Groom Lake

by Bryan O

  Val figured at most, this man’s tax dollars might have paid for the seat. The black circles were photovoltaic cells that absorbed enough solar energy in 10-minutes to power the ATV’s flywheel battery for over an hour at full thrust.

  Paying the old man, Val said goodbye.

  “You didn’t give me a chance to tell you about Area 51.”

  “I thought you didn’t have anything to say.”

  “I’ll tell you this: if you’re outside late at night, keep your eyes on the sky. You might not hear anything, but sometimes you’ll see things.”

  • • •

  Val turned his truck and trailer off Highway 95 onto a two lane road—Mercury Highway—the only public access point to the Nevada Test Site, a desert region that served as the Department of Energy’s (DOE) 1,350-square-mile outdoor laboratory. America’s nuclear proving grounds. Unpopulated regions removed from public domain surrounded the region, creating a total blanket of 5,400-square-miles under government control that included the Test Site’s eastern neighbor, Area 51.

  As part of his training for Operation Patriot, Val had taken a public tour of the Test Site. The DOE offered a 300-mile round trip bus tour from its Las Vegas office. The tour included a stop at the Test Site’s main command center where Val had seen a large wall map of the region. They did not allow note taking, so he memorized the location of a remote guard shack and access road leading to Groom Lake. The wall map also indicated a small research camp near Groom Lake, outside the Test Site boundaries. When Val asked the purpose, the DOE tour guide emphatically stated that the area belonged to the Air Force and he knew nothing about it. Funny, Val thought at the time, whenever the Air Force was asked about the land, they said it belonged to the DOE.

  The Test Site entrance looked like a border crossing. A large carport covered a road that widened to multiple lanes in both directions. Each lane had a booth manned by armed guards in desert fatigues who inspected every vehicle. Val eased to a stop at one of the booths and produced a license from his wallet. “My name is Charles Eckert. I’m a researcher from San Diego. I’m conducting water table experiments at Area 3.”

  Unlike a heedless convenience store clerk fearful of insulting customers by scrutinizing their identification, the guard held the license next to Val’s face and compared the two. After several agonizing seconds he turned the license at an angle and wiggled it, checking for a hologram of the state seal. “I’ll run you through the computer.”

  Scientists routinely studied groundwater movement at the Test Site, focusing on tritium, a radioactive element in the soil. Tritium spread from nuclear detonation sites approximately one-inch per year and had a 10,000-year half-life. Because of the Test Site’s massive size, the spreading radiation posed no threat to Nevada’s populated regions, nor any of the eleven operating wells that comprised the Test Site’s water system. However, studies continued, verifying that unknown factors were not accelerating or altering the water table expansion.

  The guard handed Val a badge and papers to sign, disclaimers and notification of the Test Site’s radioactive nature, then asked, “Why does someone from San Diego care about water table movement in Nevada?”

  The guard had no business discussing Test Site research, but Val didn’t want trouble. “Contingency planning,” he said. “The Navy is updating a lot of ships to nuclear power and a couple are stationed in San Diego. Someone at the city wants independent data documenting potential damage if there’s ever a leak.” Fortunately that satisfied the guard’s curiosity because Val knew little about water tables other than some key discussion points; Grason had arranged his cover.

  Once Val drove through the checkpoint he was in Mercury, Nevada, a government-owned town with everything from a motel and movie theater to fire station and post office. Mercury Highway wound through the small town that looked more like a military base, with barracks and Quonset huts spread about cinder block buildings.

  In 1992, a moratorium on nuclear testing reduced the number of employees at the Test Site from 8,000 to 2,400. Remaining employees at the Test Site worked in a stand-down mode: maintaining equipment, monitoring radiation and managing toxic waste disposal sites. Some worked above ground, others below. A tunnel system, 25-feet in diameter, sprawled underneath parts of the Test Site.

  Before continuing, Val double-checked his map. For reference purposes the land was segregated into a hodgepodge of numbered regions, called areas, with no apparent method to their layout. Area 3, Val’s destination, bordered the Papoose Mountain Range, part of Area 51. The security along the Area 3 and Area 51 border was minimal compared to patrols covering the public land at Area 51’s front entrance.

  Val followed Mercury Highway over twenty miles of dry barren desert until he reached Area 3’s western boundary and turned onto a dirt road for five dusty miles. Traveling across the Test Site gave Val an eerie feeling. The desert looked serene, but was home to mass destruction. He passed toxic potholes 1,000 feet across and barbed wire fences with radiation warning signs that circled contaminated soil. Abandoned structures, some in tact, others missing walls or reduced to scrap piles, were scattered about, destroyed to study the impact of above-ground blasts on populated areas. The underlying tone everywhere Val looked: horrific death.

  The dirt road ended at an abandoned water well, pumped dry in the eighties. He parked his truck and started setting a base camp. Nothing fancy, a table, tent, folding lounge chair and a tarp he hung on poles for shade. Area 3 offered Val privacy. The nearest facility was the Radioactive Waste Management Site, a burial ground for toxic waste, with little activity. The DOE granted Val access to multiple sights outside Area 3 for research purposes. If someone stopped by to check on him, they would not be alarmed if he wasn’t there.

  He relaxed in his lounge chair and sucked down all the water he could fit in his stomach. His life support system would reduce the water his body required, but due to his extended journeys—several days away from the base camp—he needed to replenish his supply in the field. On his first trip, Val had dug water troughs throughout Area 51. He placed buckets in each trough and surrounded them with cut cacti, then covered the holes with plastic and placed a rock in the center, over the bucket, creating downward angles from the sides. Condensation from the cacti built underneath the plastic, gathering below the rock and dripping into the bucket. Each trough could provide a gallon of water per day.

  Val had a few hours before dark and spent some time reviewing the gravity anomaly images Grason had given him. He compared readouts from Area 51 with the Test Site. Dark red areas suggested possible underground cavities because of a difference in density. The Test Site had plenty. They looked like worms; the DOE’s tunnels. Area 51 appeared to have two masses: one at Groom Lake and another near Papoose. A dark red line connected the two masses, possibly a tunnel. Val knew they had an underground facility near Papoose Lake because he saw a craft land there on his first expedition. But he never saw signs of vehicles or equipment in the vicinity. If the gravity anomaly images were correct, the Papoose facility was reached through a 10-mile tunnel, like a subway, from the Groom Lake base. A feasible theory, Val knew. On its web page in early 1994, the DOE boasted their tunneling abilities and featured images of a tunnel boring machine: a locomotive with teeth that ate the ground by cranking and churning hundreds of steel bits, busting up rocks while high pressure water lines blasted away dirt.

  The Air Force long denied the existence of underground facilities at Area 51, claiming the proximity to the Test Site and radioactive fallout made the land unsafe for human occupancy. As Val sat in his lounge chair, closer to nuclear blast sites than anyone at Area 51, he knew the excuse was bogus. They had created a smoke screen, a believable and fear-mongering ruse to keep the location secure for generations.

  Val’s nocturnal excursions through the Nevada desert were as much a mental challenge as they were physically trying. Like scuba diving and snow skiing, the dangers of hiking remote areas were intensified when done alone.
His success relied upon an ever-present mental fortitude. A night of hiking left him as exhausted mentally as it did physically. He prepared himself for each night’s journey with hours of meditation, relaxing his mind and envisioning a successful mission.

  This mission’s solitude and elements didn’t scare Val. He was born on the Bayou and spent his formative years exploring swamps and learning to cope with snakes and gators. When he wasn’t surveying the outdoors, Val was often with his father or grandfather, both FBI agents before him who instilled in Val their pride and respect for the Bureau and the duties that accompanied being an agent. Val felt the pressure of living up to the solid reputations established by his lineage, and considered each step he took in the desert as building his career and solidifying his family’s legacy.

  As the sun set on the Test Site, evening shadows invaded Val’s base camp. With his mind in the proper mental state, it was now time to prepare his body. He stripped naked and showered in the open campsite using a water jug, savoring every droplet of water that caressed his sweat and dust laden skin, knowing it would be the last time he felt the refreshing sensation for several days. Exposing himself also served his mental conditioning, making him feel one with nature, a natural part of the environment; Val was not visiting Area 51, he was becoming one of its inhabitants.

  Now he was ready to transform, ready to become bionic. He had laid the Bio Suit’s components across the floor of the tent. First he slipped into the inner lining, consisting of thermal absorbing material that drew heat from the body. Woven into the lining were hundreds of thin pliable tubes that circulated 75-degree water around the body like veins carrying blood, and lowered his body’s core temperature.

  A second thermal shell overlapped the first, but instead of life support, the water-filled tubes served a counter surveillance function. The outer shell’s temperature varied to match the external air temperature, preventing Val’s body from generating a significant heat signal and camouflaging him from night vision or more advanced thermal imaging surveillance systems.

  Shoulder casings, smaller than a football player’s shoulder pads, protected a computerized control system. Battery packs housed under casings on his thighs made him look like a bulky weight lifter—thin foldable solar sheets were used during the day to recharge the batteries while Val hid in bunkers.

  Val lifted a casing on his left forearm that exposed a small keypad and LED display. He entered a code and the system initialized.

  Removing a helmet from its carrying case, he slipped it over his head and wiggled it to a comfortable position before connecting its water tubes and power cord to the shoulder casing. Finally he zipped and clasped the suit across his chest.

  A voice activated microphone processed basic commands so Val could input instructions on the move and not fuss with the keyboard. “Headset on,” he said. The computer lit a head-up display on the helmet’s face shield. Small readouts above and below Val’s field of vision displayed information like a computer screen.

  The final complement to Val’s ensemble: a frayed burlap poncho. Primitive, but effective against the naked eye.

  With the night vision in his helmet guiding the way, Val drove the ATV across a dark desert valley toward the Papoose Mountains where he would hide it under a camouflage tarp then continue on foot.

  PART 4

  IS THE TRUTH

  REALLY OUT THERE?

  CHAPTER 26

  Blake approached any new situation methodically, taking extra precautions not to overlook details that would leave him unprepared. Venturing to Area 51 presented a horde of new challenges to consider where previous life experiences didn’t exist and couldn’t be drawn upon. He purchased a desert survival book, maps and Nevada tourism brochures to help educate himself for the desert journey. But his gravest concern stemmed from disobeying Professor Eldred’s orders not to go. He spent several long distance jogs along the beach pondering what events might alert the professor of his journey. Aside from somehow being arrested, he figured the next greatest threat came from the license plates on their vehicle. Desmond was reluctant to drive for that reason, claiming his plates would bring them immediate and unwanted attention, which only compounded Blake’s concerns about the trip. So he needed to do something about the plates.

  A horn blared from the street in front of Blake’s apartment. He walked out to see Trevor attempting to parallel park a Chevy Suburban that would be their means of transportation. Trevor stopped long enough to roll down the window, “Look at this badass vehicle. It’s loaded.” He shifted the car into reverse and tried to finagle the proper angle that would allow a clean parallel maneuver, but ran the back tire into the curb. “Screw it,” he yelled to Blake. “Grab the bags and let’s go pickup the alien hunter.”

  To alleviate his concerns about the plates being traced to him, Blake arranged to rent an SUV through a company that specialized in providing vehicles to the entertainment industry for filming. Their records weren’t stored in a mainframe computer like the major car rental companies. As an added buffer, Trevor put the vehicle in his name. In exchange for the favor, Trevor insisted that Blake buy him a six-pack of beer for the ride to Vegas.

  “Can I have one of those beers?” Desmond asked from the backseat once they were on the freeway and Trevor cracked open the first can from his shotgun position in the front seat.

  Appreciating anyone who drank beer in the morning, Trevor passed him a can.

  As they neared Barstow—the halfway point between Los Angeles and Las Vegas—Blake realized that Trevor and Desmond had finished the beer. “Hey, we have a serious hike ahead of us tonight.”

  “It’s not that serious if you’ve done it as much as me,” Desmond bragged, his senses easing just a bit from his three-beer buzz. Having made the hike countless times, he knew what was in store, and like most who drank frequently, Desmond didn’t think the alcohol affected his senses.

  “So, Blake said you got us a casino rate at the hotel,” Trevor interjected. “What’s your game?”

  “I don’t bet much,” Desmond replied. “I’ve got contacts at The Sands.” He paused momentarily, wondering if he should elaborate, and figured what the heck? “There was a time—it could still be going on in some capacity—when certain defense contractors made monetary contributions to the Pentagon.”

  “Payoffs?” Blake asked.

  “We called them nickel jobs. I was the bagman. They would send me to Nellis on some smokescreen Air Force project and I’d get a room at The Sands. I’d stay for a few days and have as many as a half dozen visitors delivering money to my room. I must have carried a million in cash over the years. Anyways, I lived it up at the hotel, making a few friends in the back office.”

  Blake gave him a discerning look through the rearview mirror.

  “Don’t look so surprised,” Desmond told him. “Mobsters come in a variety of shapes and sizes, including a few in military uniforms.” He leaned his head back and rested his eyes, hoping the alcohol would put him to sleep for a while and he could forget about his recent tangles with the government.

  CHAPTER 27

  The morning sun seeped into Professor Eldred’s family room where he was still asleep on a sofa that had become his permanent bed. Clutched in his arm was a feather pillow that comforted him in his sleep as his wife once did. Rousing, he sensed Constance’s soft touch caressing his face. Opening his eyes, he still felt her touch, crawling down his neck. Swatting at the sensation, he scooped a roach that had been exploring his body. Disgusted, he threw it.

  His son had encouraged him to sell the large home; cash in on his ocean view investment and move somewhere more manageable. He even offered to come visit and help organize for a move, but the professor said no. Too ashamed of the way he had let the house deteriorate, and that was when it still looked admirable. Now he could never let his son in.

  At the kitchen counter, he poured a glass of Ensure, then personalized it with a shot of Kahlua. He continued to study his living conditions
in dismay, and noticed sunlight squeezing through the curtains. They weren’t like that yesterday, he thought. He hadn’t touched them. Could it have been Blake? The professor decided to ask Blake if he’d used the sliding glass door, then remembered he wasn’t coming in today. He couldn’t understand how the curtains became askew. Certainly nobody else has been here. Pouring another glass of Ensure, he personalized it even more this time. His files. He needed to check his files.

  Inside his lab, he walked straight to a large, fire-proof cabinet in the corner. Yesterday, he and Blake spent the day on campus with a mathematician who helped them crunch some formulas. It had been over a day since he opened this cabinet; the cabinet where he kept his most cherished documents. The cabinet’s lock required a special key with a half-inch extension at the tip. He inserted the key in the lock, but it stopped short. Jiggling it didn’t help.

  The lock looked like a typical tumbler bolt design, but was actually two locks, one behind the other—same keyhole. The key’s extension, with delicately engraved notches, unlocked a second tumbler that opened a trap door in the cabinet’s floor. If anything but the key was inserted in the lock, a small plate dropped between the first and second tumblers, jamming the floor release and warning that someone had tampered with the keyhole.

  Beginning to panic, he ran his hand along the top of the cabinet, felt a piece of cellophane tape and retrieved it. The tape had turned purple, a chemical reaction caused when the sticky side was exposed to oxygen for longer than a few seconds. Someone had opened his cabinet!

  He felt uncomfortable, vulnerable in his fortress. Squatting at the cabinet’s base, he inserted his key in a small seam near the corner. Turning the key reset the lock.

  Unlocking the cabinet properly caused the base to hydraulically lower six-inches so it could be slid under the floor joists, exposing a two-by-two opening, and a ladder. He backed into the closet, lowering his aging body to a small storage room under the lab. Feeling for a light switch on the wall, he flipped it on and saw the room with his documents still in tact.