On Saturday, December 22, 1990, while camping in the Ward Valley, we were approached by a man who claimed to have information of interest to us. This man was alone, on foot, toted a hefty backpack, and weighed upwards of 320 pounds. We had never seen him before. He said his name was Smith.          After some small conversation he got around to the reason for his visit.          "I've been watching you guys for the last three years", he said.          There must have been a moment or two of stunned silence - on our part - for the man was a total stranger. (In our frequent excursions to this isolated area of the Mojave desert - six or seven times a year or as often as possible - we make it a point to keep as far away from sentient creatures as we can. The only signs of humankind we will see, on a good day, are old deserted mines, rusted tin cans, and jet contrails high in the sky.) We don't expect to run into strangers, let alone have them walk into camp and announce that we were the subject of this week's This Is Your Life!                    His next words went something like this:          "I know this is kind of sudden. Don't ask any questions - I can't answer them. I know you guys have been collecting debris. Don't try to deny it. I know you've found some really strange things. If you want to know more - if you want to know what it's all about - I can take you to a fellow collector in the Old Woman Mountains."          There must have followed another one of those long quiet moments where Bill and I feebly attempted to retrace our paths out of The Twilight Zone. The next thing I remember, Smith was smoking a cigar and helping himself to the beer in my cooler.          Of course we tried to grill the man. We encouraged him to suck up all the brew he could in hope of it loosening his tongue. Our questions were numerous:          Are you with the BLM?          Are you with the Feds?          Do you just want us to go away?          Why have you been watching us? How have you been watching us?          What sanitarium did you escape from?          Are you looking for a cow to mutilate?          In truth, the last two questions weren't verbalized - we didn't want to see him go Postal or anything. Nevertheless we both wondered if Smith was in orbit around the wrong planet.          He answered no further questions. Instead he countered each query with a comment about (1) the weather, (2) that crow feeding on a desert tortoise, (3) and the strange shape of that cloud up there.          We did, however, get a quick peek at the contents of his rather massive backpack. At one point - in the midst of his sixth Bass Ale - he un-zipped it and fished around for something. We noted, along with your standard camping gear, a Geiger counter and a very rugged looking hand-held transceiver.                    The next thing we knew, Smith was gone. We didn't see him leave. We didn't even see him prepare to leave. The only physical evidence we had of Smith at all was a hand-drawn map, placed carefully on top of my cooler, weighted down by the six empty bottles of Bass Ale he'd consumed.                    The following month, January 1, 1991, we were poking around Amboy Crater when we found a deck of armored vehicle identification cards. (In essence, these are 2½ inch by 3½ inch flash cards with simple line drawings of vehicles that a soldier will study to promote rapid identification). The cards were slightly dog-eared but in good condition.          I guess we didn't think much of the find at first. We'd both seen these types of cards before. You can purchase unopened decks at swap meets, antique car shows, and gun shows. Then, too, because the USMC Air Ground Training Center covers vast stretches of land to the south and east of Amboy, it is not at all surprising to find military relics.          We tossed the cards into the back of the truck.          Later that day, at camp in the Ward Valley, Bill began thumbing through the deck. I guess he was bored. But within a few moments of his browsing he let out a yelp and hopped to his feet.          "These are foreign military cards!", he shouted. "Russian I think - or maybe French!"          He handed me a fistful of cards and continued guessing at the nationality of the various armored vehicles. I heard him mention British, German, then Chinese.          Now... Bill is vastly more familiar with military equipment than I am. If he said the drawings were of Russian tanks or Chinese APCs - I'd believe him. I'm gullible!          He was muttering something about "prototypes and hybrids" when I flipped a card over. On the backside was printed a short description, some statistics, and the military authority responsible for the card set.          "What's the RLAC?" I asked. He peered at me out of the corner of his eye and then went on naming several countries that I didn't even know had armies.          I tried again. "On the flipside of these cards is printed 'Headquarters, RLAC' with a date of October 1946. These cards are in pretty good shape to be fifty-one years old."                    That got Bill hooked.          Our resolution, two hours later, was that the card set was a hoax.          "Somebody planted these in the desert to mess with some Marine's mind," Bill offered. He couldn't figure out why. Nor could I. And the term "RLAC" was a complete mystery.          We studied the cards well into the evening. Some of the drawings were familiar - since then I've had ample time to study several compendiums of military photographs - yet others appeared to be taken right out of Flash Gordon or some Stainless Steel Rat novel. The printed descriptions and stats were wholly out of scifi - the weaponry was almost entirely energy related: lasers, proton cannons, and magnetic disrupters. We looked for - but did not find - the term 'Phaser'.          The vehicle descriptions - as brief as they were - astounded me. An example is the RLU-A, a low-profile, treaded tank-like monster that could bore tunnels through a mountain. It's scorpion-like 'tail' was tipped with a parabolic projector that transmitted a powerful 'infra-red ray'.          I want one.          Late that evening, as we were drawing up plans to visit the 'fellow collector' Smith had told us about, the desert silence was broken by the thrum of multiple helicopters entering the valley from the east. I guess we were a little nervous that night - for no real reason - and the fact is that, over the years, we had seen dozens of helicopter formations (military) passing through the Ward Valley - but always in daylight. Our mood, this time, prompted us to quickly extinguish the campfire and snuff out the Colemans (like it could make a difference).          We listened to the approaching choppers intently for two to three minutes. We tried to determine their positions with no luck. A moment later all hell broke loose when three of them passed directly over us at fifty to seventy-five feet.          There were no running lights and no markings that we could see. They were long and slim and dark and menacing.          I imagine that this narrative is not the place to talk about the importance of maintaining several sets of clean underwear stowed with your camping gear. So I'll say no more.          Smith showed up fifteen or twenty minutes later.          "You two disappointed me last month," he said quietly.          As shaken as we were, we managed to be cordial.          "What the hell do you want?" I asked.          He smiled tiredly and sat down on my cooler. "By the way," he said, "Thanks for the beer last month."          "We don't have any this trip," Bill said.          Smith decided to get down to business. "You guys found the RLAC Vehicle ID Cards at Amboy this morning," he said.          My chin mashed an ant at my feet.          Bill did a little better than I. "I know what you do," he announced. "You set out there in the desert and listen to us with a parabolic microphone. Don't you!? Why?"          Smith chuckled at that and stood up. "I have my sources," he said. "The General will be open to callers up until noon tomorrow. I hope you still have the map."          Having said that he turned and began walking into the night. Over his shoulder he gave us one more word of advice: "Those choppers that flew up the valley a little while ago really worry me," he said. "Tomorrow may very well be your last window of opportunity to learn the truth."          Then he was gone.          And who in blazes was 'The General"?

NEXT: WE MEET THE GENERAL