Groom Lake

by Bryan O

  Operation Patriot also had a secondary objective—an objective too outlandish to be approved by politicians whose opinions on the subject were manipulated by Air Force press releases and chuckling news anchors. The congressman and Grason Kendricks selectively spoke about the secondary objective: uncover current intelligence opinion on extraterrestrial life, and determine if there was any truth behind stories the government possessed information proving the existence of an alien race. They used knowledge from their experiences in Naval Intelligence and Project Blue Book to theorize the investigation did not lack merit …

  Tilting back in his executive chair, the congressman stared out a window at the Coronado Bay Bridge that served as a picturesque portal between the vast Pacific Ocean and the refuge of San Diego’s calming harbor. At its highest point the arching sky-blue bridge offered clearance for the Navy’s largest battleships. A variety of sails decorated the inviting water under and around the bridge, adding beauty and serenity that contrasted with the stark impression of international dominance left by gray Navy ships and submarines docked in the harbor.

  “What’s the latest?” the congressman asked, picking up the phone after his secretary told him Grason Kendricks was on the line.

  “I finalized our deal with the professor. His assistant checked out. But more importantly, I can get those overhead images we discussed.”

  The congressman didn’t anticipate the gravity anomaly images being available so fast, but figured Grason had dropped the FBI’s name to push the process along. “How much?”

  “More than I can pull from the budget. I know you said you’d cover the difference, but it’s steep.”

  “Do it!” the congressman said without hesitation. His decisions on matters like this were determined long before the operation started. He subscribed to the theory that he couldn’t take his millions with him, so he might as well maximize the benefits of his money. Then he asked, “Did you test the Bio Suit over the weekend?”

  “We played hide and seek in the desert. I never found him.”

  “So he’ll feel more comfortable this time out?”

  “He’s ready.”

  “Let’s hope he has better luck this trip,” the congressman said, bidding his old friend goodbye.

  CHAPTER 16

  Although Damien Owens granted Kayla full clearance as an Aquarius agent, they were still a government body, and certain bureaucratic procedures had to be completed before it was official. As such, he insisted on tying a blindfold over Kayla’s eyes so she couldn’t see where he was taking her. This was her first trip to the subterranean base at Groom Lake, or Dreamland as he commonly referred to it.

  The blindfold felt tight around Kayla’s face and prevented her eyelids from opening. With a gentle touch, Owens led her by the wrist. She wondered who might be watching, what they thought, and if seeing a person blindfolded was common.

  They boarded an elevator that seemed to descend. We’re traveling deep, very deep, below ground, she thought. Kayla knew the extraterrestrial myths about the base and visions of gray aliens with oblong black eyes and their exotic spaceships harassed her thoughts.

  When they began walking again, she concentrated on identifying noises. The most prevalent sound was a deep hum, like the motors to heavy machinery, maybe turbine power generators, or A/C units. Another backdrop noise sounded like a faint, but constant, howl—airshaft currents she deducted. The loudest sound was the clamor from their shoes clapping against a smooth concrete floor.

  Next Owens helped her into a transport of sorts, no doors. By a gentle hum from the engine, she knew it was electric. She felt him sitting next to her, so someone else drove. Although it could have been on a track and automated the way they gently bumped side to side like on a train.

  “Not many people are privileged enough to go where you’re going,” Owens told her. “Fewer go home remembering this ride.”

  She thought of Ben Skyles and the equipment Owens had connected to him, and the way his personality changed under the equipment’s influence.

  The ride seemed never-ending. So long that she again questioned being below ground.

  When they stopped, Owens took her by the wrist once more. For the first time she heard the shuffling of feet besides their own, but no voices. Doors seemed to be opening and closing as well, automatically.

  Eventually they reached their destination. “I want you to sit,” Owens said. With both hands on her upper arms he guided her into a soft desk chair. “Now, let’s get this blindfold off you.”

  Kayla’s eyes didn’t struggle readjusting to the light because the confining space she was in rendered a surreal dimness, illuminated by a halogen desk lamp and glows from medical equipment monitors and a video screen.

  “You remember our friend, Ben Skyles,” Owens said, pointing to the video monitor where Skyles could be seen strapped to a hospital bed.

  Kayla had not seen Skyles since they took him from his house. Acting as chauffeur, she had driven them in the Suburban to Nellis Air Force Base, the main entrance at the north end of Las Vegas. At that point, Owens and Skyles boarded a helicopter, leaving her in Vegas, baffled by the bizarre equipment that manipulated Skyles’ mind. Owens claimed the experience was a big step forward for her, but he did very little to explain the situation. Instead he teased her with bits and pieces of information—clues to the gamut as he called it.

  “What’ll happen to him?” she asked of Skyles.

  “I’m not sure. Experts are working with him.”

  “So he has to stay strapped to that bed until you find out?”

  “Do you have a problem with that?”

  “No. I’m just trying to understand the situation.”

  “So are we.” Owens could see the pity on her face as she focused on the monitor, focused on Skyles, quarantined in a bed not much larger than his body. “I’m quite fond of Ben Skyles,” he admitted. “But I can’t let my compassion for his situation obscure my perception of the big picture. Once you understand the full gamut of this operation, you’ll appreciate my methods, and my reasons for bringing you along gradually.”

  Owens studied her response and sensed a bit of impatience with the unresolved answer. “Let me put it another way: human nature dictates that we need closure on issues—answers. But that shouldn’t be the case, and it leads to dogma. People will accept a ludicrous answer over no answer because it puts their simple minds to rest. I’ll introduce you to situations, and give you explanations, but the explanations lead to greater questions, puzzles that will boggle your mind, and in our lifetime we may never know the answers. It requires a unique mindset to operate under those parameters. I have to be positive that you have such a mindset.”

  “What if I don’t? What if tomorrow you show me something and I don’t like it, or can’t handle it?”

  “Then I let you walk. And my worries about you leaking information would be minimal. As for Skyles-” His portable phone interrupted, which wasn’t uncommon.

  Kayla could only hear his end of the conversation, and tried following along: “Good. I assume you acted like a gentleman with the Chinese woman?” Kayla knew the captured spy was being transferred, and the call must have been to confirm the completion. “What about Wyatt? Anything yet? … I want a full report when I’m in LA.” She also knew someone was investigating Desmond Wyatt, the man who supposedly helped the spies sneak onto the base.

  Owens noticed how intently Kayla was paying attention to the conversation. He understood her eagerness to understand, and felt he could trust her with anything at this point, but needed to follow procedures—time-tested procedures he trusted more than anything, or anyone. After hanging up he said, “I know this isn’t easy, but it’s necessary. Don’t search for answers. Your guessing will complicate matters. Just accept the facts as I present them. Don’t ask questions, and don’t make assumptions. Simply observe, and know that everything I do, every situation I put you through, has a purpose.”

  “Actually, I was just w
ondering how your phone gets a signal down here? Or is it technology that is addressed in a later lesson plan?”

  “To answer your first question, signal relays and amplifiers—military quality.” Owens then offered a rare chuckle, and said, “As far as future lesson plans, we’ll eventually address the origins of semiconductor technology.”

  CHAPTER 17

  This was Blake’s first visit to the professor’s Malibu home since his wife had passed. The security gate surprised him. He couldn’t believe the way the professor had imprisoned himself by having ten-foot fences installed around the property. The house appeared to have deteriorated step for step with the professor: the flowers and colorful plants were dead; bushes needed trimming; the lawn begged for a mow; and a good spray from the hose would rejuvenate the slate courtyard.

  The professor answered the front door in a withered T-shirt and boxers that struggled to stay above his waist. Blake suspected the pair had fit well a few months ago, before the professor started losing weight.

  “I’m not ready for you,” the professor admitted. “I was jotting down some notes this morning, and one thing led to another, and now you’re here.” Looking at his underclothes, “And if I don’t get some clothes on, you’ll see a few more objects than you bargained for.”

  “I’ve got an idea,” Blake said. “Take your time getting ready. I’ll mow the lawn. Looks like you can use a gardener around here.”

  “Ooo! That’s not a bad idea. I’ll pay you. Fifty bucks is what that crook gardener used to steal from me. When he insisted on knowing the code to my gate, I told him to go to hell.” Paying attention to his yard for the first time in a long time, he noted, “Looks like he took my yard to hell with him, but I don’t care. I’ve got too much on my mind to worry about trivial things.” Trivial things, as the professor put it, included anything not concerning his research. He had concluded that professors like himself who lost track of time, made socially unacceptable mistakes by dressing funny or not combing their hair, were not nutty or absentminded, but mentally preoccupied. If he were an athlete, some might say he was in a zone. Being in a zone with his research meant everything else was a distraction—dressing, eating, haircuts, housework, the yard—only his research mattered.

  After struggling under the high-noon sun to cut the shin-high grass, Blake pushed the lawnmower back to the garage before returning to the front door, which he found locked. For a few minutes he knocked, pounded and waited.

  “Oo! Ooo! Good timing,” the professor said when he finally answered.

  Blake was glad to see signs of the professor’s childlike giddiness return to his voice.

  “Look at those muscles,” the professor gawked, staring at Blake’s shirtless, tan and sweaty body. “Come in, we’ll get you cleaned up and hydrated.”

  “I told you I’ve had too much time on my hands,” Blake replied, following him to the kitchen. “Working out helps me pass the days.” He noticed along the way that the house’s interior was as neglected as the exterior. The living and dining rooms were filled with dust-gathering furniture, and dismal rays of sunshine fought to sneak past closed curtains.

  The south end of the house was where the professor spent most of his time, in a sprawling area shared by the kitchen and family room that featured an arched ceiling and expansive picturesque windows that offered inspiring views down the mountainside with the vast ocean in the distance, when the curtains weren’t closed. Large warehouse club packages of plastic cups, flatware and plates cluttered the kitchen counter. Their used counterparts filled the trashcan; the professor had phased out dishwashing.

  “Are you still jogging?” the professor asked, offering Blake a cold can of iced tea from the fridge.

  “At least 20-miles a week. I’ve never seen a plump astronaut.”

  “I like the optimism. Soon NASA won’t be the only group sending people into space.”

  “You mentioned that at dinner the other night.”

  “Do you believe in flying saucers, Blake?”

  “Extraterrestrials?”

  “People associate the two, but I plan on building a saucer of my own—terrestrial, no extras on board. The other day I mentioned the science of controlling gravity. I was involved in the field decades ago.”

  “I’ve heard of anti-gravity, but never from your mouth.”

  “My silence related to those ghosts from my past that I told you about. For a while anti-gravity looked as though it would become as promising a field as computer technology is today. From 1947 until about 1952, UFO’s were a hot topic—thousands of reported sightings. The scientific community began analyzing eyewitness reports and theorizing about the technical aspects of such craft. Anti-gravity was believed to be the basis behind their propulsion systems.

  “I was about your age at the time,” he continued. “Just finished graduate school, and instead of looking for a job I built a model flying saucer. The local paper snapped my picture with it and ran a story on my anti-gravity research. Two weeks later I was working for the government at Los Alamos.

  “One scientist in our group had immigrated from Germany after World War II, which wasn’t uncommon. We took many of their top scientists. Fritz something. I forget his last name. Maybe I never knew it. We called him Fritzy. One day we arrived at the lab and everything was missing. All our notes, test results, models—gone. Fritzy too.”

  “What happened?”

  “Russia ended up with some of Germany’s scientists as well. The government claimed Fritzy had close friends in the Soviet Union and sold us out. It seemed logical at the time, but reflecting back, I wouldn’t be surprised if our own government took everything and blamed it on Fritz and the Russians. Primarily because I see signs and hear rumors about anti-gravity type designs in our high tech programs, not Russia’s.”

  “What happened to your research program?”

  “Anti-gravity research became top secret.” The professor answered Blake’s questions about a part of his life on which he rarely spoke. He told him how the government had black-listed him. His bitterness. His fears. How he put everything behind him and moved on. Until now.

  “What caused the change of heart?” Blake asked.

  “A need to do something with my life … unresolved questions … and anger that something with so much potential and positive implications is kept secret.”

  “So how do I fit in?”

  “Obviously I’ve started my research again. I have a few old friends sponsoring me. Corporate people. They want to make commercial uses for the technology.” The professor did not like having to fabricate a story, but gave his word he would not divulge the FBI’s involvement in his research.

  “Aren’t you being paranoid by keeping it such a secret?”

  “Think about it, Blake. If the government has anti-gravity powered craft, it means they never stopped the research. Someone went through great lengths to keep me out of a loop that’s been around fifty years, with very few knowing about it.” The professor knew he had sparked Blake’s interest. “There’s a lot more to the research, Blake. But you have to be committed to the project before I open up. I already explained how it would be good for you in the short run. The long-term possibilities will be what you make of them. But you must be aware that sending ripples through the wrong puddle could tarnish your future.”

  “If I understand you, I don’t need the government. We can build our own ship.”

  “It’s easier said than done, but you’ve got the right idea. Now come on,” he motioned Blake into the family room. “You’re going to get a kick out of this.” Lifting a small crocheted sampler hanging on a wall, he revealed a keypad and pecked in a code. Several feet away, two ceiling-high bookshelves made a subtle click noise. Next the professor slid the shelves apart, exposing a small hallway. He smiled and swooped his hand toward the opening. “You have the grand distinction of being the first to see my new lab.”

  Blake marveled at the stark mood change between the professor’s lab and hi
s neglected house. The sterile laboratory with its white walls, hard linoleum floors and absence of decor also contrasted the adjacent domicile by lacking a scrap of paper or speck of dust. Any evidence that the professor’s life and mind were diminishing didn’t exist in the microcosm environment of his lab.

  “You’ve got to admire the way I let the yard grow to hide this place from the courtyard,” the professor said, proud his remodeling addition was hardly evident from outside, and in.

  “I just thought you didn’t care about the yard anymore.”

  “That’s true too.” After hyping Blake’s entrance into the lab, he did little to point out the finer details and expert craftsmanship, like the hidden storage cabinets in the walls and floor for his cherished research. Instead he offered Blake a stool at a long worktable.

  Anxious to begin, and absent the smile that had accompanied his jovial attitude about his yard, the professor asked, “How familiar are you with wormholes, Blake?”

  “Wormholes?” he mused, recalling past astronomy and physics classes, and realizing the dynamic of the professor’s work if it involved wormholes. “I think that sometime in the eighties physicists began theorizing that tunnels linking black holes existed in the spacetime continuum. Kind of like shortcuts through space, and they called them wormholes.”

  “Decent answer,” the professor complimented. “Their popularity caught on in the eighties, but the term was coined decades ago. I knew the details about wormholes in 1951! But we called them gravity tunnels back then.”

  “That’s what the government had you working on?”

  “Our program evolved from theories about traveling through deep space. We knew finding a way to travel at the speed of light was still too slow for mankind to explore the vast reaches of space in a lifetime, so we searched for alternatives. After Einstein’s early relativity equations were introduced in 1915, physicists began working with the concept that a black hole has two portals, each representing a different point in spacetime and linked by a tunnel, or wormhole. The government collected over three decades of research on the theory and provided it to us. Upon studying the mathematics we discovered you don’t need a black hole to create a wormhole. The calculations show we can take any two points in the spacetime continuum and link them with a wormhole.”