by Bryan O
Returning to the lab, he locked the cabinet, then stared at the phone, afraid to use it. His whole house felt different, like the walls had eyes. After throwing clothes and shoes in an overnight bag, he grabbed his keys and fled.
CHAPTER 28
From the east, darkness advanced on a clear desert sky and exposed a growing sea of stars with each mile Blake clocked in the Suburban. Thinking about the night ahead made his gut churn like it used to before a high school football game. He recalled rumors about harassing treatment from the guards at Area 51: large men donning beige commando uniforms who stalked visitors to the remote area like a cheetah hunting zebra, playing games of cat and mouse that helped pass time during an otherwise mundane guard duty. He remembered hearing about signs that threatened use of deadly force against trespassers, and how easily a person could become disoriented in the dark, accidentally crossing the unfenced perimeter and losing any rights that might have protected them from the guards. Any rational person would live an entire life hoping to avoid such a menacing ordeal. Purposely putting himself in such a predicament, knowing the opposition waited for him in the desert, intensified Blake’s fears, but his desire for knowledge outweighed his fear.
They followed Highway 15 north of Las Vegas through light traffic. Most people flocking to the city of sin via automobile came from California, not the sparsely populated Northern Nevada and Utah regions. Then US 93 was an even lonelier strip of blacktop.
Trevor retrieved a camera from his bag and loaded a fresh role of film.
“Keep that camera out of sight once we get there,” Desmond told him. “They don’t allow photos.”
“That’s ridiculous. How are they going to stop me?”
“Arrest you.”
“For taking pictures?”
“They’ll call the Sheriff. If you don’t give him the film, he’ll confiscate your belongings and put you in jail. You’ll get your camera back, minus the film. It’s a blatant disregard of your civil rights.” Animosity in Desmond’s voice hinted that his knowledge came from personal experience. “We’ll be on public land. But what are you going to do? You’re in the middle of nowhere. They’ve got guns and a bad attitude.”
Like a lonely lighthouse beacon, the Suburban’s headlights blazed a trail through the dark desert, with only an occasional car passing in the opposite direction. Blake cruised at ninety, never considering the possibility of a speeding ticket. Besides the uncomfortable temperatures, only a narcissistic cop would enjoy sitting alone on a dark road, miles from help, in a region of the world popularized by its purported extraterrestrial activity.
Desmond broke the long silence, “America’s Extraterrestrial Highway.”
“What’s that?” Blake asked.
“Highway 375 is coming up. Folks around here call it America’s Extraterrestrial Highway. They coined it after people started seeing strange lights in the sky while driving the road late at night.”
Blake peered upwards through the windshield as he steered. “A lot of stars out tonight.”
“This is beautiful country,” Desmond said proudly, as if he was responsible for discovering it. “Not your typical desert. We’re at a high altitude—5000 feet in some areas—so there’s snowfall sometimes during the winter. A series of mountain ranges run north to south across the upper portion of the state creating a variety of remote valleys, home to nothing more than cattle ranches and military bases.”
Blake followed 375 through a mountain pass that opened to a wide valley—Tikaboo Valley—bordered to the west by the Groom Mountains. They were near.
The road followed a crescent descent to the valley’s floor where Joshua Tree silhouettes stood motionless across the barren lowland in a bewitching atmosphere that warned passersby to stay on the road.
“This place feels lifeless,” Blake commented.
With a snide chuckle, Desmond said, “That’s a feeling you’ll lose soon enough.” Pointing ahead to a dirt road on their left, “Slow down—that’s the main entrance.”
“Should I just turn in?”
“Yep. Set your mileage counter and keep it slow. The Bureau of Land Management leases most of the valley to cattle ranchers. If we hit a heifer, it’s expensive.”
“They get to this base by a dirt road?” Trevor asked, as if questioning Desmond’s directions.
“A well maintained dirt road,” Desmond pointed out. He retrieved a pair of night vision glasses from his bag in the back and handed them to Trevor. “Here, keep an eye out.”
“What am I keeping an eye out for?” he asked hesitantly.
“You’ll know when you see it.”
Blake maintained a slow speed that allowed the engine’s noise to be overwhelmed by the crunch of gravel under the tires. He tried keeping an eye in every direction, but only saw black, except the dirt road immediately ahead, illuminated by high-beams. His knuckles turned white from the tight grip he kept on the steering wheel. Each revolution of the tires moved them closer to an inevitable confrontation with security, and he felt it in his churning stomach.
“Where are the guards?” Trevor asked.
“Usually they hang out at a guard station just across the perimeter, but they already know we’re here. Sensors alert them when a car is on the road, and they got infrared telescopes on one of the nearby mountains.”
Trevor studied the reflection in the passenger-side mirror. “I think there’s a truck behind us.”
Blake looked in the rearview mirror, seeing only a cloud of dust illuminated in soft red from his taillights. “I don’t see anything.”
“He’s driving with his lights off,” Desmond said. “Pull over.“
Blake eased to a stop at the side of the road. A white Cherokee stopped ten yards behind them.
“I thought you just said they hang out at the guard station,” Blake said.
“That’s when nothing is going on. This is a good sign. Either of you want to get out and say hello?”
“Are you serious?” Blake responded.
“Yeah, walk up to them and say hello,” he replied, knowing the probable outcome.
“Are they going to bust me if I get out?” Trevor asked.
“No. You’ll be fine.”
Feeling a new level of trepidation, far greater than his first face-to-face encounter with a traffic cop, Trevor stepped into the road, which was more like a stage with Trevor the focal point as a spotlight from the Cherokee lit him up. From a plateau left of them another spotlight hit him. A second Cherokee. He paused, gathering his cocky courage, and walked into the light from the first Cherokee. He reached the front bumper, holding his hand over his eyes to block the spotlight trained on his face. The Cherokee’s engine made a shifting noise. The engine roared. Dust exploded from all four tires as they spun, gripped the dirt road, and sped the Cherokee past Trevor. The vehicle continued around the Suburban until it disappeared into the night.
With his hands cupped over his nose and mouth, Trevor managed to open his eyes enough to see through the dust cloud and find his way back to the Suburban.
Inside, “What was that all about?” he hollered at Desmond.
“They aren’t allowed to make unnecessary contact. If we didn’t approach them, they’d stick to us like flies on the cow dung out here. As it stands, you called their bluff, and won the first hand.”
Blake continued along the dirt road, furthering their advancement toward the perimeter. At the end of thirteen dusty miles, he pulled off the road and parked. They were at the base of the Groom Mountains, a quarter mile from the perimeter. Further up, the road wound through a pass in the foothills to a guard station on military property, then continued into Groom Valley, and the heart of the base.
Desmond passed out canteens and binoculars.
“Is the Suburban going to be okay?” Blake asked.
“BLM land is public domain. Anyone has the right to walk, drive or camp on this land for up to fourteen days at a time. That’s not to say the guards would let you enjoy yourse
lf for fourteen days. A few hours is tough enough. But they don’t mess with the vehicles. They want you to drive away in them.” With that said, Desmond began the trek that would show Blake and Trevor America’s bureaucratically invisible military installation.
CHAPTER 29
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.
CHAPTER 30
“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 searchin
g 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.