EXECUTIVE SUMMARY
NOVEMBER 20, 2014
The High Frequency Active Auroral Research Program (HAARP) was a program focused on the study of upper atmospheric and solar-terrestrial physics and radio science. The HAARP program operated a major Arctic ionosphere research facility on an Air Force owned site near Gakona, Alaska. Principal instruments installed at the HAARP Research Station included a high-power, high-frequency (HF) phased array radio transmitter, known as the Ionosphere Research Instrument (IRI), which was used to stimulate small, well-defined volumes of ionosphere; and a large and diversified suite of modern geophysical research instruments which were used to observe the complex natural variations of Alaska’s ionosphere as well as to detect artificial effects produced by the IRI.
That is what was stated on HAARP’s website, such as it was, and that is what we have been told in evidence. What the public does not generally know is that HAARP was also capable of rudimentarily influencing some patterns of weather through manipulation of the ionosphere. The program was closed down in June 2014 because it was felt that there was not sufficient control of that area with the technology currently at the disposal of the United States of America. This was not the reason given to the general public and the media.
On February 26, 2014, an experiment was authorized by the United States Air Force, under whose authority the facility fell. That experiment did not, it is fair to say, go according to plan. There were some failures thereafter which this report will go into in greater detail. However, it is this committee’s finding that there is no compelling evidence that the storm which ravaged the Bering Strait on February 26 and February 27 was caused by HAARP. And while we have been given transcripts of their telephone conversations and email, neither Aidan Pearson nor James Burak can, at this time, be found.
Further, we also find the chain of command functioned appropriately in this instance. We conclude that there was nothing that could have been done to save the life of Michael Petrovsky, based on the evidence placed before us, including the statement we have seen from Scott Miller, who tried valiantly to save his friend’s life, and the statements from U.S. Coast Guard Rescue Swimmers. The medical evidence we have seen—that Michael Petrovsky suffered from a subdural hematoma caused by being struck by the boom of his sailboat—does not support a conclusion that alerting the Coast Guard earlier would have altered the unfortunate outcome.
Finally, it is also this committee’s finding that, given the Russians’ increased military presence in the Chukotka Peninsula, alerting the authorities of the Russian Federation to the two U.S. citizens on their soil, at that moment, might have raised questions about the research going on at Gakona. That publicity, and the ensuing reaction of the Russian Federation to it, would have been a threat to the national security of the United States.
As such, it this committee’s finding that all personnel in this instance acted appropriately. This is a closed hearing, and this committee’s findings will remain classified, but that notwithstanding, we hereby pass on our condolences to the friends and family of Mr. Petrovsky. We commend Mr. Miller for his actions, which are in the finest traditions of the U.S. Coast Guard Rescue Swimmers’ motto: “So others may live.”
About the Conspiracy Theory:
HAARP
The conspiracy theories that surround the High Frequency Active Auroral Research Program (HAARP) are actually some of the most interesting I know. Almost all have been utterly debunked by science, and in fact, HAARP used to give tours of their facility before it shut down in June 2014 due to sequestration (apparently), round about the time the Russian government began to increase its presence in the Chukotka Peninsula. I can’t say of course if the two are related.
As you can see from the Executive Summary, HAARP was intended to research radio transmissions in the ionosphere with a view to various applications, some military. The ionosphere can distort, reflect and absorb radio signals, and thus can affect numerous civilian and military communications, navigation, surveillance, and remote sensing systems in many ways. For example, the performance of a satellite-to-ground communication link is affected by the ionosphere through which the signals pass. And, as even HAARP officials themselves acknowledged, while the signals along the ground are well below adopted safety levels, the signals transmitted above the antenna array may have sufficient strength to interfere with electronic equipment in aircraft flying nearby. These facts, coupled with the involvement of the Department of Defense, have led to wild speculation about both the objectives and results of HAARP, even extending to theories about the missing Malaysian Airlines flight MH-370.
HAARP has also been the subject of speculation about its effect on the weather—and whether it might actually be able to control weather. In this story I enjoyed using that speculation, but science has almost certainly debunked it. Of course, whether you believe the explanations offered by experts in their field is a matter for you.
For me this story is an allegory for the themes that surround most, if not all, conspiracy theories. It is about fear of the unknown; mistrust and paranoia born out of a lack of understanding. It is about prejudice and lack of communication. It is as much about tension between young and old, and between individuals from different cultures, as it is about tension between the United States and Russia. To Umqy, the hedonistic Americans brought this on themselves, taking to the Bering Sea in a storm like this one. Yet if he knew the truth about their situation, as the reader does, he would not judge them so harshly. To Scott, Umqy is an Eskimo (which would in fact probably be an insulting moniker to bestow on a Chukchi) and just as likely to murder him for his boots, so to speak, as to hand him over to the Russian authorities who would parade him on Russian TV. Yet to the Chukchi, hospitality to strangers is how they have survived the harsh landscape of Siberia.
In addition, I’d like to say thank you to David Gatewood for inviting me to contribute to this anthology. Some of the most exciting speculative fiction voices writing at the moment feature in it, and it’s a special thing to be among them.
If you’d like to read a little more about my fiction, please visit my website, my Amazon author page, or feel free to email me.
That’s a Wrap from the Sea of Tranquility
by Eric Tozzi
FADE IN
We’re all screwed, so I’ve got no reason to keep my story in the tomb any longer. Last year I debated over and over about going public with the whole thing. I figured, so much time had passed, what could be the harm? It’s been almost fifty years—what’s the harm? But I remembered them—the guys who hired me—and the severity of my agreement with them. Ironclad. Under penalty of death. The kind of death that looks like an accident, but really it’s a beautifully orchestrated murder. No one’s the wiser.
Everything changed yesterday when the story to end all stories broke. When they finally came clean about the device. Makes my story seem trivial, save for the fact that both are connected. Since we’re all having our last meals on this rock together, I figure it’s time to set the record straight. Time to take my credit because credit is finally due.
I’m Harry Waldo McNixon. Yes—the Harry McNixon. Film director. IMDb me while there’s still time and some kind of Internet left. My credits are numerous. Made some hits, made some shits—I got paid just the same. Carved out a good living—enough to buy myself a place in Malibu with a view of Zuma Beach. Cash, by the way. The deal for my dream house was cash.
But I digress, so I’ll cut right to the chase. My greatest feat as a director was so sublime, so fucking brilliant, that I should have earned the Oscar. I’m talking about the Apollo 11 moon landing. Yeah, I know—laugh, snort, howl, ridicule me—I don’t give a shit. It’s true. I directed the video and film that played on worldwide television, seen by, and believed by, over four hundred million souls.
Now the most obvious question is why—why fake the moon landing? The barstool theorists, along with the ones still living in their mother’s basements and tromping aroun
d the blogosphere, would say it’s because we were trying to fool the Russians. That the whole thing was a big poker game, and we maintained face while the Reds folded. Not true. Not even close. You see, we did land on the moon… and we shot a fake landing. The fake landing played on TV at about the same time the real landing took place.
Now I digress even further, so I’d better go back and explain. It all started with a phone call and a designated meeting spot.
THE MEETING
“Mr. McNixon, we want to hire you for a directing job.”
We are standing in Griffith Park: me, the man in the black suit with tie and fedora (I’ve dubbed him Mr. Slim), and two other beefy men with the same attire and dark glasses. Upon arriving in a severe-looking black limousine, Slim introduces himself as Mr. Jones. It’s laughable, but I play along because I’m not sure who these guys are and what I may be getting myself into.
“What’s the job?” I ask. Slim never seems to blink. As if he’s a fucking android.
“Here’s the pay,” he says, and hands me a piece of paper. I snicker. The nerve of this wise guy. Then my eyes hit the paper and the number scrawled on it. One hundred seventy-five thousand dollars. I count the zeroes—three times to make sure I’ve got it right. In today’s money, that’s one point one mil.
“Nobody gets paid this kind of money,” I say, figuring Mr. Slim’s act is going to crack at any moment. That this is some kind of gag and I’ve been had by a very clever prankster.
“You were not our first choice.”
Now this shithead is insulting me.
“Oh, yeah. And who was your first choice?”
“Kubrick was unavailable.”
I scoff. Kubrick. The Kubrick? Who the hell do these guys think they are?
“Bullshit,” I say.
On this, I notice one of them conspicuously removing a briefcase from the back of the car. I also notice they have guns on their hips. Beefy Man #1 hands the case to Slim, who then carefully unlatches it. He cracks it open slowly.
And inside I see bricks of money. Cash. Scratch. And I’m guessing it’s the one hundred seventy-five thousand bucks I’m staring at. There’s no one else around to see this. Slim slaps the case shut and latches it securely.
“Mr. McNixon, this is exactly one hundred and seventy-five thousand, cash. This is your director’s fee. There are no points on the back end and no royalties. There are no credits, no press releases… no mention of this to anyone, living or dead.”
These guys are serious, I realize. And probably crazy. I throw back, “I’ll talk to my agent.” This elicits a prompt and emphatic ultimatum.
“No agents. No managers. Inside this briefcase, beneath your fee, is a written agreement. You take the briefcase, you accept the agreement in full. No negotiations.”
Nobody does business this way; I mean nobody. The alarm bells are screaming like banshees in my head.
“Is this pornography?” I ask.
“No,” Slim answers, and I can see that he’s growing impatient. The beefy guys are scanning the park like hawks. My mind begins to thrash like a landed fish on the deck of a boat. Thrashing up and down, gulping for air. You see, my dream house in Malibu came on the market just two weeks earlier, for one hundred fifty thou. And I’m staring down at one seventy-five. I can buy my dream house for cash if I take this gig. I’ll have an unmolested view of the coast for the rest of my life.
“Can I see a script?”
“There’s no script, Mr. McNixon.”
No script? This gets crazier by the minute, and I’m starting to sweat. Literally. It’s a cool, breezy sixty-eight and I’m sweating like it’s Burbank in September.
All at once my mind falls on something. An idea as to who might be standing in front of me offering me a briefcase full of money.
“Are you guys Mafia?” I ask carefully. And a second later I’m wishing I hadn’t. My director’s mind constructs the following scene: The goons unholster their guns simultaneously and riddle me with lead. They kick my dead carcass for good measure, then drive away. But none of that happens. Instead, Mr. Slim removes a leather fold from his lapel. They all do. And they flash me credentials. And I see that they are not Mafia, or cops. They’re feds. And they are totally fucking serious about this deal.
“What if I say no?” I ask. I figure, maybe, if I push a little, they’ll offer more money for this super-secret project. I must be crazy.
Slim grins with something just short of derision. He’s amused, if not more than a little irritated.
He tells me, “Mr. McNixon, quite honestly, time is running out, and you no longer have a choice in this matter. You see, we already know about your tax issues with the IRS. And if we wanted to throw you in jail for evasion, we could do it right now. Today. But we are graciously overlooking your former improprieties and giving you a very generous paycheck to boot. A totally fresh start.”
Shit—he’s got me there. And then Slim steps closer, coming eye to eye with me. His face hardens and he’s ditched all pleasantries and posturing.
“Don’t be a dipshit, McNixon,” he says, jaw muscles tensing. “Take the deal, or take a ride to prison. You have ten seconds to decide.”
One of his beefy sidekicks glances at his wristwatch. He’s actually going to count the ten seconds. I panic. A clean slate and a briefcase full of cash? What could be so important that they’re willing to go this far? It must be something big. Really big. And that alone terrifies me. Is this like some World War III doomsday thing? Another Cuban Missile Crisis? Do they want me to make a propaganda film of some kind? What else could it be? All these thoughts carom around my mind like pinballs.
“Five seconds,” the beefy guy says from behind Slim. The brick shithouse of a man is already starting to reach for what I’m guessing are handcuffs. My thoughts are reduced to a few simple words. Malibu. Ocean View. Clean slate.
“I’ll do it,” I say. “I’ll do it.” I don’t even know what “it” is. But my compliance elicits a pronounced smile on Slim’s face. He hands me the briefcase and I take it. It’s heavy. So this is what a pile of tightly packed cash feels like. Insane. And now Mr. Slim, whose real name I still don’t know, gives me a letter-sized envelope with my name typed on the face of it.
“What’s this?” I ask.
“Those are your instructions: start date, time, and location. Follow the instructions precisely. Don’t be late. If you’re late or don’t show up, we’ll come for you. And you don’t want us to come for you, Mr. McNixon.”
I take him at his word. I don’t want them coming for me. I smile innocuously and say thank you. After that, I climb into my car and drive home. Normally I’m playing Sinatra on 8-track when I drive. Not this day. This day I drive home in silence and occasionally glance at the briefcase packed with a hundred seventy-five thousand bucks in the passenger seat. And the briefcase, I find, glances back at me. Mutual understanding.
DAY 1
I leave home early, following the directions in the instruction packet. They tell me that today I won’t be pulling in to the gates at a studio where an overweight or elderly security guard greets me with an obligatory nod and waves me through. No, today I pull up to a gate that is in fact the entrance to a military base. It stretches as far as I can see in both directions, and it’s festooned with all kinds of barbed wire and other sharp things that can cut you into pieces. I’m guessing there will be no catering service on this shoot—whatever this shoot really is. I still don’t know, even as the armed guard checks my paperwork and studies my ID. He slides into his guard shack and confers with another grim-faced, buzz-cut clone of himself. I’m getting anxious, but finally he emerges and hands me some kind of pass. He tells me where to drive and where to park, using stiff-fingered and very precise hand gestures, like he’s doing karate in the air.
I thank him and drive a mile into the base, passing squatting and severe building complexes. Some of them have massive antenna arrays that pierce the horizonless sky. I pass more complexes, an
d then realize I’m driving parallel to a runway where all kinds of cutting, hard-angled fighter jets and bulky cargo planes are in silent repose. I’m getting scared shitless.
Rising into view like a mountain range ahead of me is a massive aircraft hangar. It’s where I’m supposed to be. The main hangar doors are all closed, but there’s a small service door on the corner. I roll toward the building and slow as a man pooled in shadow exits that door and approaches me. And damned if it isn’t Mr. Slim from Griffith Park himself. He grins eerily at me in the predawn ink.
“Have a nice drive, Mr. McNixon?” he asks.
“Delightful,” I say.
“And how do you like your new pad in Malibu?”
I nod and grin. It’s cool.
“Now, follow me,” Slim says. “You’ve got a lot of work to do.”
I park my car and follow Slim through that door. Now let me say, I’ve directed and produced enough pictures on sound stages to know how impressive the space can be. But nothing in my entire career has prepared me for this building. It makes the stages at Pinewood Studios in London look like fucking dressing rooms. There’s no comparison. This place is beyond massive.
But that’s not what puts me in a state of shock. I realize I can’t move. I’m pinioned to the ground. Because all of a sudden I realize what it is I’m supposed to direct. All at once I understand this is way bigger and scarier than I imagined.
Slim takes note of my paralysis. “Mr. McNixon, perhaps you’d like a drink.”
I nod, but I can’t take my eyes off what I’m seeing. It’s a set. More prodigious than anything ever built. There is a white-grey powder with stones of various size rolling back into what seems like infinity. There are wide, gentle slopes, and farther back are painted, ghostly white hills. Near to where we stand I can see a vehicle. A spaceship. A lander. Same one I’ve seen on the news. Same one that’s supposed to land on the moon. That’s where I am, you see. I’m standing on the surface of the moon. And I can’t move or even breathe.
Tales of Tinfoil: Stories of Paranoia and Conspiracy Page 16