Alexander Dandridge wasn't the kind of man you would
want to meet in a dark alley, or at least that was the image
he projected. He wasn't big, but his attitude made up for
what his size lacked. He had once been an attractive man
with a face that would have made a Hollywood casting agent
drool, but the crash had robbed him of his looks. It had
also robbed him of his left eye, and as such, the one career
that he had truly loved.
He had always been cocky, throughout high school and on
into college, and when he became an Air Force fighter pilot,
it only added to his inflated ego. Now, however, the
attitude was bitterness and mistrust. It hung around him
like a plague and made most normal people uneasy, not that
the scar across his cheek and forehead put them at ease.
The eyepatch only made things worse.
But Dandridge didn't care. He'd grown to like the
effect he had on people: the way he could look at a man and
watch him shrink from his gaze. If Major Dandridge couldn't
fly, he was determined to serve his country in some other
way, and this was better than most.
It could have been alot worse. The Air Force could
have insisted that he take a medical discharge because of
his eye, but his record bought him a second chance. His
commanding officer had pulled a few strings and managed to
get the signatures of two generals on a medical waiver that
kept him on active duty, but he would never fly again. The
military was Dandridge's home, and he couldn't imagine
himself in anything but Air Force blues. If he had to fly a
desk to stay in, then so be it. Besides, his job as Special
Project Security was fun at times (in a sadistic kind of
way).
Things had been slow recently, so he and his staff had
only to keep up with the basic internal security that came
with running a clandestine operation. Such mundane
activities as interrogating airmen who had demonstrated
suspicious activities, investigating the backgrounds of the
ever-changing list of girlfriends and sweethearts, and of
course the good old-fashioned interviews with planted
informants. It seemed a shame that such drastic measures
had to be taken against his own people, but that was the
price of national security. The men assigned to the
programs that Maj. Dandridge was responsible for knew what
they were getting into and accepted it wholeheartedly.
After all, they were only sacrificing a little freedom--
Dandridge had sacrificed half his face.
Lieutenant Bradford had sacrificed his life... And no
one would ever know.
A rap on the office door pulled Maj. Dandridge back to
reality. One of the clerical sergeants from the security
unit poked his head in to see his boss's status, and, when
satisfied he was not busy, offered Dandridge a file. "Sir,
there's a reporter from the Los Angeles Herald on the phone
asking about a man who was stationed here. The folder is
tagged as classified. It's got Major Ritter's name on it."
Dandridge took the personnel folder from the sergeant
and examined the tag that read: "Classified: Eyes Only.
This file contains references to projects affecting national
security. Unauthorized access of this file is punishable
under the Uniform Code of Military Justice. For information
contact Commander, Special Projects Security." The tag was
dated, signed by Dandridge's predecessor, and affixed across
the open side of the folder. He looked at the name and
immediately knew why it had been sealed.
Somehow he had always known that Technical Sergeant
Robert S. Gatewood would come back and haunt him.
"What's the reporter want?" asked the Major.
"I think he wants to know what Gatewood did while he
was active," explained the sergeant. "Do you want to talk
to him?"
"Yeah, transfer his call to me." The sergeant nodded
and stepped out of the office, leaving the folder behind.
Dandridge should have dealt with Gatewood more drastically
when he assumed his post from Ritter, but he accepted
Ritter's assurance that Gatewood deserved special treatment.
Of course, Dandridge knew why people treated Gatewood like a
hero, though he felt their opinions were unfounded. A
second later, the phone rang, and the Major snatched the
receiver from it's cradle.
"Yes sir," responded the voice at the opposite end, "My
name is Walter Fletcher of the Los Angeles Herald, and I'm
trying to get some information about a Technical Sergeant
Bob Gatewood." Of course, it wasn't Walter Fletcher at all.
He was out of the office pumping some drug dealer for a
lead. It was Brad Dartmouth using Fletcher's name just in
case the Air Force became mad about his call. He never
liked Fletcher and figured if something went wrong, he'd
like to see the guy sweat for a while.
"Of course, Mr. Fletcher--" Dandridge made a note of
the name-- "I've got a summary of Gatewood's record in front
of me." Dandridge didn't need the service record for this
one: he'd reviewed it a dozen times.
"Wonderful, Major. I'd like to ask you a few
questions. What was Sgt. Gatewood's job?"
"He was a Field Communications Technician. Basically
that means ensuring that his end of, let's say... a radio
transmission, was functioning properly."
"That would include repair of broken equipment?" asked
the reporter.
"Probably not. Most of our equipment is componentized.
If something had gone bad, he would have replaced the board
or component box, then sent the bad unit to a service unit."
"I understand. What type of unit was Sgt. Gatewood
attached to just prior to his discharge?"
Dandridge had known it... he'd felt it. It was just a
matter of time before someone took Gatewood seriously.
"According to his record, he was in a military hospital for
several months. Were you aware that he had received a
medical discharge?"
"No, but I had suspected such..."
"Yes," interrupted the Major, intentionally cutting the
caller off in mid-sentence. "It says here, he suffered a
mental breakdown and was discharged because he was no longer
psychologically fit for duty."
"Yes sir, but what I meant was what was the last
assignment he had before his breakdown."
"According to his file, he was an operator at a
satellite up-link station."
"Yes sir, but what type of unit was it that used this
satellite station?"
Dandridge paused for a moment to regroup his thoughts.
He wondered if this guy Fletcher was nearly as persistent as
he acted, or was just being assertive because they were
separated by two hundred miles of telephone wire. If he
could get this reporter in his interrogation room for just
one hour, he'd have the man begging for mercy; but since
that wasn't going to happen, he'd have to play it out. "I'm
sorry, Mr. Fletcher, but it doesn't say what the unit did;
just that Gatewood was working in satellite communications."
"I see. Does it mention what he did before that
assignment?"
"It says he was doing flight line service on avionics
communications equipment."
"Avionics? Is that something to do with aviation?"
"Affirmative. That would be equipment such as aircraft
radios."
"Does his record offer any insight into what caused
Gatewood to suffer a nervous breakdown?"
"No, I'm sorry it doesn't. There is a statement here
from the hospital diagnosing him as an acute schizophrenic
with paranoid delusions."
"If that's the case, sir, why isn't the Air Force
caring for him in a veteran's hospital somewhere?"
"Well, of course, I don't know what type of care he's
receiving now, but it says here that he was turned over to
his wife for private treatment."
"His wife," stated the reporter, triumphantly. "Were
you aware, Major, that Sgt. Gatewood believes the Air Force
stole his wife and gave her to a group of aliens from outer
space?"
Dandridge remained quiet for a moment while he analyzed
his possible courses of action. He chose his next tactic,
and let out a light laugh. "The Air Force doesn't steal
people, Mr. Fletcher."
"Is that to say that Gatewood is lying, or that Mrs.
Gatewood left willingly with the aliens?" asked the
reporter.
Dandridge's mouth fell open when he heard his words
twisted out of context, and he almost blew his cool. "If
Gatewood received a medical discharge due to mental
instability, then he probably believes that story. But, to
answer your question, no... Mrs. Gatewood was not given to
aliens from outer space. I'll tell you what," started the
Major in his best 'friendly' voice, "it says here, that the
Sergeant's disability checks are sent to his wife in Las
Vegas. Would you like her address?"
This time it was the other end of the phone that fell
unusually quiet, and Dandridge knew that his tactic had
worked. "Yes, that would be helpful," answered the
reporter.
"She lives at 1452 Foronia Road, apartment five.
That's in Las Vegas."
"Great. You've been a big help, Major. Let me ask you
one last question."
"Fire."
"What does the code name 'Goblin' refer to?"
For a split second Dandridge went flush, and droplets
of sweat burned the scar tissue on his face. It was a
natural reaction to years of secrecy, but he quickly calmed
himself. "Goblin. I think that would probably be the
Woblin' Goblin. It's an old term that was once used for the
Stealth fighter. I don't think it's used any more."
"Why not?"
"If I remember correctly, the Stealth fighter had some
trouble during its test flights. It was found that Lockheed
had wired the flight control computer incorrectly causing a
prototype to crash. The there were reports that the flight
computer had blinking out forcing the pilot to switch to
manual while it reinitialized. As I am not a pilot, I can't
give you all the technical details, but I understand that
without the flight computer, the thing would buck and shake
pretty hard. Someone compared it to a wobble, so they
called it the Woblin' Goblin. Of course there haven't been
any problems with the F-117 since its delivery to the Air
Force, and that name was never used by Air Force personnel."
"So, if Gatewood is familiar with the Stealth fighter,
and he was previously an aircraft radio technician, wouldn't
you admit that he worked on the Stealth project?"
Dandridge wanted to hit himself for getting caught on
that one. "Well, Mr. Fletcher, it's not my place to admit
or deny anything. You can probably get more specific
information from personnel headquarters at Scott AFB,
Illinois."
The reporter politely ended the conversation, and
Dandridge began to make a few notes. If the man spoke to
Mrs. Gatewood, he would undoubtedly realize that nothing
Sgt. Gatewood said was trustworthy. He immediately filed
the slip of paper with the reporter's name, however-- just
in case things did get fun.
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