The Watchers (40 page)

Afterwards

From the
London Newswire
, 16 February 1977, Little Haven, west Wales

Emergency services in west Wales report that the number dead in Little Haven stands at 324 with many more reported missing. Investigations into reports of strange lights in the sky are ongoing amid persistent reports by some survivors of a triangular aircraft that appeared in the sky shortly before the terrible flood destroyed much of the community. The nearest military base, RAF Brawdy, has confirmed no aircraft were flying at the time. The Welsh Office has announced an official investigation into the tragedy.

From
The Mind Possessed: A Personal Investigation into the Broad Haven Triangle

by Dr R. Caxton (Clementine Press, 1980) p.230

The authorities blame the high rainfall, the saturated soils. They point the finger for the Havens tragedy at natural causes. I know better.

It was, Wilding believed (and I am forced to agree with him), the fault of the Parsons Elite, a malevolent international cult long established in the village with members like the local headmaster. This was founded by a snake at the heart of the British government, Admiral of the Fleet, Lord Hill Bartlett, whose family has for generations owned the Haven Hotel on Skyview Hill. The admiral, like the rocket scientist in whose name the cult was founded, believed that the skin of this world is particularly weak in locations like the Havens and that such points could be ripped open with ritual prayer and sacrificial ritual.

I remember a time, not so long ago, when I would have dismissed such a bizarre claim. Not now.

Today, if you visit the Havens, you will still find those who remember the Happenings, but you won’t find many who will talk about the sky watchers who threw themselves from Giant’s Point. Like the Stack Rocks Fort, their memories are suspiciously off limits. Perhaps they made themselves forget, as I tried to do. Only my wife and family know how hard I tried to forget – for their sakes and for my own sanity.

But then came a general election. Then came our new prime minister and the extraordinary meeting of the National Security Council.

And that’s when a new terror began.

From
the Extraordinary Meeting of the National Security Council

by Jonathan Harrison, former special adviser to the prime minister

Wednesday 22 May 1979, 10 Downing Street, London

‘Not one word of this will be made public,’ the prime minister said from the middle of the Cabinet table. And with her usual composure she closed the file in front of her and put it aside. But no one attending the extraordinary meeting of the National Security Council at 10 Downing Street believed the matter was closed; not the politicians, not the generals, certainly not me. I said nothing, of course. Only the most reckless civil servants in Whitehall speak their minds.

A man across the table sniffed. The psychologist, a key witness. His face bore the signs of many sleepless nights, and though he was composed, his eyes were narrowed and fixed on Wilding, to his right. I saw the two exchange a look, and then Wilding’s eyes slid to the chair to his left: carved mahogany, conspicuously empty.

The prime minister said, ‘You have both clearly suffered an ordeal, Mr Wilding, Dr Caxton. But the events you describe, their alleged connection with the attack on Parliament, if true would create unimaginable panic.’

That had to be right. Wilding’s theory was that the admiral had been at the root of it all. Perhaps he was right too. Probably he was right. But there was no proof, and I was in little doubt that the prime minister was relieved to know it.

Wilding’s countenance was steely as he leaned forward and said, ‘It is all true, and the people have a right to know. Don’t you see? Admiral Hill Bartlett knew about the attack on Parliament
before
it happened. One of many national disasters he was planning to create fear and panic so that the Parsons Elite could more easily take control. Whoever assisted the admiral must be hunted down and punished.’

‘We already know the identity of one accomplice.’

‘You mean Araceli Romero?’

‘She was complicit in the plan to ensnare you.’

‘Her father was responsible! She did her best in the end – did what she could.’

‘And how is she faring?’

‘Her daughter drowned. How do you think she’s faring?’

Mrs Thatcher raised an eyebrow. ‘Tell us where Araceli is.’

‘You have to tell me why you want her first.’

‘Your presumption exceeds your abilities, Mr Wilding,’ the prime minister said. ‘We need Araceli. As we need you.’

‘Forget me; warn the world!’

He said this with feverish passion; it was, after all, his grandfather’s dying wish.

The prime minister peered at him over her half-moon spectacles. ‘Domestic terror motivated by satanic rituals and lights in the sky? What would you have me do? Tell the world we are surrounded by spirits penetrating our world, that one of Britain’s highest-ranking government officials was a . . . satanist?’

Caxton cleared his throat. ‘Having witnessed the tragic and premature death of those civilians, I believe the people deserve justice, Prime Minister. Their families deserve the truth.’

‘I don’t think so.
We
don’t think so.’ She looked slowly around at her colleagues, all of whom nodded their assent. ‘Therefore the official record will show that the limits of government interest in this affair extended only as far as a discreet investigation carried out by the Security Service, who concluded that the sightings were a clever hoax.’

‘No, no, this is wrong!’ Wilding shouted, his voice full of outrage. ‘Bestford will help me get the truth out.’ Caxton nodded his agreement.

‘Feel free to try,’ the prime minister said calmly, handing the Parsons Report to the general on her right. ‘But it won’t be difficult for us to deny the ramblings of a discredited alcoholic who had to resign his seat in Parliament.’ She produced a confident smile. ‘You see, Mr Wilding, now that you have so kindly handed over this report, you have no evidence. No proof. And as the admiral’s body was never found, your story can quite easily be dismissed as the fantasy of an anxious and deluded mind.’

For a long moment Wilding could find no words to express his astonishment. ‘But my grandfather’s body was recovered,’ he said finally, a little desperately.

‘Cause of death unknown. With all due respect, Mr Wilding, you’ll have to do rather better than that.’

Wilding sagged back in his chair. A single bead of perspiration was forming on his brow. ‘Why did you bring me here?’ he said hopelessly.

The prime minister looked around the table. ‘Leave us,’ she instructed with a wave of her hand. ‘Jonathan, you stay.’

One of the ministers scowled at her imperious tone; another paused as if he felt it his duty to remain for what followed, but no one disobeyed.

I thought Dr Caxton and Wilding might relax a little when alone with her, but if anything they only looked more on edge.

Thatcher stood and wandered over to the towering windows overlooking St James’s Park. ‘Would you like to know what happened at RAF Brawdy while you were at Stack Rocks Fort, the night of the sky watch?’ she asked, keeping her back to the room.

Caxton glanced nervously at Wilding, who seemed to be turning the question over in his mind. Was that suspicion in his eyes, or alarm? I wasn’t sure.

‘There was a craft over the sea . . .’ Wilding shook his head at the memory.

The prime minister turned. ‘You know pieces of the whole. Mrs Thatcher sat with quiet menace beneath the immense portrait of Sir Robert Walpole, Britain’s first prime minister. ‘Now before we go any further, Mr Wilding, I have a very pointed question for you. Do you know of any direct connection between Lieutenant Colonel Corso and Araceli Romero?’

Corso, Wilding’s original informant.

‘No direct connection,’ Wilding answered.

Dr Caxton looked baffled.

‘But you are familiar with the incident which occurred at RAF Croughton in 1963 and Project Caesar?’

Wilding glared at the prime minister. ‘You mean the runway explosion and its cover-up. Yes. Colonel Corso told me everything. But that doesn’t matter now.’

‘On the contrary, it matters a great deal.’ She glanced at the door and said to me, ‘Show him in.’

I crossed to the door, opened it and showed in the man waiting outside. The American looked distinctly out of place in the Cabinet Room, with his bloodshot eyes, greasy hair, unkempt beard and shabby attire.

Wilding was incredulous.

‘You . . . you’re alive?!’

‘I feel half dead,’ Lieutenant Colonel Corso muttered.

Thatcher pointed and he took a chair beside Wilding.

‘What the hell’s going on?’ Wilding demanded. ‘What is this?’’

‘This is where you agree to help,’ the prime minister said. ‘You wanted the truth, Mr Wilding? The truth is that our nation, our world, faces an ancient evil that must be understood. For all our sakes.’

She switched her attention to Corso. ‘Colonel, thank you for being here today and for cooperating with this inquiry.’

He nodded.

‘Colonel, we have learned that you were in contact with Selina Searle and Robert Wilding shortly before and after the explosion at Parliament in February 1977.’

‘That’s correct.’

‘And that you passed Mr Wilding highly secret information.’

Wilding’s face was rigid, but I caught Corso’s wince.

‘What motivated this action?’ demanded Thatcher.

‘My knowledge of a conspiracy against the British and American people,’ said Corso in a voice that tried to be strong. ‘A conspiracy involving an elite satanic cult at the heart of the British Establishment – the Parsons Elite.’

Wilding’s head snapped round and he gazed at Corso in disbelief. ‘But you never mentioned a cult! That night in St James’s Park, you never mentioned—’

‘Colonel Corso,’ Thatcher broke in, ‘in 1963 you were involved in a potentially catastrophic accident at RAF Croughton.’

The American nodded wearily. ‘There were UFO sightings on base that night. Afterwards the witnesses were drugged, the whole affair covered up.’

‘By whom?’

‘Either someone in the US Air Force, or someone in a senior position within the British government.’

Margaret Thatcher nodded. Dr Caxton’s whole body was tense. As for Wilding, his face was naked with alarm. It was rapidly becoming clear to him – to all of us – that the prime minister had known the details of his tale perhaps for quite some time.

‘In 1963,’ she said, ‘Admiral Hill Bartlett was director of tactical weapons and policy at the MoD. Do you believe he was involved in the Croughton case?’

‘I do.’

She smiled. ‘Then please continue. Tell Mr Wilding what he doesn’t know.’

Corso clasped his hands together and after a lengthy silence said, ‘The perimeter fence of the base was breached by a humanoid entity exactly like that observed in Wales, and at that moment—’

‘Electrical malfunction,’ Wilding said. ‘You told me.’

‘At that moment a number of nuclear missiles on base were activated.’

Wilding’s eyes became huge.

‘The missiles went into launch mode, although something prevented them firing.’

‘Something?’

‘I couldn’t tell you what.’

Even Caxton was alarmed at this; it was clear from the way he was leaning forward, his eyes bulging.

‘You should know,’ the prime minister said to Wilding, ‘that the exact same sequence of events occurred at Brawdy the night you confronted the admiral. It’s as if these . . . sky spectres were able to access the codes required to launch the weapons—’

‘Nearly unleashing a third world war,’ Corso finished.

There was silence as this sank in.

Wilding’s face was a vision of shocked hopelessness. At last he managed to speak. ‘If you knew there was a cult involved . . .’ he said to Corso, ‘if you knew that before I went to Wales, why the hell didn’t you tell me? Warn me?’

Corso said nothing, just stared at one of the three enormous brass chandeliers.

‘What’s the connection between RAF Croughton and Brawdy?’ pressed Wilding.

‘The colonel was the deputy base commander at Croughton,’ the prime minister said.

‘Technically,’ said Corso. ‘I had just completed a tour of duty at another secret US research project codenamed SOSUS – the submarine tracking station in west Wales.’

‘Brawdy.’ The prime minister glanced at Wilding. ‘And during your time at Brawdy, Colonel, did you ever meet this young man’s family? Or his father?’

Wilding blinked and I saw him mouth the word ‘What?’

‘Not to my knowledge, no.’

‘Then you had other reasons for divulging classified information to Mr Wilding. Personal reasons?’ Her words hung for a second in the silence of the Cabinet Room. ‘Go on,’ Thatcher added cuttingly. ‘Tell him.’

‘A daughter.’ Corso said in a hushed, faltering voice. He shook his head with painful slowness. ‘Tessa Romero is – was – my daughter.’

Bitter understanding crept into Wilding’s face.

‘You have to understand,’ Corso rushed to explain. ‘I couldn’t handle Araceli. She was young and wild, making impossible demands. And I—’

Wilding bounded to his feet, his chair crashing back onto the floor. ‘She was seventeen!’ he shouted. ‘How could you leave her? Her parents were fucking satanists!’

And with Corso gaping up at him, he lunged and landed a punch on the soldier’s face.

*

The prime minister sat silently through the chimes of Big Ben. ‘If you are quite finished . . .?’ she said after the last chime.

Gripped on each side by a burly policeman, Wilding nodded.

‘All right, let him go.’

Wilding took a seat on Caxton’s other side. Away from the red-faced Corso.

‘Don’t think this hasn’t been a nightmare for me,’ Corso attempted. ‘I lost a daughter.’

‘A daughter you never knew,’ Wilding said bitterly.

‘And now I’ll
never
know her.’ His jaw tightened and there was an uncertain silence. ‘That awful hotel,’ he continued at last. ‘Araceli, her mother and father – all of them nuts! I didn’t know how to cope. I had to get away!’

‘But you didn’t get away.’ Wilding’s voice trembled. ‘The admiral saw to that, didn’t he? That’s why the sky spectres came to Croughton. They came for you. The admiral summoned them to revenge what you did to his daughter.’

‘And I’ve been running ever since,’ Corso said. He gazed blankly past the prime minister at the ornate fireplace, lost in his own past.

Thatcher fixed Corso, Wilding and Caxton with determined eyes. ‘Gentlemen, you have clearly endured a horrific ordeal, one that defies all scientific explanation. But not only are East–West relations rapidly deteriorating, the world faces a new enemy.’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘If these entities, these demons, can be manipulated, controlled . . .’

Horrified understanding broke on Wilding’s face. ‘The sky spectres are manifestations of occult power. They won’t be controlled!’

‘Unless we make a concerted effort,’ she insisted. ‘We intend to study these demonic intrusions.’

‘Study them?’ Wilding glanced feverishly at Caxton. The psychologist was frozen in his chair, his eyes like plates. ‘We’re talking about an ancient evil stronger than all of us. And you want to study them?’

‘Prime Minister,’ Caxton added, ‘I would caution against this. It may indeed be possible to emulate Admiral Hill Bartlett’s work or replicate Jack Parsons’ experiments, but I implore you to take heed – the entities we encountered won’t be controlled!’

The prime minister was unmoved. ‘Britain needs the very strongest defences.’ She nodded at Wilding. ‘As your grandfather so succinctly put it, whoever controls the skies controls the world. We must understand this power and control it, before some other nation does.’

Rising from his chair, Wilding looked horrified. ‘No, please. No, you can’t!’

The prime minister also stood. In her heels she was just taller than him. ‘You must admit the idea has merit. Imagine, a superior army of indomitable soldiers. Ultimate warriors. Do you agree, Corso?’

‘You must take precautions,’ he said. It was the last view he expressed before abruptly leaving the room.

Caxton was shaking his head. ‘The study of the paranormal should be for good, to advance our knowledge about the human condition.’ He had learned this, he told us, from his father’s psychic research.