Brad had already been on the road for about an hour and
a half when he decided to give Mrs. Gatewood a call. It was
about a four hour drive from LA to Las Vegas, but Brad had
intentionally left town early to beat the morning traffic.
Not only that, he wanted to give himself plenty of time to
find his way around Vegas if Mrs. Gatewood would meet him.
He used a pay phone outside a small cafe, and dialed
the number Mr. Wheeler had gotten from directory assistance.
As the line beeped and hissed while connecting the
appropriate area codes and switching stations, Brad decided
that it would be better for him to continue to use
Fletcher's name. If Mrs. Gatewood did call Major Dandridge,
at least they'd have the same alias. He figured as long as
he was throwing them off track, he might as well be
consistent about it. After four rings, a woman's voice
answered the phone.
"Mrs. Gatewood?" asked Brad.
"Yes."
"I'm Walter Fletcher with the Los Angeles Herald--"
"Oh, I already take the Las Vegas Sun-Times." Click:
she hung-up.
Brad stared at the phone in total amazement. She
hadn't even given him the chance to finish his sentence
before she hung-up on him. Brad dialed again.
"Hello."
"Mrs. Gatewood, don't hang-up; I know your husband,"
explained Brad hurriedly.
"I thought you said you were selling papers."
"No, I am a reporter with the Los Angeles Herald, and I
would like to talk to you about your husband's illness."
"I'm sorry, but I have to get the kids off to school
and get to work."
"Meet me for lunch," Brad pleaded, knowing that the
woman already had her finger on the phone's disconnect
button.
"Mr. Fletcher, I'm very busy, I don't have time to meet
you. Good-bye." Click: she hung-up.
Okay, thought Brad, if that's the way you want to be...
The situation now called for drastic measures on his part.
He dialed the phone again.
"Hello!"
"Mrs. Gatewood, I'm writing this story with or without
you. If you don't cooperate, I'll report that the Air Force
told me they send Sgt. Gatewood's disability check to you in
Las Vegas, but that he is homeless on the streets of Los
Angeles."
There was a momentary silence on the other end of the
phone. "That's not fair, Mr. Fletcher," stated Mrs.
Gatewood.
"I'm a reporter. I don't care about fair, only truth."
Another moment of silence filled the span of telephone
cable. "You promise you'll include my side of the story?"
"Yes."
"There's a park two blocks east of my apartment. Meet
me there at eleven o'clock. How will I recognize you?"
"I'll be in a blue Pontiac Firebird. I'll see you at
eleven." Brad said good-bye and continued his journey.
After buying a map of Las Vegas, and driving for
another hour, Brad finally found the park with fifteen
minutes to spare. He walked around to stretch his legs, but
never wandered more than a few yards from the car. At ten
after eleven, an old Toyota limped into the parking lot and
stopped next to Brad's Firebird. A woman in here late
twentties, maybe thirty, stepped out and looked at his car.
"Mrs. Gatewood?" inquired Brad.
"Yes; I guess you're Mr. Fletcher."
"Walter," offered Brad. He waited for a moment for her
to offer a similar introduction, but none was made.
Instead, she removed a sack lunch from her car and walked to
a nearby park bench. Brad deduced by her cold attitude that
he had struck a nerve during their previous conversation.
"What is it you want to know about my husband," she
asked flatly.
"I'm doing an story on the homeless in Los Angeles, and
met your husband on the street. After talking to him for a
moment, I realized that he was sick and wondered why he
wasn't in a veteran's hospital. He had told me that he was
in the Air Force as a communications technician, but didn't
seem to realize that he was in need of help."
"Let me tell you that I am sorry for being rude this
morning, but I really do want to hear your side of the
story. See, my main question is why he isn't getting the
care he deserves, and what did the Air Force do to him that
caused him to become sick."
"Do to him?" asked Mrs. Gatewood in an amazed tone.
"Yes. What made him have a breakdown?"
"He just snapped," she explained as she took a bite of
her sandwich. "Every man has a breaking point. A point
where he can't bear the pressure any longer. Bob just hit
his, and it crushed him."
"I know Sgt. Gatewood was in communications, but
exactly what was he doing when he had his breakdown?"
"Mr. Fletcher, my husband was an expert in his field.
He was one of the Air Force's best, and had credentials to
prove that. Because he was so good at what he did, he often
worked on secret projects that he wasn't allowed to
discuss."
"I understand. How about this: can you tell me a
little about your husband's career? Something to back-up
your statement that he was one of the best." Brad began to
feel bad about pumping Mrs. Gatewood for information about
her husband, because she looked like she'd been through a
rough time. She had mentioned that there were kids, her
husband was insane, and she was having to raise them by
herself. Though she was still attractive, the strain of the
events showed in the crow's feet at the corner of her eyes.
"Bob and I married after he finished his Air Force job
training. We'd known each other in high school, and he'd
gone into the service after graduation. His first base was
Eacker Air Force Base, Arkansas, where he worked on the
radio equipment in the B-52 bombers. Arkansas was okay, and
it was only a day's drive from our hometown in Texas."
"He liked his job for the first year or so, but was
getting bored because the B-52's were so old. He took a few
classes on the base, was able to go to a seminar or two in
Omaha-- that's where the Strategic Air Command is
headquartered-- and was able to get his hands on some newer
technical manuals. All the work he'd done paid off, though,
because when his tour ran out in Arkansas, he received a
promotion and transfer to Nevada."
"At Nellis," interrupted Brad.
"Yes. But Bob knew exactly what he was going to be
doing when he was assigned to his first base: he swore that
he had no idea what he'd do at Nellis. All he knew was that
he would be working on fighters instead of bombers."
"After we'd moved, and been on the base for a week, he
finally had a meeting with his commanding officer. When he
came back from the meeting, he was so excited he was
bouncing off the walls. He calmed down long enough to sit
down with me and explain that he'd be working on a top
secret project that was the biggest thing to come along in
years. He also explained that it was so secret, that he
couldn't tell me what he'd be doing. For a while, that
bothered me, but once we got settled I learned to live with
it."
"The thing about this job, was that it was so secret,
that it wasn't even on the base, it was somewhere else.
When it was time for Bob to go to work, I'd take him to a
hanger at the airfield where he'd meet the other people, and
they'd load onto a DC-9 jetliner. The plane would take off,
and three days later, it would bring Bob and the rest of the
crew back. Then it would pick up a new crew, Bob would get
three days off, and the whole thing would start over again."
"You mean, he worked so far away they had to fly him
there?" asked Brad.
"No, not really. The flight was only an hour long, and
was actually meant to keep spies or reporters from following
them to their base." Brad tried to look uneffected by the
cold steel of Mrs. Gatewood's rapier wit. To think of
himself in the company of spies was ludicrous: spies sought
to steal secrets, reporters wished only to remove the cloak
of darkness that the government often used to mask the
truth.
"When he came back from his first shift at work, he
told me that we'd been invited to a barbecue at one of the
other Sergeant's house. I met our host and two other airmen
from the 'Project' as they called it, and their families.
At first I thought that the four of them just really hit it
off, because from then on we did everything with those three
families. We went on picnics, trips, had parties and once a
week the guys got together to play cards. It wasn't until
about a year later, that I found out the truth."
"One day there was a crash-- in California, as a matter
of fact. It was on the news, but the Air Force had
surrounded the area and wouldn't let the news cameras in.
When the men came back from the Project the next night, they
were depressed and edgy. I tried to get Bob to talk to me,
but he wouldn't tell me what had happened. When we got
together with the rest of the families the next night, the
men sat and watched football and the wives sneaked off to
talk."
"It turned out that Mrs. Bradford, the wife of a pilot
with the Project, had disappeared. Everyone assumed that
her husband had been killed in the crash. Within twenty-
four hours she was packed and moved away. Things had gotten
so bad that one of the other wives in our group said her
husband told her that they had to wear pistols while on duty
at the project. She went on to explain that it wasn't to
protect themselves from spies, but to detain, or shoot,
anyone who started to act crazy. The thing about it was
that this was the first time any of us had compared notes
about what our husbands did."
"When we were going home, I mentioned to Bob that we
were lucky to have such good friends in times like these.
He laughed and explained that they weren't friends at all.
What the Air Force had done was put everyone in his field
together in groups of four, to keep an eye on each other.
If any one of the men began to act suspicious, the other
three would report him to security."
"Of course, I was shocked. It turns out, though, that
the next time they came back from work, they were happy and
cheerful. On top of that, Bob was some kind of hero and was
given a letter of commendation. To this day, I still don't
know what he did that was so great."
"As time went on, the Air Force announced that they had
a wing of Stealth Fighters operating at Nellis. When Bob
came home, he said they had given them permission to tell
their families, but he still wouldn't tell me what he'd done
to become a hero."
"Once they had lifted security they started letting the
families visit on the second day. Of course, we couldn't go
on the base, but we rode a bus to Tonopah and met our
husbands there." Brad made a note of the town's name and
figured that it was selected for its proximity to the
Project airfield.
"When Bob's tour ran out at Nellis, his excellent
record eared him a better position. We moved to Onizuka Air
Force Base outside of San Francisco. I knew this was going
to be antoher unusal assignment from the moment we arrived,
because Onizuka didn't have any airplanes. As a matter of
fact it didn't even have a runway. Bob would joke that the
base's dish anntennas were used to talk to birds. Actually,
Onizuka was home of the government's Satellite Control
Facility and the dishes were used to issue commands to the
spy satellites."
"He called the spy satellites birds?" asked Brad.
"Yes," answered Mrs. Gatewood, "It was like a nickname
to him. We lived in California for several years, but found
it hard to afford the cost of living so close to Silicon
Valley on Air Force pay. His commanding officer asked him
to stay, but Bob said he'd rather transfer.
"About three months later, Bob was offered a transfer
back to Nellis. Bob said he'd been offered a position at a
special research lab, where he'd be using the most
sophisticated communications equipment on Earth."
"On Earth?" asked Brad.
"That's what he said."
"Those were his words?"
Mrs. Gatewood flashed Brad a disgusted look and
verified that it was what her husband had said. "Of course,
I was excited about the move, because we'd be back with our
old friends and Bob was getting another stripe out of the
deal. This time, instead of a plane, the men rode on a
helicopter to the work site."
"The helicopter would drop off ten men, pickup ten
more, then fly off again. After riding the jet for three
years this didn't seem unusual, except the helicopter flew
during the day and the plane flew at night. One other odd
thing was the way the people behaved."
"I'd drop Bob off, and he would stand as far away from
the other people as possible. On top of that, the other men
didn't get near each other either. No one talked... even
off duty. One time I recognized one of the other men at the
BX, but Bob didn't speak to him. When I asked why he didn't
say hello, he explained that if anyone saw the two of them
together, they might figure out what they were researching."
"That's when Bob began to act strange..."
"You mean other than not talking to his coworkers?"
asked Brad.
"Yes. See, I thought we'd still see our old friends,
but Bob wouldn't even talk to them. To make matters worse,
when we had left Nellis, a new man joined Stealth and
replaced Bob in the security foursome. Bob got to where he
wouldn't talk to me either. Most of the night, he'd just
stand in the back yard and stare at the sky. Once I asked
him what he was looking for, and do you know what he said?"
Brad had an idea, but he answered 'no' any way.
"He said he was looking for flying saucers! I couldn't
believe it. He'd never even mentioned flying saucers, or
anything strange like that. This went on for about two
months until one morning when Bob Junior knocked his drink
off the table and broke the glass. It was an accident, but
Bob just went off. He started yelling about how if he
wasn't a good boy that the aliens would come get him and
take him into outer space. It scared Bob Junior so bad he
couldn't sleep that night."
"The next time Bob went to work, I went to one of the
base psychiatrists and told him I was worried that the
pressure was getting to him. He said he'd check into it for
me. That night, he called to tell me that Bob had snapped.
He said it took five men to get him out of the Comm shack."
"When I saw him the next day, he was sedated and in a
straight jacket. The doctor explained that it was probably
temporary and that in a week or so he'd be okay." She
paused for a moment, and Brad could see that the story was
reaching a critical point. It was obvious that Mrs.
Gatewood was still upset from the events, and relating them
to Brad was very hard for her.
"Two weeks past and he got over his violent episode.
They explained that he had withdrawn from reality, and might
never return. They discharged him from the service and
found some space in a mental institution here in town. They
sent his disability check to me, to help cover family
expenses. But, it wasn't enough."
"Then how did he end up on the streets of Los Angeles?"
"I'd visit him in the hospital--" her voice began to
crack with pain and anguish-- "he was just withering away.
He was loosing weight, sinking into depression, becoming
less and less responsive. I just couldn't bare to watch him
die in there. I found a lawyer, he helped me get Bob
discharged in my care, and I brought him home."
"Within a few months, Bob started to look healthier and
act happier. I actually felt he was making progress. Then
one day he disappeared."
"What do you mean disappeared?"
"He just walked out the door and never came back.
Needless to say, I was hysterical. I called the police, the
state troopers, even the FBI, but nobody seemed to care.
That's when I got smart."
"I remembered who Bob had said was his commanding
officer in the Stealth Project, and told him that Bob was
missing. Once I explained that he had secret information
about the Goblins and the birds, and that the Russians might
have gotten him, he jumped into high gear. Within twelve
hours, a Major from security had called me and said they
found Bob in Los Angeles. The next morning, Major Dandridge
brought Bob home."
"Major Dandridge?" asked Brad, trying hard to hide his
surprise.
"Yes, do you know him?"
"I've spoken to him. I thought he was in public
relations or with personnel."
"He and Bob first met when the Major was a pilot with
the Stealth Project. He'd been transferred to security."
Brad nearly exploded. Dandridge had said he didn't
know anything about Stealth, and wasn't a pilot.
"So anyway... Bob stayed home about six weeks, then
disappeared again. This time I went to Los Angeles and
found him myself. I brought him home, and, a month ago, he
left again. I finally just figured that's where Bob needed
to be, so every weekend I go to LA to make sure he's okay,
give him some money, and medication. He seems to be happy,
so I let him stay there."
"How did Sgt. Gatewood get to LA?"
"He walked."
"Walked!" shouted Brad. "He walked two hundred and
seventy mile through the desert?"
"Yes. The doctor explained that schizophrenics need to
burn off extra energy that might otherwise result in violent
behavior. What I've found is that he has about a four or
five block area where he stays, but he walks from sun-up to
sun-down."
"Why haven't you gotten a divorce by now?"
Mrs. Gatewood's face displayed a look that was
somewhere between surprise and disgust. "I took a vow: for
better or for worse, and I intend on keeping it. As soon as
I can tie things up here, me and the kids are moving to Los
Angeles."
Brad cleared his throat in embarrassment. "Have you
got any idea what your husband was doing when he had his
breakdown?"
"Truthfully, no. But if I did, Mr. Fletcher, I
certainly wouldn't tell you. I owe the Air Force that
much."
"You owe the Air Force! How can you say that after
what they did to your husband?"
"They didn't do anything to my husband. Protecting our
country is a big job. Bob's part of that job involved lots
of stress and secrecy. Every man has his breaking point and
Bob finally hit his. Now, it's getting late, I've got to go
back to work."
"Thank you for your time, and I do promise to be fair.
Let me ask one more thing, though. Sgt. Gatewood said he
worked near the Alamo, yet you said he flew in by
helicopter. Wouldn't that be a very long trip; from Las
Vegas to San Antonio, Texas?"
"Not the Alamo. He meant Alamo, Nevada," she explained
as she opened her car door. "It's a town to the north.
That's the direction the helicopter flew."
Mrs. Gatewood didn't say good-bye before she started
her engine, and she left in a hurry. Brad couldn't blame
her-- he had been rather rough on the phone. He could see
now that she'd had it hard and was only trying to help her
husband. The fact that she had talked to him at all was
evidence of that. She obviously deduced that the only way
to keep Brad from writing an slanted article was to talk to
him, regardless of how much she distrusted him.
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