by Td Barnes
He continued. “, we no longer have our European partners in the spy business, so we go it alone. Our priority is gaining intelligence about our enemies. We have here inside the mountain our nerds and geeks to create botnets and zombies to exploit the cyber vulnerabilities of any possible enemies. As of now, I am forming a cyber-warfare group here inside the mountain for intelligence gathering. For our deterrent, we have something at our disposal that I’ll discuss with you later. The point is—from here out; we will focus on both local defense and an offensive capability that will ensure our safety and survival. We will do what those pussies in Washington should have done to prevent the mess hall in which we find ourselves. If the Muslim Brotherhood or Nation of Islam wants our mountain, it will not come easy.”
Bradley sensed the thoughts of his senior officers wondering how they fit into the scheme of things. They were old military by today’s standards, having advanced through the ranks of their choice of service to become leaders of men in battle. They knew how to fly planes, shoot missiles and weapons, but the enemy confronting them today required knowledge and skills for which few of them trained.
“My intent today is to bring you up to speed so you can seek a notch where you can be productive and supportive. This is a new army from what you have known. Nonetheless, it will need experience and leadership. Nerds and geeks will require both. You will know where we need you when the need occurs. Just be aware that we are at war,” he said to dismiss them.
The Sergeant Major waited until the last of the staff exited the Command Center before asking, “Sir, are you ready for Mr. Bronson?”
Bradley stopped at the entrance to the communication room and turned to nod to the question before continuing.
“As you were,” he said to the two radio operators on duty to prevent their jumping to their feet as they often did for his initial appearance of the day. “I am reminding you that there will be absolutely no radio transmissions without my expressed approval. Search and listen, but do not key your mic for anyone.”
“Yes, sir,” both said in unison. “We received the word.”
“Better yet, remove and secure the microphones of all our radios,” Bradley said no more and reentered the Command Center.
One of the operators whispered to the other after Bradley left. “Wow! I wonder what this is all about.”
“Sir, we located Mr. Bronson. He and Lieutenant Bronson are in the shooting gallery. He will be here,” the Sergeant Major reported.
“Tell the lieutenant to come with him.”
Ray Bronson, a CIA special weapons engineer at Area 51 when stranded by the EMP, stood near six-foot tall, clean-shaven, with an indefinable air of being much older than his smooth baby face led one to suppose. After the EMP attack, he appeared at the mountain in a military helicopter seeking to secure a detailed and lethal weapon system developed at the Groom Lake facility. That is when Bradley learned that his daughter, though supposedly working for the Homeland Security Agency, was secretly working for the CIA with Bronson on this weapons system at Area 51. Bradley’s daughter, Samantha, a.k.a. Sammie, now First Lieutenant Bronson, married Ray a year after entering the mountain and finding that they shared common interests—Ray’s being the simulated 50-caliber machine gun in the shooting gallery and Samantha’s, the sniper weapons system. Their 18-month old son carried his grandfather’s name, Thomas.
The mountain fought off two attacks since entering the mountain. Not knowing if there still existed a United States military force, and seeing the need for an active military force, Bradley formed the Mountain Command of the Jackass Flats Territory. He structured and modeled the colony’s military after the US Army in which he served.
Samantha and Bronson both sought to join the army of the Mountain Command, but Bradley refused to militarize Ray because of the two hidden secret weapon systems inside the mountain that were known only to Sammie, Ray, and Bradley.
The CIA formed Area 51 in 1955 and managed to keep its activities unknown until the Air Force took over in 1979. The Air Force, having a chain-of-command and a policy of rotating its personnel, could not maintain this secrecy for these reasons.
Bradley, knowing this, did not want militarization of this weapon, or of what he proposed for cyber-warfare, fearing militarization would reveal the existence of both black projects that he considered crucial to their survival.
Bradley welcomed his son-in-law and daughter with a wide grin and in his whispery voice said, “Come in.” “Feed the brat to Sarge,” he joked while his daughter sat their son down to play with the poodle who acted just as tickled to see his little friend.
“Sergeant Major, guard the entrance and provide us a few minutes’ privacy,” Bradley ordered. He stood up and led his visitors to the far wall of the cubicle and out of hearing of those in the adjoining radio room.
Bradley, from being in the intelligence field, always known about the ultra-secret CIA and Air Force facility in Nevada commonly known by the unofficial name Area 51. Much of his tradecraft originated at the facility and RSL, the Remote Sensing Laboratory at Nellis AFB. However, his never meeting the need to know requirement prevented his visiting the facility.
Pride surged through Bradley, seeing Sammie wearing the silver bar of a first lieutenant and being someone essential to the protection of the mountain. He always considered her, even when she was a child, as his little warrior. It ever touched his heart seeing her crying when he departed on deployment, and her racing to jump into his arms when he returned. His little soldier always wanted to be the one to shine his insignia with Brasso or spit-shine his shoes.
Satisfied that no one could hear them, Bradley looked both in the eye. “Okay, guys. Do not give me any of that, ‘It’s classified and need-to-know bullshit,’” Bradley said it but meaning every word. “First, I’ll lay out my reason for asking. That way, you can focus your answers not to reveal more than you should.”
“Just tell us what you need to know, Dad,” Samantha chuckled. “I do not think our security oath is still in effect. I don’t imagine anyone will be dragging me in for my six-month poly,” referring to the polygraph requirements enforced after the traitor Snowden pulled his security leak stunt against the NSA.
“Fine. The rad count is small enough that we can venture out of the mountain on a limited basis, and climatic conditions are such that we do not expect any fallout is returning for a while. My concern is our having someone overflying this region and our needing to know who and why. This is happening at a time when the colony must begin replenishing its food supply for both the animals and us. Any agriculture will show up to those surveilling us. This means they will know we exist and will come calling.”
When he mentioned radiation, all of them glanced at the readout of the outside rad count out of habit.
Bronson asked, “Any thoughts on the identity of the threat?”
“We suspect Al-Qaeda is using homegrown and imported Islamic terrorists. We are not talking hostage and ransom tactics, or hijacking planes, tour groups and such as in the past. Since the war, the al-Qaeda has enjoyed free access to whatever weapons they want. Remember that the bad guys took four hundred American surface-to-air missiles from Libya during the terror attack on the US consulate in Benghazi. Also, bear in mind that you can take a shoulder-held missile and shoot it into this mountain rather than into the sky. This is their jihad, their opportunity to dominate the world with their radical beliefs.”
Sammie mused, “I wonder how they survived the nuclear winter.”
Her husband replied, “Like cockroaches.”
“You joke, Ray, but that may not be too far from the truth. Al-Qaeda established sleeper cells here long ago. They did the same throughout Latin America, and most likely survived there, and now that the radiation level is safe, they are coming in across the Mexican border. That explains them being in Tucson, just a few miles from the border at Nogales.”
“I imagine all sorts of survivors are popping out of their shelters about now. We mu
st prepare for that happening. We will not know if they are friend or foe if they call on us. That is why I need to know what else you have stashed at Area 51 that we can use for our defense. Tell me about what is there.”
Ray asked, “What do you need to know about Emigrant Valley, the location of the facility?”
“We need a source of intelligence. Since we do not have planes or human intelligence HUMINT assets, I intend to set up a cyber-warfare unit to seek out any satellite traffic occurring around the world, hack it, and learn what everyone is up to regarding the United States, our region. I assume with the RATSCAT—Radar Target Scatter, and various dishes at Groom Lake that we can accomplish this. After all, we do have the brainpower for that on this mountain. All we need is the hardware and software.”
Ray and Samantha looked at each other and laughed.
Bradley grinned, their reaction answering his question. “I thought as much.
Samantha saw their child headed for knobs to twist on some electronic equipment and rushed to rescue it. The Sergeant Major beat her to the rescue and play accused Sarge of not watching his playmate. The distraction ended the parley. Ray and Bradley followed Samantha to collect her son. “Thanks, guys. We will talk specifics a bit later,” Bradley said to dismiss them.
Samantha said, “We’re meeting mom for lunch. Have time to join us?”
With Ray and Sammie having alleviated his concern, he welcomed the break.
“Sure. Sergeant Major, let’s see what is on the menu.”
They all laughed at the ridiculous thought of them having any choice. Military MREs, meals ready to eat did not offer many options. Though MREs provided their primary food source, the colony did have a supply of beef and poultry butchered and preserved after the EMP attack.
The colony still maintained a small reserve of canned vegetables harvested from the Amargosa Valley farms and canned in the early days before the nuclear winter.
A menagerie of livestock and chickens housed at the south portal provided milk and eggs that they fed to the children.
The mountain’s farmers managed the greenhouses to produce vegetables along with the colony’s photosynthesis garden to supplement the colony’s diet. Dr. Sanders, an aerospace botanist for Starquest, Inc., a North Las Vegas company contracting with NASA, operated the photosynthesis garden intended to supply the first space colony on either the Moon or Mars.
Rumor of there being a meeting of the military brass already raced through the mountain. All eyes in the mess hall turned to the four of them when they entered. Even now, cooped up with him for four years inside the mountain, the members of the colony still respected Bradley’s position as their leader and afforded him a modest degree of respect and privacy. To the members of the colony, Colonel Bradley, his wife, Stacey was almost royalty in the sense of everyone depending upon their leadership for almost everything. Most referred to Stacey as being the mountain’s first lady.
Stacey, an avid equestrian, depicted the perfect military wife image, assuming the responsibility of dealing with the social aspects of the civilian sector of the population the first day inside the mountain, a responsibility that came with being the commander’s wife. Stacey preferred being just another member of the colony, but the members would not let her, needing her as their role model. Both Bradley and the former Beatty mayor, Jeannette Robinson, being natural leaders, maintained their position by being authoritative, but in an impartial, friendly manner, always avoiding any fraternization perceived as familiarity or favoritism that might corrode unit morale or diminish their leadership role.
The mess hall alcove bussed with conversation, some serious, and some robust with members of the colony having joined others sharing their interests or work specialties—all of them experiencing spring fever.
Bradley noted Captain Callahan and his family looking for an empty table and beckoned them to join them. As usual, the women sat next to one another so the men could talk. Stacey made room beside her for Jill Callahan, formerly a school teacher, to join them. The two Callahan children escaped the grownups to join another group of noisy children eating their lunch.
The team kept their conversation social until finished with their meal and ready to go their way. Bradley looked towards Callahan and said, “Callahan, cut your schedule loose to sit in on some meetings that I’m lining up. I want you in the loop in case we overlook something that might have an impact on your job of defending us.”
“Affirmative, sir. I received the word about shutting down any SIG emissions or transmissions.”
“Good. Someone is doing some aerial peek-a-boo in our area. Keep everything under camouflage and limit the number of our people exposed to any roving surveillance cameras. Whoever it is most likely has infrared, so there is no way we can hide our presence. Let’s keep them guessing on how many there are of us. Also, I am concerned about that chopper sitting on the helo pad that the Area 51 captain delivered to us a couple of years, ago.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll slide it off the pad and make it look like a wreck.”
“Don’t damage it—we made be able to fly it someday. Have you ever been to the Groom Lake facility?”
Captain Callahan looked startled at the question, a question that everyone in the military or ever connected to the facility in Area 51 considered taboo, coming from a professional in compartmentalized, and need-to-know black operations. “Yes, sir.” He replied with no elaboration.
“For Christ’s sake, Captain. The place has been empty for four years now,” Bradley said scolding to establish an excuse his asking. “I’m sending a recovery detail to the facility.”
Callahan thought about Bradley’s comment for a moment and nodded his head as he weighed the enormity and implications of breaking his code of silence.
“I know. Old habits are hard to break,” Bradley said to let the captain know that he realized the reason for his hesitation in talking about something that to him remained top-secret.
“There are a few goodies that we could use.”
“I’m anxious for your elaboration when you are ready, Captain,” Bradley said dryly. “I’m not snooping into your functions there.”
Callahan felt foolish. “What do you need to know, sir?”
“I expect the Groom Lake facility has advanced technology that we do not want to be in the hands of potential enemies like religious extremists. We know that if there is a human race, there will be enemies seeking conquest of one another. Our current enemy is much worse because of it being religion-based. I want to retrieve everything we can use to defend ourselves. What we can’t extract, we need to destroy.”
“Understood, sir. I do not know of any air defenses or antimissile assets at the area. However, we do have the Stinger missiles stored here inside the mountain. Some mobile radar systems from the Area would at least give us some warning for air defense. Rumor has it that there might be a new weapon system to prevent ground-based intrusion,” he added with a mild tone of connivance. “You should ask your daughter about that.”
“I’ve talked to Ray and her about their system,” Bradley replied without indicating them already having the system hidden inside the mountain.
Callahan grinned. “We are talking apples and oranges. Ask Lieutenant Bronson about another weapon system besides the one that Ray and she worked on together. I doubt if Ray knows about the one that I’m referring to.”
“Fascinating,” replied Bradley, speaking to emphasize his surprise. “Thanks, Callahan.”
Callahan expected more on the subject, but Bradley dropped the shoptalk in appreciation of the bombshell so delivered to him by Callahan. Four years and he was just now learning about this! They tidied up the table and carried their tray and utensils to the wash area in silence, each digesting the Herculean thought of defending the mountain against modern warfare.
Taking his leave, Bradley, with his dog Sarge trailing, waited ten minutes for the powered handcar to return. While waiting, Bradley, much to Sarge’s dismay, picked up the b
egging kitten to pet it.
“Records archive alcove,” he told the kid operating the handcar. “I may need you to return me to the Command Center.”
Bradley hoped to find some information on Area 51 within the mass of records that the military and agencies archived for those surviving the nuclear winter. Professionally cataloged books, reports, and video on just about everything imaginable arrived by the truckload as Bradley, and his people moved into the mountain after the EMP attack.
Thirty minutes later, Bradley and the operator left the archive with the handcar loaded with materiel on the facility. He found a trove of information consisting of official documents. Some, such as PDF printouts of the dreamlandresorts.com, area51specialprojects.com, and roadrunnersinternationale.com websites provided in detail some of the more declassified histories of the facility. He needed basic information. Detailed systems information he would leave to the Hains and Ph.Ds to weed through to decide what they needed.
Arriving back at the Command Center, the handcar operator assisted Bradley in carrying the documents to his desk where he became absorbed in sorting through the documents, only glancing up when the professional VIP colony members started arriving.
“Yo, boss. I found it.”
Bradley looked up from the stack of documents to see one of the Ph.Ds. from Homeland Security gripping his butt with both hands. He heard some of the others in the room snickering. The Sergeant Major frowned at what he considered unprofessional behavior towards Bradley.
Bradley laughed, or at least he tried, but often his laughs sounded more like gasps because of his old war wounds to his throat.
“Well, Doctor, after four years, I would hope you have found it. I see that you found it with both hands. I’m astonished,” he said sarcastically, his eyes, however, reflecting humor.
