2300 Central Standard Time
April 14th, 1948
Pillow's Landing, Highcreek, Iowa
"David, will you still love me even when you're there?" Her voice trembled a little bit. David didn't know exactly how to respond. He thought things were going well and now, here she was, sitting in his family car as they looked out over Bushwood Creek, asking him if he still loved her. Of course he did. He loved her since the 4th Grade. David uncomfortably shifted in the seat of the old Packard and adjusted his letterman jacket, the leather being one of the few sources of warmth in the Spring night. He looked toward Sarah Meyers' big blue eyes and grabbed her hand. Her blond hair was pulled back into an almost straight pony tail.
"Sarah, I will always love you. It doesn't matter whether I'm at West Point or not. You'll still be my gal." He said in reply. It didn't sound real, but it was. It was how he actually felt. "I'm going to get my commission and the day I do, I'm going to come right back home and marry you, Sarah Meyers." That too, didn't sound real, but it was.
Fortunately, for him, it made her stop weeping all over her prom dress. "Do you really mean that?"
"Of course, I do. I mean where exactly would I meet anoth-..." He caught himself mid-sentence, stopped by his eyes being drawn to the flashing lights off in the distance, potentially being saved from a remark that only would have made the situation worse. "Do you see those?" He pointed out towards what looked like a virtual armada of tiny green and white lights off in the distance, over by the Hamlinville Bridge. Ten. No, twelve. No, wait, make that eight. The lights seemed to merge with each other and then separate again off in different directions.
"What are they, David?" She asked, wiping the tears away from her eyes and sitting up in the seat to gawk at the lights which had so rudely interrupted their conversation.
"I don't know what they are. I don't think any airplane can fly like that..." He said incredulously, blinking and rubbing his tired eyes to make sure they weren't deceiving him. He had built plane models and trained as an observer with the Boy Scouts during the War, but he had never seen any planes that looked like that.
"Are they getting closer?" Sarah asked, watching as one of the green lights began to expand in size rapidly. The light moved closer and closer toward them rapidly developing a definite shape as it moved. Looking like an upside-down dinner plate, a green fire shot downward from the massive object that looked as if it spanned a whole football field. The Packard rocked back and forth violently as the craft flew overhead. Sarah shrieked in terror as blood began to pour from her nose and onto her prom dress. Almost as instantaneously as she had started shrieking, she passed out, falling backwards as her body went limp onto the seat of the Packard. David felt his own body tense up before he too fell backwards onto the driver's seat.
0900 Central Standard Time
April 18th, 1948
Foreign Data Section, Wright-Patterson Air Force Base
Major Oliver "Monk" Moncavage extinguished his cigarette with the heel of his shoe, a quality purchase that he had made in England that had not only lasted him the war, but the nearly three years since the end of it as well. Pulling back the sleeve of his fading Army Green jacket, he checked the time on another relic of the war that he carried with him, 0900. Striding quickly up the stairs and walking inside, he handed his ID card to a tired Air Policeman manning a checkpoint just inside of the building. Ever since it was discovered that a Soviet agent had penetrated the Manhattan Project, the Air Force hadn't been taking any chances with any of its secret projects, particularly those derived from Operation Lusty.
"Ya clear'd, suh." the Air Policeman tiredly mumbled as Moncavage stuck his ID card back into his wallet and headed up the stairs of the 20s-vintage building that seemed to have not been updated since. Rounding the corner and passing dozens of uniform office doors demarked only by a series of numbers and letters. He finally found the combination he was seeking and knocked on the door marked as A-2.
"Enter!" the loud reply came from the other side. Moncavage had known Colonel Albert DeBoer since their days had West Point. Two years ahead of him and graduating in the Class of 1936, DeBoer had taken Moncavage under his wing as a favor to the Moncavage family, who DeBoer's father had known well during World War I. Earning his wings shortly after graduation in the Summer of 1938, the war had done well for DeBoer. He made Lieutenant Colonel at 29, command of a Heavy Bomber Group at 30, and was slated to take command of a B-29 group when the War ended. As one of the few German-speaking officers in the Air Force and left without a command, he was transferred to the Foreign Technology Division at Wright to oversee "Lusty" efforts.
"Colonel, I was called to see you this morning, sir?" Moncavage said, entering the office informally. As he wasn't ordered to formally "report" to DeBoer, approaching the meeting without an air of formality seemed like a good idea.
Never one for the stiff formality of the Air Force, DeBoer was leaned back in his chair with his feet resting atop his government-provided wooden desk, flipping through a thick set of reports. His lack of "Military bearing" was an unusual characteristic for a Bomber pilot, particularly a former Group Commander, and Moncavage had always wondered if that was why DeBoer had been avoiding jumping into LeMay's new Strategic Air Command, where anything deemed "not by the book" was ruthlessly stamped out. "Monk, how's the Flight Test work treating you?" He asked, closing the report and straightening himself out to shake Monk's hand.
"Honestly, sir, it's been quite good to me. I checked out in the jets much quicker than expected and I'm looking to get transferred to the new facility down at Muroc." Moncavage replied earnestly. Unlike many of his peers, Moncavage wasn't forced out at the end of the war and wasn't affected by the downsizing of the newly-independent Air Force.
"Monk, I know Al Boyd drives a hard bargain down there and what if you came to work for me instead. There's a project starting up in the Foreign Technology Division that I would like someone with your experience to lead." DeBoer replied, handing Moncavage the report. Moncavage flipped through it, carefully reading the table of contents and summaries at the end of each chapter.
"Sir, I don't see what this report has to do with the Air Force? This looks like its about the disappearance of a teenager in Iowa." Moncavage stated. "Since when are we investigating kidnappings?"
"Did you hear about the little fuckup the Five-Oh-Ninth had in Roswell last year? Flying saucers and all that shit?" DeBoer asked as Moncavage nodded his head in affirmation. "Well, there was a slight problem with that. They were in over their heads and nearly exposed a program we had to spy on the Russians. Weather balloons. I've been assured by the brass that those efforts were just the tip of the metaphorical iceberg and that we have numerous programs that could be exposed if someone screws the pooch again."
"So, we're attempting to hide our secret programs through this new office? Project Sign or whatever it's called?" Moncavage quiered as DeBoer began to pace the room and lit a cigarette.
"That, and we need to investigate whether or not these Flying Saucers are actually the Russians. I'm sure you've read the intelligence regarding the Tupolev Four? There's some concern that the Russians may have gotten their hands on German projects that we didn't even know about and that they've reversed engineered them into a new reconnaisance plane. The Brass wants to make sure that if it is them, the fact that the Russians are flying over and we didn't know it doesn't get out." DeBoer replied, taking a hit from the cigarette, one of many in abundance now that the war was over.
"So this is a cover-your-ass project. And what does this have to do with the girl?"
"There was a sighting of lights in the sky right before the girl's disappearance, and the boy, swears to the high-fucking-heavens, that the lights took her. Kid's been locked up in the state nuthouse for days because the Cops don't know what to do with him. It is in the interest of the Air Force that these lights are simply a footnote in this case. They cannot become some public spectacle for everyone to see. That's why we're giving you one of the Germans from Paperclip to work as your science advisor." DeBoer said.
"And the F.B.I., sir?" Moncavage asked.
"Here as a favor. As much as O.S.I. is inclined to keep them as far away from the Air Force as possible. Hoover seems to have the Pentagon scared to death and the Brass is throwing in a few of his agents because of their quote-un-quote, national security expertise. Monk, I'm not going to lie to you. This is going to be a hard assignment. I don't envy you if you take it, but I can almost guarantee you command of your own group and some new oak leaves if you take it. Just a few months' break from flying." DeBoer said.
"It sounds like you're trying to sell me the Brookyln Bridge, sir." Monk said, handing back the report to the Lieutenant Colonel, who quickly stuffed it into one of his desk drawers.
"On the contrary, I'm offering you a shot at your own fighter group and your own command in the meantime. Monk, you aren't going to get a better offer. It's just six months." DeBoer said, locking the drawer to secure the documents, all labeled as 'Top Secret'. "So will you take it?"
"Yes, sir. I will." Moncavage replied hesitantly.
"Good. Your orders are already being cut as we speak. Head over to Hangar Eighteen. We're getting an Operations room set up there with C-54 and a couple of trainers for you. Dismissed." DeBoer said, giving Monk all the signals he needed to walk out of the room.
"Monk, one more thing."
"Yes, sir?"
"This conversation doesn't leave the room."
"Yes, sir."
INTELLIGENCE REPORT (4/14/1948)
-2ND LT KESSLER, Wilhelm and Supervisory Special Agent FAIRFAX, Edward B., are ordered to report to MAJ MONCAVAGE at Hanger 18, Foreign Technology Division, Air Force Material Depot, Wright-Patterson Air Force Base.
-PROJECT SIGN, officially stood up, April 15, 1948.
-PROJECT SIGN, CASE FILE No.1, 'NEW DAWN', regarding disappearance of MEYES, Sarah, 17 of HIGHCREEK, Iowa, diseminated to KESSLER and FAIRFAX.
-'NEW DAWN' Subject No.1, BARTMANN, David, 18, confined to INDEPENDANCE STATE HOSPITAL, pending further investigation.
-Further reports to follow.
