The Ganymede Project

by Susan Glinert Stevens

  “Tough night, huh?” one of them asked, trying to act nonchalant.

  Yuri nodded, cleared glass from a seat, then sat with Katrina, whose body still trembled. He removed his coat and placed it over her shoulders.

  The gang members eyed Yuri’s gun, now visible in the holster under his arm. They whispered among themselves, then moved to the far end of the car, leaving them alone.

  “That was a government guy,” Yuri said.

  “I know.”

  “His name is Gillford Chisholm. He works in an OSHA Special Projects office. It seems that what he does is very special.”

  Yuri’s face was a mask, hiding a racing brain and seesawing emotions.

  The train drove onward.

  “All my life I thought I knew who to trust. I thought I was doing the right thing. I thought I could tell the good guys from the bad guys. I’m not sure of anything anymore.”

  She said nothing, clasping his hand.

  The ‘No-Smoking’ sign on the wall of the bullet-punctured car now seemed irrelevant. She lit a cigarette, blowing smoke toward a broken window that sucked in air with a continuous, vacuum-likewhoosh . “What now?”

  He reflected for a moment.

  “In a court of law, you’d need to show motive, opportunity and evidence.”

  “Forget that. We’re dealing with something like the old Soviet police state. Or worse—a government within a government, or a government outside a government. For all we know, they control the courts.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. They need secrecy. That means a small organization.”

  “Are you willing to bet your life on it,” Katrina asked. “Or the lives of others? The only chance is to go public.”

  “Even if we try to get information into the hands of the press, we still need to make the case like in a court of law.”

  “Why? I saw a paper the other day with headlines ‘Elvis’ Was A Space Alien.’ We have an even more fantastic story. Why wouldn’t they print it?”

  Yuri smirked. “Oh, the tabloid press will print it, and that’s the problem. A lot of people view those stories as pure fabrication. And those that don’t aren’t worth convincing. We need a story so credible that credible newspapers will print it and credible people will believe it. We need a detailed trail of evidence linking Groom, extraterrestrial artifacts and biological weapon and mind control experiments. At the moment, we seem to be missing some key pieces in that story.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “We’re going to disappear for a while for health reasons. If they know where we are, they can get us. No place is safe—not even your embassy. We have to keep moving. They’ll be looking for us at National Airport. We’ll get off the Metro before then, at the Pentagon, then walk to a rental car place in Crystal City. I’ll call in tomorrow from New York—tell ‘em I have a sick relative there. Then we take small commuter airline hops to Las Vegas.”

  “Groom,” she said, leaning on his shoulder. “We’re going to Groom.”

  * * *

  Deke lay on his sleeping bag in the back of the truck, Gray nestled beside him. It was a secret place in the desert that Zfar used as a base for ‘field expeditions,’ searching for evidence of government UFO testing. Deke loved nights like this out under the stars. He remembered the night a coyote stole their food. He remembered a freakish thunderstorm that caused Zfar, Gray and Deke to sleep in the two-man cab. He remembered the night he got stoned and woke up stark naked. In their years of observing, they had seen airplanes, helicopters and craft of unusual design in the sky above Groom.

  The government built the base in the ‘50s. Rumor had it that the U-2 and stealth bomber were tested here. Other rumors hinted at the existence of a sizable fleet of Soviet aircraft—bought or captured by the U.S. and secretly transported to the large hangars.

  Then there were the UFO rumors.

  A fellow by the name of Bob Lazar claimed to have worked on reverse engineering of extra-terrestrial craft at Groom. These rumors attracted Jafri and Dobbs like a magnet. They focused their energy on proving that intelligent extra-terrestrials had visited the planet, and that the government was covering up facts that could have as much impact on society as Copernican theory.

  In all of their visits to the base perimeter, they had never been detected by Groom security—except for the one time that they had purposefully attracted attention to themselves, thumbing their noses. Technically they never strayed onto the base. Tonight, a gully shielded the truck from view of the Groom access road.

  Deke scanned the sky.

  Night in the remote desert was a spectacular show—jet black, with pin pricks of brilliant light. Deke now knew that at least one of those pin pricks was the home of intelligent beings. This knowledge changed his perspective forever. The sky would never seem the same.

  And yet, with the knowledge came danger. A secret government-within-a-government claimed the right to kill people who got too close. Deke met the criteria for extermination. Moreover, it appeared that Groom Goons may already have targeted him.

  What to do? He tried to think logically.

  Option A was “Do nothing.” This was always an option that should be considered. However, it now seemed that the consequence of Option A was certain death.

  Option B was to learn karate and marksmanship. Very quickly. He pictured the goons approaching him in the Rachel Bar. They would eye his muscled physique, not quite sure that he was their true target. “Who are you?” they would ask. He would turn slowly, arch an eyebrow and say: “Dobbs. Deke Dobbs.” Then his lightning fast karate kicks would dispatch the goons on the spot. He would expose Operation Majority. The Governor of Nevada would embrace him as his long lost son. He would live happily ever after off of book deals and speeches.

  Right.

  Option C was to become a super criminal—Ernst Stavro Dobbs. He would use the alien code to break into banking systems, obtain passwords and account codes. He would move millions of dollars into secret Swiss accounts. He would be a criminal with a conscience. He would only steal from the President of the United States and anyone else remotely connected with Operation Majority. He would use the money to create a world-wide counter-Majority organization—Operation Minority.

  Option D was to play Prometheus to the masses—give the alien code to everyone. No more secrets. This would surely create world wide chaos and a return to the gold standard. Global productivity levels would plummet as all companies and individuals minimized exposure to computer networking.

  “What do you think, Gray?” he asked, stroking the dog’s ears.

  Gray licked him.

  “That’s what I think, too,” he said. “Try to stay alive. The only option that doesn’t make us a huge target is option D—give it away.” He stroked the dog’s ears again. “We’ll use information to negate the threat. That’s what we’ll do. The value of perfect information is perfect safety.”

  Or so he thought.

  53. TRAVEL AND TRANSITION

  23 July 1994

  Las Vegas, Nevada

  “Can they find us here?”

  Katrina sat on a large, heart-shaped bed, aware of the awkwardness of the situation—alone in a room with a man she barely knew, on the run, and not in control.

  Yuri leaned his duffel bag against the bed, then plopped his six-foot frame into a cramped chair near a cheap formica table, looked at her and grinned. “My dear Ms. Fontanova, this is the kind of Las Vegas hotel where people go when they don’t want to be found. The kind of place where rooms rent by the hour.”

  She looked at the coin box for the vibrating bed, and at mirrors on the ceiling. “This is a place where lovers go.”

  “Yes. And fugitives like us.”

  “I see. Did you ever take a lover to a place like this?”

  “That’s a pretty personal question.”

  “I don’t mind.”

  “High school. I took a girl to a picnic. We had a lot of time afterwards. Our parents weren’t expecting us bac
k. And I had a few bucks in my pocket—enough for an hour in a place like this.”

  “And now, where is this girl?”

  “I lost track.”

  “Are there others?”

  “This is getting pretty personal.”

  “I don’t mind.”

  He sighed. “Yeah. But I might. Sure. There’ve been others.”

  “Were they—”

  “Look, why don’t you turn off your intelligence officer mode for a moment and tell me about Katrina Fontanova.”

  “I’m not sure you’d like her.”

  “Try me. I’ve read her dossier. So far, I like what I see.”

  “She’s a spy. An opportunist. She’s good at what she does.”

  “What you’ve given me is your job description. I want to know about the woman who plays baseball, loved her brother, and wants to change the world.”

  “Change the world?” Her eyes drifted. “I suppose I want to change my part of it. I don’t like what I see. Got a cigarette?”

  “The nicotine’ll kill you.”

  “If I live that long.”

  “Good point.” He sat on the edge of the bed, rummaged in his duffel bag, found a pack and handed it to her, along with matches from the hotel room.

  “Keep the pack. I’m trying to purify my body. I’m working for a nicotine-free America.”

  She laughed, took a puff, then eased back on the bed, tossing off her shoes, stuffing pillows behind her back, pulling up her feet.

  “Maybe I’ll just settle for a free America,” Yuri said.

  “Ever since I was little, I wanted to come to America. I wanted freedom. I wanted comforts. I wanted vibrating beds.” She smiled at the irony. “I think I confused the two things—freedom and comfort. I thought one came with the other, especially in America.” She sighed. “My father is a communist. A true believer. He thinks I’m stupid.”

  “I went to Russia once, with my father. He made me learn about the culture—Dostoyevsky, Tolstoy—”

  “Tolstoy? My favorite.”

  “I like Dostoyevsky. My favorite’s ‘The Grand Inquisitor’, where ‘...in the splendid auto da fé, the wicked heretics were burnt .’

  “Why do you say—”

  “My father knew what freedom was. He really knew. He fought Stalin. He was imprisoned, sentenced to death for being a heretic. For infecting people with different ideas. He escaped before they could kill him and made his way here.”

  “I see. Even now, in Russia, freedom is far away. Maybe also the conception of good and evil. We are in turmoil. Things can go either way.” She smiled quickly. “So what else does my dossier say?”

  “That you were a passionate Yeltsin supporter, that you risked everything, and that’s why you got the Embassy job.”

  “Yuri?”

  “Yes?”

  “You’re risking everything, aren’t you?”

  He was silent, averting his eyes.

  “If you go into Groom, they’ll find you, track you, kill you. You can’t ever go back—to the FBI.”

  “My father always drilled me on a slogan: ‘Duty, honor, country.’ Until now, I never considered the order of those three words. I’ll be all right. I’m an ex-SEAL. We can live in swamps and kill with our teeth.”

  “I’m serious. I want to help.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t accept. They’d say I was a Russian spy, and I’d have a hard time proving them wrong. Anyway, do you trust Nikolai?”

  “No.”

  “See what I mean?”

  “The Russian government won’t have to know. Please let me help.”

  He squeezed his eyes at the bridge of his nose. “You’re in trouble, too. We need to get the story out, somehow.”

  She smiled. “It will be like my brother, Vladimir. Before the putsch, he was an ardent communist, and I was a Yeltsin supporter. We were opposites. Those were uncertain times. We agreed that whatever happened, we would help each other. Please, Yuri, let’s help each other.”

  He looked away for a moment. When he looked back, a tear glistened in his eye. He took her hands, pressed them against his, then kissed her gently on the cheek. “Yes,” he said, “we’ll help each other.”

  PART THREE: “SOMETHING WATCHES”

  “The pit was calling its children back.”

  Solzhenitsyn,The First Circle

  54. DREAMLAND

  24 July 1994

  Yuri and Katrina stood near their car at a lookout point on Freedom Ridge, blinking at a baked, barren void. A mild sandstorm floated brown haze above the desert floor, lofted it to the ridge where they stood, and dusted their faces and clothes.

  “You told me this was a secret base,” Yuri said. Maybe it’s not secret—just lost.” He squinted through binoculars at the parched earth below.

  They heard the engine first, straining against incline and heat, then saw a vehicle—a pickup truck—round a bend, pull next to their car and stop. A door opened and closed.

  Ben Nightwalker, holding his hat brim tightly against a gusting chinook, walked to meet them.

  “You Mister Sverdlov and Ms. Fontanova?” he asked cautiously. They nodded. “I’m Ben Nightwalker.”

  “Thanks for helping,” Yuri said, extending his hand.

  “No problem. Zfar told me about your situation. Can’t stay long. They’ll miss me. Did you bring the identification pictures, like I asked?”

  Yuri handed him an envelope. “Instant photos. Got ‘em in ‘Vegas.”

  Ben looked at the pictures. “They’ll do for badges,” he said, pocketing the envelope. “Come here a second.”

  He led them to a rocky outcropping. “You don’t want to drive past this point. They’ll spot you. But from this ridge, you can see the whole base.”

  Yuri shaded his eyes and watched gossamer snakes of sand curlicue across the desert floor, as Nightwalker continued. “There’s the main entrance and control point... That dirt road runs along a sensor fence. Security Central sends trucks to check out alarms. Guards on the trucks are authorized to use deadly force.”

  “How do we get in?” Katrina asked.

  “I’m part of the night maintenance crew. The sensor fence will be down for repairs this evening. I’ll make sure it’s down a long time. Just follow that ravine in, and meet me at the maintenance shed. Can’t miss it.”

  “Mr. Nightwalker—” Yuri started.

  Nightwalker seemed unaware that a stream of blood trickled from one nostril, down his lip, onto his chin. Yuri watched it drip onto his boot.

  “You’re bleeding,” Katrina said, stating the obvious.

  “Oh.” He touched a hand to his face, saw the problem, then pulled a greasy rag from one pocket, blotting his lips and chin. “Just a nosebleed. I’ve had it since... Doesn’t want to stop.” He started toward his truck, wiped his nose again, and called back. “Meet me at eight o’clock tonight.”

  He waved a bloody hand, then drove off.

  * * *

  Deke watched the trailer for an hour to make sure no one was around, then moved stealthily through the darkness, squeezed the latch and quietly opened the door. The computer run light was on, just the way he left it. He powered up the monitor and began work on THE PLAN.

  The idea was simple. He would send the White Rabbit code to everyone. In weighing the stakes between a world in which data was secure and a world in which all data was open to inspection, Deke decided in favor of openness. If he were a man from Mars, capable of complete objectivity, he might have decided differently. However, he was being stalked. It was possible his life was in jeopardy. Flinging open the doors to all secret files was the only way he could be sure that the nefarious secret of Operation Majority was exposed to the world.

  It wouldn’t do to just send the Operation Majority files. It was a deeply epistemological issue—How do we know? How do we understand? Why do we believe?

  The UFO community had been frustrated by actual and perceived charlatans within its ranks. There were so many hoaxsters t
hat whenever someone did come across a document that seemed to reveal the existence of extraterrestrials or a government cover-up, it just wasn’t believed. The government could plausibly deny the authenticity of any document. However, if Deke gave everyone the ability to penetrate government computers, then such documentation could be independently verified. Plausible deniability would evaporate. At least this was part of Deke’s thinking.

  The other angle had to do with staying alive. If he unleashed the White Rabbit genie, then Operation Majority security people would have no reason to kill him. There would be no net benefit.

  With these ideas in mind, he wrote a generic note:

  This message is from Deke Dobbs in Rachel, Nevada. I’m sending it because my life is threatened by “Operation Majority,” a quasi-government program for exploiting extraterrestrial technology.

  I know. This sounds crazy and paranoid. However, this message is proof that I have stumbled onto some very remarkable technology. The message itself will allow me to prove my claim.

  Attached to this message is a machine-executable program which I call “White Rabbit.” The program opens doors. That is, it penetrates the security systems ofany online computer and returns a searchable image of the secure system. You don’t need a big computer. A PC is fine, thanks to an incredible compression algorithm which beats anything else on this planet.

  Take the program. Try it out. Give it to a friend. I suggest you start by penetrating any of the national laboratories conducting weapons research. Look for Top Secret files on Operation Majority, or the Top Secret codeword, “MAJIC.”

  And, OBTW, if I turn up dead, you’ll know it wasn’t an accident. They got me.

  Regards,

  Deke

  INSTRUCTIONS FOR USE OF “WHITE RABBIT”