The two, one Native American, the other Chinese American, sat silently. The two cultures, separated thousands of years ago by the inundating of the land bridge between Asia and the Americas, sat alone in the small, stifling conference room on folding chairs constructed of wooden slats on a light oak frame. Like the conference table, the chairs showed neglect.
The bright light of the conference room accentuated the strained battle of wills between the old Navajo medicine man and the young Chinese American Naval officer. Mike searched for a hint of acknowledgment in the fixed gaze of the old Native American. He saw nothing, just eyes that looked beyond Mike, beyond the conference room, beyond Holloman Air Force Base, into the New Mexican desert and, possibly, beyond.
After about one half-hour of this silence, Mike spoke. “Elder, we do not seek to harm you. The man who was in here before was uneducated and did not know where he was. We simply seek your assistance in determining the mysteries of the desert, the mysteries of the visitors from the sky. We understand that you can be of help.”
Mike lapsed into a strained silence once again. Johnny Thapaha spoke not one word. The old man sat, his eyes unmoving, unblinking.
Finally after another half-hour of silence, concluding there was nothing that he would get out of the Navajo, Mike got up to leave. As Mike started to open the door, Johnny Thapaha spoke.
“He was the fourth.”
The news came as a jolt. If Johnny Thapaha had found a live alien then that meant that there were four involved in the Socorro incident not three, as the government had thought for years. However, Mike understood that this interview was over and without further comment he opened the door and stepped outside into the hallway.
McIntyre had been leaning against the window frame, gazing out into the New Mexico desert. When he saw the door opening, he quickly took one last puff on his cigarette and put out the stub with his shoe.
“Did you get anything from the old man?” said McIntyre.
“No. I need to get back to Washington.”
“Welcome back, Mike,” said McHugh.
“Thank you, sir,” said Mike.
“Did you uncover anything of interest?”
“You know how everyone thinks there were three crewmen on the UFO that crashed in Socorro, New Mexico?”
“Yeah?”
“There were four.”
McHugh paused. “How do you know that?”
“The Air Force is holding an old Navajo medicine man, Johnny Thapaha, on suspicion of hoarding artifacts from the crash site. Although they and I were unable to get any information from the old guy, during my interview, if you could call it that, the medicine man said that there were four.”
“Have you told anyone about this?”
“No, sir.”
“Don’t.”
“What do we do next?”
“First off, we’ve got to get control of the Navajo medicine man, get him out of the hands of the Air Force. Second, we need to gain his trust so that any information he may have will be willingly shared. Having grown up in the West, I know that failing to gain the trust of these people is the worst way to get any information.”
“Yes, sir.”
McHugh added. “I understand you got a little rough with an airman yesterday.”
“The guy was a racist asshole.”
“Try to cool those jets, it doesn’t help you,” said McHugh.
Mike was one of few nonwhite officers in the Navy and McHugh knew that reports of this type could be used by those who would claim that this was the very reason that proper acculturation was so important in selecting candidates for the officer corps. By proper acculturation, the proponents meant that only certain types of people should be naval officers. Mike didn’t fit that category, never mind his NROTC education at the University of Virginia. White uniforms weren’t the only uniform white in the officer ranks of the Navy in 1970.
“Do you want to stay on this case? If Thapaha spoke to you, you’re apparently the only person he’s spoken to that we know of.”
“I’d like to give it a try, sir.”
“Makes sense, I’ll go see the director for orders. Just don’t go terrorizing anymore airmen, okay?”
“Aye, sir.” Mike snapped to attention on that remark by McHugh.
“Good luck with him,” said McIntyre. “We haven’t been able to get any information out of him in the six weeks we’ve had him in custody. He’s all yours.”
Johnny Thapaha stood erect in a regal manner in the first floor hallway of the detention barracks. He was dressed in the same clothes that Mike had seen the last time at Holloman. When Mike walked out of the processing office to take custody of the medicine man, Johnny Thapaha took no notice of Mike or any other person. He stood quietly with a fixed gaze.
“Good morning, Mr. Thapaha,” said Mike.
No response.
“I’m going to take you back to your people,” continued Mike. “I’ve made arrangements to stay with you for a short period of time.”
No response.
This guy is going to be a challenge, thought Mike.
Mike had arranged for a government issued interagency motor pool car. The tan colored Ford Fairlane did not carry any markings. In addition, Mike was dressed in a blue button down collar shirt, tan trousers, Bass Weeguns, and a navy blue windbreaker. With his black hair and dark complexion, Mike could have easily passed for a Native American himself.
Mike opened the door for Johnny Thapaha and then got in the driver’s seat for the one hundred and fifty mile drive to the Navajo Indian Reservation near Socorro and the crash site.
The drive passed in silence. Neither Johnny Thapaha nor Mike spoke during the two and one half hour drive. Mike enjoyed the Southwestern desert, the colorful yellows and reds of the desert, the sagebrush and creosote bushes, the occasional saguaro cactus, the brilliant blue sky broken only by wisps of white clouds, an occasional soaring hawk, and the countless electric poles that whipped by. A cabin could be seen every few miles in the distance, a thin wisp of smoke rising out of the smoke stack. The land was desolate, but fascinating.
As Mike drove into the Navajo Indian Reservation along New Mexico State Route 52 from Magdalena, New Mexico, he looked for the town hall. The poverty that followed the Navajo into the twentieth century was evident in the ramshackle housing that was clustered along the road. Life had not changed greatly for the Navajo and they continued to live much as their ancestors had for centuries. Mike pulled up to the neat white stucco building in the small town square and parked the car. Leaving Johnny Thapaha in the car, Mike walked into the town clerk’s office.
“Hello,” said Mike to the Navajo woman behind the long wooden counter. The attractive Navajo woman, Ruth MacLaren, was dressed in a traditional long-sleeved colored blouse and a long cotton skirt. Her blouse was decorated with buttons of silver and a narrow string of hammered silver medallions. On each wrist was a bracelet of turquoise and silver. Around her waist was a belt of hammered silver.
Around her neck were several beaded necklaces of many colors, shapes and sizes. Her black hair, glistening in the light, was arranged into two braids tied with red ribbons. The braids ran down the front of her blouse. She was about twenty.
“May I help you?” said Ruth.
“Yes, I spoke yesterday with Richard MacLaren about Johnny Thapaha. Where can I find him?” said Mike.