by Richard Todd
“How have you been, son?” he asked, in a manner that seemed fatherly, conveying genuine concern.
Kyle looked at the folded hands in his lap, “I guess I’ve seen better days, sir.”
General Craig nodded, “I know you have.”
The general paused, looking at Kyle.
“You must be wondering why I’m here,” said General Craig.
Kyle laughed, “Yes sir, the thought did cross my mind.”
General Craig said, “Major, I have a question for you. It’s a simple question, but an important one, and I don’t ask it lightly. I want you to think about it before you answer.”
“Yes sir. Of course, sir,” replied Kyle.
General Craig asked, “Major, what if you could change everything? What would you give if you could make everything right again?”
Kyle’s face crunched into confusion and pain. Tears welled in his eyes. He didn’t understand why this Army legend was sitting in his office, at his desk, asking him such a ridiculous question. Was this a psych test? What was going on?
Kyle’s brain was exhausted. He had no capacity to outfox a test. All he had left was the truth. He answered the question truthfully.
“I would give anything,” replied Kyle.
General Craig looked closely at Kyle, pausing before speaking.
“That was the right answer, son,” he said.
Kyle felt a childlike pride akin to that of winning a parent’s approval. Some of the stress dissipated from his face and body.
“Major, I’m here because I’m on a recruiting mission,” said General Craig. “I can’t tell you what I’m recruiting for, only that it has the real potential to fix a lot of things that are broken today. An important part of that touches you personally.”
General Craig continued, “You may not believe this, but you are on a very short list of people I believe has the greatest chance of success. I can’t tell you much of anything about the mission, except that the risk is great and the potential reward is much, much greater.”
Kyle’s head was swirling. Nothing about this scene seemed real—the full general sitting at his desk, the absurd idea that Kyle was qualified to do anything important—it was insane.
“Sir, are you sure you’ve got the right guy?” Kyle asked. “You know some of my marbles have gone missing.”
General Craig laughed, “I told you, you wouldn’t believe me.”
General Craig continued, “I can share some, but not all of the reasons you’re on the list. They include your skillset and experience, of course, your demonstrated heroism and ability to keep a clear head in a crisis, but there’s one more thing.”
“What’s that?” asked Kyle.
“You’ve got nothing to lose,” replied the general, giving Kyle a hard look.
Kyle nodded, “Well, sir, you definitely got that part right.”
Kyle sat silent for a few moments.
“Is there anything else you can tell me, sir?” asked Kyle.
“Only this: if you agree, we leave now, go to an airport, and fly to a facility where you will be fully briefed. You will be reinstated in the Army with the rank of Lieutenant Colonel. I cannot tell you when you will return. You will not need to pack or deal with your employer or your landlord—everything will be taken care of. If you do not agree, I will leave, you will likely never see me again, and you will forget that this meeting ever happened,” explained the general.
“It’s like the blue pill and the red pill,” said Kyle.
“Sorry?” said the general.
“In the movie, The Matrix, Morpheus offers Neo the choice between the blue pill to remain asleep in the Matrix and the red pill to see how deep the rabbit hole goes,” explained Kyle.
“Ah, I see,” said the general with a broad smile. “Son, you have no idea how right you are.”
A few minutes later, the general emerged from Kyle’s office. In the hallway were two uniformed men, an Army colonel and a master sergeant. The sergeant snapped to attention and saluted.
“We’re leaving,” said the general.
“Yes sir,” replied both men, in unison.
The colonel turned and walked away, heading toward the stairs to Global Research’s executive offices, where he was going to provide GRI’s CEO the cover story for Kyle’s absence, as well as the consequences for deviating from the story.
In the alley outside Global Research, sat a black Chevy Suburban SUV. The engine was running. The windows were dark. When the steel door swung open, the uniformed driver leapt from the car to open the rear passenger door. A uniformed guard stepped out of the passenger side, carrying an MP7 submachine gun. He scanned the alley for trouble.
Minutes later, the SUV pulled up at the Downtown Manhattan Heliport, located at Pier 6 on the East River near Battery Park at the southern tip of Manhattan. The Heliport pier jutted out into the East River in an “L” shape. Several white circles with crosshairs were painted on the dark tarmac—landing targets for the helicopters that normally ferried Wall Street executives to and from meetings. Light rain began to fall from the gray sky and chop from the East River lapped against the pier. At the farthest end of the pier sat a Black Hawk helicopter, engine running, with two armed soldiers in full combat gear, standing guard with M4 assault rifles. Two additional guards stood at the pier entrance, blocking business commuters’ passage onto the heliport. The SUV drove onto the pier. The guards saluted as it passed. Before they exited the SUV, General Craig handed Kyle a black wool ski mask.
“Put this on,” the general said. “We don’t want any pictures or video of you.”
Several Wall Street businessmen, whose flights had been delayed because of the general, watched in confusion and awe as the general and a black-hooded mystery man exited the SUV and walked to the Black Hawk. The hulking Black Hawk was an intimidating contrast to the executives’ comparatively lightweight business helicopters. One young exec, in navy pinstripes and French cuffs made the mistake of walking up to one of the guards to complain about his delayed commute.
“Step back sir,” the guard told the exec, firmly.
“Look, I’m going to be late for a very important meeting. Who do I talk to about this?” mouthed the exec.
The guard, a master sergeant, glared at the exec, took an assertive step toward him and jutted his face forward, noses almost touching.
“I said step back RIGHT NOW!” he shouted point blank in the exec’s face.
The exec was stunned, his mouth agape. He couldn’t speak.
“I’m very sorry,” whimpered the exec as he backed away from the guard with his tail between his legs.
Moments later, Kyle and the general were ascending in the Black Hawk with the guards. The crew compartment interior was bare bones standard-issue military gray, with two facing rows of folding seats.
“You can take that off now,” said General Craig.
Kyle pulled off the ski mask. Through the Black Hawk’s large side windows, streaked with rain, Kyle watched the great city beneath him. He could see the construction zone where the Twin Towers once stood. From the chaos of concrete and vehicles and workers below would eventually emerge a new skyscraper, “Freedom Tower,” which would eventually clear 1,776 feet, becoming only the world’s fourth tallest building.
In the footprints of the Twin Towers, the 9/11 Memorial would be built—two enormous square fountains that would pour water from their perimeters into dark shadows below.
Nearly seven years after 9/11, after mourning, infighting, and lawsuits, construction was finally underway on Freedom Tower and the memorial, though the building had yet to clear street level. In the United Arab Emirates, the world’s tallest building, the Burj Khalifa, would be completed in less time than it took New York City to break ground on Freedom Tower. Taking only five years to build, the Burj Khalifa would dwarf Freedom Tower at 2,722 feet.
Within the hour, the Black Hawk slowed as it approached McGuire Air Force Base in New Jersey. Among the assorted military air
craft on the tarmac, one stood out—a white unmarked Boeing 727 with no passenger windows.
“That’s our ride,” said General Craig through his headphone mike.
The Black Hawk touched down within 100 feet of the white plane. The door of the helicopter was pulled open by ground crew and General Craig and Kyle strode to the 727. The engines were already warm. Within minutes, the plane was lifting off.
The windowless 727 was originally designed to be a cargo plane for companies like FedEx, though this one had been configured for passengers that did not need to know where they were going. The interior was spartan, though there was standard commercial airline-style seating, as well as small conference tables.
“I take it that I’m not supposed to know where I’m going,” said Kyle.
“I’ll tell you where you’re going…after you get there,” replied General Craig, smiling. “Flight time is about four and a half hours. Get some rest or something to eat. We have sandwiches.”
Several hours later, the pilots of the white plane spotted a craggy brown mountain with a white spot at its base. As they approached, the spot grew and mellowed into a cream color. It was a desert lakebed.
The 727 approached to land. Kyle could feel the plane’s descent and hear the landing gear drop as they prepared for landing. He felt the bump as the aircraft touched down. The aircraft taxied for a few minutes, then came to a halt. The engines shut down and a crewman opened the main hatch. General Craig rose from his seat and motioned for Kyle to follow.
“C’mon,” General Craig said. “It’s time to see the rabbit hole.”
The two men walked out of the 727 hatch and stood atop the air stairs gazing at the desert lakebed and the hive of buildings before them. Kyle was blinded by the brilliant sun reflecting off the desert lakebed.
“Welcome to Area 51, said General Craig with a broad smile.
Area 51, NV
July 23, 2008
13:15 hours
“So you’re going to show me the little green men?” asked Kyle, sarcastically.
“They’re not green,” replied General Craig, grinning like a schoolboy.
Kyle whipped his head to look at the general, his eyes wide. He couldn’t tell if the general was joking or not. The general continued to stare ahead.
“And the spaceship?” Kyle fished.
“It’s not a spaceship,” replied the general.
Kyle waited for the general to let him in on the joke.
“Holy Shit!” said Kyle, “You’re serious!”
The general laughed. They walked down the air stairs and climbed into a desert camouflaged Humvee parked on the tarmac. The Humvee sped north across the lakebed, away from the Area 51 complex. As they approached the northern edge of the lakebed, a building began to emerge through the mirage distortion off the desert. It was a solitary hanger.
“Is that where you keep it?” Kyle asked, eager as a kid on Christmas morning.
“Settle down soldier, all your questions will be answered soon,” replied the general.
As the Humvee approached, the hanger doors opened. Kyle was disappointed to see that it was empty. No spaceship. The Humvee entered the hanger and the doors closed behind. The hanger was big—big enough to house the 727 they had just left on the tarmac. Kyle noticed a large yellow circle painted on the hanger floor—approximately 40 feet in diameter. The driver drove the Humvee to the center of the circle. He turned and handed a radio to General Craig.
“Code in,” said General Craig.
“Code in,” replied a computerized voice on the radio.
“General Aaron Craig, Code 149, alpha, alpha, epsilon, 982, confirm,” said the general.
“General Craig, confirmed,” replied the voice.
The floor beneath them began to descend. They were on an elevator.
“That’s a neat trick,” said Kyle.
“Trust me, you haven’t seen anything yet,” replied the general.
Kyle watched the unpainted gray concrete walls of the enormous freight elevator move past them as the pad descended. Blue lights, spaced at three-foot intervals enabled Kyle to approximate their depth. At approximately 100 feet, the exterior walls changed to painted red. “Level 1” was painted in giant white letters. Recessed LED lighting illuminated the room. On one wall was an enormous steel vault door, approximately 20 feet by 20 feet, with two giant hinges on the left. An area of the floor in front of the door, also, 20 feet by 20 feet, was painted with yellow and black hazard stripes. A series of blue strobe lights hugged the door’s perimeter. Smoked Plexiglas bubbles protruded from all four walls housing security cameras. As the elevator descended into the bay, two armed soldiers on either side of the vault door leveled their M4 automatic rifles at the Humvee.
“Time to go,” said General Craig.
The two men exited the Humvee and walked to the vault door. To the right of the door, on the wall, was a console with a black glass panel, a speaker, and a keypad. The soldiers’ guns remained trained on General Craig and Kyle as General Craig looked directly at the black panel, adjusting it to his height.
“Authorize,” said General Craig.
“Authorize,” replied the console.
“General Aaron Craig, Tangential, Three, Two, Five, Seven, Four, Andromeda, Authorize,” he said.
The black panel lit up, scanning the general’s face and eyes.
“Authorized,” replied the console.
A loud klaxon sounded and the door’s blue perimeter lights began to strobe brightly. The soldiers shouldered their weapons and saluted. As the vault door slowly swung toward them, Kyle could see that it was thick—five feet. When the door cleared its frame, Kyle gasped at what he saw inside. General Craig extended his hand for Kyle to enter.
Inside the entryway, two more armed guards with assault rifles saluted the general and stood aside for Kyle and him to pass. They were standing on the edge of an enormous polished floor mezzanine, some 40 feet wide that curved gradually to close a donut circle approximately 200 yards in diameter. The ceiling of the floor was some twenty feet above them. The mezzanine floor was a cream color. Kyle walked to the railed edge of the mezzanine. In the center was an enormous atrium, nearly 200 yards across, with a depth of nearly 100 feet. Kyle could see two floors beneath them, each with subtly different pastel color schemes. At the base of the atrium was a park, with a forest, ponds, and streams with bridge crossings. At the center of the atrium ceiling, a waterfall poured into a pond 100 feet below. The ceiling appeared to be a glass skylight, though the bright sunlight pouring into the complex from the ceiling was artificially generated. Kyle could see children swimming in the pond, playing in the waterfall. He was astonished.
“General, what is this place?” Kyle asked, overwhelmed.
“Officially, this is known as the Temporal Displacement Complex, which hosts the Temporal Displacement System, or TDS. However, so many people began referring to the TDS as “tiddies,” that we all just started calling it the ‘Time Tunnel,’” replied the general
“Time Tunnel as in time travel?” asked Kyle.
“Right,” said the general.
“You are fucking kidding me…sir, sorry sir,” exclaimed Kyle.
“No, actually, this is very real…or, at least, we think it is. No one has gone anywhere yet with it… or, rather, anywhen,” said the general.
The general continued, “You have a million questions. You’re going to get a full briefing, but first, you’re going to get cleaned up. You need a haircut, a shave, change of clothes and, frankly, Colonel, you stink—start with a shower.”
The general turned and motioned to an attractive young woman with fair, freckled skin and blond hair who was standing behind them out of earshot. She was dressed in business casual khaki slacks and a pink polo shirt. Kyle noticed that most people in the complex were not wearing uniforms.
“This is Julia,” she will show you to your quarters and give you the express tour. The complex is way too big for you to see it all in a
couple of hours, which is how much time you have to get cleaned up and to meet me in mission control. Julia will take you where you need to go,” directed the general.
Julia extended her hand toward an electric cart parked next to the wall. Kyle took a few steps then turned back to the general.
“Sir, is this real?” asked Kyle, bewildered.
“We’re going to find out—together,” replied the general.
General Craig watched Julia and Kyle drive away in the cart. With Kyle’s arrival, the general had moved his last game piece into place. Beneath his fatherly veneer, the mechanism of a strategic mind was in overdrive. General Craig had never revealed his reason for choosing command of Dreamland over the much more prestigious position of Secretary of State. The choice seemed like lunacy to the general’s colleagues, the press, and the president.
