The Goldilocks Zone
The Goldilocks Zone
A Novel
DAVID D. LUXTON
MYSTERIOUS LIGHT PRESS
www.mysteriouslightpress.com
Copyright © 2021 by David D. Luxton
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by
Mysterious Light Press. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-1-7348248-3-4
www.mysteriouslightpress.com
For those with the courage to seek and know the truth, regardless of what it may be or how it may change them.
“The first principle is that you must not fool yourself and you are the easiest person to fool."
—Richard Feynman
1: Lights in the Sky
Any investigative journalist worth their salt will tell you that a good bullshit detector is a must. And for me, whenever someone claims to have special knowledge about mystical experiences and makes you pay for it, my detector needles up, big time.
I was headed to a place called The Valley of the Moon, just outside of Missoula, Montana, to interview Daniel Byrne. Byrne’s a Harvard lawyer turned professional UFO researcher, public speaker, and co-founder of the Proxima Foundation, a not-for-profit focused on advancing contact with extraterrestrials. My plan was to attend one of his “contact events” where, according to the promotional videos on their website, he and his assistants would point lasers into the night sky, play New Age music, and have attendees meditate on happy thoughts until glowing objects appeared in the firmament. Byrne was charging three grand, and with nearly a million followers on social media and endorsements from celebrity talent and at least one former NASA astronaut, he had to be raking in some serious dough. Sure, he had his dissenters and skeptics, but the devotees far outnumbered the haters.
While I was suspicious of Daniel Byrne and his group, I must admit I was excited to be doing the story. I’ve had an interest in UFOs since I was a kid and even saw one back in the late winter of ‘97 when I was ten. I was on a Cub Scout camping trip near Prescott, Arizona when seven amber lights in a V formation floated silently by in the night sky. My best friend Jonathan Mahue saw it, too, and so did about ten thousand other people between Prescott and Tucson. You may have heard about it; the incident became known as the Phoenix Lights.
To tell you the truth, I have no idea what I saw that night, or whether I believe that aliens have ever visited our planet. What I do know is that it’s a big universe, and according to the Drake Equation, millions of planets out there could support life. Besides, scientists have confirmed the existence of more than four thousand exoplanets, some of which are in the Goldilocks Zone, neither too hot nor too cold to sustain organic matter. The problem is that any habitable planet with intelligent life, if there are any, is just too distant for anyone out there to get here, even if they wanted to.
Something else had me even more pumped about the assignment. A week earlier, the police had found a woman’s body on a ranch not far from where Byrne holds his viewing events. All I knew about the deceased was that she was a Montana Morning Magazine investigative reporter named Sally Jensen. She was in her late-thirties, brunette, mother of two, and from the news clips I saw, took her job seriously. I phoned the Missoula County Sheriff’s Department before I left Seattle to see what information I could get, but they were tight-lipped, saying only that it was an “active murder investigation.” Could there be a link to the Proxima Foundation? It would give the story more legs, if so. I’d inquire about the case while I was out there.
I arrived at the Missoula airport around 5 p.m., got an economy rental car, and found a Motel 6 just half a mile out of town off Interstate 93 near Clinton. I checked in, brought my suitcase to my room, took a piss, and checked my restaurant app. Ramblin’ Joe’s with three stars was right next door. Outside, it looked like an old saloon with wood slab siding and a large porch, and the inside was ridiculously eclectic, with animal heads on the walls, dark red carpet, dozens of old photographs everywhere, and one of those toy-filled claw machines by the front door.
It was mostly vacant, and with no one greeting me, I sat in a booth near the bar. A waitress popped out from the double swinging doors in the back—tall, thin, in her late twenties. Her hair was dark brown, almost black, and long and curly but pulled back in a ponytail. The tag on her shirt said “Brenda,” and her big dark brown eyes under perfect eyebrows made her drop-dead gorgeous. No ring on her finger. I smiled when she approached, expecting one in return, but all she did was drop off a menu. Maybe her standoffishness was to keep the local yahoos and out-of-town slick dicks from hitting on her. I examined the menu. When she returned with water, I smiled, hoping my crush wasn’t too obvious.
“Here for the UFOs?” she asked, setting the water down.
“How could you tell?” I asked, surprised she wanted to start a conversation.
She gave me a snarky look. “Hope it’s worth the three thousand dollars.”
“Actually, I’m a journalist. I’m doing a story on the Proxima Foundation.”
Her eyes lit up a bit. “Yeah? What paper?”
“Hot Reports, an online magazine based in Seattle. Heard of it?”
“Nope, should I have?”
“I did a big story on nuclear waste cleanup at the Hanford Nuclear Reservation in Washington. Maybe you saw it.”
“What’s your name?”
“Ben Davenport.”
She shook her head. “Nope, never heard of you. Sorry.”
Bummer. I thought about pulling the article up on my smartphone to show her. I’d spent nearly two years investigating the construction of a new facility, west of Yakima, Washington, part of a multibillion-dollar cleanup operation. The most toxic place in America. My exposure of the construction delays, cost overruns, and cover-up of contracting shenanigans by the Federal and State governments got me a Pulitzer nomination.
“Do you want to order something?”
I glanced at the menu. “I’ll have the Rancher’s Burger, medium-well, sweet potato fries, and a Big Sky IPA.”
She grabbed the menu.
“Is it always so quiet in here?” I asked, looking around.
“It’s not happy hour yet,” she said, before disappearing through the double swinging doors.
I liked her sassy attitude and good looks, but it wasn’t like I was going to do anything about it. I’d been with Jennifer back in Seattle for almost three years. Lately, she’d been giving me a hard time for drinking too much, and she wanted me to find a better paying job. I told her I had one as a Pulitzer-nominated investigative journalist, but she reminded me that being a nominated writer is not the same as an award-winning writer. I took her digs because I loved her and was hoping we’d have a future together, maybe marriage and kids.
Brenda dropped off my beer and returned a few minutes later with my food. “Anything else?” she asked.
“Know anything about that TV woman who was found dead out here last week?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Yeah, she was my aunt.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes, Sally Jensen was my mother’s sister. She was doing a story on the UFO culties.”
“Gosh—my condolences. Would you be willing to answer a few questions about your aunt?”
“Now’s not a good time. I’ve got to get back to work.”
I dug into my burger and checked my emails. Brenda breezed by and dropped my check on the table and was gone. After my last French fry, I handed my AMEX card to Brenda at the cash register. She ran it and handed it back.
“If you want to talk,” I said, handing her my business card.
“I’ll think about it.”
“Okay. Have a good evening.” I grabbed a toothpick from a jar on the counter.
“Don’t get abducted.”
“What?” I queried, her comment not registering.
She pointed her index finger upwards, smirked, and raised those perfect eyebrows.
I smiled. “Right.”
After a quick stop in my motel room, I checked my directions and headed east on I-93 toward Byrne’s property. The sun was just starting to set in a perfectly clear late April sky. A feeling of nervous anticipation came over me. I was looking forward to a little night stroll, but I was also well aware that I needed to stay focused. I wasn’t sure how cooperative Byrne was going to be. You have to be careful with investigative interviews, especially with someone as sharp as Byrne. The trick is to appear interested and neutral. If you don’t, your interviewee may shut down on you.
I headed up into the hills and made the turn onto Valley of the Moon Road, passed through an open cattle gate reading PRIVATE PROPERTY. Three hundred yards later, the road turned to gravel and threaded through fencing on both sides. Two miles further, I came to a dozen or so parked vehicles and twenty, maybe thirty people standing about, putting on their daypacks, some with folding lawn chairs in hand. I turned my car around, stirring up dust in the twilight, and parked in a spot behind a minivan, then headed over to a group of people congregating at the trailhead signpost.
Daniel Byrne was standing by a white GMC Yukon. Early 50s, tall, and a full head of coppery hair. The casual vibe of his khakis offset the jolt of his jacket with that Proxima Foundation logo—a hexagon with a circle over each corner blaring bright green and black. Byrne was giving orders to a young man in a baseball cap pulling large military-style black boxes out of the GMC Yukon. Camera and laser equipment, I figured.
“Welcome,” Daniel said, casting a wide smile and hand once I approached.
“I’m Ben Davenport with Hot Reports.”
“I know who you are. Glad you could make it.”
Releasing his grip, he glanced up at the sky. “We’re lucky. No clouds, no moon. Perfect conditions for an eventful night. I can feel it.”
I glanced at the equipment on the ground. “Can I help carry anything?”
“No, thanks, we’ve got it,” he said. His helper cast a suspicious glance. That’s when I spotted the handgun holstered on his hip under his OD commando sweater. Was he Daniel’s security? Why did he need it? I introduced myself to him. He stood up straight and squeezed my hand,
“Mike,” he said simply before returning to his duties.
At 7:30 sharp, Daniel and Mike did a quick headcount, then led the group single file onto a narrow trail winding up a tall grassy slope. Several had flashlights. In fifteen minutes, we were cresting the top.
“Here’s the spot, everyone,” Byrne announced. “Find a place, semi-circle facing north.”
Mike went to work setting up the equipment.
“Why north?” I asked Mike.
“That’s where they come in from,” he said, his East Coast accent coming through.
I nodded. We’ll see, I thought.
Mike took another device out of the box and fixed it to a tripod.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Special equipment,” Mike said.
“It’s a magnetometer. It will beep at us when they’re here,” Daniel offered, coming up behind me, then turning to address the crowd. “Remember, everyone, all phones silenced and in airplane mode, or turn them off.”
“Should I turn mine off?” I asked, still watching Mike set up the video equipment.
“Airplane mode is fine. We do this because the interference will mess with our equipment. I’ll let you know when it’s okay to turn it on.”
I sat in a lawn chair and scanned the folks—everyday men and women, mostly middle-aged, some younger. Mike was going around with an electronic device in his hand.
“That’s an electromagnetic field sensor,” Daniel informed me. “We want to make sure no one is forgetting the protocol.”
His gadget would pick up my phone anyway, so I kept it on just in case I wanted to pull it out for a photo.
A light breeze rose from the northwest, and the air temperature was dropping fast. A chill rippled through me. The Milky Way was becoming more visible by the minute.
“Okay, everyone, let’s meditate,” Daniel said quietly. “Remember what we learned today in the workshop. Wish to meet with them. Invite them to us. Send them your good will.”
Soft music began to play, a Native American flute and rattle with arpeggio beeps and blips of synthesizers. Oh, here we go, I thought. I hope he’s not going to have us all hold hands.
Just then my phone chimed with a text message, startling me. I reached into my pocket and hit the power switch.
“Whoever has a cell phone on, please turn it off,” Daniel commanded, and flashing his laser pointer toward the northern sky, its thin red beam disappearing into the dark. Someone in the crowd spotted a faint white object moving across the sky almost directly overhead. It grew brighter, then vanished.
“Whoa, did you see that?” the man next to me said.
“Just an Iridium satellite,” Daniel explained, “they have large solar panels reflecting the sun. It’s not them. Keep your minds focused, think good thoughts.”
The meditation continued until the stillness was broken by a woman in the group. “Look over there!” she yelled. “Over there!”
She was pointing northwest. A third of the way up from the horizon we saw three amber lights, bigger than the brightest star or planet in the night sky. Gasps and shouts of ecstasy. “Holy sweet Jesus!” the woman in front of me cried.
Daniel, now sitting in his chair, nodded, “It’s them, they’re here. Oh, this is something, everyone, look! Keep thinking positive thoughts. Invite them into our atmosphere with positive thoughts. Mike, are you filming this?”
Mike was looking into the digital viewfinder display. “Yes, I’ve got it.”
“Zoom in if you can.”
“I’m trying, can’t seem to get it to focus. Wait, here we go—Damn it!”
“Come on, Mike, get it,” Daniel pushed impatiently.
The lights were similar to what I’d seen in ‘97, minus the geometric formation. They appeared to be stationary, yet looked as though they were moving. Suddenly, the three lights became six. What could they be? Flares from Air National Guard F16s out of Great Falls? Spotlights from Army Black Hawks? They were too far apart to be on the same object. My heart began to beat faster.
“This is an event, everyone,” said Daniel. “Keep wishing them good will. Invite them to come closer, there’s nothing to worry about.” His voice was calm and mesmerizing, his laser pointer still cutting through the night sky.
Everyone had their eyes on the lights. I started to reach for my smartphone when Byrne reminded everyone to keep them turned off. In less than a minute, the lights began to move lower in the sky, seemingly away from us. After another minute, they disappeared.
“Did they go behind a ridge or something?” I asked.
“Nope, no ridge,” Daniel said. “They do that sometimes. Crossing the trans-dimensional boundary.”
We all stared at the horizon. The air temperature had dropped another few degrees.
Byrne turned to Mike. “Did we clock it?”
“Got it, three minutes, eight seconds. Got it all on film. Just wish they had gotten closer.”
“Yeah, well,” Daniel shrugged. He stood up and addressed the awestruck group. “Okay, everyone, that’s all for tonight. Gather up your
things and head back to the parking lot for hot chocolate.”
We trekked down the ridge. When we got back to the vehicles, Mike began pouring hot chocolate into Styrofoam cups for any takers.
I went over to Daniel. “What was that?” I asked.
“It was them,” he said simply, “our intra-dimensional friends. Who did you think it was?”
“What exactly do you mean by ‘intra-dimensional?’”
“They visit Earth often; you just can’t see them. It’s our meditation that allows them to show themselves.”
“What caused them to disappear so quickly?”
“They get spooked easily, maybe an aircraft in the area, military or commercial. But tonight, I think it was someone in our group, someone just was not on the right wavelength. They were sensitive to it.”
“Do you think it was me?” I asked.
He looked at me and smiled. “Well if it was you, I’d be worried.”
“What do you mean by, worried?”
He put his hand on my shoulder. “The more you learn, the better. We can discuss it at brunch tomorrow at the ranch. I can explain more then, and you can ask questions for your story. My wife Nadine is looking forward to meeting you. Where are you staying?”
“The Motel 6 in Clinton.”
He nodded. “Nice place.” We shook hands. “Goodnight, Ben.”
On my way down the valley, I kept glancing up. The urge still gripped me at the Motel 6 parking lot. Back in the room, I checked to see if the local news station was reporting anything. Nothing. I checked the Internet. Nothing. I shot out a tweet. “Lights in the sky tonight. UFO maybe. #Lightsinthesky #UFO.”
I called Jennifer. I knew that I’d wake her up, but I needed to tell her about what I had seen.
“We saw something,” I said.
“Yeah? What was it?” Her voice was groggy and muffled.
“Lights in the sky, Jennifer. I don’t think they were airplanes. I don’t know what they were.”
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