the Last U.F.O. Report

by James Bronson


Chapter 1 - Baker, Baker

            I’m in Baker, CA, a desert truck stop between Los Angeles and Las Vegas.  As a freelance reporter, I travel a lot.  I’m always looking for the “big story”—the story that will go national, the story that I could ride out of tabloid land.  Don’t get me wrong, I’ve made a pretty good living chasing U.F.O’s and Big Foot stories for the last 10 years, but at 35, it’s time for me to move up to the majors.  I don’t want to end up as editor of some small town newspaper, with a drinking problem and an aggravated prostate.

            The guy on the phone had gone to a lot of trouble to locate me.  Apparently he was impressed with a U.F.O. investigation I had done for the Flying Saucer Journal, a magazine for hardcore saucer nuts.  He had contacted the publisher and asked that I be assigned to write the biggest U.F.O. story since Roswell.

            Barney Peck, the magazine’s publisher/editor, checked out the tipster.  The guy was a respected NASA scientist that retired a couple years ago for personal reasons.  Barney’s contact at NASA told him that the 12-hours-a-day, 7-days-a-week schedule was just too much for the sixty-year-old scientist to handle.  The top secret research he was involved in was a real pressure cooker that eventually burned out the best of them.  Barney concluded, “You can bet that he knows things that could blow the lid off the space program.  That is if he hasn’t flipped out.” 

            Barney had called me and set the Baker meeting.  “No promises, but if this works out there’s a bonus in it, if not, I’ll cover your expenses.”

            The Flying Saucer Journal operated out of a mobile home park in San Bernardino, CA, so I wasn’t expecting much.  The scientist, William McNally, had asked for me; at least it was a chance to meet one of my few fans.

            The giant 100 ft. high thermometer read 102o.  The coffee shop it was attached to promised big meaty double burgers and air conditioned comfort.

            After a couple cold beers my body temperature dropped close to normal, and I was ready for one of the big double cheeseburgers.  I felt a tap on my shoulder.  I turned on my revolving counter stool to see a little guy with more wrinkles than Boris Karloff when he played the Mummy.

            He asked, “Are you Sparks Malone?”

            “That’s right, old timer, and you must be McNally, my date?”

            He didn’t smile, a bad sign, no sense of humor, probably a nut case.  He motioned that we move to a booth so we could talk in private.  I got the attention of my surprisingly attractive waitress, told her to deliver my burger and a couple cold beers to the corner booth.  Her smile told me that I would be better off getting to know her story than wasting my time with the sour faced scientist. 

            “I ordered you a beer, is that ok?” I asked.

            “That’s fine,” he answered.  “It’s hot out there you know!”

            At least we had something to agree on.  After we slid into the booth, I asked, “Why Baker, why the middle of nowhere?”

            “You disappoint me, young man.  I thought you had a clue.  Death Valley is just up the road and it’s been the alien headquarters for over fifty years.”
            “Why Death Valley?” I asked.

            “The sand dunes.”

            “No footprints, in and out without being seen.  The abandoned underground mines, the privacy, and they like the heat.”

            “How do you know this?”

            “That was my job at NASA.  I was the contact man between the aliens and Washington.”


            “Yes.  The Death Valley Peace Accord of Dec. 15, 1962.”

            The little guy was getting on my nerves, “peace accord” my ass.  Our waitress arrived to deliver our order.  I wasn’t sure, but I could swear that she had unbuttoned an extra button on her checkered blouse revealing some very interesting uncharted territory worth exploring.  Maybe this trip wouldn’t be a waste after all.  I had to give it a try.

            “I’m new in town.  Do you think we could get together after work and you could show me the town?”

            “Show you the town?” she replied.  “That’s the two minute tour.  I was hoping for a trip to the city.  I’d love a nice hotel room with room service.  Just to get off my feet would be such a pleasure.”

            “I was thinking the same thing. What time do you get off work?”

            “Midnight and tomorrow is my day off.”

            “See you tonight then.”

            I watched her walk away hypnotized by the sway of her hips.  I called out, “What’s your name?”

            She turned slowly, showing off her trim figure.  “Just call me Jennie.”

            “Hey,” interrupted the old prune face.  “Where you at?  Don’t you leave me young man.”

            “Sorry, sir.  I was just fantasizing a reason to be here besides listening to an old fart’s BS story about peace accords with little green men.”

            “BS, huh?  If you listen to me, kid, your next job could be with the New York Times.”

            That got my attention, even the L.A. Times would work for me.  “Ok, old man, what have you got?”

            “The truth…the aliens are exiting our planet faster than rats leaving a sinking ship.”


            “Pay attention, kid.  We’re about to pay a visit to Death Valley.”

            “What for?”

            “Because you wouldn’t believe an old fart like me, but I know someone you will believe.  And he isn’t green.”



Next Chapter


 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10



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