Groom Lake

by Bryan O

  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 an
d 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.

  “Cover your face,” Blake yelled. He and Trevor huddled low to the ground, gagging and choking on the dust.

  The Black Hawk advanced on the ridge, hovering overhead, increasing the tormenting winds.

  Blake recalled the professor’s warning about the government that he was failing to heed: Don’t bow to the feds by going to Area 51. Now he was literally disobeying the professor as he cowered on his hands and knees hoping and praying for mercy against the government’s menacing messenger in the sky. And he was led there by the government’s anti-Christ who was now silhouetted by the light, legs spread, arms outstretched, welcoming the ferocious wind attack.

  Trevor stood, “I’m out of here,” and disappeared over the cliff.

  Blinded by the rotor wash, Blake felt his way along the ground and retreated down the rocky slope until the flying debris no longer threatened him.

  Trevor hadn’t gone far. Blake found him face down over some rocks. “You okay, Trev?”

  “I’ll live.”

  Several minutes later, the Black Hawk ascended, returning to the base. A wind battered Desmond stumbled down the slope. “That’s something you can tell your grandchildren about.”

  “You knew that was going to happen,” Blake said, his anger apparent.

  “I never know what’s going to happen out here, but I come prepared.” He raised the gas mask. “You don’t need to get upset. Soon you’ll be laughing about it.”

  “What do we do now?” Trevor asked. “I’m not going through that again.”

  “We’ll let them win tonight.”

  Blake wasn’t sure what to make of Desmond. He had invited Blake on this trip so they could develop a trust, yet he spent the entire time drinking and acting like a lunatic.

  “The night’s not over,” Desmond told them. “We can hike back to the Suburban, then drive out to the highway and watch from there.”

  • • •

  Fifteen minutes after the helicopter returned to the base, Val emerged from a thin crevice eroded into the hillside.

  Viewing the base again, he noted a significant change. A squadron of F-16 jets, ten in all, sat at the far end of the runway.

  A closer vantage point would’ve been preferred, but the activity concerned Val, and he was not comfortable traversing land he hadn’t charted for surveillance devices. His safety came before the photos or videos he sought. His success in avoiding detection thus far came from patience, moving conservatively, and taking few risks. For now he would hold his position and watch the activity. Then return to one of his bunkers by sunrise.

  • • •

  Safe inside the Suburban, Blake drove his dust riddled companions down Groom Lake Road, followed by a harassing Cherokee with its brights on. Reaching Highway 375 provided a mental relief that was equivalent to sneaking into a neighbor’s yard, retrieving a ball, and making it back across the fence without a dog bite. They were now out of the government’s yard, albeit with a few small tears in their clothes.

  Trevor was the first to exit the Surburban after Blake had pulled to a stop alongside the highway and noticed the air show that had commenced while they drove Groom Lake Road. “Look at all the planes in the sky.” Ten jets were circling at different altitudes above the base, almost like they were trapped in a fifteen-mile-wide tornado.

  “So they did have a specific reason for wanting us to leave,” Blake said, his interests and hopes renewed at the thought of possibly seeing an anti-gravity craft.

  “They’re getting ready to test something,” Desmond said. “Those planes are fighter jets. Their job is to shoot down the test pilot if he decides to make a run for China.”

  “Look, above the mountains,” Trevor said pointing.

  Four white lights hovered in the northern sky like a classic cigar-shaped UFO.

  “Don’t get excited,” Desmond said. “Those are flares.”

  “Those aren’t flares,” Trevor argued. “That’s a craft.”

  With an I’ve seen it all before demeanor, Desmond replied, “They’re high altitude flares, attached to parachutes. Decoys. Later, if someone reports a strange light in the sky, the Air Force will say they dropped flares during nighttime training.”

  Still unconvinced, “If those flares are falling, then why do they appear still?”

  “Same reason that helicopter appeared to be hovering above the base when you first saw it. It’s an optical illusion caused from being so far away.”

  “Forget the flares,” Blake said. “Where should we be looking for the test craft?”

  “Focus above the mountain range, but don’t get your hopes up. They’ll fly it at a low enough altitude that the mountains block our view, or they’ll fly west.”

  • • •

  The four white flares parachuting above the Groom Mountains caught Val’s attention. He knew they were decoys, and a signal that something else would soon be in the air. At the south end of the base he studied an enormous hanger, offset from the other structures. Unfortunately his fear of venturing closer to the base that evening prevented him from seeing inside the hangar like he had intended. He had hoped to determine if it was a possible access point to the underground tunnel.<
br />
  Diverting his attention, four Black Hawk helicopters lifted off the tarmac. They leveled at twenty-five feet and slowly thundered toward the runway’s northern end before assuming positions like points on a compass—north, south, east and west—far enough apart so their rotors would not touch.

  A bank of blinding bright light cast outward from each helicopter. Val hadn’t realized until now that the tentacle-like missile launchers extending from the Black Hawks’ sides had been retrofitted with stadium lights. He realized the lights were hiding something centered on the runway among the four helicopters. Where’d that come from?

  “Activate video … activate recorder,” Val instructed to the voice activated computer equipment entwined in his outfit, then began to dictate: “Approximately 0100 hours. Groom Lake air strip. Test craft is on the north end of the runway. My vision is impeded by four helicopters surrounding the craft, casting a circle of light outward, apparently to limit sightings of the craft by nonessential base personnel. Craft appeared from nowhere. Must be some type of underground hanger with a lift platform, like on an aircraft carrier. Craft appears to be fifty feet in diameter. Possibly circular, but cannot confirm from my position. Ten Air Force F-16’s—I assume they’re Air Force, no one else flies F-16’s—are flying holding patterns in the airspace above the base at varying altitudes.”

  Other than the helicopters surrounding the craft, there was minimal activity on the base. That reminded Val about historical pictures he had seen, taken after previous Air Force flight tests, like when they broke the sound barrier for the first time. They never had large crowds. Only the pilots, ground crew and a few key officials were present.

  “The craft is emitting an orange-red glow, like a fireball,” he blurted. The craft shot straight up, beyond Val’s field of vision. Raising his head, he caught sight. “Craft is hovering approximately five hundred feet above the runway … Craft is now moving down the runway, holding its altitude, traveling maybe a hundred miles per hour … Oh, ninety-degree turn left—another to the right. This isn’t an airplane. The craft is similar to the object I saw land in Papoose Valley on my last trip. It’s movements are shakier, maybe a less expensive model.