Groom Lake

Copyright ©2011 Bryan O
   

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
   

ISBN: 978-0-9848200-0-9
   

Published by MOBO Inc.

www.moboinc.com
   

This is a work of fiction. Agencies, characters, corporations, and organizations are either a product of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously without an intent to portray their actual conduct. However, some factual references are made to historical quotes and situations.

Can a novel be an effective tool for disseminating information? There are artistic license advantages to presenting fact as fiction that would otherwise be unacceptable in a non-fiction book, but why use fiction to present facts? What if the government had decades of mounting secrets and the individuals in charge finally decided it was time to change the directives and make this information known? Certainly a press conference followed by a special-interest-backed congressional feeding frenzy for control of the new information would not serve the public’s best interest. One logical approach might be to disperse the information slowly, using various media outlets that remove the shock value and ease acceptance through a methodical heightened awareness.

The letter on the next few pages is addressed to me as ghostwriter for the character spearheading this story. The challenge presented is discerning if I fabricated the letter for the story, or if the letter, and the novel, were contrived as part of a larger purpose. Regardless of the verdict, readers will finish this book with a heightened awareness of practices and fringe sciences controlled by government factions.

8/6/2007

Dear Bryan,

The past decade has been one of great turmoil as my life executed a tailspin into the doldrums of a solitary and sometimes nomadic existence, a humiliating situation considering that I once soared to the heights of human accomplishment. I literally lost my mind in the process, finding myself incapable of accomplishing anything besides eating and sleeping, and thinking about nothing as I failed to produce the simplest of thoughts.

My story will expose you to some individuals involved deep within the military-industrial complex, which at such a level also becomes the intelligence-industrial complex, because it’s not just the military controlling the game. I guess a more apropos term, or common denominator, is the
shadow government
.

I feel it significant to highlight the difference between individuals deep in the government and those with only lofty positions. Controllers of the shadow government are not necessarily high on the totem pole. Figureheads come and go; some are never involved long enough to understand their jobs. They rely on briefings to subside, briefings that can sometimes be generated from deep within the government and be tailored for a specific purpose—or crafted to leave out specific purposes, as in my situation. But despite being overlooked and left out in the past, I still have a voice, and I am here with a story to tell, a briefing of sorts.

Remember how popular
The X-Files
television series was in the nineties? All the related press that show seemed to generate, and press in general that asked questions about Area 51, the black budget and secret government projects? I haven’t heard a story like that in a great while. But all the military spending for the Iraq crisis and you think none of it was siphoned into special programs? The media is so preoccupied with the politics of the Middle East conflicts that there is rarely time for anything except over-reported court cases and national disasters. Shock value reporting is the culture we live in as new media outlets compete for market share. The war against terrorism has proven to be a good ruse, even if unintended, for the black budget operations that started receiving great scrutiny in the nineties.

So much attention is focused on the Middle East that little is discussed about our greatest future threat, and in order to combat the inevitable conflict our country will face we must enlighten people about the situation. I am grateful we have been paired to present this aspect of the project.

I have read the briefing documents given to you, as well as your suggestions for structuring the story, and feel you will make an excellent ghostwriter. I especially like your idea to keep me anonymous until the final chapters. I also agree that there are many facets to my story and varying political points of view. Telling my story in the third person narrative will allow the reader to make an impartial assessment of the various players, then decide without my influence which individuals, and their respective ideologies, might be right or wrong. I suppose people will receive a bit of a history lesson about the shadow government in this process, and have a better understanding of who they are, why they are, and where they are.

I urge you to focus on the two phases of my story, the first taking place in the summer of 1994, when I became directly and indirectly linked to a number of individuals in what I think of as a pot of fate stew that was left out to spoil. The result of our collective relationships was mentally troubling, and many readers may regard my claims as outlandish, but hopefully you can convince them to bear with my story as you tell the second phase, summer of 2004, and the impending new threats these fringe technologies present.

I’m content having my story told in a fictional context, as it leaves an out for all involved should the contents of this book lead to congressional inquiries or sanctions. They will never let my true identity be revealed anyhow, so long as my mind still possesses coordinates and details desired by our enemies.

I agree with your suggestion to use this letter as part of the introduction, but I must say getting my thoughts on paper has been arduous, and you will certainly need to edit my prose.

An astute reader may likely surmise my role in the story as the pages progress, but they will be challenged to decipher who becomes my ally in the waning pages before I am revealed.

Sincerely,

The Wormmeister

BASE BUILDERS
February 1955

Inside a single-engine airplane, three men, disguised in makeshift hunting outfits, held tight through bump and thump turbulence, saying little while they observed the changing desert terrain below. The plane’s propeller contrasted the verbal silence with a whirling high-pitched whine, different from the deep rumble of larger and faster planes the men typically flew. The small plane, however, was better suited for the low profile and remote landing required on this mission.

White butcher paper had been taped over the tail numbers before takeoff to hide the plane’s identity.

The light craft surfed turbulent air pockets that tossed it about while heading east over California’s Mojave Desert. The men filled the conversational void with anticipatory thoughts about their destination, each hoping the site would serve their purpose.

After crossing into Nevada airspace, the pilot navigated over a series of sparsely vegetated mountain ranges, natural barriers protecting isolated, high desert valleys. Approaching ever closer to the destination, each man studied with greater intensity the desolate terrain below, comprised of sand, desert scrub and Joshua Tree cacti; the most appealing aspect was the absence of humanity. Civilization had ignored this region, thanks to the federal government controlling much of the land.

The pilot battled moderate wind turbulence with relaxed austerity, but suddenly, as if hitting an invisible wall, an air pocket sent the plane plummeting twenty feet. Tight seatbelts prevented the men from smashing headfirst into the ceiling. They gripped the walls and dash, but none panicked. The men weren’t concerned with the turbulence because they knew it was cyclical; the desert winds could be equally tranquil. And the objects they wanted to fly above the Southern Nevada desert, if the site met their ex
pectations, would be at altitudes greater than any known plane flew—far above mountain turbulence, storms or commercial air traffic.

Seated in the copilot’s position and masked by a pair of dark aviator sunglasses was the CIA official in charge of a top-secret program codenamed AQUATONE. The men’s names were less significant compared to their mission, an endeavor that would shape the future of America’s military-industrial complex.

Although the men were dressed to hunt, no animals remained to be hunted where they were going. The deer and sheep that once inhabited the high desert region suffered slow skin-burning deaths in radiation storms several years prior, the aftermath of nearby nuclear warhead detonations at the Atomic Energy Commission’s Proving Grounds. (The name was later changed to the Nevada Test Site and the Atomic Energy Commission was incorporated into the Department of Energy.)

The pilot descended to several hundred feet above the mountaintops, too low to see more than one valley at a time. Craning his neck so his left cheek was against the cockpit glass, he eyed the valley floor below, carpeted with acres of pristine white sand.

The plane eased to a stop at the southwestern end of a waterless lakebed listed on maps as Groom Lake. The pilot’s clean landing left a dust trail but wasn’t much shakier than putting down on a paved runway.

The men stepped from the plane onto a compact, sandy surface, unlike a beach where the grains are loose and anything of significant weight plowed downward. The dry lakebed sprawled over three miles wide at center and stretched eight miles long. Clear of natural debris, the only interruptions to the wind-generated waves in the sand were scattered shell casings and shrapnel—a correctable hindrance—from when the land had been used as a bombing range.

The CIA agent produced a fisherman’s hat from his pocket, part of his hunting garb, and pulled it low on his head so that the bill touched his sunglasses. With the added protection from the sun he had a better view into the distance. “Where’s that dirt road lead?” he asked, pointing at a shabby trail that disappeared into the mountains.

“It connects this valley with the Proving Grounds to the west,” the pilot said. “We can deal with the AEC about controlling access. Other than that, you’ve got to fly into this valley. Nearest settlement is thirty miles south: Alamo. Maybe fifty people. They don’t venture up this way though. Too afraid of the radiation.” He cast his hand in the direction of the Proving Grounds, unconcerned with radiation exposure in this valley.

“How far away is Las Vegas?”

“Straight shot, it’s about a hundred miles southwest from here.”

“Town’s growing … I guess it’s far enough away not to be of any concern.”

They began a roundabout walk, strolling past shrapnel and through wisps of dust, three men—hunters—who had captured what they were looking for. They discussed the advantages of the site: the length of the lakebed that would provide for a long runway; the proximity of the nuclear Proving Grounds that would allow them to label the valley as radioactive; the restricted air space above the Proving Grounds that could be expanded to cover Groom Lake; and how on paper they could make it look like the land was used by either the Atomic Energy Commission or the Air Force, not the CIA.

The agent turned three-sixty, surveying the lifeless valley. “When we get back, I’ll notify Dulles that we found a site.”

Allen Dulles, Director of Cent
ral Intelligence, had authority over AQUATONE, the CIA funded development of a reconnaissance aircraft capable of flying at seventy thousand feet. The technological result of AQUATONE was the U2 Spyplane. The ideological result of AQUATONE’s classified parameters, shadow operations and disguised funding was a seed, planted in the Southern Nevada desert, which spawned a new realm in American government: the black budget.

For over a decade the general received calls similar to one of three hours ago, and like before, he put everything else aside and boarded a plane. This time the emergency required his presence at Montauk Air Force Station located on the eastern tip of Long Island. Experience had led the general and his eleven confidants to develop procedures that prevented security leaks. As a result, he wouldn’t know specifics until he arrived.

Originally the Army controlled the Montauk installation, constructing a facility called Camp Hero before World War II. The Air Force took possession in the early fifties and constructed a radar system that helped guard against possible Cold War attacks, but that had nothing to do with the general’s mission, nor did the branch of service operating the facility have any relevance; he reigned wherever he traveled on these matters.

After landing, the general’s plane maneuvered to a guarded hangar where the mystery was being stored. With the plane still easing to a stop, the general flung the door open, revealing himself dressed in common fatigues instead of his usual high profile uniform. The questions started when his boot touched the tarmac. “How many people know?” he barked.

“A containable amount, sir,” saluted a colonel, the commanding officer at Montauk.

Not concerned with names or introductions, the general blazed past that man and three others, all following as he swooped upon the nearest MP guarding the hangar. “What are you guarding, son?”

“This hangar, sir!”

“What’s in the hangar?”

“I haven’t been advised, sir!”

“Have you heard any stories? Anybody been talking about what’s in there?”

“Sir, no, sir!”

“Good. If anybody does talk, beat them with your gun.”

Next, the general stopped in front of the hangar’s sliding doors and faced the group of four acting as his shadow. “Who found it?”

The youngest of the group, barely a man, tightened the muscles in his chest, thrusting it forward to give his most respectful stance of attention. “I was first to see it up close, SIR. A civilian phoned the base just after dawn and said one of our boats was loose in the waves off his beach. Rolled ashore just as I got there to investigate.”

Reading the nametag of the next man in the group, the general said, “Lieutenant Kendricks. What’s your involvement in this?”

“I was the first officer on the beach, sir.”

The third man, watching the general eyeball him, felt nervous, knowing it was his turn to speak. He didn’t know the general but figured he was awesomely powerful to be handling situations like this. The fact that he came alone, without an assistant, made him even more intriguing. “I’m the colonel’s assistant,” he offered.

“Have you seen it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I want you to compile a list of everyone who has seen, heard, or might have heard about this. I want them all confined to base. Included on that list I want phone numbers, addresses, hometowns, and names and addresses of their immediate families. If word of this reaches beyond the present circle, that list will help us trace it back to the source. Understood?”

“Yes, sir!”

“You’re dismissed.” Not wanting to touch anyone or anything, the general turned to the colonel and said, “I can’t enter this hangar through closed doors.”

Inside the spacious hangar, a dozen soldiers stood guard equal distance around the perimeter. The general surveyed the situation, admiring the camouflage netting hung from the rafters and used as curtains to hide the young airman’s finding. “I commend your handling of the situation thus far colonel, but was it necessary to curtain off such a large area?”

“Thank you, sir. It’s a rather large object,” the colonel said in a respectful, Arkansas drawl—the emphasis on
larrrge
. The colonel was content speaking as little as possible. He had heard rumors about the general—none he dared repeat—and wanted him gone as quickly as he came, along with the object.

The general started a slow but deliberate pace toward the curtain. His boots made the only sound in the hangar, and to the onlookers, the echoing of his footsteps off the rafters and walls furthered the impression that they were in the presence of a mighty man. The others broke from their trance and followed, then stopped when the general stopped, a few paces short of the camouflage curtain.

“Colonel,” the general said, quietly enough to keep his words from reaching the men around the perimeter, “they instructed you to check for radiation?”

“Yes, sir. The readings were negative.”

Spotting a break in the curtains, the general slipped through. His body language gave no clue about thoughts the object provoked from him. All he offered was a dead stare. Fighting in World War II had hardened him. Nothing riled his emotions, not even the thought of his own death, for he had seen death before. Anything less he considered a part of life’s challenges. That was all this was to him—a challenge. For a moment, he wished it had stayed at sea—sank to the bottom of the ocean—but realized he was taking the situation for granted. Having the object wash ashore so close to military property spared him the agony of keeping civilians quiet—a simple
thank you
letter would suffice in this case.

The other three men had followed the general through the break in the curtain and were standing quietly behind him, staring in wonderment at the object.

The young airman’s naiveté led him to believe that since he discovered it on the beach, he had a right to ask questions about it. “Do you know what it is, sir? Russian probably—don’t you think?”

“Supposing I knew what this was, I wouldn’t tell you, son,” the general said.

“The object has a unique alloy, sir,” Lieutenant Kendricks said. “As you can see, it’s a dull silver now, but when you touch it, the surrounding area becomes vibrantly colorful.”

“I thought it was a big fat missile at first,” the airman admitted, “Not that I don’t think that now. I don’t know what to think.”

“Lieutenant Kendricks,” the general said, “you and the airman are dismissed.” He kept his distance from the cylindrical object, not concerned with climbing on top, nor in peering through the jagged side where it looked to have broken off from an even larger object. The current location wasn’t a suitable environment for studying it. Besides … the general knew an engine when he saw one.