Free The Stickmen by Edward Lee

it existed. I was the
one who did the debunking. I provided the
documents that were eventually found to be fraudulent by experts
such as yourself. If you want to know the whole of it, I ran
disinformation for the Air Force, for more than a three dozen
sightings and crashes.”
    Garrett could only continue to gape.
    “I would use men like you, Harlan—men who knew the truth and were desperately trying to prove it—by
providing the very documents which you and your ilk would
thoroughly investigate and eventually prove to be false. It’s
always worked very well.”
    Finally, Garrett found his mouth again.
“Fine. I know all about disinformation. But why am I here?”
    Swenson looked as though the answer were
obvious. “Because you’re the most credible UFO researcher in the
country, probably the world.”
    Garrett nearly hacked up his lunch. The
compliment—from Swenson, of all people—hit him in the face like a
two-by-four. “Thanks…I think.”
    “Why do you think I didn’t put you in prison
in 92?”
    Garrett paused to contemplate. “So you could
continue to use me to generate your own disinformation?”
    “Exactly. But now, because of your
knowledge, and your…expertise, well— that’s why I’ve brought
you here, today. You see, Harlan, and this may sound absurd but…I
need your help.”
    Garrett guttered a humorless laugh. You need my help? Right. Like Kennedy needs another
trip to Dallas.”
    Swenson leaned over with some difficulty,
picked up a tiny envelope—like a stamp envelope—off the high table,
and held it protectively in his liver-spotted hand. “Four things,
Harlan. And no questions. Deal?”
    “I’d be smarter making a deal with Lucifer,
but—” Garrett squinted, chewed his lip. “Why not?”
    “Run the name Jack H. Urslig.”
    “Why?”
    Swenson held up a warning finger. “No
questions. Also, dig up whatever you can on a man named Sanders; if
you have trouble, run the designation QJ/WYN.”
    “Sounds like a CIA crypt.”
    “No, Sanders isn’t with the Company. He’s
the man who broke into my house last night. It’ll take some
hacking, but check the old Army CIC files. Let’s just say that the
Air Force and the CIA are not the only government branches who are
hell-bent on the suppression of truth from the populace. Just
remember, though, that CIC files all officially stop in 1979—”
    “Yeah, I know,” Garrett said. “Jimmy Carter
insisted the Corp be abolished, so the Army discreetly reassigned
them under cover into the Defense Investigations Service.”
    “Correct. You’re a knowledgeable man,
Harlan.”
    “Of course I am,” Garrett came back.
“But listen to what you’re asking me to do. CIC files, Army
Counter-Intelligence Corp? And DIS? Come on. Even I can’t
break the passwords on databanks in that league. The best hackers
in the world can’t even get near that stuff.”
    Swenson looked back with pursed lips; then
his brow rose. “Don’t let something as trivial as a
password… hamper you, Harlan. Do you receive my meaning?”
    “Uh, well—”
    “And let me also remind you of a little
Greek Mythology.”
    “Wha—”
    “They say that if you fly too close to the
sun, the heat will melt the wax that holds the feathers in your
wings.”
    Now another mental two-by-four hit Garrett
right in the head. His eyes shot open and his mouth drooped. Am
I having serious auditory hallucinations, or did Swenson just do
what I think he did?
    “Thirdly,” the dying general continued,
“about a week ago, someone infiltrated the Edgewood Arsenal. You’ve
heard of it?”
    The confusion—and the shock—still swirled in
Garrett’s mind. After a moment, he answered: “Yeah, it’s near the
Aberdeen Proving Grounds in Maryland. Never got any press at all
until the sexual harassment thing. They store old bombs and
ordnance that’s out of date. Also a lot of binary biological
weapons that are scheduled to be destroyed as part of the latest
CBN treaty with