OPERATION INDIGO SKY
By
LAWRENCE AMBROSE
Copyright 2015
All Rights Are Reserved. No parts of this book may be used or reproduced without permission of the author.
Proofread and Edited by Sweet Syntax
Cover by Lawrence Ambrose
COMMENTS, QUESTIONS, OR COMPLAINTS? Please email me at: [email protected]
Reviews are deeply appreciated and may result in unanticipated good luck for the reviewer. :)
OTHER BOOKS BY LAWRENCE AMBROSE
THE DIVIDED WORLDS
MOIRA: Abduction to Akrasia, Book One
MOIRA: A Girl and Her Dragon, Book Two
LORILEE: In Moira's Footsteps, Book One
LORILEE: Flight to Zorzen, Book Two
The Divided Worlds, Books 1 - 4
STAND-ALONE NOVELS
Super World
The United Tribes
Accidental Bliss
Black Widow Syndrome
One Rule: No Rules
My Fairy Queen
HYPER
The Freedom Preserve
My Favorite Life
The Closet Trip
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 1
" I TOOK AN OATH to defend this country against all foes foreign and domestic," said First Lieutenant Ryan Ellison of Luke Air Force Base, his earnest brown eyes drilling into mine. "That's why I'm here, Mr. Hunter."
I was trying to think of any time someone had called me "mister," other than some sleazy car salesman. Twenty-nine seemed a little young for that to me, but then this dude was U.S. Military, and it was drilled into soldiers of any type to respect authority.
"Dude, it's Hayden," I said. "Does that mean you're willing to go on record? I mean, to take a public stand."
His eyes lost some of their zeal. He pushed back from me across the restaurant table, frowning.
"I could lose my job," he said. "Hell, I could lose more than that."
I drank my coffee and tried to look sympathetic. Since starting my alternate news site, TruthHunter, I'd met more than a few people wanting to reveal some momentous suppressed truth, but so far they'd all ended up being fucking nutcases or purveyors of bad logic.
This was the first time I'd latched onto someone and something that just might be real. Lieutenant Ellison really was an Air Force pilot, and had brought a sample of what they were allegedly spraying into the atmosphere. Where was the catch? Had he escaped from a mental ward recently? Or maybe believed that reptilian overlords from Zeta Reticuli ran our government?
"Maybe I'm being paranoid," said Lieutenant Ellis with a helpless shrug. "I don't know. This is all new to me. I always believed the Air Force – my government – were the good guys. It's doing a number on my head."
"I know the feeling," I said. "When I first realized that my government lies and does criminal shit it was like finding out that Santa Claus isn't real. And the imposter was a psychopathic crook."
Ryan Ellison winced. "Well, I'm not sure I'd go that far. But there's some morally questionable stuff, no doubt."
"What do they tell you about what you're spraying?"
"Just that it's about controlling communications and detecting enemy incursions - need-to-know national security stuff. If I'd never read anything online about 'chemtrails,' I probably would've been satisfied with that."
"How much would you say you're spraying into the atmosphere?"
"I go up for two to three hours a day. I don't know exactly how much material I'm spraying. That's controlled via satellite. I know there are sixteen packs containing twelve canisters each. The canisters are somewhat less than the size of an oil drum."
"I'd like to see one of those canisters."
"I thought you might." He met my gaze and smiled. "That's why I brought one. It's empty, but I'd guess it has enough residue inside to be analyzed."
"Seriously?" I sat up straight in my seat. "How did you get the empty canister out of the base?"
"I didn't. A friend who shares some of my concerns mentioned that a canister had been 'accidentally' discarded en route to World Materials, a special hazardous materials disposal site we use. I picked it up."
"Where is it now?"
"In the back of my car."
"Wow. Cool." This was starting to feel actually real.
"You know someone who can analyze it?" Ryan asked.
"No, but I'm sure I can find someone."
A hint of question glinted in his eyes. I could hear him thinking: Is this the right guy? Does he know what he's doing?
"I admit I'm not experienced in this kind of thing," I said. "I'm just another guy with a website, and most of the dudes who've contacted me were losers or freaks filled with delusions of grandeur. If you want someone more experienced, there's always Markus Killian or Alex Jones."
"Well, I've been reading your website for the last year or so, and I liked what you had to say. You're not trying to push some agenda on people. Also, you're a Marine." He smiled. "Besides, you live only a few miles away."
"Right," I said, with a smile of my own.
"I know my bosses in the Air Force brass will shit nails when your article comes out. I'm wondering if there's any way you could write the article so it's kind of vague about your sources or the location?"
"I'll be as vague as I can. I'll run the story by you first, and if you don't approve, I won't post it."
"Thank you."
"It took some guts to call me. Why did you decide to do this now?"
"It's kind of like when you were ordered to guard poppy fields in Afghanistan. You said that broke something inside you."
"Yeah. That was the final straw for me."
"It's like that for me now. To be honest, I thought pretty much all conspiracy theories were bullshit. But when I started flying the spraying missions, it got me to thinking. If we're lying about those missions, why not about other things? In the last two years I've seen and heard some stuff that makes me wonder if this program isn't just the tip of the iceberg, you know?"
"What kind of stuff?"
He shrugged. "Joint military exercises with the Chinese and Russians, shopping centers being converted into detention facilities, non-military government agencies purchasing huge amounts of ammunition and receiving SWAT-style training from Special Forces. Massive orders for field caskets and dried food. I have a friend in the NSA who says they never stopped mass collection of phone data despite the new law. It's like someone's expecting a major disaster – or planning to make one."
I gave him a neutral nod. "Same stuff I've been hearing for years."
"I know. And maybe some or most of it has a rational explanation. Still..." He shook his head.
"It all has a rational explanation. It just might not be the explanation we want to hear."
Ryan shrugged and looked uncomfortable.
"Maybe it's time we took a look at your canister?"
"Sure. Why don't you follow me outside town a bit to a more private place?"
We left Dunkin' Doughnuts and drove north on Highway 60. He pulled off the highway a few miles out. I cut back on the gas in my pickup as he nu
rsed his Toyota Corolla over the train tracks and onto a service road. We parked out of sight of the highway.
Ryan opened his trunk, revealing a grey metallic canister roughly the size of an oil drum. Ominous red and black symbols adorned its surface.
"Is it safe to handle?" I asked. "Aren't those radiation symbols?"
"Yeah," said the Lieutenant. "Among other things. I wouldn't recommend drinking water out of it, but I doubt anyone would be hurt handling it. At least I hope not."
We stood regarding the canister as I summoned my courage.
"Do you have a family, Hayden?" Ryan asked in a soft voice. "A wife, significant other?"
"Nope. In fact, I'm a card-carrying MGTOW dude now."
"Men who go their own way?"
"Yeah."
Ryan chuckled. "A couple of my buddies are into that. I tell them they just haven't found the right girl."
Right , I thought. Like saying not all hand grenades are dangerous. But I wasn't up for a debate about relationships in the middle of the desert with a possibly radioactive canister sitting four feet from me.
"I was lucky to find Nancy," he said. "By the way, she has a lot of friends – and they aren't all dogs. Maybe she could set you up?"
"I don't think so."
"I spent a lot of years alone. Life without a good woman isn't really living, in my opinion."
"Thanks, Dr. Phil."
Ryan chuckled and resumed gazing out at the desert. "Look at that cactus. I swear it's giving us the finger."
"And what could be more inspiring than Mother Nature flipping us off?"
Ryan laughed. He helped me carry the canister into the bed of my pickup. I wished I had some tarp to cover it, but I settled for strapping it down.
"Could I interest you in a beer?" he asked. "And maybe dinner at my place? I'm guessing it's been a while since you had a home-cooked meal."
I started to turn him down but what the heck . It wasn't as if I had anything pressing to do this evening.
"Sure," I said. "Home cooked meal sounds good."
After dropping off the canister in my garage, I followed Ryan to a nice, single-family clay-roofed home in Surprise. No white picket fence, but it faced a park across the street. I met his pretty and charming blond wife and their two boys – an eight-month old and a toddler - and wasn't sure whether to be jealous or relieved that I was still single.
Nancy Ellison supported her husband's actions but wasn't happy about him being an anonymous whistleblower.
"To be honest, I tried to talk them out of it," she said, between hand-feeding her youngest son and making her restless two-year-old sit still. "But Ryan is the kind of person who has to do what's right. I suppose I wouldn't love him so much if he wasn't. I just hope this won't come back to bite us."
"I won't give the name or location of the base," I said. "Whatever I write, I'll run past you guys before posting it."
"Maybe nothing will turn up in the canister?" Nancy sounded hopeful.
"Then I won't have much to write about."
I reminded myself to cover my mouth with a napkin as I spoke. I was enjoying her fried chicken and mashed potatoes with gravy too much to stop chewing. The last time I'd sampled chicken had been at Kentucky Fried, and that had not been a pleasant experience.
In the next room, a news program was rumbling about the dominant story of the last two weeks – the St. Paul shooting, popularly known as the "Gay Wedding Massacre."
"How long have you been in Phoenix?" Nancy asked, grabbing her toddler's wrist as he started flinging potato with his fork.
"About three years. I moved from San Diego."
"What brought you out here?"
That was a question I'd learned to loathe. "My girlfriend..." I cleared my throat. "Ex-girlfriend. She has family here."
Nancy gave me a sympathetic nod and smile. "Didn't work out, huh?"
I shrugged and shook my head.
"I don't even know what you do for a living," said Ryan. "I'm guessing your website, as good as it is, doesn't pay your bills."
"Not even close." I gave him a rueful smile. "I guess you could say I'm a 'software consultant,' though I'm working almost full-time right now on a project for Caldera Corp." I noted their blank looks. "It's a medical company specializing in internal imagery – ultrasound images of the circulatory system, that kind of thing."
"Oh," said Nancy. "How did you get into blogging?"
"My friends and family got tired of listening to me rant. Since any ignorant jerk can spout off online, I thought this is for me."
Their laughs were slightly uncertain. Nancy dumped a second helping of chicken and potatoes on my plate, and I zoned out as she discussed her recent "terrible twosome" ordeals with her chuckling husband. For most of my life their life had been my dream, but Melinda - and before her, Allison – had soured that. But the biggest blow to that chimera was my best Marine friend, Sam, who married the "perfect girl" (his own words), but she ended up having an affair and dumping him after having two children together. Now Sam was paying child support and alimony to the tune of 3K a month, and if it was up to his ex-wife he'd be paying a pound of flesh as well. No way was I drinking that Kool-Aid.
After dinner, Ryan and I retired to the family room, where a newswoman was interviewing a tearful Jacob Gustafson, the would-be groom in the gay wedding shooting. Three apparently deranged Oath Keepers had burst in on the ceremony in alleged pursuit of "gang bangers," and had for some unfathomable reason opened fire on the wedding party, killing everyone but the groom.
Gustafson was busy showing pictures of him with a handsome young black man – his fiancé – on his computer tablet photo album for roughly the thousandth time.
"Do you believe this guy?" Ryan muttered.
"What? You don't think he's for real?"
"The guy was on five minutes after the supposed love of his life had been shot demanding stricter gun controls. I don't know what happened out there, but what kind of person stands there with dry eyes talking about gun control the day after someone he loved is murdered?"
"Maybe someone who's angry about gun violence being responsible for their death?" Nancy broke in, bearing a bowl of Chex Mix.
Ryan laughed. "Nancy comes from a liberal family."
"I don't think it has anything to do with being liberal or conservative. It's just about common sense. You don't let psychos get their hands on guns."
"But who determines what being a psycho is?" I asked. "Today, kids are diagnosed as suffering from 'Oppositional Defiance Disorder' for merely arguing with their parents or teachers."
"That's just silly."
"I don't see silliness stopping government from doing a lot of things. Some people think people who believe in conspiracies are crazy. Maybe they shouldn't be allowed to own guns?"
"Exactly!" Ryan offered me a high-five. I gave his hand a light slap as his wife frowned at us.
"Okay," she said. "I think I'll change the subject." She turned to me. "How's it been going since you moved here? What do you think of our desert paradise?"
"I'm used to seventy-degree, cloudless days all year round." I hoped my smile wasn't too bitter. "I moved out here in July. At first I thought I was hallucinating the heat. It must've been 108 the day I arrived."
"But it's a dry heat," Ryan laughed.
"Maybe I should introduce you to a friend of mine," said Nancy. "She's single, too."
"Nancy," Ryan grumbled.
"You don't think Lindsey and Hayden would have a lot in common? She works with computers, too."
Ryan snorted. "I'm sure if Hayden wants our matchmaking assistance, he'll let us know."
LATER THAT night I was lying in bed nowhere close to sleep, plagued by nightmarish images of military aircraft filling the air with noxious poisons, presided over by an Egyptian Katy Perry singing that I'd better not make her my enemy.
It struck me in the middle of the night with total clarity that in no way was I prepared to take this on alone. Not just the t
esting of the canister, but any part of it. Ryan and his family's lives could be at stake. I needed to do this right.
One name immediately jumped into my awareness: Markus Killian . More than anyone, he'd inspired me to start my alternate news website. A former physics professor and Vietnam vet, Markus had retired from Stanford University after being placed on paid leave following a controversial paper he'd authored on the physics of the World Trade Buildings' collapse. The experience had, he said, "galvanized me into taking a hard look at what passes for truth in our world."
He went on to apply his scientific acumen to analyze and challenge "the self-proclaimed guardians of scientific truth" in a long series of scholarly articles on the national security state and conspiracy claims in general. He was the sane, if radical, voice of the conspiracy movement. He even had his own show "Truth Matters" for four years. He refused the label of "conspiracy theorist," arguing that the "when the powers that be attempt to establish a truth-monopoly, truth-busters are required."
I'd written him a couple of emails a year back to which he'd politely replied. He'd once emailed me congratulations on a "well-reasoned and fascinating" article I'd written on the TSA. That was the extent of our contact, but at least he knew who I was. I wouldn't just be calling him out of the blue as an unknown.
I gave up trying to sleep, started some coffee brewing, and positioned myself in front of my computer. I started typing.
Dear Dr. Killian, I recently came into the possession of a piece of evidence relating to chemtrails that I'd like your advice about...
Chapter 2
THREE DAYS LATER, I was driving north on the dry and dusty Highway 40 for Markus Killian's home in the mountains just west of Boulder, Colorado. It had been a long time since I'd been on a road trip, but I was happy for the excuse to drive – to leave the Phoenix area – and even happier to avoid the tender caresses of the TSA. For all I knew, I was on their No Fly List.
I'd sent my email at around 3 A.M. Sunday night, and awakened to Markus Killian's deep, Peter Ustinov voice the next morning. I was surprised that he'd called instead of emailed. I was even more surprised when he invited me to bring the "merchandise" to his house and that he would arrange to have it analyzed "by experts of close acquaintance."
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