Well, I’ve been reading all about the Wall Street Journal’s incredible blockbuster story revealing the Pentagon’s UFO disinformation machinery, and you know what I thought?
Jeez, that pulp-fiction book Flying Saucers, published in 2014 and revised various times since, predicted the whole Pentagon UFO disinformation machine.
Here are the relevant passages:
From page 72, Flying Saucers:
“It’s bloody brilliant!” he said. “A breakthrough that seems so much more advanced than anything on the planet couldn’t possibly be from the U.S. military. A program more secret than the Manhattan Project. A decades-long government disinformation scheme to convince everyone that flying saucers are alien spacecraft. There’s never been any real media investigation, you know.”
Page 104, Flying Saucers:
There were other intriguing clues about the secret project, including lofty suggestions that a new class of “gravity engines” could change the face of civilization, offering everything from levitating cars and trains to interplanetary spacecraft.
“The jet engine will soon be obsolete,” one aviation doyen proclaimed in an article in 1955, jubilantly adding, “We are on the verge of fielding an entirely new type of transportation technology that will usher in the space age.”
Various industry big shots concurred. They said the nation was close to perfecting antigravity propulsion, and their comments were published in aviation magazines. Sensational remarks attributed to CEOs from several prominent military contractors; the corporate cognoscente who had provided the bulk of U.S. air power for World War II and were now in the forefront of advances in jet turbines and rocketry. Heavy hitters in the fast-emerging military-industrial complex.
One of the articles was a sensational cover story illustrated with a drawing that depicted a sleek wingless craft floating a few feet off the ground, its hatch swung open and stairs extended invitingly. A headline, in sixty-point Bodoni bold, screamed “The Gravity Engines are Coming!” A subhead followed, “A New Class of Vehicles Will Travel Faster Than Light.”
The article quoted a reputable aviation-industry executive.
“Because the propulsion mechanism is based on gravity, its occupants will feel no G forces, much like people on Earth do not feel the tremendous speed of the planet as it whizzes through space,” he explained. “Whereas pilots in conventional jet aircraft pass out if they try to pull more than a few G’s, these super anti-gravity planes will be able to cruise far faster than is humanly possible in today’s aircraft.”
Someone stuck the article in Vannevar Bush’s mailbox, and he nearly choked on his smoldering briar pipe when he read it. As head of Majestic Twelve, it was his job to keep such rumors under wraps. The MIT-trained electrical engineer had administered the most covert research programs in American history.
Under his guidance, the United States developed and deployed instruments that turned the tide of World War II. Radar and the proximity fuse chief among these new weapons. He had ably skippered the Manhattan Project and relentlessly fought to protect America’s atomic secrets, even as Roosevelt sought to share nuclear know-how with the British.
Now, alarmed by the public outing of antigravity, Bush formulated a policy of secrecy and disinformation to squelch any official indiscretions and neutralize high-level gossip. The hammer came down, and it came down hard. Key industry leaders were summoned to a series of tense high-level meetings with Bush and company. The gatherings were preceded by a sharply worded memo hand-delivered to every person invited.
Under National Security Council letterhead, it was signed by a four-star general and contained the following message:
“On authority of the National Security Council and the National Security Act of 1947 all information regarding MAJESTIC must remain in the confidence of proper federal personnel and must not be discussed openly. Divulging any information pertaining to MAJESTIC will carry the most severe penalty mandated by military law. The special circumstances mandated under this project require that all documents and hardware be housed in prescribed federal facilities.”
It may have been couched in bureaucratic mumbo jumbo, but the salient point was this: If you ever, ever talk about this the best possible outcome will be that you will live the rest of your life in prison.
From page 139, Flying Saucers:
Donald W. Johnson, Ph.D. in communication theory, was a tall, imposing, chain-smoking man with a resonant, erudite-sounding voice. He would have thrived in academia, but he opted instead for a life of anonymous service to the U.S. government.
Oh, he was paid very handsomely, in both monetary and figurative terms: a true patriot. Yet his brilliant application of communication concepts never would be published in the scientific literature or described in textbooks. His pivotal contributions would remain hidden between the lines of history.
Johnson was a specialist, a master of mendacity who led efforts to engineer the UFO disinformation machinery. It all started way back in the 1950s, when he was a young post-doctoral fellow at a federally funded think tank. Ever since that nasty rumor circulated that the saucers over Washington might have been manufactured by Boeing as part of some mysterious U.S. defense project, Majestic Twelve recognized that a professional “perception management” campaign would be needed to mislead the public.
Still fresh from the hallowed halls of Harvard University, the feds tapped Johnson to lead a group of propagandists tasked with forging an indelible link between aliens and flying saucers through popular media. Moviemakers had already started this association all by themselves in the 1956 science fiction film Earth Vs. The Flying Saucers. It was one of the first times Johnson could remember seeing aliens depicted as macrocephalic extraterrestrials, an image that would later morph into the iconic “greys” of UFO lore and mythology.
He had studied the greatest philosophers and communication theorists: Socrates and Plato, McLuhan and Chomsky. Now he distilled their pearls of wisdom into an intoxicating brew of disinformation, feeding it like nectar to an eager populace.
Dr. Johnson harnessed the expertise of his skilled staff to manipulate the public mind. His team gained access to the impressionable underbelly of the American psyche by engaging its universal angst and insecurities and employing McLuhan’s maxim: The medium is the message. They used vivid images in film and TV programs to engrave the association between aliens and flying saucers on the mass mind. For the various print media, they appealed to more intellectual sensitivities: the human obsessions with fantasy, paranoia and conspiracy thinking.
The disinformation program represented a natural evolution in a long history of authority sponsored propaganda. Messages designed to foster a pseudoreality bolstered by simple stereotypes and emotional impressions to channel the communal subconscious, corral the bewildered herd. Operating under the mundane-sounding Division of Information Services, it was an effort the likes of which hadn’t been seen since Woodrow Wilson’s Committee on Public Information, an assemblage of the leading persuasion and propaganda experts charged with selling World War I to a wary electorate.
The most effective messages in any such effort were usually rooted in something inherently unsettling: eternal damnation; an alien threat; imminent demise.
The universal driver was fear.
A fear powerful and pernicious, a fear Dr. Johnson thought was nearly palpable. He could almost feel it pulsating among the masses while riding the subway to and from work. Always there. Omnipresent yet unseen.
An energy source waiting to be tapped. He sensed it while observing others reading their newspapers and magazines, their trite tabloids. That’s why Dr. Johnson, a man of considerable means owing in large part to family wealth, insisted on taking the subway to work nearly every day. Mentally recording the facial expressions, the body language, the nervous conversations. They were like laboratory mice to him.
Or possibly even less significant: paramecia. He likened his manipulations to a rudimentary biology experiment often performed by undergraduates. The task was to introduce a viscous medium onto a microscope slide full of the tiny aquatic critters. You see, paramecia swim too fast for students to observe their ciliated locomotion, but you could slow them down by adding the syrupy liquid to their environment. The disinformation was not unlike that sticky medium: impede cognition so that people never really make the connection between the military and flying saucers.
The entire affair would have all been so comical if it weren’t such serious business, he often thought with sadistic delight: to watch the people squirm. Johnson and his staff had no idea whether flying saucers existed. They didn’t care. Their job was only to make people associate them with strange and frightening creatures from other worlds. To this end they grooved their imagery into the fabric of existing mainstream culture, then sat back and watched with a detached scientific curiosity at what unfolded.
One simple message reverberated from a constant background drumbeat of the concepts they cultivated: Aliens ride in flying saucers.
This overarching theme was muddled because the public initially gave some credence to the idea that human engineers, not aliens, were behind the saucers, a sentiment that had existed ever since one crashed in the New Mexico desert in 1947. General Hap Arnold, the putative father of the U.S. Air Force, let slip that the discs could be “a development of United States scientists” that had not yet been perfected.
Any such associations between saucers and the military, subconscious or otherwise, must be expunged, or, at the very least, overlaid with the alien-saucer paradigm.
Dr. Johnson measured his success by what he read, watched and heard. Always tweaking the messages, the “products” generated by his office. The DIS exploited mainstream culture like a sharp instrument to promote the ET-flying saucer myth. Johnson’s crack team of media experts, psychologists, literary scholars, sociologists, linguists, journalists, advertising and communication wonks would do a number on the American psyche.
It was a scientific bastion for the nation’s best liars. Most central to their modus operandi was the fundamental truism that propaganda is most powerful when least conspicuous. Specialists wrote military reports debunking high-profile UFO events. These were masterpieces of deception, filled with mounds of technical jargon and falsified data sculpted into plausible, workaday explanations for the most potentially dangerous sightings, encounters that might lead people to finally start putting two and two together.
Handwriting experts at DIS forged the signatures of everyone from Albert Einstein to Ronald Reagan, their names appearing impressively in reports, memos and dispatches. Documents, photos, reports, illustrations. They did it all, a one-stop shop for disinformation; planting their seeds of subterfuge, then watching them sprout and take root. They provided nourishment over the years with granules of half-truths precisely packaged and distributed for maximum effect.
The greatest concoctions were the well-crafted reports and books and the fabricated witnesses linking flying saucers to alien visitors, and, by extension, to the lunatic fringe. This was a substantial body of work, a brilliant compendium of stealth marketing.
Well, there you have it, Flying Saucers predicted the Pentagon scheme to deceive the public about UFOs. Yet another example of fact mirroring fiction.