Forbidden Disclosure -
A True Story
By Lea H. MacDonald <>
"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.