I hesitated. I'd worked so hard to obtain that important piece of information – information that belonged to the world, in my opinion. For the next several seconds I dug into my resistance and couldn't come up with a good reason for bullshitting on that point. What could they do about it anyway?
"Yes," I said. "Video and photos."
"Did you upload them online?"
I nodded. "To my ProtonMail and Torrent accounts."
"I'll need the passwords and names."
I stared at him. "Can I ask you about this craft?"
"You can ask," he said with a thin smile. "However, even if I was willing, the answer is above my pay grade." He glanced at the woman officer, whose smile was grudging at best. "This is the moment, Hayden, when you decide how this is going to be. Anything less than complete cooperation will lead to consequences you will not appreciate."
After another brief hesitation, I gave him the passwords and names.
"Where is your camera? The camera you took the video with?"
"In the guest bedroom where I was staying."
"It wasn't found in our search. Nor was your personal computer."
"The men must've taken it." I noted his and the woman officer's narrowing eyes. "Before your people showed up, some of Markus's coworkers did something in the house. I think they might've removed or destroyed the computers. I didn't think about the camera, but it makes sense they'd remove it, too."
"Who were these 'coworkers'?"
"Members of a security team. I never knew they had a security team until they showed up. I believed two of them were going to kill me."
"That might explain the two men we recovered near the pool. One was dead, the other is in intensive care and has not recovered consciousness. I take it you were responsible?"
"One of them started to draw a gun on me."
"They intended to kill you?"
A sudden doubt flared. Christ, maybe the guy was just adjusting his jacket? No, I had to trust my gut instinct. I'd developed a pretty good sense in the "sand pit" when someone meant me harm.
"I think so," I said. "And to be honest, that's the main reason I'm cooperating with you, especially after that solitary bullshit. Not to mention that putrid meatloaf."
Colonel Collins's dry smile reappeared. "And you thought MRE rations were bad."
"That loaf makes MREs seem like the masterwork of a world-class chef."
The Colonel chuckled softly. "Why don't you tell me what happened from the beginning."
"These guys showed up out of the blue and announced there was going to be a raid. They told the Killians to leave with some other people, but I was to stay. I'd probably be dead right now instead of staying in your lovely facility if it hadn't been for Professor Killian and his daughter. They both stood up for me. Lilith even jumped one guy just as he was drawing down on me."
"Did the professor or his daughter ever describe their co-workers to you?"
"They only mentioned their technical capabilities and that they occupied professional positions – some of those in government."
Neither the Colonel nor his female companion showed much reaction. Either that meant my information wasn't surprising, or the opposite.
"For what it's worth," I said, "I think Professor Killian and his daughter, Lilith, are good people who just want to learn the truth – same as me – but got caught up with an organization that has other motivations."
"Such as overthrowing the United States' Government?"
"They never said that. From what I saw, they were more concerned with finding out what's behind the smoke and mirrors. Same with me."
"What were you planning to do with your knowledge, Hayden?"
I shrugged, as much to relax the growing tension in my shoulders as anything else. "I'm not sure. Sort through it and make a decision what to reveal, I guess."
Colonel Collins leaned back in his chair and regarded me as if I were a math puzzle. The woman stood.
"I think I've heard enough, Colonel," she said. "I need to get back."
"Thanks for stopping by, Colonel."
"Anytime." She gave him a thin smile and me a half-nod.
"Are you the commander of Operation Blue Fly?" I asked.
She stopped at the door, turning her head to me. Her expression was deadpan. "What's Operation Blue Fly?"
She pushed out through the door. Colonel Collins chuckled.
"While we're at it," I said, "who's running this place? FEMA! The Army?"
"DARA." He smiled at my look. "Detention and Resettlement Agency. It involves coordination with and operatives from all branches of the government, including the military."
I shook my head, sounding out the title in my head with a heavy sense of disbelief and disgust. "Never heard of it."
"Very few have. We don't advertise." He smiled. "Not under that name, at least."
"I didn't see anyone else in the solitary cells."
"No, you are our sole guest in that cell block."
"Do you have a lot of prisoners?"
"Not many. That may change shortly, however."
"What will make it change?"
Colonel Collins gazed past me, his expression thoughtful but with a hint of sadness. Though I was anxious to press him, I decided to wait him out. Pushing a superior officer had rarely got me anything good.
Collins concluded his contemplations with a soft sigh.
"You'll learn that soon enough," he said. "I'm not authorized to say more."
"About the asteroid, you mean?"
His expression didn't change. "About anything related to certain future events."
"So are you satisfied with my account? Am I free to go?"
"I'm fairly well-satisfied. But no, you are not free to go." The Colonel gave me a long look of frank, sympathetic appraisal. "This may come as a surprise, Hayden, but I respect what you've been doing. I might even say I admire it. I believe you are a true patriot. Unfortunately, at this time it is not in our country's best interests for you to freely share some of the information you've come to possess."
"Stowing me away for over two days in solitary confinement is a pretty strange way of showing admiration, Colonel," I grumbled.
"Placing you there first was a security measure while we determined who you are and assessed your threat. You won't be returning to solitary confinement, Hayden, as long as you behave yourself."
"You're holding me without any formal charges, other than I'm supposedly a threat to national security?"
"That's the gist of it. I won't pretend otherwise."
"And you're okay with this? Holding me without charges, without legal representation? Basically tossing aside the Constitution?"
"No, I'm not okay with it." An edge entered his voice. "But I accept the necessity, under these circumstances."
As I sat there working hard to dial back my anger, the Colonel's expression softened.
"Look, son, you could count yourself lucky to be here. This facility includes a hardened underground chamber with a year's worth of food and water for hundreds of people. When the shit hits the fan, this won't be the worst place to be."
I sat back and let those words sink in. I had to admit that my first thought was, a la Ethan Ellenberg: "Yay! I'm going to survive!" Then I had my second thought.
"What about my father? My friends and relatives?"
Colonel Collins spread his hands. "I have friends and family on the outside, too."
"You can't tell me how bad this is going to be?"
"From what I know, no one knows the answer to that. We're planning on the worst, and hoping for the best."
Not a lot to hold onto. On the other hand, what could I do to protect my dad or anyone if I got out? I had no idea if anything other than an underground bunker was safer than anywhere else.
"Buck up, Corporal," said Colonel Collins. "This isn't going to last forever. You'll be out of here soon enough." His sparse smile faded. "Or none of us will."
Chapter 18
TO
SAY THAT COLORADO " Resettlement Facility 3451-A" was sparsely populated would be an understatement. After release into the main prison, I carried my "room bag" – a plastic bag holding a change of clothes and various toiletries – to my new cell, encountering along the way a ragtag group of individuals wandering through the largely unsupervised hallways. People moved freely between open cells, talking, lounging about in groups or on bunks, reading, playing cards or chess - most appearing relaxed and at peace with their surroundings.
I got a lot of looks – some friendly, some suspicious - and several introductions en route to my new home. A few quick conversations convinced me that most of the people were here because they'd chanced upon some forbidden information. The majority either worked for government agencies or did business with them. A couple of dudes said they were bloggers/private investigators who'd "come too close to something big," as one of them claimed. I had the feeling that if you put all these guys together and shared what they knew you might have something. I wondered if anyone had dug into what I'd been investigating. I supposed I'd have time to find out. Our jailers seemed unconcerned with us sharing information, which was either good or ominous, depending on your perspective. One dude opined: "Maybe they don't care, because no one here gets out alive."
It took me maybe more than an hour to reach my cell. The room was about twice the side of my previous digs, with bunk beds, a folding chair and table, and a small window looking out on a central yard. Both of the beds were neatly made. It appeared that I'd be the sole tenant for now.
"Well, look what the cat dragged in!"
I turned toward the familiar voice. Damned if it wasn't my savior from Baldy Mountain, the big, flamboyantly bearded Hank Gilmore, lurching toward me with a huge grin and bear arms spread wide. We collided, and I returned his hug with a little less force than he applied.
"I'm damn glad to see you, Hayden," he gushed, holding me at arm's length. "I know I shouldn't be – that's just me being selfish, I know you didn't want this! – but I feel like an out-of-place kook here."
"Now you don't have to feel alone anymore."
"Ha. I didn't mean it that way." He snorted. "How did they get you?"
"I'd guess it was the car I left in Aspen. They traced that to my, ah, employer - where you dropped me off." I scowled at my stupidity, though at this point, with the end of the world apparently looming, I wasn't sure how much it mattered. "How about you?"
"They got me back home. I'm not sure how they did it."
"I thought you were going to your brother's."
"Nah. Turned out the playboy bastard was in Las Vegas. Found that out about twenty miles north of Boulder. No problem. I was happy to drive you home."
"Thank you, Hank. I'm sorry I got you caught up in this."
"Hey, it's something to tell my grandkids about. Assuming my son ever decides to settle down." He released a ragged breath. "The only thing I'm worried about is my cat. I had to leave Mort with Mary Clemson, my next door neighbor. The men in black who picked me up – actually, they were wearing blue suits – were kind enough to let me do that, though I had to beg."
"Shit, sorry about that." I gave silent thanks that I didn't own any pets. "You don't trust your neighbor caring for her?"
"No, she's fine. I don't trust my cat. He prefers women." Hank gave me a sad smile. "He might not want to come home when I get back."
I smiled, but his cat was just one more thing to feel guilty about. I dropped the extra pair of grey coveralls they'd issued me on the bottom bunk, and noticed the paper taped to the wall. "RULES AND SCHEDULES," the bold heading read. I scanned down the list. Breakfast at eight, lunch at twelve, dinner at five, and do not attempt to kill the guards or escape. Zero tolerance for violence among the inmates or failure to obey orders.
"It's about Happy Hour time," said Hank, nodding to one of the clocks in the hallway. "Let's head down to the cafeteria."
"Happy hour?"
"You'll see."
The cafeteria was about twice the size of a normal high school's. The seventy or eighty men lounging around the tables barely made a dent in the place. With their grey jumpsuits and generally relaxed, studious demeanor – their voices a low, circumspect murmur – I had the impression of a bunch of academics or scientists on a lunch-hour break. The group, which included nine women sitting at their own table, sipped canned beer and munched on chips or nuts from individual serving bags.
"This has to be the weirdest concentration camp I've ever seen," I muttered.
Hank laughed. "Yeah, it's pretty laid-back here. But then they know we're not criminals." He grabbed my arm. "Let's get our allotted beer and chips. Then there's a couple of guys I want you to meet."
We crossed to the kitchen dispensary at one end of the room – a typical cafeteria stainless steel counter with heated food bins shielded by Plexiglas – where a guy in a kitchen apron handed us a sixteen ounce can of Coors Light and a snack packet of either mixed nuts or pretzels (I chose the nuts).
We joined two men at a nearby table. One was maybe thirty, clean-shaven, looked like a young professional. The other dude was older, bearded and gaunt, with deep-set haunted eyes. Hank introduced him as "Trucker" Bob and the younger dude as Martin. Both regarded me with a slight air of suspicion as we shook hands.
"Hayden's the one I was telling you guys about," said Hank. "Never expected to run into him here, though maybe I should've."
"The UFO guy," said Martin.
"Among other things." My smile was strained. "What got you guys locked up in here?"
They glanced at each other as if deciding who should go first – or if they were ready to share their stories with me.
"Bob here's a trucker," said Hank. "He's been delivering food and equipment to secret government bunkers and detention camps for the last several years."
"Then I made the mistake of posting about it on a conspiracy website." Bob's dark-circled eyes focused glumly on me. "Dumbest thing I ever did. I had a sweet gig, making three times my usual pay, and I had to open my fat mouth."
"What did you say?"
"I just said there really are bunkers and detention centers, and they really are stocking up on shit." He blew out a disgusted breath through his beard. "I never thought they would trace my email to me."
The younger man, Martin, snorted. "Right. Who'd ever think the NSA, who spies on everyone and has every telecommunications and all network media in their pocket, would be able to discover who you are?"
"Well, call me naïve, but it never fuckin' occurred to me."
"You were trying to do the right thing," I said to him, but he shook his head.
"Not really. To be honest, I just wanted to be the big man who knew more than they did."
I smiled and nodded. I appreciated his honesty.
"And Martin here stumbled onto something in Libya," said Hank. "Something that kinda pointed to what we really are doing in the Middle East."
"Protecting the petrodollar?"
Martin grunted out a bitter laugh. "That wouldn't be news, would it?" He shook his head. "No. I stumbled on a document. It was in Adam Roth's office. Roth being the inheritor of John Stevens and Deb Jones's position as Lybian ambassador."
" Stumbled on a document?" I asked.
"I should say that the person I had searching through the Ambassador Roth's cable records stumbled on it. My girlfriend, who was a diplomat who worked under Roth. Ex-diplomat. Ex-girlfriend as well."
I followed his nod to a red-haired thirty-something lady at the all-female table across the room. She caught his glance and scowled before shifting her gaze.
"Tell Hayden what the document said, Martin." Hank's voice brimmed with breathy gravitas.
Martin seemed to channel his ex-girlfriend's scowl at the older man. He then regarded the ceiling for a few moments before lowering his gaze to me, his eyes assuming a goodly share of Trucker Bob's haunted expression.
"It was a short note, a cable from the Secretary of State. It was a mite odd, but I
didn't think anything of it at the time. 'Have you had any further contact or indication of the foreign presence? Their assets in Iraq and Afghanistan appear to have gone into hiding.'" Martin paused for a heavy shrug. "I didn't think of it, that is, until I was grilled about it for two days and then brought here. Along with my girlfriend."
"I'm not sure I understand," I said. "First, why did you have your diplomat girlfriend search through Roth's cables? What were you looking for?"
"It might help to explain that I'm an investigative reporter who works – or worked – for the New Yorker. Madeline" – he nodded toward the redhead, who appeared busy ignoring us – "told me Ambassador Roth was meeting with some 'shady characters' and seemed incredibly stressed, even saying he hoped he didn't end up like John Stevens. She began to suspect he was dealing secrets with a foreign government."
"Did you find any evidence of that?"
He shook his head. "No. And to this day, I don't understand the reference to the 'foreign presence' or why DHS and the people here interrogated me about it for two days. I'm guessing it must involve some secret mission with the Russians or Iranians or whomever."
"A mission they didn't want people to learn about," I said. "Maybe they were working on something to get the Russians out of the area?"
Martin offered a lugubrious shrug. "I have no idea. Doesn't add up any way you stack it."
"I've been noticing that applies to a lot of this stuff."
"What about you and your UFO?" Martin asked. "Did you figure out what it was you saw or photographed that rated you being thrown in here?"
"Not really. Even if I posted everything, most people would believe it was just CGI and dismiss me as another kook. But I guess our government didn't want to take that chance."
I drank my beer, focusing on the warm buzz flowing through my limbs and overworked synapses. The beer was room temperature and cheap, but after the days of chlorine-rich water it tasted like Ambrosia. I noticed most of the men were nursing their beers in small, spaced-apart sips. I figured the "one can, one man" policy was about providing some stress relief while preventing drunken brawls. I found it hard to believe they had enough beer on stock to supply everyone for long if this place filled up, but I supposed they were focused on keeping people relatively happy until the End of Days.
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