The War After Roswell



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Christopher G Nuttall

The War After Roswell



(The Multiverse War – Book Four)

17 St. Ronan’s Terrace

Edinburgh

EH10 5NG
Christopher_g_nuttall@hotmail.com

Christopher@changingthetimes.net

Tel: 0131-447-4117

Mobile: 0796 006 5850

The War After Roswell Cover Blurb

In a world where the Roswell UFO actually crashed, the United States and the Soviet Union remain in uneasy partnership; an alliance that was created by fear of the unknown aliens who were probing Earth years ago. From Earth Orbit to the Moon, from the colonies on Mars and Venus to the asteroids, the two superpowers prepare endlessly for the aliens, of whom nothing has been seen since 1947.



And suddenly, under suspicious circumstances, an alien ship is discovered far from Earth. It falls upon an Earth at the brink of war, for the alliance is about to collapse under internal strains. To this world come the Time Agents, looking for the Enemy Agent who is provoking the war - unaware that time is about to run out for the whole planet…

Author’s Note

It seems to be common to assume that anyone who writes about Roswell or UFOs is privy to the truth that naturally has been hidden by world governments for the years since 1947. While I hold Views on the subject, as I discuss in the Afterword, I know nothing for certain, at least about Roswell and what might or might not have happened there.

Got that?

Good.

The War After Roswell, like the other Multiverse War books, is intended to be stand-alone, although it refers to events that took place in The Counterfactual War. All the new reader needs to know is that at the end of The Counterfactual War, Professor Thande, inventor of the Portals in TimeLine A, was recruited by one of the Time Agents, Sally Woods, to fight in the Multiverse War against the Enemy. From their point of view, The War After Roswell takes place roughly six months after The Counterfactual War.

Christopher Nuttall

Edinburgh, June 2006


Prologue
They could see the glow from several miles away as the small convoy of trucks drove through the darkness before dawn. The strange flickering white glow, reporting…what? Captain Hammond, the commander of the small force, leaned forward, trying to determine just what there was ahead. The desert of New Mexico seemed very quiet…except for the flickering glow.
“I can’t hear anything, Captain,” Sergeant Jackson said.
It was on the tip of Hammond’s tongue to berate him for stating the obvious, but then he stopped; it was quiet, too quiet. There should have been the noises of animals and birds, but it was quiet. They might have been in one of the most remote areas of the state, but someone from the Roswell Base had clearly gotten there ahead of them and acted – summoning two hundred armed soldiers.
He stared at the glow as they rounded the corner and jumped off the road, heading cross-country towards the glow. His first thought was that it was an aircraft crash – there were some unusual designs coming through the air base – which would explain the security, but not the glow. He flinched suddenly; could an atomic bomber have gone down? Uncle Joe Stalin was still refusing to accept American supremacy; could he have sent a bomber into American airspace?
He slipped his hand down to the service pistol on his thigh. If there were Russians about, they would regret ever trying to invade America.
The truck jumped over a ridge and he saw it, lying on the ground and…glowing. He felt his mouth drop open as his brain took the sight in; a massive glowing silver disc, lying broken on the ground. It was tilted, like a giant Frisbee, slammed into the ground by an angry god.
“It’s one of those flying discs,” Sergeant Jackson said. “You know, the ones that the papers have been raving about.”
Hammond felt his trance break. “Move out,” he snapped, shouting orders to the men in the rear of the truck. The tailgate fell open, allowing the troopers to spill out and stop, staring at the crashed…flying saucer. Hammond looked at the disc, and remembered some of the stranger stories about the saucers…none of which seemed impossible now.
“Mark Robertson, Special Investigator,” a clipped Washington voice said. Only the hint of fear, not of Hammond, but of the unknown, kept it human. “Captain, order your men to secure the site.”
Hammond nodded to the tall handsome man, who was wearing civilian clothes. An officer assigned to the nuclear bombers, caught in plain clothes then. “Yes, sir,” he said, after examining Robertson’s credentials. He barked orders to Sergeant Jackson, and then turned to Robertson. “Sir, what is this?”
Robertson looked blank. “Between thee and me, sir, I haven’t the slightest idea,” he said. He nodded towards a small group of civilians sitting on rocks, watching the activity. “I managed to convince them to remain here, Captain, but we must ensure that no one else comes near the…well, the flying object.”
“Flying saucer,” Hammond said, and smiled at Robertson’s reaction. He stared down at the craft, noticing that the glow was fading, even as they watched. Something moved, far too close to the wreck, and he jumped forward on instinct. “Follow me.”
Robertson didn’t hesitate; he plunged down behind Hammond. Hammond noted suddenly that Robertson wasn’t carrying a weapon, but he found it hard to care; whatever was moving down there had to be checked. He peered into the fading glow, trying to make out the shape…and recoiled.
“What the hell is that?”
It was tall and grey and possessed of a large almond-shaped head, with dark black eyes. They seemed to be sad, as if they knew the entire future of humanity and the world; they seemed to look down at Hammond from a great distance. It reached out with one long spindly arm…and then it fell backwards, dead.
“I think its dead,” Robertson breathed. At that moment, the glow around the saucer vanished, leaving it dead on the ground. Hammond held up a small torch, looking down on the dead creature, trying to see something of humanity in it.
“I think it’s…not human,” he said.
The world changed overnight.
***

Harry S. Truman, President of the United States of America, studied the note from the Soviet Union with considerable concern. It was simple, once stripped of all the nonsense about ‘peace-loving workers and peasants;’ it was an ultimation to the United States.


“I think they’re serious,” George Marshall, Secretary of State, said. They were alone in the room; not even a stenographer to record the President’s words for the future. “The news of the…whatever crashed in Roswell a few months ago has frightened the living daylights out of them.”
Truman nodded slowly. “And so…what do we do about it?” He asked. “General, can we withstand them if they come over the border in Germany?”
“With our other commitments?” Marshall asked dryly. “I think we would be lucky if we managed to maintain a base in France.”
Truman sighed. The United States had a long tradition of reducing its deployable military as soon as possible after a war; the forces that had smashed Germany and Japan to rubble simply didn’t exist any longer. Stalin, on the other hand, had upwards of thirty front-line divisions in East Germany; they could be on the border within a day.
“There are also other problems,” Marshall continued. “I think…that whoever they are, they’re not friendly. The craft was far too close to the sole bomber base with atomic-powered weapons.”
“They came to spy on us,” Truman said slowly. “For what?”
Marshall paced around the office. “We have security on our end under wraps,” he said. “We had one major leak, but so far no one has pulled away the blankets. If we didn’t have Uncle Joe breathing down our necks, we could keep it secret indefinitely, but do we want to?”
Truman frowned. “Do we, the United States, gain any advantage from keeping the craft under wraps?”
“I think that we’re going to need a new space program,” Marshall said. “I was discussing the matter with the Oversight Group, the team of scientists assembled to study the craft, and one thing they were certain of was that the craft had crossed space to reach here. They might have come from Mars, or from somewhere else, but our only hope is to build a base in space.”
“That would be very expensive,” Truman said flatly.
Exactly,” Marshall said. “We have to convince people that we need to do it, and showing them the crashed ship is the only way to do that. Now, the aliens…it defies belief that they won’t know that we have the craft; they must know that the craft has crashed somewhere. We need that program…”
“And we need peace with the Soviets while we’re at it,” Truman said. “If we had somewhere around a year’s grace, could we obtain a decisive military advantage?”
“If the atomic bomb doesn’t intimidate Uncle Joe, then it’s hard to see what else we could do,” Marshall admitted. “Learning anything from the craft is going to take years, at best.”
“Years,” Truman mused. “If they were to invade tomorrow, then…what?”
“We would fight, and so – I assume – would the Soviets,” Marshall said. “They would have the advantage of being very high above us; the ultimate high ground.” He paused significantly. “It could be a very short war, Mr President.”
Truman nodded impassively. “And if we come to blows with the Soviets now, we will only weaken any defence against the…outside threat.” He shook his head. “A month ago, we were worrying about communism in France, and now…”
“Now we have a new problem,” Marshall said.
Truman smiled. “I think that we should consider the Soviet demands,” he said. “We worked with them against Hitler…”
“And they screwed us,” Marshall injected.
“We can make sure that that doesn’t happen this time,” Truman said. He nodded towards the door. “Can you call the Russian Ambassador and ask him to come visit me? I have a brave new foreign policy initiative to launch.”



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