Jabberwocky Niner

Book 7

The Palmdale Files

Harold Anderson

Tom Lyons

Copyright © 2023

Harold Anderson

All rights reserved. No part of this may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior consent of the Author, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

FIRST EDITION: Published August 1, 2023

Kindle ASIN: B0CB1RX5BR

Paperback ISBN: 9798853145948

The Secret Truth

This story was published for your entertainment. None of the details contained herein should be considered historically accurate or about real people or events that actually took place… unless you believe.

Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The author has disguised and altered numerous facts to protect his identity and the safety of his family.

In Memoriam

This book is dedicated to all the brave men and women whom I had the fortune of serving with in the United States Air Force.

Acknowledgements

Many thanks to my friend Tom Lyons for your support and encouragement throughout the writing process of this story. And thank you for helping me with all the technical publishing stuff I would’ve never figured out on my own.

Tremendous thanks to my beautiful granddaughter, “Clarissa.” Your graphic and word processing wizardry make my books look fantastic.

My editor, “Titan A.E.”

Table of Contents

The Secret Truth

In Memoriam

Acknowledgements

Table of Contents

In Memoriam

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Enjoying this book?

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Before You Go

Mailing List Sign Up Form

About the Authors

In Memoriam

of Captain Alexander Jakubowski

We may never know why or what you endured on behalf of our great nation… or if your unwilling sacrifice was worth your life.

Location: Area 51

Occupation: U.S. Air Force experimental aircraft test pilot

Status: deceased

Chapter 1

From the Air

Captain Alex Jakubowski, with the call sign Jabberwocky Niner, started his takeoff from Area 51. The powerful General Electric F118-101 engine roared and pushed the Lockheed U-2 Dragon Lady down the runway. Expecting a routine training flight, Alex pulled on the stick, and the mighty plane soared into the night sky,.

After passing over the Toquima and Toiyabe mountain ranges in Nevada, a rogue blip appeared on the forward port edge of the U-2’s radar scope. Alex noted the blip and dismissed it, believing it to be a commercial airliner flying a cross-country overnight flight. As the radar swept around several times, the blip’s presence troubled him.

But why?

Taking his eyes off the starry sky ahead of him, he stared at the radar, confused. Unlike the three other radar-tracked commercial airliners, the blip displayed no transponder code. It hovered there, foreign and unexplainable. And then, as the radar beam swept around, its location changed.

Alex swore and became alert. The blip had just evolved into a bogey—an unrecognizable and potentially hostile contact over American soil.

“What the hell are you?” Alex muttered to himself.

With the next pass and return of the radar sweep, the bogey jumped closer, moving faster than any commercial airliner could fly.

Alarmed, Alex’s eyes widened and his body tensed in the flight seat. The bogey had gone supersonic.

No… that wasn’t right. Nothing could move that fast. Neither the Lockheed A-12 and YF-12A prototypes nor even the amazing SR-71 successor could cover that distance in mere seconds.

Alex tapped the radar scope with a gloved finger, hoping it would reset a glitch. Instead, the blip moved again, appearing on top of him.

He swore and looked around the starlit sky for an incoming aircraft. But all he heard—and felt—was the unnatural and unexpected whoosh of something streaking past his U-2. A moment later, the blip’s wake caught the portside wing of his aircraft and rolled it over. Alarms blared as Alex lost control of his mighty Dragon Lady. Panicked, he wrestled the flight controls and kept his eye on the altimeter. Although he was seventy thousand feet up, the ground would come fast if he couldn’t regain control of the rolling spy craft as it nosedived. The U-2 was already difficult to maneuver because of its optimized design for high-altitude missions. That meant its pilot had to wear a cumbersome pressure suit with gloves that made his fingers bulky and his arms a fraction of a second slower than he liked.

Alex struggled to level the mighty craft while checking his radar. Now the mystery blip flashed in front of him. And with the next radar sweep, it sat miles off his starboard wing. Instincts kicked in, and he thumbed the radio switch. “Tower, Jabberwocky Niner. Attack in progress. Are you tracking the bogey on my scope?”

Silence.

“Tower, Jabberwocky Niner. Do you copy?”

More silence.

Alex surmised the bogey had jammed his communications. A moment later, it skittered across his radar, making another terrifying flyby that set off several cockpit alarms and shook the U-2.

They must be monitoring this, right? How can they not notice my antics as I fly?

The Dragon Lady had formidable intelligence-gathering systems that operated autonomously or by ground operators. And when he trained, they trained. That meant that Alex and all U-2 pilots were free to focus on flying the plane and didn’t have to worry about what the reconnaissance gadgets were doing. U-2 pilots relied on their ability to fly at seventy thousand feet, keeping themselves and their Dragon Ladies safe from enemy fighter jets and ground-to-air missiles. But this bogey had more high-altitude maneuverability than Alex had ever seen or received training to defeat.

Someone’s seeing this. They have to be, Alex thought, convincing himself that help was on the way. The bogey hadn’t shown itself to be hostile yet, but he wasn’t willing to find out what it would take to upset its pilot.

Alex suddenly remembered no air force fighter jets could reach his altitude and come to his aid, so he turned toward the Quinn Canyon Range and began a careful descent to thirty thousand feet—the optimum altitude for the F-100 Super Sabre and F-105 Thunderchief. There, they’d be able to deal with the bogey once his ground team realized his unexpected course change signaled a problem. Since none of the mountains in Nevada crested thirteen thousand feet, he didn’t have to worry about crashing into one as he attempted evasive maneuvers in the dark.

The bogey continued to skitter across his radar and jam radio communications. With no means of onboard defense, he was at the mercy of the bogey pilot’s good or ill will. Despite his graceful and harmless descent, the bogey didn’t leave Alex alone. Instead, it became more aggressive, taunting him by flying closer and closer to his defenseless U-2. The plane shuddered in protest with each pass.

Alex swore.

Since the bogey moved faster than the U-2's radar could track, Alex could no longer trust it. Line-of-sight tracking also proved difficult because the bogey had no running lights. The only way he could see it in the darkness was by catching the reflection of starlight on the bogey’s shiny metallic hull—if he was lucky.

Suddenly, the bogey stopped in front of him, and he was almost on top of it. Panic ran through him, and he yanked the flight stick, putting the Dragon Lady into a sharp, upward rolling turn to the port side. Cockpit alarms blared, and adrenaline surged through him. Lockheed had not designed the U-2 for high-speed maneuvers like this, and the craft balked at his brazen piloting. Alex soberly realized death might come for him that night.

Flashing green lights distracted him, and something pelted the starboard hull of the U-2.

Cursing again, Alex recognized the familiar sound: the bogey had shot him. The bogey weaved incoherently with maneuvers too complex to replicate in the U-2 or any test planes he had flown. So, he started a series of random—albeit sluggish—evasive maneuvers, hoping to escape the line of enemy fire while continuing to descend.

The Dragon Lady bucked, and her bones eerily groaned. She didn’t like being yanked and rolled about while flying at over four hundred miles per hour. She wasn’t a fighter jet, and she stubbornly reminded her pilot about her limitations and stress tolerances.

The bogey continued firing, its flashing green weapons illuminating the night sky around him. Believing the flashing lights to be tracer bullets, Alex steered away from the incoming fire. The bogey was too fast and danced around him, changing its attack vector at imperceptible speeds.

The weapons fire intensified for a moment, and then something broke on the plane. Losing control, Alex and his Dragon Lady plummeted to the Quinn Canyon Range.

Chapter 2

From the Ground

Ground control operator Lieutenant Daniel Benning suppressed a bored yawn. He squinted at the air traffic crossing the southwestern United States on the console-inset green CRT monitors. He was a prematurely balding man with tight features, an uncanny attention to detail, and an annoying tendency to ask questions—but he was good at his job.

The Area 51 control tower had already cleared Jabberwocky Niner’s flight, and now the powerful aircraft steadily climbed into the atmosphere, approaching the Quinn Canyon Range in Nevada.

Benning mentally counted the overnight flights—thirteen—concurrently crossing Nevada. Every plane dutifully stayed away from the protected airspace over Area 51. And then a fourteenth blip with no transponder code appeared. Frowning, Benning tapped the screen.

Nothing.

He spoke to Major Terrence Woods, his supervising officer and fellow controller. Woods was an older man who had seen his share of crazy in the ranks, and his early-withered features proved the harsh desert sun wasn’t good for your skin. He worked at an adjacent console inside Area 51’s U-2 operations center. “Check out quadrant one, northwest corner.”

Woods grunted and leaned forward, his eyes twitching. Years of staring at green screens had taken their toll. “What is that?”

“We running any ops beyond Jabberwocky?” Benning asked.

Woods shot him a thoughtful glance, then shook his head. “If we are, they didn’t tell me.”

“What about Creech or Nellis?” Benning asked, referring to the nearby Nevada air bases.

“Same answer,” Woods replied.

“All right.”

The two men stared at the transponder-less blip on the screen for a moment. “Overnight with a busted transponder?” Woods asked.

Benning shrugged. “Maybe. Doesn’t seem to move, though.”

“Chopper?”

“Out there?”

“Good point.” The two men stared at their radar screens, confused. As the radar swept around several times, the blip’s unmoving presence troubled Woods.

“Something’s not right,” Benning muttered, his instincts suggesting alarm.

“Could be a glitch,” Woods replied, but he didn’t sound convinced. Area 51 airspace operations didn’t appreciate glitches or unannounced flights. The radar beam swept around again, and the blip disappeared, reappearing an inch to the right—a distance that represented several hundred miles. The blip had moved closer to Jabberwocky Niner’s flight path.

Woods frowned, and Benning sat up with surprise. The latter man reached out and pulled the transmission microphone toward him. “Jabberwocky Niner, Ops. Do you copy?”

Nothing.

Benning checked the microphone, then repeated his message. The blip began dancing around the radar screen with each sweeping pass, and Benning became alarmed. “That’s no glitch. It’s moving way too fast, and we have no comms with Jabberwocky Niner.”

Woods picked up a black rotary telephone and dialed a number. He drew a deep breath and waited for someone to answer. “Tower, operations. We’re tracking a bogey in the northwest radar quadrant. Do you see—” Woods listened for a moment, then asked, “you do? Any ideas about it? Civilian or military?”

Benning glanced at Woods, who shook his head.

“No, it’s moving too fast. It caught our attention too.” A moment passed. “All right, thanks.” Woods hung up the black phone. “It’s your op. You wanna raise the flag?” His hand pointed to the red phone between them.

Benning gestured for Woods to hold. Four more sweeps of the radar confirmed the blip was bouncing around Jabberwocky Niner’s position, now approaching the Toquima and Toiyabe mountain ranges. Then Jabberwocky Niner’s radar blip shifted, and Benning realized Jakubowski had reacted to the bogey. “He’s dancing. Call it in, sir.”

“All right.” Woods picked up the red phone and pressed the first button at the bottom. A moment later, someone from base commander Colonel Donovan’s office answered. After identifying himself to the night assistant, he uttered the uncomfortable phrase that would bring the base to high alert. “Ma’am, I believe we have an unidentified incursion into U.S. airspace.”

It didn’t take long for Colonel Donovan to arrive at operations, but in the minutes that passed, a lot happened.

Area 51 tower control discreetly communicated with the major civilian air traffic controllers from Nevada, California, Utah, and Arizona. They also enforced a temporary no-fly zone over much of Nevada. Neighboring controllers redirected other in-flight overnights around Nevada’s airspace. When pressed for a reason, the simplest of answers satisfied their curiosity: an ongoing live-fire training exercise presented danger to civilian and commercial flights.

Benning, Woods, and the rest of the U-2 flight operations staff watched the blip haphazardly torment Jabberwocky Niner. Their continued attempts at communication failed, but the data returned from the aircraft’s cameras and onboard sensors painted an unpleasant picture. Jabberwocky Niner wasn’t alone in the sky.

“He’s descending,” Benning announced, noting the change in altitude and direction.

“Scramble fighters,” Colonel Donovan ordered, startling the men. With their attention focused on the monitors and readouts from the U-2, they hadn’t seen him enter operations. A second, unfamiliar man wearing lieutenant general’s stars stood with him, someone the operations staff hadn’t seen before. Donovan continued. “He is descending, and he knows we can offer him protection or at least get another set of eyes out there.”

A shrill alarm echoed across the base as night pilots raced to their standby fighters.

“Sitrep, Major,” Donovan said, and Woods briefed him on the situation. When he finished, two fighters roared across the runway and disappeared into the night sky. Two more immediately followed.

“Order the fighters to climb to thirty thousand feet immediately. I want them to have a bird's-eye view of what’s going on.”

“Yes, sir,” another lieutenant said, relaying the order to the fighters. Air traffic control transferred to the operations center for the mission, but the tower still watched in the skies.

“Fighters at full burn, roughly thirty to forty minutes out from Jabberwocky Niner’s position,” Woods announced.

“I want four more Sabres ready to go,” Donovan ordered, referring to the F-100 Super Sabre. The staff quickly relayed his instructions.

“Sir, are there any other operations that might account for—”

“There is nothing else going on, Major,” Donovan replied.

“Understood, sir.”

Donovan looked at the major and reinforced his point. “Whatever that is, Major, it’s not ours.”

“Understood, sir,” Woods repeated.

“Jabberwocky and the bogey are moving closer,” Benning announced. He noted that Jabberwocky Niner’s new flight path would return him to Area 51. For the moment, he was on the other side of the Quinn Canyon Range.

Five minutes later, the squadron commander reported in, claiming to see green streaks lancing through the air. Several explanations ran through the minds of everyone in operations, but the one reason nobody wanted to address became the elephant in the room.

“Soviets?” someone asked. Donovan ignored the question, and the room fell silent until the squadron commander described green streaks tracking across Jabberwocky from multiple attack vectors, suggesting more than one bogey. The radar, however, only showed one bogey frantically jumping around the U-2.

And then they lost communication with the flight squadron. It became apparent they couldn’t hear each other, and the colonel appeared disheartened.

“Those boys are on their own now,” he said, eyeing the radar blips. They were about fifteen minutes away from the eastern edge of the mountain range. All repeated communication attempts failed.

Minutes later, Jabberwocky Niner vanished from radar over the Quinn Canyon Range.

“Did he crash?” Donovan asked, staring in disbelief at the absent blip of Jabberwocky Niner on the radar. The bogey hovered for several moments before moving west until it mysteriously disappeared.

Suddenly, the speakers came alive with urgent hails from the fighter squadron. The officer on comms let the squadron leader know he heard them, then handed the microphone to Colonel Donovan.

“Squadron leader, this is Colonel Donovan. Tell me what you know.”

“Difficult to say, sir. Whatever that thing was, it jammed our communications with you and between ourselves. When we got close enough, green flash fire filled the sky, and we believe it was located around Jabberwocky Niner. But the U-2 is down. We saw a minor explosion on one of the peaks just before it disappeared from radar. We’re circling the peak now, and the bogey appears to be gone.”

Donovan muted his microphone, then looked at the unnamed three-star general. The two men shared a knowing look, and then the general pointed to a nearby officer. “Start crash protocol. I want the crew moving within the hour.”

The officer stared at him, wide-eyed. The colonel noticed and frowned. “Is there a problem, son?”

“It’s the middle of the night, sir.”

“Then send choppers. I want the site camouflaged by morning,” the general said.

“Yes, sir.”

Major Woods shot the younger officer a death glare, and Benning pursed his lips as uneasiness settled over him. It had suddenly become clear the unnamed general just addressed what had become the elephant in the room.

Minutes passed, and everyone watched the sweeping radar screens. Seemingly uninterested in the four fighters circling the crash site, the bogey did not return.

After a heavy sigh, Donovan broke the silence. “Tell the squadron to come home, but I want four fighters ready to go until sunrise. We’ll reevaluate after inspecting the crash site.”

The closest radio operator acknowledged and radioed the colonel’s orders.

“Colonel, might I offer a recommendation?” the general politely asked.

“Please, General Smith,” Donovan politely replied.

“We may not be its only target. We should monitor everything in the Southwest for a repeat situation.”

Donovan thought for a moment, then nodded. “Major Woods, discreetly coordinate the general’s request with air traffic control in the western half of the United States.”

“Right away, sir,” Woods replied.

“Did we provoke it?” Benning asked aloud.

Donovan and Smith turned to Benning, who immediately realized he had uttered his thoughts aloud. “Sorry, sirs.”

“No, please keep going with that thought,” Smith said.

Benning glanced at the colonel, who nodded. “It ignored all air traffic at thirty thousand feet. What makes seventy thousand feet special?”

“Maybe we got too close,” Woods replied, not wishing to be outdone by his junior.

“Too close to what?” Donovan asked.

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Woods replied.

Donovan frowned at the nonanswer.

Benning seized the moment. “Too close to it, and it panicked. Our commercial air traffic flies between thirty thousand and forty thousand feet, so it probably thought it was safe to do as it pleased at the higher altitude.”

“And what do you think it was doing?” Smith asked.

“Same thing we’re doing, sir. Monitoring.”

Chapter 3

Ten Years Later

Sheriff Stephen Chatwin slowed his patrol car to a stop and stared at the strange, confused man standing still roughly fifteen feet away in the middle of the road. The patrol car’s headlights shone brightly enough to illuminate a very unfamiliar air force flight suit. The man stood on the deserted highway north of Winnemucca, near the eastern edge of Desert Valley. Chatwin picked up the radio transceiver and switched it to public address mode. “Sir, this is Sheriff Chatwin. Are you all right?”

The pilot did not move or answer.

The sheriff repeated his query, but the man did not reply. Grunting, he holstered the radio on the dashboard, grabbed a flashlight, and climbed out of the patrol car. With one hand on his revolver and the other shining the flashlight at the pilot, Chatwin cautiously approached. “Hey, are you all right?”

Still no response.

The sheriff moved to the right, circling the pilot in a counterclockwise fashion while moving his flashlight up and down. “How are you even breathing in that thing?” Chatwin muttered, noting the tubes hanging from the back of the pilot’s helmet that connected to nothing. Stepping behind and to the right of the pilot, he nudged the pilot’s right shoulder. “Hey, can you hear me?”

Nothing. Only the sounds of nighttime desert insects answered his questions.

Chatwin frowned, stepped back, and then grabbed the two-way radio from his utility belt and called in the situation to dispatch, keeping an eye on the silent pilot in the strange flight suit. When dispatch advised him to wait for further instructions, he stepped back ten paces, holstered the radio, and folded his arms across his chest.

“Is this a prank? Because if it is, I’m really not in the mood tonight.”

The pilot offered him nothing, and Chatwin frowned again.

“You don’t move, you don’t talk, and for all I know, you’re grinning ear to ear under that fancy helmet you’re wearing. What are you supposed to be? An astronaut? Which air force base are you from? Creech, Groom Lake, or Nellis? You’re a long way from all of them. And, uh, where is your plane?” Chatwin shone his flashlight around, but there was no sign of an aircraft—intact or crashed—within range of his flashlight beam.

Irritated, the sheriff tapped on the pilot’s reflective helmet with his fingernail. “Hey, buddy, I’m talking to you. Answer me.”

Nothing.

Chatwin shook his head, returned to his patrol car, and leaned against it.

Thirty minutes later, the two men were still alone. Chatwin grabbed his radio and inquired about the delay with his dispatcher. She provided an unusual response: instructions were forthcoming from the air force. Chatwin raised an eyebrow. He had heard rumors of strange sightings, events, and even disappearances, but he shook off the uneasy feeling, trusting the air force would have an answer for him.

Thirty minutes later, Chatwin heard the sound of a powerful helicopter flying north along U.S. Route 95 from Winnemucca. He glanced over his shoulder and saw the helicopter’s running lights. His radio squawked, and dispatch instructed him to turn on his flashers and emergency lights. Confused, Sheriff Chatwin cautiously reached into his patrol car and switched on his rooftop rotating beacons and his hazard lights. Then he stepped around the unmoving pilot and faced south so he could monitor the approaching helicopter and the unyielding pilot. As the loud helicopter approached, Chatwin realized an air force chopper was looking for him.

No, they’re looking for their lost pilot, he thought.

The helicopter’s bright searchlight switched on and aimed for his patrol car. It swung around in front of the vehicle until it illuminated both the pilot and the sheriff. Chatwin waved at the blinding light, and soon the helicopter—a Chinook—settled on the dusty ground, and the soldiers inside poured out, each wearing hazmat suits.

Chatwin became alarmed when he saw some men with Geiger counters. Others carried what he later learned was electromagnetic measuring equipment. Each soldier waved their meter about, looking for warning signs that would trigger protocols, but nothing beeped or alerted them to danger.

“Sir, I need you to step back,” one soldier shouted at Chatwin through his hazmat helmet. The soldier didn’t appear armed, but Chatwin complied anyway.

Someone shouted, “Clear,” and another two soldiers ran out of the Chinook carrying a medical backboard between them. Chatwin watched them approach, fascinated by the unfolding scene. When they reached the pilot, one of them shined a bright flashlight at the visor of the pilot’s reflective helmet.

“Inconclusive,” the man uttered.

“All right, let’s get him secured for transport,” the other said.

They immediately set the backboard directly behind the pilot and fastened the belly strap in place. Then one soldier stepped in front, and the other moved behind and held his hands up to catch the backboard. The soldier in front placed his hand on the pilot’s chest, then gently pushed. The backboard and the pilot, both rigid, fell back into the soldier’s hands. He gently laid both down on the asphalt and worked with his partner to strap the pilot to the backboard. Moments later, the soldiers whisked the unresponsive pilot away and loaded him into the back of the Chinook.

“Sheriff Chatwin, I believe?” another soldier inquired.

Chatwin blinked in surprise and stared at the soldier. He couldn’t see the man’s face because of the hazmat helmet. When he shone his flashlight on the soldier’s face, the man reflexively recoiled. “Please don’t do that, sir. Are you Sheriff Chatwin?”

“I am. Am I in danger?”

“No, sir, you are not. But if you would please come with me, there are some men who would like to speak with you.”

“All right.” Chatwin followed the soldier to the Chinook. There, two men in black business suits—Palmdale Ground Team—approached him and flashed badges at him. The agents succinctly and aggressively informed him he would never speak of this incident to anyone and that a separate team had already addressed the issue with his dispatcher. The agents forbid him to discuss the issue at all, even behind closed doors. There was no pilot, there was no helicopter, and there were no soldiers in hazmat suits doing anything on the highway that night.

Confused and slightly terrified, Sheriff Chatwin stood near his patrol car and watched the Chinook take off and fly southeast. Several minutes after it was quiet again, he climbed into his patrol car and headed back to Winnemucca.

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Chapter 4

When the Chinook landed, the soldiers disembarked and rushed Alex into a lab inside Building 10. There, doctors carefully yet hurriedly cut away the U-2 pressure suit from Alex’s nonresponsive body and removed his helmet.

“He’s alive but not responding to external stimuli,” Dr. Raymond Matteson said, shining a flashlight over Alex’s open eyes. “Medium dilation of the pupils, but no dilation or constriction response to light. Proceed with undergarments removal, ECG, and EEG. Let’s see if this one is like the others they’ve returned.”

A seasoned veteran to the medically bizarre, including extraterrestrial activity and its results, nothing surprised Dr. Matteson anymore. His junior team trusted his experience and instincts with matters that would otherwise scandalize and frighten the public.

Assisting medics moved with precision and cut away Alex’s clothing until he lay naked on the examination table. Then they connected electrodes to his skull and torso. After switching on the metering equipment, they took a full set of vitals and documented their findings. Dr. Matteson and others scrutinized every inch of exposed skin and hair follicle of the hirsute man. Some used a magnifying glass.

Dr. Matteson cleared his throat and spoke so the recording equipment would capture his notes. “Subject’s skin appears normal, nonnecrotic, and without mottling or shed layers. No sign of muscle atrophy or loss. Subject’s fingernails suggest limited growth of less than thirty days, and I estimate his beard growth at two weeks. For a man who’s been gone ten years, he’s maintained his appearance—or they did it for him.”

He glanced at the echocardiograph monitor and the scrawled notes a medical assistant showed him. “Heartbeat steady and low at fifty-two BPM. Core temperature 98.2 Fahrenheit. Blood pressure low at 98/50. Medical metrics remain consistent with the others.”

Suddenly, the steady and low beeping of the medical equipment increased. Dr. Matteson stared at the subject with disbelief. “Oh my, is this one going to wake up?”

The horrified medical staff watched the impossible, feeling excitement and dread at what would happen next. The EEG and ECG equipment rattled and beeped as they notated increased brain and cardiovascular activity. Suddenly, Alex’s arms leaped off the table and hovered at a strange angle in the air. His toes curled, and his knees bent. He screamed, startling everyone.

Just as quickly as he had awakened and flailed, Alex’s limbs collapsed, and his tense facial expression became neutral. The beeping medical equipment resumed quiet operation, and the room became silent as everyone stared at the quieted subject.

Dr. Matteson cleared his throat. “Subject responded to unknown stimuli. What did we miss?” He grabbed the EEG printout and studied it.

“We should restrain him,” Lieutenant Nadine Winslow, a medic, commented.

“Agreed. Proceed,” Dr. Matteson replied without looking up. Then he continued narrating for the recording. “Subject’s brain activity pre- and postreaction resembles that of a comatose individual.” He quickly scanned the room. “I need a comparison of this subject’s EEG with the past four returned subjects. I suspect something is different with this one and we missed it.”

“I’ll get them,” one of his peers announced.

Alex’s arm and leg muscles tightened as his lungs drew a deep breath, startling everyone once more. Dr. Matteson froze and stared at the body in disbelief.

“Alex, can you hear me?” Dr. Matteson asked.

When Alex didn’t respond, Dr. Matteson looked up at the observation window into the curious faces of General Smith, Colonel Donovan, and a few other high-ranking officers.

Colonel Donovan nodded and mouthed, “Wake him.”

Glancing at the highly active EEG readout, Dr. Matteson barked an order. “Prepare a dose of epinephrine.”

“Alex, can you hear me?” Dr. Matteson asked again, but only the gentle flickering of Alex’s eyelids answered his question.

Lt. Winslow prepared a single dose of epinephrine and approached the table. Dr. Matteson raised a hand and studied the EEG. Then he nodded to the medic. “Proceed.”

The medic quickly injected the dose into the muscle of Alex’s outer thigh. Alex gasped and drew another deep breath, startling everyone. His eyelids opened, and his eyes frantically darted back and forth. His arms and legs slowly tensed against the restraints, and his mouth uttered an unusual, agonized groan. The EEG needles danced in the machine, their incessant scribbling suggesting incredible brain activity. Alex’s chest and shoulders heaved as he breathed quick breaths, and the ECG numbers climbed.

“Alex, can you hear me?” Dr. Matteson asked.

“Approaching tachycardia,” the ECG technician announced.

“What kind?” Dr. Matteson shouted at the ECG technician, who jumped. Alex’s body trembled on the table.

She looked at the ECG readings and panicked. “I, uh, I can’t tell if it’s atrial or ventricular!”

Dr. Matteson grunted and incredulously stared at the printout she held up for him observe. The needles had scrawled wide swaths of black ink.

“P-p-laaaanet,” Alex uttered, his voice stressed as his eyes erratically blinked.

“Is he seizing?” someone asked, and Dr. Matteson noted how Alex’s face, neck, and upper torso were turning red from an increase in blood flow—or an intense amount of strain.

The EEG technician shook his head. “I don’t know.” There, too, the needles had scrawled wide swaths of black ink. Alex shouted nonsensical sounds and continued fighting his restraints. Two of the stronger medics tried to push him back to the table, but he defied their strength.

“K-k-illllers,” Alex shouted.

“We’re going to lose him,” Dr. Matteson said, knowing the microphone would transmit his words to the observation room. Then an idea struck him. “Do we have his medical records? Is he having an adverse reaction to the epinephrine? Is this some kind of anaphylactic attack because of the sulfite preservative?”

A medic yanked a binder from a side table and quickly flipped through. “If he is, it’s not documented.”

“Do we have any lithium salt in here?” Dr. Matteson asked, looking at the stocked cabinets on one side of the room. Two medics scanned the contents of the cabinetry, then shook their heads.

“Dammit.” Dr. Matteson studied Alex for a moment. “Flushing, but no hives. Tongue is not swollen. Breathing is fast but rhythmic.” He motioned for a stethoscope and put it on, then listened to Alex’s heart. “Good Lord! Heartbeat is unlike anything I’ve ever heard. It’s… double on the doubles. I don’t know how to explain this, but I don’t think this is anaphylaxis.” He set the stethoscope aside and stared at the now convulsing and frothing Alex. “This is whatever they did to him. He’s not responding to normal treatment.”

Everyone stared at Dr. Matteson, who contemplated his next move. “If we don’t sedate him, we’ll lose him. His body can’t sustain much more of this. We need an incapacitating agent. Ready two doses of dimethylheptylpyran.”

“But Doctor, that’s still experimental,” a medic protested.

“Not when you know what I know. It’s in the last cabinet on the right. Prep two doses now.” Two medics prepped the powerful sedative.

“Two doses, Doctor?” Colonel Donovan asked over the intercom from the observation room.

Dr. Matteson glared at the colonel. “DMHP is not lethal, but what this man is experiencing will kill him.”

A medic ferried the first dose to the table and gently passed it to Dr. Matteson. “Stand by with the second dose. I hope we don’t need it.”

Suddenly, Alex’s body collapsed on the table, surprising the two medics holding him down. Dr. Matteson gingerly lifted the needle away and held it up to prevent accidental injection. “Did we lose him?”

“Heart rate slowing,” the ECG technician replied.

“Brain activity slowing as well,” the EEG technician added.

Everyone watched the hyperactive needles slow themselves, and the ECG technician spoke up. “He’s coming out of tachycardia—or whatever that was.”

Dr. Matteson carefully handed the DMHP back to the technician. “Be careful with that, but stand by.” The technician nodded and backed away.

Dr. Matteson picked up the stethoscope and listened to Alex’s heart. Satisfied his ears confirmed what his eyes saw on the ECG, he drew a deep breath and narrated for the recording. The tension in the room relaxed with Alex, whose eyes remained open. “Heartrate steady and somewhat normal, whatever that means at the moment. One pupil remains constricted under bright light while the other has dilated, suggesting a brain bleed or some other unknown problem. Several blood vessels in the sclera have burst, giving Alex a bloodshot appearance that—"

“Planet killers,” Alex whispered, and Dr. Matteson stopped recording.

“Brain activity increasing,” the EEG technician said as everyone noted the rapidly scribbling EEG needles. “I’ve never seen anything like this before.”

For the first time in a long time, Dr. Matteson’s hands shook as he peered at Alex, uncertain of what to do.

“Planet killers,” Alex whispered again.

“Can you hear me, Alex?” Colonel Donovan asked over the loudspeaker.

Alex only repeated his foreboding message. “Heart rate slightly elevated,” the ECG technician reported.

“Tell me who the planet killers are,” Colonel Donovan barked.

“Planet killers,” Alex whispered again.

“Alex, can you tell me more?” Lt. Winslow asked.

“Y-yes,” Alex replied.

Dr. Matteson pointed at Lt. Winslow and nodded, gesturing with his hands that she should continue.

“Alex, my name is Nadine, and I’d like to know more about the planet killers.”

Alex repeated his foreboding message.

“Oh my god,” the EEG technician blurted out. When everyone stared at him, he held up the printout. “These are overlapping brain signals.”

“Two Alexes?” Dr. Matteson asked.

“No, look, they’re different. There’s someone else in there with him.”

“Alex, can you tell me more about the planet killers?” Lt. Winslow asked.

“Y-yes,” Alex replied.

“Can you tell me who the planet killers are?” Lt. Winslow asked.

This time, Alex faintly nodded, but reiterated his message. “Planet killers.”

“He responds to yes or no questions,” Lt. Winslow theorized aloud.

“Alex, are the alien beings who took you away from us the planet killers?”

Alex shook his head. “No. No. No. No.” Each utterance of the word sounded punctuated. Then he mumbled something unintelligible.

“You’ve reached him. Ask the question a different way,” Dr. Matteson whispered.

Lt. Winslow nodded. “Okay. Alex, the people who took you from Earth, are they the planet killers?”

Alex shook his head. “No. No. No. Not them.”

“Not them?” Dr. Matteson echoed.

Alex’s body, which had become tense during the conversation, relaxed, and his head rolled to the left.

“Hey, Alex, it’s Nadine. Stay with me, okay? Can you tell me who the planet killers are?” Lt. Winslow asked.

“Y-yes,” Alex answered, his head snapping up.

“Are the beings who took you from Earth the planet killers?”

Alex gritted his teeth as he shook his head. “No. No. No,” he angrily replied. “Not them. Us. You.” And then he exhaled a long breath. His body relaxed, and Lt. Winslow stepped back.

“Second presence gone,” the EEG technician announced.

Dr. Matteson glanced at the printout and confirmed Alex seemed to have returned to a comatose state. Sensing the eyes in the room upon him, he looked at the quiet faces in the observation room. “I don’t believe we can safely awaken him. Whatever they did to him, reviving him requires knowledge or technology beyond our current capabilities. There’s nothing I can do for him today. What do you want me to do?”

Dr. Matteson watched as General Smith and Colonel Donovan conferred with the other high-ranking officers with the intercom muted.

Seconds ticked by like minutes, and Dr. Matteson watched Alex’s vitals return to a comatose-like state.

The intercom clicked, and General Smith spoke. “Doctor, Captain Jakubowski has served his country above and beyond the line of duty. It’s time we thank him for his service. Disconnect him from your equipment and prep him for deep freeze. It seems appropriate and humane at the moment, given our traditional methods of resuscitation will not cause the desired result.”

“I understand, General.” No one moved. Dr. Matteson sighed, then spoke one word: “Attention!”

Every attending medic and technician stood at attention and followed suit as Dr. Matteson saluted Alex. “At ease.”

Everyone lowered their hands. After a moment of silence, Dr. Matteson added, “Carry out the general’s orders and place Captain Jakubowski into cold storage in Building 31.”

Chapter 5

I can’t tell you how many speculative conversations within Palmdale ensued about the meaning behind Alex’s ominous message… that we, not them, are planet killers. Those beings, it seemed, bore no greater threat to our world than humanity itself.

Unfortunately, indifference grappled with us, and we became retested to other unexplainable Palmdale cases. The story of this secret extraterrestrial experience, after all, never left Area 51—until now. As for Colonel Donovan, General Smith, Dr. Matteson, and the other researchers they pulled in to study the case? Well, they all received the warning with skepticism and disbelief, dismissing it as an externally induced hallucination by an extraterrestrial (and potentially hostile) power. So, we ignored the apparent ramblings of a dying man and stored his body, unable to comprehend the gravity of the situation.

None of us could understand it.

You must remember this event took place in the mid- to late 1960s. While scientists in the late 1800s had calculated how an increase in carbon dioxide could cause significant warming, no one cared. Without an Internet to broadcast the problem, the information remained a secret. Climate wouldn’t become front-page news for another hundred years. In 1988, the director of NASA’s Goddard Institute for Space Studies, James Hansen, issued a dire warning. For the first time, a U.S. government agency connected human activity to global warming—the result of which could kill our planet.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. So, what exactly did we discuss after Captain Jakubowski’s return?

General Smith directed us to discuss various angles to determine multiple answers to the unanswerable questions about why and how the aliens wanted—or needed—to deliver their message. Over the next several months, while tending to other Palmdale duties and cases, we entertained impossible what-if questions in the hopes of discovering a reasonable answer.

What if the attack against Captain Jakubowski’s U-2 was not an attack but an attempt at communication with the fighter pilot?

What if the green lights (lasers?) were a failed demonstration of communication attempt meant for those of us watching from the ground?

What if Captain Jakubowski simply got too close, and the aliens panicked, as Lt. Benning theorized?

What if, when they realized the fighter pilot was panicking when they detected an armed response approaching, they saved Captain Jakubowski before or just after the crash instead of kidnapping him?

What if Captain Jakubowski was injured and they tried to mend him but realized they could not until they gained knowledge of human physiology?

What if they had a guilty conscience for accidentally shooting him out of the sky?

You’ll notice our questions (or, at least, my recollection of them) do not discuss invasion, and that’s because we accepted one truth: we’re not dead yet. If technologically advanced extraterrestrial species wanted to capture, colonize, enslave, or obliterate humanity, they would have done so already. But if you’re reading this, you’re still here, at least fifty-seven years later, and aliens have not invaded Earth.

Let us also review what we already knew by recounting my analysis from book one, Space Chase:

A U-2 was on a secret mission or training flight in Nevada airspace. Or it was taking off or landing at Area 51.

Something shot at the U-2 with surgical precision and attempted to cut it into pieces, but the unknown weapon seemed only to damage the U-2, not obliterate it. Either the U-2’s hull was too strong, or the weapon was low-powered. I believed the latter was the more plausible reality.

A U-2 aircraft crash-landed on a mountainside in Nevada. Its pilot did not eject and also did not walk away. Since the canopy structure and the seat straps were intact, I knew he wasn’t thrown from the aircraft.

The fuel tanks didn’t appear to rupture, and the U-2 didn’t explode. (To this day, it remains unclear when the aliens took Alex or removed his unconscious body from the wreckage.)

No matter which question or idea we began with or how many times we started over, there was always one unanswered question on the chalkboard: Why didn’t they just make first contact and tell us? Here are some of the scenarios we came up with:

Cultural Preservation: The aliens may believe that a first-contact event would interfere with human development and could disrupt our cultural evolution. They might view themselves as observers, wanting to ensure that humanity evolves naturally without their influence. They also may fear that direct contact could lead to cultural assimilation or loss of human identity.

Prime Directive: Similar to the concept in Star Trek, the aliens may follow a strict policy of noninterference with less advanced civilizations. They may have a moral or ethical code that prohibits them from intervening in the affairs of other species until they have reached a certain level of technological or societal development.

Noninterference Policy: In a similar vein, the aliens may adhere to a noninterference policy, respecting the sovereignty and independence of other civilizations regardless of advancement. They may believe that it is not their place to initiate contact or impose their beliefs on others, preferring to let civilizations decide for themselves when they are ready to explore the cosmos.

Fear of Conflict: The aliens might be aware of humanity’s history of violence and warfare. (If by now you think we’re not being monitored from space, think again.) The aliens may have avoided first contact due to believing that humans would respond with fear, hostility, or aggression. (This took place at the height of the Cold War, after all.) They may have wished to avoid potential conflict or harm that could arise from misunderstandings or differing intentions.

An Unknown Impossibility: The aliens didn’t make contact with us because they couldn’t. They decided first contact was impossible because something about their (or our) physiology or communication methods differed drastically. Or the aliens, capable of space flight and traversing the vastness of space, had considerable technological and societal advancements or constructs beyond human understanding.

Technological Immaturity: The aliens might consider humanity’s technological capabilities to be insufficient for meaningful interaction. Following the prime directive thought above, the aliens may be waiting for humans to reach a certain level of scientific advancement before making contact, believing that it would be a more fruitful and equal partnership.

Resource Scarcity: The aliens could have limited resources or face their own challenges, making it impractical for them to establish contact with every species they encounter. (Imagine what that must be like!) They might prioritize their efforts and only engage with civilizations that possess certain qualities or resources that they find valuable. Alternatively, they may be dealing with internal conflicts, resource depletion, or other issues that demand their full attention, leaving no capacity for engaging with other civilizations.

Biological Concerns: The aliens might have physiological or immunological differences that make direct contact risky for both themselves and humanity. They could be concerned about potential disease transmission or unintended harm to either species. Or they simply couldn’t survive on Earth.

Evolutionary Experiment: The aliens could be observing Earth as part of a long-term scientific experiment—independently or as part of some sort of galactic consortium. They might want to witness how humanity evolves and develops over time, gathering data and insights without direct interference. First contact could disrupt the experiment or skew the results.

Different Perception of Time: The aliens might experience time differently than humans. From their perspective, they may consider our existence as fleeting and insignificant, and therefore they see no urgency in making contact. They might prefer to observe from a distance until they perceive the right moment to engage. Additionally, their biological lifespan, whether naturally or through technological augmentation, may be significantly longer than the average human lifespan.

Moral Superiority: The aliens might view themselves as morally superior to humanity. They may believe that our species is not yet deserving of their knowledge or wisdom and that we need to further demonstrate our capacity for compassion, empathy, and ethical behavior before they deem us worthy of contact.

Astronomical Distance: The aliens could be located so far away that communication or travel between our civilizations is currently impossible or highly impractical. The vastness of space may present insurmountable challenges in bridging the gap between our worlds until humanity discovers (seemingly on its own) how to traverse the stars efficiently.

Interspecies Conflict: The aliens might be part of a larger interstellar community or federation, where contact with less advanced civilizations is discouraged or restricted to prevent conflicts or unwanted attention. They might be bound by rules or agreements that prohibit direct engagement with humanity. (Which begets the question: What happens when one party decides to throw out the rules?)

Distinctive Agenda: The aliens might have their own agenda or purpose that doesn’t align with making contact with humanity at this time. They could be focused on a specific mission or objective that takes precedence over establishing relations with other species.

Preservation of Secrets: The aliens might possess knowledge or technology that they consider too valuable or dangerous to share with humanity. They may fear that exposing certain advancements to us could have detrimental consequences or disrupt the balance of power in the universe. (In the same way that we do not share nuclear technology with underdeveloped, unstable, or threatening countries.)

The Human Factor: We wouldn’t have listened. We would have run scared and panicked and become defensive, uniting our nuclear arsenals against an enemy in the skies. A mistake would have been made, and we would have either obliterated ourselves or provoked a galactic war we would not survive.

Questions beget questions when speculating about anything. More questions center around Alex.

Regardless of why they took him, how did they maintain contact with him after returning him to Earth?

How did they share his consciousness or impose another into his brain?

How do we explain the dual brain patterns the EEG recorded during his examination?

Why did they try to send us a warning through him?

How many others have they taken, borrowed, or studied over the centuries?

Are they still monitoring us today?

In hindsight, there is a plausible conclusion I still accept today. It is my opinion, formed after years of speculation.

This particular benevolent alien species had seen its share of devastation, destruction, and natural resource overmining and hoped to prevent us from facing the forthcoming hellscape of uninhibited global warming and the dire results to the planet’s flora, fauna, and human inhabitants. How or why they took Alex is immaterial to me. How or why he was connected to an individual alien or a collective consciousness is interesting, but I can’t explain that either. What I believe is this: the presence in his mind attempted to breach the language barrier and communicate an urgent warning to humanity, that if we continued on our current path, we would be, in fact, planet killers of our own design.

Chapter 6

“A society grows great when old men plant trees in whose shade they know they shall never sit.” — Ancient Greek proverb

I’m concluding this shorter book in 2023, just after the official World Health Organization’s close of the COVID-19 pandemic. In the first year of the pandemic, stranded in isolation, I mourned the loss of several dear friends and family members. I watched others take their supposed immunity for granted or adopt alarmingly uninformed anti-vaccination stances. (You must remember we’re vaccinated against just about everything in the armed forces.) Despite being vaccinated, I struggled through it twice thanks to the carelessness of some neighbors… but I digress.

In the past ten years, our world has witnessed many record-breaking heatwaves around the world. We’ve watched arctic and Antarctic ice melt at accelerated rates, raising sea levels and temperatures. A mind-boggling amount of extreme weather events, such as hurricanes, typhoons, wildfires, and floods, have increased in many parts of the world. The list goes on, and the list will grow. But unfortunately, this is not what we were concerned with in the late 1960s.

Today, world organizations and governments have agreed that, in my words, we face the no-longer-impending-but-present threat of becoming planet killers of our own design. The urgency of the situation should demand collaborations that transcend geopolitical boundaries as countries continue recognizing the shared responsibility to mitigate the effects of global warming so all of humanity can survive.

Instead, I see the demand for profit by a greedy 1 percent and a corruption-mired political party irresponsibly drive ecological and economical decisions. Shame on us! We should demand immediate action on climate change. Our world’s governments should face mounting and monumental pressure to implement comprehensive environmental policies, regulate industries, and incentivize sustainable practices for the next generations to come.

All generations should promote scientists and engineers and support accelerated research efforts—not in the name of profit, but survivability—to develop clean and sustainable technologies that transition us away from fossil fuels and reduce greenhouse gas emissions. When combined with renewable energy sources such as solar, wind, and tidal power, the global energy landscape will revolutionize itself.

Of course, they are not the only ones who must change. We must change too. We must embrace a more conscious and sustainable way of life, making individual choices—even sacrifices—that positively impact on the environment. Future generations will thank us.

Over Memorial Day weekend, I watched my grandchildren play in the shade of the trees I had planted in the backyard as my family enjoyed the warm weather. We have so many memories and stories of family gatherings that enjoyed the shade from those trees. If we can’t, don’t, or won’t understand the urgency of the situation, then it’s game over. My grandchildren may not have the joyful experiences I do, and that scares me.

Although aliens regularly visit or observe our planet, to my knowledge, the aliens haven’t come back to warn us. Perhaps they don’t want to, or they don’t care.

Maybe it’s too late.

Before You Go

Before you go, I’d very much like to say thank you for reading my book. I’m aware you had an endless variety of unexplainable phenomenon books to choose from, but you took a chance on my content. Therefore, please accept my gratitude for reading my book and for sticking with it all the way to the last page.

At this point, I’d like to ask you for a tiny favor. It would mean the world to me if you would leave a review on this book on the Amazon page. Your feedback will help me as I continue to share my experiences that you and others can find entertainment in.

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About the Authors

Harold Anderson

Harold Anderson is the pen name of an eighty-something government retiree who worked at Palmdale—an unofficial but critically important organization focused on dealing with "threats from above." At Palmdale, Harold was one of a select few responsible for scrubbing, redacting, or destroying top secret records and 'erroneous information' about extra-terrestrial events that made it into the public's hands to preserve national security and ensure those events never received the credible attention they deserved.

With the recent surge in science fiction, the 2019 viral hoax of Storm Area 51, the growing interest in national conspiracy theories, the success of websites like WikiLeaks, the recently formed United States Space Force, and the looming threat to our planet’s safety from above, Harold now chooses to speak out—a decision that will be considered treason (and punishable by death) if his true identity were ever found out.

Tom Lyons

A simple man at heart, Tom Lyons lived an ordinary existence for his first 52 years. Native to the great state of Wisconsin, he went through the motions of everyday life, residing near his family and developing a successful online business. The world that he once knew would completely change shortly after moving out west where he was confronted by the allegedly mythical species known as Bigfoot.