Mission 51, p.15
Mission 51, page 15
“Thank you,” Deltare said, taking the items from Morgan and placing them on the desk, the glass soda bottles clinking in her excited hands.
“Oh well, so much for conversation for now,” Deltare said to Zeemat. “Let’s have something to eat.” She dragged the small desk over to where Zeemat was sitting on the side of the bed, then pulled up the chair so they were sitting across from each other.
Deltare was thrilled at the progress so far. She still had a million questions, but those could wait for another day. For now, it was time to celebrate the removal of shackles, the seeming gentleness of this alien. Deltare dug into the snacks and opened the sodas, taking several sips and gesturing for Zeemat to join in. And at long last, the starving and thirsty Zeemat reached over, took a few snacks and coughed his way through his first carbonated drink. Deltare laughed, first at seeing Zeemat’s expression of surprise, and then at how he seemed to relish the fizzy drink.
After the snacks and drinks, Deltare returned the desk to its proper position. She approached Zeemat, who was still sitting on the side of the bed. She gestured for him to rise, and he surprised her by standing up straight, right in front of her, about six inches taller than her own five-foot-two frame. At that moment, just like when she’d examined the photos during her preparation in Roswell, she saw more similarities between them than differences.
“I have to leave now,” Deltare said, pointing to herself and then to the door. “But I’ll be back tomorrow, and every day after that.”
Deltare now felt fully engaged in her forced assignment. Now she understood—nothing could be more important in her life than this. “We must figure out a way to talk to each other,” she said.
She reached out to shake the alien’s hand, to show him a human gesture of friendship, and he surprised her by reaching out his right hand, shaking hers, and not letting go. Then he offered his left hand, and she responded with her own left hand. They engaged in the two-handed, cross-armed handshake that was the traditional sign of friendship and respect in Torkiya. Zeemat smiled, and Deltare laughed nervously.
Finally, they released each other’s hands, almost reluctantly.
“Goodbye,” Deltare said. “See you tomorrow.” She turned to leave.
As she neared the door, she saw Morgan close the observation window. The steel plate slid shut. Just then, a striking sound came from behind her. In a deep voice, she heard an unmistakable word: “Lin-dah.” She spun around, wide-eyed.
“Lin-dah . . . Del-TAH-ray,” the alien said. Then he tapped his chest and said, “Zeemat.”
Twenty-Five
Friend or Foe
Deltare discovered that Zeemat was good at imitating sounds and learning languages. Much of his Torkiyan brain was dedicated to that. His double-larynx respiratory system allowed him to produce and mimic virtually any sound. His first words sounded like a perfect imitation of Deltare’s, though he gradually fell into his own voice and rhythm of speech as he pieced together phrases and sentences in passable English.
“You’re a fast learner,” Deltare said after their first week of working together on his language skills.
“Linda teacher good,” Zeemat replied. They were well past the simple naming of objects and building a basic vocabulary. Zeemat had mastered the look and sounds of the alphabet and had begun to learn the basic rules of grammar. He was reading and writing at primary school level, devouring every book Deltare brought him.
But Zeemat would only speak to Deltare, and only when the door’s observation window was shut. “Only you,” he told Deltare, and she was glad about that. It helped cement her importance to the project and her continued involvement with Zeemat.
In turn, Deltare asked Zeemat to repeat each of the English words and phrases in his own Torkiyan tongue, and she jotted endless notes in her own phonetic code, trying to make sense of Zeemat’s complex language, but she had yet to get a handle on how to reproduce it. She recorded every session, hoping someday to have the technology to put it all together and make sense of the buzzes, beeps, honks, trills, chimes, and all his other curious sounds. She had Morgan listen to the tapes, while she pretended she was making progress in deciphering and translating the alien sounds.
Over the following weeks, Zeemat blazed through grade school and high school English. Deltare expanded his curriculum to include other subjects. She brought in books, and Zeemat couldn’t get enough—learning about humans, their activities, Earth’s animal world, and the geography of the planet. He took naturally to mathematics and easily mastered the counterparts to the Torkiyan numeric symbols he was used to. Deltare learned to translate his Torkiyan symbols into the Hindu-Arabic numeral system most people used on Earth.
Zeemat wrote notebooks of English words and phrases, divided into topics like food and drink, numbers and letters, days and dates, objects and things, people and animals, greetings and farewells, and feelings and thoughts. He had learned how to write and speak sentences with a subject, a predicate, and a direct object, and he’d also begun to use creative clauses.
Zeemat was thrilled to be free, finally, to draw again, and he made countless drawings for Deltare. He drew the view from out his window at various times of the day and night, and of the people, vehicles, and planes he saw.
“Amazing detail! I’m impressed!” Deltare saved each drawing he made for her.
Zeemat’s considerable progress thrilled her. With Morgan’s support, she supplied Zeemat with books, magazines, and maps, which seemed to springboard his interest.
“Zeemat wants to go here,” he said to Deltare, pointing to a picture of a boat in a storm at sea in a National Geographic article. In one of his notebooks, he started a list of places to see. The more he learned about planet Earth and its inhabitants, the more he wanted to see it for himself. “Earth is beautiful!” he told Deltare.
“Maybe someday,” she said. Deltare pictured herself as the ideal person to show Zeemat the world, but for now, she was content simply communicating with him and showing him what humans were all about. She could do this for a long time, forever maybe. But she was aware that this was unlikely—that the government had other plans for Zeemat.
After a productive session with Zeemat, Deltare was called into a meeting with Special Agent Morgan.
“We can see you’re making progress with the alien,” Morgan said. “But when will you be able to teach us his language? When will he tell us what we want to know?”
“Soon,” Deltare said.
“That’s not fast enough. We want answers now.”
“Who is ‘we’?” she asked.
“Who do you think? Me, Director Dulles, the president of the United States, his Joint Chiefs of Staff—we all want to know! Why do you think we went to so much trouble to keep him alive, and to bring you into the picture?”
“‘Trouble’? You think Zeemat is trouble? He’s closer to a miracle, wouldn’t you say?”
Morgan drew close to Deltare, towering over her. “Well, if you want to keep working with him, your miracle better start answering the big questions. He can start by telling us why he’s here. And if there are others like him here on Earth right now. What are their intentions? We want to know if he’s friend or foe. Until he can prove otherwise, he’s a foe.”
“What? He’s been nothing but gracious and kind,” Deltare quickly pointed out.
“We want answers, Deltare . . . today. That’s an order!”
With a series of words, gestures, and pictures, Deltare got answers to some of Morgan’s questions. It proved difficult, but Zeemat communicated that he was on a mission of exploration, to start a new life on this distant planet, to be a representative of the Torkiyan people.
For his part, what Zeemat had said was true. He didn’t need to tell Deltare about the Torkiyan master plan to subjugate and conquer the people of Earth. “Zeemat does not like to fight. Zeemat is alone on Earth. Earth is his new home.”
Deltare took meticulous notes. She continued to gather an ever clearer picture of this unique individual, and she liked him more each day.
“Won’t you tell that to Morgan? Won’t you speak to him?” Deltare asked.
He shook his head. “Only you.”
“Why just me?” Deltare asked.
“I want you . . . to stay . . . with me,” Zeemat said in perfect English.
Morgan wasn’t convinced by Deltare’s report. “That’s what he says—that he’s friendly—but can he prove it?”
“How’s he going to prove anything?” Deltare asked, incredulous. “And why should he have to?” She furrowed her brow in a scowl, and crossing her arms tight against her body, she squared up to face Morgan.
“You’re acting like a mother hen. Get over it,” Morgan said. “He can show his good intentions by providing information. If he can help the military, it’ll go a long way toward proving he’s here in peace.”
Morgan opened his desk drawer and pulled out a folder, holding it firmly in both hands and shaking it in front of Deltare’s face. “These technical documents are top secret. President Eisenhower and Director Dulles cleared you and only you. Disclosing any of this information would be high treason, punishable by life in prison . . . or worse.”
Deltare took a step back and pulled her hands away abruptly, as if the top secret documents might somehow burn her. She hadn’t expected to participate in anything ‘technical,’ and Morgan’s threats were crystal-clear. She was a bit confused. Nothing could be more secret than Zeemat himself. How were they going to trust her with the knowledge of his existence? She’d been recruited to figure out a way to communicate with him, or so she’d understood—not to draw out sensitive, technical information.
“Tell me you understand and that you agree to keep this completely, absolutely confidential,” Morgan said.
“Do I have a choice?” Deltare asked, looking at the folder labeled “Top Secret” in fear, as if it were a deadly viper about to strike. Yet she recalled how she’d been abducted several months earlier, when she was “recruited” for this position by the CIA, and she realized her “choice” didn’t seem to matter.
“No, not really. Remember what the president said to you after your recruitment? This is for the good of the American people and for all mankind.” He pushed the folder toward her.
Deltare twisted her face in resignation. She would comply because this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, but she didn’t have to like every part of it.
She took the folder from Morgan. The words “U-2 Project” were printed neatly on the folder tab.
“What’s this?” she inquired.
“You better start teaching him about airplanes and flying.”
“I don’t know anything about that. And anyway, I’m sure he knows way more about those things than we do.”
“Precisely the point.”
She opened the folder and skimmed through documents about the Air Force’s new, top secret spy plane.
Later that day, to Zeemat’s delight, Deltare directed much of his learning to airplanes and flying. He developed an advanced aviation vocabulary in English, and Deltare learned right along with him.
Zeemat was fascinated by the clever technology of these primitive flying machines and impressed by the brave men who flew them. As his reading skills improved, he devoured every book on the subject that Deltare brought to him. She requisitioned a bookshelf for him, and he began to accumulate his favorite reads.
They often took small breaks to look out the window, between the strong steel bars that were set five inches apart, like in a prison cell. They enjoyed watching and listening to the planes taking off, landing, or circling overhead. They had only a limited view of the airfield, but it was far better than nothing. Zeemat loved what he could see of the comings and goings on the base.
On a hot summer’s day in July of 1955, about a year after his arrival, Zeemat sensed a definite increase in activity around the base. Support vehicles and Jeeps with serious-faced soldiers sped in all directions. An interesting airplane had arrived, and no other planes were flying. This new plane was the sole focus of everyone’s attention.
Pressing his head against the window bars, Zeemat got a glimpse of part of the plane. Its beauty enthralled him. From what he could see, the dark gray airplane had an elegantly long and slim physique. A small cockpit sat atop the base of a long, slender nose. He could see almost all of one long, thin wing. Narrow engines paralleled the fuselage at the tail. Zeemat knew this was a plane unlike the others he had seen on the base. With its slim body, it would have a low payload capacity, so it was not for carrying things—it was built for a special purpose. It would also have a narrow profile when seen from below. He could tell the design was intended to be difficult to see in the sky. And the rather long wings were likely designed for lift. This was a plane that could reach the planet’s upper atmosphere, which he envisioned as “lower space.”
Zeemat’s assessment was soon confirmed. He turned his head toward the door when he heard Deltare’s familiar gentle knocks and watched as she entered. She brought with her a man he had never seen before.
“Good morning, Zeemat!” Deltare said with a cheerful lilt to her voice. “This is Mr. Kelly Johnson. He designed the new plane that just arrived. I’m sure you saw it out your window. It’s called the U-2.” She turned to Johnson. “Mr. Johnson, this is Zeemat.”
Zeemat walked up to a wide-eyed Kelly Johnson, who took a step back as Zeemat approached.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Johnson,” Deltare reassured. “He won’t bite.”
Zeemat offered his right hand like Deltare had taught him, and after a few tense moments, Johnson cautiously shook it. He slowly began to relax.
“I didn’t know what to expect,” Johnson explained. “General Twining ordered me to show up here today with the U-2. A few minutes ago, I was told I would meet a special consultant, and that he was an alien from space. I laughed until I noticed everyone was serious. I didn’t really believe it until just now. I’m sorry if I appear a bit shaken.”
“I totally understand, Mr. Johnson,” Deltare said as Zeemat smiled and nodded, his lips tightly closed.
Zeemat kept quiet and Deltare sighed. She wished he would speak to the others like he spoke to her, but she imagined why he didn’t. The others had abused him, and she’d been kind. It was a simple matter of trust. She had done the same with negative people in her own life, effectively shutting the abusive ones out, so she understood Zeemat’s decision to speak only to her.
Deltare continued: “I’m certain you have many questions for Zeemat, but we are not at liberty to discuss anything other than the U-2 and the technical problems you are having. Like you, I was just informed this morning of your arrival. I do know a little about your issues with the plane. Perhaps Zeemat can help.”
“And how might that be?” Johnson asked, squinting his eyes and raising the corner of one side of his mouth.
“Well, as you might imagine, Zeemat has more experience with aerospace navigation than anyone else on planet Earth. It makes sense we would want to ask for his thoughts.”
“Can he talk?”
“He and I understand each other fairly well now. We have built a relationship.” Deltare and Zeemat shared a brief smile.
Johnson looked far from convinced. “This is ridiculous. He knows nothing about this project. We’ve been working on it for years.”
“Well, we have all been ordered to pursue this consultation, so why don’t we just give it a shot?”
Deltare wasn’t thrilled with this arrangement either. She much preferred working with Zeemat on language and basic communication. She didn’t think he was ready to be a military consultant, but orders were orders. “So let’s start at the beginning. What is the purpose of this airplane?” Deltare asked as a starting point, though she already had a good idea.
“You don’t even know what this plane is all about?” The pitch of Johnson’s voice rose in irritation.
“It’s a spy plane. We know the basics. We have full clearance, but please understand we only recently became aware of the U-2’s existence.”
Johnson took an exasperated deep breath. He sized up the alien and Deltare one more time before continuing. “Okay then, I think this is stupid but here goes. The U-2 is the nation’s best spy plane, designed to take pictures over enemy territory. It’s capable of reaching very high altitudes. It’s designed to avoid or minimize detection, to not get shot down. We solved a lot of the technical issues with this latest version of the plane, but it’s still not as undetectable as we’d like it to be, and our pilots are having trouble tolerating the thin air at very high altitudes for long enough to accomplish their missions, even while using oxygen masks.”
Deltare interrupted and summarized. What Johnson said would already be difficult enough to address with Zeemat. She didn’t want this consultation to become any more difficult than it had to be. “I believe I understand, Mr. Johnson. You want better undetectability for the airplane, and more high-altitude tolerance for your pilots.”
“Exactly.” Johnson nodded.
“Can you provide us with technical drawings?” Deltare asked.
“I have them with me. I was told to be prepared.”
Johnson retrieved a sizable pile of documents and drawings from his large briefcase.
“Oh my gosh,” Deltare exclaimed. “It’ll take awhile to review all this. Give us the rest of today to look at these, and we’ll have a time frame for you later this afternoon.”
“I’ll return at sixteen hundred for your thoughts,” a still-irritated Johnson said. “After that, I’m leaving with the plane. That’s my time frame.” He took one last squinting, skeptical look at Zeemat, then turned on his heel and left the room.
Alone again, Deltare shot a worried look at Zeemat, who appeared calm.
