Groom Lake (16 page)

When Professor Eldred fled his house, he left under the assumption that he was being followed. Maybe not by some goon lurking in the shadows, but by technology. They could track him electronically, monitoring his credit card and bank account transactions, and with homing devices on his vehicle if they wanted their classified documents back badly enough. After driving his car to the airport and leaving it in a long-term parking garage, he taxied to an old motel in Westwood Village that didn’t require a credit card and he paid cash for the night. His irreverence for the illicit elements within the federal government grew ever stronger. His dilemma now was wondering whom to trust. Could he trust the FBI man, Grason Kendricks, or was Operation Patriot some sophisticated ruse to get closer to his work and the materials he possessed?

He figured dumping his car at the airport would buy him a few days while the government spooks tried to ascertain his whereabouts. Ultimately he decided that since he had the documents, and was aware he was being watched in some capacity, he also had the advantage. And he would use it to test Grason’s sincerity.

The professor arranged for Grason to sweep his house for bugs. He also told him the documents were safe, and still hidden at the house. If someone again tampered with his special filing cabinet, he would know that Grason and Operation Patriot were no better than the unconstitutional demons in his past.

Refusing to disclose his temporary hotel accommodations, the professor suggested that Grason meet him at Holmby Park, near Westwood, where there was a small pitch-and-put golf course that required little more than a putter off the tees.

At night, imposing eucalyptus trees prohibited streetlights from illuminating the center fairways, so the professor meandered through the dark until he found the fifteenth tee where he seated himself on a splintering bench that begged for fresh paint. The solitude of his location scared him as he strained to see in the dark, into and beyond the shadows.

Ten minutes passed before someone shouted a whisper, “Professor.”

He couldn’t see who called, but replied in the same hushed tone, “Yes.” A man’s silhouette appeared from the trees. “Grason?” he asked, hoping and praying it wasn’t somebody else.

“I’m sorry to keep you waiting,” Grason said. As he approached, a concerned look on his face grew ever more apparent. “Is there anything in your lab besides the anti-gravity documents that someone might be interested in?”

“Nothing I can think of.”

“I don’t understand how I’m already facing a security breach,” Grason said. “I’ve barely started you in this operation.”

“Some of the FOIA documents don’t have a declassified stamp. I’m assuming it was a mistake. Maybe someone realized this and came looking for them.”

With raised eyebrows and a hopeful grin, Grason asked, “Anything relevant or incriminating?”

“Nothing we’re sure of yet. Looking at them is like grabbing a handful of pieces from a jigsaw puzzle and trying to figure out what the entire picture looks like.”

“You’re confident the docs are safe?”

“As long as your team hasn’t disturbed them.”

“I can assure you of that.”

“Then you passed my test.”

Perturbed, Grason wondered, “This scenario has been a test?”

“Oh, no. Some scoundrel broke into my house. I just wasn’t sure if that scoundrel was you.”

Grason tried seeing the professor’s point of view. Given the man’s past, his disdain for a system that had ostracized him, he could appreciate his skepticism. If this is what it took to prove himself and Operation Patriot, then so be it. “If I was interested in spying on you, I would tell you your house is safe. Unfortunately I can’t do that. What concerns me more is that we found two types of listening devices in your home.”

“What do you mean, two types?”

“There were a series of voice activated FM transmitters hidden in your power outlets. Devices someone could buy through mail order catalogs. But there were also more sophisticated devices. A hard-to-come-by brand.”

“Why use two devices?”

“Making an educated guess, I’d say more than one person or group is interested in you. And since the FM transmitters are so amateurish I have to wonder if maybe someone you know might have installed them. Maybe Blake?”

Irritated, “Grason, I trust Blake more than I trust you.”

“Don’t get upset. I’m considering every possibility.”

“So am I.”

“Well I left the bugs in place for the time being.”

“I can’t work like that.”

“We can use them to our advantage. Maybe even find out who put them there.”

“Isn’t that putting us in further jeopardy?”

“We’ve already reached that point. I’m trying to resolve the problem now. That also means putting our arrangement on hold until we know the situation is under control.”

“Great. You bring me in. Get me in hot water. Then leave me to fend for myself.”

“I’m not abandoning you. I just can’t forward you information until I know it’s safe.”

“I’ll still expect payment as we arranged. Blake committed to this project and I can’t leave him in the cold.”

“What has Blake been doing so far?”

“Research, as we discussed. He’s not the problem. In fact, he’s not even in town.”

“If it’s not Blake, then we have two problems to uncover.”

The professor agreed to leave the bugs in place, but didn’t promise to stay at the house, and Grason vowed to remain in close, but guarded, contact. Grason served as the singular link between the professor and Operation Patriot, and didn’t want to lead anyone further up the ladder. What Grason didn’t realize is that by meeting the professor, even after walking the park to make sure they were alone, he exposed himself to watchful eyes. Besides installing listening devices throughout the professor’s house, the Aquarius agents had inserted paper-thin tracking devices under the cushioned inserts of each right shoe in his closet. The motion-activated devices prevented the professor from ever giving Damien Owens’ Aquarius agents the slip.

“Three adult Caucasians. Approximately seventy-five feet from your position and climbing.”

“That sounded like a radio,” Blake said, straining to see through the darkness draping the desert hillside.

Undaunted by the radio chatter, Desmond acknowledged, “Someone’s waiting for us up ahead.” Not bothering to look, he focused on his footsteps and led the group up the first hill, a quick jaunt, ten minutes from where they parked the Suburban. A quartz light affixed to a cinder block building on an adjacent hill increased the ambient light. “That’s the guard station. Notice there aren’t any vehicles parked at the building. That’s because they’re tracking us.” He let his words sink in with the novice base watchers. “Can you guys see the orange posts marking the perimeter?”

No response.

“They’re tough to see in the dark. That’s why you need to stick close to me. We’ll be skirting the perimeter. Every quarter mile, cameras encased in silver balls sit on ten-foot poles, tough to see at night. But if we hike into a ravine and lose the guys on foot, don’t think they aren’t monitoring us.”

“Speaking of the guards,” Blake said, “where’s our friend with the radio?”

“He won’t show himself. From time to time he’ll remind us he’s around. Let’s move on. Freedom Ridge awaits.”

For almost forty years land around the secret air base sat undisturbed. When private citizens began investigating the UFO reports in the area they tested the limits of their public domain, scouring the base’s perimeter like pesky ants searching for a route leading inside a house. In the early nineties, base watchers discovered a small vantage point on public land with an elevation high enough to see into Groom Valley, a plateau with a clear view of the airbase that did not exist. The Air Force never realized the public land had a vantage point or they would have consumed it in earlier land acquisitions. Base watchers coined the name Freedom Ridge for the location.

As the group continued their quest, occasional headlights flashed and engines revved as guards repositioned their Cherokees.

The small footpath carved in the desert from repeated journeys to Freedom Ridge became steeper and rocky as they neared their destination.

“Catch your breath,” Desmond said after they had hiked nearly an hour. “This is the final stretch. And be careful where you put your paws; I don’t like using my snake bite kit.”

With Desmond leading the way, Trevor followed, and Blake took the rear as they ascended single-file over rocks and ankle-twisting crevices.

A softball-sized rock ricocheted off a boulder near Trevor and almost hit his shin. “Careful up there.”

“That rock came from the ridge,” Desmond said. “They’re waiting again.”

“You’re positive that’s public land up there?” Trevor asked.

“I’ve been there dozens of times.”

“What do you say I try introducing myself again?”

“Be my guest.”

Trevor climbed fast up the slope, kicking rocks lose in his wake. As he neared the peak, automatic gunfire destroyed the desert’s silence. Trevor ducked for cover amid the rocks. Back down the hill, Blake took a defensive stance by hunkering down, but Desmond stood tall.

The shots ended as quickly as they started.

• • •

Despite the cloaking abilities of Val Vaden’s Bio Suit, the additional security forces patrolling Area 51’s eastern perimeter made him nervous. Trudging his way north, he searched for a suitable position where he could see across the runway and take clear photographs of the happenings at the base. He had ventured from his usual terrain in Papoose Valley hoping to find evidence of a tunnel that connected the two valleys as his gravity anomaly images seemed to indicate.

Hearing the faint sound of what sounded like automatic weapon fire echoing through Groom Valley made him hesitate his advancement. Throughout his nights and days conducting surveillance at Area 51, he had never heard gunfire. He proceeded slowly, delicately placing each step on the earth, stopping often to scan for sensors.

• • •

Desmond found Trevor face down in the rocks. “You okay?”

Panicked, “Why are they shooting?”

“To scare you.”

“It worked.”

After helping him to his feet, Desmond walked the final few steps up the hill, reaching the ridge first. “It’s all clear.” He shined his Mag light on the ground. “They picked up the shells. Would’ve been a sweet souvenir.”

Reaching the ridge, Trevor’s eyes widened, “Holey crap!”

Blake leaped over the last hurdle of rocks onto the ridge and landed in a bent-knee crouch. As he stood, a distant light caught his attention. Then two. Several. Then he saw hundreds of lights glimmering on the valley floor like a distant mirage, an oasis tucked in what should have been an uninhabited desert basin. The base looked like a city, but lacked any lighted roads connecting it with the rest of the world.

“Somewhere among those lights,” Desmond narrated, “or possibly below them, exist the answers to the greatest lore of the modern era. If mankind possesses any knowledge about extraterrestrial life, it’s down there.”

Noise from the base didn’t reach the ridge. Instead a suspenseful calm filled the air, like in horror movies the moment before a killer struck.

Blake had seen pictures of the base, secretly taken by base watchers and plastered on the internet, but they didn’t capture the drama of the classified community: a town—population 2000—not on any maps, not home to families with grass yards and picket fences, and lacking a roadside sign welcoming visitors. Barracks and dorms replaced houses. Barbed wire and chain replaced picket fences. Roadside signs warned that use of deadly force was authorized.

Desmond spread out a blanket, then studied the public land behind the ridge through night vision. “I see two parked Cherokees.” He walked to the edge facing the base. Across the perimeter, he saw two guards looking at him through night vision of their own. “There’s our tormentors.”

“Are they going to just sit there?” Trevor asked.

“Usually that’s what they do.”

The unwanted visitors sat in silence on Freedom Ridge, watching the base and keeping an eye out for more antics by the guards. Even with binoculars, they were too far from the base—ten miles—to see any significant activity. They needed something to take to the sky.

“You’re not saying much, Blake,” Desmond said.

“That means he’s thinking,” Trevor answered. “Sometimes his methodical brain works so fast he’s in another world. You should’ve seen him growing up. Never stopped asking questions. Why? How come? What for? He drove teachers crazy.”

“You haven’t been as persistent with me,” Desmond said.

“I’m still figuring you out,” Blake replied. “You have a lot of facts in that head of yours. Facts most people, even persistent researchers, would have a tough time uncovering.”

“Don’t you trust me?”

“I have no reason not to. But at the same time, you haven’t explained your ultimate reasons for doing what you do.”

Desmond laughed, “I could make the same argument about you, my friend. But let’s discuss that elsewhere. The bushes have ears out here.”

Two light rays soon beamed across the ridge and dissipated into the sky. An engine downshifted, powering a vehicle up the ridge along a shabby four-wheel drive trail.

Desmond stood, “It’s time you all meet Deputy Doolittle.”

A Blazer crested the ridge and stopped in front of their blanket, close enough that they could feel the engine heat. Strobes atop the roof splashed red and blue light about the ridge. The driver’s door opened and a large star emblem shimmered under the lights. A man wearing plain clothes with a badge and gun fastened to his big-buckle belt, stepped out.

“Desmond Wyatt,” the homegrown deputy sheriff whined. “They got me out of bed to come deal with your annoying ass.”

“Don’t get pissy with me, Deputy. I didn’t ask you to come out here and violate my constitutional rights.”

Annoyed, “Don’t pull that constitutional crap with me tonight. I’m leaving here in five minutes. Cooperate with me and I’ll leave alone. Otherwise, we can discuss the constitutionality of this matter in the morning over some jailhouse coffee.”

“Do what you must and we’ll see if we can oblige.”

Pulling a notepad from his pocket, “Let’s start with your purpose for being out here tonight.” He glanced at the others. “Judging by the age of your followers, I’d say tonight you’re holding a high school astronomy club meeting.”

“That’s it,” Desmond answered. “Don’t be jealous because they’ve gone further in school than you.”

Ignoring the insult, “I can think of better places to stargaze than this mountaintop, and it doesn’t cost the taxpayers money.”

“Yes, but this is the only place in the world to see that constellation that streaks across the sky at mach ten. You know the one I’m talking about. What’s the name they use?” Desmond always toyed with the deputy, trying to force answers about his base contacts and what took place at Area 51. Desmond knew most of the answers, but enjoyed razzing the deputy who was so reluctant to say anything that once he would not even admit to seeing lights from the base.

Perturbed, the deputy said, “I call it a meteor shower.”

“I’ve never heard of a meteor landing on a runway.”

With a discriminating stare, the deputy said. “Let me see some identification.”

Calmly, Blake responded, “Why do you need our ID?”

“Because the government likes to know who’s spying on them. Ya’ll just made the list.”

Blake’s jaw dropped. He never thought there would be such a succinct record of his trip as long as they kept to themselves.

“Have you got something to hide, kid?” the deputy queried.

“I’m not hiding anything. I’m an aerospace buff. I thought I was coming out here to be on public land and not bother anyone. Now you want to put my name in a file. That’s not right. Especially since I’m not doing anything wrong.”

“Leave now and it won’t get any worse. You’ve seen the base. They aren’t going to test anything while you’re up here.”

“Don’t listen to him,” Desmond said. “They won’t shut the base down for us. Once the deputy tells them we don’t have any photographic equipment, they’ll proceed.”

“It’s pretty cool to think we could be forcing a delay,” Trevor said, gladly handing the deputy his driver’s license. “Power to the people,” he chanted, feeling a simpleminded sense of accomplishment by having his name recorded in a government database.

Blake reluctantly obliged with his driver’s license.

After taking their names, the deputy checked Desmond’s pack for camera equipment.

“You owe me one, Deputy,” Desmond said. “I let you search my bag without a warrant.” He turned to the guys, “The deputy here has a tough time getting a search warrant issued to check our possessions on public land when all he is looking for is camera equipment.”

“All I owe you, Desmond, is a swift kick in the ass. Maybe the next time you’re out here alone I’ll see that you get it. Now why don’t you all hop in my Blazer and I’ll drive you back to your vehicle.”

“It’s not happening, Deputy. We’re here for the long haul.”

“Judging by their attitudes tonight, I don’t think it’s going to be a very long haul.”

“Whose attitude?” Desmond asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe the men in black. You’d just better tell these kids what’s in store for them.”

The deputy didn’t say goodbye. He hopped in his Blazer and drove off Freedom Ridge. A few minutes later they saw him on the base, speeding along a dirt road leading back to the guard station.

The nerve-racking peacefulness that served as an intermission between encounters returned. This time with greater trepidation brought on by the deputy’s statements.

Sick to his stomach over the thought of them having his name, Blake asked, “What’s next, Desmond?”

“Nothing. The deputy was trying to scare you. Legally that’s all they can do.”

“I don’t think gun shots are a legal scare tactic.”

“I told you they aren’t concerned about violating your rights, as long as their actions are nothing more than your word against theirs.”

Trevor had been studying the base through binoculars, and noticed a new light in the sky. “Hey! Something just took off vertically from the base.”

Desmond spied the distant light through a pair of standard binoculars. At first glance the white orb appeared to hover, but Desmond knew that was an optical illusion caused by the distance separating him and the light. “It’s coming our way.” He didn’t sound thrilled.

Blake’s excitement dissipated, “From the tone of your voice, I assume it’s not a craft we’re hoping to see.”

Desmond said nothing, concentrating on the light that was still about five miles away. “Son of a bitch!” he exclaimed, showing concern for the first time that evening.

Blake knew if Desmond was worried, they could be in trouble. “What’s wrong?”

“I hoped that once they knew we didn’t have cameras they would leave us alone.” Desmond pulled a gas mask from his backpack, then shooed them off the blanket. “Make sure you have everything and move to the back of the ridge. Get ready to take cover.”

Blake grabbed Desmond’s arm, “What’s happening?”

“They’re determined to get rid of us. That’s a Black Hawk helicopter.”

Whomp. Whomp. Whomp. Noise from the engine’s chopping beat increased. Soon the helicopter’s searchlight reached the ridge, blinding their view of the valley.

“That’s one of those big ass missile carrying mothers,” Trevor screamed. “They’re gonna blast us!”

“They aren’t going to blast us,” Desmond yelled, his voice barely audible over the Black Hawk.

Desmond wrapped the blanket around his body and slid the gas mask over his head. He walked to the ridge’s edge, facing the steel beast head on. Flailing his arms in the air, he yelled under the roar for no one to hear but himself, “Bring it on you rat bastards. Violate my civil rights.”

The Black Hawk reared its nose. The rotor wash blew a cloud of dust and debris onto Freedom Ridge, engulfing Desmond and advancing toward the others like smoke from an explosion. Pebbles, sand and dry dead cactus pieces flew through the air like a hail of bullets.