Sedona Conspiracy

by James C. Glass

  Her dark eyes moved slightly, as if scanning his face, then made solid eye contact and held him there. A slight pause, then, “You don’t really believe that, and you don’t think our firemen lied about what they saw.”

  “No, they could have run into some right-wing paramilitary outfit playing commando in the desert, for all I know. It doesn’t have to be a government conspiracy; that’s all I’m trying to say.”

  Nataly cocked her head to one side, considering what he’d said. The look on her face was both focused and ethereal. Eric swallowed slowly, but hard. “Look, I actually came here to see if you’d like to take a break for coffee or lunch.” He glanced at his watch. “I have to head back to the office in forty-five minutes.”

  “Oh, I can’t leave the shop with Marie alone here,” she said quickly. Eric’s heart sank, and he looked away nervously.

  “Why don’t we eat right here?” Nataly added. “I have bread, meat and cheese in the back, and there’s green tea.”

  Now his heart jumped. “Well, I suppose—”

  “Good. Marie, I’ll be in the back! Ring the bell if there are any problems.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Marie.

  Nataly pulled four paperback books off a shelf, and put them into his hands. “Consider this a loan, and promise me you’ll read them. A lot of people here believe what’s in those books, and you need to know what that is if you’re going to be a resident in Sedona.”

  Her seriousness made him smile without conscious thought. “Okay, but I could be called back to Phoenix anytime.”

  “They’ll just have to do without you,” she said, then put a hand on his arm and guided him to the back of the shop where a curtain of glass and bamboo cylinders covered an open doorway. In the back were boxes floor to ceiling against two walls, a table with two chairs, a refrigerator next to a sink and counter. “No atmosphere, but quiet,” said Nataly. She put a teapot on a hot plate, and made ham and cheese sandwiches while the water heated. They talked about little things: the traffic in town, the weather. For a moment Eric felt as if he’d drifted off for a while. He returned to consciousness and watched silently until she served him at the table.

  “This is very nice of you,” he said.

  “It’s nice to have adult company. Marie is sweet, but we have little in common outside of the shop. Different generations.”

  “She must be well into her twenties.” And you look thirty, tops, he thought.

  Nataly sat down opposite him and took a bite of her sandwich. For the first time Eric noticed how long and slender her fingers were. “I’m much older than Marie, Mister Price,” she said.

  “Eric,” he said, and made eye contact.

  “Eric. You have such interesting eyes. I’d like to read them sometime.”

  “Read them?”

  “Iridology. Several of us are practitioners here.”

  Her gaze was direct and intense; she was studying him.

  “You’re a forceful person. I see a suggestion of danger, and there’s a sense of sadness. I see so much of that, the things people do to hurt each other.”

  “That’s life,” he said, and heard the bitterness in his own voice.

  “You’re alone, or at least you think you are.” Her voice was a near whisper.

  Eric bit down hard on his sandwich. “I was married, but it ended in divorce. My only daughter will be married soon, and I’m not invited to the ceremony. I probably deserve it. Hurt goes both ways.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Nataly. “But there’s goodness in everyone.”

  “How about you? Anything personal isn’t any of my business, of course, but you must have an active social life with your position in the community.”

  Nataly rolled her eyes. “Oh, yes, lots of parties, and flirting, and offers to satisfy my wildest desires. I’ve been tempted more than once. People like to say I’m too particular, that I’m going to grow old alone, but they’re wrong. I’m just patient about finding the right man.”

  “Good advice for anyone. Divorce is nasty,” he said.

  “I can see that.” She reached over and touched his arm. For a moment, her hand lingered there. “If you open your mind to them, many healing arts are available to you here. I can show you some of them, if you like.”

  Again, a slight smile came to his face without thought. He felt suddenly relaxed in the presence of this woman, without the sense of being judged or threatened. God, she is lovely. “If you want to take a chance with a pragmatist, sure. I’m told I’m a professional skeptic.”

  Nataly smiled then, and brushed back errant strands of black hair from the side of her face. “Any good student asks questions on the road to truth.”

  Eric shook his head slightly in wonderment.

  “What?” she asked, and now she really smiled, and he felt a shortness of breath.

  “I’ve never met anyone like you,” he managed.

  “Ah, then I’m an adventure. Tea?” She held up the ceramic pot where tea had been brewing, and arched an eyebrow at him.

  “Sure, why not. I’ve become addicted to coffee.”

  Nataly poured. “Nice aroma, but too acidic. I love both the tastes and scents of tea. I think it’s important to stimulate all the senses.” As she said it she handed a cup of tea to him, one finger absently touching the back of his hand. “I believe in balance in everything. That’s not easy for me to do in my position. People see me as a wealthy party giver and patron of the arts, and I’m more than that.”

  “Yes, you are.” My God, did I just say that? The uncontrolled blush that came to his face instantly dismayed Eric.

  Nataly’s smile softened then. Her eyes widened, and fixed on his. “I like you, Eric. I don’t really know why yet, but I’d like the opportunity to find out. I know you’ve been hurt in the past, and the hurt is still there, but you seem willing to take a risk in coming here. You’ve seen me in my castle, and now in my little shop. What do you think?”

  “I think you’re fascinating,” he said, and felt good about saying it.

  “And you intrigue me. We should meet again. Do you like exotic foods, or are you a meat ’n’ potatoes man?”

  “My tastes vary. I’ve been around the world some.”

  “I’ll want to hear all about that. My chef is German, but he can do anything European. My house, say seven a week from this Friday? Casual dress, and just the two of us.”

  “Sounds nice. I’ll call you here if some business thing comes up.” Eric had no idea what hours he’d be spending at the base. Friday at seven he could be a hundred feet underground.

  Nataly thrust out her lower lip in a pout. “Oh, that would be a shame if money matters interfered with our dinner. I’ll leave that decision to you. For now, Marie must be getting hungry, and I have to take my turn at the counter, and you have to go.” She pointed at her watch.

  He’d been in her shop over an hour, yet it seemed they’d only talked for minutes. “You’re right. I’m late.”

  “If Leon scolds you, tell him it was my fault. He plays the bon vivant, but I’m sure he can be very hard when he wants to be. Don’t forget your books.”

  He’d nearly walked away from the books she’d loaned him. He retrieved them, said, “Thanks again.” His mind went blank, his feet refusing to move until Nataly took his arm and escorted him to the door. She waved goodbye, and disappeared from view.

  Eric drove back to his office, feeling the giddiness of a juvenile anticipating his first date, and seeing nothing strange about it at all. The euphoria lasted all day and through the evening. By bedtime he was feeling a bit silly about it, and managed to go over his report one final time.

  It was likely a mistake to do that, because his sleep was restless all night. He had dreams of Leon shouting at him, and Davis pointing a pistol at him and accusing him of being a spy. Towards morning, Nataly appeared in a vivid dream that woke him up. He remembered sitting up in bed. The lights were low, and dark shadows were moving around the room, circling him, and then
the door burst open and Nataly was standing there like an angry angel, shouting, “Get out! All of you get out of this room right now!” And the shadows fled.

  When he was awake, sweating, he was certain he could smell her musky scent in the room.

  CHAPTER NINE

  THE PLANE

  Davis seemed resigned to the Pentagon’s decision, but was clearly disgusted by it. “This is what happens when desk jockeys micromanage field operations. Only good I can see is our saboteur might lie low for a while. I’ll be keeping a record of every place you go, every person you talk to, and when. One slip of the tongue from you, anyone hears something they’re not supposed to and you’re out of here, I guarantee it.”

  “Understood,” said Eric, and pushed a folder across Davis’ desk. “There’s my report, such as it is. Now I want to see the plane.”

  “Sergeant!” said Davis loudly. The door opened, and an MP was standing there in fatigues with beret and sidearm. Short, but solidly built, the man had strangely colored eyes, a kind of blue-green.

  “Take Mister Price to Area Five. I’ll call to have Johnson meet you there. Do not leave this man’s side, and use the journal forms I gave you.”

  “Yes, sir. This way, Mister Price.”

  Davis was opening Eric’s report file and said nothing as they left his office.

  “Sergeant Nutt, sir. I’ll accompany you wherever you go, and arrange your schedule here. Please don’t ever go off on your own; I don’t want to be a private again. It’s for your own safety, sir.”

  “You have a first name, sergeant?”

  “Alan, sir.”

  “I’m Eric. I forget the sergeant, and you forget the sir. I’m a civilian.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Eric laughed, stuck out a hand, and Alan shook it. “The Man is a stickler for protocol, sir. Got to follow it. You ever in the military?”

  “Rangers. That was a long time ago. I was younger than you.”

  “Get a chance to kill bad guys?”

  “Yes, I did. That’s all I can say about it, Alan.”

  “Understood, sir. A van has been assigned to us. Look for number three stenciled on the rear door. It’s waiting.”

  They took the elevator down to the lot where Eric had first come in. The van was there, with a driver. Eric and Alan got in, sitting behind an MP with his M16 mounted vertically on the dashboard. As soon as the door closed, the van jerked ahead, moving deeper into the base than Eric had been before.

  “It’s just a few minutes,” said Alan. Eric looked over the front seat, saw the speedometer hit forty and hold there. “How big is this base?” he asked.

  “There are really eight bases in one, sir, all connected by tunnels like this one. The entire complex runs seven hundred miles north to south, spreads out as much as sixty east and west.” Alan took out his clipboard, and wrote something down on it.

  “Are you going to write down every question I ask? Use a tape recorder.”

  Alan grinned, took something the size of a cigarette lighter out of his pocket, and held it up for inspection. “Got it, sir.”

  Eric grinned back. “Are you going to tell me where your camera is?”

  Alan pointed to a point at the center of his beret, above his forehead. “Video, Israeli-made. State-of-the-Art, sir,”

  “Good. I feel much safer, now.”

  The trip took exactly four minutes. Another parking area in a broad recess carved out of solid red rock, and a floor of black, metal gratings. Light panels in a high ceiling were blinding to look at. No elevator, this time. Two soldiers in a booth guarded a single set of double doors in a rock wall. Alan led him to the booth, and the van pulled away again. Alan presented a paper with a photograph of Eric on it. There was a badge, overprinted with the number five in red, and Eric clipped it to his breast pocket. Another guard opened the door for them, and Eric followed Alan inside.

  Another tunnel, no side doors. Video cameras were mounted high on the walls, and turned to follow them. Fifty yards away was another set of double doors. One door opened, and a tall man in a white, laboratory coat stepped inside to greet them when they were halfway there. Tousled hair, hawkish face, he held out a hand to Eric as they approached.

  “Neal Johnson, Doctor Price. I’ll be you guide here.”

  They shook hands. “Eric, please. I haven’t been called Doctor in a lot of years.”

  “Neither have I,” said Neal. “Physics and Computer Science, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Aeronautical Engineering, Purdue. You were at Berkeley, I see.”

  “That’s right. Hyperfragments and resonances, it’s all ancient history. Computer Science came later.”

  “Maybe if you stick around you can help us figure out what our aircraft can really do. We’re supposed to be getting the book on it pretty soon. Our so-called ‘friends’ have finally agreed to release it. I’ve been working blind for over a year. Have you been briefed at all?”

  “A short report with drawings, and a lot of tabled laboratory test data. Not very useful.”

  “Well, let’s get started.” Neal turned, opened the door, and they followed him inside. The light there was dimmer than in the tunnel, but not by much.

  It was an aircraft hanger, immense, the ceiling a hundred yards above them, the floor at least that distance across. Three black helicopters were there: two stealth craft with missile pods and Vulcan canon, the third much larger, a flying boxcar for transportation. Otherwise the floor was empty, Neal and his guests the only people there. They walked towards the opposite wall where there were two elevated levels fronted by clear glass, behind which people were moving. To their right was a massive door of corrugated metal twenty yards on a side, and closed. Left was a fenced-in area with metal-turning machinery that hummed loudly, and what appeared to be a parts storage space. The floor was first rock, then metal as they walked across it. Eric looked down at the boundary of metal. Neal saw it, and said; “Floor center rises on jacks all the way to the ceiling. We can take any aircraft in or out that way.”

  They walked some more, and the floor was rock again. People were watching them through the windows. Neal waved to them. “Some of our technical staff,” he said. “They’re curious about you. A stranger’s face stands out pretty fast here.”

  There was another door beneath the windows. Neal paused before opening it. “Time to see the Pregnant Sparrow; that’s what we call it. See what you think.” Air rushed into their faces when he opened the door.

  Beyond was another hanger, but smaller, and the light was dim. In the center of the floor sat a low-slung aircraft with a strange shape remindful of stealth technology: black, faceted surface, a dull, mottled finish and lots of angles, delta-shaped. No windows, ports, no sign of a cockpit, any markings or insignia on tail or fuselage. They walked around it two times, coming in close. Two standard looking exhaust pipes protruded from a thick section aft which then tapered to a sharp point like a spear.

  “There are two pulse-jet engines in the back half of this thick section,” said Neal, “and we’ve run them with JP-4 up to Mach 1. Haven’t been able to push it higher than that; the thing has some kind of governor, and the guys who brought it to us have been arguing about how much to tell us. Maybe it’s more money, but I hear we’ve already paid a fortune for this thing.”

  “What’s in the rest of the fat section?” asked Eric.

  “Can’t get inside to see. Shows up hollow on X-ray. You can see joints, and two hinges on the underside. It opens up somehow, but we haven’t been able to activate it.”

  “It shows up as cantilevered on the drawings.”

  “Conjecture. We haven’t proven that yet.”

  Eric was looking close at the surface, running a hand over it. “Looks rough, but feels smooth. I don’t see any markings.”

  “Carbon composite: nanofibers in a resin we haven’t figured out yet. The Japanese are working on something similar. We haven’t found a single marking. No letters, numbers, just gl
yphs in the cockpit. A pressure bar opens that. You can see the seam near the nose. No way to see outside; everything is heads up. We at least got the instructions on using that, but it took over a year to train our test pilots to it.”

  “Any idea where it comes from?” asked Eric. He touched the place where his hand had rested a while, and it was still warm.

  “We’re told Eastern Europe, but nobody knows for sure. The people who brought it out are kept out of sight; I’ve never been allowed to talk to one of them. What are you writing down there?”

  Neal had turned to look at Alan, who was writing something down on his clipboard. “Recording topics of conversation, sir. Colonel Davis’ orders.”

  Neal scowled. “Thought so. Guess I won’t be volunteering anything, then. Ask me some questions, Doctor Price.”

  “What’s the problem?” asked Eric.

  “No problem. I’m just here to answer your questions.” Neal’s anger was barely masked. He’d obviously not expected any monitoring of his conversations with the new guy from the pentagon. Something was wrong here, and Eric acted quickly.

  “Okay, show me how to get into this thing. I want to see the controls’ setup.”

  “Watch your step. The leading edges of the wings are like dull swords,” said Neal. A set of three steps on rollers, wheels blocked, was by one of the half-vee wings of the aircraft. Neal stepped up onto the wing, Eric right behind him, while Alan remained standing on the floor.

  A seam was now visible, and three indentations, closely spaced, which Neal pressed with one hand. A section of the fuselage popped out towards them, and Neal pulled it back. Inside were four contour chairs in a black interior. A lit instrument panel was to their left, a tunnel on their right. Neal pointed to it, said, “There’s a second compartment a few feet back, like this one. It takes a crew of eight. This is the flight deck, but we don’t have a clue about what goes on in the other compartment. I personally think it’s related to the fat, apparently empty section we haven’t figured out either. So far, nothing works for us in there. The indicators don’t even light up.”