China Lake: The Affirmation

BUTCH’S GREAT ADVENTURE

CHINA LAKE: THE AFFIRMATION


Synchronicity moves amongst us on silent cat’s paws—striking softly. There I was at work—at the VA Blind Rehab Center—interviewing a student—a veteran only two years older than me. He had been a computer analyst for most of his career. He casually mentioned that he had once been a GS14, [I am only a GS11], and that he had worked for seven years at the China Lake Naval Weapons Center in Ridgecrest , California —from 1983-1990.

Imagine that, I thought. Hell—he and I might have bumped into each other during that summer of 1983. He might have eaten at the Burger King that I helped to manage—or we might have rubbed shoulders elsewhere in the small town—at the bowling alley, supermarket, or drive-in theatre. He seemed pleasantly surprised that we had both resided there at the same period. I worked in Ridgecrest for six months—but I lived down in Victorville on weekends—to visit with my young wife, who was managing a chain of donut shops in Victorville, San Bernardino, and Redlands. We talked further. I looked him square in the eyes—and I felt a receptive resonance.

So I just blurted out my UFO sighting that summer, down in the basin southwest of town, out on the high desert in August of 1983. I described the situation and the craft. He smiled slightly and nodded his head. I told him that the incident had happened west of Area 51, north of Edwards AFB, and south of the base there at China Lake .

“We call that the corridor,” he said calmly.

“Have there been other sightings like mine in that very area?”

“Of course—dozens of them,” he replied.

“Did people see that particular craft that I saw?”

“Sometimes,” he answered,” I, too, have seen many strange things out on the desert in that big sky.”

“Wow! My instincts have always told me that the UFO I saw had to be one that the government knew about. Christ, it was too close to the base not to be detected.”

“Did it hover at a dead stop, perfectly still—over those old buildings and railroad cars?” he inquired.

“Pretty much,” I replied,” Yes—with two roving spotlights flashing all over them.”

“And then it was gone—in a flash—just seemed to disappear?”

“Well no—somehow I happened to be able to follow it as it departed—with a quick jerk of my head to the right as it sped off to the east—from a dead stop to out past the horizon in less than a second.”

“Did it make a whooshing sound?” he asked.

“No—my windows were down, and there was no sound at all. The propulsion had to be electromagnetic—somehow working off gravity or anti-gravity.”

He just nodded his head again.

“Can you talk about it?” I inquired.

“Not really,” he replied,” Not specifically.”

“Well, shit—I feel better already. I was beginning to doubt my own memory. Two years ago, my wife and I returned to that area—and it didn’t look the same—and it didn’t feel right. That bothered the hell out of me.”

“That’s how they want you to feel,” he said.

“But that spot where the buildings and the railroad tracks and the boxcars were—there was no sign of them—nothing.” I lamented.

“In 1985—a couple of years after you left the area—one of those crafts crashed up at Lake Isabella . Do you know where that is?”

“Yeah,” I answered,” It’s up in the Tehachapi Mountains between Mojave and Bakersfield .”

“That’s right. Well, for over a week the USAF and several other government agencies closed down the area. No one came in, and no one went out—a total slam down. They deprogrammed the witnesses and residents. They picked up every single piece of that wreckage—every nut and bolt and piece of wire. They sifted the dirt for hundreds of acres until the area was totally clean. People were threatened with federal prison terms. The flag of national security was waved a lot. They were told that they would be watched for years—and that if there were any leaks whatsoever—it would lead to strident reprisals. I was there. I was part of that clean up—that cover up. Imagine how much that cost?”

“Millions—probably.”

“At least—so do you think that the complete removal of a couple of old buildings, some old railroad tracks and boxcars would have been that difficult?” he asked.

“You mean just because I saw them—out there alone that morning?”

“Precisely—but one of the things you did not consider was that while you were watching the craft—you, too, were being watched.”

“From the craft?” I asked.

“Not necessarily,” he replied,”We had developed other stealth “machines” besides the fighters and bombers the public knew about. Imagine the Black Bird—the stealth fighter—but configured in cars and trucks—like those black Ops helicopters that you can barely hear, and only rarely see. At one point, we had even developed a stealth boat, a prototype. A lot of these things were prototypes. The boat was an assault craft, and it worked great—but it never was mass produced for the military. It was just too damned expensive. These craft cost billions to develop—and the technology was off the chart. So, more than likely, you were followed after your sighting—down into Ridgecrest . I’m sure that you were watched for months. When it became obvious that you were not going to the news media—or in any way spreading the “word” of your sighting—you were taken out of an active file, and reduced to “a person of interest.”

“That’s creepy,” I stammered.

“Certainly you know that they would have been informed of your visit to the UFO museum at Roswell —and of your “official” recording of the sighting. Of course they are counting on the nutcase reputation those people at the museum have with the public—that no one of consequence would ever believe you. Nobody will be so incensed by your tale, that they would rush out and do more investigating.”

After that he changed the subject. He was uneasy—like he had talked too much—revealed too much. He had not been a working part of the conspiracy for over 15 years—and yet his training, his programming still was intact. I was surprised that he told me as much as he did.

And then all I could do was smile—on the inside. He was meant to talk to me—to be the messenger—even though he never realized it before we met. It was all true. My experience had been genuine. It had all really happened. It was all real. So, for Christ’s sake---all that speculation in the media, in the movies, and on TV shows like the X-FILES was not misinformation or non-information. Roswell actually happened, and alien technology is real. The truth is out there—hiding in plain sight.

Glenn “Butch” Buttkus 2005