The Ganymede Project

by Susan Glinert Stevens

Another law enforcement drama unfolded two thousand miles to the east. Yuri and Jack Dugan walked at a fast clip down the corridors at FBI Headquarters. Yuri’s eyes flashed with wildness. Craziness. Panic.

  “I’ve got to give your boss and my boss a progress briefing this afternoon. What the hell am I gonna tell ‘em?”

  “The truth?”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “No. I really want them to string us up by the testicles. What’s the plan?”

  Yuri pulled Jack through emergency exit stairwell. He held a finger to his lip, listening for a moment, but the area seemed empty. “We stall ‘em,” he said, finally, in an echoing voice.

  “How?” Jack whispered.

  “We can tell them certain things that are somewhat true.”

  Jack rolled his eyes. “Right.”

  “No, no. We succeeded in penetrating the Russian system. I can talk about all the technical details of how we did that. I can also say that we learned about Russian interest in a particular classified program.”

  “Which one is that?”

  Yuri bit his lip. “We’ll get to that.”

  “I’m just playing Devil’s advocate. They’ll ask.”

  “I know.” Yuri paused for a moment, carefully choosing his words. “How does this sound? Because of our technical limitations, we were unable to determine who the Russians were listening to. Therefore, our project needs some time to establish the pattern of Russian surveillance activities, and to find the targeted U.S. program. We also need more money to redesign our equipment, so we can tunnel into the Russian system and get call identification data. That could help us out on future penetrations.”

  Jack whistled. “If you’re going to tell a lie, tell a big one. That’s what I always say.”

  Yuri gripped Dugan’s shoulder. “We know she’s after classified project data, Jack. And I’m going to nail her! You with me on this?”

  “Yeah. I don’t have much of a choice.”

  “Good. First thing I need is more information. I’m going to make sure Fontanova doesn’t shit without me knowing about it.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “We have a classified U.S. project that’s hemorrhaging information. You need to plug the leaks. Find the project manager. Tell him he’s got a Bozo with loose lips.” He released Jack’s shoulder. “Try not to let the Bozo know. I’d like to nail him, too.”

  * * *

  Ben Nightwalker hiked back toward his truck—the end of a long day. Keeping the Groom sensor perimeter operational was a full-time job, most of it outdoors. He had taken this footpath many times before and relished the views of desert life.

  He stopped to watch a biological curiosity—one he had quietly observed for several months. It was a small colony of prairie dogs. They weren’t typically found in the wild in the State of Nevada. Their home was North American grasslands from Canada to Mexico. Farmers considered them pests. Mass extermination now threatened survival of the species in their native habitat. At the same time, human commerce brought a few prairie dogs to the State of Nevada as pets. Perhaps that was how they got here.

  Ben discovered the small colony struggling in a microclimate with marginal grassland on the edge of Groom. It was a breeding coterie with a male and two females. Here was a species pushing the envelope of existence. It engaged in a life-or-death natural experiment. Perhaps, Ben thought, this was how new species are formed. Evolution is a force which aggressively pushes outward.

  As he made notes and sketches of the area, he spotted two animals. Grizzled bodies darted like thoughts. One would pop up over here, hide for a while, then pop up over there. They would tunnel through to someplace you didn’t expect.

  Likethoughttunnels.

  Then Ben saw the unexpected. It was wrapped in dead dark fur and a swarm of flies. He walked to it and crouched. He removed his hat, wiped his forehead with an arm and replaced the hat. He fixed his eyes on the object. He poked it gingerly with a stick. He rolled it over. The long, naked tail was stiffened by rigor mortis. The creature’s fur showed no signs of a wound. The small, dead animal was untouched by predators.

  Why is this animal here?

  * * *

  Katrina smiled at her brother. “A kopeck for your thoughts.”

  Vladimir shook his head, stopped tapping at the keyboard and looked up. “This Operation Majority must be so black that even the budget is invisible. Untraceable.” He brought up a new display. “I’ve looked at the usual government systems and files. Normally, by cross-checking and correlation I can piece together project funding information. This is different. Can’t find anything.”

  “Maybe their funding doesn’t come from the government’s budget,” Katrina said.

  He looked at her for a long moment, tugging at his earring. “You mean—like drug money? If that’s true, then this exercise is hopeless.”

  “If that’s true, then the Fontanov team has hit pay dirt!”

  * * *

  It was dusk when the TV control van finally departed the road block.

  “Wahoo!” Bailey cried, as he put the van in gear and sped down the road.

  Inside, the news crew conducted their own instant replay.

  Bailey cracked gum. “Well, on the positive side, we can say that Deputy DeSanto was very thorough.”

  “Yup,” Sommer said. “We can certainly say that. His list says they got two video cameras, sound mixing equipment, two tape recorders, three microphones, batteries, cables, a tripod, scanner radios, walkie talkies and video and audio tapes.”

  Jafri acknowledged by striking a tuning fork against a crystal. He tried to hum in tune.

  “They’ll be able to make the next police picnic a real multi-media event!” she continued.

  “The other nice thing we can say,” Jafri remarked, “is that Sheriff Gibson really knows how to treat a lady. He never even touched you.”

  “Too bad I’m not a lady,” Sommer grinned. She lifted her ankle-length skirt, revealing a video tape attached to the inside of her thigh.

  Bailey looked in the rear view mirror, then whistled long and low. “Beautiful!” The van swerved as Bailey adjusted his mirror.

  “Eyes front!” Sommer yelled. “We need to survive the drive into Rachel.” She looked at Jafri and batted her eyes. “Be a dear, Zfar, and help me undo the duct tape.”

  Jafri’s face became tense. “Stop,” he said.

  “Aw, c’mon. Quit being a prophet. It’s stuck on my leg. Could be painful.”

  “No,” Jafri said. “You don’t understand. Stop the vehicle!” He looked out the window toward the distant mountain peak.

  “Do it, Jeff,” Sommer said. She removed the duct tape with a painful yank. “Damn!”

  The truck slowed and moved to the shoulder of the dirt road. Bailey turned off the engine. Zfar Jafri slid the door open and stepped out. Sommer and Bailey followed. Dusk faded quickly into night. A vault of stars spread across the desert sky.

  Jafri pointed with his cane. “Look out there toward White Mountain. See the light?”

  The others murmured in amazement. It appeared to be a massless point of light moving between the mountain and the dry lake bed. It was like a hypervelocity firefly that circumvented the laws of momentum and traditional physics. It changed direction instantly.

  “Shit!” Bailey said. “They took my cameras!”

  Sommer shrugged. “It could be just a flashlight or a searchlight from the base.”

  “There’s just clear air between here and the mountain,” Jafri said. “No clouds. Nothing to reflect against.”

  “What do you suppose they’re testing?” Bailey asked.

  “Hard to say what they’re testing. Hard to say who’s testing it. I’ve seen this before out here, but not like this. It’s got a definite interest in the area where we saw those trucks earlier today.”

  They watched the ‘firefly’ trace a near perfect circle over the site of the Event. It flew around five times, then zig-zagged tow
ard White Mountain.

  It vanished over the ridge like will-’o-the-wisp.

  * * *

  The small bar in Rachel, Nevada, was a crowded haze of smoke and small talk.

  “I’m from Venus,” the lady said. “Do you give discounts?”

  Royce, the bartender, shook his head, pointed to the price list. “You’ll have to pay in Earth money—U.S. Since you come from Venus, I’ll have to ask you to pay in advance. You could de-materialize before you pay the tab. Then I’d be stuck. Ha!” He went back to wiping glasses.

  She looked at the man sitting next to her—Zfar Jafri.

  “Did you know I’m from Venus?”

  His beard wiggled at a thought. “I hear it’s even hotter than Rachel.”

  “You know,” she said, stroking his hand, “your aura is the same as Quixocotyl’s.”

  “Is that the son of Don Quixote and Quetzalcoatl?”

  She smiled, not knowing quite where to take the conversation.

  But Jafri knew.

  He wet his finger, then played a tune on two half-filled beer glasses and a tuning fork. He smiled back at the Lady From Venus. “Music of the beers.”

  Before they could form a Vulcan mind-meld, Ben Nightwalker entered the bar and eased onto the stool next to Jafri.

  “I thought you might be here—if you weren’t in jail,” Ben said loudly, over the bar noise.

  Jafri smiled, but didn’t look up. He had almost achieved resonance—that point where the note of the beer glass matched the note of the tuning fork. You had to drink just the right amount of beer.

  “I saw you today at Groom,” Nightwalker said. “Figured the Sheriff and Military Police caught you.”

  “They did,” Jafri responded, “but we got away using our Jill Sommer cloaking device.”

  “What’ll you have, Ben?” Royce asked.

  “The usual. Coca Cola.” Ben turned to Jafri. “What the hell did you think you were doing out there? So conspicuous, like?”

  “Just watch the TV tonight.”

  “I know how you feel about the base. I feel the same way—and I work there.”

  Jafri’s ears perked up. “What made you go negative on the base?”

  “Something I saw today. Something I picked up.”

  “That’ll be seventy-five cents,” the bartender said.

  Nightwalker looked up, paid, then sipped his drink.

  “Soooo?” Jafri said. “What was it, Ben? What’d you find?”

  “Come to my place now and I’ll show you.”

  “Right. But we gotta watch the news. I’ll be famous.”

  “Famous?” asked the Lady From Venus. “Can I come, too?”

  Jafri touched her nose. “You wouldn’t like it there, hon. Ben’s from a different planet. He only drinks Coca Cola.”

  29. NIGHTLY NEWS

  23 April 1994

  Richard Chandra propped bare feet on the coffee table of his government VIP quarters at Groom and listened to the tail-end of the nightly news. The story was a special feature. It began:

  “Finally, from Rachel, Nevada, the road to Dreamland. There is such a place, though you aren’t supposed to know about it. The Dreamland we’re talking about is actually an Air Force Base in Nevada.”

  Chandra’s eyes riveted to the television.

  “The Russians know about it, so why not you? Jill Sommer has the results of an Action News investigation.”

  The TV cut to Jill Sommer, inside the news van.

  “We are one hundred miles from Las Vegas, driving across the Nevada desert on public land. There’s more here than meets the eye. A few feet off the dirt road, electronic sensors spot intruders.”

  The TV cut to a distant view of large buildings. In the middle ground, the circular grid of the test area was plainly visible. Several trucks surrounded the grid perimeter.

  Jill’s voice continued. “This area has been a Mecca for UFO enthusiasts, who claim the government is secretly testing UFO technology in Area 51 and S-4.”

  The TV zoomed closer, to show distant buildings.

  “The secret installation, which some people callDreamland , is located about 12 miles from where we’re standing. It is clearly visible, but the government won’t acknowledge that it even exists. And to photograph it would violate the Espionage Act. The base does not appear on any map, but for the record, the Pentagon will only say that Groom Lake is part of the vast Nellis Range Complex.”

  The TV cut to a view of distant mountains.

  Jill’s voice continued. “Thousands of UFO enthusiasts trek each year to nearby White Mountain or the public access road along what is now calledFreedom Ridge . They hope to glimpse a UFO. They bring hundreds of thousands of tourist dollars to the nearby town of Rachel.”

  The TV cut to an exterior view near the edge of the base, with Sommer standing next to Jafri.

  “Next to me is Mister Zfar Jafri. He has been a leader in the UFO community, battling to obtain information from the U.S. government on UFOs. He now fights a different kind of a battle—a battle that pits his UFO fringe group against the U.S. Air Force and the Bureau of Land Management. The fight could become a landmark case for the Supreme Court. Tell us about your quest, Mister Jafri.”

  Jafri cleared his throat, then responded. “Very simply, the government doesn’t want people accessing public land in order to view their secret base. They want to annex White Mountain and Freedom Ridge. Call me crazy, but as tax payers, I think it’s our right.”

  “The Air Force says it’s concerned about public safety. Isn’t that a valid reason to restrict access?” she asked.

  “If you talk to them privately, safety is not the reason—it’s the excuse. They’re concerned about the people with lawn chairs and binoculars. It’s driving ‘em crazy.”

  The TV cut close on Sommer.

  “The pending land grab has turned these hilltops into a tourist attraction, drawing even more attention to the base. Last month at a Federal hearing in Las Vegas, officials got an earful.”

  The TV cut to an interior shot of a hearing room.

  An angry citizen announced, “The place is big enough already. How much expansion do they need?”

  * * *

  Two thousand miles away, the reflective, African-American figure of John Anderson, built like the Rock of Gibralter, watched television in a Washington, D.C. apartment. On TV, a second citizen spoke out at the Las Vegas hearing: “There have already been allegations that environmental crimes were committed there. Now they’re asking for 4,000 more acres to hide behind.” Anderson rushed to his VCR and popped in a blank tape. He punched the ‘RECORD’ button.

  * * *

  Across town, in an office at the Russian Embassy, Katrina typed into a computer and watched TV. The news report on Groom continued, as another angry citizen announced: “What’s more, if you buy this model airplane kit, you get—included with the directions—a 1988 photograph of the base taken by a Soviet satellite. The Pentagon says it’s okay to show you this picture.”

  Katrina smiled. She toggled a switch on the intercom. “Nikolai! Come quickly. You’ve got to see this!”

  * * *

  Richard Chandra picked up the phone and dialed a number. The news report continued with a pronouncement from another angry citizen: “The only people this base is being kept secret from is the American people—the people who pay for it!”

  “Shit,” he said, under his breath.

  Chandra’s call went through. “Hello?” someone answered.

  “Hi, Ron, this is Richard.”

  “Hey, buddy, how ya doin’? Just thinkin’ about you. There’s a conference comin’ up at Los Alamos that needs your special magic...”

  Chandra interrupted. “Listen. Don’t talk. Just listen. We’ve got problems. Turn on Channel 13. You’ll see what I mean. We need a special meeting of the Committee, as soon as you can arrange it. I want two items on the agenda—Action News and the Russian Embassy. We need to stop leaks. We need quick, pre-emptive act
ion. Whatever it takes. Get Chisholm involved. Understand? I want to meet with the security enforcement people tomorrow. Bye.”

  Chandra hung up. “It’s falling apart,” he said to himself.

  * * *

  In Nightwalker’s apartment, Ben and Zfar watched TV. The news continued: “And if the Air Force didn’t have enough problems on its hands, last week a sheet metal worker for an EG&G subsidiary contracted hantavirus syndrome at an unspecified Air Force facility within the Nellis Range Complex. Hantavirus was first recognized on Indian reservations and has killed 42 people so far.”

  Ben walked to the kitchen and turned on the hot water.

  “The virus is transmitted by contact with the saliva, urine or droppings of infected rodents,” the TV voice said. “Makes you wonder—could we have a sanitation problem at Dreamland?”

  “Turn it off, will you, Zfar? It gives me the creeps.”

  Jafri hobbled to the set and complied.

  In the kitchen, Ben used dishwasher soap and sawed at his hands with a scrub brush. The washing turned into a lengthy ritual. After a while, he turned off the faucet, dried his hands with a towel and put on rubber gloves.

  Jafri observed the procedure in quiet amazement. “Doctor Nightwalker, I presume? Are we doing brain surgery this evening?”

  Nightwalker looked at his friend, then walked to the refrigerator. He pulled out a clear plastic bag and tossed it. Jafri caught it.

  “Gaaa!” Jafri exclaimed, dropping it on the ground.

  The bag contained a very large, dead rat.

  Jafri walked to the sink and began the same washing ritual that Ben just completed.

  Ben picked up the bag with gloved hands and held it to the light for inspection. “I found it near the Test Area. It’s not native. Do you think it could be some kind of germ warfare thing? Why would they do that when there’s an Indian reservation next to the base and Rachel’s only a few miles away?”