The Goldilocks Zone

by David D. Luxton

  “I might have.” I was embarrassed, knowing I should have paid more attention to Nadine’s contracts, but I saw no harm in asking questions now. “Jack Clark suggested I talk to you, and I probably should have months ago.”

  “Jack Clark—he’s a good man. A shame he stays neutral—he could be exposing more of the bullshit than he does, but he has to keep the MUFON coffers fed with memberships. He’s forced to fake his interest in every late-night call from a lonely farmer, truck driver, or crackhead who’s got a sighting report to file. Sure, he has to be selective about some of it—it would hurt MUFON if they published data on every bullshit UFO sighting. Some years back, I got Jack to share all of MUFON’s UFO report data. A colleague at the University of Michigan and I tested some machine learning prediction models to see if we could find any patterns in decades worth of data. You know what we found?”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. In fact, the only thing we found was that people were more likely to report spaceships and alien beings similar to the latest blockbuster movie that year.”

  “So, you don’t believe in aliens at all, even with the Navy videos and all the stuff that’s come out recently?”

  “I don’t know what those pilots saw, but what I do know is that the military, ours or someone else’s, tests new weapons. Maybe those pilots weren’t briefed on it.” He leaned closer to me. “Ben, who’s to say government contractors aren’t testing some new tech on their own in international waters? Just think about what we do know they are testing, like the Northrop Grumman X-47 drone, the new B-21 Raider stealth bomber, and hypersonic weapons. Now think about what we don’t see, yet. These objects could also be the Russians or the Chinese. We know that the Chinese have used laser technology to project images into the sky. Or better yet, our foreign adversaries are deploying drones in order to get our military to turn on radar and other sensing equipment so they can gather intelligence on its signature.”

  “It’s a possibility,” I said. “What about Congressman Young? Know anything about him?”

  Ellis smiled. “Now you are going deeper into the rabbit hole.” He spoke softer. “The Congressman is most definitely linked to black projects involving the Aerial Threats Program and Space Force. Interesting isn’t it—the connection between the Congressman and your so-called abduction experience? What do you think?”

  “I was doing a story on cell towers and the Congressman’s involvement in the Yakima Reservation lands. I’m wondering if there’s a link, perhaps with 5G technology and effects on human brains for mind control. Do you have any opinions on that?”

  He paused. “The government has played around with weapons like that for decades, and so have companies like Raytheon and Lockheed Martin. Are you thinking there’s a link to the Byrnes?”

  I pulled up the image of the 5G tower from the Lo Lo forest. “Ever seen one of these?”

  He glanced at it. “Yes, I’ve seen a few of those images. Where is that?”

  “Montana. The Valley of the Moon. I got it from a reporter who’s dead.”

  “You mean Sally Jensen?”

  “Yes. What do you know about her?”

  Ellis shrugged. “I read the news. She had an interest in UFO sightings, and I’m willing to bet she had to have come across the Byrnes.”

  I kept a lookout for Daniel and Mike. “What the news didn’t report was that she also had an interest in a mysterious cell tower located on the edge of the Byrne ranch property. Maybe she thought there’s a link with the UFO sightings. It’s just too much of a coincidence that she was investigating these things and then ended up dead so close to the Proxima Foundation land.”

  Ellis thought. “Interesting. Sounds like you are back to being an investigative journalist. It would be interesting to know more about the cell tower. But if it is there, wouldn’t it be registered by the FCC?”

  “It’s not. I checked. It appears to be military, not commercial.”

  “Where are you going with this tower thing, Ben?”

  “Maybe it is making people hallucinate—on purpose.”

  “CIA mind control?” He snickered. “Nuit d'apocalypse? Do you know what that was?”

  I had come across the story in my Internet searches. “Yes. In 1951, the Special Operations Division of the CIA tested LSD on the village of Pont-Saint-Esprit, hiding it in their bread flour.”

  Ellis nodded. “It was the MKNAOMI biological warfare program. Hundreds of people experienced the same hallucinations, and seven died.”

  “So what do you think about the possibility of a mind control operation here involving cellular technology?”

  “I’m not saying there isn’t some truth to your theory, as history demonstrates, but who needs sophisticated mind control technology like that when there’s social media? Control what people see and don’t see and use psychology and dopamine rewards for their clicks, shares and likes of disinformation. The masses of everyday people are unwitting useful idiots to the corporate elites.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” I said, “and combined with the mainstream news media…”

  “…it’s full-on propaganda bombardment every day, whether people are aware of it or not. It’s brilliantly sinister, if you think about it.”

  Something caught Ellis’s attention across the lobby, his face turning sober. Daniel was at the front lobby desk and Mike was behind him with the luggage.

  “Well, I should be going,” Ellis said. He slid to the edge of his seat and extended his hand. “Nice to meet you in person, Ben, and good luck, especially if you find a link to Sally Jensen. It won’t be easy, though. Go down the UFO alien contactee path and no one will take you seriously, although, the media narrative has changed in favor of aliens as a threat.”

  “Can I call you if I have any questions?” I asked him.

  “Sure. You can find my office phone number on my website. Leave a message. I don’t have a cell phone.”

  Ellis slipped out the hotel entrance with a stream of tourists and conference attendees.

  Daniel and Mike approached. I could tell by Daniel’s flat expression and eyes on me look that he’d seen me with Ellis. “What were you doing talking with him?”

  “He sat down next to me, I didn’t plan on it,” I stammered.

  Mike dropped the bags and stared me down while Daniel continued. “What did you talk about?”

  “Not much. He just asked about how things were going—what we were planning to do next.”

  “And?”

  “I mentioned that we are planning a couple more conferences. Doing more press and things.”

  “What else?”

  “That’s it,” I said.

  “That man is an asshole,” Daniel said, “stay away from him. We still have the active restraining order. Looks like he just violated it. Wait until I tell Nadine. She’s going to be pissed.”

  “I’m sorry, Daniel, I didn’t know who he was until he started talking to me. He seemed a bit off. I want nothing to do with that guy.”

  “He’s strange, all right, not trustworthy at all. A fake journalist and a hack.” He gestured to Mike to grab the bags. “Come on, let’s go. We have a long drive.”

  30: The Pledge

  Brenda’s doublewide was fifteen miles from town, surrounded by foothill grasslands and nestled in a valley. The sun shone bright above in the crisp air.

  “Come in,” Brenda said at the door, her hair in a ponytail. “I was just making some tea. Would you like some?”

  “Sure,” I replied. A strong desire to hug her came over me, but she slipped into the kitchen before I could.

  “Make yourself at home,” she said over her shoulder.

  I removed my shoes, coat, and EMF shielding beanie, and went into the living area. Soft music played on a Bluetooth speaker, and a peppermint-scented candle flickered on a scratched-up coffee table.

  “Do you take milk with your tea?” she asked over the sound of the teapot’s whistle.

  “Straight will be fine.”
I let my eyes snoop about while she fixed our beverages. Books on a shelf, a laptop on a small desk, a few family photos in frames, and to my delight, no sign of a dude anywhere. I went over to the bookshelf, kneeling to inspect the books—Hobbes, Locke, and Emerson. Impressive. I pulled out the Emerson and opened it to where she’d placed a bookmark. Illusions.

  She came out with two mugs and saw me with the open book. “Ever read that?”

  “No. Should I?”

  “You should,” she said.

  I joined her on the ragged old sofa, setting Emerson on the table. I filled her in on what I’d learned from Petulli about the iM4ET app developer, and how Daniel made us smash his transdimensional 3D printer.

  “I told you,” she said. “They have him fooled like all the rest of those people that hand over their money to them.” She sipped her tea. “What else have you found out?”

  “Can I see your laptop?” I asked. “I want to show you something.”

  I pulled up Google maps zooming into the Valley of the Moon and the fuzzy spot where the tower station would be. I ran my finger along the outline of the triangle, point to point. “Your aunt was found right here, on the edge between the ranch and where the tower station is. She knew the humming in her head had something to do with the cell tower, and your uncle said she had the iM4ET app. I’m certain there’s a link, and it’s affecting people’s minds. People have been talking about electromagnetic mind control experiments for years. Even Daniel knows about MKULTRA. You know about MKULTRA, don’t you?”

  Still looking at the Google map, Brenda said, “You mean CIA mind control experiments from the Sixties, right? If there was something like that going on, wouldn’t Byrne be manipulated too?”

  “I don’t know yet, but I’m leaning towards the possibility that he is under control, just like everyone else. In the original MKULTRA program, the CIA programmed words to subconsciously trigger people into doing things. Maybe they are using electromagnetic waves to cause hallucinations and as triggers. What other plausible options are there?”

  “Well, there’s either a secret CIA mind control operation going on, or aliens are coming to Earth to fuck us all up, or the Byrnes are con artists. It seems like the Byrne con is the simplest explanation.”

  I agreed with her logic, but not quite.

  “But all things are not equal as far as the evidence goes. We’ve got proof there’s something going on about the iM4ET app, and we know there’s something going on with the cell towers. Even your Aunt Sally thought there was something going with the cell towers, remember? And then there’s my abduction experience. Maybe it was just a hallucination. I’m just starting to think that maybe I’ve been a victim of a mind control experiment too. And the voice I was hearing in my head—maybe it was to spook me into going to the Byrne’s ranch. By the way, that EMF hat I bought—it seems to be working. The ringing in my ear has all but left. So what does that say about electromagnetic experiments around here?”

  “But if mind control electromagnetic waves were transmitted on a mass scale, wouldn’t the effects influence the people doing the influencing? It’s just like those chem trail conspiracies—why would the world elites manipulate Earth’s atmosphere if they and their families have to breathe in the same air?”

  “Because they can direct the electromagnetic waves locally with mobile devices so only people in the immediate proximity are controlled. It could be that both smartphone apps and cell towers are being used—phones for single person influence, and cell tower beams for groups of people. It’s possible.”

  “But you don’t have any hard evidence yet, certainly nothing that would hold up in court.” She sighed. “One thing’s for certain: control and manipulation of others is behind all of this, no matter which scenario is the truth.”

  I looked at her. “I ran into David Ellis in Las Vegas.”

  “Who’s David Ellis?” she asked.

  “The Cynic magazine guy, the person the Byrnes have a restraining order on. He suggested that if I found out who paid off those kids who were blamed for the UFO hoax, then I’d know the answer. I should try to interview those kids, if I can find them.”

  Brenda thought for a second. “My uncle probably knows who those boys are. He knows everyone in town. I’ll call him.”

  She was right: he knew the name of one of the boys and where both lived.

  “I’ll go with you,” Brenda said, “The boys might trust me more than they trust you.”

  “And you are hot and we are talking about teenage boys here,” I added.

  She rolled her eyes.

  I had another idea. “Let’s talk to the manager at your aunt’s TV station. He may know something, too.”

  “Good idea,” Brenda said. “I’d like to know what the station shared with the investigators that wasn’t released to the public.”

  We talked for a while longer about various topics, including future plans and our families. We had some things in common: Brenda grew up without her father around—just a stepdad whom she didn’t relate to at all. And like me, she was an only child. I wondered if that had anything to do with her strong-willed independence and the loneliness I sensed. Her eyes lit up when she talked about finishing college and going on to study criminal law. She wasn’t sure where she’d end up living after law school, but she knew she’d eventually have to leave Missoula. Her loyalty to her family impressed me, and so did her steadfastness in getting to the bottom of Aunt Sally’s murder.

  She asked me why I became an investigative journalist and if I enjoyed revealing societal injustices. I told her that I didn’t get into it to be become an activist: I was a journalist because I believe in the Fourth Estate. Uncovering wrong doing and corruption for the benefit of society is what drives me, not other political objectives. She nodded in approval.

  I told her about what little I remembered of my father and how his life and connection to what was happening to me now remained a mystery. I remarked on how strange it was that Brenda and I crossed paths and how we shared a twisted connection to the Byrnes. It felt beyond good to talk with her so openly, and I was inescapably falling for her.

  Our meeting came to an end all too soon and we agreed to meet the following weekend.

  As soon as I returned to the ranch, Daniel summoned me to the camera studio to produce a new video.

  Daniel cleared his throat and began; “Greetings, my friends. I am taking a pledge that I hope you will take with me. I pledge to advocate for and acknowledge all lived experiences and identities of every earthling and alien life form, intelligent or not. I pledge to devote myself to ongoing self-reflection, education and knowledge-sharing to better myself and our communities here on Earth and everywhere. I pledge to be an example of establishing open and inclusive environments. I pledge to constructively share all experiences and information gained from others, including our off-Earth comrades, to inform the way I interact with all others. Thank you.”

  I stopped the camera as he smiled widely.

  “That felt good, very good.”

  As I put the equipment away, I wondered about Daniel and his commitment to his beliefs. A Don Quixote of La Mancha?

  31: Pranksters

  I met Brenda in the Home Depot parking lot and got onto her Cherokee. The first boy’s house was a rundown two-story on Missoula’s east side. Blinds covered the windows and a four-foot rusted chain link fence enclosed the small yard. When I knocked, I could hear a huge dog barking ferociously from inside. A beer-bellied middle-aged man in a t-shirt opened the door holding fast to a pit bull’s collar.

  “Is Jared here?” I asked.

  “Who’s asking?” he growled.

  “I’m Ben Davenport, a journalist, and this is my assistant Brenda. We’re doing a story on UFOs sightings and I…”

  “He’s not interested in talking with you,” the man said, ready to shut the door.

  “Who is it, Dad?” a squeaky pubescent voice said from inside the house.

  “No one,” the man
shouted, the dog still straining to get past his legs to get at Brenda and me.

  “I just want to talk to your son about the UFO hoax story,” I said. “He’s not in trouble or anything. I want to hear his side of what happened.”

  “Did you not hear me the first time? We’re not interested to talking to any more reporters.”

  “It will only be a few minutes,” Brenda said.

  “No!” He slammed the door.

  Brenda and I then went over to the second boy’s house, fifteen-year-old Jared Simpson in a nicer part of town. His mother answered the door.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m Ben Davenport, a journalist doing a story on UFOs. I’m hoping to talk with your son Trevor about the UFO hoax incident he was involved in. I’m just trying to get some information about how they did it for a story I’m working on.”

  “We’re not looking for any more publicity. He’s gotten enough already.”

  “What if I told you that I don’t believe he was behind the incident reported in the paper?”

  She paused and looked me and then Brenda. “What newspaper did you say you were with?”

  “We’re independent,” Brenda said.

  I pulled out my press credential card and showed her.

  “Look,” she said, “my son has already talked to the local news channels about the drones. I don’t think this is good for him, you know what I’m saying?”

  “I understand, ma’am, but I’m hoping for just a few details. I don’t think the local press did a very good job with the story.”

  She stared at me. “You’re the guy who was on the TV show with that Daniel Byrne, aren’t you? And you did that story on the UFO hoax.”