"I'd like to steer toward it."
Kirk swiveled his head to face me. His expression was curious dashed with disapproval.
"Not sure that's a good idea, dude," he said.
"Maybe not. But that's where I want to go."
"You're looking for whatever crashed."
"Yeah. Have you heard anything more about that?"
"Not really. The morning news just laughed it off."
"But you don't seem to be laughing."
"That's because I've been in the air, man. There's a lot of shit going on out there." He pointed through the windshield. "Look, you can see them from here."
I squinted. Sure enough, I could make out a cluster of silvery and dark shapes in the sky some distance ahead. I wished I could reach my new million dollar binoculars now in the cargo compartment, but it was nice of them to put out a beacon for us.
"Looks like more than a meteorite crash," I said.
"I don't know about that, but I don't want to get too close to that many aircraft." He was staring at me again. "You're thinking it's a UFO?"
"Maybe."
"Are you some kind of reporter?"
"Some kind."
Kirk shook his head. "Well, no offense, man, but I'm not getting paid enough to fly near that."
"How about a tip? People tip you, don't they?"
"Sure. Usually."
"And what kind of tip would psych you up to fly over there?"
He shook his head. "I dunno, dude."
I sighed. "Would five hundred do it?"
Kirk hesitated. He eyed an approaching mountain peak with a hint of a smile. I wondered if he was thinking of asking for more.
"You make a good argument," he said. "I'll get as close as I can, but if it gets hairy, I'm pulling the plug."
"Understood."
I wasn't sure how close that would be, but his offer was as good as it would get. If a covert operation was going on out there, it made sense that they'd have established air perimeters that we wouldn't be allowed to breach.
"What's up ahead?" I asked.
"We're coming up on Mt. Baldy. It looks like most of the activity is a few miles beyond that." He frowned. "Damn - that has to be some kind of military operation."
Had to be, and yet I found myself resisting that obvious truth. Could this really be the real deal? Somehow, despite my rational self – and my belief that UFOs probably existed – I found that hard to accept. It was one thing to be theoretically aware of something, but seeing it up close and personal was something else altogether.
Then I spotted a roadblock below featuring lots of military vehicles a few miles down on a road that terminated in Mount Baldy.
"Did you see the green trucks on the road?" Kirk asked.
"Yup." I didn’t dare say more for fear of panicking the already apprehensive pilot.
Skirting the mountain, we spotted a swath of fallen trees leading over a ridge where a diffuse cloud of smoke cast a grey pallor over the mountain and the aircraft around it. I made out what appeared to be a tilt-rotor Osprey rising through the mist.
"Fuck," the pilot muttered. "Something sure looks like it came down. That's a transport helicopter, isn't it?"
"V-22 Osprey. Sort of half-plane, half-helicopter – but all-business."
"Great."
Something else was emerging from the mist and headed straight toward us: a pair of dark, insectile shapes. Blackhawks!
We both jerked as the radio squawked.
"This is the Colorado Air National Guard," a hard male voice announced. "A rescue operation is underway in this area. You are ordered to change your current flight plan to stay a minimum of ten miles from these coordinates." We watched the figures scrawl across his directional monitor. "Please acknowledge."
"I acknowledge." Kirk choked out the words. "I'm turning away now."
"Thank you for your cooperation."
The helicopter angled off to the west.
"What now?" Kirk asked. "If we go back, I'm willing to refund some of your money."
I watched the Blackhawks. They had turned to parallel our flight. I assumed they'd soon disengage, but I wanted to encourage that.
"Okay," I said. "Go ahead and turn back. But slow way down and start descending. Let's see if they back off. The moment they do, I want you to set down."
"You sure about that, man? I don't know what they're doing, but those people mean business."
Maybe I wasn't sure what I was doing. But I knew, regardless of common sense, what I was going to do. I twisted around in my seat. The Blackhawks appeared to be reversing course.
"They're retreating?"
"Ah, yeah." He sounded reluctant to admit it.
"Set it down as soon as you can. Don't worry, the tip still applies."
"Oookay." He nodded to a clearing on our left. "That should work."
Kirk steered toward it and dropped just short of stomach-butterflies speed into a small meadow.
"Let's make this quick," he said. "In case they spot us and decide to come back."
We jumped out, hunching down under the rotor blast. Kirk unlocked the storage compartment. I dragged out my backpack. Huddling against the helicopter, I slid my wallet from a top pocket and very carefully peeled off five one hundred dollar bills. I thrust them in a wad into Kirk's right hand.
"Thanks, dude," he said. "You know it's probably at least fifteen miles on foot to that smoke. And no trails. Plus you'll need to hike out."
"And here I was worried this could be tough."
Dirk chuckled. "You're kinda hardcore, aren't you? Well, good luck."
We shook hands and he hustled back into his chopper while I strapped on my backpack and headed south in a brisk but cautious jog. I'd run with packs heavier than this, but it had been a while. After a hundred yards, my burning thighs painfully underscored that point. I forced myself to continue the pace. It was more than possible that if the Blackhawk pilots spotted us go down they'd race back. If so, it was also quite possible that they could spot me with their thermal imaging system. I needed to put some distance between us just in case.
As Kirk took off with an eager burst of speed and chattered off to the north, I pushed on in a ragged mix of walking, jogging, and stumbling. For some reason, a crow decided to follow me. Or was it a DHS drone?
I came upon a mucky pond. Which reminded me that even a hardcore dude like me needed to stay hydrated. I recalled the kit included a LifeStraw and some iodine tablets, plus maybe a pump filter and a collapsible water jug. She'd rattled off the list of amenities too fast to keep track. I was sure she'd said it had six 10-ounce water bottles to get me started. It was probably time to break one of those out.
I found them conveniently placed in a side-pocket. Someone had clearly put some serious thought into packing the thing. A splash from the pond almost made me drop the bottle. I looked up to see a bull elk eyeing me from the far side of the pond. I breathed out in relief. I had no idea if they had grizzly bears here or not. Probably black bears and mountain lions. Least of my worries. The real threat was the resident two-legged species.
Eventually, I found a groove and my body stopped whining. Too soon, the sun drooped between the mountain peaks ahead. I found a little niche in the side of a hill facing my destination amidst a thin stand of Douglas fir. In the fading light, I pawed through my backpack, pulling out the tube tent and sleeping bag. I tied the tent between two trees and unrolled the sleeping bag inside. I'd expected a cheap sleeping bag and a triangular piece of light plastic tarp for the tent, but the sleeping bag was L.L. Bean with an expensive-sounding name, and the tent was a solid-feeling nylon that while lacking poles boasted a number of ties along the sides for improved stability.
I continued being impressed as I probed the backpack. Everything ranged from reasonable quality to exceptional. The Ka-Bar Becker was a primo survival knife. The Adventurer Swiss Army knife was serious as well. I'd used the Lensatic compass in the Marines, so that was a pleasant surprise. A Wetterling axe
raised my eyebrows, but my brow reached stratospheric heights as I uncovered the Diablo slingbow and four carbon arrows – two with broadheads, two with target heads. I'd watched a few slingbow videos, and drawing back the sling now I had no doubt you could kill not only small game but a deer or even a human with a well-placed shot.
It was disappointing that I couldn't just hang out and play with my man-toys instead of racing across the valley toward what might be a "smoking gun" ("smoking ship?").
Keep your eye on the ball, Hayden, I commanded myself.
MY MAD charge toward the northern ridge began before dawn, in the murky grey of twilight. At first, I seemed to be the only thing awake in the forest, but the chirpings and stirrings increased as the morning wore on. My heart froze in mid-thump as a buck deer leaped across my path, traveling a solid thirty miles per hour. Struck by an animal of that size at that speed could cause a world of hurt. And so my mind wandered, speculating about what lay ahead as well as a dozen irrelevant thoughts. I didn't need to consult my compass since the swath of toppled trees stretched like a green carpet to my objective.
I encountered a creek, and took the opportunity to refill three of my bottles with filtered water while munching on my second power bar of the day. I didn't want to waste time cooking until I reached a place where I could observe whatever was happening beyond the ridge. I hoped to reach that mythical spot sometime before sunset.
The ground sloped upward, close to the highest grade of a treadmill. My lungs started to burn, soon joined by my thighs, lower back, and shoulders. It gradually came to me that my belief in my boundless physical capabilities might be questionable.
As my morning burst of energy flagged, the temperatures rose to the mid-seventies, which in my current state felt like a heat wave. The powerbars had lost their oomph. The water didn't seem to reach where it needed to go. A faint indigestion made me worry that unfriendly microorganisms had snuck through my LifeStraw. Oh, well. I was used to battling and defeating self-doubt when under pressure. As Vince Lombardi once said, "When the going gets tough, the tough get going." Or maybe that was Deepak Chopra?
By mid-afternoon, the increasing noise of airplanes and helicopters told me I was making progress. I also heard the squeal and grinding of heavy machinery. Six hours averaging maybe three miles per hour was taking its toll not only on me but on the journey. I stopped by a creek and refilled more water bottles and opened a vacuum-sealed packet of mixed nuts. As I nibbled and drank, my second wind kicked in. Good timing. I couldn't be more than a few more miles from a reasonable vantage point. Assuming I wasn't stopped by patrolling soldiers or helicopters. But I wouldn't need to get too close to see what was up with my humongous new binoculars.
I pressed on in a steady walk. I was feeling good, but of course the climb got steeper and the ground rougher, to the point where even Vince Lombardi or Deepak Chopra might fear to tread. Progress slowed, or my sense of it did, as was so often the case in my travels where the last few miles dragged by in slow-motion.
I angled away from the fallen trees into deeper cover as I approached the ridge, heading for higher ground toward a crest I thought might overlook my quarry. I just had to hug the tree line and stay out of sight. I'd be close enough that they could see me, just as I could see them, but I'd have the advantage of spying on one thing while they had to keep an eye on the whole fucking mountain range. Security would be a bitch up here.
I raised my own security game as I crossed over the ridge maybe a mile east of the center of activity. They could have patrols this far out, but if so, the odds of avoiding them were ever in my favor. I set my eyes and ears to high alert and my walk to medium stealth.
There was a brief respite from the climb as the ground sloped downward, but then the slope resumed with a fury. It was probably a fifteen percent grade, but felt like fifty to my weary legs. Funny how this hike saved the hardest challenge for when I was at my weakest. On the plus side, I doubted I had more than two or three more miles to reach my objective.
Just over an hour, and I had reached one side of the crest. The good news was that I'd gained my third or fourth wind (I was losing track) and was feeling pretty good. The bad news was I finally had a clear view of the undertakings a couple of miles below, and I couldn't see a fucking thing but the top of what looked like some giant, open-sided circus tent.
I sat under the cover of brush and trees and scanned the site with my bodacious binoculars. All I could make out were some big tractors, shipping containers, and some tents. They could've been rolling out high wire acts and circus freaks for all I could see. Whatever was hidden was big and important enough to warrant at least an Air Force squadron plus maybe a battalion of Army engineers. Not to mention a company of soldiers standing guard around the perimeter.
It was hard to guess their branch affiliation. The uniforms were an unusual shade of the standard green. They could've been Army, Marines, Air Force, or some form of elite forces. I was certain they weren’t the Colorado Air National Guard. I suspected they hailed from Halloman AFB or Wright-Patterson, not Colorado. Could I really be witnessing a "Blue Fly" operation – the legendary recovery program affiliated with the National Air and Space Intelligence Center?
Whoever they were, the constant landing and takeoffs of Chinook helicopters and Ospreys indicated they were transporting whatever was under the canopy in bits and pieces. I dug out my camera – Professor Killian's pride and joy – snapped on the telephoto, and took a lot of photos and video, capturing takeoffs and landings and everything else in view. Fascinating stuff. But a few suggestive videos and glossy photos wouldn't prove squat. The sad truth was that if I wanted to complete my mission I would need to bust my butt down there and peek under the canopy. And doing that would be a true, perhaps fatal, pain in the ass.
Even more sadly, with a couple of hours of daylight left, now would be a prime time to make that excursion. Crap. I forced down another energy bar, taking note of the ingredients, which included fish oil for Christ's sake. According to the wrapper, studies indicated a twenty to thirty percent improvement in longevity associated with many of the ingredients. Adding up the percentages, it looked like I might live an extra hundred years. I might need that reserve shortly.
Markus's camera in hand, I circled down to within a quarter-mile of the tent. Squatting in a thicket with a semi-clear view through a corridor of trees, I couldn't see much except stacks of boxes, shipping containers and various large tractors and hoisting machines through the twenty-foot high openings in the stadium-sized tent. A big square area in front of the canopy had been cleared away for the helicopters and Ospreys. Judging from the amount of air traffic, I guessed they'd created another landing/takeoff area on the far side.
I spotted the two patrolling soldiers in the nearby woods - luckily before they spotted me. I burrowed down into the brush as they strolled by, maybe twenty yards away. Though I was sure they couldn't see me, I wasn't so sure they wouldn't hear my thumping heart. I was out of practice for this shit.
When the soldiers moved out of sight, I got moving. I guessed they were patrolling the length of forest on this side – not more than a couple of hundred yards – so they'd probably be back soon enough. I retreated into the woods a bit and headed around the southern slope which ran along the length of the big tent. I stayed low and moved slowly as I entered the guards' line of sight. Fortunately, the shadows were lengthening and I found plenty of dark areas and ground cover to hide from prying eyes.
I reached the other end of the tent in about forty minutes, staying back more than a quarter-mile from the tent perimeter. I found a nice hideaway, and set up shop.
This time a big-ass Chinook blocked my view. I sighed, snapping off some shots and video anyway. Couldn't a James Bond wannabe catch a break?
The sun was down by the time I made it back to my campsite. I erected my tent in the muted glow of twilight; below, large halogen lamps cast the tent area in near-daylight brightness. The machines inside continued rumbling, and
aircraft continued to arrive and depart. This was obviously a 24/7 operation.
I cranked up the MSR WhisperLite mini-stove – a quality device like everything else in the pack – and boiled some freeze-dried "beef stroganoff," which wasn't so high-quality, but beat eating another power bar. I sipped bland water and yearned for a juicy steak and a cold beer.
I hadn't come all this way to confirm that "some kind of operation" was going on in the Colorado Rocky Mountains. I didn't want to be part of yet another UFO story that suggested various intriguing hypotheses while proving nothing. I'd watched enough UFO Hunters .
Tomorrow, I was going to have to take it to the next level. Exactly what that entailed...well, I'd have many hours to have nightmares about it.
Chapter 16
I WOKE UP FEELING like a ninety year old man. Or what I imagined one to be. Maybe being ninety wasn't this bad? Apart from sore muscles beginning in my toes and ending somewhere above my eyebrows, I had a splitting headache. Dehydration, I guessed.
I sat up and made myself down my remaining two bottles of water along with two handfuls of mixed nuts. The night's meditations, which included dreams of running naked through the camp below being chased by horny, gun-toting soldiers, reduced to one fundamental insight: I needed to get a uniform so I could blend in long enough to enter the tent and shoot some video. That insight came free of any practical instructions.
I couldn't think of anything better than to hike back down to the forest on the camp's east side and hope something significant either turned up or occurred to me. When I reached my former "blind" I was at first happy to note that one of the tractors that had been blocking the front was gone, but I still couldn't see much inside past the stacks of boxes, shipping containers, tables, and people. I thought I made out the intermittent reflective flashing of welders near the center, but couldn't see what they were working on. It appeared that whatever was in there wasn't nearly as large as I'd guessed from the tent size. Apparently they needed a lot of space to work on this thing.
Operation Indigo Sky Page 27
