It was twenty-eight hours ago, to be exact, that Colonel Martin, Captains Morelli, Sayers and Ryan had sighted and chased the fantastic platelike object that zoomed, wobbled and ducked in circles about them even though, with all coal poured on, they were hitting close to eight-hundred miles an hour.
Morelli, Sayers and Ryan had never come back from that chase. At eight-hundred miles an hour, with visibility limited only by the farthermost rim of the horizon, under a glaring desert sun, all three had plowed simultaneously into a sun-drenched ridge, a mere nine thousand feet above sea-level—a ridge, it appeared, they'd deliberately headed for and smashed into. How? Why had all three made the same error of judgment? Why had they dropped from thirty-thousand feet to nine thousand in a steep, zooming dive, flying formation, and not once mentioned it over their radio?
Why indeed? These were all questions asked Colonel Martin by suspicious security agents, Air Force Intelligence three-star generals, and, by direct TV hookup, the Air Secretary himself.
But the sixty-four dollar question they asked was: why hadn't Colonel Martin smashed into that ridge too? Good question. Unfortunately, his answer was so bad, it called for the services of a trained alienist. They'd flown one in. He'd listened and asked for time. He was getting it.
Martin swung and watched the occupants of the red and blue jet swing down and stride quickly across the hot concrete.
He recognized one of the approaching men as Under-Secretary of Air, Saunders. The other was General Brereton, on the staff of G2. Regardless of whether or not they considered him insane, they felt that something had happened—something important enough to rate two next in rank to the top commanders.
They came in unescorted. He stood at attention until the burly general waved a hand rather irritably, putting him at ease, then he sank down again into his hard seat. Now it would start all over again. The questions, the careful scrutinizing of the plates he'd taken, the hard narrowed eyes, the disbelief—
"In your own words, again," the general was saying, "Will you repeat to Mr. Saunders what you told me over the TV hookup last night?" The general leaned forward and fumbled with the pile of color photographs on his desk. "Are these—the shots you took?"
Colonel Martin nodded wearily, sighed, looked briefly out the window and said in a soft even voice, "Captains Morelli, Ryan and Sayers and I took off at 0800—"