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BILL CELENT STOOD BETWEEN the well, gurgling with the sounds of life preserving water, and the rocks on which the three figures had been standing. The same three figures that were now moving slowly, almost cinematically, as if directed by some great silver screen mogul. They moved between the ripples of heat. Their outlines against the backdrop of the darkening desert sky were distorting, almost melting, in and out of human form. Their silent march continued in Bill’s direction without hesitation.
In the distance, far behind the slowly moving figures, great clouds of dust lofted, then fell back to the earth following the direction of the breeze. The dust clouds rose, fell off, and then rose again. Like a game of dominos, the dust tumbled in order. A quiet rumbling, that Bill felt more than heard, as it welled up from the soles of his bare feet, accompanied the distant dust clouds.
The three distant figures continued their approach, either not hearing or not caring about the dust clouds and the rumbling to their backs. A flash of recognition sparked in Bill’s mind as he watched their steady movement. The delirium of traveling in time and the scorching heat of the desert gave way to scientific deduction. Soldiers.
Behind the soldiers, three military transport trucks, canopied in a darker green canvas, reminded Bill of the covered wagons, of the not so distant past, as they traveled these same desert paths. The transport trucks broke through the veil of dust that had kicked up when the thick-treaded rubber tires tore through the desert crust. The rumbling of the trucks’ engines now clearly heard, as well as felt, scared a flock of grey desert grouse into the air. They circled over Bill’s head and he turned and following the flock, watching as they landed not far off, and immediately took cover under the scrub brush.
The military transport trucks came to a halt in a chevron pattern, just behind the three soldiers. Cab doors popped open and the driver and passenger in each of the trucks jumped down. They ran to the rear of the trucks, and in moments the gates of the trucks had come down, and an area of earth, that may not have ever been creased by the footsteps of man, was crowded with solders.
“Bill Celent?” One of the three foot soldiers glanced at a photograph then repeated, “Bill Celent?”
Bill cocked his head, somewhat confused that they would know his name, and somewhat relieved. He answered, “Yes, I’m Bill Celent.”
“If you wouldn’t mind, sir.” The soldier with the photograph stepped forward, “Come with us.”
As if he had a choice, Bill nodded and fell in alongside the three soldiers.
The other soldiers, who had arrived on the military transport trucks, were lined up in perfect military fashion, and as Bill passed, he heard orders shouted out to them by a clipboard carrying sergeant. “Every piece of debris will be removed from this area. I don’t want so much as to find a bolt or nut. If I do, I’ll have yours.” The sergeant raised his voice and his blood pressure. “Do you understand me?”
A rousing, enthusiastic, “Yes, sir!” in near perfect unison was the reply.
“No questions,” the sergeant continued, shouting at his men. “There are to be no questions. Every piece of everything that does not belong in this desert will be removed. We will not leave a trace of this...” the Sergeant glanced down at the clipboard in his hand and read from a printed page, “This Air Force experimental weather balloon, behind.” He looked up. “That is what crashed here. An experimental weather balloon. Do not deviate from that. Do you understand me?”
Again, in unison, a choir of, “Yes, sir!”
Bill was ushered to the back of the nearest transport. He peered around the truck and watched as the soldiers obeyed the sergeant’s orders and spread out, moving like an ocean wave and using their bare hands to pick up anything that was foreign to the desert. One of the soldiers grabbed Bill by the arm. He along with the other foot soldiers, moved to the back of the transport parked farthest away from the wave of troops, stepping carefully through the scrub, and climbed in. The engine came to life as the driver backed the truck up and turned it, heading back in the same direction that the trucks had come.
As the truck pulled away, Bill could see a group of soldiers push the bodies of Commander Kupovits and Lynda into black body bags and carry them off, placing the bodies under the canvas cover of one of the other transports. He sighed with a long breath and relaxed, as the other soldiers moved away from the rocks, leaving what he had buried there, undiscovered.
“It’s all right now. You’ll be fine,” The lead foot soldier said, misunderstanding the sigh as a sign of relief at being rescued.
Bill smiled and nodded his head. “Thank you.” He leaned back, resting his head on the canopy support bar that curved above him, and closed his eyes. A moment later, he opened his eyes, sat up, and looked at the lead foot soldier. “I was trying recall in detail everything that has happened since the ...” He hesitated, “the crash. I’m afraid that I may leave some important details out when I speak to your commander.” He over emphasized the last words. “Might you have some paper so I can make a note or two?”
The soldier looked around the bed of the transport. Then, with a snap of his fingers, he grabbed a clipboard that had been stuck between a canopy support beam and the back of the bench seat. “Sure, here.” He handed Bill the clipboard.
“Thank you.” Bill pulled the pencil from the spring-mounted clip and made note of the soldier’s name, “Corporal.” He leaned toward the soldier and read from his name badge, “Stolt. Corporal Stolt.” He wrote the name down on the paper clipped to the board. “I’ll make sure to mention your services Corporal. You and your men have been very kind.”
Corporal Stolt smiled. “Just doing as I’m told.”
“Never the less, worth mentioning,” Bill said, then turned his attention to the page on the clipboard and the view out of the back of the transport. He began to work feverishly on the notes. Concentrating. Glancing out of the back of the transport. Then writing, moving the pencil over the page.
An hour and twenty minutes later, as the transport turned off of the dirt trail on to a paved road, Bill placed the pencil behind his ear, rested the clipboard on his lap, and closed his eyes nearly drifting off to sleep immediately.
Within a minute the transport fell into a pothole in the paved road and then lurched up, stretching the shocks to their limits.
Corporal Stolt and the two other soldiers grabbed on to the bench seat for support.
Bill, caught off guard, bounced hard onto the bench and flayed his arms in an effort to grab onto something. The clipboard flew from his lap. Bill reached for it, but lost his balance as the transport fought to right itself. The clipboard continued through the air, hitting the knee of Corporal Stolt before falling to the ribbed metal floor of the transport bed. It landed face side down.
Corporal Stolt picked up the clipboard and turned it over. He looked at the page, squinted his eyes, and then looked up to Bill. He examined the page closely, bringing it up nearer to his eyes. His face contorted into confusion as he turned the clipboard and the page of paper to Bill and the other soldiers. Lines. The page was filled with lines. Lines that ran in no particular order—zigzagging in every direction—running parallel, perpendicular, and curving all over the page.