-
- "VC!, VC!" Thundering bursts from M-16s ripped
the jungle silence as hot shell-casings sprayed across the lush undergrowth.
Wide-eyed terror gripped the soldiers. Stumbling, tripping, falling, they
recoiled from "unrecognizable-hostiles" that refused to fall.
Something was critically wrong. The jungle greenery was reduced to mulch
as the collective ordinance hurled soil 20 feet skyward. Although no return-fire
was evident, the horrified scream to "fall back," was instantly
heeded. The desperate team scrambled for the nearby cover of a downed B-52
they had come to retrieve.
-
- If not for a deep sense of moral obligation to his fellow
man, Sgt. Clifford Stone would have carried this story to his grave. For
more than 22 years he served on an elite Nuclear Biological Cleanup unit,
with the US Army. Throughout his tenure, Sgt. Stone was to do, and learn
things, the Department of Defense would classify Top Secret. When he became
the unit communications-specialist (NBC/COMMO/NCIC), he signed an agreement
- Standard Agreement Form #4193 - that would never permit him to share
his experiences with anyone, not even his family. In fact, as framed by
the agreement, it would be in force until, "one day after the signer
expired." He was warned that if he disclosed, "We will put you
so far under, we will have to pump sunshine down to you!" He was further
informed that for each count of "any" disclosure - under Title
38, sections, 793 through 799 USC (United States Code) - he would be subject
to a ten thousand dollar fine and imprisonment. "When I saw them,
I knew they were not of this earth, all I could think to yell was VC! My
conscience will not allow me to lie any longer, I don't care what they
do to me. I'm going to tell," said Stone defiantly.
-
- "Stone! We're going back. Take the point!"
Sgt. Stone reloaded his weapon and looked back to the man he called Colonel.
"Sir, I don't think that's a good idea Sir. Shouldn't we call in support
Sir?" "Stone! Take the point, NOW! We are in a hostile environment,
but there are no hostiles here! Go!" Stone tried to make sense of
the comment as he rose to his feet. Being a devout Christian, he started
to recite the 23rd psalm. "Yea, though I walk through the valley of
. .. ," the words stopped. His throat constricted with fear, his mouth
went dry. "I had cotton-mouth, and my throat hurt badly, I couldn't
speak," recalled Sgt. Stone. Stone moved cautiously around the B-52
re-establishing the position where he first saw - what he thought were
- Vietcong.
-
- "I had the feeling we were being watched, and it
didn't leave me until we left that place," Stone remarked. "There
was something wrong there. The 52 was damaged and looked as though it should
have crashed, but there was no sign of a crash; no sign of impact at all.
No downed trees, no skid-path, nothing. It was as though it had been plucked
from the sky and set down in the jungle. The crew inside had died, but
not because of the crash. They were recovered and taken away to the Saigon
Army Mortuary. We weren't supposed to know that."
-
- Several men set up a perimeter as the rest of the elite
team deployed sophisticated equipment. "I operated the IM-93 which
would give me a reading on background radiation. We also called it a dose-o-meter,"
Stone recalls. "I received a reading of zero. It was normal. Then
I took readings with the APD-27 which would give me an indication of surface
radiation from the skin of the 52. It was .80. That reading was not normal
and should not have been that high. While I was taking readings, a person
we called 'the tech,' went inside the 52 and removed the black box."
Although he asked, Sgt. Stone would never learn what information it contained.
-
- "The B-52 was cut into sections, and 6 high-lift-capacity
helicopters - we called them sky-cranes - were called into the area for
recovery of the sections. I knew they were Navy, but I don't know where
they took them. Then, while we were working, a small group of special-forces
personnel moved into a nearby clearing and set up a GP (general purpose)
small tent. When the recovery was complete, the other members of my unit
left. I was asked to proceed to the tent and make a written statement of
the recovery events. Specifically, I was asked to write down any thoughts
or feelings that came to mind during the initial encounter. I would not
find out until much later, why I was asked to pencil a report of my 'thoughts'."
-
- After receiving instructions for the deposition, Sgt.
Stone entered the tent. He made himself comfortable at the single desk
and chair. Nervous, and still somewhat confused, he started to doodle games
of Xs and Os while trying to gather his thoughts. After several minutes
he had not committed anything significant to paper, and decided he might
need a breath of fresh air. He pocketed the crumpled paper and left the
tent. Stepping outside, he asked a friend for a smoke. "I didn't smoke
then - I do now - but it seemed like the thing to do," Stone confessed.
"I had just lit-up when a special-forces person walked up to me and
slapped the cigarette from my mouth. He caused my mouth to bleed slightly.
He was screaming at me, telling me that the tax payers weren't paying me
to goof off, and that he 'heard the paper in my pocket,' and that NOTHING,
was to leave that tent! I tried to explain but I was ordered back to the
desk and told to perform my duty. I did."
-
- Sgt. Stone is an ordinary man who has endured extraordinary
circumstances. By any template I could reference, he is sane, honest, and
a devoted Christian family man. He cares deeply for those around him, and
wants only to tell the truth. "The government has gone too far keeping
these events from its people. They have no right to do so," he explains.
"There are people who have experienced encounters with things they
do not understand, and when they try to explain, they are told they are
either nuts, or it did not happen. Some of them have committed suicide."
-
- Stone started collecting government documentation - which
would confirm government duplicity in the alien enigma - long before his
term of service concluded. To date, his efforts have surfaced more than
four-hundred-thousand pages which corroborate his contention: "UFO's
and extraterrestrials, are here, have been here, and the government knows
about it, and have known about it, for a long, long, time." His information
is typically gleaned by means of FOI (Freedom of Information) requests.
As a result of his participation in many of the clandestine operations,
Stone - unlike lay-people seeking the same information - was able to give
the proper names, dates, and constituents of various operations, when requesting
the sensitive information. He also understood how the government "compartmentalized"
information, then used that knowledge to his advantage buy "shot-gunning"
his FOI requests to the various agencies involved. Collectively-unaware
of the countless, and often simultaneous requests made by Stone, these
agencies regularly provided conflicting reasons for withholding the requested
information. However, on numerous occasions he received confirmation of
the operations from at least one, of the solicited groups. "It is
strange. I'd get correspondence claiming no such operation existed, to;
yes it did, but it's a matter of National Security and therefore not subject
to release, to; here it is. In some of the material I receive, I know things
have been changed from what really happened because, on some of the documents
I get, it was me who reported the data in the first place. And when I read
it, it's not what I originally recorded."
-
- We have all met people like Stone. They are conscientious,
warm, unassuming, honest, soft-spoken and sincere. They are the type of
people we feel instinctively compelled to protect. We call them "earthy."
If Mr. Stone was any more earthy, he'd be soil. He extended me an invitation
to stay at his home and provide me with documentation which would corroborate
everything he shared. Strangely, I don't feel compelled to take his offer;
I believe him. As our conversation wound down, Sgt. Stone asked me a question:
"Sir, would you call me next week? I have something important I want
to share with you." I paused. "Yes, Cliff, I will. It would be
my pleasure." With, conditioned vocational- vernacular, he replied,
"Thank you Sir." . . . I called.
|
