Now that the smell was gone, Brant’s mind began to drift, and like the flow of dust his tires were creating, he soon found himself caught in an endless stupor of thought. And to make things worse, the cadence of the road—coupled with fatigue and a dreary landscape—began to cast a hypnotic net on the young professor’s tired demeanor. The vista ahead appeared so lifeless and still, yet hauntingly beautiful. Brant wondered how the few hardened denizens of this salt wasteland might paint a more realistic picture of existence. For these elusive creatures, with the midday sun and its scorching temperatures climbing well into the triple-digits, existing would be a game of chance, once whose outcome would be evaluated by seconds. Shade would be their only salvation. But even after the sun’s fiery haze had set behind the west horizon, little reprieve would come to those creatures who had survived the heated blitz of day. For nighttime in Utah’s deserts was even more hostile. The fast-cooling sands would draw the heat-energy from the air, transforming the gentle breeze of day to a cold, harsh wind which would tumble sagebrush and carry sand to and fro, forever changing the salt desert’s landscape.
Perhaps it was the thought of the task ahead, or the fact that he could be sitting at home that very moment in his air-conditioned apartment, watching a good game on TV. But for whatever reason, a feeling of uneasiness—a sudden loss of faith just before the perceived win—crept unexpectedly in from the realm of uncertainty and found its way deep in Brant’s stomach. “Man,” he heard himself say aloud. “Do I really want to do this?” He soon shook it off and forced himself back from the reverie. He just needed a break. Yes. That’s all it was. He had been working nonstop for weeks, and was obviously more exhausted than he realized.
Brant sighed, smiled and roused himself. After all, he was beginning to feel like part of the background on some cheap movie set—watching the painted landscape rotate around him on some automated track. No wonder his confidence was being tested.
This adventure was all his doing. He couldn’t blame anybody else—although in hindsight, he almost wished he could. And besides, he had already invested far too much time, money and preparation into this little excursion . . . or was it concoction?
As a man of science, Brant knew too well the universal law: facts don’t lie. But they also don’t exaggerate, amend, deceive or contrive. They are unwavering, solid and secure. They can be trusted beyond human senses. In fact, all of creation depends on, and is subject to . . . facts.
Brant glanced again at his rear-view mirror and eyed the stacks of equipment sitting in the back of the vehicle. Yes. He was prepared . He was ready—ready to get the facts. He just needed to find the right location. That was the tricky part, and it wasn’t going to be easy. But if his plans went accordingly and his calculations were correct, he would setup camp right in the epicenter of the action, planting his modified equipment right on top of the fact factory, the very thing responsible for all the mystery.
It was Joel Dickson—a local meteorologist with government ties and longtime associate from Brant’s graduate days—who had really ignited the investigating fire under him. Oh, Brant had been aware that something very odd was reoccurring over Utah’s Great Salt Lake desert . . . at this point in the game, who wasn’t? But now that the hunt had turned from academic to some crazy race—the quest to discover the strange anomaly driving the freakish electric storms—the stakes had shot from mere personal interest to all-out competition.
These lightning-intense fields had appeared repeatedly, leaving a trail of burnt-out power grids and downed communication lines in their wake. Be it natural or unnatural, there was a singularity harboring out there in that salt wasteland, and Brant Stephens was bent on being the first one to track the beast and take it alive. He had his theories, most of which involved a combination of factors: geothermal activity; soil composition; iron-ore deposits—just to name a few. These were Brant’s personal postulates; those which he had willingly shared with other colleagues. But Brant had other ideas . . . less orthodox scenarios. These, he had based on data gathered from his own weather stations. And this treasure trove of data, he would not be sharing . . . with anyone.
In addition to his occupation as a Professor of Atmospheric Physics at a local community college in Salt Lake City, Brant occasionally did contracting work for a local radio broadcasting company, KSCR Communications—a subsidiary of two affiliated sister stations. His weather-gathering equipment was tied directly into this company’s own forecast-modeling software. The added technology produced extremely accurate forecasts, giving KSCR’s meteorologists an uncanny edge over the other stations. In other words, it could be said that Brant was KSCR’s very popular, and best-kept secret for forecasting weather. But regardless of the station’s accolades, and the additional income—which was nice, no doubt—weather forecasting was just a perfunctory role for Brant’s high-tech equipment; child’s play, compared to the real potential of his personally engineered, remote weather stations. Nothing could come close when it came to data reconnaissance, both in quantity and quality.
Brant understood—especially after learning that Dickson had joined the hunt—that the man’s affiliates with the National Weather Service would also catch the scent, and they had. In fact, it seemed that this strange tempest had done more than take down local power lines . . . a lot more. According to Dickson, not only had the power grids from the bordering towns been affected, but aircraft out of Hill Air Force Base had also felt the breath of the unknown phenomenon. Fighter jets in route to the bombing range had reported instrumentation irregularities—their onboard tracking systems and directional equipment had supposedly failed while flying over parts of the west desert. There had even been reports from commercial airliners—some at altitudes above thirty-thousand feet—experiencing anomalous instrument failures while crossing over the mysterious areas. To intensify the mystery even more, Dickson also alleged that his team had been conscripted by an unspecified branch of the military; and that his people had been pulled from their normal operations, and tasked with providing data analysis . . . for this classified group—a supposed conglomerate of government scientists and atmospheric experts. Dickson claimed to have pushed back, relinquishing his team’s services only when put under the political hammer. In other words, he had feared career suicide. The man had gone on about this elusive group of black-suites for nearly an hour, ranting about their fancy equipment and orbiting military satellite systems. It gave Brant the feeling that the desert was being watched from afar . . . as if by some alien outpost. But then Dickson was known for his colorful embellishments—he never could just state the facts. It was no wonder that Brant initially found the man’s claims dubious at best. For one thing, why would the U.S. Military care about weather related anomalies? Strange anomalies, yes, but still just electrical storms. And the use of military satellites for such observations? Now that was hard to swallow. But it turned out that Dickson’s claim was dead on. In fact, this covert team of government investigators had already stationed a provisional encampment somewhere in the desert just outside the perimeter of an area which Dickson had referred to as ground zero.
This ground zero was a massive circle defined by their satellite database as a high probability area. The five-mile radius was located in the southwest end of the salt desert—about fifty miles from the west shores of the Great Salt Lake. Dickson had also claimed that this analyzing eye and data gathering process of a military satellite had been deemed: phase one. The next step, phase two, was already in progress. It was the arrival of this ground-team, these military-backed bloodhounds. Dickson assumed that there was to be a phase three, but information detailing that stage had intentionally been withheld. The entire ordeal had left Brant with a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach. His motivation for hunting down the source of the odd storms was purely for science . . . well, mostly. But what had brought these others into such a desolate realm?
If Dickson was accurate—and shockingly, so far he had been—these military clients of
his, whoever they were, might be in the area for as long as a month . . . possibly more. And if they were using . . . how had Dickson put it? State-of-the-art, high-tech equipment, which could cover and comb every inch of the area, then they were well equipped and financed. The last thing Brant wanted was a bunch of bureaucratic hounds encroaching into his piece of the desert. Those military types—the covert analytical nit-wits—oozed of arrogant snobbery; he had dealt with that type before. But Brant didn’t allow himself to get too worked up. Truth was, he could of cared less about Dickson, or the man’s military users. As long as the whole bundle of them stayed put in their so called, ground zero. And Brant had reason to believe that they would.
As he pondered the whole crazy situation, he allowed a sneer. . . no, a cunning gratification, to spread across his face and set his qualms to rest. He shook his head and grinned. He knew exactly what they would find out there in their ground zero. Nothing! He chuckled and allowed himself a moment of self-satisfaction. Nothing but sand, salt and a few friendly lizards. Brant grinned as he pictured the entire team scouring about the area like a bunch of ants running around a disturbed anthill. Call it what they will, he continued in his self-confidence, but their ground zero is off by miles!
Dickson’s military cell might have access to high-tech, over-priced equipment; and it might even be good . . . heck, it might even be great. But Brant’s modified and enhanced gear was better. In fact, it was exceptional!
Brant had spent years testing, modifying and improving his advanced weather equipment. He had teased, stroked and tickled the gear into a supplicating beehive; and not only did he understand every component of the tracking hardware, he spoke its language fluently. His doctoral thesis had been centered, in part, on the development of a new type of encryption aimed at securing data transmissions from orbiting satellites. He could peruse through a stack of data-feed like a vacuum on dust. In fact, it was this qualifying knowhow which had led Dickson to ask Brant to review and examine some of the initial data his team had compiled from the military’s first round of satellite feeds—geographical data, atmospheric history and basic topographical figures. Brant had agreed, of course, hoping to sneak-a-peek into the information being collected by Dickson’s mysterious charters. But the material turned out to be standard stuff . . . even a bit boring—simple geographical data on their so called ground zero. Yet, there was a prize to be found, and Brant had discovered it! An error in their calculations!
Brant had double and triple checked the translation of the team’s data, but the results came back the same each time. The error was flagrant, and should have been obvious to anyone professionally trained in satellite technology. But for whatever reason—lag variations, relative time factors or disparity between signals—the position for their ground zero was wrong! Very wrong! Dickson’s cryptic military sand-scourers would be looking down the wrong burrow for their beast. Brant, on the other hand, knew exactly which hole to set his snare. Of course he hadn’t bothered volunteering that little tidbit of information to Dickson. Not for now, anyway.
Brant glanced at his watch. He had about two-hours of sunlight left. He needed to stop ruminating on Dickson’s issues and speed up, even if the stupid road shook the teeth right out of his mouth. He looked ahead at the distant horizon and followed the road like a dusty stripe down the hood of a white car. He still had a ways to go, and if his calculations were correct—and they usually were—there would soon be clouds gathering above the west desert. He checked his car barometer. Hmm, he thought, still unchanged. But if Brant had learned anything from the last few months of his data intel, it was not to trust the normal instruments and indications which usually forecasted a pressure shift in the atmosphere, and inevitably, a change in the weather. It seemed nothing of this new anomaly could be predicted by normal means—a fact which was becoming painfully obvious. This was a different creature loose in the sands—alien, unknown and unwelcome. And, as strange as it sounded, Brant somehow knew that this tempest would not be stalked easily. But stalked it had to be. Stalked, captured and destroyed. It seemed there was more than just burned out wires, damaged instrumentation and sizzled hardware scattered throughout this thing’s wake. Brant was reminded of what was probably the most odd circumstance yet tied to these strange storms; and—as he had to admit to himself—was the other reason (besides science) for his expensive, and enduring foray to the sands.
It had been nearly two months now since he had first heard the strange report broadcasted from one of his radio clients—a station out of Salt Lake City. Because of his ties to the company, it hadn’t taken long to gather the specifics on the report. The story only aired because of a tape error during the broadcast—a quick, two-minute blurb shoved into the wrong feed at the last moment. But because the story was weather-related, and had taken place near Brant’s area of interest, he took notice. The article was about a local scout troop returning from an activity somewhere near the old Bonneville Racing track. It had been a fun-filled day of events, the report had stated. But near the end of the day, something had gone terribly wrong. A freakish electric storm—peculiarly similar to those Brant had been tracking—quickly developed and caught the group off-guard. They had been directly in its path, and were lucky to get out of the area with no casualties.
After hearing the report, Brant had actually taken enough interest to locate and speak, although briefly, to one of the men who had been at the activity; an advisors who had been there with his son. The man was furious about the broadcast. Not because it was accidently broadcasted, but because of how it was reported: They read it like it was just another storm! he had angrily stated. They used casual phrases like, ‘odd cloud formation’, and ‘rain storm,’ he went on. They made it sound like a rained-out picnic! The distressed father had made it very clear that this was no regular storm. This was something unnatural and terrifying, certainly nothing he had ever dealt with, heard of, or witnessed in his lifetime. His emotional outrage had underscored that fact. But the portion of the interview which had seared itself deep into Brant’s memory, was the man’s last vivid statement: It was alive, he had muttered hauntingly. It was alive.
At the time, Brant had puzzled over such a statement, and wanted to push his luck by probing further. But the guy hadn’t been too happy about the interview in the first place, so Brant opted to leave things be. The only real absolute he got from the conversation was that the strange storm had terrified all who had experienced it. But there was even more intrigue to the story . . . and it wasn’t about the weather.
The report also claimed that in the confusion caused by the group’s swift departure, two of their troop had been accidently left behind—young boy scouts whose names had been withheld. As Brant had heard it, the boys were nearly swallowed up by the thing, and the local news had taken full advantage of their touch with death headline. Fortunately, the old cliché: all’s well that ends well, had come into play, and the two youngsters were located unharmed—or so it was purported. But days later, an odd commentary surfaced, one which the news agencies had not been privy too. It was supposedly leaked by someone who worked for the UHP (Utah Highway Patrol). As Brant had heard it, the retreating caravan of scouts had been on the Interstate, speeding toward home for nearly an hour when they were flagged down and intercepted by a pair of highway patrol cars bulleting past them in the opposite direction. Once stopped, one of the police officers informed the advisors that two boys of their group had been left behind in the desert. Shocked and mortified, the caravan spun around and followed the police vehicles back to the desert at best speed. By the time the desperate brigade reached the two stranded scouts, all that remained of the mysterious storm was a spectacular sunset. No evidence of the monster’s swath of rage remained to affirm the event. However, when the dust had finally settled and the two rescued boys were safely rejoined with their cohorts, an interesting question arose: who had contacted the police? Neither of the boys had a cell phone, and no one had known about, nor witnessed them i
n the desert? But then things really got weird. The senior UHP officer claimed—rather hesitantly—that a synthetic voice had been broadcast on every police-band frequency within the city limits. The source of the mysterious transmission was unknown . . . and untraceable. Yet, it had apparently compromised every law enforcement frequency, even the encrypted emergency and secured bands. The officer stated that the mysterious audio message had simply announced: Boys left behind. Immediate assistance required, followed by a latitude and longitude declaration. The message had repeated three times. The coordinates turned out to be the exact spot where the boys were found.
Brant tried for days to contact the parents of either of the two scouts for more information, but he—and apparently all others—were turned away. Days went by and Brant had conceded to the fact that he would never learn more about the strange story. But then providence played a fortuitous hand, and a second chance landed right in his lap.
James Barrett—the younger of the two boys who had been left in the desert—had a grandfather, old Blake Barrett, who just happen to get his hair cut at the same local barbershop as Brant’s own father, George Stephens. It was a crazy coincidence, yes, but then again, luck seems to thrive in the realm of crazy, and this time, Brant would be the one to benefit. Apparently, the two elderly men had become acquainted while waiting their turn at the shears. Among other things discovered during their initial chitchat, was that they shared several unique similarities: both men had lost their wives and lived alone. Both had local family whom they were very much involved with. They were both war veterans. They had similar taste in pets—each had a dog. And finally, both argued as to which was the bigger New York Yankees fan. But one thing they did not have in common, were habits. Old Blake was a drinker, and spent most Friday nights frequenting one of several local bars. Brant’s father, George, on the other hand, didn’t drink at all, and found the habit disgusting and demeaning. George soon found that his new acquaintance not only drank too much, but far too often.
Of Salt and Sand Page 29