The Bug Light Room

By Gregg McManus

With so much apparent alien activity and presence on our planet, what would happen if an American actually took a swing at a UFO and landed a punch? Who in Washington would take that call? What would such a government agency look like? How would it function in such a crisis? How would the aliens respond? This is the nexus of this novel. This disaster occurs in Indiana’s Hoosier National Forest two weeks before a close Presidential election. The incumbent President tries to keep a lid on the events that start erupting in southern Indiana in the wake of the UFO’s destruction. The aliens pursue the wannabe militia-men Jimmie Hatter and his buddy Brian Spangle who inadvertently destroyed an alien space craft. But so does a super-secret U.S. agency called ORA (Office of Retrieval and Analysis).
The frantic search for the perpetrators is punctuated by explosions, firestorms and mysterious deaths the President and ORA seek to keep under wraps two weeks before the election. At the same time Indiana’s Governor Kasson of the opposite party senses a cover-up revolving around the mysterious and frightening happenings in his state and tries to unmask them to benefit his own re-election and elevate his standing by bringing down the President.
In this riveting narrative, the author connects the dots regarding phenomenon reported by Americans for decades but denied by authorities. The narrative evokes some unsettling possibilities about the presence of aliens, strange creatures and what may be the real reasons behind the alien presence on earth. In the mayhem of events in this novel, will these secrets be revealed? Will the President be re-elected? Will Governor Kasson triumph? How prepared are we for the alien challenge? And what happens to our hapless, inadvertent protagonists Jimmie and Brian; two sympathetic, deplorable roofers who just wanted to defend the country, but must flee for their lives.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Nov 22, 2020
• ISBN: 9781665507202

Gregg McManus

Gregg M. McManus was born and raised in Indiana, spending nearly half of his life in the Indianapolis region and half in Evansville. McManus earned a Bachelor’s Degree in history and political science from Butler University, a Master’s Degree in Foreign Service from Georgetown University and a Master’s Degree in Business Administration from Indiana University. He served as an assistant to U.S. Senator Birch Bayh (IN) in Washington during the Watergate era. He returned to Indiana to begin work over the next twenty-six years as manager, director or vice president of government & public affairs at Vectren Corporation and its predecessor companies; working with and lobbying federal, state and local officials on a wide variety of public policy issues. He traveled hundreds of times through southern Indiana on his way from Indianapolis to Evansville. Since 2004 he has taught over eighty courses in American History to the Present at the University of Evansville and University of Southern Indiana. His interest in astronomy and the UFO phenomenon dates back to his childhood when he could first observe the satellite “Sputnik” cross the night sky. Much of this book results from an application of his knowledge of government and public policy as it might be directed at the UFO phenomenon. Gregg and his wife Jane Hackett-McManus currently reside in Peterborough, New Hampshire, although they have kept their home in Indiana.

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CHAPTER 1

Rural Orange County, Indiana in Late October, Two

Weeks before the US Presidential Election

J immie Hatter put down his third beer on the kitchen table and leaned closer to Brian Spangle, his buddy. He lowered his voice. Brian, the truth about this country is written on the back of the highway signs. Smoke from Brian’s cigarette drifted up between the two self-styled militiamen. The wind persistently banged a loose shutter against Jimmie’s white, wood-framed house. It huddled like so many others next to the Hoosier National Forest but not far from the highway.

The smell of hamburgers and fried potatoes lingered in the dimly lit kitchen. Greasy dishes towered near the sink. At the old oak table Jimmie had bought at a flea market for his wife’s birthday a few years earlier, he and Brian talked about the usual—hunting and politics—in the smoky haze.

Jimmie, what the hell are you talking about? Brian was about ten years younger than Jimmie but edged him out by a few IQ points. A prematurely balding towhead, Brian nevertheless felt a mixture of awe and amusement at his friend’s antics and eccentricities.

Jimmie enjoyed holding court with his fellow roofer, one of the few people who would listen to him. He was tall with graying hair that needed cutting and was two days from its last washing. A beard growing increasingly white outlined his face.

Brian, who watched a lot of History Channel programs, thought Jimmie looked like the radical abolitionist John Brown only more whimsical.

As if explaining something to a child, Hatter slowed his words. On the back of the state and federal highway signs, they got barcodes like on groceries. But these codes have directions in foreign languages and code. So when the UN or CIA tries to take the country, the enemy only has to read these directions along the way with laser readers on how to reach the country’s defenses, vital resources, and militia hideouts.

Brian silently stared in wonder at his friend. This is nuts. Vintage Hatter, scary and funny at the same time, he thought. That combination of qualities in his friend had some magnetic attraction; that and the fact that on their roofing jobs, the taller, older, intimidating Hatter was a comforting ally of his own less-imposing stature.

Hatter respected Brian’s intelligence but believed himself wiser than the younger man in understanding how the world really worked. The men belonged to a club of two members. Brian, thirty-five, was unmarried.

Hatter’s wife, Viola, the reason for their hushed talk, didn’t care for Jimmie’s hunter- survival-militia diversions but tolerated them as an eccentric hobby. And calling Hatter a militiaman wasn’t exactly accurate considering he didn’t belong to any such organization.

Jimmie, you really think some kind of takeover is a possibility?

Hatter flashed a sly, crooked grin and shook his grizzled head. Brian, I declare. I thought you read your history. Do you trust any of our so-called leaders? I can rattle off the names of at least six presidents just since 1960 nobody could trust like Johnson and Nixon. The government wants to control everything and everyone. It’s just a matter of time before they want to put chips in our heads so they can do just that. Maybe you don’t see it ’cause you’re younger. You’re like one of those frogs in the pot on the stove. You haven’t even figured out the water’s getting hot! They’ll boil you, son, before you even know it. Jimmie paused, but Brian didn’t reply, so he continued. We need to be ready. Armageddon with the UN, conspirators at the top, our own government. We elect a president in a couple of weeks. But even if a good guy wins this time, time is on the side of the godless, lawless, and power hungry.

What do you mean?

"Did you ever see that Disney movie, what was it? Fantasia? The scene where Mickey Mouse plays the sorcerer’s helper?"

Sure, when I was a kid.

Remember the brooms Mickey thought he could control to fetch the water he was supposed to carry himself?

Yeah.

What happened when Mickey had more than enough water and tried to stop the brooms?

He couldn’t control them. The brooms just kept fetching water and pouring it out until there was a flood.

"Exactly! Our government has become like those brooms. It don’t matter what Congress or even a president tries to do to rein them in. They have their own agenda, their own interests, and their own powers. Some people call it the Deep State. They’re so big and dense that no one has control over them anymore. The next time we get a president who thinks like they do and takes their side, presto! The brooms take over!

"It’s already happened. Look at JFK. The CIA, FBI, and the military allied with the mob. So they maneuvered a takeover. Killed a president! If it could happen more than fifty years ago, they sure as hell can do it again now. And this time, they’ll have their lapdog news media working with them. Hell, Hollywood too. They don’t give a damn. As long as they have their parties, fame, fans, money—they’re bought. And us? We’re just smelly deplorables, remember?

You know I’m no churchgoer, Jimmie said while fondling his wet can of beer, but I do believe there is a God and we’d better be ready to answer to him when our time comes. But these lawless wingnuts on the other side—I don’t know what they believe in. They’ll do anything to keep what’s most important to them—power. And they’ll run over people like you and me to get it. And when they get it, they’ll want to stomp on little people like us. That’s why I got what I need here, he said pointing down in the direction of his basement.

For the first time, Brian smiled. You mean your arsenal? You’re damn right, my arsenal.

I know you’re a good deer hunter. But the guys you’re talking about aren’t deer. They shoot back. It’s going to take more than a deer rifle or shotgun to defend yourself against all they got. Brian withdrew to a more practical challenge. Jimmie, he asked drawing on his cigarette, what could you do even if they did come for you? You saw what happened at Waco. They got tanks, automatic rifles, grenades … You’re outgunned. Fully aware of Jimmie’s serious rifle and weapon collection, Brian nevertheless added the kicker. You’re out of their league. The glare Brian received from his companion made him sit back in his chair and wonder if he’d gone too far.

Jimmie was a step ahead of Brian; he just wasn’t sure how much he should tell his friend, but his pride and vanity got the better of him. He pushed away from the table, leaned back in his chair, stretched his neck, and peered down the hallway to the living room. There, Viola was watching television seemingly oblivious to the two men. Viola! he called out.

What is it? she yelled irritated at the interruption.

Brian and I are going to the basement. And we don’t want to be bothered.

As much as Jimmie wanted to claim he ruled the roost, his relationship with Viola was more like a balance of powers, but she ceded the basement to him; it was his lodge, a place where he retreated with his fantasies. That was fine with Viola. The longer he was down there, the more he was out of her hair. Go on down. I’m not going to bug you. Have you cleaned those dishes yet?

Jimmie grimaced and shook his head. I’ll get to them in a bit, he hollered back.

There were always important things he needed to do; he had a nation to save. But according to Viola, everything else had to stop so he could wash the damn dishes, repair a shutter, cut the grass, and Lord knows what else he thought.

Jimmie motioned for Brian to put out his cigarette before descending to the basement. Brian didn’t argue with Jimmie’s order; he remembered Jimmie telling him once that he kept dynamite in his basement. Brian had asked how much, and Jimmie had replied, Not much. That had prompted Brian to wonder how much dynamite in your basement a few feet from the furnace constituted not much. Brian noted that in addition to two strong locks on the door in the kitchen, there was a lock on the inside apparently designed to prevent any encroachment from Viola.

Brian descended the creaking, paint-worn, wood stairway and took in stacks of water cartons, dehydrated food, bows, arrows, multifunction knife tools, fishing and hunting equipment, rifles, shotguns, camouflage outfits, night-vision goggles, air-filter masks, first-aid kits, ammunition, a workbench with wood- and metal-working tools, and stacks of survivalist magazines as well as literature on military weapons and technology. Above the murky scene flew a reproduction Revolutionary War flag emblazoned with a coiled snake above the legend Don’t Tread On Me. Brian never ceased his wonder at the amassed survival and hunting gear. He was certain Viola had no idea of the amount of munitions stockpiled underneath her kitchen.

A separate basement door that led outside allowed Jimmie to smuggle in some of his most outrageous equipment. Jimmie viewed the basement as his base camp, but he had also stashed supplies in various hiding places in the Hoosier National Forest in the event he needed them in an emergency or as a convenience for his hunting and fishing expeditions.

One or two of them doubled as potential hideouts.

Jimmie walked to his workbench against the wall. It was waist high and had drawers below, but that left a space about eighteen inches high from the floor. Over this opening, Jimmie had thrown a tarp to conceal his newest, fondest treasure.

With both of them down on their knees, Jimmie looked up at Brian and placed his face inches from Brian’s until even in the dim light, Brian could have counted the hairs in Jimmie’s beard. You can’t ever tell anyone, and I mean anyone, what you’re about to see. Understood?

Brian, who’d thought he’d known all his friend’s secrets, solemnly nodded.

Jimmie reverently lifted the tarpaulin up onto the top of the bench unveiling a metal box nearly six feet long and a foot wide. He released the clasps on the side and opened the box revealing a US Army rocket launcher.

A bazooka! You got a bazooka? Brian cried out; his eyes were bulging.

Jimmie hissed, Shut up! He glanced up at the ceiling for a sign Viola might have heard him. The television above them droned on.

Recovered from his companion’s eruption, Jimmie basked in the delight of Brian’s astonishment. He knew he’d trumped Brian’s challenge with the bazooka. He raised the tarp up to one of the shelves and pulled out another smaller but heavy metal case. Opening it next to the bazooka, Jimmie grinned broadly and carefully lifted out one of three rockets from its snug nest and fondled it as if it were a precious gemstone. He lifted the warhead to Brian’s face and looked him in the eyes. If they’d had one of these at Waco, things would have gone a little different.

Brian was incredulous. Jimmie, you got to get rid of this thing. It’s dangerous. Do you know what you’re doing?

Being invited down to Jimmie’s basement sanctuary had always seemed to Brian like an invitation to the far side. In the past, Jimmie’s plans for defending himself and the nation against speculative enemies showed bravado, but for all its swagger, it had never amounted to much. Until then. Brian realized that this wasn’t make believe. Where did you get this thing?

Brian, I do more roofing work than the jobs we get from old Ramrod. So this guy who hired me showed me his weapons collection. When I saw this thing, I told him he wouldn’t have to pay me nothing if I got the bazooka and some rockets. Well, that job is done, and here it is. Not much of a paper trail now, is there?

Brian stared at Jimmie not knowing what to say.

Jimmie said thoughtfully, You’re right about one thing. I don’t know how this bazooka will work when the time comes. I gotta try it out. His mind feasted on his awesome acquisition. The logical reason for test-firing it was to learn how to use it in case the need ever arose. An unstated reason was that it was entirely possible that the need to battle foreign or domestic enemies might never arise in Jimmie’s lifetime, in which case he would have been forever deprived of the joy of firing such a weapon. Thoughts like those built up a volcanic pressure of desire in him to test the weapon. I know … Let’s test-fire this thing tonight. I know just the spot.

Brian stared at Jimmie stupefied and speechless and backed away. Like some Halloween horror show, the lid had not only come off the coffin, but the corpse inside was reaching out for him as well. We can’t do that!

Don’t worry. I got just the right place. It’s the one we’ve used for deer hunting right up side of the forest. Nobody goes there, and we’ll be too far from town for anyone to hear us. Relax, Brian. It’s dark now. We’ll slip this out the door and into my truck. I’ll put the tarp over the thing. If anyone stops us, you can deny knowing anything about it, and I’ll back you up. It’s my deal pure and simple.

Before Brian could muster more arguments against this loony notion, Jimmie was already unlocking the basement door. He extricated the bazooka from its box finding it surprisingly lighter and more wieldy than he had thought. Brian, grab the rockets.

Within minutes, Hatter had the bazooka and the rockets in the back of his truck. Like a kid anxious to set off some fireworks, he closed the door and ran upstairs to the kitchen. Sticking his head into the hallway, he called out, Viola, we’re going to look for deer. Don’t wait up. We may be late.

It was 8:30 p.m. Viola had fallen asleep in her chair with the television on and didn’t reply.

Pleased at his luck, Jimmie merely ducked his head and closed and locked the door from inside. He ran out the basement entrance and locked it.

In his truck, Jimmie tried to reassure Brian. This won’t take long. They drove into the night that obscured the colorful hardwoods that crowded around them. The truck’s headlights illuminated undulating hills, trees, and shrubs bordering the paved pathway. They headed south toward English, along Highway 37, an artery winding through the Hoosier National Forest. In such a remote region at that hour, the highway was deserted. The absence of any streetlights only added to the gloom Brian felt about their wayward journey. After driving through winding darkness for twenty minutes, they turned off onto a dirt road.

The more-isolated lane led into hilly, deep timber. Brian alternated between fear and giddiness. The darkness and Jimmie’s assurance about taking any rap for being caught with a bazooka assuaged him some, but this adventure seemed over their heads.

You know, Jimmie, this thing could start a fire and spread to the forest.

No, it rained last night. Besides, this place is pretty grassy with only a few trees in the clearing. The target area is close to a creek. We can look down and see everything. Fire’s not a problem.

Brian mumbled, This isn’t a good idea.

Finally, Jimmie turned onto a ghost of a road, once a driveway to an abandoned house and barn long in ruins. Having been bought years earlier by the US Park Service, the area was deserted. The driveway ended at the base of a hill. There, a path allowed the men to penetrate the forest and hike up the ridge. The previous fall, Jimmie had constructed a deer blind on the far side of the hilltop. Made of fallen trees, rocks, and smaller pieces of wood, the blind constituted a tiny and hidden fort built into the side of the hill. He had crafted the blind in such a way that he could sit in a chair or lie down to view the valley below. Two feet down from the ridge top, he’d created a hole in the blind wide enough to sweep his gun barrel nearly a hundred and eighty degrees.

In contemplating this test shot, Jimmie failed to share with Brian his uncertainty about how the rocket would behave. The effective range for the bazooka was only about a hundred and twenty yards, a fraction of the distance of his hunting rifles, but its maximum reach was over nine hundred yards. Therein lay the problem Jimmie wanted to work out that night: Just how accurate or inaccurate is the bazooka at, say, two hundred yards?

They stepped out of the truck. Brian, with a vague sense of Jimmie’s inexperience with bazookas, was still peppering his partner with questions. How much noise does this thing make? Somebody even miles from here is going to hear it.

"If they’re miles from here and they do hear it, we’ll be miles from here before they even find the place. That is if they decide to get out of bed to come see in the first place!" Jimmie replied in a hoarse whisper. He was increasingly irritated at Brian’s timidity. He handed the shell box to Brian to carry and pulled the bazooka from the back of the truck.

Reluctantly following Jimmie up the hill, Brian noticed how clear the night sky had become revealing so many stars. Yet there was a blue flutter in the sky. Noting the blinking aura, Brian thought it might be the northern lights. Trying to remain as optimistic as possible, Brian hoped the soil was soft. With luck, Brian speculated, the rocket might not even explode, just bury itself in the mud. Or if it did explode, the soft earth would muffle the blast.

They trudged up a path about a hundred yards. Not in the best shape, Brian’s lack of objection stemmed in part due to his lack of breath. His cigarette habit had ensured that his lungs weren’t in the best shape. The cool night kept the men from perspiring. Brian hoped this would end in less drama than he feared. Afterward, back at the house, they could top off the evening with a final beer. He tried to relax.

As they reached the top of the hill, they paused. The ridge line was relatively flat. They had to walk only about fifty yards more to the deer blind. The blue light had grown stronger and was shimmering in the treetops. Drawing closer to the blind, they heard a soft, pulsating humming. They looked at each other in the light of their flashlights.

What the hell’s making that light? Brian asked in a whisper.

I don’t know. Let’s check it out, Jimmie replied worried that one of his favorite hunting sites might be the subject of a police investigation.

You’re not going to shoot that thing now, are you? Brian asked plaintively. Jimmie replied in disgust, If it’s the sheriff, I’m sure as hell not going to blow up Ray. We’ll just head for home, okay? Get down.

With Jimmie leading the way, they began crawling on their hands and knees toward the blind. The pulsating hum grew louder. Approaching the blind, Jimmie was able to crawl with the bazooka cradled in one arm while Brian stooped and lifted the rockets by the box handle between his legs. Upon reaching the blind, Jimmie motioned to Brian to lie down and then turned on his flashlight.

Once in the blind, Jimmie quickly scanned the interior. The blind, only about four feet tall inside, was as camouflaged at its entrance as it was at the observation post, but Jimmie had always looked around to see if anything had been disturbed. He carefully rose to the opening. His eyes had barely reached the sighting hole when he jerked his head back sucking air in a silent gasp. His mouth open, he looked at Brian and doused his flashlight. He slowly raised his eyes again to the aperture.

He stared at a glowing disc resting two hundred yards away in the shallow valley below. That was the source of the blue light. The top of the craft resembled the helmets worn by World War I American soldiers. It appeared to be about fifty feet in diameter and twenty feet high. Around its top, a circle of blue lights rotated clockwise. The craft was slightly obscured by bushes, shrubs, and a stand of trees to its left.

Hatter lowered his head, turned on the light, and reached for Brian. He maneuvered him close to the opening and whispered an order to remain absolutely quiet. Putting his hand over Brian’s mouth, he helped Brian over and raised his head to the gun hole.

Hatter had been smart to have clapped his hand over his friend’s mouth. Brian’s muffled cry caused Jimmie to jerk him away from the gun hole. Jimmie whispered, I think we can stop worrying about the sheriff.

Brian’s only answer was his bulging eyes. He pulled Jimmie’s hand away from his mouth and whispered a plea: Let’s get out of here.

As Jimmie hefted the bazooka, his thoughts veered wildly over the possibilities of the object beneath them: Aliens? A foreign nation’s craft? An unknown weapon from the nearby Crane military base? Maybe this was meant to be. Whoever it is down there needs to understand Americans are no pushovers. After a few moments of thought, Jimmie whispered, Pull that box of rockets over here.

Brian gasped. Recovering from his astonishment, he wanted to get away as fast as possible. Although Brian didn’t say anything, Jimmie knew what he was signaling as his friend tugged at his shirt in the direction of the blind entrance. When Jimmie resisted, Brian stuttered, Jimmie, you can’t shoot that thing! You could start a war … Kill somebody! And maybe it’s the air force, something from Crane, a new type of aircraft.

Oddly, that possibility penetrated Jimmie’s mind. He wasn’t sure a bazooka rocket would even make a dent in that object. Hell. There may not even be anybody inside, just an unmanned drone. The more he thought about it, the more he believed firing the bazooka would be a symbolic act of defiance. But faced with the reality of actually firing his weapon, Jimmie hesitated. If this disc-like object was US Air Force, he didn’t want to kill anyone unprovoked. His house in Orange County lay close to the Crane military base. He knew folks who worked there.

Jimmie whispered, There’s no US marking on it. I think they would have put some kind of insignia or numbers on the thing if it was from Crane. Besides, I’ve decided we should just shoot across their bow. I don’t intend to hit it. We’ll just shake them up a bit.

Hardly consoled, Brian shook with fear. He made out in the shadows of the blind Jimmie’s fumbling and reaching behind him for the case of rockets. As Jimmie carefully pulled out one, reality set in; he realized that loading the bazooka with only a flashlight to illuminate the inky gloom in the blind would be hard.

He carefully laid the launcher down and opened the haversack they’d brought. He pulled out a blanket and spread it out over the bazooka and them. Under the makeshift cover, he was able to use the flashlight without revealing themselves.

The flashlight helped, but Jimmie struggled to load the bazooka, insert ear guards, and issue instructions to Brian. With the bazooka loaded, Jimmie slowly pushed its mouth through the shooting-hole. Having readied himself, he quietly ordered Brian to move off to the side and clamp his hands over his ears. As soon as I shoot this thing, you run with the box of rockets and I’ll follow. I’ll sling this over my shoulder and carry the flashlight.

Stupefied, Brian sat staring at his friend, a grizzled, hunched figure glowing in the electric torch. Mortified, Brian moved off to the side, clamped his hands over his ears, and closed his eyes.

Taking as long as he had to load the launcher, Jimmie was half-surprised to see that the mysterious object still rested on the ground. He thought he saw an opening on the right side. He didn’t detect any movement around the object.

Despite his enthusiasm, Jimmie Hatter had no experience with a weapon of that magnitude even if he had read and reread the instructions. He’d fired shotguns, deer rifles, and handguns. As he set about his task, he found it more challenging than he had expected. He did his best to convert his experience with deer rifles into the handling of a bazooka, but he could only guess at the scale of trajectory.

Firing a shot across their bow had sounded like a good idea, but doing so was another matter. He thought that aiming over the top carried too much risk; the rocket might carry so far over the uneven ground that it might just pass unnoticed. The same kind of problem presented itself if he aimed in front of it and the rocket dropped too soon into the valley floor. He felt the only sure way of firing so that someone would get the point was to aim off to the right side of the craft. That is where Jimmie sighted the weapon intuitively aiming high since the rocket would not go as far as a rifle bullet, but gauging the difference was nothing more than guesswork. He wasn’t absolutely sure that the bazooka rocket was inserted properly enough for it to even fire. As he aimed the launcher, he thought how humiliating it would be if it failed to go off.

He needn’t have worried.

In the hushed, shadowy forest, the rocket fired with a tremendous bang. A loud whooshing noise followed. The rocket flew out of the blind initially headed where Jimmie had aimed it—above and to the right. But at about two hundred yards, the rocket dropped and veered to the left directly toward the large disc.

Jimmie’s astonished eyes followed the missile’s lit path into the resting disc. Somehow, the rocket penetrated it. For the briefest of moments nothing happened. Then the rocket exploded inside causing the disc to violently shudder.

Jimmie didn’t have to explain to Brian what had happened. The pulsating hum ceased. The craft’s crippled energy source seemed to generate even greater but uncontrolled and irregular power. A whine rose noticeably with each pulse.

Jimmie’s earlier instructions for an orderly withdrawal evaporated. They scrambled out and away from the blind carrying only their flashlights leaving the bazooka and the remaining rockets behind. They soon found the old dirt farm road that led down to the truck. They ran faster spurred by the growing wail of the injured craft. Indeed, even as they were putting more distance between themselves and the disc, the noise grew so loud that it seemed to be pursuing them.

As much as they wanted to run, about two hundred yards into their flight, they halted. Behind them, a