I drove the first hundred miles with my fingers locked in an excited death-grip on the steering wheel and a no doubt silly grin pasted on my lips. But guiding my pickup past Albuquerque and up north to Santa Fe, both my grin and excitement faded in the face of the endless bleak desert terrain. God, I missed the ocean and soothing cool breezes of San Diego. I definitely wasn't a desert person. When the Caldera gig petered out, I would seriously consider returning to my home state.
The miles melted – well, burned – away, and some small improvements in geography and temperature accompanied entering Colorado Springs. It was still desert, but now a high desert – especially now that marijuana had been legalized here. I'd always imagined someone like Markus Killian living in some isolated, back-to-nature beautiful place well away from the maddening crowd, and from what I'd seen on Google Earth, my imaginings were right.
I cruised through Denver at six P.M. in bumper to bumper traffic, and Google shepherded me onto a toll road, which I knew was going to cost me. Plenary Roads and "CDOT" - Colorado Department of Transportation – had already caught my attention as one of those secretive, sweetheart deals between government and private business that seemed so endemic to our country. I just hoped the price for my diversion wouldn't be too steep.
The scenery got better and better as I rolled through Boulder, and at 83 degrees, my air-conditioning wasn't constantly whining. I picked up Sunrise Canyon a short ways out of Boulder, and wound my way up through pine on a tree-studded road that reminded me of the foothills in northern California.
As I approached what my GPS declared was Dr. Killian's driveway, the scenery took a dramatic turn for the better: a tall, lithesome girl running alongside the road ahead in black spandex shorts, blond hair spilling in thick waves over her slim but muscular shoulders. She glanced back at me as I slowed up, a half-scowl on a tanned face that perfectly matched the beauty of her body.
We reached the driveway at almost the same moment. I waited for her to continue past, but instead she turned and jogged down the descending driveway. I had no choice but to follow, slowing to avoid enveloping her in dust, but her scowl suggested she took that to mean I was just "creeping" on her. I rolled down my window and she stopped, hands on her hips and staring coolly at me.
"Hey," I said. "I'm looking for Markus Killian. You wouldn't happen to know if I'm on the right track?"
"He's at the end of the driveway." Her body and face relaxed. "You must be Hayden Hunter."
"Yes. How did you...?" I trailed off dumbly.
"I'm his daughter." She offered a thin smile. "He's expecting you."
She turned and sprinted down the road ahead of me. I waited for her to run out of sight before releasing the brake and rolling after her.
I was expecting something unique from the iconoclastic professor, but the contemporary house that rose out from the trees exceeded my expectations: cubes of glass and stone stacked in multiple layers that made me think of a house M. C. Escher might've built. It was like an exotic, beautiful gem dropped into the middle of a forest – somehow accomplishing the miracle of standing out while seeming to belong.
Marcus's daughter bounded up the steps and disappeared into the house as I pulled up. I had thought she might wait and bring me in to meet her dad, but then she was probably one of those women who believed her hotness relieved her of any need to be polite. Not what I would've expected from the daughter of Markus Killian.
I carried my small bag up a surprisingly steep set of stairs. Markus Killian stepped out before I reached the door. He was shorter and smaller of build than I'd imagined. He always seemed so imposing, bigger than life, in his videos and on his cable series. He was smooth-faced and pink-cheeked in an almost elfin or other-worldly way. His thick blond hair showed only a small sprinkling of grey.
Then he spoke, and his rich baritone made him seem large and imposing all over again.
"Hello, Hayden," he said, offering his hand. "I'm Markus. You made good time."
"I started early."
We shook hands. His gaze was both warm and probing. His eyes were a strange mixture of green, gray, and brown that I couldn't classify.
"Please come in. You can drop your bag in the guest room, and then perhaps you'd care for something to drink?" He led me into the house with a gentle grip on my elbow. "Have you had any supper?"
"I'm good - had a hamburger back in Colorado Springs. I want to thank you for inviting me out here and being willing to help me with my situation."
"It's my pleasure to have you here. As it turns out, I've been a fan of your blogs for some time. And I'm very excited about your possible finding."
Markus led me up a flight of stairs. The house was so open and full of light that I had the sense of walking through a gazebo in a park. The entire downstairs was one expansive room, but upstairs was partitioned into three large rooms and one area that looked like an art exhibition with dozens of paintings plastering the walls.
The guest room looked out on mountains and trees through a large window. Not much furnishings other than a queen-sized bed, an oak dresser, a couple of end tables, and a walk-in closet.
"Your house is incredible," I said.
"Thank you." He smiled. "I spent a lot of years dreaming about it. One of the nice things about retiring is that I had the time to make some of my dreams real."
I dropped my bag by the bed and followed him back downstairs. I accepted his offer of herbal tea. We sat at a long glass and stainless steel table before a massive bay window that faced a large swimming pool and mountains haloed by wispy, pinkish-purple clouds. Markus's daughter was swimming laps in the pool, which was such a perfect reflection of the sunset that she appeared to be swimming across the darkening sky.
"You've met my daughter, Lilith?"
"Yes. Briefly."
"She's here until school resumes in the fall, taking her usual summer break from her studies."
"What is she studying?"
"Neuroscience at UC Denver." He gave me a faint smile. "If it were up to her she'd be a lifetime student. This is her second graduate program."
I nodded. Beautiful and brilliant. Why was I not surprised?
Markus was studying me. "I have a general question for you, Hayden. What is your feeling about the world we live in now?"
I wondered if that was a trick question. I tore my gaze away from his swimming daughter and took a long sip of tea to gather my thoughts.
"Mixed, I guess," I said. "There's a lot of potential for good. So much technology available to almost everyone. At the same time, that technology makes it easier for people who think they should have power over us."
Dr. Killian sipped his tea and nodded, his eyes on the mountains.
"It's confusing," I said. "So many contradictory reports to sift through. Global warming – now called 'climate change' - for example. Military exercises, Wal-Marts mysterious closing, FEMA internment camps, artificial structures on the Moon and Mars, chemtrails. Mass shootings seemingly every other week with witnesses who mostly want to talk about stricter gun control. It seems impossible to get to the bottom of any of it."
"If geoengineering is really happening," said Professor Markus, "wouldn't that indicate the U.S. and other governments take global warming threats seriously?"
"That's one possible interpretation." I had the feeling Professor Killian was ushering me down an intellectual pathway. "The CIA is interested in geoengineering. Maybe what we're seeing is not about saving the planet but about weaponizing the weather?"
"Or some other military use."
"What do you think is going on in the world?" I asked.
He laughed softly. "I don't know, Hayden. After two decades of trying to penetrate the veil, the only thing I'm fairly certain of is that there is a veil."
"Are you talking about off-budget, clandestine programs?"
"In part. But that kind of secrecy is expected. What I find puzzling is the number of apparent layers to the veil. It’s as if government agencies aren't
merely concealing the things we expect them to conceal; sometimes it seems to me that they are pretending to conceal things in order to conceal what they truly don't want us to see."
His words, especially the idea of a multilayered veil, stirred a question in me that had been forming for some time.
"You mean, you think they might be manipulating us into believing they were hiding A when they’re really hiding B."
He smiled. "That's one hypothesis."
"I've wondered that once or twice myself, especially about UFOs. The government officially denies them, yet there are plenty of records that demonstrate our government's concern with them. And they’re so transparent in their stonewalling whenever there’s a credible sighting – like in Chicago or Phoenix or last year in L.A. when they said UFOs witnessed by pilots and police were some strange ‘weather-related phenomenon'."
"'High pressure vortex updrafts', if I recall," the professor chuckled.
"Right." My grin faded. "That even had mainstream news people scratching their heads and saying ‘Wow, if they’re bullshitting about this, maybe they’re lying about other stuff?’"
"Good example. On the other hand, perhaps they're pretending to pretend to conceal something they really do want to conceal."
His smile seemed more serious than amused.
"Sometimes it all seems like smoke and mirrors – double mirrors," I said. "Every investigation into a fringe subject branches off into craziness at some point."
"Perhaps that's by design."
"I could see that in one area, but not with all the conspiracy theories that are out there. Just too many of them."
"Couldn't a team of dedicated COINTELPRO agents sow confusion through the entire web of conspiracy theories?"
"Maybe. But why?"
"To sabotage all roads to the truth?"
I stared at him. "Now that would be one hell of a conspiracy."
He released a throaty chuckle. "True."
"But why bother? Aren't most conspiracy theories nutty enough to collapse on their own weight?"
"If the idea is to discredit all of a certain class of beliefs, fueling a proliferation of absurd theories could furnish an excellent distraction."
I watched the blond goddess complete her hundredth or so lap as Professor Killian's words sank in.
"You're saying there might be a system-wide disinformation operation?"
"I think that’s a very real possibility. It would explain the profusion of so-called ‘debunking’ sites even for the most absurd claims."
"I've often wondered where people get the motivation to create sites dedicated to refuting literally everything non-mainstream. I can understand a few people doing that, but why would so many self-proclaimed skeptics feel that much passion?"
"And why would such hardheaded skeptics never express skepticism toward mainstream or official government claims, as your fine essay a few months ago asked? Surely, as you suggested, they would find at least one official claim questionable?"
I couldn't stop myself from grinning. That article was probably the one I was most proud of. It was immensely gratifying that a man of Dr. Killian’s caliber approved.
"But they can't all be psyops, can they? At least some of these people must be sincere."
The professor smiled. "Can you think of anyone who labels themselves as a ‘debunker’ attempting to debunk, say, the official narrative about 9/11?"
"No."
"It doesn't strike you as odd that someone with a skeptical mind wouldn't have any questions about any official account?"
"It seems incomprehensible to me."
"I've seen polls on a few debunker lists where the members were asked: ‘Should the government version be questioned?’ The overwhelming response was ‘no.’ Note that the question wasn't: ‘Do you believe the government account?’ – just whether it could be rationally questioned."
"I haven't seen those polls. It’s hard to believe that someone who advocates skepticism would think it’s invalid to even question the official account."
"Much like NIST never bothered to test whether explosives were used in the WTC building collapses. Because that’s how science is done: ignore tests that could invalidate your hypotheses and admit only evidence that supports them."
My own so-called rational thoughts scattered as Lilith Killian rose from the pool and toweled off. Her body was so perfect I could've sworn she was a Hollywood CGI effect. I forced my gaze away from the pool to Markus and his dry smile.
"What does your daughter think about all this?" I asked. I noted the shadow crossing his face, and added quickly: "Not that it's any of my business."
"That's okay, Hayden. Lilith believes the government and its owners are lying to - and laughing at – us. She also believes I've wasted my life not pursuing the mysteries of physics instead of, in her words, 'digging through the endless dung heap of conspiracy bullshit.'"
Lilith strode away from the pool, a towel draped over her bronzed shoulders, and entered the house through a doorway removed from view.
"Do you ever regret that?" I asked.
Markus shrugged his slim shoulders. "My best years as a physicist are long past. But I'm still capable of conducting a scientific analysis, and I like the idea of solving one mystery that could be of great benefit to humanity before I go."
"Maybe that canister could be a start."
"Possibly. But even if we find what I believe we'll find, it's just one partly open door in a long hallway of doors and mirrors."
"Then, no offense, but I'm not sure why you invited me to bring it here."
"Well, I shouldn't minimize cracking open even one door. But in all honesty, I have an additional ulterior motive if you will for asking you to come here."
He was giving me a look of frank appraisal that introduced a small note of worry in me.
"We can only do so much sitting behind a computer writing essays," he said. "Ultimately, someone has to go out knocking on doors and digging into things."
"That's kind of hard if you have a job. I have a little more flexibility because I'm - in theory - self-employed, but it costs money to travel and take off time from work."
"Quite true."
"Have you contacted someone to check out the canister yet?"
"It's all arranged. We'll bring your car inside the garage, and he'll pick it up out of sight of prying eyes. He'd prefer not to meet you, if that's okay."
I was surprised by the cloak and dagger. "You think someone's watching you?"
"I wouldn't be surprised. In any case, I prefer to err on the side of caution."
I slumped in my chair, the adrenaline rush of the trip and meeting the professor draining from my body. Maybe it was all the conspiratorial wheel-spinning, or worse, maybe it was the first time I'd started to take it all seriously. I enjoyed the mystery of it all as an intellectual exercise, but to play at private investigator, actually going out in the field and digging around – possibly enough to attract the interest of the NSA or a DHS "Fusion Center" or the CIA – was not my idea of a good time.
"Professor Killian -"
"Markus, please."
" Markus. What you were saying about getting someone out from behind their computer and knocking on doors. Are you making me an actual job offer?"
The former professor smiled. "I'll be candid, Hayden. I've been thinking for some time that we need full-time investigative foot soldiers, and when you called and were willing to drive up here, I did wonder if that might be something you'd be interested in."
"A full-time investigative reporter?" I felt a little stunned. "You know I run a business in Phoenix, right?"
"Yes. I suppose I was hoping you might consider taking a brief sabbatical from your programming business. One for which you would be well-compensated."
"You're serious about this then?"
"Very much so." The professor made a steeple with his long-fingered hands. "Would you consider taking a leave from your programming business to work as an investigativ
e reporter if the money matched or exceeded your current income for a given time period?"
It seemed to be an easy call: I was making decent money and had a fun, risk-free blogging hobby. Why would I trade that for long days of rooting around in dark, dangerous places facing hostile government agents or worse?
"I'm flattered, but unfortunately I don't think that's my thing."
I was surprised by the honest regret in my voice. I guessed part of me did long to be the next Daniel Ellsberg or Woodward and Bernstein. Or Edward Snowden sans the exile and threat of U.S. imprisonment.
"I understand," said Markus. "But let me clarify: this would only be a temporary project, lasting for a few months. For that I would be happy to pay you a full year's salary – plus expenses, of course."
"A few months?" I frowned. "Why such a short time limit?"
"Because at the rate things are moving – according to my sources – whatever we discover might not be relevant after that time. Of course, I could be mistaken, but that's the time-frame I'm looking at."
"You really think things are changing that fast?"
"That's my feeling. It's also my feeling that a few months of intensive investigation would go a long way toward resolving or making serious headway with several critical mysteries."
"I would think there'd be a lot of private investigators or journalists much more skilled than me who'd be happy to take that job."
"We already have a few people working with us in that capacity, but finding someone willing to rigorously pursue this kind of investigation has proven more problematic than we'd expected. It would appear that this kind of investigation requires a rather unique mindset. We've even tried 'hardboiled' detective types, and they seem content to believe what the authorities tell them. Ditto for the reporters we've hired. Sadly, we haven't fared much better with our conspiracy-theorist investigators, who seem powerfully inclined to jump to conclusions and spin horrific tales about whatever they encounter."
He paused to give me an acrid smile. "It seems that good help is indeed hard to find."
Operation Indigo Sky Page 2
