Track 5

“Working Class Man”

September 14, 1947

As the “D.W.” in D.W. Prospecting, Derek Watkins was accustomed to working seven days a week. But his board members—Goldstein, Sharpe, and Canley—were more likely to spend their days on the golf course.

Particularly on a Sunday.

All of them looked at him, on this fine and glorious day, with bare contempt. Good-for-nothing sons of bitches. Watkins didn’t care about them.

But he did care about his mining crew. Believed in them.

“Gentlemen, thank you for attending on short notice. I know I’m taking you away from your wives and families.”

Goldstein snorted. “Get to the point, Watkins. What are we here for?”

Watkins hesitated. He’d been doing a lot of that lately. Glancing out at the thickly forested Saddleback Ridge, he said, “I’m concerned about this story in the Gazette. The one about ships from outer space kidnapping our workers and then dumping them hours later.”

“You don’t seriously believe those men?” asked Sharpe. And indeed his tone was sharp.

“Gary Bueller said it was true,” Watkins bit out. Bueller was a man you could count on in a scrape. A man who called a spade a spade. A spacecraft a spacecraft. “That’s enough for me.”

“It’s unadulterated nonsense,” Sharpe said. “Declining production is what we need to focus on right now. What are we gonna do about that?”

“Not a lot if a big chunk of our workforce is sick.” Watkins tossed files onto the table and fanned them out. “Look at these absentee records.”

“What do you mean by sick?” Canley asked, finally looking interested.

Watkins jabbed each of the files. “Robson, third-degree burns. Smith, nosebleeds—”

“Nosebleeds?” Sharpe scoffed. “What else? A broken fingernail? I survived two bullets on D-Day, for Chrissakes. Just fire ’em. We’ll find a new crew.”

Watkins glared at him. “Some of our men fought on the front lines, too. We need to look out for them.”

“What do you suggest we do? Send them on vacation to recover? All expenses paid?” Goldstein laughed.

“Hilarious,” replied Watkins, grim faced.

Canley spoke up. “I know a doctor. Works for the government.”

Watkins turned to him. “What kind of doctor?”

“The kind who’s interested in this UFO stuff. He’s a shrink.” Canley idly leafed through the files. “Leave it with me. I’ll see what he says. I’m sure he can knock some sense into the crew.”

When Watkins drew the meeting to a close, the other board members bolted from the room like it was on fire. Watkins stared out the window as Canley, Goldstein, and Sharpe drove away in their company Oldsmobiles. Warm fluid trickled from Watkins’s nose.

“Dammit. Not again.”

Turning from the window, he reached into his pocket for his handkerchief. He swiped at his nostrils, then inspected the monogrammed white linen.

Watkins wasn’t faint of heart. He’d seen a lot in the war, too. But the sight of the deep red blood clots in that handkerchief shook something inside him.

A new battle was about to begin. This time, he wasn’t sure who the enemy was.