Independence Day: Silent Zone

by Stephen Molstad

  From his hiding place, Okun looked down on his audience and nodded in satisfaction. He tested the joystick on his remote control, and found it worked tolerably well. The radio waves sent the small ship wobbling first this way, then that. Inside the saucer, a supercharged, plate-sized magnet reacted to his command, causing the saucer to bob and skitter over a strong field of electromagnetic energy being pumped into the quad by a trio of cleverly disguised wave-particle generators the Mothers had liberated from the applied sciences building. Undergrads rushed up to get a closer look at this strange spectacle, laughing, catcalling, and looking everywhere to see who was making it fly. But the fun really started when Okun switched on his microphone and began talking to the crowd via the transistor radio speaker he’d built into the saucer.

  “Greetings, Earthlings. My name is Flart. We are from the planet Crapulong. We come in peace. But we demand your cafeteria stop serving those cruddy fish sticks on Friday. This is a crime against the universe. We also demand that the one you call Professor Euben get a new toupee.” It wasn’t high-caliber comedy, but it put the crowd in stitches. The voice coming from the teetering saucer was distorted and full of static owing to the magnetic energy in the air, which only made Okun sound more “like an alien.”

  The charge in the magnet should have lasted a full hour, but the flight was cut short when Flart made the mistake of flirting with the wrong earth girl, telling her that he, master of the universe, found her extremely desirable and would she consider spending an intimate evening with a being one-tenth her size? The crowd and the girl found all this hysterically funny, but after a while her boyfriend had had enough. He shouted to the unseen operator of the remote control vehicle to knock it off.

  “Lieutenant Zarfadox,” came the answer from the saucer, “prepare the anal probe. This Earthling obviously has something stuck up his ass.” And so ended the flight of the alien Flart. The boyfriend hurled an apple, which struck the ship broadside just hard enough to dislodge it from the invisible net provided by the three generators. It crashed to the pavement with Flart shouting a long string of expletives. Once the generators were safely back in their labs and the Mothers had sat through a stern lecture from the chancellor, the whole incident should have been forgotten.

  But the next morning, a brief account of the event appeared in the LA Times. Although the three-sentence article explained it had all been in good fun, it sufficiently impressed one reader, one of the CIA’s army of “burrowers,” who clipped it out and started a file: “Okun, Brackish (?)” In years to come, this one-page file would expand and multiply until it had become a monster, filling a cabinet all its own.

  *

  That April, the file grew considerably when the CIA came visiting. At eight in the evening during midterm week, Okun and the other Mothers had decided not to brave the crowds in the library. Instead, they’d retired to his dorm room, affectionately known as the Pad of Least Resistance, to engage in certain herbal rites. As smoke filled the room, they engaged in what was, for them, a rather typical conversation.

  “Dude, you know what we should do?” Winter croaked, struggling to keep from exhaling as he passed the ceramic vase-shaped instrument back to the load-master. “We should put up mirrors in all the halls so when you’re going to class the whole school is like a hall of mirrors at a carnival.”

  “Cool squared,” Okun nodded. “We could invent a new product called Mirror Paint and coat every surface in the room with it.”

  The Mothers were pleased and showed their approval with a round of silent nods. “Mirror paint. I like.”

  “What if everything in this room was covered in mirror paint? The walls, the bed, the plants, all these books…”

  “And dig this: the final step would be to dip our bodies in mirror paint so everything in the room, except your eyes, was a mirror.”

  “Then we could make mirror contact lenses, so we’d disappear completely and you’d have to feel your way around the world.”

  More nods.

  This important research discussion was interrupted by a knock at the door. It was an official-Hounding man-knuckle rapping that sent the Mothers into immediate action. While Okun stashed the bag, Winter opened the windows and began fanning smoke out of the room. The knock repeated itself, insistent.

  “Just a minute,” Okun yelled. “I just need to finish this one thing.” Crabbing a textbook off the bookshelf, he opened the door a crack and saw a man in a suit standing in the hallway. He banged the door closed and mouthed the word “NARC!” to the wide-eyed Mothers.

  “Excuse me,” the voice came through the door, “I’m looking for Brake-ish Okun. My name is Sam Dworkin, and I’d like to speak to him about possible employment.”

  After a moment of indecision, Okun opened the door six inches and slid through the gap into the hallway, a little puff of smoke trailing him outside. Once he got a good look at the man, he rela:ed a little. He was about sixty-five and seemed to le alone.

  “Are you Brake-ish Okun?”

  “I think so. I mean, yes. It is I. I’m Brackish Okun.”

  “You’re absolutely sure?” the guy asked seemingly amused.

  “I was just in there reading this”—he glanced down at the page—“this math book. So, you said something about a job? What company are you with?”

  The gentleman quickly invented a name, then asked if they could step inside, suggesting that Okun’s friends might come back another time.

  “Right, good idea.” But when he opened the door, he found the room empty. He crossed to the open window in time to see the last Mother jump from the trellis to the flower bed, then sprint away into the night.

  “Very cool. I have a fire escape. What was your name again?”

  “Dworkin. Sam Dworkin.”

  Okun offered him the best seat in the house, a beanbag chair, but Dworkin sat down on the unmade bed instead. He looked around the room, dismayed. The cluttered cubicle was a riot of over-flowing bookshelves, home-built electronic equipment, and Okun’s personal belongings. The ceiling was wallpapered with music posters and schematic drawings. The old man looked a little older once he was inside and seated on the bed. “You’re not exactly who I was expecting to meet.”

  Okun didn’t understand.

  “Westinghouse Science Student of the Year, National Junior Science Foundation Merit Scholar, eight hundred in math on the SATs. I suppose I expected somebody a little more… square.”

  “I guess I don’t look like my resume.” Okun chuckled.

  They talked for a while about the pranks Okun and his crew had pulled off, some of the independent engineering projects he’d built—both the failures and the successes. They tossed around a few theories about how such a brainiac could be finishing college with such low grades and finally arrived at a conclusion: Okun was most motivated when there were obstacles in his path, when what he wanted to build or find was off-limits. Both of them made silent mental notes to remember that tidbit.

  Then the guy got down to business. “Mr. Okun, do you believe in Extraterrestrial Biological Entities? Martians? UFOs?”

  So that’s what this is all about. Okun quickly I came to the conclusion that his visitor must be some fruit loop from one of those clubs devoted to the study of flying saucers. Feeling considerably more relaxed now that he was sure the guy wasn’t a narc, he explained what he believed. “It’s all bull, man; it’s all made up by people who haven’t got anything better to do. Flying saucers, little men from distant galaxies—puleeeez, it’s physically impossible. Check it out: Einstein figured out the cosmic speed limit is 286,000 miles per second, the speed of light. Nothing can move faster than that. Now, light from the nearest star where there is even a remote chance of life takes something like a hundred years to get to earth, so, even if you assume that spacemen could travel at the speed of light, which they can’t, you’re still looking at a trap of hundreds or even tens of thousands of years to get from Planet X to Pasadena.” When he was finished with his lecture, he
scrutinized his visitor, “Why? Do you?”

  The guy only smiled again, asking, “Where do you see yourself working in five years?”

  “I dunno. Probably in some company lab, maybe Westinghouse. I’ve got an interview with them next month and hopefully they’ll be able to understand some of my ideas about electromagnetics and superconductivity.”

  “Superconductors. That’s a cutting-edge field of research. They’re doing some of that over at the Los Alamos labs. Do you know about the centripetal magnet accelerator? That’s the kind of equipment a fellow like you should be using.”

  Okun, nodding, quickly imagined all the mischief he could do with a machine like that. “Of course I’d love to play around with one of those puppies, but that’s all government work, so I don’t feel I that’s realistic for me right now,” he said, brushing his hair off one shoulder.

  “What if I told you there was a position available with my company that would afford the right person access not only to the centripetal accelerator, but to the entire network of labs at Sandia and Los Alamos?”

  “Wowwee! Who do you work for, God?”

  The man chuckled. “That’s actually not a bad guess. What if I could prove to you that flying saucers really do exist? Would you be interested in working on a project like that?”

  Okun just grinned. This after-hours job interview was beginning to smell like a practical joke.

  “What if I told you,” Dworkin went on, tapping his breast pocket, “that I’m carrying photographs which show an actual flying saucer?”

  “You’re kidding, right? Did the Mothers put you up to this?”

  The man ignored the question. “I’d like to show you these photographs, but before I can do that, I’d need something from you.”

  This guy is a phenomenal actor, Okun thought. Repressing a smile, he asked what he would need.

  “Your solemn commitment not to tell a soul about the photos and what they show.”

  Okun straightened up and looked at the man through his bloodshot eyes. Deadpan serious, he said, “I swear it.”

  Satisfied with this response, the man produced an envelope and handed it over to his grinning host. One look at the first photo was enough to melt the smile off Okun’s face. It showed a team of scientists in lab smocks lined up for a group portrait in front of what appeared to be a badly damaged flying saucer. The ship looked to have a wingspan similar to a fighter jet’s, but it was disk-shaped and looked considerably more menacing than anything he’d seen before. The photograph itself, black-and-white, seemed to be several years old.

  “I’m kneeling in the front row,” the old man pointed out, “third from the left.” Sure enough, it was the same face fifteen or twenty years younger. The corner of an airplane hangar showed on one side of the snapshot, and a couple of uniformed soldiers patrolled the background.

  The second photo showed what looked like a cockpit. A pair of tall, arching structures, chairs of some kind, were set before two windows, with an instrument panel below them. The third picture was a close-up of one of the instruments lifted out of the console by a pair of men’s hands. Instead of wires, it looked like veins connecting the instrument to the console.

  Dworkin waited patiently as Okun went back over the pictures, comparing them, looking, almost desperately, for some evidence that this was indeed a prank. Then, with a stunned expression on his face, Okun looked up at the man, and asked, “What is this? Where were these taken?”

  With a gentle smile, Dworkin reached across and took the photos back. “I’ve said too much already. Of course, if you accept, everything will be explained.”

  “OK, I accept.”

  The old guy laughed. “Let’s wait until you’re in a more lucid frame of mind. Think it over. There are drawbacks. You’d have to leave your family and your friends, the hours are long, and you and your coworkers might not have much in common. Please remember the promise you made. Don’t discuss these pictures with your friends, your professors, with your mother, with anybody.”

  The man got up, leaving a non-nodding Brackish in a state of confusion. As he was about to exit, Okun called after him.

  “Hey, wait up a sec. How am I going to find you again?”

  Dworkin couldn’t resist. “Don’t call us, we’ll call you.”

  *

  Three weeks later, Brackish was at home proudly examining his diploma alongside his mother, Saylene. His new employer had arranged for him to take his final exams a month before the semester ended, and Okun had done something he rarely did under normal circumstances: he studied for every class, not just the ones he was interested in. He’d done well on the tests, raising his grade-point average and earning himself a bachelor’s degree. But there wouldn’t be any time to sit around enjoying this accomplishment. His suitcases were packed and standing by the front door. A young government agent had arrived with an attache case full of papers, legal documents whereby Okun would sign away his personal freedom in exchange for coming aboard the project. The three of them—Brackish, Saylene, and the man in the expensive suit—sat down at the kitchen table and began wading through the paperwork. Technically, he was being hired by several different entities, each requiring a separate set of applications, background information forms, insurance waivers, tax schedules, retirement plan agreements, and loyalty oaths. At first, Brackish read through each document carefully, asking questions about each one. But as they continued to materialize in thick stacks from the man’s briefcase, his caution wore down. Toward the end, Brackish was John Hancocking everything the man laid in front of him without a single question.

  Saylene didn’t understand why everything had to be so hush-hush. All her son could tell her was that it was an engineering job with the government, and that there was a good reason why it had to be kept secret. But the one thing she understood all too clearly was that she wouldn’t get to see her boy for five full years—the length of his contract. He would be allowed to phone home on the first Sunday of each month, and that was it. He was the only family she had left, and she would miss him. Her eyes were already swollen from crying, and she felt the tears rising again when the man announced they had arrived at the last document. His name was Radecker, and she had taken an instant dislike to him. He was too young, too polished, too full of himself, and he was taking her boy away from her.

  “This is a copy of the Federal Espionage Act,” he explained, dropping separate copies in front of each Okun as casually as if he were delivering the monthly phone bill. “Basically, all this says is that you can be prosecuted if you tell anyone about what you know about the project. You should know that the minimum penalty for violating this law is a year in a federal penitentiary.”

  “Heavy!” Okun sounded impressed. “What’s the maximum penalty?”

  “Have you ever heard of Julius and Ethel Rosenberg?”

  “Oh. Heavier than I thought.” Brackish gulped, hesitant to sign something that could land him in the electric chair.

  “Don’t worry. Just think twice before you go selling any information to the Russians.” Radecker grinned.

  Nodding, Okun scribbled his name at the bottom of the page.

  Radecker turned to Saylene. “Whenever someone asks about your son, you tell them he’s taken a job as a safety inspector with the Bechtel Corporation. This job requires him to travel around the world, so you don’t know where he is at any given time. Sign here.” Reluctantly, she did as she was told.

  Then the agent packed up all the documents and told the family, “I’ll give you a moment to say goodbye. I’ll be outside in the car.”

  Brackish and Saylene smiled at one another, both calm on the outside, as waves of feeling crested and crashed inside. They spent their last five minutes together crying and hugging. When Radecker tooted the horn outside, Okun looked down at his mom and promised her he’d come back as soon as he could. It was a promise he would keep, however briefly.

  3

  Arrival at Area 51

  Life got sweet
er and sweeter for Okun. When Radecker told him where they were headed, he had prepared himself for a long ride in the car, but instead they went to Burbank Airport and signed in at the desk of a small cargo transport company, SwiftAir. He’d only flown twice before, once to Chicago when he’d won the Westinghouse competition, and once to New York, for a whirlwind weekend in the Big Apple.

  Today they lifted off in a small twin-engine Cessna. Once they got out over the desert, the captain invited him to come up and sit in the cockpit. It was a warm spring day, and, as soon as they left LA’s smog behind, the view was superb. Okun pressed his nose against the glass and imagined spotting a crashed UFO. He felt lucky. Radecker had told him they were headed for “a very important laboratory near Las Vegas.” Based on what the old man had told him three weeks earlier in his dorm room, he assumed that meant one of the national labs in New Mexico. Visions of sparkling equipment and gleaming multistory buildings danced in his head.

  It was a Thursday, and Okun wondered what the Mothers, sitting through Professor Frankel’s theoretical physics lecture, were thinking about his sudden disappearance. He would see if there was a way to sneak a postcard out to them once he got settled.

  “There she is,” the pilot announced forty minutes into the flight, “Lost Wages, Nevada.” Okun had only a moment to study the narrow city built up along both sides of a highway before the plane banked north. A few minutes later, the pilot turned and called back to Radecker over the noise of the engines, “We’re coming up to the Nellis Range perimeter, sir.”

  Okun looked down and saw they were flying over double fence, one inside the other. I hope this isn’t where we’re headed. The pilot flew over a decent-sized military base, a cluster of a hundred or so buildings and a dozen hangars, but kept going. As Okun’s heart began to sink in disappointment, the pilot pointed to a sharp hill rising a thousand feet off the desert floor, and said, “Wheelbarrow Peak.” At the base of this hill was a dry lake bed with a pair of landing strips that formed a big X across the cotton-colored sand. Near the center of the X stood a single airplane hangar and a few dozen small buildings. When Okun realized this was where they were going to land, he immediately marched back and piled into the seat next to Radecker.