by Bryan O
“Hey, did you see a FedEx package out front?” Blake asked.
“No. Expecting something?”
“I thought so.”
“Porn video?”
“No, research materials.”
“Speaking of porn,” Trevor said, “some guy in my acting class told me about this party Saturday. It’s a kickoff for some new x-rated video series.”
“I’m not going to something like that. Besides I’ve got plans.”
“Date?”
Blake figured he’d tell Trevor sooner or later about what he was up to, so there was no point making up stories. “I’m going to a UFO meeting.”
“That must be what all those books are for in your room. What the hell is going on?”
“Something for Professor Eldred. Let’s not get into it now.”
“Well let’s get into it before the meeting,” Trevor insisted. “I don’t want to go in there clueless.”
“You don’t want to go.”
“Heck yeah I do. I’ve been thinking about writing a movie script. Maybe I’ll find some good material there.”
“You can’t write. Besides, I don’t want you coming along and acting like an idiot.”
“I’ll behave. This is business. And I don’t need to know how to write, just talk. Scripts are conversations on paper.”
“I think they’re a little more than that, but you can go as long as you drive. I hate driving to the valley.”
Blake assumed everyone other than the professor would find his new research odd. But giving it further consideration, he realized that of all his studies, this was rather intriguing to the layman, and afforded him a chance to involve Trevor in his studies for the first time since high school.
CHAPTER 23
A few blocks shy of the Santa Monica city limits, a four-story uninspiring office building occupied land on a side street between Pico and Olympic Boulevards. Although zoned commercial, the structure’s top two floors contained spacious three bedroom apartments. At street level, a steel door barricaded access to a parking garage, and a small elevator lobby served as the only pedestrian entry point. The building had no address or signage posted.
Meyers, Ingram & Barnes, a small, nondescript import and export corporation, held title to the property. The company posted enough profits to cover expenses and paid all required taxes on time with few deductions; the kind of company the Internal Revenue Service ignored. If someone did probe the company’s corporate records, they would find one name on the stock ledger: Stephan Erickson Trading International, a foreign company incorporated in the Caribbean nation of Antigua. Due to privacy laws, any further investigation would hit a dead end in Antigua unless requested through the United States Attorney General’s Office. Although an Assistant US Attorney might still have trouble investigating the corporate records because Antiguan law required substantial proof of illicit activity before releasing any information about the country’s incorporated businesses.
If someone did obtain corporate documentation for Stephan Erickson Trading International, they would not have a list of stockholders, but one name, an agent for the corporation who managed the stock ledger. No registered documentation of the stockholders existed, another perk that made offshore corporations attractive to those seeking privacy.
The listed agent for Stephan Erickson Trading International: Eric Tell. Eric Tell existed only as a name on paper, with an address that looped any investigation back to where it started: Meyers, Ingram & Barnes at the side-street office building between Pico and Olympic Boulevards in West Los Angeles. At worst, a probing federal agency could seize the office building, a local bank account and offshore assets that rarely totaled more than $50,000 in ready cash. Other office buildings with similar ownership facades were located in key locals across the United States.
• • •
Owens drove Kayla in a rented Town Car to the unassuming building that his LA agents called home. Before pulling into the gated garage, he retrieved a black silk hood he had stowed in the glove box and dropped it in Kayla’s lap, “Put this on. I don’t want anyone seeing your face.”
Months back, Kayla might have found it odd that he often dressed her in hoods and blindfolds, perhaps even sadistic. However, the long hours she spent with Owens, learning his unique style and procedures, made her admire his commitment and dedication. Any thoughts of oddness in his actions were replaced with enticement about what he would expose her to next.
After parking in the garage, Owens escorted the hooded Kayla to a passenger elevator. Inside, he placed his palm on a metal pad protruding from the control panel. After verifying his identity, the elevator began its lift. Nearing the second floor, Owens took hold of Kayla’s shoulder and eased her into the corner so she could not be seen when the doors opened. As he expected, Bogota was waiting near the elevator. Of all the Aquarius agents, Bogota was second to Owens in tenure. He also qualified as the smallest in the bunch, a rawboned 5’ 9”, but was viciously fast, and a conniving opponent who targeted the testicles, larynx and eyes when he fought.
“Wait in the conference room,” Owens told him.
Through notches in her hood, Kayla watched Owens as he led her down the hall to a guest room, methodically advancing her to the next stage in her new career—her new life.
• • •
Like the esoteric ownership structure of their office buildings, every aspect of the Aquarius agents’ actions had a cover. On the off chance they failed to remain secret, no trails linked their operation to the military, the Central Intelligence Agency, or more importantly, the individuals they served.
Congress approved formation of the Central Intelligence Agency in 1947 to conduct foreign intelligence and keep America’s leaders abreast of national security issues. Critics long feared the power and anonymity held by the CIA could be used to conduct unethical practices or investigations against Americans. As a preventive measure the intelligence community was divided into branches, distributing the power. The FBI, not the CIA, had jurisdiction over domestic intelligence matters. Since its inception, however, the CIA’s parameters slowly and quietly broadened, legally allowing the agency to participate in covert activities, foreign and domestic. The agency soon realized the power and control in secrecy. Those in charge also realized the desire by forces, foreign and domestic, to tap the power and embezzle information. Secrecy became a game of hide-and-seek, a battle between government factions. Segmentation and manipulation were key elements in controlling the game.
Compartmentalization evolved to protect information from ever-changing ideologies brought on by new presidents and their cabinet members, including the CIA Director, a presidential appointee. Offshoot, covert departments started that were sanctioned and funded through the CIA, but not under direct control, breaking the link with the agency’s Director, the National Security Council and the President.
Decision makers controlling the covert operations acted by committee—no dictators. The first of these secrecy think tanks evolved in the late forties. At the time they worked under the auspices of President Truman, using the codename Majestic 12. Fearing ideological conflicts, future presidents were briefed about the intelligence factions on a need-to-know basis. Majestic 12 included private citizens and individuals from the intelligence and military communities, but not always directors and joint chiefs. Often, assistant directors, generals and admirals were appointed to the control group: dedicated career individuals, unsung heroes not in the public spotlight, with vast resources, finances and contacts at their fingertips. Their purpose? Classified to the utmost degree.
The sensitive operations controlled by Majestic 12 required a unique police force to protect their operations from potential adversaries within the government and abroad. The police force required a trusted leader, a patriot who would devote every waking hour to protecting America’s most coveted secrets.
• • •
Damien Owens sat at the head of a conference table overseeing his Aquarius age
nts. Laptops, notepads and sharply dressed agents had invaded the shimmering black table.
Owens started the meeting as he always did: cigars for everyone. Within minutes a cloud of tobacco byproducts hovered over the table. None in the group smoked cigarettes. Each stayed in top shape, but treated their meetings like a good basement game of poker; the smokier the room, the better the time.
Owens always orated sermons while his men puffed their cigars, but first he had Kayla to contend with. “As you all are aware, I’ve been training a new agent for some time now. Today you shall be introduced.” He dialed Kayla’s room. “It’s time.”
They stood with anticipation, ready to welcome their newest family member. Following a longstanding tradition used to welcome each agent into the lair, they began clapping in unison for their new brethren: CLAP—CLAP—CLAP—CLAP—CLAP. When the conference room door kicked inward, the drumbeat from their palms faltered—CLAP—Clap—Clap—clap—until stunned silence strangled the room. Kayla stood straight-faced in the doorway, stoic, robust, dressed to perfection in black, captivating the mythical agents as she did lusting commoners in public.
“Gentlemen,” Owens said, “we never show our emotions.” He nodded to Kayla, who slowly, but confidently entered. “I would like to introduce you to Ms. Kayla Kiehl, our newest weapon.”
Walking across the room, she stared into the captive eyes of the various agents, giving each a discriminating look as if they had to meet her standards and expectations.
Kayla sat first, then Owens, followed by the others. “Here’s Kayla’s bio,” he said, passing copies. Noticing a prolonged and unacceptable stare from Rico, the DC team leader, Owens asked him, “Is there something unique about her breasts?”
“No, sir.”
“Then you need not stare at them.” Studying the group, he said, “You men have so many muscles in your bodies, strengthened further by strong minds, yet a woman half your size has compromised some of you in seconds. Learn from this and appreciate the benefit of having a woman in our arsenal.”
The introductions lasted an hour. Although they came from different backgrounds, the agents’ stories were similar. Every person in the room had a psychological continuity that bound them together, made them think and act alike, anticipate the others’ needs. And they all had uncommon names, or nicknames: Apollo, Bogota, Ezekiel, Hun, Luther, Rico. One agent even preferred to be called Bastard, proud of his broken home origins. They all fit that profile though, even Kayla. None had immediate or extended family they cared to see.
“Give them time,” Owens told Kayla, “they’ll welcome you into the family with a degrading nickname of your own.”
The teams would be together for several days. Besides meetings, they would practice weaponry and field operations, giving Kayla an opportunity to bond with the group. Now it was time to address more pressing matters.
Owens’ sermon for this meeting was designed to further orient Kayla to their ideologies: “To think that America is the ultimate bastion of righteousness and superiority, is egotistical stupidity. For eons, civilizations have believed they were at the pinnacle of world dominance, and their society would rule forever: the Sumerians, Babylonians and Egyptians reigned for millenniums; the Israelites, Persians and Romans dominated for centuries; and the sun never set on the British empire—until the United States declared its independence. Yet our country is still in its infancy compared to the time these other civilizations reigned. Our moral fiber, however, has changed faster and been spread thinner than any of our predecessors. Someday our political infrastructure will be challenged, and either break or be redefined, like all the civilizations before us. We’re no different, and no better than our worldly ancestors. But I will do everything within my power to see that it doesn’t happen on my watch. Because I do love this country. And I go to sleep at night with the satisfaction that we help to keep it a safer place.
“We’re the brutes who look at the grand scheme and do the dirty work that benefits the greater good of the country. As a result, some people will fall in our wake. That’s why in the past I have stressed the importance of not concerning yourself with an individual’s plight. A few casualties are unavoidable and acceptable, and necessary.”
“Oorah!” Bogota added.
Like amen praises from a congregation, others echoed his sentiment, “Oorah! Oorah!”
Kayla tried to imagine the depths of the cabal’s actions. She knew better than to ask, especially in front of the others, figuring questions about Owens’ integrity might generate questions about her own.
Owens recapitulated his sermon with, “You have to look at it like this: If they are threatening our democracy, then they don’t deserve to be protected by it.” Segueing to a related topic, he turned to Bogota. “What’s the word on this Professor Eldred individual and the anti-gravity documents?”
“No word. I went through the DARPA database. The university isn’t posting any research on anti-gravity. It seems he’s on his own.”
The Defense Advanced Research Project Agency (a division of the Department of Defense) administered a database that tracked proposed and ongoing research projects. Universities and private researchers often shared project overviews with DARPA because it could lead to grant money. The database served a twofold purpose for the government, as it was always intended, by allowing the military to find practical new applications, and monitor America’s researchers.
“Did you finish a profile on this guy?”
“That’s where it gets interesting.” Bogota passed Owens a bio he had prepared on the professor. “He’s worked with anti-gravity before. Los Alamos in the fifties. He worked with an original team, before anyone knew the potential. When they took it underground, he was denied clearance. ”
Bogota’s partner, Hun, was a steroid-enhanced agent and the freshman before Kayla. Making eye contact, Owens said, “Hun, tell me why they denied the professor clearance when anti-gravity was made top secret.”
“That’s about the time they began using USAPs. They must have realized anti-gravity’s potential, compartmentalized the information in an Unacknowledged Special Access Project, then brought in a new team that didn’t understand the larger picture.”
“Exactly,” Owens agreed, nodding for Kayla to make note.
“He never worked for the government again,” Bogota continued. “He started teaching, consulting, made good money and retired a few years ago. Then his wife died and next thing you know, he’s working on anti-gravity.”
“What’s he got to lose at this point?” Rico said.
“Nothing,” Owens replied. “I obtained copies of the docs the National Archives sent him. A serious mistake was made there. Bogota, I want you to get them back. Several could be a PR nightmare in the wrong hands. Especially if the UFO folks get their hands on them. Break in and take them—let’s send the old man a message.”
Owens’ most pressing issue had yet to be discussed so he proceeded according to his agenda. “Ben Skyles, a USAP worker at The Dark Side of the Moon, has a deteriorating mental condition that forced us to remove him from his program. At this point we don’t know the cause. I’m going to station several of you in Nevada to assist me on this. Hun, have you discovered anything new regarding Desmond Wyatt and his involvement with the Chinese agent who confronted Skyles.”
“He’s a ufologist—extreme,” Hun answered. “What surprised me is that he was a career Air Force man, worked at the Pentagon. If he knows anything specific, he’s not talking about it on his web page.”
“He does know specifics because he told the Chinese agent how to sneak on the base,” Owens said.
“Maybe we could cross check the base personnel files with Desmond’s Air Force service record and see who he might have been stationed with,” Bogota suggested.
“I’ve considered that,” Owens said. “The list could be quite long and require more hours to follow up on than I’m willing to commit at this point—wasted hours if he’s using an intermedia
ry. We’ve got a lot to contend with currently. I think maybe we’ll scare Desmond Wyatt into laying low for a while to buy us some time.”
Owens continued by outlining his plans for each of the three pressing situations—the professor, Desmond Wyatt and Ben Skyles—before listening to each team give their status reports. They worked into the evening, ordering in food and teaching Kayla how to puff cigars.
CHAPTER 24
Desmond Wyatt’s Extraterrestrial Studies Network held its meetings at a rundown motel. The lobby adjoined a circa 1950’s coffee shop which had a meeting room in back with rickety chairs and a wall-mounted air conditioner that generated more noise than cool air.
Upon entering the stuffy room, Blake and Trevor approached a cluster of people mingling in front. “Excuse me,” Blake said, “I’m looking for Desmond Wyatt.”
“That would be me,” a groggy Desmond replied.
“I’m Blake Hunter.”
“Glad you could make it. Go ahead and grab a seat,” Desmond said, sounding far less enthusiastic than when they last talked.
Blake thought it odd that Desmond wasn’t friendlier. As Blake directed Trevor toward a pair of open seats he noticed a mid-forty’s man greeting half the audience by their first names. The man’s shirt said Aliens Are Coming and depicted two extraterrestrials coupling like dogs. On his head he wore a pyramid-shaped hat molded from metal. A few other quirky individuals seated about the room made Blake wonder if this meeting was going to be a waste of time.
