Las Vegas, Nevada February 5
David Barber sat at his desk, a red pen in one hand and a bologna sandwich in the other. Too many years of working from daylight to dark had left him alone and weather beaten. His first wife had left after ten years of neglect; the second after five years of the same. Barber figured he was better off married to his work anyway. Work was cheaper.
"Mr. Barber, there are people to see you, a Miss Parker and two others, from back east." A twenty-something stringer in jeans and a t-shirt leaned his head in the editor's office. With a heavy sigh he had the boy send them in after hiding his sandwich in a drawer.
"Mr. Barber, thank you for meeting us at such a late hour." Miss Parker sat down in the straight backed chair opposite Barber. In Las Vegas, over the years, he'd seen some beautiful, brassy women, but he hadn't seen Miss Parker. She was an eye full, with her long legs and fragile figure.
"What can I help you with, Miss Parker?" Barber eyed her fully before moving on to her companions. Barber's instincts told him something was definitely fishy. Parker's boots alone cost a year's grocery money for the old bachelor. The younger of the others had the nervous expression born of snapping to attention too often. A dark, perceptive glint to the older gentleman's eyes spoke of a survivor. His surface was calm, but Barber sensed the torrent beneath.
"I'm here about an article you wrote in March, 1970, 'UFO or Weather Balloon'." Parker pulled out a Xeroxed copy of the article from her blazer pocket. Barber leaned back, article in hand. His hefty paunch spread his shirt buttons to their limit.
"Where did you say you were from, Miss?" Pale, grayish eyes, didn't let a single detail escape. Barber's thick, wooly eye brows pulled down to make him seem more fierce. His mind raced to recall the warning he had received all those years ago.
"Someday, someone will come asking questions. Whatever you tell them, don't tell them about what happened." Barber reread the article. He'd forgotten how clearly he saw things back then. The world was different; black and white. Now the old news hound lived in shades of gray.
"I didn't say, Mr. Barber." Parker's voice dipped seductively as she leaned forward.
"I was a cub reporter back then, my editor sent me out to investigate. I asked a lot of nosy questions and got very few answers. Then I heard about Cheryl Helms from an anonymous tip left on my desk. The rest is history. Took me five years to live that story down before I got another shot at a serious piece." It was the bare minimum and Parker knew it. Barber didn't trust her.
"Did anyone come asking questions, about the crash, either of these men perhaps?" Parker showed a picture of a young Major Charles and one of Jarod.
"I've never seen him before." Barber handed back Jarod's picture. "This one didn't ask any questions about the crash, but I did see him at the base, he was one of the MP's who 'escorted' me off base." The reporter tossed the black and white picture back at Miss Parker. She looked at the old editor's stony face. Both of them knew it was over.
"Thank you, Mr. Barber, have a good night." Parker's icy voice crept up his spine like a spider. He watched them leave, waiting until they'd left the floor to turn on the crank dial radio he kept on the window sill of his modest office. A loud, gung-ho commentator called a basketball game. With sufficient cover noise, the experienced reporter grabbed the phone, and with a chubby finger, punched in a number he'd kept handy since late March, 1970.
"They showed up, just like you told me they would." Barber listened for a moment to the voice on the other end. In the thirty or so years since that article, David Barber had been waiting to make this call. Back then, a stranger looking for his son had saved his life. Eager MP's had been ready to shoot the nosy, cub reporter. More recently, a young stranger had solved the murder of a local casino dancer left in a coma.
"Yes, I'll keep you in the loop, Major Charles, take care of yourself." After a goodbye from the other end, Barber hung up. He found his bologna sandwich and returned to the story a young stringer had written,'Think Tank Exposed as Government Conspiracy'.
Scene Break