“Respected Colonel! Allow me once again, from the bottom of our hearts, to extend our sincere apologies for this misunderstanding that has caused you so much trouble. The children are deeply ashamed of the commotion they have caused.” The speaker accompanied his penitential speech with gestures appropriate to the occasion: at times spreading his arms, at times pressing them to his chest. The children, meanwhile, stood almost motionless, heads bowed, and from time to time muttered something that was meant to pass for those very “sincere apologies.”
The colonel, of course, responded diplomatically in the sense that everything was, more or less, in order, and did his best to project friendliness. A performative one, of course. Had it been up to him, he would not have let such valuable prey slip so easily from his hands. But what could he do—behind the uninvited guests had arrived some tough-looking fellows in civilian clothes, accompanied by an escort of two generals. Before that very bombing of Japan, the colonel had seen plenty of such characters. They spoke very little, and always had a piece of paper signed by the President in reserve. They effortlessly issued orders to high-ranking officers, entered the most secret facilities without any trouble, and brazenly took away the most interesting trophies and the most important prisoners. So the colonel did not even think of protesting or making a scene. He simply waited for it all to be over. The guest, meanwhile, continued:
“I was told I should not explain anything, but I believe that is not right. I consider it my duty to clarify once again that what happened was a stupid accident, in which there is not even a hint of hostility. It’s just that, as often happens among you as well, teenagers decided to go for a ride, took their parents’ vehicle, and ended up in a ridiculous accident.”
The conversation finally ended, and the “guests,” together with their liberators, departed. First came the security jeeps, then the trucks under thick tarpaulin, beneath which the peculiar cargo was hidden, then a Cadillac with the generals, and a school-like bus (but with opaque greenish windows), in which the men in civilian clothes disappeared together with the long-headed, bald, gray-skinned ones... God knows who. Martians, maybe? thought Colonel William Blanchard as he watched the convoy roll away. He was the commanding officer of the 509th Bomb Group at Roswell. The seasoned soldier scratched the back of his head and headed to his office. He still had to issue orders for a new press release.
Viacheslav Sannikov "Almost True". Part I "Humans"
