Chapter 1 - Baker, Baker |
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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.”
“The sand dunes.”
“Huh?”
“How do you know this?”
“That was my job at NASA.
I was the contact man
between the aliens and Washington.”
“Contact?”
“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.”
“Why?”
“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.”
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