always some bird unwittin’ly revealin’ ’er goodies to ’im… Yet again at Wadsworth: You bloody Peepin’ Tom, and back to Edgar, not known’ some scurv can see right through the dark, right up to ’er flat from two miles away, right through ’er bloomin’ bedroom window. Can’t say’s I really blame ’em though, poor bastard…only love-life ’e ’as!

Kiss my ’airy ass, replied Wadsworth, keeping his eyes to the scope.

Edgar was American, much older than the other two, but a new trainee who had offered his services the previous evening over supper and suds at The Barge pub.

The two English fellows traveled down from Liverpool twice a week to do their night’s work. Apparently by coincidence, both men were wearing near-identical tan-colored work slacks and red, long-sleeved, button-up shirts. But John was wearing blue tennis shoes contrasting Wadsworth’s black lace-up boots. Edgar was clad in ageing blue jeans, light blue shirt, large brown-felt cowboy hat, and a semi-formal western jacket, complete with square-toed gunslinger boots.

John hadn’t yet recognized the somewhat notable face of their elder companion. Edgar hoped neither would.

How long have you two been involved in this particular project? What’s it called again, the Sherwood…

The Sherlock Project, John fired back, and we’ve been quite ‘ard at it for a bleedin’ decade and an ‘alf.

‘Sherlock?’ As in ‘Sherlock Holmes’?

’At’s right, bloke. Just like ole Sherlock ’Olmes, we’ve been charged with a quite impossible task, what no other group or project of its kind ’as succeeded at thus far—of detecting ’oo or what—to prove ’oo or what…

Sherlock One? a voice from John’s radio cut in; an enchanting voice; a female voice.

John unclipped the radio from his lapel and held it close to his mouth. Somethin’ up, Effy?

Can’t be sure, love, but we thinks we see movement over closer to you, almost directly between us—closer to your location.

John removed the big glasses from around his neck and handed them over for Edgar to use.

’Ere ’ya go, yank. Get yer feet wet.

You still there? the radio came again.

Edgar stood up, took a few steps down the incline, placed his eyes to the oversized binoculars and switched them on. He slowly panned the area below the ridge, then outward toward the distant hills: Don’t see how the scope could outperform these—pretty clear really.

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"You still there…Sherlock One?" the radio continued.

Don’t get your thong in a twist, Effy—we’re checkin’.

One thing moving is a truck of some kind, over on the far side of that lake—mile or so away; just beneath the red light on that tower there. Otherwise, nothing, nothing moving that shouldn’t be moving; not to my tired eyes, said Edgar, and continued to widely pan: "Wow…wow, these things really are sharp. I could almost read the guy’s plate." and he stepped back up to set down.

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Nothin’, Effy, John reported, continuously squeezing the switch. Not a thing. No movement detected—you copy?

We copy…thought sure we saw somethin’! the voice was a trifle disappointed. We copy.

Where are the skirts located? How far away is the hill they’re on?

"Bout a mile and an ‘alf, I’d say, to a yank’s way; well over two kilometers. Just an ’op and a jump due west. But much too far…for a yank to go visitin! Two a them; two of us. We move around ’ere and there. Never the same piece of shire for more than one night; never the same patch a bloody-borin’ ‘weet! We try to anticipate where the action might be ’appenin’ next. Lots of ground to cover though…too much ground. So, ‘ow’d you know they’re both birds?" John added with suspicion.

Who’s funding the project? You do get paid, don’t you? I‘m not going to continue to do this unless I get something for my time—at least something?

A quarterly grant from some western entity. Not enough really. Don’t know exactly ‘oo? Bunch a bloody skeptics, no doubt. But as long as they keep fittin’ the bill, we keep film in the flippin’ cameras.

You don’t sound too enthused?

John didn’t immediately reply. He took a long, deep drag from his cigarette and very slowly exhaled. He continued to study Edgar with distinct suspicion: Problem is…

I’m afraid I don’t understand? You’ve been at this little task for well past fifteen years. The four of you head up the longest-running and most prestigious project of its kind. You boast to succeed where others have failed. Your smiling faces have graced the pages of the London Times. You have everything one would need—more sophisticated tools and equipment than anyone could possibly need to document the true identity of our nocturnal virtuosos—everything necessary to solve the conundrum.

‘Of course, everyone already knows that a handful have been crudely carved by earthly artists, but what of the vastly more stunning, ‘authentic’ formations—the actual mystery yet remaining—the mere meddling of a troop of ingenious folk, or the unlikely opus of UFOs?"

John leaned back, as though basking in the hints of adulation, but spoke with obvious sarcasm: You earin’ this, Wadsley…a bleedin’ poet ’e is?

Edgar continued: Yet in all these years, you haven’t snapped a single shot of our ‘midnight masters’, have you? Instead, the phenomenon has only grown—spread round the globe—hardly a field has been spared. Meanwhile, the terrestrial artists claim more and more credit, some immortalizing their achievements on video; the very kind of ‘proof’ you say you can’t get. So back here in England, what are they up to now? Do you even know—in numbers I mean—nightly formations?

John was no longer acting so flattered, but answered: During peak season—’alf-dozen on average—considerin’ the smallish as well. Some nights even more…and some nights…nothin’ at all.

That’s right. Edgar’s speech went from caustic to a diatribe. "According to the latest statistics, a half-dozen or more are born some nights—a few right under your very noses. And all ‘breach’ no less, born breach to the starlight…just waiting to ‘moon’ the first comers of day. I find it quite bewildering really—all this high-tech equipment; all these years, yet you haven’t managed a single clue, and now I know why!"

John held his negative impulse just long enough to settle the intensity of his inclination. Then instead, pretended a state of sarcastic admission: "Well…guess we’d better bloody pack up and go ’ome then, ea? Best retire, I’d think. ’Ell’s fire, you’ve got me convinced. ’Ow ’bout you…Peepin’ Tom? Got all your pornography packed?"

You can both kiss my ass, Wadsworth calmly commented, again without turning.

Fuck you, Wadsley. If you weren’t so bloody big I’d stomp a puddle right ’ere. Then as he turned back to Edgar: "And you? Who in the bloody ’ell are you to be sayin’ we aven’t accomplished a bleedin’ thing? We ’ave a lot on tape—strange things—truly strange things; things we can’t begin to explain; things nobody can, not even the Ministry of bleedin’ Defense."

I’ve seen you’re ‘tapes’. I don’t know about you, but I don’t consider spotlights shining around on the bottoms of low dense clouds, or scraps of tinfoil spinning in a whirlwind, to be very strange. I’ve personally experienced some truly strange things in the course of my life’s pursuit. Your ‘tapes’ have never impressed me much!

"Well, you ‘aven’t seen near all our tapes then, ‘ave you, yank? There’s no fucking way you could ‘ave. The best of our lot ‘as never been aired! Not even ‘ere in the UK. So neither you nor Joan Q. Pubic ‘as ever seen ‘em, not one bloody frame."

If you really had such tapes, I’m sure I’d have seen them, quite sure.

’Earin’ this, Wadsley—the nerve a this bastard.

Wadsworth gave no reply.

Wadsley?…Damn it, Wadsley, give me the bloody scope!

John was angered. With his right eye twitching, he scrutinized the face of his impudent understudy.

Edgar was concerned that John might somehow figure him out. Even though he’d come clad in good disguise, he certainly didn’t need John knowing his true identity. But the man’s expression soon deepened in unsatisfied suspicion.

Who the hell are you? John insisted, his words wholly loosing their twang.

Edgar stared straight back through John’s glare, but not so much a challenge as a device of self-restraint.

Feeling unexplainably thwarted, John glowered down at the grass for awhile, slowly shaking his head. But his abashing soon altered to ire. He languidly lifted his brushy brow as his face grew taut with intent on a torrid retort, but……noticed the intensity and faraway focus, then strange reflections in Edgar’s eyes. John spun around as he jumped straight up. The heavens out before them had opened up in a grand display.

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A number of beautifully brilliant, blue, green, and golden lights were descending in streaks from the sky; plunging to earth in the fields below. Except for their colors, and the fact that they came straight down, they appeared to be falling stars. But just as each would bury beneith the wheat, it emerged straight away in a burst of thunder and light; instantly growing, literally exploding to a larger glow.

Each infusion of heaven with earth was followed by a considerably delayed; extremely loud, ear-shattering thunderous concussion.

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Bleedin’ ’ell, John cried, clasping his ears to protect from the painfully building bombardment. He looked alarmed as more lights streaked down, then more, then even more still; each crash landing, then flash-expanding. Soon dozens of dazzling, colorful lights were dancing about throughout the immensity of the far-reaching darkness.

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Bloody, blimey, bleedin’ ’ell, what in the name of Christ is this? John’s eyes swiftly panicked from one fervid glow to another.

Some of those ‘truly strange things’, wouldn’t you say? Edgar asked, not thinking he could actually be heard.

The Queen’s quiverin’ ass, John proclaimed, "far beyond strange!…I mean, for sure, yank. What in the ’oly name…could these be?" his alert turned to awe.

I really can’t say, Edgar replied, you tell me? as the volley and roar began to diminish.

Each of the seething balls of light were now in turn rapidly advancing in all directions across the endless fields. But where the ears had endured a cannonade, all became oddly silent. Within a few seconds a single cricket meagerly chirped, but hesitated, then boldly resumed its nightly duty. The lights were all busily moving to and fro, but making no perceptible sound.

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Can you make out any details at all? Edgar asked. Surely these lights can’t exist by themselves? They must be emanating from some conventional source? A generator or something—too bright for batteries?

Don’t ya just love the fuckin’ skeptics? John spoke low to himself. "Always so bloody clueless."

John, the radio broke in, Sherlock One? You still there? Are you listening? Are you seeing what we’re seeing?…Sherlock One, Sherlock One…acknowledge blast it…are you still…

John shut it off; hearing, but so terribly wrought he felt no importance in answering. The air remained eerily still.

Did either of you think to document of any of this? Edgar shattered the calm. But to the eye, the scene was anything but calm.

Neither answered. John looked a half-starved school kid who’d just discovered an empty lunch box, but Wadsworth never stirred. A bit of prodding revealed he’d fallen asleep and had missed the whole thing until then. Once his bloodshot eyes could again perceive, Wadsworth fairly jolted: "Aey…Aey, you blokes needs to be payin’ attention ‘ere!" he again rubbed his eyes.

Edger and John just peered at him in dismay.

Wadsworth yet spoke: Don’t either ah ya sees what’s ’appenin’ be‘ind ya? Turn around…Bloody turn around, for God‘s sake!

"No, you need to be paying attention. Stay the hell awake…for God’s sake!" Edgar exacted, as he and John did continue their ongoing observation.

Now, did either of you think to get any part of this unbelievable event documented? Say, maybe a couple of photos……take notes? Although more respectfully stated, again neither answered the sarcasm.

"Well, it’s a damn good thing I was here?" Edgar shouted. "I grabbed up this Sony Pro a half-second after it started—I’ve never turned it off…nor am I turning it over! Is this the pitiful way in which you two were trained?"

John just couldn’t but look away…then he glanced down. As before, Wadsworth was lying prone on the ground; his elbows propping the heavy scope. John made a lunge and tore the telescope from the big man’s hands. Wadsworth shrieked, folding his fingers under his chest to ease the pain, then flopped his face flat down in the scruff as if to resign from it all.

John’s view through the scope only increased his already heightened astonishment. He could not detect anything structural anywhere in or near the lights. They were clearly self-emanating and obviously self-propelled. And they weren’t just lights; they were spheres: large and numinous, scintillating spheres; each gleaming green, blazing blue, or flaming yellow. Each of their prominent colors also contained more than a trace of the other two, and truly beautiful.

Most of the lights were half a mile, to a mile, or even further away, but the spheres that were closer looked to be carving deep troughs in the wheat.

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John slowly lowered the scope. His green-tinted face curved up in a gleeful smile: Corn circles, he whispered to himself. They’re making crop circles, he excitedly shouted. The bloody things are making crop circles; crop circles everywhere, crop circles, crop circles, all across the valley!

You boys have been given thousands of dollars in sophisticated recording equipment, Edgar proclaimed, You sit on your hands? He was more than tired of shooting clues.

"Right you are, sir, right you are. Wadsley, get the other pro going and keep it rolling, don’t stop, tripod and hand-held both. Wide and close shots—wide and close