The Dark and Deadly Sky: A Novel of the Roswell Incident

By Garrett McKinnon

What if the events that happened in the storm-filled skies over Roswell, New Mexico that dark July night in 1947 had nothing to do with extraterrestrials, and everything to do with something far more sinister?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Garrett McKinnon
• Release date: Mar 1, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452492919

Garrett McKinnon

A forty-something journalist/writer/editor who loves reading and writing, running long distances for no apparent reason, Apple computers, science fiction, Texas Tech and, last but by no means least, his wife and kids.

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Prologue

20 June 1947

Keep her still! the pilot barked over the roar of the Boeing’s twin engines.

Perhaps if Stace Nilsen had known he and the other nineteen souls aboard the airliner would be dead in a matter of minutes, he might have been a little more polite. But like everyone else aboard the aircraft, he had no idea death lurked in the South American skies.

Can’t you see I’m trying to take a picture, you nincompoop?

Esparza, the copilot, didn’t respond. Not that Stace expected a response. The Peruvian’s surly disposition was matched only by his limited grasp of the English language. Like most of the airline’s junior pilots, Esparza resented taking orders from a gringo. Stace learned early in his exile south of the equator that shooting the bull with the men alongside whom he flew wouldn’t be something he would enjoy. So he didn’t try.

Besides, he had photography.

Steadying the camera against his chest, Stace studied the landscape through the confines of the viewfinder. A jagged stretch of peaks loomed in front of the plane, the snow-capped summits of the Nevadas Pelagatos sparkling in the midday sun. One or two even towered above the tired Boeing as its propellers thrashed the air nearly three miles above sea level, the mountains’ steep flanks forming a doorway through which the airliner would have to carefully navigate as it zigzagged north. A smooth carpet of clouds clung to the mountains’ angry gray slopes, making for a very nice foreground. Stace couldn’t have hoped for a better day to snap photos.

He’d been flying this route for the past six months: Lima to Panama City and back with a brief stopover in Cali, Colombia. Each one-way trip took the better part of a twelve-hour day, but he only had to fly four days each week, which gave him plenty of down time. Sadly, even if his Spanish had been worth a damn, there weren’t too many skirts to chase at either end of the journey. He preferred his women blonde, a rare find in Sudamerica. He’d needed a hobby in the worst way, so when he spotted the Brownie Target Six-16 in a store window in P.C., he happily plunked down the equivalent of five dollars for it.

Stace took a deep breath and held it, trying to keep the camera as steady as possible. There! He swept the exposure lever with his right thumb, the shutter snapping open and closed with a satisfying click. He was really getting the hang of this, he decided as he turned the knob on the camera’s side, advancing the film. Too bad flying no longer excited him like this.

Since watching a barnstormer dazzle the crowd at the Holt County Fair as a wide-eyed five-year-old, Stace had dreamed of nothing but becoming a pilot, a dream that turned into dogged determination when Pearl Harbor was bombed four days shy of his fifteenth birthday. His dreams eventually came true, but by the time he graduated from the B-25 training school at Brooks Field in San Antonio, the war was all but over.

A part of him felt relieved. People died in war, after all. But an even larger part felt cheated. Dammit, he’d wanted a chance to prove himself in combat. But as one of the freshest faces on the block in an Air Force full of veteran pilots, Stace read the tea leaves and hadn’t been a bit surprised to be discharged without so much as a, See you later, kid.

He refused to till the family farm back in Nebraska, though, so he took a job with Transcontinental & Western Air. Life as a pilot for TWA was shaping up to very rewarding when a run-in with a senior pilot got him fired a few months into his employment. Stace didn’t care if the guy had been some sort of war hero, a pilot didn’t show up for a flight drunk off his gourd. In hindsight, he supposed he hadn’t necessarily needed fisticuffs to get his point across, but the jackass had been asking for it. That single punch got him blackballed by every airline in the States. If he’d only kept his cool, by now he’d probably be piloting one of the big Boeing Stratoliners that TWA had recently taken delivery of, making nonstop transcontinental flights where he could spend alternate days and nights in New York or Los Angeles—on the arm and in the bed of one gorgeous stewardess after another.

He frowned the daydream away. Working for Pan American Grace Airways wasn’t all bad, even if the most modern aircraft in their fleet was a war-surplus DC-3 like this one. Panagra, as most people called the airline, started as a single-plane operation in 1928, flying mail and passengers between a racetrack landing strip in Lima and a soccer field in Talara, a port city on Peru’s northern coast. The company grew rapidly, and in 1929 the airline had been one of the first to offer flights from New York to Buenos Aires—an eleven-day journey in the old Ford Trimotors used at the time. None other than Charles Lindbergh himself even worked for Panagra back in the ’30s. So it wasn’t exactly a two-bit operation.

It just felt like it.

Another click. Good one! A sudden motion caught his eye. Tilting his head up, he donned his Army-issue Ray-Bans to cut the glare and was surprised to discover another airplane.

See that? Ten o’clock low, about three miles away.

Esparza leaned over, his usually emotionless face etched with the faintest crevices of curiosity.

"Avion?"

Yeah, but what kind?

As the men watched, the dark gray craft suddenly nosed upward, soaring high into the air before leveling and turning toward the silver airliner. About half the size of their DC-3, the plane had no tail at all. Instead, it looked like a child’s toy, as if a pair of long, tapered wings had been plucked from some other aircraft and glued together, the resultant craft resembling nothing more than a large boomerang. As it approached, Stace noted its rounded midsection, out of which protruded a slender, oval canopy. A quartet of antennae sprouted from its blunt nose. He could see no propellers, but the leading edge of each wing contained a single ovoid inlet. The last few feet of each wingtip curved gently up and back, making the aircraft appear almost like a bird flapping its wings.

Instinctively, Stace aimed his camera, rapidly clicking the shutter and winding the film. He thought he’d seen or read about almost every type of aircraft in the world, but he’d never seen anything like the beast winging its way toward them.

Toward us.

He hadn’t noticed until now how quickly the mysterious plane had closed the distance. Whatever it was, it could really move—and it was on a collision course.

Maybe we should… The notion died in mid-sentence. It was too late.

The dark aircraft was already on top of them, only a thousand feet distant and flying at an incredible rate of speed. Stace dropped the camera into his lab and grabbed the controls, knowing he would never be able to maneuver the airliner out of the way in time. But at the last possible moment, the stranger altered course, roaring like a lion as it flashed mere feet overhead. The Boeing shook violently as it plowed through the strange plane’s wake, and Stace struggled to steady the airliner.

After a few tense seconds, the Boeing’s flight smoothed, and Stace found himself twisting in his seat, his eyes scanning the skies. The boomerang-shaped craft was in a tight, banking climb, one that would put the newcomer on the airliner’s tail in a matter of seconds. Stace froze, uncertain what to do. Whatever the aircraft was, it had come uncomfortably close to smashing the airliner out of the air. And now it seemed to be on a pursuit course. If it had been a recognizable civilian plane, he might have laughed the close call off as a bush pilot horsing around after having one too many, but nothing about the craft seemed familiar—and everything about the plane, from its total lack of markings to its charcoal gray color to the strange objects hanging beneath its wings, seemed to suggest it was military. Only, who’s military?

Get Lima control on the horn, Stace ordered, his knuckles white on the Boeing’s controls. Something felt wrong. Very wrong. I’m taking us into the clouds.

He pressed the yoke forward, and the snub-nosed airliner dove, engines screaming as the plane accelerated. Stace wanted to get beneath the stratocumulus clouds and take his chances in the narrow valleys below. Few pilots would be brazen enough to take their chances amid the unforgiving mountains, but he’d been in and out of these valleys enough to know them like the back of his hand.

Stace tapped the rudder pedal and looked over his shoulder. The shadowy aircraft hung about a mile back, precisely matching the airliner’s course and speed despite his abrupt maneuver. For a long moment, the craft floated like an apparition, as if debating its next course of action. Then, a puff of smoke erupted from a cylinder hanging beneath the aircraft, a wisp of black that quickly gave birth to a tornado of flame. Like an arrow released from an archer’s bow, the rocket leaped forward on stubby, cruciform wings. It bobbed and weaved as it flew, as if an unseen hand were guiding it through the sky. Though Stace knew such a thing was impossible.

The young pilot banked hard to the right before abruptly reversing course, the Boeing groaning with the stress of the turns. He had to throw off whatever was chasing the airliner. But glancing back, he found himself unsurprised to see the missile tracking right along behind them. He watched, helpless, as it rapidly ate up the distance.

The airliner was only a couple hundred feet above the safety of the clouds when the missile struck. An angry orb of flame and smoke sprouted from the Boeing’s left wing, jolting the heavy airliner like a giant hammer. The DC-3’s momentum carried it free from the blast after what seemed like an eternity, and Stace quickly surveyed the damaged. A mammoth bite had been torn from the airliner’s wing inboard of the aileron, and an unsettling vibration rattled through the plane. As bad as the damage looked, though, it still felt like the plane might hold together.

Only Stace wasn’t that lucky.

Just as the first wisps of cloud danced past the cockpit, Stace heard the angry shriek of rending metal. He watched in morbid fascination as most of the wing ripped away, accompanied by a jolt so strong it felt like the airliner had smashed into a peak.

The situation was hopeless. He knew as much. A plane couldn’t fly with only one wing.

And as he worked the controls in a futile effort to regain control of the dying airplane, all he could think is that he would never get to see how his latest photos turned out.

††††††

Chapter 1

27 June 1947

Shoes polished to an ebony sheen tapped across the floor’s checkerboard tiles as the tall man strode down the second-floor corridor of the Department of State Building’s east wing. Dressed in a pinstripe gray suit, the man walked with a limp so slight only the most careful of observers would have noticed. A felt fedora clamped in one hand, he took graceful, confident steps—belying the anxiety that had been churning his stomach for the last hour. Brown hair lay neatly combed in the latest hat-friendly style atop his head, and a pair of silver spectacles did their best to hide cobalt-blue eyes. Slender and strong of build, he possessed unremarkably handsome features, occasionally drawing the fleeting glance of a passing secretary, though none so intense they suggested a willingness to immediately bear his children.

Not that Joseph Angelo Miozza would have minded being a husband and father. But life had thrown him a series of knee-buckling curveballs he’d been unable to connect with.

He paused when he spotted the office door he was looking for, breathing deeply to control his heartbeat. A sign next to the door indicated the office belonged to Kevin Webster, Assistant Deputy Director-Plans for the Central Intelligence Group, a motley collection of government bureaucrats and holdovers from the now-defunct Office of Strategic Services, America’s wartime espionage and special operations agency. Not even an official government agency, most of the Group’s bureaucrats were scattered across the city in whatever closet-like office space the CIG could wrangle. Only a few upper-echelon commanders were lucky or important enough to have merited office space in the mammoth State building located on the corner of 17th Street and Pennsylvania Avenue.

Miozza stared at the nameplate, his mouth dry. Even though Webster had retired from the Army more than a year ago, he knew he’d never be able to think of the old man as anything other than ‘General’ Webster. Miozza hadn’t seen him in almost two years, but the general’s shadow still loomed over his life like a cloak. Everything he was, both good and bad, he owed to Webster.

Damn him.

One last deep breath and Miozza was through the door and into a tiny anteroom. He offered a nervous smile to the gray-haired secretary who sat behind the steel desk.

Good morning. My name’s Joseph Miozza. I’m here to see the Gen…er, Mister Webster.

Yes, Mister Miozza. He’s been expecting you. She flashed a wide but probably not sincere smile as she rose to her feet and knocked at Webster’s door.

Enter, a voice rumbled. Despite himself, Miozza gulped. Webster’s voice still intimidated the hell out of him. Of course, why shouldn’t it? The man behind that voice had saved his life. And ruined it.

I bet this is how the Christians felt right before the Romans let the wild beasts out.

The secretary gifted him with another perfunctory smile as he walked past, and then he was into the lion’s den and the door clicked shut behind him.

Joseph! Son of a gun, boy. It’s been a long time, the general drawled in a Tennessee accent that was as smooth as a grifter’s pitch.

It has, General. Miozza extended his hand, trying not to flinch as Webster enveloped it in a vice-grip. Though not short himself, Miozza felt positively diminutive next to Webster. Standing nearly four inches over six feet in height and looking ridiculously out of place in a light brown civilian suit, Webster was a bear of a man, a one-time left tackle on the offensive line at West Point. The man’s heavy class ring dug into Miozza’s flesh as the two men pumped fists.

Have a seat. Webster motioned to a chair in front of a battered government-issue desk. Miozza took a moment to scan the room, surprise settling over him. He had expected bigger, more ornate, but save for Webster’s academy diploma, which hung in a gilded frame behind the desk, the stark ivory walls were devoid of décor. The room did have one saving grace, however. Its view. Through open windows guarded by drawn curtains that waltzed in the gentle breeze, Miozza could clearly make out the ivory mansion that was the White House.

Taking the offered chair, Miozza glanced at a thick file that lay atop the burled surface of the desk. The folder was ringed with a red-and-white candy cane design he knew all too well but had hoped to never see again. Miozza had left that world behind. Or tried to, anyway.

How’s Camp Peary treating you?

A former Seabee base located near Williamsburg, Virginia, Camp Peary was one of nearly a dozen sites—including the Congressional Country Club—scattered across Maryland, Virginia and Washington, D.C. that the OSS had used as training sites during the war. When the Central Intelligence Group was created from the ashes of the OSS, the decision had been made to streamline the instructional courses and move virtually all the organization’s training to Camp Peary, a process that had been as frustrating as it was slow. Formed by executive order in early 1946, only a few months after the OSS had been disbanded, the ‘Group’ seemed better at generating red tape and mounds of bureaucratic nonsense than actually getting anything done. Heaven help the country if it ever made any real enemies, because the Central Intelligence Group was a disorganized mess.

I can’t complain, sir. We’re scheduled to get a new group of recruits in a couple of weeks. Our first class finished a couple of months ago, and since then we’ve been playing a lot of cards and taking long weekends on Uncle Sam’s nickel. I’ve even made it to a few Dodger games.

A chuckle. You and your Dodgers. How do you think they’ll do this year?

We only lost the pennant by a couple of games last year, and with this new kid playing first base, it might be our year.

Is that the Negro? Robinson?

Miozza nodded, trying not to frown at the disapproving note in Webster’s voice. A proud son of Brooklyn, Miozza grew up living and breathing Dodgers baseball. As a kid, all he’d ever wanted to do was play at Ebbets Field. Fate had squelched those dreams, but he could still cheer on his beloved hometown squad. He could care less what color skin Jackie Robinson had so long as the guy could play ball. As a Southerner and a member of an older generation, Webster apparently didn’t share his enthusiasm.

I suppose you’re wondering why I asked you here, Webster said, abruptly changing the subject. Typical. Small talk had never been one of the general’s strengths.

Yes, sir. A sinking feeling came over Miozza. Dear God, it was 1942 all over again. The prison wardroom. Webster in his starched olive uniform, offering a gift only a numbskull could have refused. But what had seemed like a sweet deal at the time—get out of prison, serve your country—had led to nightmares he was still trying to forget.

Let me show you something. Webster grabbed the striped folder and opened it with measured slowness.

Are you sure I have enough clearance to see that, sir? Miozza had worked with classified documents before, but not for a while. Certainly not since ‘retiring’ from the OSS and going to work as an instructor, a career decision he hadn’t really had a choice in making.

You let me worry about your clearance, Webster shot back as he withdrew a color photograph from the folder and handed it to Miozza. What does that look like to you?

The photograph was strangely artistic, depicting a range of snow-capped mountains against a crystal-blue sky. He missed the subject of the photograph on first glance, but spotted it with a second sweep of his eyes. Captured in one corner was the shadowy outline of what looked like an aircraft, one without a fuselage or a tail. It almost looked like a…boomerang. He might have considered the photo a fake, but the detail was too fine. He could even see sunlight glinting off the plane’s bubble cockpit.

Some type of plane, but not one I’ve ever seen before.

This photo was taken over the Andes last week by a Panagra pilot.

Panagra? Where had he heard that word recently? Then it dawned on him. You don’t mean the airliner that disappeared, do you?

Webster nodded. Miozza had read about the incident in the papers. The DC-3 had disappeared in the mountains, and authorities feared the worst. Of course, if Webster and the CIG were involved, the papers didn’t know the half of it.

That’s the one. Peruvian officials found the airliner three days ago. No survivors. But a camera found in the wreckage had salvageable film in it. We believe the pilot snapped these photos. Webster paused to retrieve a fat cigar from a desk drawer, lighting it with a gold lighter plucked from his pants pocket. That’s not all. This was no garden-variety crash. The debris showed evidence of an explosion. We think this plane, whatever it is, shot down the airliner. What we don’t know is what it is or what it’s doing down there. You can see it’s jet-propelled from the photo, but no one in South America has that kind of technology. You’re here because I want you to find it.

Me, sir? It’s been a long time since I was in the field. And gathering intelligence wasn’t exactly my strong suit.

Webster smiled, a Cheshire grin that had Miozza shifting in his seat as he fought the sudden temptation to run screaming out the door. The ex-general took a deep puff on the cigar before he exhaled an acrid cloud of blue smoke.

You underestimate yourself. You’re precisely the kind of guy I need. Webster carefully placed the smoldering cigar on a glass ashtray and leaned forward, his hands clasped together in front of him. You’re fluent in Spanish. You can blend in with almost any population. You’re resourceful. Hell, you were one of my best.

It was the biggest compliment he had ever heard from Webster, even if the idea of being one of Webster’s best turned Miozza’s stomach.

Don’t you have agents who are more qualified for this type of thing? The protestation sounded feeble, even to Miozza.

There are, and I already have a couple poking around down there. But the thing I like about you, Joseph, is you’re good at finding things that don’t want to be found. You’re like a coon dog. I’m sending you down there with Dibbs to find out what this aircraft is, and what the hell it’s doing shooting down airliners.

Sir, I…

Not another word! Webster growled. You forget our deal. I found you in a hellhole, and I can just as easily drop you right back in one. You will help me with this, boy. Understood?

Miozza said nothing for a long moment. It was no use trying to fight Webster. The general held all the aces, and both men knew it.

What do you want me to do? he asked, afraid he already knew the answer.

††††††

Chapter 2

28 June 1947

A tremble ran through the airliner, and Miozza took a deep breath, ordering himself to relax. The sleek Lockheed Constellation was practically brand new, after all; the cabin was still filled with the syrupy sweet scent of factory lubricant. And the big airliner was state of the art. A quartet of eighteen-cylinder radial engines gave it power to spare. And a pressurized cabin allowed it to soar high above most severe weather. With its unique triple-tailed design, the Connie, as many people called her, could carry fifty-four passengers on flights as long as three thousand miles. The airliner could reach speeds up to three hundred forty miles per hour—faster than some wartime fighters. Miozza knew all this, but it didn’t make him feel any better. The thought of falling to his death was a fear he’d been unable to shake since the airliner departed Miami. It was a completely irrational fear, but he had always loathed flying, and it appeared the feeling didn’t dissipate with time.

Miozza tore his gaze away from the comically small window and glanced around the cabin.

In the seat beside him, Reginald Dibbs sat like a department store mannequin, hairy hands laced together atop a chest so broad it barely registered any movement at all. The gruff ex-Marine had his tan fedora pulled down, concealing his eyes with the brim. Miozza couldn’t