FIRST RIGHTS
CREASEY, H. REG
P.O.
Early in the morning, before
By
H. Reg Creasey
On a summer night in 1962, in the
When I am alone and it is early in the morning my
mind struggles for essence. It is now
12:15 a.m. The sun will be up by 5:15
a.m. Let's see, that's only five hours,
but wait, if the sun will be up by 5:15 then it will start to get light by
4:15-4:30. That's only four hours. Okay, four hours, no problem. Let's see, the D.O. will be here in 105
minutes, that's seven 15-minute intervals, no sweat. But, time passes slowly when you cannot have
on any lights, read any material; listen to a radio, except monitor the
security frequency for broadcasts.
The station calls become a major event:
“THIS IS CENTRAL, THE TIME IS 12:30, ALL STATONS
REPORT;” pause, static...
”STATION One HERE, ALL IS WELL,” pause, static...
”STATION Two HERE, ALL IS WELL,” pause, static...
”STATION Three HERE, ALL IS WELL.” Was that the sound
of my own voice? Pause, static...
”STATION Four HERE, ALL IS WELL,” and so on until the
last station reports in.
Now there would be silence broken only by the sound
of static and the next broadcast in 15 minutes.
Two a.m. finally arrives. I know.
I have been watching lights moving along the ground weaving their way
through the darkness, swinging left, and then right, up into the sky, down out
of site. The erratic pattern continues
but steadily draws closer. I know it is
the D.O. because in the ten or so times that I have manned this post over the
last year no one has driven up this road this early in the morning except the
D.O. Who would want to! This is a secret
government test site. Who cares? I have
been told the “test” results are very valuable to national security and must
not, cannot, fall into the hands of the enemy, who ever that is, under any
circumstances, at all cost. Okay!
SIR! YES, SIR!
A car roles to a stop at the gate. I start through the standard identification
procedures, by the numbers: I turn on the spotlights. They are so bright that everything the light
touches glows. Through the loud speaker
I tell the occupant to roll down the window and stay in the car. I raise my Thompson into firing position just
in case, be ready. Now I tell the driver
to keep his right hand on the steering wheel, hold his security pass out the
window with his left hand and lean his head out of the car window. I look through the mounted binoculars, he is
alone, and everything is okay. I tell him
to exit the vehicle and he is clear to enter.
The D.O. emerges, smiles and holds high a brown paper sack. It looks like a surprise, a treat, maybe ice
cream; this could be the highlight of the night.
It was ice cream.
Ice cream can be quite a treat at 2 a.m.
It is cold, wet and familiar, reminiscent of family, friends and good
times. While I ate my ice cream we
talked about the weather. When I
finished, it was time for me to make the rounds of the area. The area I was assigned covered approximately
200 square miles. The various testing
stations were arranged in the shape of a wheel, a pinwheel is a better
description. The main road lead up to
the gate, secondary roads spread out in four directions, each leading from the
gate out to the test site and back. The
roads were each between four and five miles long. I hoisted the Detex clock to my shoulder,
grabbed the Geiger counter and the keys and headed out the door while the
D.O. settled down in the guard
house. Each trip would take approximately
30 minutes. I turned, saluted the flag,
then got in and started the car. The
engine roared, the roar of a full blown eight-cylinder engine in the quiet of
late night, and I was off down the road.
As drive, my thoughts turned to the way that I had
reacted to the sight of the brown paper bag.
Was Ivan Pavlov really correct?
Can people be trained to react to a specified stimulus? If so I must be a prime candidate, because I
certainly reacted to the brown paper bag.
In a manner of speaking that was exactly how I was doing my job. Step by step, performing all the security
routines; turn on the perimeter lights, unlock and open the gate, get in the
car, drive through the gate, get out of the car, close and lock the gate, drive
up to the main door, get out of the car, walk up and grasp the door handle and
give it a twist while at the same time jerking toward me. All of these steps have a purpose and a
reason, I only wish I know what that was?
Maybe it is top-secret, who knows?
Anyway, I continue around the building, checking the windows and the
wire fence as I go, feeling the cool night air against my face,
exhilarating. Finally, I arrive back at
the car; it is time to go inside the building.
I hate going inside.
Inside there are large rooms, open in the center,
lined with all manner of equipment, some bigger than life, others small and
compact but each taking on a grotesque shape as they are silhouetted by the
sparse stark night lights. Also there
are the typical night sounds: the metallic slam of the air vents, the creak of
the walls as they contract in the cool night air. There is something else here, the ever
present "radioactive materials."
Each of the buildings has one floor
at ground level for access reasons. The
only thing they have in common is each building is totally underground. One of the buildings is six floors down; the
others are four or five. On my rounds I
must completely traverse each building, that is, I must enter and cross each
floor going down to the bottom and then back up again to the main floor. I exit the first building. No problem.
Back out into the night air.
As I approach the last building I am relaxed. Just doing my job. I start the routine one more time. The perimeter of the building is secure. I go inside.
All looks well. Why don't I just get
back in the car and go down to the main gate? I will have more time to visit
the D.O. Besides, who will know? The
answer is obvious, I will.
So one more time, down into the
bowels of the earth... Step by
step... slowly I turn. I chuckle out loud at myself as the sound of
Vincent Prices' voice from the HOUSE OF WAX, sounds in my head. I finally reach the bottom floor; all is well
now for the trek back up the stairs.
Around me there is a slight sense of
movement with a rustling sound. BANG!
The serenity of the night is broken by the abrupt sound of metal against
metal. There is a momentary silence then
the stillness is broken by another loud BANG, as metal strikes metal again,
this time with even more force and noise than before. Now it is still. The hair on the back of my neck is standing
straight up. My heart is pounding. My mouth is dry. What is happening? Now there is only stillness. What ever it is or was is between the door
and me. My 38 Smith and Wesson jumped
from its holster into my hand. I check
my Geiger counter, the needle is moving but not beyond normal readings.
There is a rhythmic sound, the sound
of breathing. It is heavy and near by...
It is I! Calm down! Take a deep breath. I can't go back and I am too scared to go
forward. I don't know how long I stayed
in this half-standing half-crouched position.
In real time it was only a few seconds. It seemed like hours. Silence; dead silence no sounds from
above. Ok! Slowly I move forward. I look left, then right, then up, then down.
I try to see in all directions at the same time. I see nothing and hear nothing, but I know
something is ahead of me. My eyes search
the shadows, nothing. I scan the room,
the floor. Wait, my eyes zoom in and
focus on a large crescent wrench, an adjustable spanner, lying within the
circle of an overhead light, in the center on the room. Glowing!
Beckoning like cheese in a trap.
I slowly approach, constantly searching left and right, nothing. I don't reach into the light or touch the
wrench. I step around it, staying in the
shadow. I have been conditioned, and now
I know why. I continue moving towards
the stairs, step by step. Finally, I
reach the main floor and I dash for the door.
Outside I run to the car. I grab
the radio and call the D.O.
He keeps interrupting me telling me
to calm down. I don't want to calm
down. I want him to know what has
happened. I keep trying to tell him
every detail. He is calm and
serene. He is secure in building miles
from here. I am not.
Finally,
I calm down. He has contacted central
and a back-up unit has been dispatched.
I wait. I watch. I wait some more still nothing. After what seemed like hours a back-up team
arrives. I brief them then together we
enter the building. The wrench is still
lying in the middle of the floor, under the light. It somehow seems less bright and compelling
this time. We search the entire
building; nothing was out of place, except the wrench. No sign of
activity. No forced doors or
windows. No boot prints. No doors agar. Nothing!
According to the final report there had been a slight tremor of an
earthquake recorded at the same time I was in the building. That would account for the feeling of
movement and the sound. The quake was
very small but enough to dislodge the wrench from where it had been left on the
edge of a worktable. The wrench had
fallen through the floor grating, down one flight where it had landed and
bounced. I was never convinced that was
exactly what had happened, but.
Two days latter an area patrol reported finding boot prints in the
sand. The boot prints ended at the edge
of a large circle where the sand was level and compacted. The report stated that the patrol retraced
the boot prints back to the fence of the perimeter of the building where I had
been that night. The report went on to
state that the stride of the boot prints lead through the fence. Not over it, not around it to a gate, BUT THROUGH
IT.
What still puzzles me today is that no one ever said another word about
that night. No One. Not even me until now...