Groom Lake (22 page)

Liebowitz had opened their eyes not only to a secret underground facility, but a conglomerate of activities and technological secrets they were just beginning to understand. They wanted to learn about the technology associated with the lights in the sky, and discovered the hoots were but a blade of grass on another conspiratorial grassy knoll.

Despite wanting to stop the questioning and remove Liebowitz from the controlled state, Rebecca allowed Trace to pass more questions to here. They all wanted a better understanding of the helium-3 operation, so they accepted the risk and pushed a little further with their questions.

Occasionally in summer months Mother Nature cranked her wind machine in reverse and eastern winds, warmed by the Mojave Desert, chapped lips, burned sinuses and tore branches from trees in what Californians called a
Santa Ana
.

A rustling tree and shaking window pain above Blake’s head woke him. Sheer darkness told him it was still the middle of night. An old alarm clock—the kind with three hands and a motor that buzzed—sat on the floor next to his futon. Its light was out and the motor had ceased its continual buzz at three-thirty-something. Rising, Blake stepped into a pair of boxers he had dropped beside the futon.

In the living room, the digital clock on the VCR was out too. Walking outside the apartment to investigate the power outage, Blake basked in the tranquility of the late night, enjoying the warm winds splashing against his bare chest and jostling his hair.

Glancing upward, he noticed something unusual: stars. He had never seen so many stars in the city. Most were usually washed out by lights and smog. For a few minutes he stared, mesmerized by the milky lights in the sky. He recalled figures from an astronomy class: the known universe contained forty billion galaxies.
Forty billion
. Each with countless stars. Some stars in the sky were in fact entire galaxies, so distant from Earth they appeared to Blake as a single speck of light.

Something moved in the shadows across the street. While studying the stars he had failed to notice a man seated on a motorcycle. He wondered how long he had been there, then wondered what he was doing there that late. Probably enjoying the rare moment like himself, he figured. Blake raised a hand, being a friendly neighbor, and the man returned the gesture.

Back inside his room, Blake dropped his boxers in their usual spot next to the futon and climbed under his sheet. Staring at the stars had put him in a philosophical state. He pondered his life, his purpose, and where he was going. He hoped things with the professor would work out.

The power returned after Blake fell back to sleep. A light just outside his bedroom window brightened the walkway along the side of the building. Without waking Blake, some light fell through his blinds into the room. A shadow was also cast through the blinds, the shadow of the man Blake had seen on the motorcycle.

• • •

A phone call roused Blake from bed in the morning. He answered, “Hello?”

“Blake Hunter,” an emotionless voice stated.

“Speaking.”

“Have you seen any UFOs lately?”

“What makes you think I’m looking for them?” he replied sternly, masking his concern about the nature of the call.

“All those books you keep in your room.”

“Who is this?” Blake demanded.

“Someone who can answer your questions, and then some. Just calling to make sure you’re home. We’ll catch you later.” The line went dead.

Blake wanted to call the professor, but didn’t know how to reach him. He looked in Trevor’s room, but remembered he was working a breakfast shift. Feeling uncomfortable in the apartment, he decided to go for a long bike ride until Trevor returned from work.

His bike was locked in a carport behind the apartment building. Wearing his riding gear, he set off down a narrow alley lined with garbage cans. Up ahead he noticed a van squeezing between trashcans and a parked car, traveling in his direction. It was an older model Econoline with no rear windows. Easing to one side, Blake tried to let the van pass, but it veered closer, pinning his body and bike against a parked car. “What the hell?” Blake yelled, thumping his palm against the van.

Lurching to a stop, the van’s side door slid open. Blake’s mind raced to process what was happening as he found himself confronted by a thug wearing a gray hooded sweatshirt and dark sunglasses.

“What up, Blake Hunter? My friends have some business they would like to discuss with you,” Teneil said, peering down at Blake from an elevated position in the van and presenting a smile that contrasted with his gangster look.

Blake knew this wasn’t a typical street jacking. Street gangs conducted cowardly drive-by shootings, this guy called first. “Are you the punk who hung up on me?” he asked. Blake had taught himself not to take crap from anyone in Los Angeles. He knew some might question his sanity, but he also knew letting someone get the best of him without at least flexing his muscles would leave him stewing for days with pent up frustration.

Before Teneil could enter a war of words with Blake, Rebecca’s voice interjected from inside the van, “Knocking on your door would have been a logical approach, but you never know who’s watching.”

Although Professor Eldred had assured Blake his research associates were legit, he suspected the professor was somehow in trouble, and these people in the van were part of it. Poking his head through the van’s sliding door, he saw the woman who had just spoke on a rear bench seat.

“You’ll be okay. Go lock your bike back up and get in,” she said.

Their approach was unorthodox, but their actions also seemed somewhat friendly and sincere to Blake. Deciding to cooperate, largely out of sick curiosity, Blake obliged. He sat in a captain’s chair and swiveled to face Rebecca, but he couldn’t see any distinguishing features on her face because she wore a scarf over her head and dark glasses. The whole scenario seemed too unbelievable to be real.

Teneil slid the door shut and Jimmy eased the van down the alley and began a leisurely drive around Blake’s neighborhood.

“I truly considered knocking on your front door and talking to you in your house,” Rebecca said in a kind, reasonable tone, not her usual bossy style, “but this is a serious situation and our anonymity is crucial. I also can’t assume your apartment is a safe place to talk.”

“You have a name?”

“Not for now. Just call us your friends from Nevada.”

“Friends?”

“We can help one another. I’m taking a great risk in exposing our operation to you, but we have done some research on you, your interests, and your associates.”

“I’m a student. I work for one professor, and I don’t have any associates.”

“I understand. We’re actually interested in Professor Eldred’s associates, and you’re the safest link.”

“I don’t know anything beyond what I do for the professor.”

“Let me pose it to you like this: we have information to give, but no one to give it to. You are looking for information, but before now, you’ve had trouble getting what you want. I’m hoping if our intentions are similar, we can join forces.”

“My intentions are good,” Blake said, “and I know the professor is a good man, and assume his intentions are good too.”

“We’ll make that determination as we progress.”

“That’s great,” Blake said, “but so far you’re speaking in general terms. You’re going to have to get specific and tell me what this is really about.”

Rebecca and Trace had planned how she would present their team. Blake’s assertiveness and confidence made a good first impression on her, and she began to understand Desmond’s interest in him. “My associates and I have connections to the Dreamland facility in Nevada, and a second underground facility in the Papoose Valley codenamed The Dark Side of the Moon. It’s this second facility where the government is hiding technology that I call
beyond conventional comprehension
.”

A tingling shiver crept up Blake’s back; she had hooked him. Her words were enlightening, a confirmation. His interests, which sometimes seemed like a waste of time, now had new possibilities. “Beyond conventional comprehension,” he repeated, pondering her choice of words. “I’ve heard others speculate about that region. Their descriptions often used phrases like
not of this earth
or
extraterrestrial
.”

“I’m not here to speculate, Blake.”

“Are you going to tell me about little gray aliens? Antigravity propulsion systems? Back engineered spacecraft? Because, to be honest, that’s what the professor had me researching.”

“I’m aware of your work. If I thought it to be outrageous, I wouldn’t be here. I’ll start by saying this about the technology: it’s not limited to one project, such as back-engineering a spacecraft, or one specific development like antigravity. Papoose is home to a few operations—Unacknowledged Special Access Programs. But even if you knew everything about Area 51, you’d just be scratching the surface. There are multiple ongoing projects, eclipsing everything known by mainstream science, all of which combine to pose a devastating threat under their current covert conditions. Origins of the technology and the security measures surrounding it, in some cases, date from the late forties and early fifties. We haven’t yet ascertained if anything relates to the Roswell incident and little gray men; the timelines may be a coincidence. What we do know, however, is in the fifties, after developing the atomic bomb, the government possessed technology they wanted to protect with greater secrecy than what they used at Trinity. Participation in new programs was minimized and control was placed in the hands of small isolated operations. While we can only assume the discoveries can benefit society if made public, there’s no debate that extreme secrets are dangerous when controlled by groups not responsible to the public. Nothing in our constitution justifies the ongoing secrecy, and that’s the premise behind our intentions. Are you interested?”

“You knew I had an interest before coming here?”

Handing Blake a piece of paper, she said, “You should find this interesting. Consider it an act of good faith on our behalf.”

Blake studied the paper’s contents:

D +
3
He + p(14.7meV) +
4
He(3.7meV) + 18.4meV

“Can you make sense of that?” she asked.

“It’s a formula: deuterium and helium.”

“A unique form of helium with an atomic weight of three. That formula is an equation for producing clean nuclear energy—no radioactive waste. We believe they are testing it at the underground facility in Papoose Valley. They retrieve the helium from the moon, aboard vehicles powered by something other than rocket-based propulsion systems.”

“Antigravity?”

“To be honest with you, I don’t yet know how they propel the craft. The helium element is just one piece of the puzzle, one form of the secret technology in the conglomerate out there. A conglomerate that comprises a secret space program—a second NASA—with no restrictions, no oversight and no reasonable purpose for existing because officially it doesn’t exist.” Rebecca knew by the way Blake sat on the edge of his seat, listening to every word, that she had him. “I’m offering you this formula because you can check it out. Few people have heard of it, but its existence is not a secret, only its use. Take it as proof toward our credibility.”

“So all I have to do is believe you?”

She laughed. “I’m not going to make it that easy. We’ve put a lot of time and money into our operation. We’ve risked our careers and freedom. The reward is personal gratification.”

“Anonymous heroes,” Blake added.

“And heroines,” Rebecca noted. “Exposing ourselves puts us at an even greater risk. We must be sure that whomever we deal with, not only understands and supports us, but can help us reach our ultimate goals.”

“How am I going to do that? I don’t even know who I’m working for, assuming there is a third party.”

“We know there’s a third party. We’ve done our research. It’s up to you to find out who that is. You’re the link.”

“That’s easier said than done.”

Rebecca smiled, emanating confidence. “We have a plan.”

• • •

Blake’s understanding and outlook on American life typified the post-baby boomer generations. He grew up in safe and prosperous times. Sovereignty had been a forgone conclusion. He never considered the government could be less than stellar, hoarding secrets in a way that could jeopardize the country’s sovereignty, his sovereignty, his friends’ sovereignty. The idea they could traverse a wormhole, as the professor suspected, yet not share such a remarkable ability with others, and instead fight to keep the technology secret, infuriated Blake with the same freedom-fighting passion that emboldened the country’s forefathers. Curiosity and self-interests no longer seemed a priority in Blake’s desire to understand antigravity; he now felt a patriotic obligation to discover the truth.

Trevor returned home from work to find Blake sprawled across the couch, gazing at the ceiling. “You look like crap,” said Trevor.

“Grab a seat,” he told his best friend. “We need to talk.”

Growing up, Blake and Trevor had many common interests and shared experiences—sports, video games, puberty—that bonded their friendship, a friendship further encouraged by Trevor’s parents who saw Blake as a positive influence on their son. They accepted him into their family, often having him over for dinner, and breakfast after he stayed the night, offering a traditional family setting that Blake didn’t get at home. Despite their differences in habits and tastes that grew as they grew—Trevor’s desire to relax, talk and play, and Blake’s eagerness to exercise, think and learn—they had a brotherly bond which allowed them to share feelings and offer support under any circumstances. Blake sometimes teased Trevor when he spoke of an idea for a script or worked in Hollywood as an unpaid intern, but he never ridiculed his dreams. Likewise, Trevor always cut the antics and listened when Blake wanted to talk. Blake’s demeanor this evening suggested that Trevor needed to listen.

“Someone has been watching our apartment,” Blake said. He continued telling him about the professor’s research, the phone call that morning, the van ride and what the woman in the van had proposed. They wanted him to go to Area 51, follow specific directions and sneak on the base. They gave him a date and promised he would have a view inside the large hangar at the south end of the runway. A hangar they suspected contained an entrance linking Groom Lake with the second installation in Papoose Valley. They wanted to verify their theory with photos.

“You can’t get past the security out there,” Trevor said.