Of Salt and Sand

by Barnes, Michael

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  From 35,000 feet up, Bob Weldon—pilot and owner of the Cessna 525 Citation jet—began his descent into a seemingly black abyss below. His only passenger, a middle-aged, slender man, with thick dark hair and saliently gray eyebrows, sat motionless, baring down intently on a stack of papers illuminated by the cabin light above. The man had chartered the flight under the name of Mr. Tanner; listing Mr. as the first name, and Tanner as the last, not exactly the stereotypical passenger, and not one which Weldon would choose to take up again—the man gave him the creeps. But once in the air, Tanner did seem to settle down, appearing more like a statue than flesh in his matching suit, shoes and briefcase. The nervous fondling of his pen between two long fingers, and a bouncing leg, dispelled any questions of him being utterly comatose.

  The jet had been chartered for a one-way, single destination, and although Weldon had flown over the area many times, he had never known there to be a landing strip at the touchdown coordinates, particularly one which was conducive to a small jet. There was nothing on his GPS nor his navigation database, except for Wendover City, whose lights he could always make out, brilliant and dazzling, even at his high altitude.

  Weldon had nearly backed out of the charter when Tanner had given him the flight itinerary, listing his destination as a latitude and longitude point only—he wasn’t about to risk his career by flying some kind of contraband. But Tanner had produced rock solid identification. As it turned out, the man was some government agent whose hands were in the same pie as the CIA, Homeland Security, and other—unnamed—government organizations. Weldon wasn’t too surprised, then, when his onboard GPS system placed the location nearly on top of an old abandoned World War II training facility outside of Wendover City, Utah.

  Weldon knew of the Wendover Base—derelict, deserted and nearly reclaimed by the sandy desert on which it sat. There was nothing there now but a few crumbling old buildings; certainly not an airstrip, or so he had assumed. But not long into the flight, an unidentified ping hit the Citation’s navigation system—a guidance beacon originating directly from Tanner’s coordinates. Something was down there. Weldon wasn’t about to chance landing his baby on some overgrown, broken up air strip, but then Tanner had assured him that the area was more than adequate for landing his jet. After all, Tanner had as much to lose as the pilot if the jet’s landing went badly. But in truth, it wasn’t Tanner’s CIA connections that got the pilot and his expensive jet in the air, nor which would land the aircraft in an unauthorized and uncharted location. It was the money. Lots of it, and all in cash. The crisp new greenbacks might have stupefied Weldon’s brain at the time, but either way, the man was now committed, and he’d see it through. He’d fly this Tanner into perdition and back as long as he could do it and return, safely.

  “I have arranged for transportation once we land. You are to take-off immediately following my departure,” Tanner rung in over the intercom.

  Weldon was A-Okay with that plan. “Affirmative,” he returned through the cabin speakers. “We’ve already started our descent, Mr. Tanner. You’ll want to prepare for landing. The coordinates which you provided place us just outside of Wendover City, near the old air base. We should be nearly there, although all I’m seeing on my instruments is a beacon-ping. I still can’t make a visual on anything—there’s nothing down there but sand.”

  Tanner calmly set his file of papers back down and moved a finger to the intercom button on his armrest. “I assure you Mr. Weldon, the landing strip is there. Just continue on course, please.”

  “Yes, sir,” Weldon replied dutifully. But in actuality, he was very uneasy. His altimeter was ticking down rapidly, eating away at the precious distance between aircraft and ground. A thousand more feet, he told himself nervously, and I’m pulling this bird back up.

  A sudden tone chimed in on his controls. The slide-guidance system came online. Weldon breathed a sigh of relief. His eyes now scanned anxiously below. Wherever this landing strip was, it sported a very impressive radar system, he mentally noted. He pushed the cabin intercom: “Mr. Tanner, your people just locked onto to our navigation system. They’re guiding us in now.”

  “Very good,” Tanner replied. He released the button and casually resumed his analysis and paperwork. He took one final hard look at the photos in his open file. “Still alive,” he muttered, shaking his head. The yellowing, cracked photos smiling back at him were those of children—five Jewish immigrants still dressed in their government issued clothing from the USSR. The pictures had been taken in August of 1946, as the youths arrived in their new home, the United States, for the first time. Russia could not have known then, what unimaginable wealth they had in those five Jewish emancipationists, rescued from a war-torn Nazi clinic. For in just two months—and because of political upheaval—the Russian government would negotiate an exchange for one of their agents, and unknowingly allow the United States to acquire the single greatest asset the world might ever know . . . the Five. Tanner ran his thin finger along the Los Alamos data sheet. “So clever,” he muttered.

  Until receiving the classified documents, Tanner had had no idea of the impact these five prodigies had made those many years ago on the then fledgling Los Alamos research facility. In their brief stay, they had developed technology centuries ahead of the day—unimaginable technology. Only to sabotage it all in a bizarre act of irony, and bury themselves and their knowledge forever, miles underground; or so everyone had believed.

  Very soon now, Tanner boasted to himself, you’ll all be back where you belong. But unlike the post-war days at Los Alamos Laboratories when the youths were deemed the golden children, and given full rein of the facility; this time around, the elusive group would be staying under very different circumstances.

  Tanner smiled coldly, then closed the file and locked it in his briefcase. The plane would soon be landing. And in fact, at that very instant, Weldon caught sight of something out of his cockpit window. A massive bank of parallel strobes suddenly burst into life from the blackness below. Great waves of pulsing light rolled across the dead land like a monstrous caterpillar bejeweled with thousands of tiny flashing diodes.

  “Wow,” he blurted out. “That’s not an airstrip, that’s an interstate!”

  The jet lowered its wheels and headed down, her nose directed between the flashing grid. A sudden bump soon followed. The charter had landed.

  “Keep the engines running, Mr. Weldon,” reminded Tanner over the intercom. He unbuckled his seat belt and grabbed his coat and briefcase.

  As soon as the plane had rolled to a stop, Weldon appeared from the cockpit. He opened the cabin door with a slight sucking of pressure. Instantly, a wave of dry, hot air poured in. The man peered out into absolute blackness. As the strobes rolled across the runway, he could see ghostly silhouettes of several large structures towering above through a haze of blowing sand, and moving sagebrush. In the wash of strobe and shadow, they could have been remnants of some ruin left to brood over the area like an ancient Greek deity. The entirety of the surroundings reeked of desolation, and an unnatural sense of emptiness.

  Weldon gawked outward for a few more moments, then turned a bewildered look at his passenger. “Are you sure you have transportation out of here?”

  Tanner nodded and moved to the exit.

  “Okay. Watch your step.” Weldon stood at the door as Tanner stepped down the exit on onto the black asphalt. He couldn’t help but feel relief as the man departed the aircraft. Now, he just wanted to get out of there.

  Tanner turned back once, and gestured a signal.

  Weldon received it clearly: take off.

  Tanner vanished, seemingly absorbed into the blowing sand, and black abyss.

  The engines of the jet boomed in the darkness. The small aircraft taxied in a half-circle and pointed itself in the direction it had come. Then, with a sudden roar, the engines accelerated the sleek cylinder down the runway like a slingshot. The Citation’s wheels had just lifted into the fuselage when a
ll strobes and illuminated markers fell instantly dark. Weldon pushed the aircraft in an upward ascent more hastily than usual—he wanted to put distance between him and the ground as quickly as possible. As he readjusted his navigation system for a return loop, he noted with surprise, that the coordinates Tanner had given him were gone, wiped from his navigational database. The directional ping from the anomalous beacon had also vanished. It was as if he had never landed. The man pushed his engines ahead full speed, and thought about his family.

  On the ground a set of headlights flipped on, washing over Tanner’s body. His transportation had arrived.

  At the EMR security checkpoint, Tanner flashed his badge and shoved a wrinkled document into the faces of two guards. There was a hasty visual exchange; a nod from the senior officer, then Agent Tanner pushed past without another word.

  The two soldiers were noticeably annoyed—this was beyond arrogance—but they had been expected him. A phone call to the checkpoint, minutes before, had made it blatantly clear: no deferrals, no questions. Authorize him!

  This wasn’t Tanner’s first visit to the classified EMR base. He had been there several times before, enough to earn him a bad reputation with the gate security. A nearby soldier—detached in the background and armed with a M16 series assault rifle—tossed a sarcastic gesture at his comrades. The three of them drilled a disdainful glare into Tanner’s back as the contemptuous man crossed the barrier and marched down the hallway as if he were the commanding officer in charge.

  Tanner got his share of odd glares from other uniformed staffers on his way to the elevators. It was extremely rare for a civilian, especially one dressed in a business suit, to be seen traipsing down a hallway without military escort. But the badge—clearly displayed on Tanner’s suit jacket—had the effect of a flashing sign which read: do not question, do not disturb! And so no one did.

  Colonel Briggs’ office was two floors down. Having been there several times already, Tanner knew the way. This time, he thought disdainfully, stepping into the elevator, Briggs had better not keep me waiting. Their plane was leaving within the hour for Patrick Air Force Base in Florida, and they could not be late.

  Chapter 33:

  Evening came to Sandcastle’s west side in colorful bursts of orange, yellow and red. It tossed its golden hue through windows, under eaves, off marble walls and granite balconies, and turned Gracie’s glass solarium into a sparkling gold dome. Truly spectacular, there was nothing quite like a sunset in the salty desert.

  Jessie had somehow missed, during the earlier tour of her room, a fantastic attached balcony off the far west wall of her room. The recess entrance was through a pair of French doors with thick inlaid glass and a dark cherry-wood frame. The doorway opened onto the spacious platform, where a variety of amenities punctuated the deck enclosure. There was a glass-topped table with its set of matching chairs, each supported in legs of woven steel; cushioned loungers, sturdy for outside use; thick knitted rugs, and an assortment of plants, each bursting out from within large ceramic bowls festooned in bright colors and patterned in native mosaic. Jessie wasted no time in stepping out onto the platform to witness first hand, the beauty of the sunset. What had begun as a small west flame now consumed the horizon in a conflagration of distant colors. She leaned outward against the granite posts and heavy balusters, all of which were carved with exquisite craftsmanship and could have been the pleaded folds of draped white silk.

  A subtle breeze, born from the cooling evening air on heated sands, rose up in teasing plumes which eddied her hair and carried the fragrant smell of vined flowers from the gardens below. It was a breathtaking view, and as she looked out into the lush beddings, meticulously embroidered grounds, ponds and fountains, she had to once again remind herself that this was not a dream. Her gaze soon took her far beyond the secluded grounds, past Sandcastle’s thick perimeter walls and beyond to the endless sea of sand. The golden fire which had danced so effortlessly on the sparkling plain, now began to ebb with the last ambers of sunlight.

  “Hey Sis!”

  Jessie whirled to see Sam on his adjacent balcony. The boy was beaming, full of smiles and waving eagerly at her. As Jessie smiled and waved back, the last ambers of dusk fell upon her brother’s form, and for an instant, he could have been a statue of gold. And why not? To her he was gold, pure and perfect. She basked in the moment, watching him bounce up on the low baluster rail, his head just tipping the top. How grateful she was to have risked everything to get him out of the Staples’ home; how grateful to have broken every rule—even the law—to get Sam back. She was all the boy had left in the whole world. Jessie knew she would never allow them to be separated again—never. And if this Gracie Reitman was the person everyone claimed she was, then she alone had the power to make it happen; and more importantly, the will to do so. She could guarantee a good family and environment where Jessie and Sam could finally begin their lives anew.

  So there they stood, providence having steered them into this world which still felt more like fantasy than reality. A realm which had opened its door in the last moments and heaved a great severing sword at the hangman’s noose. Yet, amid all the beauty, wealth, power and the seemingly kind people which now surrounded them, something still felt amiss. And Jessie sensed—even encircled by the warmth of the desert air—a touch of chill.

  “Hey! Are you deaf?” Sam’s voice came again.

  Jessie startled, then returned a waving arm. “Hey you!” she shouted back. “Pretty cool, huh?”

  “Cool! Are you kidding! This is way more than cool. It’s awesome!” Sam turned and fell backward into one of his large lounge chairs, disappearing momentarily in its thick cushions. The chair bounced and jumped then spit him back out, giggling, once again. When Sam finally rebounded, he shouted back, “do you have a chair like this on your balcony? It’s so soft!”

  Jessie held up two fingers.

  “Two! Hey, I only have one!”

  She shrugged tauntingly, “tuff luck, Bro”. Then she laughed.

  “I’m coming over there to see what else you have.” Sam darted back into his room.

  “Fine,” Jessie smirked back as loudly and annoyingly as she could. “But don’t expect me to surrender any of my stuff to you!” She hurried back into her own room, still chuckling.

  Sam’s loud footsteps and thumping knock would come at any second. And they did, or at least the knock. She didn’t hear the boy’s hurried pace though, and the thump on the door was certainly less Sam-ish then expected.

  “Well that was fast,” she voiced humorously, pulling the door briskly open. “That was—” she stopped mid-sentence. It wasn’t her brother. The figure in the doorway was that of a woman. “Oh!” Jessie recovered with a slight step back, then managed a hastened smile.

  Sam’s footsteps soon broke the awkward exchange as he came barreling, as previously expected, around the bend.

  The woman turned and made only a brief notice of his rather raucous arrival. But the glance was enough to bring the boy to a squealing halt. “My name is Ruthanne,” the woman spoke crisply, and lifted a delicate hand.

  “I’m . . . I’m—” Jessie stuttered, daftly.

  “Jessie, perhaps?” The woman interjected, then cleared her throat. Her hand still outstretched.

  “Yes,” Jessie amended, flushing at the cheeks. “Sorry.” She reached and gave the hand a gentle, diffident grasp. “And this is my brother, Sam,” she gestured at the boy—appearing no less stupefied than he had at the braking.

  The pair of heavy-framed, dark glasses which sat incongruently on her simple yet attractive face, now turned on Sam. Ruthann’s hand again rose in salutations, stopping directly at the appropriate level. There it waited . . . and waited . . .

  Jessie’s fierce glance finally swept the boy, snapping him into action.

  “Oh,” he jolted slightly, then quickly stepped forward and proffered an overzealous shake. “I’m Sam. Her brother.”

  A slight smile flashed across smooth
red lips, then was gone. “Yes. Your sister said that. Nice to meet you, Sam.”

  Ruthanne was dressed casually in a dark skirt, lightly pattered blouse and comfortable shoes: a conventional yet fashionable combination. She had definitely done her homework and wanted to dress appropriately for the style of the period—at least while Sandcastle was hosting the two young guests. But it was a sacrifice founded of good intent, not stone. She hadn’t been in the new digs but minutes, when earlier, she had leaned into Ellen and privately attested that . . . the stylish and fashionable . . . particularly the skirt, would have to go as soon as opportunity permitted. Ellen had just laughed and reminded Ruthanne that she just needed to—what was the word? Adapt? But then Ellen was far more accommodating to change. And this new apparel, particularly a fashionable one, had tickled her interest from the beginning. She actually enjoyed, not only the variation, but the final look and feel of the clothing. It was after all, quite an adjustment for both of them. Their standard uniforms were made from Jacob’s wonder-wear material: a strong durable fireproof fiber; interwoven with microscopic data-gathering sensors to both protect and monitor their bodies. The synthetic fabric was practical for working in the underground complex, true, but as for the rest of the world, the uniforms were prodigiously dull in both style and fashion. But Ruthanne, unlike Ellen, was not concerned about pattern, color, or even the style of this new material which covered her body. That was all irrelevant. Her focus was in getting through the next few weeks without incident—a task which would test the team’s combined efforts to the extreme. Who cared what she wore. Ruthanne would see this scheme through in a bathrobe if it meant success.

  Jessie caught herself unwittingly eyeing the woman prudently.

  Ruthanne did have lovely features. Her skin, although somewhat pale in contrast to such thick black eyebrows and luxuriant hair, was youthful and unblemished. Her lips were full; her chin narrow and well formed; and her teeth—although Jessie had only gotten a glimpse of them—were brilliantly white and straight. In fact, Ruthanne’s face could be quite attractive if not for the dark glasses. What was with those awful looking things anyway? Jessie certainly couldn’t get passed those. Definitely a downside on appearance, she mentally appraised in her quick, scrutinizing observation.