Douglas Bunger's Blaze Of Glory

Chapter 16



 
 
 
    Upon arriving at his apartment, Brad fell onto the couch, and began to sulk. On his way home, he had first thought that death was the only thing worse than making a fool of himself in front of his boss. It didn't take long for him to decide that wasn't the case: if he were dead, he wouldn't be concerned with what Wheeler thought of him.
    Truthfully, there were several more humiliating possibilities. First, he could have told one of his co- workers about his story. If the other reporters had heard him trying to pitch his article, they would have laughed him out of town. Second, Wheeler could have let him write the piece, causing Brad to loose any credibility he might have for the rest of his career. Then there was always the possibility that he might have told his story to the wrong person and end up in a psycho ward... or living on the street like Gatewood.
    How could he have been so stupid? How could he have allowed himself to believe Gatewood's ridiculous story? A reporter was suppose to be objective, yet he had become so caught up in the story that he had lost his head. For a fleeting moment, Brad had actually believed that the Air Force had somehow managed to keep their captive aliens a secret. There was no way; hundreds of servicemen would have rotated in and out of the compound. Wheeler was undeniably correct when had said the aliens would have already rescued their comrades. He had accepted the weight of the evidence without ever considering the sources: people who saw UFO's were crazy.
    Like Gatewood.
    But Gatewood had gone crazy after seeing the UFO, hadn't he?
    Brad shook the thought free of his mind, and decided never to think of flying saucers again. He knew one thing that could help him with the enforcement of his new policy. It was quick, simple, and sure to make him forget about aliens, UFO's, humiliation, and a certain long-legged, blonde that had stomped out of his life without any explanation.
    What he needed was a drink.
    He walked to the kitchen and opened the cabinet to find he only had two choices: rum or vodka. The bottle of Bicardi was half empty, and Brad could only drink it mixed. The Stoli on the other hand, was half full, and in his present mood, would go down like water. Besides, he'd always wondered why the bat was on the Bicardi label.
    Brad took the bottle of vodka and a glass to the couch and settled in for a evening of serious drinking and forgetting. As he started to pour, the phone rang, causing him to jump, and pour vodka on his glass-top coffee table. He swore loudly, damned the table, glass, phone, and anything else that came to mind.
    The phone rang again as Brad reached into the kitchen for a towel, and dashed across the room to pickup the receiver. He managed to drop the towel on the puddle of liquor, but before he was able to reach the phone he bumped his shin on the tabletop. Again the phone rang, and again Brad cursed the world in general.
    "Hello!" he growled angrily.
    "Brad?" purred a woman's voice.
    For a moment, Brad fell silent. He hoped, but knew better: he hadn't given Melanie his phone number. To prevent a deranged reader from calling him at home about any of his stories, he had chosen an unlisted number, so she couldn't have looked it up. "Yes, this is Brad Dartmouth."
    "Brad, why didn't you tell me Roger wasn't human?"
    Brad's heart stopped, his lungs tightened, a lump formed in his throat, and choked out his remaining breath. "Melanie?" Brad's legs gave way as the impact of Melanie's sentence hit him full force.
    "If you had told me Roger wasn't human, I might have been better prepared. When I made contact with him, it scared me."
    "Wait a minute-- you're going to fast for me here. What do you mean not human?" asked Brad, immediately slamming down the vodka that hadn't spilled from the glass.
    "You really don't know?"
    No lies, Brad told himself, no more lies. "I think Roger is a survivor of a crashed flying saucer that the Air Force has been holding prisoner since 1949."
    "Why didn't you trust me: I trusted you."
    "Would you have gone to that hotel with me if I had told you?"
    "Yes."
    Melanie's answer caught Brad by surprise. He found himself at a loss for words, his mind fumbled with a dozen lines, but nothing sounded right. "I would have sounded like a lunatic, you would have thought I was crazy."
    "The moment I saw you, I felt something-- like you had these big plans, that you were going to accomplish something great... It's hard to put into words; you were charged with an energy I've never experienced before."
    For an eternal second the line was quiet. Brad felt the same way about Melanie, but was too macho to have ever admitted that he was attracted to her in any other than a purely professional or sexual way. "You said Roger wasn't human. How can you tell? Could you see him?"
    "No, I couldn't see him, but I could feel his presence. You were correct when you told me he was the most powerful psychic on Earth. I've been in convention halls full of psychics that didn't have the energy I felt in that desert."
    "Why didn't you ever notice it before?"
    "He's several miles away from where we were. I explained that even the best psychics have limited range, he's far enough away that no one would find him unless they were looking," stated Melanie.
    "But he's real?" asked Brad desperately.
    "Yes, and there is another one out there, too. They are very much in tune with one another and at harmony with their surroundings."
    "I'm sorry; that doesn't make sense to me."
    "You said they were prisoners, but I didn't feel that from them."
    "Of course they're prisoners, it's just that after forty years, they've gotten use to it. Can you make contact with them again if we go back to Alamo?"
    "No."
    "No?" echoed Brad in an excited tone. "Why not?"
    "I know how hard it is for you to understand, but the psychic energy I experienced was very powerful... overwhelming, in fact. I don't want to risk contacting that kind of force during an out-of-body experience again. It was quite unnerving the first time."
    "I see." Brad put his palm to his forehead and reclined against the couch back. His stomach churned with nervous tension as his reeled from the news that Gatewood's story might not be as wild a goose as Wheeler had portrayed. There was all the evidence, Gatewood and his wife's stories, Ralston's confession, and Melanie's contact. But how could he convince Wheeler?
    Something clicked in the back of Brad's mind. What had Wheeler said about bevieling in aliens? "Listen, Melanie, I've got to think about my next move. This is all very confusing, but I'm not letting it go, yet. Can you forgive me for not trusting you?"
    A short pause and Brad could see Melanie smiling in his mind. He envisioned her flipping her long, blonde curls over her shoulder, and twisting the phone cord around her finger. "Yes... I forgive you."
    "I may be back in Vegas in the next few days, can I call you?"
    "Yes."
    Brad had to say good-bye; he had things to sort out, things to do, but he didn't want to let her go. "Melanie, how did you get my phone number?"
    "I guessed."
    Brad laughed lightly. "You're good. No doubt about it."
    "I bet you say that to all the girls," returned Melanie, then she hung-up.
    Brad set down the receiver, and his mind immediately went into a tornado of thought. He paced the floor nervously. He knew what he had to do. Wheeler had even told him. "I'll believe in aliens when one walks through my office door," is what he said.
    The only way to prove Gatewood's story was to get the aliens out of their prison.
    It sounded so simple: get the aliens out. But this wasn't any normal prison. Even if it had been, Brad wouldn't have had any idea how to arrange a jailbreak. It would take a criminal mind to plan a jailbreak.
    No, that's not right, thought Brad. Jails were full of criminal minds, and very few ever escaped. To make matters worse, this was a military base with military guards. What he needed wasn't a criminal, but a soldier. Where was he going to find a soldier?
    What Brad needed was a mercenary: someone who would help him regardless of the legal or political implications. But how could he find a mercenary? Surly they weren't listed in the whitepages between Mercado and Mercer. Perhaps the yellow pages, under Hit Men. When it finally hit him, Brad was amazed himself. He knew who could find him a mercenary: Johnson, the paper's 'war correspondent,' and he was only a phone call away.
    Brad dialed the office and asked to speak to Johnson. After several moments on hold, the other reporter answered. "Is this really Dartmouth?"
    "Yeah, you act surprised."
    "Of course I'm surprised, I don't think you've said ten words to me since you started at the Herald... you must need a favor," jabbed Johnson.
    "No, just some information. Do you know anything about the Stealth fighter?"
    "Lockheed F-117, Nellis Air Force Base, invisible to enemy radar, a few have crashed, tested during the Panama Invasion, said to have been highly successful in Iraq. That's it."
    "Weren't they around for a few years before the Air Force went public?"
    "Around six, maybe seven years."
    "How did the Air Force keep their people from talking about them?"
    "They told them not to."
    "No, seriously-- did they threaten to kill them or send them to jail?"
    "All they did was tell them it was secret and ask them not to talk, that's how it works. Nothing diabolical or sinister about it. When you're in the military you pick up a few secrets here and there, but you keep them secret because you know that's the way its got to be."
    "It can't be that simple," stated Brad, "They could sell the secrets or take their information public and be heroes."
    "Heroes in who's eyes? Some people would consider them traitors. Some people are more interested in patriotism then payment. Think about it, how much is it worth to sell out your country, to hand over facts that could cost the lives of your brothers, sons, or friends. Would twenty-five thousand cover it? Is American freedom worth a briefcase of cash to you?"
    "I understand all that, but I'm not talking about anything that big..."
    "The Stealth project is one of the biggest military secrets to come along in two decades," interrupted Johnson. "Look, it's like this, there are two kinds of people in the military: short-term enlistees and career military. If you have a secret project, use only career people who have already re-enlisted twice. They're usually not that concerned about getting rich, or they would have already entered the private sector. What surprised me was how well the civilians who had designed, tested, and built the planes kept it a secret. Usually it's the civilian contractors who have the security leaks."
    "Let me ask you one more question, and I'll let you go. Where could I find a mercenary?"
    "A mercenary," laughed Johnson, "What do you want a mercenary for, Mr. White Knight of Freedom of Speech?"
    Brad ignored Johnson's insult. "I need to interview him in connection with a story I'm working on."
    "What story?"
    "You can read about it on the front page."
    "Ohhh..." moaned Johnson, sarcastically. "What skills do you want this guy to have?"
    "What do you mean?"
    "You want a frogman, explosives expert, sniper, recon- man, jungle warfare, what?"
    "He's got to be able to sneak around, I guess." answered Brad.
    "You gonna try to get a picture of a Stealth fighter? It's not worth it, everybody knows what they look like. They even take them to air shows and display them under armed guard. The only scoop you could get would be to steal one, but there probably aren't but a couple hundred men who could fly it out."
    "It has nothing to do with Stealth fighters," quipped Brad, snottily.
    "Okay. There's a bar called The Perro Negro. It's in a bad part of town, but it's where you'll find your man. Ask the bartender for Carl Asher, tell him Johnson sent you. If you don't, he'll figure you're a Fed."
    "Why?"
    "You look like a Fed."
    "What's a Fed look like?"
    "You."
    Brad brushed off Johnson's second insult as the price of doing business. "This guy Asher, is he any good?"
    "Did you read the piece I did about the U.S. smuggling Stinger missiles to the Afghan rebels?"
    "No," lied Brad. Johnson's coverage of the War in Afghanistan was legendary, and that story had earned him the respect of every journalist in town, if not the nation.
    "Well, Asher helped me get passed the Soviet border patrols. He's the best foot soldier money can buy."
    Brad took down the address and thanked Johnson for the information. He decided that it was far too early to hope to find anyone in a bar, and wondered what to do to pass the time. He looked at the bottle of vodka on the table.
    What the hell, he'd go ahead and finish it.


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