Time Tunnel: The Towers Page 2

  “Damn!” Brazel cursed.

  Brazel collected several of the smaller fragments and placed them in a saddlebag. He rode back to the barn, where he found an old brown Dutch Masters cigar box to store the objects. Brazel then climbed aboard his faded red 1937 Ford pickup truck to drive to the neighboring ranch to show the strange items to his neighbors, Floyd and Loretta Proctor. Like Brazel, the Proctors were amazed at the objects’ properties—indestructibly strong, yet almost light enough to float. The Proctors counseled Brazel to take the fragments to Chaves County Sheriff George Wilcox.

  George Wilcox was in his 50’s, a portly man with short coarse salt and pepper hair and wire rim glasses. The normally quiet town of Roswell considered him a steady man, serious about his peacekeeping job, though kind and fair. He was a popular sheriff, a shoo-in for reelection.

  When the sheriff opened up Brazel’s cigar box to examine the objects, he was as mystified as Brazel and the Proctors. The material comprising the fragments was unlike anything he had ever encountered. Minutes after Sheriff Wilcox began studying the fragments, his office phone rang. The caller was Frank Joyce, a 24 year-old announcer at KGFL radio in Roswell. Joyce was spinning records at the station that hot Sunday afternoon. As was his practice during his shift, he called the sheriff to check if he had any news of interest to report. Sheriff Wilcox responded that Mack Brazel had just arrived in his office with several strange objects recovered from a debris field at the Foster Ranch. He then handed the phone to Brazel, who told his story to the young disk jockey. Brazel described the charred debris field, the odd behavior of his sheep, and the strange properties of the fragments. He concluded that the fragments were “not from this world.”

  In addition to his DJ job, Frank Joyce was also a stringer for the United Press International wire service. After broadcasting Brazel’s live interview on KGFL radio, Joyce filed the story on the UPI Wire. The story was picked up instantly, spreading like wildfire across radio and newspaper outlets throughout the country.

  After the interview, Sheriff Wilcox called Roswell Army Airbase to inform them of the strange find. The sheriff did not expect an urgent response, and was surprised when two officers arrived only minutes after he hung up the phone. Major Jesse Marcel from Army Intelligence was accompanied by an officer from the Army Counter Intelligence Corps, Captain Sheridan Cavitt. Major Marcel was lanky, with dark brown eyes peering beneath his officer’s cap. He looked younger than his 40 years. Though Marcel wore a friendly smile, Sheriff Wilcox’s instincts instantly told him an agenda lay behind the major’s pleasant façade. Captain Cavitt was shorter, with sandy colored hair and a serious expression.

  The men exchanged pleasantries. Brazel began to open his cigar box to show the officers the contents. Major Marcel put his hand on the lid of the box, closing it shut.

  “That won’t be necessary,” Major Marcel said with a smile. “Just show us the debris field.”

  Brazel and the sheriff looked at each other, perplexed. Brazel shrugged and started toward the door. On the way out, Captain Cavitt took the cigar box out of Brazel’s hands.

  “I’ll take that,” Cavitt said.

  As Sheriff Wilcox prepared to leave his office to escort the officers and Brazel to the Foster Ranch, Major Marcel asked him if they could speak privately. Marcel asked Brazel and Cavitt to wait outside the office.

  The sheriff’s phone rang. It was a reporter from KABQ radio in Albuquerque. The reporter had picked up the UPI wire about a UFO crash and was following up on the story. As the sheriff began to speak, Marcel could tell a reporter was on the other end of the call. Marcel instructed Wilcox to hang up. Moments later, the phone rang again.

  “Don’t answer it,” said Major Marcel.

  The major informed Sheriff Wilcox that this was a military matter, and that Brazel was mistaken about a UFO crash on the Foster Ranch. The sheriff asked about the strange objects in Brazel’s cigar box.

  “They’re from a weather balloon,” the major replied.

  The sheriff knew better. Military weather balloons were common in the Roswell area. He had seen dozens of them, as had Mack Brazel.

  “They didn’t look like they were from any weather balloon I’ve ever seen,” countered the sheriff.

  Marcel took a step toward the sheriff and looked him dead in the eye, “Sheriff Wilcox, you are mistaken,” he said firmly. “Those objects came from a weather balloon. There is no UFO. There are no such things as UFOs. The Army considers people who spin wild rumors like that to be unstable, even dangerous. Are you dangerous, Sheriff? Is your family dangerous?”

  Sheriff Wilcox blanched. He got the message. His life and the lives of his family were being threatened.

  “No sir,” the sheriff replied, “We’re not dangerous.”

  “I didn’t think so,” said Marcel, smiling.

  The sheriff ’s phone continued to ring.

  “It looks like you’ve got a call,” said Marcel, turning toward the door. “I’ll leave you to it.”

  Sheriff Wilcox slowly sat in his chair, staring at the ringing phone.

  Marcel and Cavitt followed Brazel’s old Ford truck to the Foster Ranch. Marcel drove his black 1942 Buick Convertible, eating hot dust tossed up from Brazel’s truck. Cavitt trailed the convoy in an Army olive green Jeep Carryall.

  By the time they arrived at the debris field, the sun was low in the sky, painting the desert a flaming rose color. The three men walked as much of the debris field as they could, loading some of the fragments into the Carryall and the trunk of Marcel’s Buick. Marcel asked Brazel if they could spend the night at the ranch and resume their work the following morning.

  Brazel showed the men to the Hines house, an old one-room stone ranch house with a wooden floor and tin roof near the debris field. The old house had bare bones furnishings—a wood stove, a wobbly wooden table and chairs, and two twin beds with rusty box springs. A kerosene lantern threw a weak yellow light in the room as the men dined on cold pork-and-beans and crackers that Brazel had rustled up for supper. Brazel excused himself after dinner to return to his shack. The men agreed to meet at dawn to resume their survey of the debris field.

  A piercing yellow sun over the eastern desert announced the arrival of July 7. Marcel and Cavitt, haggard from an uncomfortable sleep on the old spring beds, emerged from the ranch house after knocking back coarse coffee brewed up in a tin pot. Brazel soon joined them, and the three men spent the day collecting fragments from the debris field and stuffing them into the Jeep Carryall and Marcel’s Buick.

  Late in the afternoon, when the Army officers’ vehicles were brimming with debris, Marcel and Cavitt decided to call it quits for the day. Marcel asked if Brazel wouldn’t mind accompanying them back to the air base. Even though Brazel had already taken far too much time away from his ranch duties, he considered himself a patriot and was eager to assist the Army in any way he could. Brazel agreed to the officers’ request. Marcel led the way to the base in his Buick, followed by Brazel’s Ford pickup. Cavitt brought up the rear in his Carryall.

  Major Marcel pulled up at the air base guard shack, a small tan structure with windows on all four sides. A green and white striped boom barricade blocked the entrance to the base. The guard, wearing his olive uniform with a black “MP” military police armband and a Sam Browne dark leather belt across his chest emerged from the shack and saluted Major Marcel. Marcel returned the salute, and spoke with the guard, motioning toward the two vehicles in tow. The guard looked directly at Mack Brazel. Brazel felt uneasy. He began to wonder whether he had made a mistake showing the fragments to the sheriff. The guard retreated into his shack to make a phone call. When he emerged from the shack, the guard opened the boom barricade and saluted the officers as they drove into the base.

  Brazel followed Marcel as he drove through the base, passing bland tan corrugated metal barracks and hangars. The base seemed unusually active for peacetime. Soldiers were in a hurry. Many were running. Jeeps were driving at high speed. Military
police were everywhere. As the convoy passed, Brazel noticed that some soldiers stopped their frenzied activity to stare. Some pointed at the convoy and Brazel’s truck. Something seemed wrong.

  Major Marcel parked his Buick at a sand-colored two-story brick building and motioned for Brazel to park next to him. A group of six MPs with side arms stood outside the building. As Brazel got out of his truck, the MPs approached him.

  “Sir, you’ll need to come with us,” said one of the MPs.

  Brazel, surprised, began to protest. He tried to explain to the MP that he needed to get back to the ranch and care for the animals. Marcel assured him that his detention was a precaution, both for reasons of national security, as well as his own protection.

  Brazel was escorted to a darkened room, with a single Steelcase table in the center of the room, and two metal chairs on opposing sides. A single bulb light fixture with a green metal shade hung over the table. One of the MPs instructed Brazel to sit in one of the chairs, and then stood to the side of the door. Minutes later, Captain Cavitt, the counter intelligence officer, entered the room and sat in the chair opposing Brazel. He began by asking Brazel to repeat the story he had told Sheriff Wilcox. Brazel again told Cavitt how he had happened upon the charred debris field while riding his horse. He described the sheep’s odd behavior, and the strange nature of the fragments. Cavitt asked him with whom he had discussed his finding. Brazel replied that he had discussed it with Loretta and Floyd Proctor, Sheriff Wilcox, and KGFL radio announcer Frank Joyce.

  “Why did you discuss this with a radio announcer?” asked Cavitt. “If you really thought the debris was from a UFO, you may have spooked the public. Don’t you think that’s pretty irresponsible?”

  Brazel was flustered. He tried to explain that he had not sought out Frank Joyce, that Sheriff Wilcox had thrust the phone to him when Joyce happened to call the sheriff ’s office during Brazel’s visit.

  Cavitt asked Brazel if he drank and if he had been drinking at the time he found the debris field.

  “No sir,” drawled Brazel, “though now I wish I had been.”

  Cavitt asked Brazel about his relationship with his wife and family. He asked about his state of mind and whether he had ever been institutionalized. Brazel became angry at the suggestion that he might be crazy.

  “I was not drinking and I’m not crazy!” said Brazel. “I know what I saw. You saw it too.”

  “Mr. Brazel, I saw the remains of a weather balloon.”

  “That’s bullshit!” interrupted Brazel.

  “What I’m trying to understand is why someone would cause a panic by putting out a story on the radio falsely claiming that a simple weather balloon was in fact a UFO,” Cavitt continued. “Because the government thinks a person like that might have a screw loose. Maybe they need to be locked up in an asylum. Maybe they’re a menace to society. We can’t have dangerous people like that stirring up trouble.”

  A bolt of fear fired through Brazel. “I’m not crazy,” he said.

  “I hope that’s true, Mr. Brazel,” said Cavitt. “Because it will go very badly for you if it’s not true.”

  Cavitt instructed Brazel to tell the story again. At key junctures in the story, Cavitt introduced edits. The objects changed from solid chunks of indestructible graphite gray material to ordinary foil and balsa wood. The balloon had obviously caught fire, charring the surrounding earth. Cavitt instructed Brazel to repeat the reconstructed story over and over again for hours. Exhausted at the end of the session, Brazel practically believed the fake story himself.

  Brazel was then taken to a medical examination room with an exam table with green vinyl padding covered with white paper, and an assortment of stainless steel instruments on an adjacent tray. A glass jar of cotton balls sat on a nearby shelf, alongside a bottle labeled “alcohol.” The MP escorting Brazel ordered him to strip. Brazel’s jaw dropped. He stared at the MP, speechless.

  “Take your clothes off—now!” repeated the MP.

  Brazel removed his clothes—blue jeans, blue and white checkered shirt, boots and underwear—and stood, naked, for minutes in front of the MP, waiting, covering his genitals with his hands. Brazel’s body had a farmer’s tan. His face, neck, arms, and hands were weathered and brown from years working in the sun. The rest of his body, normally covered by jeans and work shirts, was a pasty color. A few strands of combed-over straw colored hair lay on his otherwise bald head. Brazel’s embarrassment at his nudity was magnified by his awareness of the contrast of his middle-aged body compared with that of the young fit fully clothed MP.

  The door opened, and a man and woman entered. The man, a doctor, had black receding hair and wore black rim glasses, a lab coat, and a surgical mask. The nurse had dark wavy hair beneath her nurse’s cap. She too wore a mask. Brazel felt embarrassed and vulnerable standing naked in front of these fully clothed people. The doctor strapped on a head mirror and ordered Brazel to sit on the papered exam table. The doctor performed a routine examination of his ear, nose and throat. The doctor then checked Brazel’s reflexes by rapping his knee with a rubber reflex hammer. Brazel’s leg bounced up in response. The doctor then asked Brazel to stand up. Brazel began to cover himself with his hands again. The doctor slapped his hands away, then turned to the nurse, who helped him pull on a pair of squeaky rubber gloves. The doctor reached for Brazel’s testicles, checking for a hernia by pressing the inguinal canal while instructing Brazel to turn his head to the side and cough. Brazel noticed anxiously that both the nurse and the MP were staring at his genitals as the doctor performed the exam. Finally, the doctor instructed Brazel to turn to face the table and bend over, resting his elbows on the table. The nurse applied Vaseline to the doctor’s index finger. Brazel, outraged, fought back tears as he felt the painful pressure of the doctor’s finger forced into his rectum. The MP snickered as Brazel let out a grunt. When the doctor was finished, he pulled off his rubber gloves with a snap and handed them to the nurse. He then instructed Brazel to sit on the table again. The doctor picked up a large metal-framed glass syringe from the table. The nurse strapped a rubber tourniquet on Brazel’s left arm and swabbed the inside of his elbow with an alcohol-doused cotton ball.

  “Make a fist,” instructed the doctor.

  The doctor slapped the inside of Brazel’s elbow lightly. A vein swelled beneath the skin.

  Brazel hated needles, and this one seemed very big. The doctor inserted it into Brazel’s arm, missing the vein completely.

  “Hold still!” the doctor said, trying to cover his mistake.

  After three tries, the doctor punctured the vein, filling the syringe. He then handed the gorged syringe to the nurse who squirted Brazel’s blood into a test tube with an anticoagulant, then capped it with a rubber stopper.

  “You can get dressed,” he told Brazel.

  The doctor and nurse exited. Brazel, humiliated to his bones, picked up his underwear and stepped into them, furious with the people who had violated him. He was also angry with himself for not having the courage to resist. The only bright ray mitigating the ordeal was Brazel’s belief that it was over. Brazel assumed he could return to the ranch and put this horrible episode behind him.

  Brazel finished dressing in front of the MP. The soldier then escorted him out of the examination room and down a series of hallways. To Brazel’s surprise, instead of escorting him to the exit, the MP took him to a tiny cinderblock brig cell, with a cot, forest green military blanket, and a stainless steel toilet and sink.

  Brazel turned to the guard before he locked the door, asking him when he could leave.

  “My orders are to confine you here until further orders,” replied the MP, a functionary of the highest order.

  The MP closed the cell door. Brazel heard the jangle of the keys and the door lock clack shut. Alone in his cell, the old cowboy sat on his cot, his head buried in his hands, shaking with rage and fear. His life, so simple only days before, had transformed into a terrifying nightmare. All he wanted was to ride the ra
nge on his horse again, away from this madness.

  Meanwhile, back at the Foster Ranch, soldiers had occupied the property, kicking the Foster brothers, Henry and Jasper off their land, along with their ranch hands. The brothers protested, fretting about their livestock being watered and properly cared for in the summer heat. As the Army MPs escorted them off the ranch, the brothers and their crew were informed that the soldiers were permitted to use lethal force if necessary to prevent unauthorized personnel from entering the area. The brothers were advised to shut up and leave.

  The Fosters watched from the main ranch gate as a small convoy of 2½-ton olive-drab military trucks drove onto the property. At the debris site, a team of soldiers scanned every inch of the field, loading wreckage into the trucks. Scientists analyzed the charred ground, taking soil and plant samples and scanning the area for radiation with Geiger counters. Soldiers with minesweepers skimmed the fields for buried objects.