McIntyre smiled. “Welcome to my humble abode, care for coffee?”
“Sure, cream and sugar.”
As McIntyre disappeared down the hallway to get some coffee, Mike helped himself to a seat in McIntyre’s tiny office.
McIntyre soon returned with two rigid plastic holders each with a thin plastic cup filled with steaming coffee, which he placed on the top of his desk. McIntyre took his chair behind the desk and invited Mike to the coffee.
“Now, how can I be of help to the Navy?”
“For starters, Ed, I’ve already had access to the files of Projects Blue Book and Grudge. I’ve reviewed the Wright-Patterson reports and the Socorro incident Reports. My superiors would like me to actually walk the site, if I can.”
“We can get a Huey to take us to the site this afternoon. However, before we do that, you may want to check into the BOQ.”
“Good idea. Will there be any trouble getting the Huey?”
“No problem. Let’s figure on going around 2:00 p.m.”
With a swirl of dust, the Huey settled on to the desert floor. Mike and McIntyre unbuckled their seat belts and jumped out of the open door. Crouching low, Mike and McIntyre ran out from under the still turning main rotor.
Walking the crash site with Mike, McIntyre retold the history of the Socorro incident. Shepherds had found the crash site and had notified the local sheriff. The sheriff, after arriving at the scene, immediately radioed Holloman Army Air Field. Swarms of Army Air Force investigators descended on the scene and picked it clean. Large portions of the wreckage were trucked out in unmarked tractor trailers to be flown to Wright-Patterson. The remains of the crew were also transported to Holloman Army Air Field and from there to Wright-Patterson.
Mike, who had read the voluminous reports on the Socorro incident, including the highly classified report concerning the mysterious sites, knew much of the material now being recounted by McIntyre.
Mike took in the topography of the New Mexican desert, broad flat plains interrupted only by a few flat-topped mesas. The Rio Salado flowed through the reservation. The Gallinas Mountains were in the distance. The scene was a splendid vista of cactus and sand. The azure sky was broken only by wispy clouds floating high above. An occasional hawk floated lazily in the sky hunting for its daily meal. Mike noticed several campfires on some nearby mesas. He asked McIntyre about them.
“As far we know those are Navajo medicine men communing with their gods. Been doing that for centuries, I hear.”
“That’s funny. There was no mention of Navajo medicine men in the Wright-Patterson reports.”
“You know, you’re right. Something you might be interested in. We recently brought in a Navajo medicine man for questioning. One of our agents had heard a rumor that this fellow, Johnny Thapaha, had some artifacts from the Socorro incident. We’ve been holding him for about six weeks at Holloman. Do you want to see him?”
“Sure. But isn’t six weeks a long time to hold someone without charges?”
“Executive Order 1121 provides that we can detain anyone for up to six months without charges if potential disclosure of alien activity threatens to jeopardize national security. As you may know, this is consistent with the law, and I forget the exact title, that permits the President to issue an executive order detaining any person at any time for indeterminate periods if there’s a threat to national security. This order was promulgated pursuant to that law following the Roswell and Socorro incidents.”
“Yeah, I know that law,” Mike said, expressionless. “It’s the follow up to the laws passed in the forties that relocated all Japanese Americans from California to detention camps. Real nice law.”
“What do you mean by that?” said McIntyre, turning toward Mike.
“Nothing. Forget it.”
Mike and McIntyre stood in the hallway of the detention barracks at Holloman in front of Interrogation Room 4A. Through the closed door, Mike could hear heated words from one person, accompanied by occasional slamming of a fist on a wooden table. McIntyre knocked on the door, which was answered by a young Air Force special investigator.
“Can I help you, Captain?” said the airman angrily. The airman was about twenty nine, had sandy brown hair and brown eyes, and was about five foot six inches in height. He was dressed in a brown suit, white shirt and green tie.
“I spoke to you on the telephone,” said McIntyre. “This is Lieutenant Mike Liu with the Navy. He’s here to investigate the Socorro incident and would like to interview Thapaha.”
The airman stepped into the hallway. Through the open door Mike could see an older Native American sitting erect in his chair, hands on the table in front of him, his gaze fixed on some faraway point. The old gentleman was dressed in a red plaid woolen shirt, shapeless cotton trousers and sandals. His graying shoulder length hair was held in place by a red and blue bandanna. The man had a classic Native American profile, prominent nose, sharply chiseled features, and dark brown skin coloring. Johnny Thapaha appeared to be oblivious to the men in the hallway.
Noticing that Mike was looking at his prisoner, the airman reached back and pulled the door shut with a determined click. “Why do you want to talk with the redskin?”
“The what?” said Mike.
“That Injun,” the airman drawled; a thin smile on his face.
In this airman, Mike saw the same insolence that had tormented him in his youth. Something snapped in Mike as he heard those words uttered. With one swift move, Mike had his left hand at the startled airman’s throat pinning him to the wall of the hallway. As quickly, his right hand had unbuttoned his uniform jacket, had reached behind his back, and had cocked his Walther, the muzzle of which was now in the airman’s mouth.
“Please don’t ever use racist terms like Injun or redskin again,” he said in a low, measured voice.
The only thing that the airman could do was shake his head up and down. His eyes bulged out in fear; his pants were soaked in urine.
McIntyre was shocked at the terms used by the airman, but was equally dumbfounded by Mike’s reaction.
Several Air Force policemen came running down the corridor with pistols drawn to confront a scene in which a naval officer was holding what seemed to be a civilian at gun point. McIntyre signaled the airmen to halt and put away their pistols.
Then McIntyre gently reached up to tap Mike’s shoulder. “Come on, Mike, I think he’s learned his lesson.”
Mike took the Walther out of the airman’s mouth, uncocked it, and placed it back in its holster. He continued to hold the airman by his throat, tightening his grip for effect. Finally, he released his grip and his captive collapsed in a whimpering heap on the floor. Mike’s eyes remained fixed on the heap on the floor.
“A little strong, weren’t you?” said McIntyre.
Mike’s focus slowly turned to McIntyre, his face passive. “Not if you’ve had to go through what I’ve had to go through.”
McIntyre said to the sweat-drenched and huddled airman, “You’re off this case.”
“Can I see Mr. Thapaha alone?” said Mike.
“Sure, I don’t see any reason why not,” said McIntyre. “After all, you’re the fourth interviewer. Maybe four will be our lucky number.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, nothing. Just some Indian superstition.”
Mike entered the small interrogation room in which Johnny Thapaha sat at an oak conference table. The table was grimy with the dust of the desert and countless spills of black coffee never quite wiped up. He sat directly across from the silent Navajo, who continued to stare into the distance, not acknowledging Mike’s entrance into the room.