“Just checking angles,” I said. “Didn’t the Eighth Air Force investigate the foo fighters?”
“Yes, and they found nothing to back up the pilots’ yarns. just war nerves, apparently.”
“How about a look at the Intelligence report?” I asked.
“Wait a minute.” Splitt was gone for twice that time, then he carne back. “Sorry, it’s classified.”
“If all this stuff is bunk, why keep the lid on it?” I demanded. I was getting sore again.
“Look, Don,” said Splitt, “I don’t make the rules.”
“Sure, I know—sorry,” I said. I had a notion to ask him if he knew John Steele, but hung up instead. There was no use in banging my head against the Air Force wall.
The next day I decided to analyze the Mantell case from beginning to end. It looked like the key to one angle: the question of an Air Force secret missile. Unless there was some slip-up, so that Mantell and his pilots had been ordered to chase the disk by mistake, then it would be cold murder.
I couldn’t believe any Air Force officer would give such an order, no matter how tremendous the secret to be hidden.
But I was going to find out, if possible.