Starlight

By Michael Boulter

In November 1958, the Australian air force recovers a crashed alien vessel near Brisbane. The humanoid aliens express their fears. The Cold War could easily escalate into a nuclear war. The radiation would not only contaminate other planets within the solar system, it would destroy the human race. Millions of years of work by the aliens in carefully developing their stock intellectually and spiritually would be destroyed in just a few days. An offer is made. If Earth eliminates nuclear weapons and most of its military, the aliens will gradually release their technology. No more war, pollution, cancer or starvation. The only problem is nobody trusts the aliens.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tellwell Talent
• Release date: Nov 16, 2023
• ISBN: 9781923065390

Michael Boulter

Michael Boulter has done everything from wardsman, theatre orderly and house cleaner, as well as a dozen other jobs, few of which brought him much joy. Starlight is his first published work. Hopefully you'll buy it. The poor sod says he needs the money.

Book preview

Chapter One

Tuesday, August 5th 1958 – 11.00 am

A world-weary man of fifty-four years left Chester Street and turned right into a kilometre stretch of road known as Kent Street. A small fox terrier kept pace with the gentleman, the leash a constant reminder of just who was in charge. Not that the dog necessarily obeyed. He stopped and sniffed the ground at every opportunity. He exchanged insults with every canine he met and glared daggers at the moggie sprawled out on the front steps of a low set duplex, like Cleopatra cruising up the Nile. The dog barked while Cleopatra yawned.

The pair continued along Kent Street, past lush green lawns and highset wooden houses built in the 1920’s. Wire fences surrounded the houses and occasional rose garden.

The houses were not large, glamorous, or expensive. They had nothing about them that could compare with the opulence and grandeur of Toorak or Rosebay. And yet the elderly gentleman liked the homes, nonetheless. They were simple, practical and above all, well made.

How many parents had raised their families in these houses? What were they doing now?

He resigned himself to the fact that he would never know.

He and his ten-pound terror of the suburbs, continued along Kent Street until they reached its end. Brunswick Street stood before them. It was one of the main thoroughfares through Fortitude Valley and New Farm; two of Brisbane’s oldest inner-city suburbs. The world-weary gentleman took one look at the trucks, trams and cars hurtling up and down the street. He waited for a break in the traffic, scooped the dog up in his arms and, with surprising speed, scampered across Brunswick Street. He briefly stepped onto Bowen Terrace, before thankfully arriving in Moray Street.

It was a peaceful area, lined with trees, old flats, and houses from the first world war. Best of all, Moray Street caught the summer breeze as it rolled in across the Brisbane River, which was less than a hundred metres away in some places.

The world-weary gentleman always enjoyed walking along this street whenever he visited his friends of old. Canberra was a long way from Brisbane.

He and the dog arrived on Oxlade Drive. Six minutes later they reached their destination, New Farm Park. Puffing visibly, the gentleman eased himself onto the wooden park bench, grateful to rest after a five-kilometre walk.

He patted the dog and then took in another lungful of life-giving air. He could feel his heart slowing as he stared out across the river less than fifty metres away.

Then he saw him. A tall, lean man in his mid-thirties, walking towards him. The stranger was dressed in a black unbuttoned suit, with black shoes, white shirt, and no tie. His hair was short, black, lightly oiled and brushed backwards.

The stranger was very formally dressed, the elderly gentleman decided. He also seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. The way the stranger moved was unusual as well. He walked effortlessly, with his head up and his back straight. Nobody moved like that, except perhaps a model – and this man was no model. His face had seen its share of life and it was not from a catwalk. The stranger looked surprisingly fit and trim.

He took a seat next to the elderly gentleman. ‘Good morning,’ he said with a smile.

‘Good morning,’ the elderly gentleman replied cautiously. There was something about this man …

‘It’s a beautiful day,’ he said in a refined, almost English accent.

‘It certainly is.’

The world-weary gentleman was now on red alert. A well-dressed man with a refined accent who had appeared out of nowhere in a public park was now doing his best to start a conversation. Why? Worse still, the dog had not barked or reacted in any way. The stupid mutt always barked, especially at strangers. Instead, it just stood there, looking up at the stranger, with its tail wagging and its mouth hanging open. Something was seriously wrong here. Was the stranger an assassin? the elderly man wondered? A spy? A thief?

He felt the reassuring weight of his revolver nestled in the shoulder holster under his left arm. It was hidden discreetly from view by his tweed jacket. The weapon was something he always carried whenever he set foot outside the door. He could never be too careful in his line of work.

‘I don’t mind Brisbane,’ the stranger said, ‘even if it is years behind Sydney and Melbourne.’

‘It has it’s good points I suppose,’ the elderly man replied, watching the stranger carefully. ‘The pace is slower, and the people are friendly enough. The weather’s good most of the time. I still prefer Melbourne though.’ The elderly gentleman folded his arms loosely, his right-hand inches from the gun. ‘It’s a more cultured, more complete city than Brisbane. The restaurants, the beaches. It’s a better city all round.’

‘Except in winter.’

‘Yes, except in winter,’ the elderly man replied, while suppressing a smile.

‘Sydney is my favourite of the three. The harbour is spectacular, the beaches are first class and—‌’

‘Sydney? Huh! It’s the most overrated place in Australia. You couldn’t even compare Melbourne with Sydney!’

‘Shouldn’t that be Sydney and Melbourne?’

‘No, it’s Melbourne and Sydney! Any Victorian will tell you that!’

‘I am not from the state of Victoria.’

‘Then what would you know about the subject?’

The strangers voice dropped to a deeper, more serious tone.

‘You would be surprised just how much I know about a great many things, Air Marshall Scherger. By the way, don’t bother using your weapon. If I wanted you dead, I could have ended your life long before you reached New Farm Park. The air force would be looking for a new boss.’

Scherger sat in the park in a mild state of shock.

‘Yes,’ Scherger said quietly, slowly moving his hand away from the holster. ‘That’s a fair point. You-er, know my name and position, which means that you’re not bluffing. Alright, let’s get down to business. Who are you and what do you want?’

Five minutes later …

‘… that’s my real name, although to my clients, I simply refer to myself as Mr Smith.’

‘I see,’ Scherger said slowly.

He stared at Mr Smith whilst searching for a weakness, anything that he could use to regain the leverage of the conversation. The visitor stared back. There was no trace of fear or self-doubt.

‘I think we need to talk.’

‘We certainly do, Air Marshall.’

For the next hour, the two men did just that. With their business concluded, Mr Smith handed Scherger a leather satchel containing fifty-seven neatly typed pages. After an explanation as to the contents, the men shook hands.

As Mr Smith set off in one direction, Air Marshall Scherger walked in the opposite direction, back towards his friend’s home. He felt stunned by what he had just learnt. He would tell his friend of forty years nothing of the morning’s events. He was in the advanced stages of cancer. Why hasten his demise with what was in the satchel?

Lieutenant General Alwyn Ragnar Garrett was a fifty-eight-year-old man of substantial height, lean build and ever-present moustache. His knowledge of all things military was vast. Men he commanded by the thousand. Fish, however, ignored him. Garrett stood on the shores of Bondi Beach and contemptuously reeled in his line for the last time. Another half hour wasted with barely a bite. He looked left and right. Bondi was nearly empty. Worst of all, the darkness of a winter’s evening was almost upon him and so was the cold. It was time to head back to the holiday house. He would take the boat out next time. Yes, go out into the deeper water and do some real fishing. Maybe even take a couple of friends with him and plenty of scotch. Oh yes, don’t forget the scotch! It could be as cold as hell out there especially when you got out past the breakers.

Garrett heaved the creel onto his shoulder. It was then that he heard the voice. ‘Perhaps you’re using the wrong bait, General.’

Startled, the head of the Australian Army turned and saw Mr Smith standing a short distance behind him. This time he was dressed in jeans, jacket, flannelette shirt and sandshoes.

‘Perhaps you’re right, Mr Smith.’ Garrett extended his hand. ‘Scherg told me about meeting you up in Brisbane. Vice Admiral Dowling mentioned you two weeks back. You get around I’ll say that for you.’

Garrett glanced at the black satchel Mr Smith carried.

‘I assume that’s for me?’

‘It is, but only if you listen to what I have to say.’

‘I’ll listen to you, but not here. The breeze coming in off the ocean isn’t doing me any favours. I’ll catch my death if I stay out here much longer.’

‘Your house perhaps?’

‘No, too risky. My wife might overhear us. It’ll have to be the car.

‘That’s fine by me.’

‘Good. I don’t want anything distracting me when you talk. What you’re offering will take all the concentration I’ve got. Dowling rejected it outright. I, at least, want to hear you out.’

Chapter Two

Saturday, August 9th 1958 – 1.00 pm

‘There you go mum. A nice hot cuppa.’

‘Thank you, dear.’

‘It’s just what you need, especially in this heat. It’s hot for August.’

A tall, lean build of a man looked over the front verandah and down the street towards Ipswich Road, Woolloongabba. His thirty-six-year-old eyes saw the usual afternoon chaos of trucks, trams and cars hurtling along to who knows where. Distressing to some but not to the man observing the bedlam. After fifteen years in the military, civilian life was a piece of cake. Captain William Hartfield turned and faced his mother once more.

‘You know,’ he said in a somewhat amused tone, ‘this place gets busier every time I visit.’

The small talk fooled no one. Hartfield glanced at Catherine, his third and youngest sister and took a short, sharp breath. Together, the two waited anxiously as their mother reached for the sugar bowl. A sixty-eight-year-old hand lifted one teaspoon from the white porcelain container. The wrinkled hand slowly moved the sugar towards the cup. Inches out from the target, Mrs. Hartfield’s hand began shaking uncontrollably. An instant later, the sugar landed on the pale blue tablecloth.

‘Let me do that for you, mum,’ Hartfield said reaching for the sugar bowl.

‘I can do it,’ his mother replied sharply.

A slightly built woman with grey hair and a steel core for a spine put the teaspoon back on the table. With a look of pure determination etched across her withered face, the elderly lady manoeuvred another teaspoon of sugar slowly across the table towards the cup. She paused in mid-air and with a sense of satisfaction, released the white grains into the cup.

‘Well done, mum!’

‘Don’t patronise me, Catherine. I’m not totally useless.’

‘I was only saying —’

‘I know what you were saying. I wasn’t born yesterday.’

Mrs Hartfield stirred the tea and then placed the spoon back onto the saucer. She took a sip of the brown nectar and smiled. She looked evenly at two of her six children.

‘I’m sorry if I’m a little catty these days.’

‘Mum, it’s alright.’

‘No, it’s not alright. There is no excuse for bad manners, unless of course if someone has been rude to you first. I’ve been rude to both of you, and I apologise sincerely for my weakness of character. Your father would have torn strips off me for my behaviour if he were still alive. He, at least, has found peace. I don’t have any such luxuries. That being the case, let me talk about the one subject none of us wants to talk about, namely the future. The Alzheimer’s is getting worse. We all know it. At this rate, I’ll end up in a nursing home. Personally, I’d prefer it if one of you would just put a pillow over my face here and now. It’d be quicker, cheaper and far better in the long term.’

Catherine’s face changed colour.

‘Mum! Don’t say such things! That’s why you’re living here with us! As long as you’re living under our roof, you’ll always have someone to talk to and someone to take care of you. We care about you. You must know that by now, surely.’

‘And for that, I am truly grateful. The world can be a very cold and lonely place at times, especially when you’re on your own.’

Catherine patted her mothers’ shoulders and then kissed her on the cheek.

The elderly lady smiled appreciatively.

Suddenly, her expression changed to one of urgency.

‘Is there something wrong?’ Catherine asked nervously.

‘No, not at all. It’s just that I have to-er, you know …’

‘Oh yes, of course.’

The old lady grabbed the verandah rail and slowly levered herself up out of the chair. She climbed shakily to her feet and began making her way along the wooden verandah at a painfully slow rate. With each agonizing step, she gripped the railing like a man overboard grips a life preserver.

Hartfield wanted to help her but could not do so. His mother would brook no interference not even from her son. She was now only three metres from the table.

Suddenly her legs went out from under her. Hartfield leapt forward and grabbed his mother’s arms and shoulders. He held her as Catherine quickly placed a cushioned, outdoor chair under her mother.

Mrs Hartfield collapsed into the chair.

‘I’m getting worse,’ she said gasping for breath. ‘The way my legs just went … there was no warning, nothing. That’s the scary part. If this had happened when you weren’t here, I’d be in all sorts of trouble. I’m forgetting names too. I couldn’t even remember who the prime minister was the other day. It’s Mr Chifley, isn’t it?’

Hartfield exchanged worried looks with his sister. ‘Close enough, mum.’

‘You mean it’s not Mr Chifley?’

‘No, it’s Bob Menzies. Chifley lost the 1949 election to Menzies nine years ago.’

‘Oh dear,’ the old lady murmured.

‘Yeah, a lot of people had that reaction.’

Mrs Hartfield sat on the chair and stared out across the backyard of her Woolloongabba home, clearly distressed by recent events.

‘I think I had better lie down,’ she said quietly. ‘Can either of you help me make it to the bedroom please? I don’t feel all that confident at the moment.’

‘Of course, we’ll help you,’ Catherine said gently.

She and Hartfield watched as their mother dozed quietly on the top of her bed. Satisfied that she was asleep, they moved down the corridor and into the lounge room.

‘She’s right, Bill. Mum is getting worse. If she keeps deteriorating, we’re going to have think seriously about getting her into a home.’

Hartfield nodded. He stared at a tall woman in her early thirties. Even after five kids and twelve years of marriage, his sister still maintained her willowy frame. A fairly plain looking woman, Catherine’s looks were saved by a shock of thick, shiny black, shoulder length hair and smooth, wrinkle free skin.

Hartfield gazed at the carpeted floor, lost in thought.

‘Bill? Do you have an opinion on this or not?’

The soldier looked up at his favourite sister.

‘Oh, sorry, I was miles away. Look-um, I think you’re right about mum moving into a home. But not yet. As long as mum can still look after her personal hygiene, then I think she is far better off here than in a home. People can go downhill very quickly in those places. However, if she starts having falls, breaks a hip or a leg or something, then we won’t have much choice. It could happen too. The bones are very weak at mum’s age. It’s the lack of calcium or something.’

‘I think you’re right. If she does get worse, we’ll have to have a family meeting.’

Three weeks later.

‘It happened last night you say, about 7.30pm?’

‘That’s right. Mum had just finished having her dinner. She’d had her shower and was about to call it a night. Then it happened. I was in the kitchen when I heard Tommy yelling. The whole family rushed to mum’s side, unfortunately. Mum was lying in the corridor convulsing. And then she started swallowing her tongue. It was horrible, Bill! It was worse than the first stroke. I have never been so scared in all my life. The kids were screaming, Peggy was crying, Harry and I didn’t have a clue what was going on.’

‘And you’re sure it wasn’t an epileptic fit?’

‘No, it was definitely a stroke, the doctor said. Anyway, mum spent last night in the Princess Alexandra Hospital. She’s coming home in a few days. The doctor said she may have to go into a home if her condition worsens. Mum will need twenty-four-hour care.’

Catherine’s voice trailed off. Hartfield hugged her.

‘That’s it then. We’ll have to start making enquiries about the cost of nursing homes. Just enquiries mind you, nothing more.’

Chapter Three

Monday, November 3rd 1958 – 12.45 pm

Amberley Air Force Base is approximately forty kilometres south-west of Brisbane. The base took its name from a small village in East Sussex, England. The village was the home of one James Edwin Collett, an English farmer who settled in the area in the 1850’s. Little could he have realized just how much a humble dairy farm would be transformed by time.

Hartfield left the road and moved slowly up the drive towards Amberley Air Force Base. Behind him was a world of bush and brutality. In front of him lay a world of bitumen and concrete, a self-contained unit; in the world but not of it.

He reached the front gate and saw the guardhouse looming up on the other side. The brick structure was one of the earliest buildings at Amberley. He also saw the reception committee. The guard was in his late thirties, stocky and hard-faced. His blue uniform still had a knife-edge look about it even in the stifling heat. The guard looked at the driver and walked briskly to the driver’s side.

‘Can I see your pass please?’

Hartfield produced his ID. The guard eyed it carefully. He saluted the soldier.

‘I won’t be a moment, sir.’ The guard stepped back into his checkpoint booth. He quickly ran his eye down the list while searching for the name. A sinewy hand reached for the phone. The guard stepped out of his booth and approached the driver’s side. ‘Sir, Group Captain Chapman is currently unavailable due to a staff meeting. It should be over in approximately twenty-five minutes. In the meantime, the base commander has requested you wait for him in the officer’s club. You know the way of course?’

‘Yes, I’ve been here before.’

The guard snapped out his best salute, then stepped back to his booth and raised the gate. Hartfield drove past the checkpoint and into Amberley proper. He was immediately struck by the sheer sense of space that the base emitted. Although it wasn’t big by world standards, Amberley always had the ability to overwhelm the soldier whenever he visited. Maybe it was just the nature of air force bases, he told himself; the runways and the sense of openness they provided.

He drove slowly along the diamond-shaped road that enclosed the parade ground. The runways could be seen way in the distance. Close to it was a C-shaped apron and a string of hangars. The control tower was near the hangar, a huge brick monolith and one of the oldest on base.

He watched with admiration as a Canberra bomber taxied along the runway. It was not as high profile as the legendary Lancaster bombers, huge machines which many regarded as amongst the finest bombers put into the air during the Second World War. Nor could the Canberra ever hope to match it with some of the speed machines coming out of America these days. To Hartfield it didn’t matter one iota. Squadrons of bombers had wreaked havoc on Germany during the war. They were worth their weight in gold.

Coming into land was a Gloster Meteor, a jet fighter that had proven its mettle in Korea, a fact the soldier knew all too well. With a tinge of sadness, he watched the old warhorse land. Soon the Sabres, faster and deadlier, would replace them. Many were already on base.

Hartfield stepped into the officers’ club, small, cosy, and currently empty. The barman smiled, gave the glass one last wipe, and then carefully inspected his silicon masterpiece. Hartfield smiled back and then approached the bar. He watched as the beer and froth materialized in the glass.

‘Thanks mate,’ he said scooping up his change.

‘Not at all, sir. Enjoy your stay at Amberley.’

‘Thank you.’

Harfield walked past a collection of small hard top tables with vinyl chairs and Bakelite ashtrays in close attendance. After crossing a small sea of blue and green carpet, he took a seat near the window overlooking the parade ground. He sipped his beer and soaked up his surroundings. It always felt strange being on an air force base. The noise and the sense of space were what got to him the most.

After a short wait, an old face appeared in front of him.

‘Bill, good to see you again.’

A man in his forties, of medium height and build, stepped forward with a smile as wide as a split watermelon. Like everyone else in the room, he was wearing a pale blue long sleeve shirt, with dark blue tie and trousers. A pair of black shoes with several coats of boot polish completed the picture. The man in charge of Amberley air force base took hold of Hartfield’s hand and gripped it like a vice.

‘It’s been too long mate.’

‘You’re not kidding, Dixie.’

Group Captain Dixie Chapman ordered a beer and made himself comfortable.

‘So,’ he said after a long swallow, ‘how’s things?’

A few minutes of small talk followed. After a few minutes, Hartfield decided that it was now or never. He brought up the subject that had been gnawing away at him for months.

‘Look-um, I’ve –er – got something to tell you. Remember what we talked about last Easter?’

‘You don’t mean – you’re actually going through with it?’

‘Yep. I’m quitting the military in three days’ time.’

A loud groan floated across the room.

‘You tried all this before, remember? Three years after you got out, you were back in uniform. Everyone thought you were mad. You proved them wrong. Face facts, mate, you’re army through and through.’

Hartfield sighed. ‘Things were different back then. My wife and son had died in the car crash. I survived. I sometimes wish I hadn’t. I went back to the military because I needed to belong to something. I needed to be around people. Coming home to an empty house in the suburbs was too much. The army became my family.’

‘I know mate,’ Chapman said quietly. ‘You even thought about ending your life, the sorrow was that bad. I got to you in time and thank God I did. You’ve got a lot to offer the world, Bill.’

‘Be that as it may, I’ve got to move on, Dixie. I’m sick of uniforms and paperwork and giving orders. I’m sick of the whole military thing. I want to get back into the real world and live the way other blokes do. It’s more than that though. Every time I put on the uniform I’m reminded of the times I used to spend with Margaret. Except now she’s gone. I can’t take it anymore. I can’t live the military life anymore.’

Chapman nodded in understanding. He eyed his close friend.

‘What will you do, work wise?’

‘Management, at least in the short-term. Really, I’m looking for something where I can move around.’

‘That makes sense. With your background, you’d walk into a job.’ A long pause followed as Chapman pondered the future. ‘Well,’ he said whilst reaching for his beer, ‘I just hope you know what you’re doing. With your drive, you could write your own ticket in the military. You could make Colonel in another five or six years.’

Suddenly a panic riddled young man burst through the door. He pulled up at the table, saluted Chapman, glanced at Hartfield, and saluted him as well.

Chapman gazed up at him.

‘Have a seat, lieutenant,’ he said calmly. ‘And try to relax. Whatever the problem is, it can’t be any worse than Hitler in a bad mood.’

Flight Lieutenant Hazeldene managed a nod and plonked himself down on a vinyl square.

‘Now,’ Chapman said watching him closely ‘from the top.’

The young officer glanced quickly around the room. He eyed Hartfield a touch suspiciously.

‘It’s alright, Lieutenant. Captain Hartfield and I close friends. His eldest brother and I served together in the south pacific region before his untimely death two years ago.’

Hazeldene lowered his voice. He looked at his superiors with fear filled eyes. ‘Sir, there’s been a class one sighting.’

Chapman paled slightly. A few seconds passed as the shock took effect. He quickly glanced around the room. There were two other officers in the vicinity and three more at the bar. Soon the whole base would know, so what did it matter?

‘And?’ Chapman said calmly. Hazeldene hesitated. ‘Speak up Lieutenant.’

Hazeldene lowered his voice as another officer strolled into the room. A few curious glances met his gaze. The airman waited until they were out of hearing range. When he spoke, his voice was low and shaking.

‘Sir, six minutes ago, the control tower received a radio transmission from one of the Sabre jets. It was approaching Amberley when it received a visual sighting of an object two miles north-west of Kholo Bridge. The pilot says the object was travelling at an estimated speed of at least 150 miles per hour and was descending from an altitude of 1200 to 1400 feet.’

‘And?’

‘The sabre immediately altered course and pursued the craft. The object came down approximately one and a quarter to one and a half miles from Kholo Bridge.’

‘That’s a relief. There’s nothing out there except a ton of bush and a few farms.’

‘That’s right.’

‘And you’re absolutely certain the object is a class one?’

‘Yes, sir. A positive confirmation was made. The object is not from this world.’ Hartfield’s glass hit the floor. Chapman ignored it.

‘Fine. Launch a class one recovery operation immediately. I’ll get in touch with Air Marshall Scherger and see what he wants to do. I’ll meet you at the site in one hour.’ Hazeldene stared at his commanding officer. ‘That’s all Lieutenant.’

Hazeldene remained frozen to the spot. A look of mild shock had parked itself on his thirty-one-year-old face.

‘Lieutenant, I know it’s a big responsibility and you’re only a middle ranking officer, but I have no doubt you can handle this job. You’ve seen UFOs before. They love military bases. Because of this, you and a special recovery unit have been trained to deal with them in the event of a crash. They are on permanent standby. I might also remind you that I have complete confidence in you. You are, in my view, the best choice for this job.’

‘Sir, I’m way down the ladder as far as authority goes.’

‘Not in terms of suitability you aren’t. True, you are only the seventh highest ranking officer currently on base. Looking at the officers that are currently on base, Jardine and Dowager are ill, Watson is not popular with the enlisted men and Starling is in mourning after the death of his father two days ago. He is, in my view, not in a fit state to take on this level of responsibility at the present time. As for Mason and Stane, they are unsuitable for this type of work. They lack your organizing ability. They’re more at home in a dogfight with a Mig at 10,000 feet than dealing with a job of this nature. However, if you feel you can’t handle the recovery operation, then I’ll take charge of it myself.’

‘No, no I-er, I would be only too happy to-er take care of things. It’s an honour really to be given this sort of trust and responsibility.’

‘That’s the spirit,’ Chapman said with a smile. ‘In the meantime, I’ll have a quick word with my guest. After that, I’ll get in touch with Scherger. By the way, if you get in over your head at any time, don’t hesitate to contact me. The buck stops with me.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

Hazeldene disappeared out the door. Chapman hurried off to make a phone call. After a brief, somewhat ‘educational’ exchange with Air Marshall Scherger and Air Force intelligence officer Colonel Stone, Chapman hung up. He sat in his office stunned by what he had just been told. What the hell had he stumbled across this time? He checked his watch. A mere twenty