Groom Lake (18 page)

PAC: an acronym for Political Action Committee; a synonym for manipulation and bribery. The congressman considered PACs a legal means by which politicians could accept corporate bribe money.

Roughly 20 of the 450 Congressional Representatives refrained from accepting PAC money in 1994. The congressman was included in the rare breed, taking a moral stance against the nation’s ethically questionable campaign practices.

The congressman disliked PACs for the monetary coercion power they gave government contractors and lobbyists, but PACs were a battle for another day, after Operation Patriot, and assuming he stayed in politics. Meanwhile he did his best to avoid them, turning down many invitations to fancy corporate shindigs or events where he didn’t trust the host’s intentions. He still maintained a busy social schedule, however, attending several functions a week, but on his terms.

The military contractor GRATCOR had an Aeronautical Assembly Division located in the Tahachipi Mountains, north of Los Angeles, but they often threw functions in San Diego close to some of the military officials they catered to. This is the type of event the congressman would choose to attend because it offered a chance to meet someone who might know a snippet of info to help his cause.

GRATCOR’s social functions had more brass than a college marching band. Gold buttons, bars and crests decorated military dress uniforms on many of the guests. The remaining attendees wore suits, most associated with the political realm. Although the word dinner party was not used on the invitation because political campaign regulations limited the number of dinner parties politicians and their staff members could attend, everyone attending knew they would leave the COCKTAIL AND HOURS D’OEUVRE gathering with a full stomach. GRATCOR skirted campaign guidelines by serving food from hors d’oeuvre trays; tuxedo-clad servers with white gloves provided an endless supply of bite-sized lobster tails and filet cuts as the feature appetizers.

The congressman tasted a small filet sandwich as he scanned the lavish seaside ballroom. Mainly locals at the party he noted, until a bitchy California senator, who always had her hands out for donations, entered the ballroom with an unnecessary entourage of assistants. Through a crowd of decorated uniforms, he spied another suit demanding his share of attention. Walter “Storm” Langston—sometimes called a Cardinal of the Capital—was a 10-term republican congressman from Texas, and a key figure in black budget funding, primarily because of his position on the House Permanent Select Intelligence Committee. The type of greedy self-serving politician the congressman despised.

Storm noticed the congressman looking at him. Excusing himself from the military attaché at his side, he approached. “I figured I’d find you here,” he said in a condescending Texan drawl, “ … trying to make friends with the big boys. Let me give you some advice: the only way to keep a secret in Washington is by not telling anyone.”

“I appreciate the advice, but I’m not sure what you’re getting at,” the congressman said.

“Don’t be coy with me.” Storm raised the assertiveness in his voice, but not his volume, keeping their conversation private. “You sure as shit know what I’m talking about. That half-assed investigation you think you’re going to conduct against my committee and the appropriations we make. What’d you do? Watch some scuttlebutt television show about the Roswell incident and take it too seriously?” He chuckled insidiously before continuing. “From what I hear, you think my appropriations need some further oversight.”

Someone from the Oversight Committee had talked. He knew it was inevitable, and had prepared. “I think the secrecy is out of hand. We need some new standards to ensure national security secrets are in the best interests of the people, and are not hindering society.”

“I think you ran for office on the wrong ticket. Nobody cares about your bleeding-heart patriotism.”

“They’ll start caring when they realize how people like you have been pulling the cotton over their eyes for decades.”

Storm almost corrected the congressman’s misuse of the cliché, but realized it was a witty stab at his Texas constituents. “I’ll admit we spend a lot of money on military and intelligence. A lot more than most people realize, but that spending brought down the Iron Curtain, and it made the Gulf War target practice. But you’ve got to make it into something more than that. Those damn UFO technology stories. If there was any truth to them, I would know, and I would do something about it. I’ve been on the inside track for almost two decades. If there was a problem with the technology being developed, I would know.”

“That’s exactly the problem, Storm.
You don’t know
. You issue the funds, but have no oversight beyond that. You ask questions before making the appropriations, but not after.”

“Some questions don’t need to be asked. Take nuclear weapons for example; I don’t know how they make the plutonium in them, but I still support funding. That information must be kept secret. You don’t want every Tom, Dick and Hussein making bombs.”

Storm had taken the congressman’s point out of context, but he didn’t care to correct him, nor continue debating. Instead he asked, “How much did you receive in PAC contributions last year?”

Offended and stern, Storm replied, “What’s your point?”

“You forget who your obligations are to. When was the last time you honestly spoke to a constituent that wasn’t waving corporate money or didn’t offer a sentimental PR story?”

Without hesitation or remorse, Storm answered, “Eighteen years ago. My first term, when I didn’t know any better and thought I could help everyone and everything in my path. If you don’t soon realize your limitations, you won’t be around for a second term.”

“That’s where you’re confused. I’m a man of action. I don’t care about the picture I paint, just the results. And I never planned on a long tenure.”

The congressman’s persistence irritated Storm. “You waltz into Washington and think you can take over. It doesn’t work that way. You can’t fathom the power with which you’re dealing. You won’t be allowed to make a mockery of my committee.”

“It’s already a mockery!”

“You just remember: David beat Goliath, not the United States Military.” Storm quickly surveyed others nearby, making sure his quiet furry hadn’t attracted any eavesdroppers, then continued. “I don’t like everything I see, but certain people and circumstances should be left alone. I don’t know how far along you are with your plans, but covertly sending an FBI agent onto a secret military installation is not oversight; it’s tantamount to espionage. They’ll bury your man in that desert. Then come after you. I’m being kind by warning you.” He extended his hand for a shake, not out of courtesy or respect, but in a calculated fashion to control the conversation and signal their exchange was over.

Watching Storm return to his military cohorts, the congressman considered Storm’s parting statement about not liking everything he saw, and how it contrasted with a previous remark:
If there was any truth to them, I would know
.

Warnings and actions were two different problems. The congressman knew Storm was making idle threats to keep his committee from being scrutinized. Plus, Storm misunderstood the situation; the congressman’s
man
was already in the desert, and was far from being buried.

Minutes after Storm left him, the congressman’s phone rang.

“Where are you?” Grason asked fervently.

“Good timing,” the congressman replied. “I’m at that GRATCOR function I told you about. We have a problem.”

“Call me after you’ve left, and use a landline.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve got troubles too.”

“Get out of that place and call me back.”

The congressman was eager to talk, but sensed the urgency in Grason’s voice. He hung up the phone and left the party. After driving a few blocks he found a gas station with a payphone in the parking lot.

“Someone broke into the professor’s lab and bugged his house,” Grason informed him once they were in contact again. “Tried to look at his files. He thinks they’re watching him.”

“How can that be? You haven’t given him anything yet.”

“They didn’t find him through us. I assume his FOIA request for documents raised a flag somewhere. I think we discovered the problem immediately, the professor took good precautions.”

“We’ve got to believe that whoever is interested in the professor is the same group we have an interest in. Maybe you can work some counterintelligence?”

“I’m trying. But I’m having trouble getting him to stay at his house.”

“Then put him on hiatus until we know it’s safe.”

Grason was surprised to hear the congressman take the conservative approach.

“In the meantime,” the congressman continued, “Val should be back from his second trip. Better luck?”

“A little, but let’s not discuss that over the phone. Bottom line is he’ll have to make another trip.”

“It might be the last time we can risk sending him. The cat’s head is out of the bag in Washington, but they don’t realize the investigation is operational.”

Grason didn’t like hearing there was a leak on the political end, but had no option other than to deal with it. After hanging up, he stretched out on the aging avocado green couch in his office. He closed his eyes and milled over the operation, where it was, and where he wanted to take it. The sofa felt comfortable. He liked spending time in his office, surrounded by all the electronic devices that helped make his career exciting: recording devices, anti-recording devices, state-of-the-art computer equipment. The one piece of equipment Grason didn’t have: the laser-guided listening device that was trained on his office window.

• • •

Outside the Los Angeles Federal Building, across Veteran Avenue, a small parabolic satellite dish had been installed atop a six-story apartment building by Damien Owens’ Aquarius agents. The results weren’t as effective as tapping Grason’s phone because the dish only recorded his end of the conversation, but was less risky than tapping the FBI’s secured phone lines.

Routine investigations by the Aquarius teams into individuals studying fringe sciences had led them to Professor Eldred, who led them to Grason Kendricks, and would soon lead them to the congressman.

Blake returned home and found a phone message from Professor Eldred telling him to take some time off—no mention of how long—and he would be in touch. Trying to return the call proved frustrating; the professor wasn’t answering his phone, and had disconnected his answering machine.
Time off
? Blake wondered. He had just taken three days off, and the professor had seemed disappointed to see him go.

Having the professor as an employer was an awkward situation. Now he understood why people advised against conducting business with friends. He couldn’t afford to take much time off, but felt uncomfortable making an issue of it.
Maybe I jumped into the project too soon
, he thought.
Could gravity really be an attainable resource
? His time with Desmond did nothing to advance his understanding of the classified document. Although the science of antigravity had captivated him, he wondered if it was better studied by ufologists, not someone looking to start an engineering career.

After being home for two days, Blake began to feel directionless, and did something he had never done before by watching daytime television, evening television, and prime time television all in the same day. On the third night he considered a return to productivity through new channels of employment and printed a copy of his resume to review, but before he could give considerable thought about where to send it he received a late-night knock at his door. Opening the door revealed the professor’s slight frame.

“Hello, Blake,” he said with a somber face.

Although Blake had been upset by the professor’s ambiguity on the answering machine days earlier, and their present state of affairs, seeing the frail man saddened him. The last thing Blake wanted to do was let this situation jeopardize their relationship. “I’ve been trying to reach you,” he said, forcing himself to sound happy. “Is everything all right?”

“My house was infested with bugs.”

“Infested? I saw a few roaches, but no more than I’ve grown accustomed to living with Trevor.”

“I don’t like the roaches, but it was the bugs you couldn’t see that made me leave.” He motioned with his hand for Blake to step outside. “Let’s take a walk.”

The professor thought the easiest way to handle the situation with Blake was to tell him about the FBI, the break-ins at his house, and how this whole project had turned into a disaster, but he was a man of his word, and had agreed not to discuss Operation Patriot. “I’m having some troubles right now. I think I need to take a vacation. Get away. I want you to do the same.”

“Are the problems something I can help with?”

Since he told Blake a private corporation was funding his work, he blamed the problems on them, “I’ve lost my funding.”

“I see.” Blake’s thoughts turned to his personal finances. The professor’s funding was
his
funding too, and he didn’t have the luxury of a savings account to get by on.

The professor realized why Blake turned pale. He didn’t mean for him to take it that way. He hadn’t lost his funding; the FBI was continuing to pay him. That’s why he hated lies, even white lies with good intentions led to more lies. “I’m not trying to worry you, Blake. I want you to understand my state of mind. I’m not the least bit discouraged about the future. You committed to me and I’m following through on my end of the bargain. You’ll keep receiving your paychecks. In a month you’ll start your classes. I’ve seen to it the tuition is covered.”

“Where’s the money coming from if your sponsors canceled?”

“I’m funding everything myself,” was the first answer he could think of.

“Professor, I don’t want your money.”

“It’s the least I can do, Blake. I’ve received plenty of grant money over the years. This is one way of giving back. Funding your Ph.D. is also an extension of my work.”

“I don’t mind the government giving me educational grants, or some foundation awarding me a scholarship, but this is too personal. I’ll borrow before I take your money.”

“That’s ridiculous. This is something I want to do.”

Blake didn’t know how to turn the professor down. The passion in his voice and the sincerity in his heart, evident through tearing eyes, was too much to resist. He smiled, thinking what a decent man the professor was, and agreed to continue.

The professor handed Blake a paycheck, and an advance for the next month, telling him to relax until the next semester started, five weeks away. Then they would begin working on the science, no more chasing paper trails or UFOs.