Part 2 : Alien Agenda Why They Came Why They Stayed...Forrestal & the Grays...Harry Makes THE Deal ++

 Alien Agenda 

Why They Came 

Why They Stayed 

By Steve Peek

CHAPTER SEVEN 

The article in the Washington Post provides a fairly accurate account of the known events of that night. 

The military was not entirely forthcoming about the events of that night. The sin of omission is such a small one, especially if it is for our own good. Here’s the rest of the story. Mea culpa. 

At 1:00 AM, 27 July, 1952, UHF radios in F-94s flying over Washington, DC and at Andrews Air Force base began receiving messages of unknown origins. The messages were in code. The message repeated itself every minute until 2:00 AM. When the transmission recording was played back, it sounded like long beeps at various pitches. The tapes were sent to the Armed Forces Security Agency, a short-lived branch of the military with the responsibility of monitoring and decoding foreign transmissions. 

General Twining took command of security for the tape. He authorized one copy to be made and kept in the safe in his offices. The original was to be used by AFSA and kept in their safe at all times when not in use. A junior officer from Twining’s staff was assigned to be with the tape at all times when it was outside the safe, and round-the-clock guards were posted while the tapes were in the safe at night. 

The cryptologists at AFSA went through the usual deciphering steps, including slowing the tape down and playing it backwards, which produced only longer, deeper beeps. Then, on the second day, they decided to play the tape on a special player that allowed them to control the speed to as slow as it would play. It worked. 

The message was a series of letters, numbers, and apparently random spaces. But they made no sense. It was a code within a code. The chief cryptologist wrote the code on a blackboard and called a brainstorming session. An hour later, a teletype operator came in to request a sign off on the receipt of a high-priority intercept. He waited at the back of the room until there was a break in the conversation. Then he softly stated what was obvious to him: “That message is for SIGABA.” 

The room fell deadly silent. 

SIGABA was a mechanical ciphering machine developed by the US in World War II. In addition to operating like a teletype machine, it employed five discs that randomized characters when typed in or printed out on the paper tape. In order for this to work, every machine had to have each of the five discs individually set to a specific starting point. This starting point was changed every day. 

Once it sank in, the math-genius cryptologists followed the sergeant to his machine and handed him a sheet of paper with the code. 

The young man was no dummy. He flipped his calendar back to 27 July, reset his machine for that date, and typed. The tape printed out a series of numbers and regular spaces. The captain from Twining’s staff picked up a phone and called his boss. 

Twining arrived in the nick of time. The mathematically minded cryptologists had not yet figured out what the message meant, but they would have in another half hour. General Twining gathered everyone into the conference room. He walked to the blackboard and erased the original code. 

He addressed the audience in a soft but threatening voice. “You are to erase this from your minds. You are to give Captain Dolan your notepads, all copies of anything to do with this project, the original tape, and the teletype printout. What you have done here is to never leave this room. This is a matter of the highest national security. Do you understand?” 

The crowd answered to the affirmative with nods and whispers. The materials were gathered quickly, and Twining and his staff departed. 

General Twining returned to his offices, hand wrote a report, then carried it to Truman. 

The president’s schedule is almost always full. To show up at the White House without an appointment is a waste of time—unless you are bringing vital and urgent information. Even then, the president has to juggle meetings to work the messenger in without upsetting foreign dignitaries, Congressional leaders, or whoever happened to be in the Oval Office at the time. 

Fortunately for Twining, Truman was not at the White House; he was in his temporary home across the street, The Blair House. The White House was undergoing major reconstruction. A piano leg had punched through the ceiling some months earlier, and it was decided the White House needed fixing up a bit. 

Harry and Bess Truman had elected to move into the Blair House, normally a multi unit residence used for visiting dignitaries. President Truman had claimed one of the upstairs rooms as his office, and would see most of his familiar visitors there. 

An eager Truman kept Twining waiting less than thirty minutes. 

Twining handed Truman his one-page summary as they sat on a sofa. 

The president read the heading: Coded Transmission from Flying Saucer Near Washington, 1 AM, 27 July 1952. 

“What do the numbers mean, Nate?” Truman asked, studying the paper with a down-turned mouth. 

“They are coordinates, Mr. President,” Twining replied, pointing to the first and last set of numbers. “See, sir, the sequence begins and ends with the same set. The entire transmission was this message repeated every minute.” 

“What does it mean?” Truman knew Twining would never have barged in if it weren’t of the utmost importance. 

“For one, our code is breached. This was broadcast with the correct code settings for the day and intended for our decoding machine.” Twining was flushing. The AFSA reported to the JCS, and he shared responsibility for the failure. 

Truman sighed heavily. During the Cold War, Soviet agents were thought to be everywhere, monitoring everything we did. If the Soviets cracked the code, it could be disastrous. But then Truman realized the Soviets would never let us know they knew. 

“The second thing is what the coordinates represent. The first and last one is the exact crash site for Roswell. The others are for every UFO we have shot down.” Twining let his words hang in the air. 

Truman looked him in the eye. “Hell,” he said. “They caught us with our hand in their cookie jar. Okay, they know a hell of a lot more about us then we do them.” Truman paused, looking at the coordinates written on the paper in his hand. “What’s your best guess?” he asked Twining. 

“They have a defense against the projector, which means they probably have offensive capabilities but haven’t yet used them.” Twining paused. His family had fought in every war in American history. His name, Nathan Farragut Twining, carried the military banner of his forefathers. He weighed what would be expected of him based on his answer to Truman’s question then continued. “They haven’t started shooting, so they must want to talk.” 

Truman looked over his wire-rimmed glasses, studying Twining as if making up his mind. “Okay, let’s do it. Figure out how to communicate to them that we want to talk. Get back to me tomorrow.” 

The president walked Twining to the door. “I think I would feel better if they had shot back. Wanting to talk to us is, in a way,” Truman paused, “more frightening. It’s like we are the Indians meeting the Dutch on Manhattan Island. No matter what we do, we are going to get the short end of their stick.” 

Truman closed the door and went back to his desk. He wrote a note for his secretary to arrange a lunch meeting for tomorrow in his study. 

Twining slid into the backseat and his driver closed the door of his black Lincoln Town Car. He had decided to broadcast his message in the same code they had used to wake us up. He hoped that would be enough. He had commanded strategic bombers that took the war to the enemy’s heartland with unemotional, high-altitude precision. Diplomacy, with humans or aliens, was not to his liking. He was concerned about having a viable backup plan. He should not have worried. 

A clock, a gift from Josephine Bonaparte to President Madison and his wife Dolley, sat on the mantle in Truman’s study. The beautiful, gold casing originated in Paris; the workings were German. The clock survived the burning of the White House in the War of 1812 because Dolley thought Josephine a French tart in empress’s clothing and had the clock stored in a warehouse with other gifts from foreign dignitaries. 

Dolley’s clock sat on the mantle in the Truman Study in the Blair House the night Harry Truman from Missouri, the Show Me State, had his first close encounter of the fourth kind. The German part of the clock chimed the half hour before midnight. 

Truman usually turned in around 10:00 and rose before 5:00 AM. That night he was too anxious to sleep; he was busy worrying about his coming meeting with Twining and the rest of the Roswell illuminati. The clock’s soft chime did not break his concentration on the reports he read at his desk. 

The nausea did. A miserable wave rolled through him. Vomit rose. He felt cold, sweaty, clammy, pale, and flushed all at once. His vision blurred. There was ungodly ringing in his ears. Vertigo made the room spin sickeningly. He tried to stand but nothing worked. He slumped, helpless in his chair. He felt he was asleep, but he was not. 

The nausea subsided a bit and Truman opened his eyes. His chin rested on his chest so that his head cocked to the right. He had to roll his eyes up to see across his desk. There sat three men. Truman tried to focus. What he thought he saw were small men, wearing trench coats buttoned at the neck and fedora hats pulled down in the front in the fashion of Roaring Twenties gangsters. Their faces were obscured by shadows, but he thought they wore glasses. 

They spoke directly to his mind, without sound, or the movement of lips. In the midst of this crisis, Truman thought of James Forrestal. “Oh God! Jim, Jim, what have I done?” 

He did not know how long he sat, paralyzed, listening to the little men’s odd accent. Hadn’t Jim Forrestal mentioned the peculiar accents of the men following him? Hadn’t Forrestal claimed they were small, ‘foreign’-looking men? He and the rest of the team believed Forrestal to be going insane. Forrestal did crack, but now Truman knew why, and he understood why Forrestal fought tooth and nail to stop all the post-Roswell activities. He sat for what seemed a very long time. He did not remember speaking with them, only listening, but surely he must have; they seemed to answer his questions. 

Another wave of nausea, a blinding bolt of a headache and, as he blacked out, he vividly remembered the problems of James Forrestal.

CHAPTER 

EIGHT 

Before I left for Mexico three years ago, I—with the help of a friend— made preparations for life on the run from the US government. 

Robert Cleburne is the genius who helped make my life on the lam possible. We met fairly early in our careers as civil servants. 

In the 1970s, Bob and I were programmers for the CIA. This was before the supercomputers; we started on Univac 1050-IIIs and dutifully typed our cobalt code into teletype-like machines that created punch cards that filled the trays that were fed into the computer in order for it to function. In those days, the computers we worked with were in a basement at Langley Field. The two computers took up most of a twenty-by-forty-foot room. The room was sealed and vented to make it dust free, and the temperature was never more than one degree off the ideal temperature of sixty-six degrees. 

Bob and I became good friends. Working with him made me an exceptional programmer for those times, but I never could hold a candle to Bob. He seemed to channel code from the higher power. 

When I transferred to work with NATO intelligence operations in Germany, Bob and I stayed friends and never lost touch. 

I had thought of asking Bob to help me vanish right before the black SUVs’ headlights but, as good and loyal a friend I knew that he was, it was too risky for him. 

Then one evening at a bar in Georgetown he told me was dying. A week later we met for lunch. I told him what I was up to and asked for his help. He not only agreed, he seemed delighted and said it sounded like great fun. I waited until he was dead to vanish from the US. His burial was about thirty years after he ceased to exist outside of government agencies. 

Soon after I went to NATO, Bob was promoted through a progression of jobs until he ended up the head of the most valuable military asset in the US arsenal. Bob ran an unnamed unit of computer experts who worked in a sub-basement in the Library of Congress. They thought of themselves as the original geeks. 

Their missions ranged from the sublime to the outrageous. They routinely linked into orbiting satellites belonging to foreign powers, downloaded data, then replaced real data with what we wanted the owners of the satellites to believe. They once, on a lark, traced the financial transactions of a US senator who led a charge to unmask the CIA and make public all black operations. By the time the senator was to raise the issue in congress, the FBI, Treasury Department, and the senator himself received untraceable letters detailing deposits and transfers in foreign banks under various names and numbers implicating the senator in tax fraud, not to mention possible campaign contributions from shell companies linked to South American drug cartels. The note at the bottom of the e-mail the senator received simply read, “Have a Nice Day. The CIA.” 

I tell you this only so you can appreciate the genius of Bob and his digital warriors who protected the US and disrupted foreign and terrorist plots and threats. Their crowning glory was the nuclear facility in Iran. 

Back in 2008, the world looked on, impotent to prevent Iran from producing the ingredients for atomic weapons. While much political hyperbole and threats of possible sanctions were fed to the media, short of invading Iran, nothing stopped them from going their merry way toward making The Bomb: nothing in their way at all except for Bob Cleburne and a few computer nerds. 

Tantalizing hints began drifting to intelligence agencies around the world in 2009. By mid 2010 it was clear: something was afoul at Natanz, Iran’s super-secret, weapons-grade-uranium factory. Their plutonium production output was paltry. The factory, which cost hundred of billions of dollars, was not working the way it should, and no one knew why. For months the engineers scratched their heads, trying everything imaginable to return to schedule, but nothing worked. A few months later a Belarusian company working with Iran discovered a virus in the system. It turned out to be the most intelligent, lethal virus ever created, and its only target was the equipment at Natanz. 

Places like Natanz are secret. They have security both physical and digital to keep viruses out. The facility at Natanz was more secret than most because it was not connected to the Internet. No way could a computer virus infect its computers. 

This inconvenience was not a problem for Bob. His guys simply infected more than 100,000 computers that were on the Internet and within fifty miles of Natanz. The virus, called Stuxnet, simply waited quietly, attaching itself to every e-mail, every website, every piece of circuitry connected to these computers. At least one USB memory stick was inserted into one of the 100,000 infected computers and then plugged into a computer at Natanz. In programmer parlance, ‘that was all she wrote.’ 

Over the next few days Stuxnet infected every circuit board in the factory and began looking for its targets. Using digital certificates of authorization stolen from JMicron and Realtek, it convinced the Natanz computer operating system (made by Siemens in Germany) that it was a resident program. Once connected to all relevant systems, Stuxnet went to work. It attacked the frequency converters (manufactured by a Finnish company, Vacon and an Iranian company, Fararo Paya) that ran the centrifuges. 

Stuxnet would order the centrifuges to speed up at inappropriate times and then slow them down too quickly. This erratic behavior damaged the converters, the centrifuges, and the bearings, and it corrupted the uranium in the tubes. At the same time, Stuxnet masked its antics from the plant operating and security systems. 

By the time the virus was discovered in June of 2010, it had spread to Bushehr, Iran’s nuclear-power plant construction. Upon being discovered, Stuxnet destroyed itself before it could be traced back to any source. 

In order to have pulled this off, Bob’s geeks needed to understand the details of the operating system from Siemens and the frequency converters from Vacon and Fararo Paya. This order grows taller. Fararo Paya is an Iranian factory so secret that the Iranian Atomic Energy Commission did not even know it existed. 

The fact remains, Iran is several years behind on their nuclear bomb, and it is being debated whether Iran should scrap the Bushehr power plant and start from scratch, as it has been determined that Stuxnet has the ability to take control and shut down the entire power grid. The idea that Stuxnet may be idling quietly on every PC in Iran makes them more than a little nervous. 

As a side note, you may see a satellite photo of Iran’s nuclear facility. You will notice it is aligned in the shape of chevrons pointing toward the southwest. Look behind the second one and you see a large area of desert. Look more closely and you can see that it too roughly forms a third chevron aligned with the others. That’s the bulk and heart of the nuclear production plant beneath about two hundred feet of earth. 

Bob and his boys can do about anything using compartmentalization and an army of unwitting programmers who produce innocuous lines of code that have no clear purpose. 

So, what did Bob do for me? He made some websites that house applications allowing me to tap into various computer systems in such a way security does not report an intruder or off-site link. The apps have a password decoder to deal with sites that routinely change passwords. This can be a little tedious. Sometimes it takes the app 15 or 20 seconds to dial in. Another handy feature my websites have is a search engine that allows me to type in individuals’ or department names and it brings up their computers and databases. In short, with any computer hooked to the Internet I can log into one of my websites and gather recent information about the hunt for me. It has saved my butt more than once. 

They will figure it out eventually, but when one of my sites is compromised, it creates a mirror website then destroys itself. I understand how it works and know enough about programing and the Internet to keep it current, but I would have never been able to create it. Thank Bob’s genius. 

Bob also set me up with a program he created for himself. It is really cool. Say I want the phone number or address for someone famous who doesn’t want cyberstalkers. I type in the person’s full name, approximate age, and as much of an address as I have. For example, if I wanted to find Bill Gates, I would type in his name, age 55-65, and Washington, USA, Microsoft and hit send. I go about my business, when the program’s cyber scouts find something they report back, and next time I log in to the website there might be four or five Bill Gates that fit the description. There’s a fair amount of information for each that the little snooping bots find at utility, cell phone, and insurance companies, and banks. It also compromises hospitals, schools, DMV, law enforcement, and almost all government agencies, but lately it is not as likely to break through firewalls. Like I said, Bob was a genius way ahead of his time. 

Bob’s gifts had a negative side effect; I had too much confidence in them and became complacent. I allowed myself to relax and enjoy my exile. I decided to see Europe a little bit at a time, and was in Germany the first time the SUVs almost caught up to me. 

I took the #28 inner-city express from Bamberg and changed trains in Nuremberg. I was not a full train ahead of the SUV with German plates. I stayed too long in Bamberg.

Bamberg is a quiet, small town in Bavaria about forty miles north of Nuremberg. It survived World War II because the Nazis had an artillery factory nearby and ringed the place with anti-aircraft guns to keep away allied bombers. Bamberg survived and maintains its old-world, Bavarian charm. 

It is home to several breweries, some of which have been making beer continuously for 800 years. They have had time to get it right. It has charming inns, pubs, and biergartens. All in all, it is a beautiful, tranquil place, and it sucked me in to its relaxed way of life. 

I travelled there using an Icelandic passport under the name of Fjalar Jonsson, a retired, freelance travel writer for Scandinavian airlines and cruise ships. I chose to be from Iceland for two reasons. Almost no one speaks Icelandic outside of its boundaries, and the system for naming children makes it difficult to trace people. For example, Fjalar Jonsson’s father’s name was Jon Stefansson. So the son’s last name is derived from the father’s first name. It makes almost no sense to most Westerners, but it is similar to the way people receive their names in Ethiopia and Mongolia. If I weren’t a blue-eyed, baldheaded, old, white man, I would use identities from these countries as well because their languages and abilities to track citizens is somewhat lacking by today’s standards. 

There was a biergarten in Bamberg a short walk from the Heinz Weyermann Brewery. Old men gathered daily to sit in squeaking, wood chairs and play cards on well-used, century-old tables. Hearts was the game of choice. Once I was invited to sit in on a game, I began showing up several times a week, as I am quite good at the game and someone always wanted me on their team. 

Bamberg’s spell of tranquility had me there nearly six weeks when I realized my Hearts partner, Gunther, might be trouble. Gunther was a great player. We usually mopped the floor with the opposition when we were partners, and when we weren’t we gave each other a challenge. 

Gunther spoke little, and when he did it was always about the game or something going on in Bamberg. Never did he mention family, friends, or pets. I should have known. 

One of the other players told me that Gunther was a retired government worker. He had worked for the BND, the Bundesnachrichtendienst, or Federal German Intelligence Service. He also said Gunther had lately shown more interest in me than almost anything in ten years. 

That was all I needed to break the local spell. I paid cash for my room for another week and told the landlord I would be driving to surrounding towns and not back in Bamberg for two or three days. 

The next morning, when I left Bamberg, I was a blue-eyed, bald-headed, old man. Once in Nuremberg, the city famous for the Nazi War Tribunals, I shipped my largest suitcases at a Federal Express office to the Holiday Inn in Lisbon, Portugal to be held for a mister Aubrey Sproul. After returning Fjalar Jonsson’s rented VW, I bought a ticket to Paris. Audrey Sproul spent two days in Paris, then took the Elipsos train to Madrid and changed for Lisbon. 

Sometimes, things seem coincidental. They almost never are, but they seem like it. The Lusitania night train to Lisbon is a rolling hotel. If you want to spend the money, a grande suite offers a private shower and bath. I have a difficult time sleeping on trains, and booked a private room so as not to disturb other travelers in a shared compartment. When we pulled out of Madrid, I found a book wedged between seat and wall. It was a copy of The Cold War: A Global History with Documents, by Edward H. Judge and John W. Langdon. It contained, among other things, excerpts from James Forrestal’s diaries. 

I had read the diaries years before they had been gutted and sections replaced with forgeries. 

Forrestal’s political undoing had been his stance on Israel. He was fine with the 1947 treaty that made it an independent state. He was fine with the awkward truth. Its creation took land from neighboring Middle East countries that previously owned the land before the Western powers waved their magic map-wand and poof, a new country appeared between them. 

Forrestal felt that the financially strapped United States, faced with shrinking and dismantling its military in the face of Soviet imperialism, should not foot the bill for Israel’s new arms race with its neighbors. Forrestal made the mistake of saying as much, on more than one occasion. 

He was not anti-Semitic in the least. He was simply against spending money we did not have to support a newly formed foreign nation. Had that nation been African, Islamic, or Latin, any political backlash would have been easily weathered. Because it was Israel, a land created for its historic occupants, a people who had suffered the most horrific genocide the world has ever known, the backlash erupted into a volcano that blew in the doors of Congress and filled newspapers with misquotes and exaggerations. 

He became a target of pro-Israeli Zionist Jewish political groups and campaign contributors. Secretary of Defense would be the final legacy of a long career.

As time passed it became clear Forrestal was not well. He wasn’t sleeping, and occasionally seemed to lose his composure and reveal fits of paranoia. Rumors were he believed he was being followed by ‘foreign men wearing gray topcoats, hats, and sunglasses’ and that these ‘dark, little men’ were Israeli secret service sent to intimidate him. When he entered a room, he would move from window to window, looking out while he spoke. At night he changed from a person who loved the fresh air of open windows to a suspicious, anxious man who triple-checked to make sure windows were locked. 

His contemporaries felt sorry for him as his physical and mental deterioration manifested. ‘The job was too much for any man,’ they said. Forrestal had lost weight, looked terrible and no longer seemed capable of being an effective Secretary of Defense. Truman asked for his resignation. Forrestal agreed and shortly thereafter was admitted to Bethesda Naval Hospital at the behest of Truman, Twining, and other worried peers. 

That’s the official story. Now hear this.

Forrestal never thought he was being followed by Zionist or Israeli agents. The expunged portions of his diaries made that perfectly clear. He did believe he was being followed by ‘little, gray men with large, black eyes and hats to disguise large, hairless heads.’ In his diaries he called the aliens ‘them’ or the ‘windowmen.’ One of the first diary entries to be replaced after his death was about his first encounter with them. 

One night while reading in his home study he became nauseated and suffered a short period of paralysis. He felt like his brain was burning and swelling. The pressure nearly made him blackout. 

But Forrestal was a tough man who hated to be out of control. He was much tougher than General Twining or even President Truman. He did not black out. Instead he struggled to regain control. He focused on moving the index finger on his right hand; when he thought he felt it move, he focused on the middle finger next to it. By the time he was able to flex all the fingers on his right hand, the burning in his brain subsided as he continued to struggle against the paralysis. 

Most men who suddenly lost body control, whose head dropped forward as their arms collapsed at their sides, would be terrified. Forrestal was more surprised than frightened. He thought perhaps he was having a stroke or heart attack or both. His surprise came from knowing he was healthy, and a medical calamity was the last thing he expected. He needed to regain control so he could find some help and go to a hospital. 

Forrestal only became terrified after he regained control of his neck and lifted his head. 

Three creatures stood before him. He knew what they were; he had seen their dead brethren in New Mexico. Forrestal’s original diaries may have contained the first recorded description of what today are known as ‘grays.’ As he gazed at them and them at him with their unblinking eyes, he felt the paralysis returning. His head began to drop and, with the sheer force of the remarkable will that was in Forrestal’s arsenal of human attributes, he forced the paralysis away. 

The three visitors’ expressions did not change, but something about their posture seemed to shrink away. As one, they moved toward an open window opposite the chair in which Forrestal sat. 

Forrestal watched as they, one by one, climbed up to the second-floor window ledge and stepped into the night. 

The nausea subsided and within a few minutes Forrestal’s body, other than his heart rate, was back to normal. He slowly stood, checking his balance and muscle control. He walked to the window, looked into the darkness, then closed and locked it. Suddenly he was exhausted. While his mind raced with a million questions, and his heart had still not slowed to normal, he was physically drained, as if he had boxed fifteen rounds in the ring. 

He forced himself to make some notes and even sketch the face and head of one of the visitors. 

Even with his amazed mind racing, he fell asleep quickly and began to dream. 

In the dream, the three visitors floated outside his window. Smaller then when he saw them, they were somehow more menacing. They were talking to him, all three at once, filling his head but incomprehensible. Then his dream mind began to separate the voices, and he understood individual phrases, but he could not tell from which they came. 

He understood the word peace, and immediately doubled over and vomited on the window seat. When he heard something about commerce, he became so afraid he pissed his dream pants. And when their faces suddenly twisted into grotesque smiles and they spoke of helping humanity, he had never so strongly wanted to physically destroy any living thing as he did those three little horrors. 

The dreamed ended and he woke, his mouth tasting of bile. He got up to go to the bathroom and as his bladder emptied his heart filled with overwhelming desire to find and kill his visitors. He flushed the toilet, looked up, and quickly closed the bathroom window. 

That morning his body kept the day’s schedule, but he could not concentrate; his mind replayed the visit and the vivid dream. After his last appointment he made the first visitor-related entry into his diary. The page and a half he wrote was eventually replaced with a restatement of his thoughts about letting Israel sink or swim on its own and focus America’s resources on the Red Menace of the Soviet Union. 

Forrestal encountered the visitors again the next night, and the night after that, and every night. It didn’t take long before it was difficult for him to tell whether a particular visit was real, a hallucination, or a dream. At some point he stopped trying to differentiate. It didn’t really matter. They were in his head, and he knew who they were and what they wanted. 

Sometimes, as he watched them float outside a window, he could see they no longer attempted disguise. The hats that helped hide the size of their heads were gone. Their large, black eyes no longer appeared as sunglasses. Instead, black pools—sometimes reflective like polished, black stone, at others times opaque—became windows into a black void. 

At first he understood they wanted to communicate directly with his mind, but he quickly realized their communication contained subtle, manipulative elements geared to make him agree with what they wanted. Forrestal found the episodes repugnant and frightening. He focused his considerable will and determination on resisting the visitors. 

He knew who they were, of course, and what they wanted. They were the aliens who had invaded America’s skies. We had shot down some of their ships and now they wanted a treaty. Then things became much worse for Forrestal. 

Forrestal was always frightened and uncomfortable with the occurrences. He never saw them unless he was alone or asleep, and it made it difficult for him to discuss even obliquely with his staff. The change involved two major elements. They were no longer trying to communicate, they were trying to control his mind; and he began to see them in daylight when he was around others, but back in their disguises, trench coats with turned-up collars and hats pulled low in front. 

Entering a car headed to a meeting he might see three of them watching from a distance as the car pulled away. Exiting the car he might see three more a block away standing on the sidewalk as if in conversation. 

Several times he tried to bring the aliens’ presence to the attention of someone with him. He would say something like, “Do we know those fellows?” Most of the time the person or people with him saw nothing unusual, and often the aliens were gone when Forrestal looked back. Sometimes the person with Forrestal would see the trench-coated group walking away or entering a building, but have no clue what is was about them that prompted Forrestal to call attention. 

After several weeks, the effects of sleepless nights, fatigue, and fear visibly manifested, and people close to Forrestal noticed a change in his behavior. He began losing weight, and his face took on a dark, hollow appearance. People who had been with him during the ‘look at those guys over there’ episodes compared notes, and it wasn’t long before the Washington rumor mill cranked up and Forrestal’s behavior and physical appearance collided with whispers he was emotionally spent and that he thought Israeli and Soviet agents followed him day and night. 

Forrestal decided it was time to share his misadventures, and called one of only two people he could talk to: General Nate Twining. They met at Forrestal’s office. 

Twining knew the rumors. He opposed Forrestal’s policy with Israel. He also understood the Jewish people were just coming from the holocaust and Israel was in a Nazi-hunting, lynch-party mood. They felt if you were not for them—the symbol of them being Israel—you were against them. The newly formed government of Israel had no intention of allowing anything like concentration camps (whether in Germany, Russia, or Arab nations) to open again. Their spy network grew exponentially, and Twining had no doubt that because of Forrestal’s position limiting aid to Israel that he was probably under some sort of surveillance. So Twining entered Forrestal’s office knowing that the Secretary of Defense had some basis for his paranoia. Even so, he respected Forrestal as one of the toughest men he ever met, and was surprised it was a topic for discussion, and especially curious why Forrestal asked him as he had little to do with America’s position on foreign aid. 

He was shown into Forrestal’s office almost too quickly. Forrestal was standing by a window, the drapes drawn. He looked gaunt, thin. Sleepless hollows around his eyes created a desperate, frightened appearance. Twining knew whatever this was about it was serious, and calling the meeting had robbed Forrestal of his strong pride. 

“Nate, they are after me,” Forrestal said, dispensing with pleasantries. 

Twining finished crossing the room and extended his hand to shake. Forrestal took it automatically and said, “I know it sounds insane, but they want something from me and I am not sure how long I can keep them out of my mind.” 

“What in the hell are you talking about, James?” Twining asked, searching Forrestal’s face. 

“The aliens from the flying saucers,” Forrestal spat out, a ‘for better or worse’ look of relief flooding his body. “You know I saw the bodies in Alamogordo. I don’t know why or how, but I believe that is why they want me, because I saw their dead.” 

Twining said, “Why don’t we sit down and you tell me everything.” His voice was unusually soft, even warm, and his mind was racing at the implications. Even if only a fabrication of Forrestal’s imagination, the consequences of what Forrestal knew being leaked would be catastrophic. 

Forrestal told him everything. It poured out of him. As relief and color came to him, he told Twining about the first meeting and paralysis, the windows, them following him. He told the general how at first they tried to communicate with him, and he felt them attempting to mine information from his mind, and he fought to close his mind to their probing. He told Twining how, soon after, it became worse. They stopped trying to communicate and were constantly trying to invade his mind. Forrestal felt like they were studying him, practicing, developing techniques to break past the barriers he erected against them. 

“Who knows about this, James?” Twining asked, keeping his soothing tone. 

Forrestal looked at Twining as if he were the one with mental issues. “I’m not crazy, Nate. You and I are the only two. I wanted to talk to you before telling the president. I don’t know what might happen to me, as they seem to come and go as they please, and I need to warn everyone involved with this thing.” 

“Thank you. I know this is tough for you, but you did the right thing. How can I help?” The general’s faced was filled with concern—for a number of reasons. 

Somewhere in the conversation, Forrestal’s ramrod posture had returned and now he sat looking into Twining’s eyes. “I think the two of us should meet with Truman, tell him what is happening to me, and find out if anyone else is having,” he paused, then finished, “experiences.” 

Twining agreed. Forrestal made a phone call and was able to obtain a meeting with Truman the next afternoon. They said their good-byes. Twining left with worried thoughts, and Forrestal hoped that somehow sharing his horror would provide relief from his visitors. In a way, it did. 

After the meeting with Truman, Forrestal agreed to have a full physical (Truman intentionally avoided any hint of psychologists). Truman expressed serious concern for Forrestal’s physical condition. 

A week later they met again, and with the candor for which he was famous, Truman told Forrestal it was time for him to resign his post as Secretary of Defense. His politics had kicked up a hornets’ nest, making it difficult for Forrestal to fulfill his duties, and now Truman felt, in his physical and mental state, Forrestal had to step down. Truman insisted the Secretary of Defense continue to have his health monitored. By early March, Forrestal was persuaded to check into Bethesda. Truman told Forrestal that once he regained his vigor, they would meet with all the illuminati and sort out the aliens’ intrusions into Forrestal’s mind. 

Forrestal’s letter of resignation, though given to Truman in February, was not made public until 1949. The rest, as they say, is history. Well, not quite recorded history. 

The train pulled into Lisbon and I woke lying on the narrow bed with the book on my chest. Surprised at myself for falling asleep, I felt oddly refreshed and unusually happy to be alive. 

I checked into the Holiday Inn, emptied my suitcases, and turned on my computer. After a shower, I went online and transferred $8,500 Euros to Mr. Audrey Sproul’s debit card and headed out with little concern for Ex-BND Agent Gunther No-Last-Name in Bamberg. By the time he realized I wasn’t coming back, my trail would be cold. Here you go, Gunther, eat the Queen of Spades. 

Of course, I was wrong. The BND are pretty badass when it comes to heating up cold trails. In less than two weeks I was forced to flee the Holiday Inn without time to even collect my clothes. I took a bus out of Lisbon. For the next two months I went into deep undercover, risked spending time in Lebanon, then lost myself in Cairo, and finally wound up in Argentina. My stomach was sour the whole time, and I lost more than the weight I had gained drinking German beer. 

This experience made me believe it was time to play one of my aces and take the next trick. I began courting a stranger I had discovered in chat rooms. It was time the SUV drivers understood there are consequences if the roadkill survives their bumpers.

CHAPTER 

NINE 

When the gold-plated clock struck midnight, the plainclothes White House policeman—Joseph Downs, who guarded the Blair House’s second floor—knocked on the study door. It was not like the president to stay up this late. When no answer came from the room, he quickly opened the door. 

Slumped in his chair, chin on his chest, Truman looked either asleep or dead. Downs, who in two months would be wounded foiling an assassination attempt at this house, sprinted across the room and checked the president’s neck for a pulse. 

Truman stirred, raised his head, startled by the touch. His vision was clear, the nausea was nearly gone, and he was desperately trying to remember something—something strange, terrifying—something worse than the unleashing of the atom bomb. 

“Are you…?” was all Downs could say before Truman rose from his chair. 

“I’m fine Joe, fine. I just fell asleep at the helm. I’ll go get in bed now.” 

“Yes, Mr. President. Can I get anything for you? You look a little green behind the gills,” Downs asked in a concerned voice. He liked Truman. This president seemed like an honest man, not so political as most of the people who passed him in the halls. 

“No Joe, really, I’m fine. Just need to get some sleep,” Truman said, walking to his bedroom. 

“I’ll be outside your door if you need me, sir.” Downs positioned himself, back to the wall, just outside Truman’s bedroom. 

Truman robotically changed into pajamas and crawled into bed, desperately trying to remember the events from the study. 

He fell asleep quickly. The dreams began almost immediately. He was with Forrestal discussing a treaty. He could make a deal that would win the Cold War, but at a horrific price. Forrestal wanted nothing to do with it. Truman, who had decided to drop the first atomic bomb, knew about paying a price to save lives. He thrust his face inches from Forrestal’s and yelled at him to shut up, and the tough-as-nails first Secretary of State began to cry like a frightened toddler. 

Twining stepped out of the shower to answer the phone. The president wanted to see him right away. He had not slept well. He suffered bad dreams that made him think of Forrestal. In fact, he had been thinking about Forrestal since he woke up. This must have been how it started for Forrestal. But if he was going batty, why go the same way Forrestal did? Twining put the dreams and Forrestal out of mind and finished dressing. 

When Twining arrived at the Blair House, he was taken immediately to Truman’s study. The president stood at a window, straight backed, hands together behind his back. He turned and walked across the room to his desk. 

“Have a seat, Nate,” Truman offered, seating himself. Truman, the “Buck Stops Here” President, was not one to beat around the bush, yet today he seemed hesitant. Finally, after an uncomfortable twenty seconds of Truman gazing at Twining, he asked, “What do you know about DNA, Nate?”

CHAPTER 

TEN 

Truman and Twining met for forty minutes. Truman remained hesitant about some of the details of the previous night’s encounter and ensuing dreams. Practical as he was, Truman believed the trench-coated men in the study had not been a dream. He did not know how they had come and gone, but the experience had been real. Twining perked up when Truman mentioned Forrestal, and in the last ten minutes they shared what they could remember of their experiences and dreams. 

Truman, as do all US presidents, enjoyed ‘off the record’ lunches. These are essentially meetings that are logged into the Presidential calendar simply as LUNCH. On Friday, 8 August, 1952, Truman, Twining, Robert Lovett, the Secretary of Defense, and Averill Harriman shared a lunch of barbeque sandwiches, baked beans, and potato salad. Though as good as the best barbeque in St. Louis, no one ate much. They talked about everything, beginning at Roswell, and leading to this moment. Then, Truman speaking first, they moved from person to person, revealing dreams and visitations. After all spoke, Truman revealed the final pieces of his encounter: he was to meet with the owners of the UFOs to negotiate a peace and commerce treaty. He handed Harriman a piece of notepaper with longitude and latitude coordinates, and said, “Find out the nearest base with an airstrip and arrange a car. You and I are attending a very important summit.” 

The lunch ended a little after 3:00 PM, and Truman tried to clear his mind for a 3:30 meeting with Perle Mesta, American Minister to Luxembourg. He couldn’t remember why Mesta was insistent on meeting, something to do with easing restrictions on importing tulip seeds or something equally important. 

Truman left the Blair House after 5:00 PM in the passenger seat of a white 1945 Super Deluxe Tudor sedan given to Truman by Henry Ford on 3 July, 1945 as the first post World War II car to roll off US assembly lines. While not up to the standards of the presidential limo, it was of the same body style as the 1942 Fords and blended well in traffic. 

At Andrews Air Base, Truman boarded a C-118 Liftmaster—the same type of plane as the Independence, the current presidential aircraft. Harriman was already  on board, and the plane took off for a destination known only to the people aboard. 

The pilot, Colonel Frank Williams, stood in the doorway to welcome Truman. Colonel Williams was President Truman’s pilot. It did not matter to him if he flew the lush Independence or not. His job was to take Truman where he wanted to go, safe, on time, and keep his mouth shut. If he ever wanted a story to tell, the flight back from Truman’s meeting with MacArthur on Wake Island in 1950 provided every ingredient of a best seller. Truman rode copilot for six hours. Furious, the president vented about that ‘arrogant asshole.’ Frank never said a word. 

Harriman already told Frank the flight plan was to be cleansed, that this flight never officially happened. Fine with Frank. 

The particular Douglas C-118 was a model R6D-1Z, converted to a staff transport. It was a four-engine plane that maintained a speed of over 300 miles per hour at 20,000 feet for up to 3,000 miles. This one carried extra fuel bladders. 

Configured to transport staff, the seats were functionally comfortable— nothing like the comforts on the president’s plane—but, like Truman, it would get the job done. 

Frank made sure his passengers were secured and turned on the reading lamps affixed to their seats before vanishing into the cockpit. 

The plane was louder than the Independence, and the passengers were offered earplugs. Truman and Harriman read the briefs Harriman brought summarizing the new science of DNA. Thorough as the documents were for their time, the two men about to engage in the most important negotiations of human history would not live long enough to discover how ill-prepared they were to decide the future of the world. 

Six hours later the plane landed at an air base in New Mexico where another Ford was waiting. 

Harriman drove, Truman rode shotgun. They had their briefcases, a full tank of gas, a road map, and primal feelings about their rendezvous with things not human. Truman closed his eyes, pretending to sleep. 

The movie Close Encounters of the Third Kind depicts the first official arranged meeting between aliens and Earthmen. If it was supposed to represent Truman’s and Harriman’s meeting, it was way too spectacular in that Hollywood way of sights and sounds. In other ways it was not nearly spectacular enough. 

While the first meeting between humans and off-worlders may have been in desert terrain, it was most likely nine or ten thousand years ago in Egypt or maybe earlier in Sumeria or possibly even further back in Bharat, now India. Wherever it was, it was not on Devil’s Tower framed by dozens of cameras and facilitated by a corps of government scientists and military. Nor was the encounter Truman had in New Mexico in 1952. 

Truman’s encounter was on a flawless, high-desert July night not far from where it seemed to have all started five years before. They sat in the car, windows down, looking at the star-filled sky. Among the billions of stars in the sky, Truman thought he saw something and pointed it out to Harriman and Baughman. Things were about to become interesting for the rest of us. 

Everything in this book up to this point is verifiable. The next part, the actual meeting between Truman and the aliens, is reconstructed based on evidence that is inadmissible in court: hearsay. A great storyteller would fill the text of the coming encounter with tense dialog, terrifying descriptions, and the excitement that comes when the leader of the Free World meets aliens for the first time. As it is, I will convey only what I believe to be true. 

The account, what there is of it, has been pieced together from a story told by Averill’s second wife, Marie Norton Whitney Harriman. 

Marie Harriman’s first husband, Cornelius Vanderbilt Whitney, was a successful businessman who had inherited a tidy sum from his parents, Harry Payne Whitney and Gertrude Vanderbilt. To prove money isn’t everything, Marie divorced Cornelius to marry Averill. As the Beatles said, “Money can’t buy me love.” 

In 1970, Marie was a patient in Georgetown hospital. The day before she died of a heart attack, she enjoyed a long visit with her daughter from her first marriage, Nancy Marie Whitney. The conversation began naturally enough about why Marie was in the hospital. She had a chronic case of nerves, which led to diarrhea, which led to dehydration. 

Nancy wanted to know what so worried her mother as to make her sick. The answer was not surprising—Averill. Top of the list was Marie’s fear she was soon to become Averill’s next ex-wife. She saw the signs, Marie said. Maybe the first billboard on her highway of life should have warned her. The billboard that said, “Hey, he had an affair with you, didn’t he?” 

She was also concerned about Averill’s mental health. He had been under a lot of strain the last few years, and she thought he might be cracking. When Nancy said she had not noticed anything unusual about his behavior, Marie’s face flushed and she snapped, “I guess he didn’t tell you about meeting with the Martians,” then told this story. 

By 1963, Averill had been dreaming: dreams that weren’t so good. He often woke in the night crying or screaming. Up until a year ago, Averill had been much more active in his government role. As President Johnson’s personal representative in the peace talks with North Vietnam, Averill spent about a third of his time on Flying Tiger Airlines shuttling back and forth. This is not good for someone who is used to multitasking in the big leagues and created time for his mind to wander… and remember. Apparently, his sleeping mind liked to take him down memory lanes heavy in shadows. 

Harriman’s night-time terrors went on for weeks, escalating in frequency and severity. At first Marie woke him from the nightmares. When she did, Averill asked if he had said anything, and if so, what? 

Marie knew her husband. One of the reasons he was high in the government was his talent for keeping his mouth shut. Everyone trusted him, even his political adversaries. That’s saying a lot in Washington, DC. Marie knew that if Averill thought he was talking in his sleep, he would ban himself to a guest bedroom and make sure the door was locked, so she did what a good wife does. She said no more about Averill’s nightmares, and when he woke himself up in the middle of the night, she feigned sleep. She also listened to everything he said. Some of it terrified her. 

At first there was a lot of incomprehensible mumblings about Truman and Forrestal: stuff about little foreign men in big glasses wearing trench coats. He would often wake up crying after these episodes. Then came screams. Finally, nine days before Marie was admitted to the hospital, talking in his sleep, Harriman relived and revealed the meeting that changed the world. 

The light Truman pointed out to his companions on the night of 8 July, 1952 grew larger. Within seconds it hovered silently twenty feet off the ground, fifty yards away. It appeared metallic, and areas seemed to be lit from the inside out. It had a translucence about it. 

Truman and Harriman exited the car and positioned themselves with their backs to the Ford’s grill. The craft made no noise as it moved slowly toward them. 

It was a flying disc about 30 feet in diameter. As it came to a stop, a portion of the perimeter hovered over the front of the Ford. It emitted something akin to a mild electrostatic field. The craft slowly descended until it stopped about ten feet above the ground. 

The soft glow of the craft’s belly went dark. A second later, dozens of bright lights bathed the area below like a surgery table. A hatch slid open near the center of the vehicle’s bottom. A second later, something like a small freight elevator descended to six inches above the ground. Three members of the other team were on the lift. 

Between four and five feet tall, they wore ill-fitting trench coats belted around their midsection, and fedora hats pulled low. Their feet were clad in gray, felt-like, loose-fitting boots that seemed freakishly wide across the toes. Exposed between the bottoms of their coats and the tops of the boots were frail-looking legs clad in a gray material similar to the boots. 

They stepped off the platform and walked to face the Earthmen. They extended their right hands in the classic, modern-day greeting. 

Averill wondered if they were the same three who visited his dreams. In other circumstances the humans might have thought the whole thing comic. The three visitors frozen in front of him with their fragile, long-fingered hands extended to shake hands were the opposite of sinister. Their size and dress made it hard to take them seriously. But one glance at the 30-foot flying disc hovering over their heads removed all humor. 

The one whose hand Harriman eventually took raised its face to look at him. Its large, black eyes reflected light and made Harriman think they wore some kind of lenses. 

As if acting on advice from a travel guide, each alien shook the hand of each Earthman then stepped back. Both men heard the same voice in their heads at once, “Shall we begin?” 

The voice repeated the question. It was impossible to tell which of the three spoke. The narrow slits beneath what could have been small, unformed noses never changed from the slightly turned-down curve. 

Truman spoke by way of introduction, agenda, and diplomatic well wishing. He finished by saying he looked forward to reviewing the treaty. 

The center alien reached in his coat and extracted an eight-inches-long tube about an inch in diameter. The visitor manipulated the tube so it telescoped outward to triple in length, and then unrolled a screen from inside. The alien again manipulated part of the tube, and the screen glowed with images that swam into clarity. 

The thin screen was offered to Truman. The screen, which seconds before had unrolled from the tube, was rigid and weighed almost nothing. 

After a few seconds, the voice inside of Harriman’s head announced, “Begin.” Harriman assumed Truman heard the voice as well, judging from the president’s reaction. 

The screen provided a soft, pale, cream-colored background to symbols in a column down the left side of the sheet, and our own Latin-based alphabet on the right. The symbols were similar to Egyptian hieroglyphics, Nordic runes, Ogham, and geometric shapes. 

Truman began to read the column in English. As he read, a voice similar to the earlier one announced the words in his head. Harriman heard the voice as he watched, noticing the page on the screen changed to the next page as Truman finished reading the last words on the page before. 

After a while, Truman looked at the alien who had handed him the screen and asked, in a normal speaking voice, “Would you like me to take this with me, or should we all wait while I read it?” 

The three oversized heads conducted a series of slight, quick nods, and the voice in their heads said, “We will let you know the content.” 

The alien touched the screen in Truman’s hands. The pages flicked on and off the screen. This time, an echoing buzz chased through Harriman’s head. He felt the beginning of a terrible headache, then it was over. He looked at the screen. The document had reset to the first page. Truman studied it a few seconds, then offered it to Harriman. Harriman began to read. As he reread the first column, he realized he knew what it said. Not just familiar with what it said, he knew what it said. And not just the first column: he thought about the section dealing with exclusivity and the correct page appeared on the screen with the exact paragraph positioned where his eyes focused. 

After a moment, Truman asked to have a moment with Harriman. 

The big heads synchronized the slight bobbing and the voice in their heads said, “Of course.” It unnerved Harriman not knowing which of the three spoke. He assumed it was the one who worked the screen. 

Truman stopped himself as he turned and said, “No rudeness intended, but will you know what my colleagues and I are saying in private?” 

This time a slight, single half-nod and the voice said, “We refrain.” 

Truman and Harriman sat in the car, closed the doors, and rolled the windows up. 

“Did they put the information from the screen into your head?” Truman asked Harriman. 

Harriman affirmed that he had thorough knowledge of the treaty, as if he had been working with the document for months. 

Truman and Harriman talked. Truman’s ideal scenario would be to return to Washington and dictate the treaty then review it with the Roswell illuminati. Truman’s biggest concern was if they did not agree to the treaty at this meeting there was the chance they could lose exclusivity. 

Truman glossed over the presidential authority to sign treaties. With this treaty, if all parties stood good to their word, no one outside the circle of a very few would ever know. 

“Well,” Truman said, “if we don’t sign now they can make the same deal with the Russians. Whoever signs with them will have the fifty-year exclusivity. Whoever doesn’t do the deal will be up shit creek in a shooting war. We wouldn’t push it, but you can bet your ass Stalin will.” 

Averill said, “Harry. It will end the Cold War. Maybe not next year, but we will always have the upper hand. Besides, I don’t want another meeting with these creepy little guys. I say let’s do it.” 

Truman agreed. 

They exited the car and again stood in front of the aliens. Truman said that he would agree to the treaty. 

The alien handed the screen back to the president. Now the screen swirled and eddied with unformed shapes and colors. The voice in the heads of the humans said, “Please agree.” 

Truman started to reach for the pen in his pocket—a Waterman pen, the one he used to sign the Yalta Conference agreement—but realized there was no place to sign. Taking a leap of faith, he said, “I, Harry S. Truman, President of the United States of America, agree to the terms and conditions of this treaty henceforth known as The Treaty of Roswell 1952.” 

An image began taking form, and in a fraction of a second he saw a moving picture of himself accepting the treaty. When he finished speaking, the scene shifted to the three head-bobbers and the voice up until now heard only in their heads emitted from the screen. Each phrase of agreeing to the treaty was first in English then followed by clicking sounds, then English, then clicks, until it ended. 

“Thank you,” the alien said, reaching for the screen. Within seconds it was rerolled, telescoped, and slipped back into his pocket. 

“We will communicate to you as to how and when we will begin to fill our part of the contract.” All three stuck out their hands to shake. 

The visitors stepped back on the elevator floor and ascended into the belly of the disc. The hatch closed. The electrostatic field returned. The lights went out returning to the soft glow. The craft slowly drifted upward and back the way it came. One hundred yards out over the road, it accelerated away until it was the size of a dime, then just vanished. 

The two humans stood silently until Harriman broke the silence, “It didn’t move.” 

Truman looked at Harriman, wondering if the other’s mental state had been damaged by the affair, then said, “Averill, it sure as hell moved. Didn’t you see it streak away from us?” 

“Yes, I saw it. I was talking about while we were under it. It didn’t move, not at all. It was perfectly steady, not like it was floating. How do they do that?” Harriman said, staring at the empty point in the sky where the ship vanished. 

Truman laughed. 

As they drove back to the airfield the conversation was quiet, reserved like boys waiting to go into the principal’s office. At one point Truman said he felt truly humbled and wished he could tell the world. At another, Averill admitted he had never been more frightened in his life, and Truman thought he saw the gleam of a tear in his eye. The more distance they put between them and the site of the meeting, the more comfortable and open they became. By the time they reached the airfield’s gates they were giddy as school boys who had been secretly promised things by the real Santa Claus. 

Colonel Williams greeted them aboard the Liftmaster, tucked them into their seats, gave each a pillow and blanket, then took them home. Tired as they were, they could not sleep. The full implications of who they were dealing with sank in. They second-guessed their decision. Fears, real and imagined, danced in their minds, sounding oddly like the echoing voice in the head. 

President Truman was late for work on July 9th. All morning meetings rescheduled, the president dictated the treaty from memory to a stenographer from General Twining’s staff. Harriman recalled the treaty word-for-word to a second stenographer in another office. It turned out to be shorter work than expected. The stenographers and their shorthand notes were whisked back to the Armed Forces Security Agency’s cryptology department and placed in front of typewriters. Each typed version was proofed against its original and corrected. When the two manuscripts were compared, they were for all intents and purposes word-for-word.

The Roswell illuminati gathered at the AFSA the evening of July 10 and were read the treaty. Essentially, the party of the first part, the government of the United States of America, agreed to abide by the terms and conditions herein with the party of the second part, a confederation composed of more than one group of sentient beings: the organization’s name translated to English as: Husbands of Commerce Utility. While the treaty was with HCU, the treaty contained a clause that disputes would be arbitrated by a third party named Fathers of Deployment. Again, these are the English translations, and if anyone of the Roswell Secret club had questions, they held their tongue. The names really didn’t matter. 

The unbelievable point was that Harry S. Truman from Missouri had made an agreement with intelligent creatures not of this world who promised to provide us certain information and services in exchange for the ability to study Earth people. 

The treaty turned out to be remarkably simple. 

At specific intervals we would hail the HCU using a specific, ultra-high frequency radio channel (at this time in history only the military used UHF communication. It was later changed to ELF, extremely low frequency, and eventually to secured digital-satellite-coded transmissions). The call to HCU would initiate question-and-answer sessions where the HCU provided answers to questions of a scientific nature as well as offering the basics of new technology. The promise in the treated stated that while the HCU would not necessarily answer all questions or aid in the development of all technologies, it guaranteed the United States of America would remain the technologically superior nation on Earth. 

In addition to helping with weapons development, the HCU provided information to guarantee America’s global dominance in medicine, computers, space travel, and communications. 

The treaty clearly spelled-out the HCU would not provide us with any equipment or machines, only information that would put us on and keep us on the fast track to making our own advances. 

What did they receive? Not much. The United States would immediately stop using the Project Rainbow beam projectors and do everything in its power to stop nuclear testing on Earth. The HUC could conduct DNA studies on human beings and other animals. The studies would be secret, and no living humans would be seriously injured. The purpose of the study was to understand human DNA in order to advance medicine, eradicate diseases, and prepare humans for a broader role with our universal neighbors. 

Truman didn’t know it yet, but he had been dead right about trading for beads: they were the Dutch colonist, we were the Lenape Indians, and our planet was the Manhattan island. 

Norfolk, VA July 7 th 

“Let loose the dogs. Exodus 11:3-6.” Jim Sees typed “OK,” hit send, and stared at the words on the screen—terrified. 

Jim closed the Internet connection, restarted his browser. When his homepage opened, he went to Excite.com and opened a never-before-used email account. The inbox contained a single e-mail sent seconds earlier from Bruno Hauptmann 0747. It said, “White panel van for sale. $1500.” 

Jim stood. He had fifteen minutes to prepare. He turned off the computer and vanished into his kitchen. 

At 4:50 AM he went into the basement to fetch the girl and Sister Fran. The girl sat on a well-worn Hello Kitty pillow near the edge of a hooked rug. The pillow was very important: so was the bag of marbles. Swaying slightly back and forth, she floated her index finger over the nine marbles on the rug then hovered over one until she completed humming a note. As each note faded, she pointed to another marble and hummed a different note. 

Sister Fran leaned forward in a chair reading an old People magazine, the backs of her forearms resting on her thighs. Her head lifted, peering over her reading glasses, when Jim entered. 

She closed the magazine and stood. Jim looked around the room as if he saw the pine-paneled walls for the first time and at the same time was saying goodbye to a place of comfort. “We need to be upstairs in five minutes.” 

Sister Fran spoke to the girl in hardly more than a whisper, put the marbles back, and handed the bag to her. The girl stood holding her Hello Kitty pillow. Sister Fran handed her the bag of marbles then followed her up the stairs. In the kitchen, the two held hands and watched out the kitchen window for their ride. 

When Sister Fran and the girl arrived this morning around 3 o’clock, they were not what Jim expected. The nun wore jeans and a plaid shirt with the tail out. Her short, gray hair was little more than a military crop. She was a large woman: not fat, big. Sister Fran was about 5’ 10” and weighed in the neighborhood of 180 pounds. She moved with a gliding grace more like a tai chi master than a sixty-seven-year-old nun. Sister Fran had been the girl’s primary teacher for the last eight years. 

The girl, Melanie, was obviously autistic or something, and looked as if she suffered a mild case of Down’s syndrome. 

Jim watched a black SUV roll slowly down the alley. Its darkened windows gave no hint of its occupants. This was definitely not their ride. Shit! he thought. It’s going bad already. 

The SUV stopped. The passenger door opened and closed and a teenage boy ran into the backdoor of a house across the alley. Relief washed over Jim as the SUV pulled away and his stomach slowly unknotted. Jim realized the dualism of his situation. He hated the nerve-racking uncertainty, yet realized this frightening experience made him feel alive for the first time in years. 

A white Ford panel van turned into the alley then pulled into his short driveway. 

Jim opened the back door, waved, then went back inside the kitchen. He didn’t have to speak. Sister Fran, with the girl in tow, headed to the van. They passed the driver on his way into the house without speaking. 

The driver entered carrying a small toolbox and a plastic, five-gallon fuel tank. He was a clean-cut, well-built man, in his mid-thirties. He opened the toolbox and went to work. 

Before leaving Jim turned to make sure everything was on the kitchen table. His wallet, passport, credit cards, cell phone (sans SIM card), computer hard drive. and checkbook—basically his life waited to be consumed. 

Five minutes later, as the van accelerated onto the freeway, they heard distant sirens: fire trucks rushing to Jim’s flaming house. Jim sat buckled into the passenger seat. Sister Fran and the girl sat cross-legged on a futon that nearly filled the back of the van. 

The driver’s eyes nervously shot between the road and the rearview mirror. So far no one had spoken. 

“I don’t know about you,” Jim said, “but I’ve never done anything like this. I am about to mess my pants.” 

“Me too,” replied the driver. 

The driver seemed anxious but not scared shitless like Jim. Maybe he wasn’t so new to illegal, covert escapades. 

Watching the driver’s cool, blue eyes flick between the mirrors and the road ahead, Jim asked, “Why are you doing this?” 

“Why are you?” he shot back. 

“I asked first,” said Jim. 

“As I understand it, the less we know about each other the better.” The driver then added, “I have my reasons.” 

“You’re right,” Jim said, sitting back and trying to relax enough to reduce the nervous tension crawling along his spine like dark electricity. 

“I hope they don’t put the fire out,” Jim said, thinking about his identification on the kitchen table. 

“Not a chance,” the driver said as he changed lanes. 

The girl had fallen asleep. Sister Fran, if that was her name, looked at Jim with an almost-angelic, annoying, little smile. Jim needed a drink. 

The only thing Jim knew about the girl was her name, Melanie, and that he was involved in kidnapping her—from the federal government. 

The white van continued south on the freeway. The driver constantly watched his mirrors and cruised at the speed limit. 

A cell phone rang in the front seat. 

The driver looked in a shoe-box-sized carton and answered the ringing phone. After a few seconds he said, “Okay.” 

He removed the battery from the cell phone as he said, “In the passenger side seat pocket, there’s a road atlas. Tell me how to get to I-66. We are going to Huntsville, Alabama.” 

Jim read the directions to the driver then sat back. What’s in Huntsville? he wondered, closing his eyes and settling in for the eight-hour drive. His adrenalin level was too high to sleep, so he tried clearing his mind with breathing exercises. Instead his mind recalled the start of this adventure. It was hard to believe so much had changed in less than four months.

PART 3

https://exploringrealhistory.blogspot.com/2021/01/part-3-alien-agenda-why-they-camewhy.html

going to stop here, post this part, and start the next segment pronto, the author has me a bit confused starting @ Norfork, as to when this is transpiring, the e-mail Jim got is interesting because of the name and what he is infamous for. When you combine the notoriety of e mail sender name, and what Jim reveals his connection to the girl makes me not want to stop, but I need to think of others, and getting tired of folks telling me my posts are too long.... 

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