Time Tunnel: The Towers Read online

  Though Mack Brazel had an inkling of the importance of his find on the Foster Ranch, he had no way of comprehending its full scope. As monumental as the discovery was, it paled in comparison to what lay 70 miles to the east in a desert arroyo.

  KGFL Radio

  Roswell, NM

  July 8, 1947

  11:25 hours

  Lieutenant Walter Haut parked his Army jeep in front of the KGFL radio studios in downtown Roswell. KGFL was located in a small awning-covered storefront office, with a sign reading “Radio Station KGFL” in neon letters.

  The 25 year-old blond first lieutenant was Roswell Army Air Field’s Press Information Officer. He was at KGFL to distribute the strangest press release he had ever written. Half an hour earlier, the base commander, Colonel William Blanchard had dictated it to him for immediate release.

  The press release was headlined: “RAAF Takes Possession of Flying Saucer.”

  When the young lieutenant had finished scribbling the colonel’s dictation, he looked up at the colonel, his eyebrows raised.

  “May I see it, sir?” asked Lieutenant Haut, referring to the flying saucer.

  “No,” replied Colonel Blanchard as he turned to leave.

  The press release was a bold gamble by the Army. Since KGFL’s Frank Joyce had broadcast Mack Brazel’s original report of a UFO crash over the UPI wire the previous day, the press was hot on the scent of the story and descending on Roswell in droves. The Army, caught flat-footed, was struggling to gain control of the situation. While the Army generals were deeply concerned about exposing the Foster Ranch debris field, they were much more anxious about crash site 2.

  Crash site 2 was unknown to the public. The night of July 6, the Army had tracked the arc of a UFO target on radar during the lightning storm as it crashed some seventy miles east of the Foster Ranch site. An Army team was immediately dispatched to the scene.

  The soldiers, clad in olive drab rubber ponchos to protect them from the pouring rain, fanned out to search the uninhabited area. The pitch dark terrain was illuminated only by the soldiers’ flashlights and shocking blue white flashes of lightning.

  After hours of searching, around 03:00 hours in the early morning, one of the soldiers spotted steam rising from inside an arroyo rift. The soldiers descended into the gap in the earth. The arroyo trickled with rainwater. Scrub oak and chaparral protruded from the rocks. In a modest rock escarpment bordering the stream, the soldiers’ flashlights congregated on a large, graphite-gray object protruding from the rock. Its smooth disc contours were interrupted by sharp angled fractures, where the rest of the object had sheared off. The primary object was approximately 20 feet wide and deep, and 15 feet in height. From the rate of curve, combined with the remaining wreckage strewn about the site, the primary object appeared to represent approximately one-third of the formerly intact craft. The soldiers surveyed the site. Like the primary wreckage, portions of the craft’s hull that had been fractured away had smoothly curved, featureless surfaces, interrupted by sharp angles where they had cracked off.

  Several soldiers noticed a shape among the wreckage that differed from the alternating curved and sharp geometric angles of the debris field. As they came upon it a flash of lightning lit the object.

  The soldiers cursed and scattered, terrified. Though most were battle-hardened World War II veterans, nothing could have prepared them for the sight. The lightning had illuminated a face—a non-human face, on a head with an abnormally large cranium, large black almond-shaped eyes, a tiny nose and ears, and a creepy gray pallor. The creature’s small mouth was wide open, and its small hands were pressed against its ears like a Munch “Scream.” The creature was less than five feet in height, with atrophied arms and legs. It wore a dark gray silk-like jump suit.

  The rattled soldiers willed themselves to buck up and continue the search. They found the bodies of three additional extraterrestrials in the wreckage. By the morning of July 7, two-dozen soldiers were combing the area and loading the wreckage and bodies into 2½-ton Army trucks. With a little luck, in 24 hours, the soldiers would be able to glean every last trace of alien debris from the site without alerting the locals.

  A few hours later, the Army’s luck ran out when KGFL’s Frank Joyce broadcast the news about Mack Brazel’s find on the Foster Ranch, 70 miles to the west.

  President Truman, Army Chief of Staff Eisenhower, and FBI Director Hoover were apoplectic. The country’s greatest secret, only hours old, had been blown wide open by a ranch foreman and a small town radio DJ. The press had broadcast the story to every living room radio in the country. Reporters were hot on the trail of the little green men.

  Options were discussed. Denying the UFO’s existence was no good: it would simply stoke the press feeding frenzy. Explaining away the flying saucer with the routine weather balloon ruse would also fuel conspiracy theories and keep attention focused on Roswell. Somehow, press attention needed to be shifted away from Roswell, buying the Army enough time to collect all the wreckage from both crash sites and get out of Dodge before the reporters wised up.

  The Army Counter Intelligence Corps advanced what, at first blush, appeared to be a lunatic idea: Roswell Army Air Field would issue a press release, confirming that it did indeed have a flying saucer in its possession, and that the disc was being flown to another air base for examination. At the base, ordinary weather balloon wreckage would be placed on display at a press briefing. The RAAF base commander, Colonel Blanchard, would be scapegoated for stirring up the mess, though he would later be privately rewarded for falling on his sword during his country’s time of need. For good measure, Mack Brazel would be trotted out for interviews to the Daily Record and KGFL radio to deliver the Army’s sanitized version of events at the Foster Ranch.

  After rancorous discussion in the early hours of July 8, it was agreed that Counter Intelligence’s plan was the government’s least worst option. Colonel Blanchard was ordered to start the plan in motion.

  Lieutenant Haut became the sharp point of the plan’s stick, distributing his flying saucer press release to Roswell’s radio stations and newspapers, the Roswell Daily Record and Roswell Dispatch. Haut’s press release landed just in time to make the Daily Record’s afternoon edition. Within minutes, the release had saturated the news wires.

  The arc of the Roswell story shadowed the trajectory of a B-29 bomber, carrying faked crash wreckage from Roswell to Fort Worth, where it was displayed on the floor of Brigadier General Roger Ramey’s office on the afternoon of July 8. Ramey was Commanding General of the 8th Army Air Force, and Colonel Blanchard’s commanding officer. In a matter of hours, the spectacular announcement of the crash of alien spacecraft had been carefully deflated into nothing more than a simple weather balloon.

  While reporters were snapping pictures of weather balloon wreckage in Fort Worth the afternoon of July 8, four military policemen escorted Mack Brazel to KGFL for a second interview with Frank Joyce. Joyce noticed that Brazel looked miserable as he recited the story he had been force fed by Captain Cavitt, describing the objects he found as “balloon parts” and “balsa parts.” During a commercial break, Joyce confronted Brazel:

  “Just a minute!” said Joyce, “You know that this story in no way matches the story you told me on the phone.”

  The haggard cowboy leaned close to Joyce and said, “Look, son. You keep this to yourself. They told me to come in here and tell you this story or it would go awfully hard on me and you.”

  On July 9, newspaper headlines parroted the Army’s story. The plan had worked brilliantly.

  Mack Brazel was disgraced in the press for instigating the hoax. Satisfied that Brazel would stick to the official version of events, the Army released him after a week in custody. In the years that followed, until the day he died, when asked about what really happened at Foster Ranch on the 6 of July, 1947, Brazel refused to say a word.

  Counter Intelligence’s brilliant misdirect bought the time the Army needed to collect every remaining scr
ap of wreckage. The product of those efforts now lay packed into three cargo planes queued on Roswell’s runway, the morning of July 10, 1947. Captain Bob Shirkey’s orders were to ensure that the spacecraft remains were relocated, safely and discreetly, to their new home. The fourth plane, the B-29, was going somewhere else—Shirkey didn’t know where. The destination was on a “need to know” basis. Shirkey didn’t need to know. He didn’t want to know. The B-29 contained the refrigerated remains of the four aliens.

  Shirkey watched as a soldier, dressed in battle fatigues, with his rifle slung, approached from the planes. When he reached Shirkey, he saluted. Shirkey saw the anxiety in the young soldier’s face. Shirkey returned the salute.

  “The planes are loaded and AOK,” reported the soldier. “Awaiting your orders, sir.”

  Shirkey glanced at his watch, “Get onboard. We’re taking off,” he said.

  The two men walked to the lead Skymaster and boarded through the forward hatch. Onboard, Shirkey glanced toward the rear cargo hold of the plane, which was packed with a mix of large wooden crates, as well as large curved sections of the alien ship too large to crate. Four soldiers were wedged into the cargo bay with the alien cargo.

  Shirkey turned to the cockpit. The pilot and co-pilot, wearing leather bomber jackets, were strapped into their seats. The pilot turned to Shirkey.

  “Orders sir?” the pilot asked.

  “Takeoff. Climb to 15,000 feet. Heading 330. Speed 190 knots. Maintain radio silence,” replied Bob.

  “Roger that, sir. 15,000 feet, heading 330, 190 knots,” acknowledged the pilot.

  Shirkey strapped himself into a folding seat behind the co-pilot. The pilot and co-pilot glanced at each other and exchanged a nod in unison. Then the pilot placed his hand on the throttle levers and pushed them forward. The Skymaster’s prop engines roared in response, and the plane began to move forward down the runway, picking up speed. The nose lifted off the ground and they were airborne, ascending into a stunningly beautiful clear desert morning. The brilliant sun was above the horizon, slightly to the plane’s port side. Several hundred feet below on the starboard side of the plane at two o’clock, Shirkey could see the sun’s blinding reflection off the B-29’s chrome skin as it headed northeast.

  The other two Skymasters under Shirkey’s command had followed his plane into the air and had assumed wing positions on either side of the lead plane. The only orders the pilots of those planes had been given prior to departure was “follow the leader.” They did not need to know where they were going.

  Though the planes did not have an official flight plan, it had been leaked that they were headed for Los Alamos, New Mexico. This was the heading Shirkey had given his pilot. Shirkey glanced at his watch periodically. Thirty minutes into the flight, he got out of his seat and tapped the pilot on the shoulder.

  “Sir?” the pilot asked.

  “New heading. Turn to 291. Maintain altitude and speed,” Shirkey shouted over the roar of the engines.

  “Heading 291. Maintain altitude and speed. Roger that,” replied the pilot.

  The pilot glanced at his co-pilot, who acknowledged the heading change with a nod. They banked the plane to port while Shirkey looked out the windows to make sure the other two planes were still in tow. He then turned to face the soldiers in the cargo bay.

  “It’s going to be a while, gentlemen,” Shirkey said.

  “Yes sir,” the soldiers replied.

  Shirkey kept a periodic lookout over the next few hours as his tiny fleet of Skmasters hummed through the clear western desert sky. The cargo windows of the Skymasters had been hastily painted over in an attempt to prevent the soldiers from knowing their destination. Only seven people in the fleet, the pilots and Captain Shirkey, would know the alien ship’s final destination. Shirkey watched as the brilliant oranges and reds of Arizona’s painted desert splashed the landscape beneath him. The landscape began to change from passion colors to duller browns and grays, with alternating rocky mountains and flat valleys.

  Shirkey glanced at his watch. It was 09:00. They were close. He unstrapped from his seat and straddled his arms across the pilot and co-pilot’s seats, staring forward out the cockpit window. In the distance, he spotted a craggy brown mountain. At its left base was a white spot—something that seemed completely out of place with the rest of the scenery. It was as though someone had transplanted a circular patch of desert next to the mountain.

  “See that white patch?” Shirkey asked the pilot.

  “Yes sir,” replied the pilot.

  “That’s your destination,” said Shirkey. “Begin your descent. You’ll be landing from the southeast.”

  “Yes sir, roger that,” replied the pilot.

  The white spot grew as they approached it, mellowing into a cream color. It was an enormous desert lakebed. As they got closer, they began to make out features—two parallel landing strips scraped out of the lakebed. They could also see vehicles and shelters pocking the surface. There were dozens of heavy earth moving machines, as well as other vehicles strewn about the desert patch. They were concentrated on the southern side. A flaccid windsock signaled wind conditions to the pilots.

  Shirkey’s plane banked to port away from the lakebed then to starboard to line up with the dirt runway. The pilot reduced speed, extended flaps and landing gear, and dropped his plane gracefully onto the desert runway. The yelp of the tires touching down signaled a textbook perfect landing. As the plane slowed on the runway, Shirkey directed the pilot to taxi off the runway onto the lakebed toward the concentration of activity they had witnessed from the air. Behind them, the two trailing planes spaced themselves to land in succession. Shirkey ordered the pilot to kill the engines and stay in the plane, while he lowered the hatch stairs.

  By the time Shirkey exited the plane, a collection of men and machines had already assembled to meet the Skymaster. Some of the men were wearing military khakis, some were clad in civilian attire. The civilians included workmen, as well as a handful of men dressed in suit pants, white shirts, G-man sunglasses and ties. Despite the fact that they had removed their suit coats, their dress was still comically inappropriate for the 90-degree heat.

  Shirkey stepped onto the cream sand lakebed. A colonel in khakis and Ray-Ban Aviator sunglasses stepped forward to greet him. Shirkey saluted. The colonel returned Shirkey’s salute and extended a hand. Shirkey shook it.

  “Welcome to Groom Lake, Captain” said the colonel, who did not disclose his name.

  “Thank you sir,” replied Shirkey.

  “You’ve accomplished your mission. Good work,” continued the colonel. “We’ll take it from here. We’ll have your plane unloaded within the hour and send you on your way with some refreshments for the trip home.”

  As the colonel spoke, Shirkey watched the port doors on the cargo bay swing open. An olive military transport truck backed into the bay. Men rushed onto the plane and began hauling wreckage onto the truck. The workers were surprised at the lightness of the large pieces. Indeed, the wooden crates holding the smaller items were the heaviest articles in the manifest.

  The colonel continued, “Captain, I assume I do not need to remind you of the need for absolute secrecy?” The men in suits, expressionless, trained their sunglass-covered eyes on the captain.

  “No sir, I understand completely,” replied the Shirkey, convincingly.

  “I thought so,” said the colonel, flashing a Hollywood smile. “Well then, why don’t you make yourself comfortable in your ship and we’ll have you ready for the trip home in a jiffy.”

  Shirkey understood that he was not going to get the grand tour. A bolt of panic flashed through his mind. Given the extraordinary secrecy, would he and his crew even leave this place alive?

  He climbed back aboard the Skymaster. The cockpit crew looked at him inquisitively.

  “All’s well. Good work men,” he said, with an easy confidence that masked his anxious desire to get the hell out of this strange place. “We’ll be here for anoth
er half hour or so, and then we’ll head home. How’s our fuel?”

  “Plenty for the return to Roswell,” replied the pilot, “assuming that’s where we’re going.”

  “That’s the last stop for today,” said Shirkey.

  Within 30 minutes, the last of the alien wreckage had been removed from the cargo bay. In its place, the workers had deposited a feast of fried chicken, sandwiches, chips, cookies, fruit, and bottles of Pepsi Cola in a tin tub filled with ice. Shirkey didn’t wait for his men to finish eating before instructing the pilots to takeoff. Within an hour of landing, the fleet had departed for Roswell in a cloud of desert dust.

  In the hot dusty wake of the planes’ prop wash, the anonymous colonel returned to his construction project. The corrugated metal hangar and barracks being erected at the site were nothing more than temporary housing for the interstellar spacecraft and the people who would protect and study it. As the shelters were going up, the big earthmovers were going down, burrowing deep into the ground to carve out the spaceship’s permanent home.