Groom Lake (19 page)

With each successive day, Owens furthered Kayla’s rigorous and profound progression into the Aquarius program. Never before had a candidate failed this late in the process, and Owens felt confident that Kayla wouldn’t be the first. He needed her to not be the first. Selecting her broke with two traditions: Kayla was a woman, and she wasn’t military.

Owens had trained other civilians, not as Aquarius agents, but as members of his Unacknowledged Special Access Projects. Ben Skyles was a civilian pupil of his, brought straight from MIT, and there was a second man—Aaron Liebowitz—who was lured from a civilian post with the Navy and nurtured into the program. Unlike Skyles and Liebowitz, however, Kayla would see every aspect of the USAP. That was why Owens needed to mold her, harden her soul, awaken her mind.
Wake up and smell the coffee
was a phrase his agents favored. Owens had a rare blend of coffee for Kayla to smell today. Additional proof that there was more to the world than mainstream predisposition dictated.

Boarding a small elevator, isolated at the end of a gray cement tunnel in an underground area of Papoose Valley, seen more through surveillance monitors than the naked eye, they descended to one of the base’s lowest depths.

“You won’t see anyone on this level,” Owens told her. “It’s a storage area.”

“Storage for what?”

“Knowledge,” he answered, chasing the word with one of his patented sinister smiles.

She didn’t return the smile, instead keeping a stoic face.

That was the reaction Owens liked to see—no reaction.

The elevator doors opened into a wide tunnel, expansive enough for semi trucks to traverse and dimly lit from stand-by lights that prevented sheer darkness. Their presence triggered a sensor and overhead incandescent floodlights began shining, one after the next, starting with the closest to the elevator. The sequence continued until the entire tunnel was free of shadows, revealing the concrete walls typical of the fortress and the usual supply lines, ventilation ducts and pipes along the ceiling that acted like veins and arteries, lifelines sustaining the environment the government had created underground.

Kayla counted five sets of large sliding doors along each wall—storage bays—and figured somewhere there was another elevator, a vehicle lift of sorts, besides the cramped passenger elevator they had used.

Slowly, methodically, Owens strolled the tunnel with Kayla at his side, not wanting to arrive at their destination before setting the stage verbally. “Do you enjoy museums?” he asked.

“I haven’t been to one in ages.”

They reached the third storage bay on the right. Owens placed his palm on a control panel, causing a motor to churn and echo for nobody to hear but them. Massive steel doors—twenty feet tall and equally wide—slid apart.

Center stage in the storage bay, under a solitary overhead light that cast a cone-shaped spot, was a long cylindrical object, the size of a bus, cast from a dull alloy.

Owens looked for the slightest expression of surprise or intrigue in Kayla’s demeanor, hoping not to see it, hoping she could hide her feelings. “Let me introduce you to my friend over here.”

“You say that like it’s alive.”

“It’s not dead.”

His comment broke her stoic look, but he was in front of her, walking toward the object so he didn’t notice her faux pas.

“Put your hand close, but don’t touch,” he told her as they neared the object.

She did as instructed, holding her palm inches from the object’s smooth metallic casing.

Extending his right arm, he shadowed her hand with his own and eased her palm against the alloy.

The dull gray metal reacted to her touch, brightening as various shades of purple, red and yellow spilled across the surface from beneath her hand.

He pulled his hand away, leaving Kayla’s alone on the surface. Red became the dominant surface color.

“What’s happening?” she asked.

“It’s a symbiotic alloy,” he said slowly, his mind captivated and admiring the reaction despite having seen it before. “The molecules are reacting to your touch … your body’s molecular output … understanding your state of mind.”

“Who built this?”

He didn’t plan to tell Kayla much about the engine. He wanted her to see it and start building a sense of what was hidden at the installation. Breaking from his trance-like focus on the object he said, “We’ll talk about that at a later time. Now we need to focus on our trip to San Diego. We’re going to visit a congressman.”

Ben Skyles had not felt sunshine warm his skin in two weeks, maybe longer—he couldn’t remember. The cars passing him on the busy streets of San Diego’s Gaslamp Quarter roared in his head like thrusting engines from a fighter jet. His system was drained from various medications and drugs. All he had on his mind was completing his task so he could sleep.

Skyles walked south down Fifth Street, along crowded sidewalks, past restaurants and bars on a revitalized boulevard that had become a hotspot for locals and tourists. He continued walking until the crowds of business types on their lunch hour dwindled and old office buildings replaced retail establishments. Crossing through a half-empty parking lot, he noticed a homeless person sitting beside a shopping cart filled with his belongings. Skyles wondered if he was being offered a glimpse into his own future. Maybe he’d be better off that way, free from his troubles. He looked over his shoulder, knowing his troubles were somewhere nearby, watching him through those serpentine eyes.

On the next street, most of the old warehouses had been converted into office space or residential lofts. He knew exactly where he was going because they had driven him by the building a few times earlier in the morning while explaining plans for the day.

He entered the office building, which had an American flag hanging from an angled pole next to the lobby entrance. Skyles road an elevator to the penthouse floor that two tenants shared. To his right, oak double doors were propped open, revealing a reception area and front desk flanked by American and Californian flags.

A smiling receptionist said, “Good afternoon, sir.” She was in her twenties, wearing a red skirt suit with a flag pin on her lapel. She aimed to please everyone who came through the double doors and impress those she worked for because she had higher aspirations and would someday need a recommendation from her boss, the congressman.

The receptionist’s words pounded in Skyles head like an over enthusiastic
Wheel of Fortune
game show contestant who screamed out the letters. GIVE ME A SIR! He didn’t expect someone to greet him when he exited the elevator. Not having the opportunity to rehearse his spiel again made him nervous, and his tongue twisted in his mouth. All that came from his lips was a jumbled mumble, “I mm da huh.”

Dealing with occasional troubled souls who wandered up looking for government handouts or to complain about issues ranging from police harassment to alien abductions had taught the receptionist to ask questions, be assertive, and not give them time to babble. “Do you have an appointment?”

Skyles took a quick breath and composed himself, remembering that if he did this right, he could rest. He hoped clearing his throat would offer some explanation for his stammer, “Huh, hmm … excuse me. No … I don’t have an appointment, but it’s important that I speak with the congressman.”

“He keeps a busy schedule, but you can speak to a member of his staff.”

“I want to speak to the congressman.”

“Well if you give me your name and a telephone number and the reason for your visit, I can pass it along and someone will contact you regarding an appointment in the future.”

Skyles jammed a hand in his pocket to retrieve something. His action scared the receptionist until she saw it was an ID badge. “Do me a favor,” he pleaded, tossing the badge on her desk. “Show the congressman, or whoever is in charge, this badge. And tell them I’m from Dreamland. That’s all you’ve got to say. If they want me to leave, I’ll take my business elsewhere.”

She read the badge:
GRATCOR; Contract Employee; Nevada Test Site; Department of Energy; Ben Skyles
. “What’s this?” she asked, concerned about a vial hanging parallel from beneath the badge.

“It’s a radiation dosimeter. It won’t hurt you.”

The only word that registered in her mind was
radiation
, and she tossed the badge back at him.

“I’ll take it off,” he said.

She left Skyles in the reception area and retreated to the offices beyond her desk. Skyles used the time to rest his mind. He sat, thinking of nothing for almost five minutes. Finally the chief of staff appeared and escorted him into the offices.

A woman was packing grooming supplies—scissors, tweezers, electric razor, hair brushes—into a box when Skyles entered the congressman’s office. The congressman spoke first, always wanting to take control of a situation. “I bet the last person you expected to see occupying my time while you waited was a stylist. You might argue that politicians today are battling some derivative of the Oedipal complex—seats not held by women are held by men acting like women, plucking their bushy eyebrows, tweezing their nasal hairs. I’ve got to color coordinate my suits with the season and my skin type, show feminine emotions that would have gotten my ass whipped during my military days. Women might be a minority in politics, but they’re sure defining the style. If I hadn’t bought into it, emulated others, I wouldn’t be here,”—he approached Skyles with his final words, extending a hand to return the badge—“and I wouldn’t be meeting you, Ben Skyles. Now what can I do for you?”

Thankful his pointless rhetorical speech was over, Skyles said, “I think it’s me that can do something for you.”

“I see. And why is that?”

“I heard through the grapevine you might be interested in my line of work.”

The congressman wanted to be direct and understand what led Skyles to him, but didn’t want to verify anything Skyles might have heard. “GRATCOR contributes greatly to the economy here in San Diego. Your credentials tell me you probably deal in sensitive information. I’m assuming because you’re here, there’s a problem. But you’ll have to be specific. I’m involved in many affairs that an individual with your background could affect.”

“Okay … I’ll be specific.” Skyles knew the quicker he got to the point, the quicker he could leave. “I’m here to talk about the investigation that Agent Grason Kendricks of the FBI is running for you.”

Pretending was synonymous with politics. Pretending to know something. Pretending not to know something. Pretending to be surprised. Pretending not to be surprised. Yet there was no pretending in the congressman’s response to Skyles’ statement. The behemoth of a man almost messed his pants, and it was evident on his face.

“It’s good to know my sources are correct,” Skyles said.

The congressman first suspected Skyles may have been sent by Congressman Storm Langston to do some snooping, but he wasn’t prepared for him to know about Grason. Trying to get the upper hand back in the conversation he said, “Don’t jump to conclusions. My silence is because I’m wondering if I should continue this conversation.”

“It’s quite a dilemma we face here. An inner struggle for power in the government.”

“I’m not struggling for power,” the congressman insisted. “I’m making sure it’s being used properly.”

“Some feel the information you seek is safe only if it’s secret. But I’m not here to argue that with you. I’m here because I agree with you. And I’m not alone. There are those on the inside looking for a way to break out. Looking for someone who can protect them if they come forward.” The words were flowing easily off Skyles’ tongue, but that was because Owens had him rehearsing hours at a time for the past three days. The hard part was not grimacing or wincing from the pain in his head; Owens hadn’t known the extent of his pain.

“So you’re looking to talk about what you do for the government?” the congressman asked.

“To someone I can trust. I’m a whistle-blower, not a traitor.”

The congressman chuckled in disbelief. “This is too perfect. Too contrived. You know too much about me to be up to anything good. Tell your friends, or whoever sent you, I’m not a sucker. And I don’t scare. Beyond that, we’re done here.”

“Do you think you’re alone in this battle? The last patriot in Washington? I don’t know how they uncovered you, or Grason. I wish it were as easy as giving you a couple of names. Check them out and you’d have all your answers. But it’s not. What you seek is caught in a black widow’s web. The web is sporadic, crisscrossed—no apparent synchronicity to the design. Even the tools and technologies used to protect information in the web are classified. The checks and balances in the security are so detailed that it’s impossible to guess how they uncovered you. The key point is—” he abruptly stopped. His face took on a catatonic stare. He tried remembering what he was supposed to say next, but he saw running images in his mind—the moon, the stars, Earth, spiral galaxies—like poorly constructed sentences with meaningless points and premises that ran on and on and on, and he wondered why the moon didn’t have a name like Earth had a name, after all, nobody called Earth
the planet
.

“Are you okay?” the congressman asked.

“Where am I?”

“If you don’t know that, I’d say you have a few internal issues to deal with.” The congressman hit the intercom on his desk, “Send a couple of the guys in here.”

Skyles grunted, grabbing his head, writhing and falling to his knees.

The congressman knelt down to help him and noticed a small device clipped underneath Skyles’ belt. He pulled on it, discovering a thin white cord running up his shirt and connecting to a button mid-chest. Looking closer, he realized it was a small camera.

The congressman had no idea what caused Skyles to act as he did. All he knew was someone had unveiled a great deal of his operation. Storm’s words rang in his head:
They’ll bury your man in that desert
. Val had just started his third excursion.