Groom Lake

by Bryan O

  • • •

  “Over there,” Blake said with a pensive but calm reaction, like a seasoned hunter spotting his prey. He pointed toward a distant dip in the mountain range, “An orange light, circular, only for a second.”

  “I saw it,” Trevor yelped with boisterous excitement.

  “That’s what they’re testing tonight,” Desmond said.

  “Was it the Roswell spaceship?” Trevor asked.

  “They keep that locked up in Papoose Valley,” Desmond replied. “We just saw the government’s attempt to reproduce it. What do you think, Blake?”

  “I think I need to see a little more to agree with you.”

  They waited for fifteen anxious minutes, all eyes fixed above the mountains, hoping for another glimpse, Blake ready with the camera. Hope was lost when the F-16s began to land. The air show, what they briefly saw of it, was over.

  On the drive back to Vegas, Blake had mixed thoughts about the trip. “What happens with that info the sheriff took from us?”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Desmond reassured. “They’ll stick it in some file with all the other names they collect.”

  Blake spent most of the drive back to Las Vegas in silence, assessing the evening, uncertain about Desmond. He knew the man wasn’t crazy, although he acted like it at times. Blake could tell Desmond was a thinking man, like himself, but wasn’t sharing all his thoughts and motives.

  PART 5

  FOLKS WHO DON'T

  GET OUT MUCH

  CHAPTER 31

  Chief Trace Helms, head of Air Force Security at Area 51, often had to clarify the pronunciation of his first name. “That’s Trace! Pronounced like mace. NOT, Tracey! My father didn’t name me after no woman.” After being corrected by the man’s baritone voice and feeling the grasp of his boxer’s stare, many of his subordinates refused to use his name at all, simply calling him Chief. His minimal interaction with other employees added to his daunting mystique. A lack of unbridled understanding about their boss led many to believe Chief Helms knew all about the inner-workings of Area 51, but that was far from the truth. Maybe someday, he hoped, someday sooner than his career path dictated.

  Multiple layers of security guarded the Area 51 complex. The Groom Proper Patrol was the first layer: contracted security forces in white Jeep Cherokees who guarded the base’s perimeter. Their supervisor reported to Trace. The second layer, the Air Force Security Police, was also overseen by Trace. They guarded most of the buildings and hangars, and monitored base personnel.

  Beyond the first two levels, security became more complicated. Some projects had their own security units. Trace had very little interaction with the higher levels, but that was fine, for he needed some privacy in his life, for his hobby, one his superiors wouldn’t condone.

  Years back, when Trace started his stint at Dreamland—the codename his circle called Area 51—he wanted to know what the strange lights were in the sky; the Unusual Things he was told he might see and was forbidden to discuss. He never came close enough to see the lights on the ground, but he heard stories, rumors about alien spacecraft, and alien bodies. The thought of such incredible technology excited Trace, but he felt like a minority with his fascination. Day in and day out he watched certain high level employees at the base pass through security stations with stoic looks on their faces: no emotion, no excitement, no morale. Near hypnotic states.

  An old Frank Sinatra movie—The Manchurian Candidate—eerily provided Trace with an explanation for some of the base-workers’ stoic attitudes: mind control. He thought his mind control theory sounded too sci-fi at first, but so did descriptions of the flying lights he had seen.

  Few workers displayed the stoic symptoms, but with time, Trace could pick out those who acted differently. He never pursued his hunch until sitting in a doctor’s office one day, waiting for a routine physical, when he thumbed through a medical trade journal. An article on psychopharmacology caught his attention. It mentioned various new drugs, and others still being tested, that stimulated the mind. Trace knew this was an area the military had delved into decades earlier. He also knew the military rarely revealed new information. So anything in the public sector that the military had dealt with, more specifically, the drugs mentioned in the medical journal, stood a good chance of being ten to twenty years behind current top-secret programs.

  In his spare time, Trace began conducting his own research. He started with trips to the public and university libraries in Las Vegas, checking out psychology books and studying the mind. His curiosity about the flying lights at Dreamland was also growing—a curiosity he shared with two old friends, buddies from the Air Force Academy: Jimmy “the Pimp” Casper and Desmond Wyatt.

  Initially, Trace helped his two friends sneak onto the public land surrounding Dreamland so they too could see the bizarre lights in the sky. He told them ideal nights to be out there and where to hide to avoid patrols. But that was in the early days when few people knew about the base, before Trace’s mind control research became a personal mission.

  Into the nineties, as outside visitors became more prevalent at the base, Trace insisted his friends stop their visits. Unfortunately, what had started as an inside secret shared with friends took a serious turn. Desmond Wyatt’s interests became far greater than a passive observance and escalated until Trace could no longer risk associating with him and they had a falling out.

  In 1993, Trace discovered the Internet. A discovery that to him was similar to kicking over a rock and finding a mother lode of gold underneath. He studied the Defense Advanced Research Project Agency’s bid request website, a listing of requests for new technology development where the military proposed general theories for new weapons or equipment, and paid private contractors to invent or develop the technologies.

  He also searched the National Technical Service databases for past military studies, using search words like: psychoanalytical compound, cranial vault, mental biopsy, isotropic radiators, psycho surgery, remote viewing. The core documents were still classified, but Trace pulled enough facts to determine what the military had been doing for decades. His research guided him to specific study projects that focused on topics such as: sleep-state alteration, beta-adrenergic blockers and monoamine oxidase inhibitors.

  Trace had uncovered various pictures of the government’s past projects, enough to develop a reasonable understanding of their current capabilities. He became a self-educated expert on the topics, devoting so much time he would have earned professional degrees and praise had he been working in a collegiate environment, but that was not his objective. Ultimately he formulated a specific theory about the technology and how the government was using it. Learning what the government was capable of scared Trace. That was when his hobby turned into a mission. He realigned his friendship with Desmond Wyatt, seeing him as an asset in the mission, and used Jimmy as the go-between.

  Trace considered himself a patriot: a career service man who devoted his life to the country he loved and defended. However, his loyalty now rested with an unassuming and vulnerable public, not its oppressive military.

  • • •

  Responding to a knock on his office door, Trace said, “Come in,” with his thundering baritone voice. Not a violent thunder, more like distant thunder during a warm summer rain.

  Thunder was thunder to the evening shift commander, unable to differentiate between happy, sad or mad thunder. “You working late tonight, Chief?”

  “One more thing to do. Should be a quiet night for you.”

  “Unlike last night. I glanced at the reports. That crazy Desmond Wyatt was up to his shenanigans again. Funny how he always shows up on nights when we’re testing. Like he’s got a friend on the inside tipping him off.”

  “He’s been out here plenty of times when nothing is going on,” Trace said, quick to point out the inaccuracy of the shift commander’s remark. “You keep saying things like that and you’ll start rumors.”

  The shift commander might not have re
cognized happy or sad thunder, but he knew violent thunder. “Sorry, sir. I was just trying to make conversation.” He left and closed the door, cursing himself for pissing off the chief.

  Trace leaned back in his chair and studied a video monitor on his desk. Its picture showed a shuttle bus loading outside the large hangar at the south end of the base. The hangar Trace yearned to explore, but was one of the few buildings outside his jurisdiction. Adjusting his monitor to play signals from different surveillance cameras, he tracked the shuttle as it ferried occupants north toward building 269—Trace’s building—where the workers had to check out before leaving for the day. He watched base workers exit the bus, enter his building and wait in line at the checkout station. Then he made a phone call: “Send Aaron Liebowitz to my office.”

  A petite 32-year-old man stepped out of line and walked toward the operations center. He wore casual clothes, like most of the base personnel did when traveling to and from work. Even the military personnel dressed casually for the commute, not changing into uniforms until they reached their assigned work areas. Casual clothes minimized indications about what people did at the base.

  Liebowitz was far from athletic, unlike Ben Skyles, another man Trace knew who worked in the hangar at the far end of the runway. Trace tried not to stereotype people. Being a callous muscular black man, he had endured his share of negative stereotyping, but stereotyping or not, Liebowitz was a nerd. The only thing missing was a pocket protector. What role he played in the hangar was still a mystery to Trace, but Liebowitz had the look, the same look Ben Skyles had. That bewildered expressionless face, like someone spent everyday screwing with his mind.

  While Trace encouraged his security officers to maintain an intimidating persona, he selectively acted as the good cop in the psychological security game, but only behind closed doors.

  Liebowitz felt somewhat relieved to learn Trace had beckoned him. He remembered how friendly Trace was when he had a problem with his badge a week earlier. After closing the office door behind him, he took a seat as Trace instructed. His eyes focused on Trace’s extra large uniform shirt that stretched at the buttons with each expanding breath.

  “Here’s a new badge,” Trace said, exchanging it for the one Liebowitz was wearing. “You shouldn’t have any more problems.”

  “I appreciate it. Every time I pass by a sensor I have this fear of tripping the alarm.”

  “Any more problems you feel free to see me.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You live near Alamo, don’t you?” Trace asked. Not everyone working at the base lived in Las Vegas. Some individuals lived in nearby rural towns.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Call me Trace, neighbor. Your file says you’re single. You get out much?”

  “Usually just to come here.”

  “I hear that—probably don’t live more than a few miles from you. A couple of us locals often get together for cards and barbeques.”

  “I didn’t know they allowed that kind of stuff.”

  “Who doesn’t allow that?”

  “The powers-that-be.”

  “Well, I’m one of them,” Trace said, “and I say it’s okay. Besides, we don’t talk about work. And we are allowed to have lives outside this place.”

  Liebowitz didn’t wholeheartedly agree with that statement. And Chief Helms—Trace—fell short of the powers-that-be he was referring to. But friends were something he didn’t have. Most of his time at home was spent on the Internet and listening to Art Bell on late night radio. Liebowitz decided it would be good to meet some neighbors and maybe make some friends.

  CHAPTER 32

  PAC: an acronym for Political Action Committee; a synonym for manipulation and bribery. The congressman considered PACs a legal means by which politicians could accept corporate bribe money.

  Roughly 20 of the 450 Congressional Representatives refrained from accepting PAC money in 1994. The congressman was included in the rare breed, taking a moral stance against the nation’s ethically questionable campaign practices.

  The congressman disliked PACs for the monetary coercion power they gave government contractors and lobbyists, but PACs were a battle for another day, after Operation Patriot, and assuming he stayed in politics. Meanwhile he did his best to avoid them, turning down many invitations to fancy corporate shindigs or events where he didn’t trust the host’s intentions. He still maintained a busy social schedule, however, attending several functions a week, but on his terms.

  The military contractor GRATCOR had an Aeronautical Assembly Division located in the Tahachipi Mountains, north of Los Angeles, but they often threw functions in San Diego close to some of the military officials they catered to. This is the type of event the congressman would choose to attend because it offered a chance to meet someone who might know a snippet of info to help his cause.

  GRATCOR’s social functions had more brass than a college marching band. Gold buttons, bars and crests decorated military dress uniforms on many of the guests. The remaining attendees wore suits, most associated with the political realm. Although the word dinner party was not used on the invitation because political campaign regulations limited the number of dinner parties politicians and their staff members could attend, everyone attending knew they would leave the COCKTAIL AND HOURS D’OEUVRE gathering with a full stomach. GRATCOR skirted campaign guidelines by serving food from hors d’oeuvre trays; tuxedo-clad servers with white gloves provided an endless supply of bite-sized lobster tails and filet cuts as the feature appetizers.

  The congressman tasted a small filet sandwich as he scanned the lavish seaside ballroom. Mainly locals at the party he noted, until a bitchy California senator, who always had her hands out for donations, entered the ballroom with an unnecessary entourage of assistants. Through a crowd of decorated uniforms, he spied another suit demanding his share of attention. Walter “Storm” Langston—sometimes called a Cardinal of the Capital—was a 10-term republican congressman from Texas, and a key figure in black budget funding, primarily because of his position on the House Permanent Select Intelligence Committee. The type of greedy self-serving politician the congressman despised.

  Storm noticed the congressman looking at him. Excusing himself from the military attaché at his side, he approached. “I figured I’d find you here,” he said in a condescending Texan drawl, “ … trying to make friends with the big boys. Let me give you some advice: the only way to keep a secret in Washington is by not telling anyone.”

  “I appreciate the advice, but I’m not sure what you’re getting at,” the congressman said.

  “Don’t be coy with me.” Storm raised the assertiveness in his voice, but not his volume, keeping their conversation private. “You sure as shit know what I’m talking about. That half-assed investigation you think you’re going to conduct against my committee and the appropriations we make. What’d you do? Watch some scuttlebutt television show about the Roswell incident and take it too seriously?” He chuckled insidiously before continuing. “From what I hear, you think my appropriations need some further oversight.”

  Someone from the Oversight Committee had talked. He knew it was inevitable, and had prepared. “I think the secrecy is out of hand. We need some new standards to ensure national security secrets are in the best interests of the people, and are not hindering society.”

  “I think you ran for office on the wrong ticket. Nobody cares about your bleeding-heart patriotism.”

  “They’ll start caring when they realize how people like you have been pulling the cotton over their eyes for decades.”

  Storm almost corrected the congressman’s misuse of the cliché, but realized it was a witty stab at his Texas constituents. “I’ll admit we spend a lot of money on military and intelligence. A lot more than most people realize, but that spending brought down the Iron Curtain, and it made the Gulf War target practice. But you’ve got to make it into something more than that. Those damn UFO technology stories. If there was any truth to them, I woul
d know, and I would do something about it. I’ve been on the inside track for almost two decades. If there was a problem with the technology being developed, I would know.”

  “That’s exactly the problem, Storm. You don’t know. You issue the funds, but have no oversight beyond that. You ask questions before making the appropriations, but not after.”

  “Some questions don’t need to be asked. Take nuclear weapons for example; I don’t know how they make the plutonium in them, but I still support funding. That information must be kept secret. You don’t want every Tom, Dick and Hussein making bombs.”

  Storm had taken the congressman’s point out of context, but he didn’t care to correct him, nor continue debating. Instead he asked, “How much did you receive in PAC contributions last year?”

  Offended and stern, Storm replied, “What’s your point?”

  “You forget who your obligations are to. When was the last time you honestly spoke to a constituent that wasn’t waving corporate money or didn’t offer a sentimental PR story?”

  Without hesitation or remorse, Storm answered, “Eighteen years ago. My first term, when I didn’t know any better and thought I could help everyone and everything in my path. If you don’t soon realize your limitations, you won’t be around for a second term.”

  “That’s where you’re confused. I’m a man of action. I don’t care about the picture I paint, just the results. And I never planned on a long tenure.”

  The congressman’s persistence irritated Storm. “You waltz into Washington and think you can take over. It doesn’t work that way. You can’t fathom the power with which you’re dealing. You won’t be allowed to make a mockery of my committee.”