Alien Rapture_ The Chosen
Author: Edgar Rothschild Fouché; Brad Steiger
Date: 2016-09-21 22:00:00+00:00
Publisher: Lulu.com

Contents

CHAPTER 01 - From Darkness Comes Light

CHAPTER 02 - Majestic Twelve

CHAPTER 03 - Joe's Search Begins

CHAPTER 04 - Silver Dollar Respite

CHAPTER 05 - No Man's Land

CHAPTER 06 - Contract Predator

CHAPTER 07 - Return To San Antonio

CHAPTER 08 - The Devil's Domain

CHAPTER 09 - The Two Greatest Conspiracies Ever

CHAPTER 10 - One Truth At A Time

CHAPTER 11 - The Killing Room

CHAPTER 12 - On The Scent Of Death

CHAPTER 13 - I'm Here To Help You

CHAPTER 14 - Thanks For The Memories

CHAPTER 15 - One Lone Bullet

CHAPTER 16 - Running Blind

CHAPTER 17 - Red Blood Run

CHAPTER 18 - A Demand He Couldn't Refuse

CHAPTER 19 - Offensive Security

CHAPTER 20 - A Lost Memory Regained

CHAPTER 21 - The Fallen Conspirator

CHAPTER 22 - Friend Or Foe

CHAPTER 23 - Surfing The Collective Unconscious

CHAPTER 24 - The Secret Autopsy Report

CHAPTER 25 - Take Me Or Else

CHAPTER 26 - Dreamland

CHAPTER 27 - General's Inquiry

CHAPTER 28 - Three Passwords

CHAPTER 29 - Revelation

CHAPTER 30 - Why Shoot The Messenger

CHAPTER 31 - The Father, The Son, The Chosen One

CHAPTER 32 - Prophet, Heal Thyself

CHAPTER 33 - Rapture The Chosen

Alien Rapture - The Chosen

Unabridged Long Version – Restored

A Novel By

EDGAR FOUCHE & BRAD STEIGER

Author’s Introduction

When I first wrote Alien Rapture and had made my public disclosure in 1998, I made a very big mistake. The Top Secret facility called DARC which I actually worked at for a short period of time was NOT at  Papoose dry lake, also known as area S-4 according to Lazar. I simply listened to a couple of close friends who were convinced of his story. Since then the world knows everything Lazar talked about related to Area 51, his credentials, and Groom/Papoose area are fiction.

Area S-4 is at Tonopah and is a radar site. Papoose dry lake and the surrounding area have NO military facilities, parking lots, metal fences, or other improved areas. Lazar has been debunked thousands of times. My mistake for sure, thinking the guy knew something about where I was. You will read about the Defense Advanced Research Agency in my presentation to the IUFOC in 1998 and in this novel.

During this story, you will hear one of the USAF’s proposed Roswell crash explanations. My, inside sources told me, just before the ‘New’ latest and greatest excuse – explanation for the Roswell crash that they would use the monkey story. Shortly afterwards the USAF did in fact come out with yet another explanation which did not talk about the monkeys. I guess they just make up swamp gas stories and vote on them.

I will address another note of contention from my readers about the name Rothschild. During the development of Alien Rapture, someone suggested that I use my great-grandmothers maiden name, Rothschild, as a pseudonym,  nom de plume, or fictional name, because it would get more hits. I never had a clue about all the bad things the Rothschilds had done throughout history. My great-grand mother’s maiden name, Rothschild, were poor farmers from the upper Midwest. Therefore, the book was published as by Edgar Rothschild Fouche. My birth certificate name of record is Edgar A. Fouche III. I regret this mistake a lot. I was naïve and this was my first published book. But I was new to the world of agents and publishers. I was extremely fortunate to team with Brad Steiger an author of over 180 books and my agent Bob Silverstein of Quicksilver Literary Agency. I have counted them as my most trusted advisors and friends for well over a decade.

The first few Chapters of Alien Rapture have a lot of necessary background information, but the dialogue and action picks up from Chapter 3 on. The published book in 1998 was cut by almost 40% and this version is updated, corrected, and restored to the original length. I’ve had thousands of E-mails asking me to publish the long version and update it. So here it is my friends, I truly hope you enjoy it. Edgar Fouche writing the full book with my wife Rebecca editing and restoring the full book,

147,303 Words            Alien Rapture - The Chosen 1998-2013

Fouche/Steiger/Fouche

CHAPTER 01 - From Darkness Comes Light

He was floating face up, bobbing up and down with the ocean swells, staring at the dawn sky overhead. Suddenly, he was aware of something with him in the water, something grabbing at him.

"Joe, honey, wake up,"  a familiar voice said while shaking Joe.

The ocean continued to swirl around him for one crazy, disorienting moment--and then he was squinting into a dim light that gradually displaced an ocean with bedroom curtains, wallpaper, nightstand, bed, strawberry blond hair, his wife.

"Karen?"

"Yes, honey, it's me. You were having another of your drowning dreams."

"I'm sorry," he shook his head and rubbed a cupped palm roughly over his stubbled, unshaven chin, restoring circulation to his face. "I'm sorry I woke you up."

Karen crinkled her face into a pout as she lay back on her pillow. "You were really thrashing around. I was afraid you were going to hit me."

"I'm really sorry, babe," he repeated. Joe's head throbbed from the residual effect of too much beer the evening before. Karen nodded her forgiveness before she yawned, closed her eyes, and snuggled back under the covers, curving her slender body into his.

Joe felt a surge of warmth. In moments such as these, he wondered at his good fortune in marrying as patient a woman as Karen, and he fell in love with her all over again--as if they were still seventeen and back in high school in Texas. Lately, more often than not, he'd felt totally undeserving of her.

"Where you going'?" she mumbled, as he swung his long legs over the side of the bed. "It's after three."

"Going to get a beer. Maybe sit up for awhile. I need to get sleepy again, and I don't want to disturb you."

"Nooo," she protested. "Stay here and cuddle."

"I won't be long. Just need to think a few things through. I'll sip a beer and come back to bed."

"You'll sip two or three, and you'll be getting up the rest of the night to go the bathroom," Karen argued. "Then neither one of us will get any sleep." She wondered if she was enabling his bad behavior. She just didn’t know.

"I promise, just one beer, and I'll go to the bathroom before I come back to bed."

Karen rolled over on her back. "Forget about the beer. How about some of nature's greatest stress reliever?"

Joe could see the hope on Karen's face. He lowered his eyes, avoiding hers. His beautiful wife lay there trying to seduce him, needing him. For years, he had seldom given her a full night's rest, finding the comfort and pleasure of her arms his greatest solace. But lately...

"Wouldn't Sir Knight like to visit his castle?" Karen teased softly. "It's been kind of a long time..."

Joe smiled a half-smile at her reference to the nicknames they'd given each other during their honeymoon, when they'd tirelessly explored the mutual rapture of sexual foreplay and intercourse. She was right. It had been "kind of a long time" since they had made love. It was these damn dreams. It was these goddamn, vague, half-assed memories of the light that had engulfed him.

"I'm...I'm just not in the mood tonight, sweetie," Joe begged off.

Karen's eyes shadowed, and her lower lip quivered slightly, but when she spoke her voice was gentle.

"Sure. It's pretty late. You're right. It's too late."

Joe mentally blessed her for not reminding him how long it had been since he had been "in the mood."

"I'll come back to bed soon," he whispered, his lips lightly brushing her forehead. "Just a beer. Maybe two."

"No television." Karen was firm. "I don't want you waking Kevin. He's got to get his sleep now that he's got football practice every day in this god-awful heat."

Joe agreed, leaning over to kiss her cheek. Kevin, at sixteen, was nearly as tall and as heavy as he was.

"And no cigarettes! I don't want you stinking up the house!"

Joe turned at the bedroom door to reassure her. "I told you I quit two weeks ago. Cold turkey."

"Uh-huh. Sure. Smelled 'em on your breath since then."

He had lapsed a couple of times when he stopped for a drink after work, and he was dying for a smoke that very minute.

"Joe, honey," she said over her shoulder as he left the room. "I'm sorry you had another one of those drowning dreams."

"Yeah, thanks, babe."

But he wasn't drowning in the weird dreams. Joe wasn't sure what happened to him that day in the South China sea. The best the experts could say was that he had experienced "rapture of the deep." Nitrogen narcosis. Down too deep and too long, under the ocean waves.

He grabbed a beer from the refrigerator and turned on the bright overhead light before he sat down at the kitchen table. He could see his hands shaking. Hell, his whole body was shaking. He was glad Karen had stayed in bed. He would hate for his wife to discover out how afraid he had become of the dark. It just wasn’t normal. He could sleep when it was daylight and for that reason he tried to work the night or mid shift so he could sleep during the day. But that wasn’t good for his husband-father role.

Dear Jesus! He stood a shade under six feet four, weighed in at a little over 210 pounds, was forty-three years old… and he was as fearful of the dark as when he were seven. Perhaps worse.

The cold beer felt good going down. He would keep his promise about one beer, but he would soon pour himself a shot of bourbon. He knew he was drinking more than ever, but the need to deaden his senses was stronger than his guilt. He feared that he needed a shrink, but the liquid psychiatrist would have to do for the time being.

Joe had hoped that after he left the military, married Karen, and settled down as a civilian he would somehow be able to squelch some of the insecurities that had pursued him most of his life. But his fear of the dark had reached the point where he insisted on working the night shift so he could sleep during the daylight hours. He felt unprotected--vulnerable--when he slept during the darkness.

He hated weekends, when Karen would insist that he come to bed when she did. Somehow, when the lights went out, he was expected to fall asleep like a normal person. At times he did for an hour or two, then he would awaken in a cold sweat and wander aimlessly through the house until daylight, unable to go back to sleep. It was during those early morning hours of darkness that his ghosts would encroach upon his sanity.

Moving to Tonopah, Nevada, in 1989 as an engineer for the Loral Corporation had, at first, been challenging, but the assignment had done nothing to quiet his night-fears. EG&G managed the top secret Air Force ranges in Nevada, and its primary subcontractor, the Loral Corporation, maintained the massive amount of electronics and computer equipment. Joe had worked on the secret Aurora Program to develop advanced aerospace vehicles since before the first manned prototype flew in 1990.

When Joe started the program, he thought the task of replacing the aging, but mystical, Air Force SR-71 was the most exotic research program in the United States. He'd never imagined that his work would take him inside "Dreamland"--Area 51 of the Nellis AFB Range--at the Top Secret Groom Lake facilities.

He had received a promotion to Senior Engineer during the Flight, Operational Test, and Evaluation (FOT&E) of the SR-75, but the bizarre rumors that filtered down to him from the Papoose Lake facilities had begun to distract him from full attention to his work. There was strange whispered talk of UFOs, space vehicles, and alien technology being incorporated into advanced aerospace prototypes. He wanted to go there and investigate for himself, but he learned that he would need a clearance classification with a special SAP and SCI, much different than the one he carried for Area 51 on the Aurora program. It puzzled Joe that he was so adversely effected by the weird rumors.

Why should he care? He cared because it was up-close and damn personal to him.

"Why?" Joe asked the fuzzy, sleepy-eyed puppy on the calendar next to the cupboard as he reached for a bottle of bourbon. Why had he become increasingly obsessed with the notion that someone, perhaps an unknown group of scientists, a secret agency of the government, or a select number of ordinary people had made contact with alien intelligence? He couldn't decide if the answer to that question would calm his increasing turmoil or complete his descent into insanity. That's how he was beginning to see himself. Insane.

Then a friend told him that the Papoose lake facility was a ruse. That in fact they told all personal going to the Defense Advanced Research Agency (DARC) that they were going to Papoose when it was actually another facility east. Why would they do that?

He splashed another generous shot into a drinking glass, then tossed the liquid into the back of his throat, welcoming the burning sensation that would eventually bring him some calm. As he raised his chin and held the rim of the glass with his lips, the bright light from the ceiling fixture assaulted his bloodshot eyes.

"The light," he whispered in a flash of revelation. "The goddamn light still wants me."

Joe laughed aloud. What had possessed him to say such a wacko thing? What the hell did it mean?

He sat back down in the kitchen chair, puzzled by his own declaration, and thought about his dream, the "drowning dream". The dream in which he did not drown. The dream that had at one time been reality. He recalled telling Karen, his psychologist wife the story when he was depressed and drunk.

He had never gotten used to Cherkov's thickly accented speech. "Joe, you'll be last into the water and last to be picked up."

He had been chosen for TREAT while he was serving in Southeast Asia because he was an intelligence and communications officer in the Air Force, a degreed electronics engineer with a MBA, and the holder of a commercial PADI diving license. A division of the National Security Agency, the Tactical Reconnaissance Engineering Assessment Team was unknown outside of certain top echelon circles in the NSA, and was essentially part of the Special Operations network that utilized selected personnel with diverse talents.

Joe made one last check of his equipment, then curled into a ball and rolled smoothly backward into the ocean swells. He felt air bubbles rise above his face as he slowly descended into the water, feeling his weight sway gently up and down in hypnotic cycles. Thirty feet. Forty feet. The swaying motion eased. Inky blackness beckoned.

A Russian trawler--a notoriously known cover for Soviet communications monitoring devices, had mysteriously disappeared in a storm. The NSA's satellites had locked on to the ship's distress signal and tracked it from above until the storm cracked her hull and sent it to the depths of the South China Sea, where it settled just south of the Gulf of Tonkin. The Russians had a dozen ships searching for the trawler for weeks, until they gave up without achieving any success.

He checked the luminosity of his gauges, holding them directly in front of his mask in order to read them, then flipped the switch to his lights, casting a glow about thirty feet out into the murky world he now inhabited.

The NSA knew that the searchers had been a good twenty kilometers from the sunken vessel and saw it as an opportunity to recover the Soviet crypto devices, code books, and logs. As a result, the TREAT team divers were assembled, briefed, and outfitted at the NSA's Special Operations Compound outside Washington, D.C. in eastern Virginia.

The effect was that of automobile headlights in an extremely dense fog. On the fringes of his visibility, thousands of tiny, star-like eyes watched--the reflection of his lights off the myriad forms of marine life that shared this world with him.

Joe had been pulled into the National Security Agency a few years before, when he was a young officer working at the Sandia National Laboratories in Los Alamos, New Mexico. He had been the Communications Security Officer on a secret nuclear detection satellite designed by TRW and MITRE and built by Hughes for the NSA. From then on, he was called upon a number of times to assist in NSA Special Operations in Southeast Asia. When he was approached for the last time in early 1975, he was contemplating getting out of the Air Force.

Joe reached his coordinates and activated the transponder.

On his final NSA operations assignment, the TREAT team was using a forty-foot sail boat registered under the French Maritime Commission. They were posing as oceanographers--testing the waters of Vietnam's Gulf of Tonkin for toxic chemicals and oceanographic information. The team had embarked from the Philippines--specifically Subic Bay--a western inlet of the South China Sea, west of Manila Bay in central Luzon. Subic Bay was the home of a large U.S. naval base established in 1901 that had been very popular with the GIs for its cheap young whores until it was closed in 1993.

Now they were positioned just outside the Northern maritime boundary for Vietnam, awaiting the forecasted weather disturbance that was needed as a cover for their mission. Three divers--Joe would be one--were to place transponder marker beacons near enough to the downed Russian trawler so a deep submersible Navy vehicle could go in and search the vessel.

Nothing. He reset the unit and waited two minutes. Still nothing. Joe swam a hundred-yard square, trying the transponder at each position. At the last position, which, theoretically, was supposed to be near his first, he tried the unit one last time. The response light lit up and began to flash bright white at even intervals.

The marine biologist assigned to the team, Boris Cherkov, a White Russian immigrant from the Ukraine, had been borrowed from the Okinawa ‘Foreign Broadcast Intelligence Service (FBIS). After being around him a few hours, the TREAT team began referring to him as "Boris Jerk-Off" behind his back. The word "obnoxious" would have been a generously euphemistic description of the man, but he was the Russian linguist and an expert on local marine biology. He made the top Republican media clowns look like princesses. He must be tolerated Joe reminded himself over and over.

Joe had read the briefing jacket on each of the team members provided by his NSA contact and knew that each man was more than qualified for the job. Diving with him would be his old buddy Mike, an Army Special Forces operative assigned to the Defense Intelligence Agency (DIA), and Owen McKean, who was CIA. Joe had worked on many Special Operations in Southeast Asia. As far as he was concerned, the CIA was an agency full of giant egos run amok. He had first heard of McKean when he was assigned to the US Military Assistance Command - Vietnam, Special Operations Group, and he hadn't heard anything good.

On the other hand, he and Mike had been pleased to see each other on the team. They had a special bond, one that had been formed a few years before in South Vietnam. Joe had been the liaison for the NSA on a couple of operations with the CIA in Laos and Cambodia, planting and monitoring covert listening devices and other intelligence gathering operations. He'd been on a sensor drop across the Western border of Vietnam into Laos near the Ho Chi Minh Trail. On the way back to Da Nang, his helicopter had picked up a distress signal from a ground position. His Warrant Officer pilot hadn't wanted to turn around, but Joe persuaded him with his pistol pointed to his helmet. End of conversation. They'd flown into heavy ground fire to pick up a wounded Special Forces Sergeant, the sole survivor of his reconnaissance team. Needless to say, Mike, a fellow Texan, had been eternally grateful for the lift.

Joe, Mike, and Owen had carefully discussed this mission. The sunken trawler lay in Vietnam's international waters. The three of them would swim and then dive towards different coordinates, and would each activate a portable transponder at the appropriate time. The USSR used a satellite transponder system that identified itself with the proper codes each time it transmitted and received satellite information. The United States, thanks to the code breakers at National Security Agency (NSA), knew all of the Russian codes.

Joe checked the number of flashes against his dive watch, counted them for one minute, then repeated the count twice more. The number would tell approximately how deep the sunken Russian trawler lay beneath the surface.

The Soviet transponder was a sealed system, impervious to water and containing a back-up battery unit. Technicians at NSA had determined that the transponder's underwater reply would be greatly attenuated and carry only a short distance. The advantage to the TREAT divers was that there would be no surface emissions from the transponder transmission for Russian satellites or surface vessels to pick up. The disadvantage was that one of the men would have to be almost on top of the downed vessel in order to receive a response. The divers agreed that this problem was minimized by their own satellite tracking information being accurate as hell and the supercomputers having simulated the current drift of the mass and specific gravity of the sunken vessel.

It was quickly turning dusk, and everyone on board was busy with some activity or another which contributed to the fast approaching deadline.

Suddenly Boris Cherkov snapped an order, taking the divers off guard. "Okay, men, let's do it by the book. Strip!"

Joe could see that Owen McKean greatly resented the dictatorial attitude that Boris had unexpectedly assumed.

"You will wear nothing except the equipment provided, including your underwear," Boris told them.

"You mean I can't wear my custom made pink snorkel and flippers?" Mike sneered. It was obvious he was a man unimpressed by ostentatious authority figures.

Boris wisely ignored the slur as each diver inspected his equipment for damage and efficient working order.

"Underwear, booties and pants only," Boris instructed, as if he were dealing with first time divers.

The men complied, passively allowing the man to check the fitting of their dive booties and pants.

"McKean, your leg zippers are not supposed to be exposed!" Boris snapped officiously.

McKean's temper had risen to near boiling point. "Look, Cherkov, I was a Navy fucking Seal," he growled, sticking out his chin defiantly. "I've made a thousand goddamn dives. I don't need a trainer or a nursemaid. Got it?"

Boris stepped forward and glared up at McKean. Although he was much shorter and only came up to McKean's angrily twitching mustache, he seemed not at all intimidated by the larger, younger man.

"This is my mission," he began in deceptively quiet voice. "I have selected the equipment carefully… for sturdiness, function, and fit. I have taken extreme measures to ensure that each piece is the best available commercial gear so that it can't be traced if any of you screw up and get yourselves compromised."

The Russian paused, contentedly watching McKean turn a unique shade of red, then continued. "I am the leading marine biologist in the NSA, and I was a master deep sea diver in the Russian Navy before you, sir, were born. I can still out swim, out dive, and out think any of you in the water. Mister, do you have any doubt who is in charge here?"

Joe saw that McKean's jaw muscles were bunched so tight he couldn't get the words to flow during his first attempt to answer Cherkov. Something muffled came out, then he carefully and articulately projected his response with staccato precision. "You're in charge, Cherkov. I will follow your orders. But that doesn't mean that I have to like your bullshit!"

With exaggerated assiduity, McKean undid his calf zippers, rolled down his booties, then redid them so the tops were on the outside.

Boris, ever the martinet, did not miss a beat. "These gloves go on the outside of your wrist zippers. Put them on next."

Mike winked at Joe. They were both thorough professionals, neither of them interested in raining on Cherkov's little parade. They understood McKean's objection, but didn't consider his bitch worth making an issue. They were there to do a job. Why make it any harder than it had to be? They also knew the Georgian defector’s father was a very famous Russian General in WWII.

The divers complied with the Russian's orders, and within minutes they had each pulled on their wet suit jacket, hood, leg knife, dive watch, weight belt, lights, wrist compass,  depth gauge, and BC.

Boris approved with a broad smile of satisfaction. "Your air tanks are dual eighties and are integrated into your buoyancy compensators," he said, turning on each tank in order to check the regulators and total pressure. He explained again how the transponder/marker beacon worked. He was definitely redundant, but he was thorough and knowledgeable.

Owen, Mike, and Joe sat on the edge of the port side ready to enter the water on command. Boris watched for the navigator's hand signal and looked at his watch. When the navigator held up three fingers, Joe, the first diver, would enter the water in three minutes. The mission timing called for each diver to enter the water at five-minute intervals, which
would place them about a mile apart on their westward journey.

Joe sat silently, preparing for the dive by doing deep breathing exercises. Every special operations or intelligence operative had his own method of handling stress at the beginning of a mission.

The First Mate held up three fingers.

"Joe, put on your mask," Boris said.

Joe continued doing his deep breathing. It felt to him as though a great deal of time passed before Boris put an arm on his shoulder and yelled into his ear: "One minute!"

While he watched his chronometer, Boris counted off the seconds. "Twenty...fifteen...ten...Go!"

He was now on target. He disconnected the tether from the transponder/marker beacon and prepared to drop it into the dark depths below him.

But something wasn't right. It suddenly struck him that the light was supposed to be flashing red. He was seeing white.

He turned off the unit and looked at it with his dive light. The lens over the bulb was, indeed, bright red.

He switched the unit back on and once again saw a white light.

"What the hell?"

How could it be white? The plastic was red; the light coming through the red lens cover should also be red. Only impaired visual acuity or an element in the water could cause a change in colors.

Joe switched off his dive light and pressed the illuminator on his watch. The small light clearly appeared red. The effect was not being caused by something in the water. How the hell could a red light appear white to his photoreceptors?

Slowly he covered the light with his right hand. His stomach knotted in protest. He could still clearly see the white light.

Joe shut his eyes, and the light faded. He fervently hoped that when he opened them the effect would be different.

It wasn't. He could still see the white light on the box that was covered by his hand.

The hell with it, he thought. He dropped the box.

Within a second the box disappeared into the opaque darkness of the sea.

The light still hovered beside him.

I'm hallucinating, Joe decided. His breathing rate accelerated. As he had been trained to do, he automatically increased the positive pressure on his buoyancy compensator. With the added inflation, he should slowly be floating toward the surface--but his depth gauge indicated that he was still descending.

The light continued to flash intermittently before his eyes. He turned away and kicked his flippers violently, struggling to get away from it.

Casually, it floated beside him, just out of arm's reach.

Joe unhooked his weight belt, dropped it, and repeated the evasive maneuver in several sequential directions.

Nothing changed. He was still sinking deeper into the ocean and the damn light, whatever the hell it was… was relentlessly tracking him, following him.

He pulled one of two emergency cords on his buoyancy compensator and heard the CO5 cartridge discharge with a swooshing sound. He should now be rapidly rising to the surface.

He wasn't.

With the wet suit on and a fully inflated buoyancy compensator, he should be floating up on the surface. Without the weight belt, he couldn't possibly be sinking.

Yet incredibly, he was.

His depth gauge was calibrated to a negative two hundred feet, and all of his gauges would function down to at least a negative five hundred feet. His gauge read one hundred feet. Still, he sank.

Joe was completely winded from the energy that he had exerted struggling to escape from the light.

I'm a dead son of a bitch, he thought, as his depth approached two hundred feet.

He fought to remain calm, acutely aware that he had exhausted all of his options. Perhaps he really was rising. Or better yet, maybe he was floating on the surface in the darkness. Desperate, disoriented, hopeful thoughts whirled in his head. He just needed to hang on until his mind cleared.

Or maybe he was in nitrogen narcosis, the state of stupor or confusion resulting from increased levels of soluble nitrogen in the blood stream, brought on by a diver being too deep for too long a period. Or not so deep for longer periods of time. If his depth gauge were defective, and he had gone a lot deeper than he thought while getting his target coordinates, then he might be experiencing the rapture of the deep. That was it. Nitrogen narcosis.

Joe checked his air gauge. He had less than one quarter of his available air supply remaining. His air would be used up long before his lights ran out of juice. It was not a comforting thought.

He switched off his dive light and could see nothing but the little white star shining in the blackness of the ocean. The glow appeared to be of the same intensity whether the dive light was on or off.

An relentless force sucked him deeper and deeper as precious minutes of reserve air flowed slowly from his tanks. Down into what should have been a place totally devoid of light, yet was, as he descended, glowing with faint illumination.

He shut his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them it seemed as if a distant light were becoming increasingly brighter and the small twinkling light were growing dimmer. Or was it moving farther away from him?

Joe knew that he was just along for the ride--whether the lights were real or imagined, whether he was experiencing euphoria, confusion, hallucination, or stroke.

The small light appeared to be drawn toward the larger illumination at an ever-increasing speed. It flashed momentarily as it seemed to merge with the more distant and much brighter light.

Joe succumbed to the panic, which assaulted the boundaries of his conscious mind, violently kicking his flippers and flailing his arms yet again. It was his last desperate effort to escape the inexorable force that drew him. Every nerve in his body screamed with the pressure of the ocean depths. The pain and fatigue were more profound than anything he had ever experienced. His body convulsed, jerking in spasmodic tremors; he felt his bladder void itself involuntarily. Then the air bubbles stopped.

Joe had a flash of clear thought: I am either dead or soon to be dead. A numb ringing began in his ears, masking the last vestiges of mental acuity. But the ringing almost had a musical theme.

If he had any orientation left, it would soon be completely gone. He couldn't tell if he were falling or rising, and his vision was blurred to the point where he couldn't read his gauges. The ringing in his ears had become a slow, gentle relaxing, low frequency beat.

The light flared brilliantly, filling the water around him with incredible brightness. Then it engulfed him.

Please, God, let me wake up from this nightmare!

As the last glimmer of consciousness deserted him, Joe was aware of small celestial beings observing him with quiet intensity. Beings with large, childlike heads, fathomless black eyes, and tiny, malnourished bodies.

They're hungry for me, Joe's oxygen deprived brain shot out whimsically. He felt the muscles of his face distort into a mask-like, grimacing parody of a smile.

Four-dimensional reality blurred into an abstract interpretation of what existed--and for the thinnest slice of linear time, Joe saw the light and knew it for what it was. Then he submitted to its irresistible pull and yielded to an ultimate sense of peace.

At the predetermined time, the forty-feet sailboat cruised past the pickup coordinates, but Joe Green wasn't anywhere to be seen. It would be daylight soon, and Boris Cherkov would have to decide whether or not to keep searching for the missing diver and run the risk of being discovered. Owen and Mike had completed their missions and had been recovered on schedule, but there was no sign of Green.

As the sun rose in the east toward Japan, Cherkov decided to pull out.

"Wait," Mike shouted, as the vessel begin the sweeping turn that would head them back towards Subic Bay. "I'm going after him."

Cherkov gaze followed a line out in the direction Mike was swimming and spotted the body, floating face up--unconscious--bobbing in the ocean swells.

Joe regained consciousness as Mike grabbed his arm and began to pull him toward the boat.

"Rapture," Joe said, gasping for air. "I'm going to rapture!"

"You're all right, buddy," Mike told him. "I've got you."

Onboard, Joe was laid out on the deck as they quickly made their departure from the East China Sea.

“Your friend is a fucking pussy Mike. He passed out from fear or incompetence and then just floated around in the water. It’s not because of him that our mission was accomplished. What a looser,” Owen said.

“You’re a fucking asshole,” Mike said in a burst followed by a right roundhouse to McKean’s head.

Cherkov said, ‘enough, we’ll analyze the results and find a reason to what has happened.

The Navy doctors dismissed Joe's strange experience as an unexplained blackout, something akin to rapture of the deep. Whatever had happened to Joe Green, he had somehow survived the ordeal.

Boris Cherkov couldn't understand how Joe had suddenly appeared just as they were about to leave. For hours there had been no sign of him--then, presto, there he was, floating on the water.

How could Joe Green have been in the deep for hours after his air tanks should have been thoroughly emptied? Cherkov shook his head, unable to figure it out.

But what had really bothered him was the fact that Joe's air tanks were full, and his transponder was missing.

. . . . .

Dawn was streaking the skies over Tonopah, Nevada. Joe had stayed with the promised one beer, but he had lost count of the shots of bourbon he had sloshed into the drinking glass.

Karen found him asleep on the living room couch when she got up. Her sudden flare of disappointment and anger were quickly extinguished when she saw that her husband's face was moist with tears. He had been crying in his sleep.

She covered him with a small Navajo blanket, and as she quietly began to make breakfast, she reviewed bits and pieces of what Joe had related to her about his troubling job.

Two weeks previously, Joe had taken a sabbatical from Loral and the Aurora Program at the Groom facilities. Karen knew that in the 1950's the government had built the super secret Groom Lake facilities in the north central part of the Nellis Range and designated it Area 51. Insiders referred to the Groom facilities as Dreamland. How apropos she thought, in light of Joe's recurring dreams. Karen generally found Joe's work fascinating, except for the annoying rumors of aliens and extraterrestrial technology that swirled around Area 51. Her husband's obsession with them had affected every area of their lives.

Joe whimpered in his restless sleep on the couch, struggling against the blanket, which entangled his legs and the unseen demons that beset his psyche.

"Dear God," Karen prayed silently, "please do something to lift those awful dreams from Joe's memory."

Instantly a compelling sense of peace flooded over her. Karen was surprised--she had never been particularly religious. Yet she now felt a strong conviction that her prayer had been heard and would be answered. Humming tunelessly, she dropped two pieces of bread into the toaster and bent to retrieve a carton of eggs from the bottom shelf of the refrigerator.

Karen hoped the nightmare spawned from her husband's chaotic memories and fevered dreams was nearly over.

It was just beginning.

CHAPTER 02 - Majestic Twelve

"Damn fools," Eli Jerrold said contemptuously, as he looked out of his Washington, D.C. office window at the crowd of demonstrators that had assembled on the mall near the Capitol.

"End UFO Secrecy! Stop the Cover-up! ET is here!" he read aloud from the placards and banners of the chanting multitude.

Jerrold, an exceedingly wealthy attorney and a former Director of the National Security Agency, shifted his weight in the large, overstuffed leather executive chair that gave him a clear view of the protesters. "If those simple-minded sheep only knew that they were asking," he sighed.

The demonstrators moved as a single entity, surging and waning in unison. The men and women seemed to be in a festive mood as they chanted antigovernment clichés about conspiracies and cover-ups. Here and there, people dropped out at random, yielding to the stifling humidity of the late summer heat wave.

Page St. John, a hippie philosopher turned New Age priest, was now head of the Church of the Celestial Prophet. It was he who had organized the march to demand a release of all UFO secrets allegedly held in the government's hidden vaults. He had shouted his demands through the Sony megaphone until he had grown hoarse.

General James Van Grouse, U.S. Air Force, retired, entered Jerrold's office with his usual exaggerated air of urgency. "Aren't those weirdoes becoming a bit troublesome, Eli? Perhaps we should encourage the police to disband them."

Jerrold shifted once again in the overstuffed chair, trying his utmost to find a comfortable position. He preferred an orthopedic chair, and his arthritic back agreed.

"It's the Labor Day weekend, Jimmy," Jerrold snorted derisively. "It's customary for the freaks and fanatics to assemble to shout their protests at this time of year."

Van Grouse sniffed and clucked his tongue. "I suppose so. But...."

"Quiet, please, Jimmy," Jerrold hushed the man. "I want to hear what that bastard St. John is babbling about now."

Page St. John, his voice rasping and dry, had lost none of his mesmerizing power over his followers, and the loudspeakers carried his message over the assembled masses and into Jerrold's office.

"Blessed is he that heareth and heedeth the prophecy of St. John. Know that the time has come to take on the cloak of the one true faith. I am Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the end, saith the Lord, which is and was and is yet to come."

"Since the dawn of humankind, you have been endowed by God with power and strength and greatness of spirit. You, whose ancestors were the very foundation of civilization, must suffer the indignity of having your elected leaders erect a barrier against the progress of the faithful. Your very own elected leaders are withholding from you the truth about the strangers in our skies, the UFOnauts who have visited our planet since the beginning. I call upon you to rise up against these tyrants who blaspheme against the most high, and who suppress knowledge from today's prophets. Take charge of your own destiny!"

Jerrold's practiced eye scanned the crowd milling around St. John's speaker's platform. Basically, the man attracted a mixture of UFO buffs, New Agers, new age religious types, the usual curious shoppers at the latest spiritual supermarket, and government conspiracy addicts--with a few stray Trekies and the disenfranchised thrown in for good measure. The New Age prophet's rap was a curious blend of Asian and Christian religions, combined with a little divine mysticism, seasoned with a heavy dose of UFOlogy. In Jerrold's opinion, the man was dangerous.

"...band together for strength in unity," St. John was rambling on. "In Revelation it is foretold that the time is at hand for the 144 thousand faithful to rise up and to embrace the Rapture, for the end of civilization is at hand. Behold, he will come from the clouds. Every eye shall see Him, and all kindreds of the Earth shall wail because of his wrath. The seventh seal will be opened in the year 2020, and the Four Horsemen--War, Revolution, Famine, and Pestilence--shall rule the Earth. This fast approaching Apocalypse will cleanse the evil from humankind forever, and it shall be called God's wrath."

Since the cold war had thawed, the liberal press, the electronic media, and the film industry had fought with frenzy to be the first to release classified information, confirmed or not. Eli missed the USSR as much as he missed booze in his diet. He often lamented the days when U.S. operatives could blame everything on the Reds, and the public would believe their lies.

Since the end of 1994, a disturbing trend had developed. Eli monitored with growing apprehension as respected news organizations addressed the subject of government spending on secret black programs. Ten years ago no one would have dared to acknowledge, either publicly or in print, the existence of such secret agencies as the NSA, the NRO, or God forbid, the MJ-12 Committee.

To make matters worse, the UFO controversy had been resurrected with a vengeance and tied in with some deep, dark government conspiracy. Now the UFO Believers group and Page St. John's Church of the Celestial Prophet were attracting the New Agers, the normal run of weirdoes, and, more disturbingly, a large following of average, middle-class people. The Church had even hired a Washington lobbyist.

“It is becoming a nightmare,” Eli groused. How much closer to the truth would these fanatic troublemakers get?

Eli didn't have a lot of use for religion in general. Cults tended to depart from conventional norms of society, and in his view, that was a form of anarchy. Even though he knew most cults were transient movements that tended to proliferate during periods of social unrest, the recent rise in militant antigovernment groups disturbed him greatly. Violent conflicts with the law were a byproduct of cults' isolation and distrust of society and its governments. If he had his way, he would put all the Sun Myung Moons, the Jim Joneses, and the David Koreshes in prison cells and throw away the keys, lest they turn into another anabaptist like John of Leyden. St. John's following had a phenomenal rapid growth in a short period of time, due in large part to the chaos of contemporary culture and its lack of strong political leadership.

Admiral Michael Sullivan, for many years Director of the CIA, had entered Jerrold's private office, and now stood peering out the window with a bemused grin on his face. "Shit! It looks like every UFO buff, antigovernment anarchist, shaved head Aryan, and fucking weirdo in the US of A is outside. Eli, I don't know why we tolerate this shit. These people are an impediment and an irritant to our course of action."

"Why, Michael," Jerrold scolded in mock righteous indignation, "they have a right to express themselves according to the First Amendment."

"First Amendment, my ass!" Admiral Sullivan roared. "Those dumb shits out there don't realize that the world as they know it would cease to exist if they got what they wanted. If it weren't for patriotic watchdogs like us, St. John's ass would be cosmic grass!"

Elden B. Neal, once chief assistant to the director of the FBI, had joined them. "I sometimes fantasize about what would happen to the general public if we told them the whole truth about UFOs. Just how would Joe Lunch pail and Betty Station wagon really handle it?"

Jerrold nodded toward St. John. "There's your answer. Apocalypse, revolution, famine, and pestilence would descend upon us, and all of the bulwarks of our once great civilization would collapse. There is fast approaching a time when we will have a false flag operation, an attack on America, where we can put in place laws that revoke most of our constitutional rights. Mark my word."

"And the Page St. Johns of the world!" Admiral Sullivan laughed. "What of his God, his Judgment Day, if we released all the files he screams about? What, indeed, would become of organized religions, the Pope, the Vatican? If that fool out there only knew the truth, he would be thanking his God that we are running interference for him."

Cover-ups and conspiracies are the ways of governments, religions, and powerful people, Eli Jerrold thought. He knew that the Vatican had, since its inception, kept ancient artifacts and writings hidden in their vast underground vaults, denying the outside world access to them. These controversial treasures of religious import were suppressed by the Vatican because they would damage the Church's credibility and cast doubt over their official doctrines and scriptures.

Eli often wondered if the faithful really wanted to know the truth about the origins of their beliefs. It was doubtful, he had decided. He felt the same way about the MJ-12's Program.

Eli spoke to no one in particular when he quoted a passage from his nearly photographic memory: "And I saw a new heaven and a new earth, for the first heaven and the first earth were passed away."

"Been listening to Page St. John too much, Eli?" Admiral Sullivan failed to suppress a smile.

Jerrold returned the smile, and then replied. "It's from the other St. John. The one who wrote the last book in the Bible. It's Revelation 21:1."

St. John's apocalyptic vision was Jerrold's worst nightmare. Jerrold was 72, a reformed alcoholic, arthritic, balding and overweight. His doctor thought he was a hypochondriac with more complaints than Abbie Hoffman.

He looked again at the mall across from the Capitol and observed the crowd of thousands. It was unlikely that even one individual in that teeming mass of men and women protesting a government cover-up of UFOs knew who the hell he was. Not a single one of them knew that it had been his responsibility as Director of the National Security Agency to keep the lid on the subject of UFOs. He had been associated with the NSA in one capacity or another since its founding by Executive Order of President Harry S. Truman on November 4, 1954.

Many years before he had gone with the NSA, he had been a bright and enterprising young captain with the forces of occupation in Germany. He had been at Peenemunde at the close of the war, a twenty year old prodigy engineer assigned to the War Department Intelligence group who had breached the super secret German research center.

He had entered the base with the infantry, looking for evidence of the mysterious "foo fighters" and other exotic aerospace vehicles that had plagued Allied aviators during the closing days of the war. He discovered numerous plans having to do with the construction of rockets, but nothing that dealt with the eerie aerial fireballs. His subsequent interrogations and debriefings of German, Japanese, and Allied military men confirmed his suspicions that the mystery objects had not been manmade.

Just before a former Nazi general died an unfortunate death by suicide in January of 1946, he revealed the secret location of a cache of gold bullion to Captain Jerrold. Always one to heed his own counsel, the young captain decided that the Nazi gold should remain a secret from his commanding officers, and it wasn't long before discreet investments had made him an extremely wealthy man. Now, fifty years later, Eli Jerrold was one of the wealthiest men in North America and no one knew it.

Until the end of the Cold War, NSA and its inner workings had been the best-kept secret in the government. It was the premier intelligence agency in the world, and yet the average citizen had no idea that it was larger than the FBI and the CIA combined in terms of personnel, resources, budget, and, most of all, power.

There were those who thought Eli Jerrold should have been forced to retire in the late l970's, but, damn it, he'd outlived or destroyed his opponents and kept his power until he was ready to leave active service in 1988.

General J.A. Stewart, once Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, and Chief Justice Artemus  Artabrae arrived at the same time. Now the six members of the top-secret group MJ-12 who had been available for an emergency meeting were all present in Jerrold's office.

"Sorry I'm late, gentlemen," General Stewart apologized, pausing to wipe the sweat from his forehead and cheeks. "I had to wade through that mob of nuts out there. If I had my way, I'd call out the National Guard and run those freaks off with fire hoses and tear gas."

Eldon Neal agreed. "I think the Capitol police force on duty was far too few in number to maintain proper order. The Guard should have been called. I also think this Page St. John character has been allowed to rant and rave for far too long."

"But General," Chief Justice Artabrae's voice dripped with sarcasm, "Eli's afraid we may violate the First Amendment rights of the good Reverend and his faithful followers. We can't allow that to happen, now can we?"

“Trust me, there will come a time where the apathy of the American people will allow us to take away all of their constitutional rights and they won’t even whimper,” Jerrold said.

Jerrold allowed a few moments of laughter, and then raised a hand for silence. He indicated that his fellow committee members should take a seat around the comfortable round table that had been equipped with bottled water, cigars, and small sandwiches.

The fate of human civilization rested in the hands of these powerful men, members of the MJ-12 Committee, who sat at the table. Or so they believed. Eli looked at the red-jacketed folder lying in front of him. He knew its contents by heart. He had been its primary author while in the position of Director of the National Security Agency, the DIRN-SA.

ULTRA TOP SECRET MJ-12                 EYES ONLY                     Page 01 of 03

PRESIDENTIAL ORDER

(Unnumbered Order)

President Ronald Wilson Reagan

(Authorized By Proxy)

REVISED CHARTER

MARS JUPITER - TWELVE COMMITTEE

February 14, 1987

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Presidential Order, February 14, 1987

By virtue of the authority vested in me as Chairman of the Mars Jupiter - Twelve Committee, an Ultra Secret Committee established by President Truman, with full consent of the permanent voting members of the Mars-Jupiter Twelve Committee, this Presidential Order by Proxy is established and ordered as follows:

1.  CHARTER:  There is hereby established the strategic group of key government personnel called the Mars Jupiter - Twelve Committee (referred to as, MJ-12) with authority to take any action, to the maximum extent possible, in relation to Foreign or Alien data, materials, information, technology, artifacts, and  Extraterrestrial Biological Entities (EBE), all hereafter referred to as Foreign Artifacts (FA), which may bear upon the national security of the United States of America.  Amendments to this Charter, and Foreign Artifacts materials and information shall be classified to the highest levels available to the US Government.  The MJ-12 committee's actions and directives will be referred to as "The  Program" outside the MJ-12 membership.

The MJ-12 Committee shall have sole United States governmental authority to direct each FA aspect or substance, and to make such FA available to the President and/or to each member of the MJ-12 committee, and to such departments and officials of the Government as MJ-12 Chairman may determine; and to carry out, when requested by the MJ-12 Chairman such supplementary activities as may facilitate the securing of FA important for national security not now available to the Government and direct the acquisition, use, disposal, storage, and research as deemed necessary for current and future national security of the United States.  All US laws, regulations, and directives are secondary to achieving these goals, not subject to the boundaries of the US proper, of providing for the integrity of the US national security and protecting the sanctity of the US Constitution.

2.  CONTROL:  The several departments and agencies of the Government and Department of Defense, as identified by the MJ-12 Committee, shall be notified by Departmental Directive to consider any FA as highly classified and alert the DoD Foreign Technology Division (FTD) immediately on the occasion of any incident, happenstance, or encounter with FA.  Directives will be developed by the MJ-12 Committee, the DoD, the DIRNSA and the President, as determined by the MJ-12 Chairman, detailing  coordination, handling, transportation, isolation, quarantine, security, research, storage, and disposal of any and all aspects of FA; make available to the MJ-12 Chairman any and all such reports of FA, or any other pertinent (undefined) requests relating to national security as may be requested from this date forward.

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The MJ-12 Committee Chairman has the authority to make any decision, without regard to Civil or Federal law, or take any action in order to provide for national security of the U.S.

3.  VOTING MEMBERS:  The Director of the National Security Agency (NSA) shall be the Chairman and the current President of the US the Co-Chairman, if the President is a member, of the MJ-12 Committee.  The MJ-12 Chairman has the authority to exclude unstable subsequent permanent members, including but not limited to the President of the United States.  The MJ-12 Chairman may appoint subsequent members to the MJ-12 committee, as may the Committee by majority consensus.  Each member must take an oath to the United States, and swear to abide by this Charter and the MJ-12 Chairman's directives; and to further provide plausible deniability, deny culpability, action, association of, by, and for this charter to any and all outside the permanent membership. Permanent voting members shall be selected from the highest ranks or positions from these various departments and agencies of the US Government: President or Vice-President (Executive), National Security Agency (NSA), Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI), Central Intelligence Agency (CIA), Secretary of Defense or Chairman of the Joint Chiefs (DoD), Military Chief of Staff (Armed Forces), Chief Justice of the Supreme Court or Attorney General's Office (Justice).  No "Elected" official shall be appointed without a majority vote of the MJ-12 Committee.  Religious or spiritual leaders shall be forbidden membership.

4.  NON-VOTING MEMBERS:  Additional members, up to twelve, may be chosen by the same method, for their appropriate political influence, skills, or industry position as non-voting members.    Non-voting members will not be privileged with information not directly needed to accomplish their intended goal, research, or objectives previously delegated by a MJ-12 voting member.

5.  BUDGET:  Within the limits of such funds as may be allocated to the MJ-12 committee, the Chairman may employ necessary personnel and make provisions for supplies, services, facilities, equipment, and as needed to provide for national security in relation to FA.  Funding will be acquired from DoD Black Budgets and supplemented from US Armed Force's intelligence and security programs at the discretion of the MJ-12 voting members.

Admiral Eli A. Jerrold, the Director of the National Security Agency, is hereby designated as permanent Chairman of the MJ-12 Committee, by Presidential Order, by Proxy.

Ronald Wilson Reagan, By Proxy    Eli A. Jerrold, Admiral (Ret)

President of the United States    Director of the National

THE WHITE HOUSE,                          Security Agency (DIRNSA)

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"I know you must all be wondering why I called an emergency meeting of all available committee members," Eli Jerrold acknowledged. "I  assure you, it was not so that we might gather and observe the protesters demanding the release of additional government documents and listen to another sermonette by our favorite fanatic, Page St. John."

The five men before him chuckled politely, but it was apparent that they wished him to cut to the chase.

"Gentlemen, NBC and Newsweek are both releasing classified information on the Aurora Program."

Neal, at age fifty-five the youngest member of the MJ-12 committee- -whose average age was seventy, raised his voice above the chorus of mumbled curses and gasps. "How much do they know?"

Jerrold glanced at his watch. "We'll know in about twelve minutes. NBC is featuring our Program on their popular series, Exploring the Unknown."

Neal shrugged. "So what? Popular Science, followed by a dozen other periodicals, has already brought our newest 'secret' reconnaissance aircraft out of the black and revealed that it was developed at the Edwards AFB Detachment 3 test facility at Groom Lake, Nevada."

Jerrold admitted that this was so; in fact, it was old news. "But NBC, Newsweek, and other network programs and newsstand publications are going to attempt to document our using alien technology to build our Mach 8 spy plane and a number of other Black Programs still in development."

Neal buried his head in his hands. His nine hundred dollar hand tailored suit could not hide his discomfort. "Oh, shit, shit. This is not good. What do we do?"

Jerrold shook his head. "I've already talked to the senior vice- president of NBC, who refuses to pull the segment. Says only the president of the network can make that decision, and he is off fishing somewhere in the Caribbean."

"Where the hell did they get their information?" Admiral Sullivan wanted to know.

"We have ascertained that it originated from an independent reporter named Blake Webster, who put the story together with the help of a number of informants."

Neal was certain that he had heard that name before.

Jerrold allowed that he probably had. "We've known about Webster's activities for about six years, but he appeared to be just another crackpot that nobody paid very much attention to--except the UFO buffs. He's worked for a half a dozen small town newspapers, done independent material for the wire services, worked for a few defense contractors as a technical writer. He's been working out of the Las Vegas area for the last couple of years."

"So how did this asshole get the goods on alien technology?" General Van Grouse asked, his left hand nervously rubbing the bald spot on the back of his head.

"Apparently some insiders talked...or he has a damn good spy network of his own," Jerrold said.

Chief Justice Artabrae was pale, and his hand shook as he poured some water into a glass. "Eli, shouldn't we bring the President in on this? I mean, President Truman set up the original MJ-12 committee in September of 1947, right after the alien bodies were recovered from Roswell, New Mexico."

Jerrold cut off the Chief Justice's argument. "We do not bring the President into any of this. You know I have been vehemently opposed to our keeping any President informed about our secret alien involvement since we made the mistake of letting Truman in on this in the first place."

General Stewart raised what he thought was a legitimate point of order. "We really did need Truman at the beginning to put the official imprimatur on things."

Jerrold shrugged. "Possibly. But you know that I argued against his involvement even then. And I was proven correct in my fears, when in order to smooth General MacArthur's ruffled feathers over being relieved of command in Korea, Truman confided in him and informed him of the greater threat from another world. Then what did that doddering old soldier do but blab to the New York Times that Earth must begin preparing for a war of the worlds?"

General Van Grouse agreed with Jerrold. "That was how far MacArthur could be trusted to keep a secret. He actually went around warning people that we were about to be invaded by beings from other planets. In 1962 when he addressed the graduating class at West Point and advised them to prepare to deal with the sinister forces of some other planetary galaxy, I thought for certain MJ-12 would be exposed."

Jerrold winced at the memory. "That's why I insisted we cut off all MJ-12 intelligence to the President after we made the horrendous mistake of bringing Eisenhower to inspect the alien craft at Muroc Dry Lake in April of 1954. Too many personnel at Edwards Air Force Base got a glimpse of the space vehicles and the alien crews. We had to plug many leaks after Eisenhower got his mind blown. That Kansas boy may have seen Paris, but he could never deal with seeing alien technology for himself."

General Stewart clicked the stem of his pipe against his bottom teeth in a brief moment of reflection. "Yes, from that time on, MJ-12 no longer existed as far as the President of the United States was concerned. We went deep underground and officially became a footnote in history. We gave the UFO nuts and the curious the Air Force's Project Bluebook to keep them quiet."

Chief Justice Artabrae was still not completely satisfied. "Jimmy Carter saw a UFO for himself. The UFO groups leaned heavily on him to launch an investigation into alleged government cover-ups."

Neal chuckled. "Yes, but he had the good sense not to push the matter once he was in office. Besides, the hostage situation in Iran provided  more than enough to keep him busy."

The Chief Justice shifted uncomfortably, then decided to speak up with another argument. "What about Ronald Reagan? He knew. I know he knew. Who told him?"

Jerrold stood his ground. "Reagan only thought he knew."

Chief Justice Artabrae was still not finished. "Reagan must have known when he spoke to Gorbachev about the threat to our planet from another species in the universe."

Jerrold was growing impatient. "Reagan was speaking hypothetically to the Soviet leader. He said their job, as peacemakers would be easier if Earth suddenly were threatened by an invasion from outer space. He said that humans would forget their petty differences if attacked by a common foe from another world. Believe me, Ronald Reagan had no actual facts about the alien technological trade off or MJ-12."

General Stewart growled contemptuously. "If only it was as fucking easy as Reagan thought! We would create mass panic if we announced to the general public that the aliens are not only among us now, but that they have always been with us!"

"What of Reagan's remarks in September of 1987 to the entire United Nations General Assembly that "an alien threat" was among us?" Chief Justice Artabrae persisted. "Who leaked that little tidbit to him?"

Jerrold's face was getting red with controlled anger. "The man was imaginative. Good Lord, he was an actor! But he was not informed of the workings of this committee. Nor will our present leader learn of our activities. But he might had some form of insider information"

"And just how the hell do we cover our asses when the President or a Senate investigation committee see tonight's telecast and want to know what the fuck is going on?" Eldon Neal wondered.

"We handle it like we always do," Jerrold said. "We simply lie. We blame it on someone else. We ridicule professionals and turn their “paid” peers against them. We find a scapegoat we can easily discredit. It's worked since Roswell, so why change."

Admiral Sullivan pointed out that finding a scapegoat would not be quite as easy, now that the Cold War had ended.

Jerrold was forced to agree. "I miss the dear old USSR as much as I miss sugar, fat, and booze in my diet. But we will find a way, gentlemen. We will find an answer, a way out of this fucking mess. We always do."

"There's never been this much information flying around the media before," Neal countered.

"You weren't an adult in the fifties or you wouldn't say that," the aged Artabrae said.

"Yes, but we didn't have fifty or more cable channels and the Internet flooding the average family of 2.5 televisions and 1.2 computers with an endless array of speculative crap on UFOs, government conspiracies, and aliens," Neal responded.

"One man's crap is another man's gospel," General Stewart offered.  I'm sometimes amazed at the small amounts of truth imbedded in the obfuscation they offer. The scene in "Independence Day" of the secret lab at Groom could have easily been the underground DARC laboratories in Area 51."

"Yeah, that was not the only thing that was even close to reality in the movie. And don't just we wish the solution was as simple as a computer virus. With their technology they can access and study any form of our communications and computer technology, whether encrypted or not. In the past, their vehicles have responded correctly to our aircraft IFF  radar identification interrogators. So don't you think they would know if one of their ships was out of commission for a long time and then reappeared without proper identification codes. Not a chance," Admiral Sullivan said.

How about those absurd parasitic spider looking arachnid things they show on "Dark Skies". First of all, it's a rip-off of "Aliens", and second, if the Grays have telepathic communications, then the first time any one of them were forced to host those things--every other Grey would know," Neal added.

Sullivan thought they looked more like a crustacean called a spider crab than an arachnid, but he didn't offer his opinion.

"That's true, especially since the "Grays" do use a telepathic form of communication. But, other aspects of their Majestic operation hit close to home at times. Even the "X-Files" hits the mark occasionally. Luckily, what started out a few years ago as curious inquiries by professional journalists and a handful of scientists has turned out to be a media circus. The more outlandish their themes become, the further from the real truth they will find themselves," Eli said.

Admiral Sullivan stood and began to open the wall panel that contained six television monitors. "It's time," he said as he switched on one of the sets.

"Damn it, wish we had some popcorn!" Artabrae suggested. He was serious.

NBC's Exploring the Unknown opened with a history of the UFO phenomena around the world. Acknowledging that most so-called "flying saucers" were found to be misinterpretations of natural phenomena, top secret military prototype projects, or simple misidentifications, the program then focused on a number of cases in which the sightings of unidentified aerial vehicles could not be so easily explained away. The third segment of the program featured interviews with former Air Force and commercial pilots who had close encounters with UFOS, followed by a physicist--his face darkened and his voice altered, who claimed to have seen space ships while working in Area 51 of the Nellis Range, and multiple astronauts who had witnessed UFOs. The teaser for the final segment announced that Blake Webster, an independent investigator, had provided Exploring the Unknown with astonishing video footage of a UFO and a top secret Air Force space vehicle.

"Video footage of a UFO?" General Van Grouse echoed. "What
in hell is he talking about, Eli?"

"Here's where we get clobbered," Elden Neal said, referring to the upcoming segment. "If they can produce as advertised. If not, it's all bullshit, and not to worry."

"It has to be bullshit," Jerrold said with full confidence. "But I wonder what they'll use to try to snow the gullible public?"

After what seemed to the MJ-12 committee members to be a small eternity of commercials, the segment opened with a pan of the desert, mountains silhouetted in the background, slowly sinking into dusk. Out of the dying embers of the sun, a dark shadow with a pulsating glow suddenly appeared above the horizon approaching in a blur from the west and turning, without banking or braking, making a massive G turn to the north. Then it came to a sudden stop and hung in the air above the desert, motionless.

The zoom on the camera enlarged the flat black craft so it appeared cigar-shaped from the side, then slowly rotated counterclockwise. The viewer could tell that the vehicle was triangular, appearing almost like a huge black Vicks cough drop in shape.

The narrator explained the evolution of stealth aircraft and spoke of the exotic materials used in such vehicles. He told of the Hillary platform, the Avro saucer, the Northrup wings, the SR-71 and 75, the Lockheed Skunkworks, and finally the F-117 and F-22 Stealth fighters and the B-2 Stealth bomber. He discussed what was required in reconnaissance aircraft and the remarkable materials used in such types of vehicles.

An explanation of radar and low observable stealth technology followed. The black triangle twinkled with red and green lights along its three leading edges, and the low-profile canopy became clearly reflective in a gleam of silver-blue.

"What you are witnessing," the narrator continued, "is a nuclear- powered prototype aerospace vehicle, which the USAF calls a platform, with indefinite loiter time. The TR-3B is a high altitude, and one stage to orbit, stealth, reconnaissance platform developed by the Top Secret Aurora Program. The Aurora is the most classified multi-vehicle aerospace development program in existence, and it is funded and operationally tasked by the NSA and the National Reconnaissance Office. And now, watch this!"

And then, seemingly from out of nowhere, and at a speed unmatched by the TR-3B, a huge, silver-blue triangular starship approached the prototype U.S. craft and came to a complete stop above it. A thin silver line of light glowed around the circumference of the massive ship, which dwarfed the TR-3B and blanked out the star filled night.

"Jesus!" General Stewart nearly choked on his pipe stem. "It's one of theirs!"

"How the fuck did they get that video?" Admiral Sullivan demanded of whomever might have an answer.

"My God," Artabrae moaned.

"Shut up and listen!" Jerrold ordered.

"What you are seeing now is an actual alien spacecraft from another world," the narrator proclaimed. "Many UFO investigators have claimed that since the late 1940's certain select military and government scientists have been working side by side with extraterrestrial intelligences in an exchange program in which alien technology has been bartered for certain artifacts of Earth. It is further maintained that such scientific alien/Earth interaction has occurred at secret installations north of the Nevada Test Site at the Nellis Range, or Area 51, also referred to by insiders as Dreamland. In this amazing film footage of an extraterrestrial spacecraft, we have proof of these allegations. Our government and military scientists have been working secretly with aliens in order to accelerate the timetable of Earth technology."

"Look at the size of that mother," Neal said in awe. "I've only seen pictures of it before."

"It's as if it suddenly appeared there to mock us," General Stewart said.

"Or to warn us," Chief Justice Artabrae suggested.

Everyone seated around the table in Eli Jerrold's office shot random glances at the former director of the National Security Agency, each trying to read something from his body language and changes in expression.

Eli held his tongue, but his mind raced ahead forming plans for possible actions that could be taken to mitigate the severe repercussions of this dreadful security leak.

As the camera held fast on a blowup of the alien space vehicle, the narrator continued: "Our confidential sources state that an even more secret area exists,  just east and south of Groom Lake. Here, according to informants, an ultra secret group of the shadow government, known as MJ-12, has been directing and funding research with alien technology, right under the very noses of unsuspecting military personnel working on more conventional projects. The facility is called DARC.”

The frozen picture of the UFO on the television screen suddenly dissolved into live video footage of the alien craft soaring off at speeds and sharp angle turns that lay far beyond the technology represented by the advanced top secret US TR-3B.

"We've been incorporating alien technology from reverse engineering, so when will our aircraft be able to maneuver like this remarkable vehicle?" the narrator asked. "And are we watching a captured alien craft under our control? Or an extraterrestrial vehicle under the control of an alien crew?"

"Jesus Christ," Admiral Sullivan wheezed through clenched teeth. "How the fuck did Blake Webster get hold of that film?"

General Van Grouse was furious. "We'll see to it that every asshole at NBC associated with this program is put in jail...until hell freezes over."

"Can't do it," Chief Justice Artabrae said firmly. "They will say the program is intended only as speculative entertainment. They'll air a disclaimer as to the factual authenticity of the video tape."

"Hey, guys," Elden Neal cut off their discussion. "Listen. Now they’re trying to rouse the ire of the American taxpayer."

The narrator began an impassioned wrap-up:

"Our sources estimate that up to 35% of the SDI funding was siphoned off to provide primary expenditures for the Air Force's most secret "Black Program". The Aurora Program’s TR-3B reportedly cost five billion per vehicle, and only three two hundred feet wide prototypes have been produced to date, to our knowledge. Rumors have it that the production model of it will be 600 feet wide. Several other smaller Remotely Piloted Vehicles and Independently Piloted Vehicles have been built and tested using this advanced alien technology. What this tax payer wants to know is whether a five billion or five thousand million dollar expenditure for such exotic military toys can be justified during  peace time?"

"I also want to know how much of the tax dollar has been spent on exploiting alien technology since the late 1940's. Is this why our nation has been moving deeper and deeper into debt? And if we do have access to the technology of an advanced super science, who says the military gets to keep it all for themselves? This same technology that produces vehicles for military intelligence and our new space fleet could also revolutionize civilian air and space transportation, thus developing tens of thousands of jobs and thereby helping to reduce our trade deficit. Not only that the closest kept secret is of near free renewable energy that could change and save the world. How long, Mr. and Mrs. Tax Payer, do you want to support thirty-five billion dollars being spent annually by the Defense Department on the Black budget? And, in the final analysis, are we supporting E.T.'s long-distance calls home to Alpha Centuri?"

"That's enough of that horseshit!" Admiral Sullivan shouted, advancing toward the television set and angrily snapping it off. "I'd love to know how that liberal anarchist puke Webster got such a good video of the craft."

Chief Justice Artabrae turned to Eli Jerrold. "What are we going to do?"

Jerrold smiled almost beatifically and answered in a calm voice. He was still very much in control of the situation. "Above all, we keep our heads and don't overreact. As long as we remember who we are and what we stand for, I am confident that we can effect proper damage control, gentleman. As always the primary objective of the MJ-12 committee is to limit and control public information regarding alien technology and intervention."

"First of all, we inform our contacts at CBS, ABC, CNN and Fox to suggest on all of their most significant newscasts that the video footage was an obvious hoax. Our people at the wire services will be provided with a news release stating that Blake Webster has long been known as a true believer in UFOs and he used some of his Hollywood contacts to provide him with some excellent UFO type special effects to prove the ‘reality’ of aliens walking among us."

General Van Grouse liked Jerrold's plan so far. "Hell, Eli, you're absolutely right. This is the age of Independence Day, Star Wars, Close Encounters, 2001 Space Odyssey and all the rest of those weird science fiction things. The public is used to seeing a hell of lot more convincing special effects than they saw for real on that video!"

Jerrold paused to sip a glass of mineral water. "The public's main concern about our using any kind of advanced technology is that it might be radioactive and dump nuclear waste on them. We will tell our people at all the Department of Defense branches to leak disinformation about its use of nuclear power in aerospace vehicles as prohibitively dangerous and impractical to pilots and the public in general. That's what the public will want to hear--and that's what we'll tell them."

Eli knew that the government had to be sensitive to the public's irrational fear of nuclear powered aerospace vehicles because the Russian nuclear powered satellite, Cosmos 954, crashed and littered radioactive debris over Canada in 1978. All that was required was just another plausible lie to distract the public from the truth. And the truth was the US had many nuclear powered subs, aircraft, and satellites, not to mention some serious black program aircraft.

Neal nodded his head vigorously. "Good, good, Eli. Then we'll track down the leak that resulted in that untimely and unauthorized video."

Jerrold said that he would take care of that problem.

"I'll call our old friend Carl Sagan, our official UFO debunker, and see about getting him on with Ted Koppel or Tom Snyder," Admiral Sullivan said.

Jerrold looked pleased. "That's a damn good idea, Sully. Do it!"

General Stewart also rose to the challenge. "I'll fax our folks within the civilian UFO groups to start spreading the rumor that Blake Webster is a CIA agent. They love to spread that shit about each other. They're always denouncing each other in those groups." Several in the room nodded and chuckled.

"Blake Webster isn't the only one involved. According to Agabarr, our inside security man at Area 51, he suspects a scientist named Carlton Farr was involved in this latest compromise. A phone tap has verified that Farr talked to Webster on at least one previous occasion. Another man may or may not be involved--a Loral employee with a Top Secret clearance working on the SR-75 at Groom who unexpectedly took a leave of absence two weeks ago and is reported to have developed a serious drinking problem. This man, Joseph Green, tried to contact Farr at the Brooks Advanced Research Center in San Antonio without any luck, as Farr has recently retired. I'll see that they are watched closely and handled as necessary." Every member knew Eli's use of the word ‘handled’ was pretty much a Carte Blanc to do anything.

In closing, Jerrold praised the men as though he were a satisfied schoolteacher grading his students' homework. "Good going. I know you'll keep coming up with more great ideas.  We'll soon put a cap on all of this. In no time at all, we'll be laughing about it."

On his way back to his mansion outside of the city, Eli Jerrold reflected on the new challenge that had been placed before MJ-12. The dedicated men on the committee unquestionably were the modern counterparts of the nation's early patriot leaders. It was they, just a noble handful of stalwart guardians of the American way, who truly knew what was best for the country had since 1947!

As soon he arrived home, he would immediately call Colonel Ty Trent.  Trent, a decorated Marine Special Operations and intelligence officer, had worked directly for him at the NSA, and he knew the workings of the NSA and the military better than anyone other than Eli, himself. Trent was a man of action who affected positive results in a timely manner; and unofficially of course, he still took care of awkward situations for Jerrold and MJ-12.

As special assistant and Deputy Director to the current DIRNSA, the NSA Director, Trent was a key member of the MJ-12 committee. Trent was Eli's intermediary between himself and operatives like Agabarr, adding a layer of protective insulation. It was Trent who came up with the idea of having NASA come forward with "startling new evidence of life on Mars and water on Mars."

"It will make the average American citizen believe that we, the government, are being honest and open about our space discoveries," he had said.

Trent did a damn good job of plugging leaks. Especially the big ones.

CHAPTER 03 - Joe's Search Begins

Joe Green lined up four shots of Cuervo in front of him on the bar, then carefully selected one of the glasses and drank it down past his bushy mustache. He achieved this movement with the smooth action that came from lots of practice. He had dispensed with the customary lime and salt years ago, deciding that they were an unnecessary accouterment to his purposeful imbibing. In the background buzz of shrill voices, shifting feet, alcoholic laughter, and the drunken babble of a few loudmouthed rednecks, Joe could hear fifties' music pulsating from the ancient jukebox in the corner of the Pilot Club. He often drank at the Pilot, a bar frequented by retired military veterans, government contractors, and active duty types who worked at the Air Forces' Top Secret Nevada Test Site Nellis Range and Tonopah. Work was rarely talked about even amongst close friends and on those occasions it was done in whispers. He recognized several of the regulars, but no one he wished to talk to.

Joe watched as his cigarette burned to a stub… along with the ashes of his promise to Karen that he had quit for good. The last trail of smoke drifted over his fingers and up into the stubble bristling his fair-complected cheeks.

He downed another shot of Cuervo, and then followed it with a hearty swallow of a Corona. He was drinking to keep his nervous stomach quiet before he left Tonopah and drove in the darkness to Las Vegas. He knew he didn't drink to forget. Hell, he had forgotten so much of his life that he wasn't certain of the memories he had left. A tear formed at the corner of his left eye. Embarrassed, he roughly wiped it away with the back of his hand. Shit, his self- control was really going to hell. He knew he was becoming massively depressed.

He still didn't understand what had happened to him earlier that evening when he was watching the television program, Exploring the Unknown with his wife and son. He remembered seeing the incredible video of film of the alleged alien spacecraft zooming up to the prototype TR-3B space platform and reconnaissance vehicle. This was one rumor he had heard and know was certain it was true. He had actually spotted a very large triangle vehicle between Tonopah and Groom last year but was uncertain what it was. If that rumor was true, then what others might be true also? Then his mind was off somewhere in a kind of dream memory.

He was in the Green family automobile on a night in June of 1960. He was seven years old and crammed into the back seat of the old Buick between large boxes tightly packed with the family’s belongings. His mom and dad sat up front. They were moving from Americus, Georgia to San Antonio, Texas. Pop was out of work again.

Joseph Gordon Green had worked as a carpenter, a livestock wrangler, a farmer, and an endless list of other semiskilled jobs. Joe knew that his father was smart enough, even personable at times, but he just couldn't seem to land a good job. He blamed it on bad luck. When Joe Sr. had too long a stretch of bad luck, he could become abrasive, short-tempered, and very impatient. These mood swings and periods of unemployment seemed to coincide with his bouts of heavy drinking.

Joe remembered the night, that strange night of the light.

Pop preferred driving in the coolness of the summer evenings. Everything the family owned had been packed into the big, black four door Buick that was still caked with red clay and dust… the last vestige of rural living in southern Georgia.

"We're going to have our own place in San Antone," his father said loudly, repeating their family mantra for better times. "No more living like a bunch of damned sardines in a can."

Joe couldn't imagine what it would be like to be in a house without Mom, Pop, and his aunt, uncle, and cousins all under one tin roof. What he wondered was, how could they afford a bigger place when Pop was out of work. Joe had learned early in life not to get his hopes up.

He couldn't remember ever meeting his mother's parents. His mom, Mary Katherine, referred to them as, "your grandparents, the Whittles." His father referred to them as, "your holy roller grandparents." Joe was not at all sure what a holy roller was, or why his mother took such offense at the words.

Joe had no idea what time it was. He would doze off, lulled by the motion of the car and the unrelenting boredom, then be jerked awake by a rut in the road, or by his father cursing loudly at some "damn, stupid, lousy driver." Pop pretty much preferred kids to be seen and not heard, and he seemed to feel the same way about women, especially his wife.

When Joe opened his eyes just before it happened, he remembered yawning and noticing that they were driving through heavily wooded hill country.

His mom was talking in hushed tones, more or less enumerating their options for work, housing, school...survival in general when they arrived in San Antonio.

Joe listened with little interest, surveying the scene through drowsy eyelids, until Pop let loose some sarcasm about Mom's holy roller parents and a shrill argument flared for three or four minutes. That brought him fully awake.

Because there were no streetlights, Joe could look up at the night sky and see countless stars. He liked that. He would lay his head back on the wide shelf behind the overstuffed back seat. The large rear window of the Buick became his own personal skylight, providing him with a clear view of the heavens above and the outside world passing away in the distance behind them.

But he didn't like the smoke from Joseph Gordon Green Sr.'s cheap cigar that wafted around inside the car and seemed directed by some unseen hand to crawl up inside little Joe's nostrils, enhancing his propensity to motion sickness.

In fact, when he first noticed the strange red glow outside the car, he thought maybe he was getting dizzy again from the cigar smoke and starting to see things.

No, clearly, something off in the distance, something in the woods, was moving toward the Buick.

A whitetail buck ran from the underbrush, startled by the light. Joe watched the animal frantically charge around until it ran head-on into a large tree, buckling both forelegs to the ground.

"Mom, Pop, look!"

His mother glanced over her shoulder. "What is it, Sweetie?" She always called Pop, Honey, and little Joe, Sweetie.

"Look in the trees...there!"

The whitetail was awkwardly rising to its feet.

"Yes, Sweetie, it's a deer."

"No, Mom, the light. Look at the...."

"You act like you've never seen a damned deer before," Pop huffed from the side of his mouth and dislodged ashes into his lap.

"The light scared the deer, Pop," Joe said, pointing at the red glow.

"Of course," his father nodded. "The car's headlights scared it."

Suddenly his mom spoke in an alarmed tone. "Wait, Honey, I see what Joe means. Look at the trees. There's a red glow in the forest. You don't suppose there's a forest fire, do you?"

The senior Green was growing weary of the distractions to his peaceful night driving, but he knew that his wife was not easily alarmed. He slowed the Buick by lifting his foot off the accelerator and coasting silently down the dusty back road.

Joe's excitement grew, for now both of his parents were looking at the deep red light filtering through the trees.

"I don't think it's a fire, Kathy," Pop said, always having to sound authoritative.

"What is it, Pop?" Joe remembered being frightened for no reason he could verbally express. “Look, the deer frantically ran head long into that tree and knocked itself down.”

The car coasted along at about fifteen miles per hour. The light's deepening reddish hue brightened.

Joe hated to concede to his wife that he might be wrong, especially in front of little Joe, but he said in a thoughtful voice that the light could be a fire. "Probably just some farmer burning trash or some brush."

"Pop, look it's getting brighter!"

"Honey, it is. It is getting brighter. And it's coming closer to us."

"Just calm down, you two," he said, assuming the calm, in control position expected of a father. "We're safe."

And then the car's engine stalled and its headlights and panel lights were extinguished.

Joe remembered the red glow coming nearer and nearer the stalled Buick that sat all alone in the middle of nowhere. The light… bright, blood red, pulsating, foreboding, filled the forest, consuming every shadow in its path.

And then it was inside the car.

Joe could still hear his mother screaming first...followed by his father's coarse shout.

Then he remembered only the light.

Joe wiped the cold alcohol sweat from his forehead and into his receding blond hair. It was always those old memories, the memories that were at times vague illusions and at other moments vividly real.

Earlier that night, as he had sat with his family watching television and had seen the UFO, the alien craft from another world or dimension, he had entered a weird, trancelike state. He was seeing the light again. The light that had lured him to the ocean depths. The light that had engulfed him and his parents when he was a boy of seven. The light that haunted his dreams every night.

Only the pressure of Karen's trembling hands on his shoulders had dragged him back to consciousness. "Where did you go, honey?" she asked, her eyes searching his face with concern. "You left us there, for a few minutes. You really scared us."

"Yeah, Dad," Kevin wanted to be assured. "You all right?"

Joe looked at the faces of his wife and son. He had always been their anchor; he knew both depended on him for security. Financial, of course, but it went deeper than that. He was the head of the family, the one who set the standards and made the major decisions. Now he was sinking, and he wasn't sure if he could even take care of himself. He knew this could not go on. All of his life he had handled his fears and insecurities, not letting them stand in his way, greatly succeeding in his career and with his family in spite of the dreams.

But now these...memories...or whatever the hell they were, had begun to encroach on his life with his wife and his son. Whatever had been simmering just beneath his consciousness was now threatening to boil over and engulf everyone he held dear.

If he were to remain sane, he must discover the cause. It was as if something in his brain, some bizarre timing mechanism, some psychic alarm clock, was set to go off very, very soon, and he was afraid that whatever it would destroy him and his family.

Joe sat up abruptly and faced Karen and Kevin. He told them that he loved them both very much, but they would have to trust him. He had to get some more pieces to the puzzle that had for so long complicated his life- -before the damned mystery destroyed all of them. He had to leave them for a while.

Somehow, he could not explain why, Joe knew that the renowned scientist and eminent theoretical propulsion expert Dr. Carlton Farr had the answers he wanted. Joe had met him at a propulsion symposium a year before, and he had sensed that the man knew a lot more about the Ultra Top Secret, "black" government programs than he let on.

Joe headed toward the master bedroom and pulled a small suitcase from a closet. He tried to explain to Karen why he had no choice other than to pursue his personal demons. He would drive to Las Vegas this very night and fly out of McCarren the next day to San Antonio, where he had recently learned that Dr. Farr lived after am early retirement from the Brooks Advanced Research Center. He assured her that they had plenty of savings to see them through his leave of absence from the Loral Corporation, but he could see that she was still concerned.

"I'm not lying, Honey," he assured her. "If I don't get some answers soon to what's been happening to me, I will crack up completely, and I'll be absolutely no damned good to anyone."

Karen's eyes misted with tears. "I understand...at least I think I do. I want you to do whatever it is that you have to do. But then hurry back home to Kevin and me."

Joe knew damned well there was no way Karen could understand his inner turmoil and pain, but she was just too loving and too supportive to respond in any other way. Even so, with her approval, the cobwebs in his head seemed to clear a bit, and he felt stronger emotionally than he had in a long time.

Joe packed quickly, pausing only to bestow a reassuring smile that he did not feel on Karen as she handed him the necessary items he had overlooked in his haste.

"Just believe in me, Honey," he asked her. "I love you and Kevin more than anything in the world. But I can't live like this, constantly wondering if I'm going crazy, being eaten up by whatever the hell is happening to me. I feel like I'm only half here… and I want to be all here, all the time, for both of you."

He was very quiet as he held his wife and his son hard against him. A large part of him was afraid to leave, but he knew that he truly had no choice. He finally walked out the door, promising to keep in close contact as his journey unfolded.

And although he left with Karen's promise to keep believing in him, he could not believe in himself without heading for the Pilot Club to fortify himself with alcohol until the bar closed. It was necessary, he felt, before he embarked on his quest into the unknown.

"Hey..."

His mind wandered off in the distance, and his grasp of his immediate surroundings was blurred by the alcohol and his melancholy thoughts.

"Hey, Joe..."

Joe was slightly startled until he recognized the old fellow standing across the small bar table from him.

"Joe, mind if I pull up a chair and join you?"

"Sure," he paused for a moment, then the name came to him, "Red, have a seat."

Joe had seen Red sitting at the end of the bar near the phones and restrooms earlier. He wasn't the best with names and alcohol tended to exacerbate this flaw.

"Can I get you a drink Joe?" Red said, sliding the wooden chair back and taking his seat.

"No, I have to drive to Las Vegas still. Just having a few to calm my nerves and collect my thoughts."

"Must be a bad case of the nerves my young friend," Red said, motioning with his beer bottle towards the half dozen empty shot glasses and full ashtray.

"Yeah, bad day I guess."

"Bad day? I've had a few of them.

"Actually..." Joe offered, hesitant at first, "it's more like a bad year."

"Well, life can be hard at times. From my experience, good always follows bad."

"Optimism? Haven't had much of that lately either."

Joe really didn't want company, but on the other hand he was tired of thinking about his own sorry mess. He had seen Red a number of times in the couple of years that he had frequented the Pilot Club, and even had a couple of beers with him. Surprisingly he didn't know a lot about him. He seemed to be the sort who was a good listener, the kind of person you could spill your guts to and who wouldn't be judgmental afterwards. He's retired, Joe thought. Red had said he did a little mining, a little prospecting, and sold rocks and gems to lapidary shops throughout Nevada.

"I know this isn't none of my business, but are you in some kind of trouble, Joe? Like at work or with the law?"

The question seemed out of place to Joe. "Trouble? I don't think so. I'm on a leave of absence from Loral, and I've got some things to work out at home, but neither of those things have anything to do with the law."

"Are you getting a divorce?"

"No, I sure hope not. I don't think my wife is happy about me taking a leave of absence, but I don't believe things are that bad. We have a son, and she's a wonderful woman."

"Are you involved in any kind of lawsuit or litigation?"

"No. Not at all. Why are you asking me this?" Joe was getting perturbed at the personal questions.

"The last time you were in here, four nights ago correct?"

"Yes."

"As I was saying, the last time you were in here, I was also here. A man was here that night hanging around. Then he came back the next afternoon and was asking questions of the bartender and two of the bar maids..."

Where is this peculiar conversation going, Joe wondered. "Okay, I'll bite. What does that have to do with me or my personal problems?"

"Well, Joe, he was asking about you."

"The hell he was...what kind of questions?"

"Who were your friends, how much you drank, how often you came in, did you come in with or leave with any women--those kind of questions."

"Did you know who he was?"

"Not then. I found out that he is one of those Wackenhut security assholes. I know they keep a close eye on you guys that work in Area 51, but this was different."

"Different how?"

"More personal, more intense, more threatening than their usual games. This guy wasn't the low level rent-a-exGI type."

"What do you think it means?"

"Someone is watching you. You are in some kind of situation, surely this isn't a total surprise to you?"

"The hell you say. If you didn't look so serious, I'd say you're pulling my leg. I mean, why... what could any of those guys possibly want with me? Are you sure?

"One hundred percent sure."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because he came in right after you and has been sitting back there next to the cigarette machine in the dark. He hasn't taken his eyes off you for a minute."

"I... what..." Red grabbed Joe's arm.

"Don't look around."

"Walk up to the bar and ask for a book of matches and buy us each a beer. When you come back, check him out."

"Seems a little melodramatic," Joe said, trying to sound skeptical.

"Perhaps. You tell me."

"Okay. A Bud light?"

"No, don't buy me any of that pisswater. I want a regular Bud," Red laughed.

"No problem," Joe said standing, resisting the urge to turn and look over his left shoulder.

Red leaned back in his seat and watched Joe walk to the bar. This is crazy. I think Red is drunker than me. I've had a Top Secret special access security clearance for over twenty years. I've haven't had even a speeding ticket in fifteen years. I know they check us out every once in a while. Seeing if we are hanging around with subversives, talking about our jobs, gambling, doing drugs, that sort of thing. Just to ascertain if there is a security risk. Could it be my drinking? Could that be it? He wondered. Joe ordered two beers and started to turn around, then remembered the matches. The cute barmaid, a buxom little blond with painted on blue jeans and no bra under her tight T-shirt, smiled and pointed to the cigarette machine. One glance at her and Joe knew she got lots of tips.

"Honey, the paper matches are in that plastic bucket on the cigarette machine," she said pointing towards the back of the bar. Her nametag read Patti.

"Oh...thanks a lot, Patti." Joe only glanced at the machine. He walked nonchalantly back to his table and placed the beers down.

"Hey, got to grab some matches, Red," he said openly.

Up until that point, the man in the black slacks and dark blue long sleeved shirt hadn't taken his eyes off of Joe. Then when Joe turned towards the machine, the man abruptly picked up a menu and stuck his nose into it. Joe, bolstered by the liquor, and increasing curiosity, sauntered towards the matches. The man, about 38 years of age, tall, muscular, clean shaven, and darkly tanned, seemed to shrink into the shadows. Naw, just my imagination. Red's really got me going, he thought. But, when he reached the old cigarette machine and picked up the match bucket, they made momentary eye contact. The man had the eyes of a hawk, a predator. Joe smiled slightly and nodded, something he would naturally do. The man seemed extremely uncomfortable and looked back into the menu. It was at that moment Joe knew without any doubt; this man was watching him. Joe turned towards Red and his stomach turned the opposite direction, gripped by acid. A wave of unexpected nausea touched him briefly. For some reason Joe felt that he had met the man somewhere before.

Red looked closely at Joe before he spoke. "Now you understand...don't you?"

"Yes, I'm sure you are right. But why?"

"Only you can answer that question, my friend."

"Is it because of my drinking?"

"Has it affected your work?"

"No. I've gotten excellent reviews and was recommended for a promotion and raise just before I gave notice."

"You're driving a light blue Toyota."

It wasn't a question--a statement of fact. "Yes, how...?"

"Joe," he responded without Joe finishing the question, "I watched the man look into the windows of your car after you came in... Why?"

"There's nothing in there except a piece of luggage and a small carry-on bag."

Red sat back, a look of enlightened knowing.

"What? What are you thinking?"

"Where are you going Joe?"

"I'm going to San Antonio. There's a scientist there who I want to talk to."

"Would your employers, Loral, or the DoE, or the military, or even Wackenhut approve of your trip?"

"I don't see... Am I that obtuse? It's a personal matter, Red. I've had some experiences that have bothered me for most of my life. I think this man Farr may have some answers. He's a theoretical propulsion scientist, one of the best."

"Do you think the government would object to you or any other citizen having this information you seek?"

The question floored Joe. Contrary to popular belief, Joe knew from experience that the government kept the public in the dark about many things. Human rights and Constitutional guarantees were subverted without thought by the government, which had become much too unaccountable to the public.

Red read Joe's facial and body language. "Well then, you have your answer. Now, the question is, what are you going to do about it?"

"What can I do? I don't think what I'm doing or where I'm going is any of their business."

"You could discretely make your departure.

"Just how does one make a discrete exit when he's being followed by a professional security man?"

"Let me think..." Red said.

Joe felt a hole burning in his back. He knew the unnamed man was watching him closely. How could he have been so unobservant? Hell, he had worked with Special Forces, Special Operations, and on several covert missions. Had he lost his edge? Damn, he was even more upset with himself than ever.

Red pulled something from the worn fatigue jacked he wore over a tan work shirt. It was a key ring.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm going to give you," he paused to work a worn key from the ring, "this key."

"And what do I do with it?"

"You're going to wait until that man goes into the john and then you're going to take this key and your luggage and drive away in that white Ford truck parked around back. It's got gas in it and runs just fine."

"What's going to keep him from following me, and what makes you think he's going to go to the rest room?"

Red slid the key across the table and motioned to the barmaid. The perky little blond came over and put her hand on Red's shoulder. "What's up guys? Another round?"

Red spoke softly to her, but Joe could gear only bits and pieces of the conversation. She raised her eyebrow in a high arch and smiled so big all her teeth showed.

"What?" Joe mouthed.

"Wait..." Red said, relaxed.

The waitress came back quickly with a pitcher of beer. She had another pitcher full of red beer on her tray."

"Listen, you must do this quickly. A friend of mine, a mechanic, is as we speak disabling your friend's white Jeep Cherokee. As soon as he enters the bathroom, I'll give you the signal. Get out of here as fast as you can, and I assure you, you won't be followed."

"How can you possibly know..." Joe stopped in mid sentence. Red had subtly raised the key ring from the table and a single black skeleton key was held between his thumb and forefinger.

"This old building has locks on all the doors. This one fits all the inside ones...including the bathroom. And, if you ever noticed, there's no windows in the bathroom."

Joe smiled back. "I'll be damned. You're something else. How can I repay you?"

"You can't. Just have a safe trip and get back and take care of that family of yours."

Joe couldn't have known that Red was an anarchist of sorts, a rebel at heart, and a prankster who was as bold as any man outside of prison could be.

"Get ready," Red said.

Joe adjusted his position so that he could see out of the corner of his eye.

The waitress was at the cigarette machine, trying with one hand to work the lever. All of a sudden, the tray she was carrying, laden with the pitcher of beer and tomato juice, tilted--and as she tried to catch her balance, it slid perfectly towards the seated man. In an instant the whole pitcher of sticky red beer was all over the man. He yelled a number of obscenities and screamed insults at the girl. Two burly men at the pool table came to her aid. The local mine workers weren't pleased with the stranger's treatment of their favorite bar maid. The man threw up his hands in disgust and headed towards the bathroom.

"Now, Joe." Red spoke quietly.

Joe stood as the bathroom door shut behind the man who had been so intently watching him.

"Patti," Red said above the ambient noise, just below a yell. When she turned, he tossed the key ring towards her.

As Joe exited the bar, he looked back and saw Patti turning the lock of the bathroom door. Red was again sitting at the table, smiling smugly.

Now he was headed toward Las Vegas in Red's old truck. He had even more to think about than when he left home. He still planned to catch the first available flight to San Antonio. As he drove into the night, his stomach slowly churned with bile. His tall frame shifted uneasily from nervous energy and tension, and too much liquor on an empty stomach.

His instincts told him that the answers he sought From Dr. Carlton Farr could open a Pandora's box that he might not be prepared to confront. But at this point in his chaotic and confused life, Joe's need for answers was stronger than his fear of confronting the consequences. The bile rose without warning and flooded his mouth. He just managed to pull off the road before it spewed out of him like a geyser. "Too much excitement can be a bad thing," he said to himself in disgust. The foul tasting vomit emptied his body of the alcohol, but it was unable to purge the emotions that contaminated his soul.

It was then that he fully realized that he could no longer live without knowing what had manipulated and so profoundly affected his life since he had first encountered the light.

CHAPTER 04 - Silver Dollar Respite

Joe looked at the odometer and mentally calculated… 215 miles from the Pilot club to the Showboat Casino. It had been almost midnight when he left the bar, and the trip had taken him three hours and forty minutes.  He pulled wearily into a parking lot across from the casino and lay back on the headrest for a moment; whatever the outcome, the fact that he had taken an active step by beginning the journey lifted his spirits. The sound of a car backfiring caused Joe to jump involuntarily. Morning light streamed through the windows of the old white truck, throwing Joe's mind into momentary confusion. A quick glance at his watch told him that it was almost seven AM.  He'd obviously fallen asleep for over three hours, and every muscle in his body ached from sleeping in an awkward position. His head pounded from last night's indulgence, too; he wished he had a drink and some aspirin. The parking lot of the Showboat was half full of vehicles reflecting the brilliant flashing lights of the garnish casino.  Even at night, the casinos were bigger than life and brighter than daylight. He hadn't made good time on the drive--every time he pushed the truck above 65, the front end vibrated considerably.

"So, how do I pass the hours before my flight?" he asked himself. Looking at the Silver Dollar Casino across the street, he already knew the answer to his question. He hadn't been followed as far as he could tell... He pulled out of the parking lot and drove across Fremont to the Silver Dollar. The cool, dry morning air felt refreshing, and he had plenty of time to catch some breakfast and a little hair of the dog at Bill Ladd's old place. Funny how he felt more comfortable in his drinking haunts, at times, than at home.

Things seemed pretty quiet for a Labor Day weekend, judging from the dozen or so cars in the front parking area. The Silver Dollar was a country western bar that served pretty fair food, had better than average country bands--and best of all, like most places in Vegas, it was open twenty-four hours a day.

The saloon didn't get a lot of tourist traffic, and that was what made it draw the locals--the dealers, show girls, waiters, and bartenders that worked the plethora of gaming facilities in town. It was also the favorite hangout for law enforcement types and the city's shop and storeowners.

Out of nervous habit, Joe lit up another cigarette as he entered the Silver Dollar. There were six male customers sitting at various points around the U-shaped bar that dominated the center of the casino. An old woman in a red sweat suit sat near the entrance, pulling off a nickel slot machine with a near trancelike expression. Two flashy young ladies, attractive enough to be showgirls or high-priced hookers, sat in a booth near the back dance floor.

Joe chose a stool at the backside of the bar so he would be facing the entrance and waited for someone to take his order. By this time of the morning, the bands were long gone, the normal people were home in bed, and the lost souls sat out the early morning hours, apathetically avoiding going where they should be.

Joe recognized one of the morning bartenders as a former electronic countermeasures technician on the F-15 Eagle fighter aircraft stationed at Nellis Air Force Base, and an old friend.

"Hey, there, Hank, Hank Carswell. How's it going, man?"

Hank grinned at him as he turned from having served his previous customer. As he approached him, Joe noticed that Hank had a natural swagger about him that was almost comical. He was about the same height and build as Joe, but he had didn't have any hair on top, where Joe was only a little thin. But, he didn't have that extra ten pounds around the middle that Joe had, either. The thing about Hank that always surprised Joe was that he could out drink and out eat any man alive and still remain the same weight. And no matter how much he drank, he always seemed quite sober.

He's either a bulimic or has one helluva lightning fast metabolism, Joe thought as he looked at him.

"Amigo! Long time no see." Hank reached out with a friendly hand.

"How are you doing Hank, really?" Joe asked in a quiet voice.

Hank shrugged. "Same old shit. Work, drink, party, pay bills, fight with my women, and try my damnedest to stay out of trouble. And you, amigo?"

"I've been pretty busy at work," Joe said, tapping ashes from his cigarette into the tray at his elbow. "This is the first time I've been in Vegas in months."

Hank smiled, hands on his narrow hips, towering above the bar. "Same old happening place, ain't it? What will you have this morning?"

Joe ordered a breakfast drink, a screwdriver, and a couple of scrambled eggs with toast.

Hank shouted in the food order, and then made Joe's drink. When he saw that none of the other customers needed anything, he placed a clean ashtray and the screwdriver in front of Joe and leaned forward in a conspiratorial manner. "You still working out in Area 51?"

Joe nodded. "It's still the same old isolated, paranoid grind as when you were there."

"I don't know how you handle that kind of bullshit--day in and day out, year after year. I'm surprised I lasted six months. Those security assholes, the early flight every morning before daybreak from McCarran, coming home after dark, couldn't talk to anyone about my job...No thanks."

"I understand--really I do. You're a free spirit, you're single, and you like to have a fun time where you work. I don't blame you for bailing out."

"Thanks...You know, amigo, I've been hearing all kinds of weird stories around strange goings-on out there. You would not believe some of the far-out shit I hear from some of the drunks that wander in here."

Joe raised an eyebrow. "Such as?"

Hank gave an I-don't-really-believe-but...chuckle. "Well, basically, there's serious talk of out-of-this-world technology. And I don't mean, like super high-tech, I mean alien, like from outer space."

Joe sipped at his screwdriver. "I've heard some of it."

Hank studied Joe's face for a moment, and then seeing that he was not going to contribute any additional comments, he continued. "There's two basic stories, you know. One, which we've got a crashed UFO and we've had it since the late 1940's. Or we've actually got aliens, you know, ETs, working with our scientists."

"I haven't see any bug-eyed scientists walking around," Joe said. "Other than the usual nerd-types who have always worked there, that is."

Hank gave a peculiar snort of feigned amusement. "C'mon, amigo. You must have heard something. There is that physicist, what's-his-name… who went public not long ago. Went on television and said that he had been working on projects at Groom Lake that he believed originated from alien crashed saucers."

A kitchen bell told Hank that Joe's breakfast was ready. He was back at the bar in a few seconds, prompting Joe to respond.

The eggs were good, Joe thought, having just a touch of some kind of spice that quickened the taste buds.

"Yeah, I've seen him, the guy you mean," Joe said, smearing grape jelly on his toast. "And I've heard some the wild local talk on the radio call-in shows. I know what you're talking about. Come on Hank...you worked there five years ago. Did you see anything other than top secret aerospace vehicles?"

"Well, no. Still..."

Joe had heard rumors that several scientists had suffered from some kind of mental breakdown. He had also heard that workers with Top Secret Q clearances and above had disappeared after breaching security. According to one undocumented account, the technology developed at DARC far exceeded any known within the world scientific community. With each new rumor that he heard, Joe's nightmares had become more frequent.

One night he had been able to watch the SR-75 take off for its round trip to northern China and eastern Russia.

And he would never forget the sight of the alien looking TR-3B based at DARC, where-ever that was. The pitch black, triangular shaped TR-3B was rarely mentioned- -and then, only in hushed whispers--at the Groom Lake facility where he worked. The craft had flown over the Groom Lake runway in complete silence and magically stopped above Area S-4. It hovered silently in the same position for some ten minutes before gently settling vertically to the tarmac. At that moment he knew the technology expressed in that aerospace vehicle could not have been developed by human ingenuity alone. He had only seen the triangle vehicle only once up close.

Joe had many reasons for wanting to know more about the secrets associated with the TR-3B and the DARC. The sabbatical that he had taken proved that he was willing to risk a lot to discover the truth.

Hank left to fix a drink for another customer, and Joe had finished his eggs by the time he got back to him.

"Some of the wildest shit that I've heard has to do with underground bases where human scientists employed by a so-called shadow government are working openly with alien technicians," Hank said after he had lit a cigarette and hung it on his lower lip.

"Oh, yeah? Sounds like an X-Files flashback to me."  Joe tapped his empty glass, signaling his request for another screwdriver.

When Hank returned, he spun a bizarre story about an alleged underground base somewhere near Dulce, New Mexico. According to what he had, even the secret government had tried to renege on their deal with the aliens when they learned that the ETs were conducting experiments with human genetics and exploring the possibility of crossbreeding a new species of mutants. A confrontation had erupted between the scientists and their ET counterparts. In a ploy to coerce cooperation from the secret government, the aliens had taken a number of scientists as hostages. In response, crack troops from Delta Force were sent into the vast underground tunnels to rescue the scientists.

"But the Delta Force was no match for the super mind control weapons that the aliens had been concealing," Hank shook his head sadly. "Some say from about a hundred to several hundred humans were killed during this confrontation."

Joe crinkled his face in skepticism. "And we didn't see this on CNN or read about it in the papers? I know people aka friends who have been to Dulce and say it’s nothing but a weapons storage area. So I don’t buy into that story at all. "

Hank rubbed his hands on his apron. "Joe, all this alien and UFO shit is controlled by the secret government that runs this country from behind the scenes. Cover stories to explain the deaths were provided to all the families of the deceased."

"So now the aliens have conquered us and rule the secret government 'way behind the scene'?" Joe's brain was spinning. "Why the fuck bother to have elections if some jerk from Andromeda is really running the White House?"

Hank leaned forward, lowering his voice. "You got to understand. There's the regular government stiffs that the people elect--senators, congressmen, the president and vice-president, and then there's the secret government behind the scenes that calls the shots about the things that really matter--like making deals with aliens that can turn this planet into a crisp, black cinder."

Joe caught himself just before he opened his mouth. What about the light that he had encountered on at least two previous occasions? Why hadn't the light burned him to a crisp? Or his parents? Or the crew in the Gulf of Tonkin? What about the other reoccurring dreams he had but couldn't remember anything about them but fragments?

Hank was going on with his creepy narrative. "This big bloody battle at Dulce was supposed to have happened a couple of years back. According to what I hear, some of the secret government's head honchos, an ultra black group called MJ-12, reconciled with the ETs--but now they knew that they couldn't completely trust them. The aliens obviously had their own secret agenda."

"Keeping secrets from the secret government," Joe interjected. "Sounds like something nasty monsters from outer space would do."

"Exactly! So even though these projects at the underground bases and Groom Lake, Area 51 and so forth are back on target, the MJ-12 is trying to keep a tighter lid on things, because they no longer totally trust their alien buddies."

Joe had finished his second screwdriver. "And the little alien bastards with the huge insect eyes that some of the UFO buffs call the Grays are supposed to be mixed up in all this in some way, right?"

Hank nodded. "And what about Exploring the Unknown last night? Did you see it?"

Joe nodded that he had.

"What did you make of that fucking UFO leaving our latest super bird behind in the dust motes, man?"

Joe felt cold sweat bead his forehead. "If the video was authentic, it is fucking mind blowing."

"How the hell did this Webster guy manage to get that footage? I mean, Joe, you know how tight security is out there."

Joe laughed. "Old buddy, even as we speak, some Air Force and DOE security stiffs are getting their asses reamed out good and proper."  Could the recent leaks to the media explain his being watched by security? There had to be more to it than that.

"You can bet on it...and Wackenhut too," Hank grinned. "I still wonder how Webster got the film, though. You know, they already have the tightest security system in the world out there. I heard they even have one of those stationary satellites over Area 51 just so they can watch themselves. Can you imagine that? Oops. The "Night Ladies" need another bucket of vodka," Hank said amusingly as he strutted off.

Joe could imagine that and much more.

He knew that the satellite in question was a specially modified NSA/TRW KH-13 (Key Hole) launched by the giant Titan 4 boosters in 1992 from Cape Canaveral’s Pad-41. Its purpose was to monitor Department of Defense and Department of Energy installations for intrusive threats. Hydrazine fuel was burned to position the KH-13s for imaging and for making the constant critical course and altitude adjustments necessary to keep them on target, and to avoid their drifting or spinning out of orbit.

The solar powered TRW Stationary High Orbital Reconnaissance Electro-Optical Satellite (SHOREOS) was a computer linked telescopic system that utilized solid-state CCD array sensors to scan and to provide real-time infrared and visible wavelength images of objects of less than two inches--even through heavy cloud cover and darkness. Real-time data was provided by a Burst Laser Encrypted Compressed Digital Signal Transmitter.

The ground based computers at the Nellis and Groom facilities received surveillance, acquisition, tracking, and assessment data that tracked movement by type, speed, direction, size, mass, and infrared signature, for the western United States. What made the SHOREOS unique was that the data transmittals could not be intercepted by anyone outside of Area 51 because of the Laser transmitter and other unique provisions of the system. SHOREOS allowed the operator to differentiate between a rabbit and a coyote, to read tail numbers off aircraft, and to identify license plate numbers on ground vehicles. The surveillance system's only weakness lay in areas experiencing severe weather  related electrical disturbance.

Even that single flaw was a fluke or FLUC, something of a bad joke inside the NSA Special Operations arena. NSA operatives had switched the Hubble's 94-inch light gathering mirror at NASA with one that had failed the manufacturer's quality control, along with a space fuzzy logic Unix computer (FLUC). They needed the FLUC for the SHOREOS satellite; the mirror was perfect, but the FLUC was flawed.

Hank brought Joe another screwdriver and was summoned by a patron standing at the other end of the bar. "You know, amigo, you work in one spooky kind of place," he said as he placed the drink on a clean bar napkin and left.

"It can get to you if you let it," Joe agreed.

And the reason he was sitting here in the Silver Dollar killing time before his flight to Dallas was that it most certainly had gotten to him, and he was on his way to find some answers. The incident at the Pilot Club was nagging at the back of his mind. "What's the worst case scenario?" He asked himself seriously. What if there was more than a little truth to all the rumors. There was so much that went on at Groom that he didn't know about. Everything was so compartmentalized, Need-to-Know only, especially between different programs. And DARC, southeast of the Groom facilities...was even more classified. DARC was a complete mystery. My God...what if they think I'm a security risk? His mind was racing with the repercussions of such a stigma. He needed help. He was in over his head. But whom could he turn to?

Joe considered the "spooky place" where he worked. Groom Lake held many secrets. It had the longest paved runway in the States at 28,000 feet long. It also housed one of the largest hangers in the nation, big enough to hold four huge C-5 transports.

During the week, 2000 personnel came in daily via unmarked 737 aircraft. One hundred sixty double-occupancy duplex apartments provided quarters for the current 370 permanent staff. Four apartments were on reserve for visiting VIPs.

Dreamland was a man's world, where testosterone ruled, where big men played with their big toys. Traditional wisdom among the upper echelon military held to the belief that women were too unstable to be trusted with such deadly secrets. Joe often thought that the male chauvinists in charge of Area 51 and Groom Lake made the Navy assholes at Tailhook look like feminists. But the scuttlebut was that the way was opening for female engineers. So there were exceptions.

At lunch break on the night shift at the Groom facilities, Joe occasionally sat with Oscar De La Garza, the Air Force's head of security for Dreamland. One recent night stood out in Joe's mind. The usually upbeat and cheerful engineer had seemed distant and somewhat depressed as the two of them munched on chicken salad sandwiches, potato chips, and Cokes. After some prompting, De La Garza admitted to Joe that he was having some trouble with the HIDA, the Holographic Intruder Detection Alert security system.

Joe had always been told that the security around Groom and Papoose was state-of-the-art. Visual, aural, motion, heat, vibration, metal, and mass sensors were utilized in addition to the SHOREOS satellite.

De La Garza confirmed Joe's data. "But somehow there's a glitch somewhere. We've been getting too many security alerts, and the security chiefs are really riding my butt about it, especially Agabarr, the head Wackenhut honcho. You ever meet the asshole? I think he's really the devil. I'm not shitting you, man. That bastard is evil."

Joe laughed, and then asked his friend to define the problem as best he could.

"I think it's a sensor problem, but the DOE consultant thinks it's the software."

De La Garza explained that they were using seismic motion sensors (SEMS) along roads, pathways, mountain trails, and flats leading into the area.

"They measure ground vibration and alert to anything weighing over one hundred pounds," Oscar continued. The Biological infrared detectors (BIDS) pick up body heat of 98.6 plus or minus five degrees. Magnetometers and gravitational sensors detect movement of masses of more than one hundred pounds."

"Strategically placed on mountain tops within Area 51 are telescopes coupled with digital format CCD cameras hooked up to the HIDA system. When an intruder is detected by the HIDA, the central processor alerts the master security computer and sounds an alarm on a computer display. The operator can then turn on a camera at the end of a telescope on a strategic mountain location and achieve pin-point acquisition for closer detail. The communications security and physical security data is also fed into the HIDA computer."

From his perspective as an engineer, Joe didn't assess the system as all that complex.

"I know what's causing the problem," De La Garza told him. "But I don't know how to solve it. The sensors are very high tech, and the slightest changes in underground and surface stress can set off the alerts."

Joe knew that Oscar had to be talking about micro-quakes, vibration of the earth caused by shifting of the underground tectonic plates, lightning, sonic booms, and the like. While they continued eating, Oscar opened up a bit more about the details of the system--and suddenly Joe had an idea.

"What if you set up a line of sensors further away from the present perimeter and use the signal to normalize the alert input. That way you could eliminate false alarms from natural underground causes and external explosions, like sonic booms."

De La Garza paused in mid-bite, considered the strategy for a moment or two, and then broke into a broad smile. "That would work. We could place them a mile on either side and use the delay time to alert to anything within a two-mile perimeter of the sensors."

His face clouded momentarily as he thought of another aspect of the problem. "Hey, Joe, what about lightning?"

Joe sipped at his Coke before he answered. He knew that optical blocking of sensors occurred when a visual or infrared sensor was overloaded by an extreme light or heat input.

"You could program your software to shut down alerts that happen concurrently with optical blocking."

Oscar was pleased with Joe's solution. "Hey, my man, you are pretty good. You should come work for me in security."

Joe laughed away the compliment, but he was flattered by Oscar's enthusiastic acceptance of his solution to the problem.

"No, thanks. To me, security would be boring. And I don't think the Air Force or Wackenhut security engineers get paid as well as we contractors do."

Oscar shrugged. "True. We're peons compared to you dudes. We just do our boring little jobs and serve as support personnel to you weenies on the special dark programs."

Joe finished his lunch. It was time to get back to work.

"Just teasing you, Oscar. As a matter of fact, I think my work is boring. I'm thinking of getting completely out of the Black Program business for a while. Thought I'd try something normal for a change. Something outside of the DOD military industrial complex."

De La Garza put a friendly hand on Joe's shoulder. "Naw, Joe, you're too much of a company man. You think too much like you belong here. Hell, I had spent the better part of a month working on this fucking problem, and you solved it over lunch. Because of you, our saying in security is once again true: 'You can't hida from the HIDA'."

The two men laughed together at the unbelievable amount of abbreviations, acronyms, and technical jargon that smothered the personnel who labored in the dark programs. With it came a high tech humor that provided a stress relief of sorts. Of course the Nerd types loved it.

But the stress came from security tactics that encroached into every aspect of their work and private lives. Hell, none of them really had any privacy. Joe knew from his experience with the National Security Agency that employees with security clearances such as his were scrutinized closely and often. Nothing was sacred; bank accounts, credit card activity, telephone calls, travel and vacations were closely monitored. Not to mention extra-marital or single sexual activity, drinking, membership in unsanctioned groups and drug abuse--prescription or illegal, were career killers.  Even Church, school, sports, and family friends and associates were subject to background checks. And if it were discovered you were homosexual, you were immediately out without a clearance.

By the time Hank returned from replenishing drinks, washing bar glasses, and talking to the two call girls, Joe's drink was empty and so also were his options.

"Okay, buddy. Where were we?"

"Hank I'm in trouble...I need help, and I don't know who to turn to," Joe blurted out.

Hank blinked hard, startled, and stared at Joe with a blank expression on his face. Joe realized he had gone too far, made a mistake...

"I'm sorry. Forget it."

"No, no. You just caught me off guard. Wait a second..." He turned around and yelled, "Hey, Larry?" The other bartender was in the side office, tallying receipts and doing the consuming paperwork. "Larry?"

A short stocky man who looked more like a bouncer than a bartender stuck his head around the back end of the bar. "What'd you want, Hank?"

"Can you cover the bar for me? I get off..." he looked at his watch, "in a half hour." It was almost eight AM.

"Yeah, give me a sec to lock the office."

Hank mixed up a pitcher of screwdrivers and poured a generous amount of Galliano on top. He motioned to an empty table in the dining area.

"Now we can talk," he said, joining Joe at the table and pouring each of them a generous Harvey Wallbanger in tall glasses filled with cracked ice.

"Cheers."

They clinked glasses.

"Tell me how I can help you."

"If I do, you have to keep it too yourself. Besides, after I tell you, you're going to think I'm crazy."

"I've seen more crazy things working as a bartender in Las Vegas than I could tell you about in a month. Now...everything. Don't hold back."

Joe was touched at the absolute sincerity Hank offered. "I don't know where to start. I've been having some doubts about my life, my career, and it all ties in with the type of rumors you've heard about Area 51. I sometimes feel that I'm losing my mind. I can't sleep, I hate my work, and it's affecting my family life. I have crazy dreams, drink too much, and keep secrets from my wife." Joe paused and emptied his glass, which was promptly refilled by the obliging Hank.

Hank could hear the deep stress in Joe's voice. Joe's hands were shaking and his eyes had teared over. Hank had worked on Joe's avionics team at Groom until he abruptly said, "fuck-this-bullshit-job-and-shove-it." He had found Joe to be an incredibly talented engineer, fair, motivated, approachable, and a team builder who communicated openly and honestly with everyone under his chain of command. He admired and respected Joe greatly, something Hank could say of only a couple of people he had ever known.

He reached out and firmly encased Joe's free hand, which was trembling. "Relax...Tell me the rest. I promise you, you can count on me.

Joe had a lump in his throat when he continued. "I think some of the things you've heard about Area 51 might be true. But, I don't know which ones. I need answers to cure my screwed up head. I can't tell you how I know, but I know there is a connection between the rumors and what's going on in my screwed up head."

While Joe paused for another sip of his drink, he and Hank both took a cigarette from Joe's pack and took turns with Joe's lighter.

"Two weeks ago, I took a leave of absence from Loral. I can tell you, as Senior Project Engineer for the 75's avionics systems, my boss-- the Program Manager--was furious. But, because of my past work and tenure, he didn't fire me and promised to hold my job as long as I wasn't gone more than six weeks. I spent the first week trying to drink my problems away. That didn't work. Then I made up my mind to take action. I've contacted a man in Texas who I believe has the answers that I'm seeking, and who might be convinced to reveal them to me."

"I think you've made a wise decision. I understand. It takes courage to walk away from a career; it entails some risk. I was in that position to a lesser degree when I quit cold-turkey. But with your talent and experience you will never not be able to find a great job."

"No, you don't understand. That's not the problem. After I packed last night, I stopped by the Pilot Club and had a few drinks..."

Hank listened intently and patiently as Joe related his experience the night before and how he managed to evade his security tail.

"So you can see, I don't know what to think. Should I blow it off, or should I go hide somewhere?"

"Neither. These things don't just happen. Wake up. They think you are a security risk. Because of your drinking, family problems, work performance, who you've been calling or talking too--who knows? Face it, you're being watched. You have to get to San Antonio you said, but you don't want anyone knowing you are going there. Let me think. I love a little cloak-and-dagger."

An hour later they had a plan. Hank had given Joe his Nevada State Bank Visa card, which had less than a thousand dollars left on the limit, and his driver’s license for identification. Joe called a ticket agency and made reservations for round trip to San Antonio, charged to Hank. All he had to do was show identification and pick up the ticket. Hanks old, blurred drivers license photo was vague enough to resemble Joe. Besides, they didn't look all that different. Well, at least not in the dark. Joe insisted on making out a check for the fare, even though Hank said he could wait until he got back or he got the bill. But Joe insisted.

Hank called two of the bouncers that worked the night shift and awakened them. They owed him a favor, and both were always looking for excitement or a brawl. While they waited for Hank's buddies, Joe gave Hank his clothes. Hank, noticing the loose fit of Joe's pants around his waist, chided him about putting a little padding around the middle, and Joe thumped Hank's bald dome and insisted that Hank wear his Raiders cap. From behind, and even from the side view, the impersonation was effective.

As planned, Hank, entered the McCarrin airport with his two brawny buddies in tow. They had driven Red's truck, which Hank promised to leave locked and parked in the Silver Dollar parking lot for Joe. Hank walked up to the South West Airlines ticket counter and purchased a one-way ticket to Los Angeles with cash under the name Joe Green. The three decided to wait in the dimly lit bar until boarding time at 11:50 AM.

Joe's taxi drove past the pirates cove, the fairy tale castle and the Luxor's huge Pyramid. From the main terminal, the contract terminal seemed to be right up against the Pyramid. From Fantasy Land to Dreamland. Amazing, Joe thought. They turned off of Las Vegas Boulevard onto to Hacienda and then again onto Haven. One block down Haven Street they turned into the first of two entrance gates. When the taxi stopped, Joe presented his ID and Badge. The security check took two endless minutes, and then the guard looked up from his computer and flagged the taxi through.

The contract flight terminal looked like a typical small city air terminal--a two story modern white concrete building with windows. Nothing out of the ordinary. The inside parking area could hold 3,000 cars, and everything in the contract area was spotlessly clean. Joe noticed that five of the six red striped white 747s were parked in their slots. There were seven slots, but he had never seen a seventh airplane.

Joe paid the taxi driver and entered a ground level door, which opened, into the passenger service area. He noticed a newspaper rack and realized he hadn't read a paper in weeks.

He looked at his watch. He had to get to his departure gate by boarding time, 11:35 AM. Hopefully, if anyone was watching for him, Hank had drawn them off. Joe parked in the same lot all the Groom employees and contractors used for their daily flight to Area 51. As he walked into the contract flight office, about thirty people were waiting in line for the metal detector and identification check. He hoped he could still get from the contract office to the main concourse ramp through the maintenance gate. He had used it once before when he was too late for a flight back to Groom and needed to get to the concourse in time to catch a commuter to Tonopah.

Joe recognized a few faces, none that he needed to acknowledge. For the most part, the Groom and Papoose workers talked only in private or at work. It was safer for their careers not to make chit-chat in public with other employees. He moved closer to the detector frame; he had already picked up his boarding pass. Now, if he could only get to the plane undetected.

"Hey Joe, how you doing?" a short skinny man with coke bottle glasses said. He had come in the entrance and now stood in line six people behind him. Pete...what's-his-name? All Joe could remember was that Pete was a mathematician. He turned and waved slightly, nodding an acknowledgement. "Jesus, give me a break. Now what?" he asked himself. He tried not to tense up.

"Hey Joe, did you move to Las Vegas? I thought you drove in from Tonopah." Pete said over the heads of the men in line in front of him.

"If I ignore him, will he go away? No? Shit!" Joe cursed under his breath.

"Ah, no, Pete. I'm down to visit with my sister and her husband. They just had a baby and my wife's in Alabama," he blatantly lied, badly.

"Great. We can have a drink after work. Okay?"

"Sure," Joe begrudgingly answered.

"Alabama, huh? Where in Alabama?"

"Ah..." Joe panicked, his mind was blank. He couldn't think of one city in Alabama. Several people, out of boredom, looked at Joe curiously. "Excuse me..." Joe let out a series of coughs, trying to stall. "I've got a bad..." More coughing followed, "aw-huwh."

"I've got a lot of family in Alabama. You?"

Wouldn't you fucking know it, Joe thought. Why hadn't he said Georgia, a state in which he knew a number of cities? "Springdale," he offered.

"Springdale? Never heard of it...Where exactly is it?"

"Er...Ah...You know, I've never visited there with her. I believe it's near..." He started to say Oak Ridge, but caught himself. Too pat--who would believe it. "Montgomery." Thank you Lord, he said silently, the name coming out of the blue.

"Yeah, Montgomery. I have a cousin, Paul, who lives there...I've never heard of Springdale."

"I believe it's about twenty or thirty miles west of Montgomery." Thank God, he was next. Joe stepped up to the table before the scanner frame, placed his palm print in the reader, and handed his Government ID card and Loral employee badge to the man seated.

Joe started sweating...he looked at the wall clock, and regretted it. Twenty-five minutes if all goes well, something he was starting to doubt.

"Joseph Gordon Green?"

"Yes."

"Your security file has a flag by your name...says Leave-of-Absence."

Joe almost pissed in his pants.

"Oh, that. My leave of absence doesn't start until next Monday. I'm going to a religious retreat," his lying was getting better he thought.

"Hmmm, I don't know...Just a sec." The man picked up the phone by his elbow.

"Hey boss, got a Joseph Green who checks out but has a flag next to his name...Wait?" He covered the phone mouthpiece and said softly, "Hold on while I get direction."

Joe nodded. The sweat was trickling down his back and under his arms. His face was dotted with moisture beads.

The man at the desk was staring at him. Surely he's noticed the sweat. Oh my...Joe thought. Joe looked at him and made an obvious exaggerated swipe at the sweat on his brow. "Man, I knew it. I've caught a cold from my brother's boy. Shit. And I'm going on a Leave of Absence next week."

The man raised an eyebrow--his hand still covering the mouthpiece. He smiled slightly and started to respond to Joe when..."Okay boss. No problem."

"What?" Joe asked impatiently.

"My boss says they haven't withdrawn your clearance. So it must be okay. Just go on into the waiting area. He said he's going to make a phone call to Groom security before you get on the plane."

"Thanks, I appreciate it," Joe said numbly.

Joe placed everything from his pockets in the tray and stepped through the scanner frame. The way things were going; he half expected the buzzer to sound. Joe picked up his stuff from the tray and went into the waiting area.

The next contract flight to Groom was supposed to leave at 11:20 AM. That would give him at least fifteen minutes to get to his commercial departure gate if the contract flight was on schedule. Joe walked to the far wall and leaned against it, not wanting to sit. He tried to act casually. The last worker had come into the waiting area. Joe looked around, and his heart jumped several beats. A man had just entered the contract office. He could see him from the waiting area... a Wackenhut security manager. Joe looked around. "Trapped," he said to himself.

I've got to do something, he thought. Joe acted like he was fishing around in his pocket for change, and then stepped into the exit corridor where the vending machines were lined against the wall. I'm out of sight for now. But what happens when he's checked through to the waiting area. I'm dead meat.

He couldn't go back and he couldn't go forward. He heard a clicking at the door. A flight service crewman was punching his code into the door cipher lock. Instinctively, when the man entered the door, Joe reached up to the exit keypad and faked punching a code. At the same moment he placed the toe of his shoe into the edge of the doorframe.

The man looked at curiously at Joe for a moment, then, noticing Joe had punched a code into the keypad, stepped through the door. Joe followed him... his heart racing, his head pounding. If anyone asked, they would realize he shouldn't have gone through the exit. What if the Wackenhut man was asking about the flight passenger list?

Joe realized it was time to board the contract flight. He had to get  through the fenced in walkway and out the maintenance exit, and walked as fast as he could manage without looking like he was running. His stomach churned from the increasing stress, but he didn't dare look behind him as he slipped through the exit gate. He glanced at his watch. Just fourteen minutes until take off. On the other side of the gate, he noticed maintenance crews were working on two of the 747s: the front gear hydraulic system of one and the avionics of the other. He hadn't remembered, probably because of the stress, that the main terminal was about three miles around from the contract terminal. Joe spotted several tugs with cargo carriers hooked behind them, and with a sense of purpose and shear determination, he purposely walked up to the far tug and opened up the tow hook to release the tongue of the carrier. Joe hoped onto the tug and pushed the start button. He pushed it again...and again, then realized as an anxiety attack was building that this particular carrier was electric. He shoved the lever into the first forward gear position and pressed the accelerator pedal down. Quietly, the vehicle moved forward and accelerated slowly. Joe was too afraid to look back. He reached the main terminal building, pulled behind a luggage carrier, and hopped off, forcing himself to turn around. No one was following him.

He spotted a flight service manager talking to two men loading the perishables for a Delta 737. Joe stopped and turned around, then acted like he was tying his shoe, which was a stretch since he was wearing loafers. Watching out of the corner of his eye, he waited until he thought the flight service manager was going back into the concourse to report the estimated departure time. Joe reached into his jacket and pulled out his Area 51 badge and ID and clipped them on his shirt pocket like the airport workers.

"Go for it," he thought. Joe, a supervisor himself, instinctively noticed the flight manager's name on his tag as the man approached to unlock the door to the concourse stairway.

"Hey, Frank. How's it going?"

"Shitty. These lazy assholes are always dragging their feet. They're over paid and every fucking one of them has an attitude. I get an erection every time I get a flight out on time and I haven't had one in two days. I feel like fucking up someone."

Joe wasn't sure what to say. The man's humor, or lack of it, left him without a response.

"Who you with?" Frank said, looking at Joe's badge hanging from his jacket.

"Oh, DOE...I'm with the Department of Energy contract flights. I'm on my way to see about a charter to Tonopah for a maintenance crew. Having a shitty day, also. Got a couple of broke planes. Same ol' shit as you."

"Yeah? Ain't it something?"

Joe followed Frank up the stairs. "Catch you later, Frank."

"Yeah, you too...ah?"

"Ah--Jo--Jah...Josh."

"Later, Josh."

Most of the departures waiting areas were crowded. He liked that just fine. Joe made his way to his gate and looked at the monitor above the booth. Still an 11:45 departure, and on schedule. Joe took a deep, deep breath. For the first time since he had parked, Joe felt a sense of relief.

"Ten minutes. Just ten minutes," he reminded himself.

Joe checked out the people near him and those within sight walking around. "I need a drink...no a double." Wishful thinking.

His composure all but collapsed when he saw the two black suited men looking around the concourse. "Don't panic, just don't panic," he scolded himself.

Joe had made it this far. He wasn't about to give up. He was so close to departure time. "I've got to get on that plane." Joe felt his life and sanity depended on it.

Adrenalin shot through him without warning, as he, incredulously, heard his own name over the airport public address system. "Joseph Green, please report to the white courtesy phone next to the Flight Insurance booth."

What the hell was going on? He watched the two black-suits turn around and have a quick discussion. They abruptly departed and walked back down the ramp towards the main part of the airport. Joe was completely flabbergasted. Then he understood.

He spotted two very large burly men staring pointedly at him from across the wide concourse. One of them held up a cellular phone and motioned towards it. The other smiled and flipped Joe an okay signal as the disembodied voice on the PA system intoned, "Flight 522, now loading, please have your boarding passes ready."

When Joe turned to give Hank's buddies a wave of thanks as he boarded the plane, they were nowhere in sight.

Once he was finally seated on the airplane, Joe picked up his well-worn copy of the NASA scientist's controversial book, "Unconventional Flying Objects." Dr. Paul Hill had quietly investigated UFOs for over 30 years, in spite of NASA, the military, and the government denying their existence. He interviewed pilots, astronauts, scientists, and even experienced UFO sightings himself. Joe had learned much about the real science behind the workings of UFOs from reading Dr. Hill's book. It was Joe's bible, his link between his ghosts and reality.

Joe drifted into a deep sleep not long after takeoff, still clutching his book. Too much booze, too many adrenalin rushes, and not enough shuteye had turned his nerves into mincemeat and made him extremely susceptible to the hypnotic hum and vibration of the jet liner. "You can't hida from HIDA, or your own demons either," he mumbled to himself before he closed his eyes.

At that exact moment, an intruder into Area 51 was discovering for himself that same awesome technological truth about HIDA, and learning just how effectively Joe Green had solved a security problem for his friend Oscar--and for the devil known as Agabarr.

CHAPTER 05 - No Man's Land

Red had been on the trail of flying saucers since his stint in Korea in 1953; and during the last couple of years, he had taken his private war against UFOs to a productive level by providing footage of secret alien activity in Area 51 to independent investigator Blake Webster.

Few people knew Red's real name, and at times he had trouble remembering it himself. Clive Redding Teller didn't have a driver's license, a credit card, or an accurate social security number. Since the end of the Korean War, the big prospector with the scruffy red beard had become a nonperson as far as the government was concerned. To anyone who would meet him in his present identity, he was nothing more than a secretive, crusty, half-crazy desert rat.

Born five years before WWII, the Big One, he had lied about his age and under the name of Charles Redding--Red to his friends--had entered the Army Corps of Engineers at seventeen. The worst days of fighting during the "police action" were over by the time Red touched soil in South Korea. In fact, he had seen only seven months of active duty before the armistice was signed at Panmunjom

in July.

Although his youthful eyes had been spared the carnage of the brutal hand-to-hand fighting that had marked so much of the Korean campaign, Red had witnessed the most gruesome sight of his life when he was detailed to help search for survivors of a B-29 bomber that had gone down after frantic communications were received that they were being attacked by a large bright light.

When that little tidbit of intelligence was passed on to the guys in the detail, they had begun to joke rather nervously about flying saucers, as they were called in those days. Troops on sentry duty during the late hour shifts had often talked about having seen some weird things in the sky. And nearly all the guys had seen movies like "War of the Worlds" and "It Came from Outer Space", and had passed a lot of idle barracks time with speculations about alien invasions. So hell, maybe Martians had attacked the bomber.

They all stopped their wisecracking when they found the bomber intact in the hills where it had gone down. There were no piles of rubble, no furrows of plowed-up earth to indicate a crash landing. Only the bottom of the fuselage showed any damage.

But the crew! Red would never forget what had happened to the men in that ill-fated bomber. Although they were still sitting in their safety harnesses, they had all been mutilated. Their anuses had been cored out of their colons. Corkscrew patches of skin had been sliced from their necks and jaws. Their eyes and genitalia had been removed with surgical precision, yet not one drop of blood had been spilled anywhere--nor was any trace of blood left in their bodies.

Red and most of the men on the detail had puked up their breakfasts as they body-bagged the victims of an atrocity that they knew would never find its way into any official report.

Not long after the ghastly incident, Red found himself sharing a few beers with an ace fighter pilot, who, with a tongue loosened by the effects of the alcohol, spilled his guts in confidence about his aerial encounters with flying saucers.

"I'm up in the wild blue yonder in my F-86A Sabre jet, I mean, this baby's the ultimate in technology, the cutting edge of aeronautical science, man," the pilot recalled with grim humor. "I'm a fighter pilot, God's own special gift to women, America, and the U.S. Air Force. And then these weird things, these fucking flying saucers, come swooping out of nowhere and make me look like I'm flying a goddamned piece of shit. I mean, they zoom past me like I'm parked at the side of the road taking a piss."

Red asked officer Robert Scott, the pilot, if the saucers had taken any hostile actions toward him. "No, thank God. With their obvious technological superiority, they could have pulverized me. Thank Jesus, Mary, and Joseph that they seemed contented to humiliate me."

The fighter pilot swallowed most of another bottle of beer before he added: "What really pissed me off, man, is that my commanding officer told me to shut up about the whole business. I mean, it was obvious that he knew what the hell I was talking about, but he told me that it was U.S. Air Force policy that, officially, these things didn't exist. I told him that I felt like a damned fool being made a horse's ass by something that 'officially' wasn't even there. But he told me they'd grind my horse-ass into dog meat if I told anyone what I'd seen.” This very same Colonel Robert Scott was a Korean War Ace and the ex Wing Commander of Cannon AFB. But for some reason the volatile officer trusted Red.

After Red was discharged, he had become a full-fledged beatnik. Or at least that was what his grandmother had called him. Red's mother had been an Irish whore in the Goldfield and Tonopah red light establishments, and his father had most likely been one of her customers. He never knew for sure. She had long since been lost in a world of booze and drugs, so she didn't really notice if Red was still on the planet. She passed on early in his life.

Red studied Yoga, transcendental meditation, Tai Chi, Eastern religious philosophies, and the mental discipline of a number of the martial arts. But he could never forget those eyeless crewmembers of the B-29 who had been so gruesomely mutilated by what could only have been alien invaders from another world. He read every UFO book he could get his hands on, and he became increasingly angry at the massive government cover-up of the flying saucer mystery. Somehow, damn it, it all had to stop, and he became determined to do whatever he could to expose conspiracy and reveal the truth of the UFO enigma to the masses, who were being deliberately kept in ignorance.

Red became a regular fixture at UFO conferences up and down the West coast. Within a few years, he was on a first name basis with most of the prominent researchers in the field of UFOlogy, including Blake Webster.

"You look like a mangy old desert rat to me, Red," Blake had jibed, "and I'd lay odds you're a good enough bullshitter to fool just about anybody. Why don't you head back up to the Nevada desert and see what's going on? Use your prospecting as a cover. You ought be able to get close enough to check out some of the weird goings on in Area 51."

It had taken Red less them five minutes to agree with Blake, and within a week he'd purchased a new wardrobe at the Salvation Army store and acquired the orneriest, shaggiest mule that had ever been born. But over time Red and his mule bonded.

As a kid, he had pretty much raised and educated himself, devouring books on mining, desert lore, and survival. Whenever he had the chance, he would pick the minds of the miners, geologists, and adventurers who patronized the Bouncing Betty brothel; he had absorbed a lot of valuable information about exploring and surviving in the high desert and mountains.

According to Red's estimate, the Nevada Test Site and the Nellis Range each had to cover over 30,000 square miles. The area stretched from Las Vegas to Tonopah, bordered by US Federal Highway 95 on the west. The highway snaked through the creosote bush toward the high Great Basin. On the north, the sites were bordered from Tonopah across to Ash Springs, via Warm Springs, along US Federal Highway 6 and Nevada State Highway 375. From there the inverted irregular triangle of the site continued south along US Federal Highway 93 into North Las Vegas. The road that actually meandered through the region was a collage of old Indian and mining trails, wagon routes, game paths, and railway roads.

During the early part of the century, Tonopah had been the largest city in Nevada, and though primarily a silver town, it had yielded its share of gold. Highway 95 south to Goldfield, Rhyolite, Mercury, and into Vegas was still dotted with dozens of ghost towns.

Although he was not yet sixty, Red soon convinced the military security personnel patrolling the area that he was just a senile old coot with a mangy pack mule at his side. At first, as long as he didn't get too close to their facilities, they had let him be. And with his familiarity of the area to guide him, he'd seldom allowed them to see him snaking closer and closer to vantage points where he could observe and film the testing of secret weapons and vehicles.

Almost at once he'd provided Webster with plenty of mind-boggling information for his articles and electronic media appearances. Their ultimate coup had been the video of the alien spacecraft that had been shown the night before on Exploring the Unknown. Red knew that the sight of that incredible vehicle on network television must have made several asses pucker, and he would have to watch himself for the next few days.

As it was, the Wackenhut goons had recently started harassing him. He'd had his donkey run off by ominous black helicopters on three occasions. Last month, he had been apprehended and turned over the Lincoln County sheriff in Alamo for trespassing. After two days in the calaboose and a stern warning from Sheriff Pete Burke to "stay the hell off of the Nellis Range and the Nevada Test Site," he was turned loose.

Red was crossing one of the many dry lake beds in Nevada when three Wackenhut security thugs roared up beside him in their white Jeep Cherokee and shouted at him to halt.

"What can I do you for, boys?" Red grinned in his half-wacko prospector persona. "You lost your way?"

The grim-faced men were not in the market for any bullshit this day. Right out in the open, they grabbed him, clubbed him, and bound him.

Even after he had regained consciousness, he feigned helplessness and confusion. They had placed a blindfold over his eyes, and two guards, one on either side, supported him under each arm.

Every instinct within Red's body told him that his life could be at risk. The fact that military security would club down a civilian who was only walking near the site convinced him that they could easily dispose of his body in the desert without anyone questioning his demise. Except Blake Webster. And he had to keep absolutely mum about his association with the journalist.

He wondered if he should try to make his escape when his captors dragged him into an elevator that began to descend into the earth, then decided his best bet was to continue to play it limp and weak. Although it might cost him his life, he had to satisfy his curiosity.

Over the years a massive amount of construction had taken place at the Groom, and to a lesser degree, the site facilities in nearby areas. Local newspapers had claimed that over five hundred million dollars a year had been spent on the Groom and other Area 51 facilities for the last decade. Many scoffed at the notion, but Red had seen the military transports, the Army Corps of Engineers, the Air Force Red Horse construction teams, and the million tons of dirt and rock shifted to make room for more underground construction.

From what certain curious area residents and independent researchers had observed from secret natural watchtowers in the mountains, most of the construction was not above ground. One excavation and foundation that was completed in 1990 could hold a ten-story building with each underground floor covering approximately 40,000 square feet. And not they were constructing even bigger underground buildings and transport systems.

During the last decade, many elevator shafts and underground tunnels connecting subterranean buildings had been completed. Red figured that fifty percent of the Groom facilities and 98 percent of the DARC facilities were now underground to protect their post Cold War secrets from prying satellites and high altitude aircraft.  The DARC facility, possibly the biggest moved all their aircraft, logistics supplies, and support materials underground in massive tunnels with high speed rail systems.

When the elevator stopped, the men pushed him into a room that had the distinctive smell of a doctor's office. Red felt his stomach lurch involuntarily. He hated doctors' offices.

"Put him on the table," a guttural voice said. Red didn't like the sound of it.

The guards lifted him to a heavy wooden table and roughly strapped down his arms and legs.

Someone removed the blindfold, and Red blinked against the bright lights. A tall, slender, nearly bald man in his fifties was bending over him checking his vitals. The characteristic white smock he wore added to the clinical atmosphere and increased Red's anxiety.

Red's attention was immediately drawn to a dark complected man who sat watching the doctor with an air of authority and ill-concealed impatience. By the way the guards kept their respectful distance, the dude was obviously the man in charge. His jet black hair was slicked straight back, and his color was that of a Latino.

Red was uncomfortable with, but not frightened of, the man's sadistic sneer and deep-set brooding gaze. He immediately initiated the controlled breathing techniques he'd perfected with years of discipline, which would enable him to remain calm and centered. He would remain in control of his sovereign being.

"Is our guest now ready to answer some questions for me, Dr. Quinlin?" The man's accent was more South American than Mexican. Maybe Chilean, Argentinean.

"Your men gave him a pretty solid whack on the head," the doctor told him, his words tinged with disapproval. "But he seems all right. I'll just administer some antiseptic and...."

"Don't bother," the sinister man said curtly, rising to his feet. "He won't be around long enough to need it." He motioned to Quinlin to step aside. "Leave his blindfold off. I don't want him to miss a thing."

For just a moment, he stood quietly beside the table on which Red had been strapped, and then he leaned over him and said in a theatrical whisper, "Welcome to Oz, Dorothy." The man's foul breath caused Red to pull back involuntarily. It was like garlic, acidic aroma, and evil spices.

The chuckle that followed was evil, almost inhuman, and it made Red's skin crawl.

"I am Raul Agabarr. We've invited you here to ask why you have been snooping around these facilities. Perhaps you are the one who took the video that we all saw on television last night."

Red didn't move a muscle or flick an eyelash. For several hours Red was questioned--remaining silent the whole time.

Agabarr smiled, as if he were the perfect host. "Take our guest to holding cell five," he said to the guards. "It is one of our most luxurious suites."

Red maintained his expressionless stare, but inwardly he was stifling a small scream. Dear Jesus, he had drawn the proverbial short straw. His host was none other than the feared and hated Chief of Security for Area 51, Raul Agabarr… an unprincipled soldier of fortune, CIA trained, who sold his services to the highest bidder and who loved his gore so much he would have worked solely for the satisfaction of seeing men squirm.

Two guards half-dragged half-pushed Red to his cell. None of the other doors opening onto the main corridor that had been cut into the natural bedrock appeared to be cells for prisoners.

The cell was about average size for a large walk-in closet. An old sagging steel cot with spring steel webbing was bolted to the wall. A stained sink and a filth encrusted ceramic toilet, dark from use and age, were hung on the bare rock walls. Cobwebs laced around the cell, creating the overall effect of a tomb. It was a safe guess, Red decided, that the cell had been around for over thirty years.

When the guard shut the steel door, a harsh clang reverberated down the corridor. The cell was dark, with darker shadows on the walls and floor. The only illumination came from small red lights along the corridor. It was just bright enough for Red to make out his surroundings.

After he had bruised his fingertips raw exploring the rough walls of the cell, he made contact with something smooth and loose under a rock touching the floor. It was flat, metallic, and pointed at the narrow, tapered end. He snorted when he realized that it was nothing more than an old flatware knife, worn down to a point at the end from prolonged use. Red smiled grimly at his discovery, and silently thanked the nameless soul whose desperation had bequeathed him this gift. It obviously hadn't done the previous occupant much good. He hoped he could be more resourceful and put it to good use.

Red used his jacket to knock a layer of dust off the steel cot, then rolled it up to use as a pillow.

"I will now lie down," he told himself. "I will not allow fear to permeate my inner self. I will meditate, and move deep into the silence. I will transcend this reality. I will not allow anyone to remove me from my center--no matter what they may do to me."

CHAPTER 06 - Contract Predator

M.D. Crawfoot sat in the back corner of Baltimore's Best Barbecue, near the rest rooms. He shifted his weight on the balls of his feet, feeling his calf muscles tighten ever so slightly. Mother, his control some called them their ‘Priest,’ was late, and his bottled water was empty.

He toyed with the idea of having a plate of baby back ribs and a cool mug of beer, yet he resisted the urge. He hadn't eaten red meat in years, sustaining his need for protein with dairy products, fish, nuts, tofu, and legumes. His body was bereft of body fat, and since high school he had kept his weight at one eighty five, which was appropriate for his build and height of five eleven. His body was honed steel and would make many MMA fighter seem like amateurs.

Crawfoot had been a contract agent for the NSA since his last tour in Vietnam. He had served his government well, first with the reconnaissance pukes, and then he found his forte as a Marine forces sniper. Three tours, two as a sniper with the Phoenix Rural Pacification program and one as Special Operations for MAC-V assigned to I Corps in northern Vietnam. And then the war was over, too soon to suit him.

Six years in the Marines seemed a lifetime away, but his short service career had served his purpose well in establishing his true talent as a paid assassin, a vocation that he had practiced for the last twenty years. It wasn't the money that drove him. He could make a hell of a lot more hawking out his skills on the international market. No, it was the game, the contest of wit, brains, and physical capabilities. He thought of it as a great cosmic shell game. He saw himself as a super patriot.

Crawfoot noticed a dusty American flag on one of the walls. It was funny, he mused, and it just didn't mean the same thing to him as it had when he was a kid. He had gone to Nam to serve his country. He didn't protest. He didn't burn his draft card. He felt that any patriot should serve when called.

He remembered coming home on a flight that landed at Travis Air Force Base and taking a military shuttle bus to the San Francisco airport with other soldiers and airmen. In San Francisco they were met by antiwar demonstrators who called them baby killers and murderers, and who had further humiliated each of them by pelting them with rotten food and eggs, desecrating their uniforms.

He sat alone on the plane home, reeking of filth and unable to muster his emotional defenses as the outward rejection wormed its way into his soul, demoralizing his self-worth and leaving shame in its wake. How could his fellow Americans be so stupid as to blame the guys in uniform for the war? They sure as hell hadn't started it. It was the fucking politicians.

From that day on, he had loathed the common man and felt that they were little more than sheep that should be led like animals. The general public had no greater worth than that which the leaders of the country had assigned to them. They were mindless pawns to be moved about on the cosmic chessboard of life at the whim of their leaders.

Crawfoot looked up. A large silhouette, illuminated by a blaze of sunlight, filled the doorframe. Mother looked around the bar, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dim light, noting the long oval bar with tables evenly spaced for patrons.

"It's about fucking time," Crawfoot said looking at his watch.

Crawfoot couldn't go to Washington, D.C. or the Puzzle Palace, so Mother had to meet him at a place of his choosing. Baltimore's Best Barbecue was on the northern fringe of the city. He had discovered "B's", as the locals called it, ten years previously on an assignment to tag a Westinghouse scientist who was selling advanced radar information to the Russians. The errant scientist was a Jewish immigrant with political ties to Israel, so the agency didn't want a trial or any publicity. The unfortunate man was killed by a mugger… or so the police and the press had determined. Crawfoot shook his head derisively at their gullibility.

Mother shrugged off his charcoal gray suit coat as he joined Crawfoot, loosening his tie as he wedged his bulk into the booth.

"I'm always overdressed for this place," Mother mumbled as he shook Crawfoot's hand. "By now I should know enough to change before I meet you here."

B's had been at the same location on York Road for twenty-five years, and it wasn't too far for Mother to drive from the NSA compound.

Mother, a.k.a. Colonel Ty Trent, noticed that Crawfoot wore his usual off-the-shelf clothes, nothing that could be traceable or noted as anything but the ordinary mass-produced nondescript norm. When the waitress approached Ty, he ordered a Sam Adams lager and another bottled water for Crawfoot.

"So, whadda ya have for me?" Crawfoot waited until the waitress was out of earshot before he spoke.

Trent slid a manila envelope the size of a three-inch diskette across the table. "It's all in here," he said, tapping the disk with a forefinger. "The dossier, his picture, psychological profile, and a map and layout of his house on Medina Lake."

"Texas, ummm?"

"Yes, outside of San Antonio, about twenty miles."

"I know where it is." Crawfoot's body language showed no emotion when he spoke, and his eyes were impossible to read behind the dark glasses he wore so religiously. "What are the parameters?"

"Elimination in the shortest practical time. It has to look like an accident. Your backup cover, if you're caught, is that you are a deranged, disabled Vietnam vet who's wandered away from the Audie Murphy Veteran's Hospital in San Antonio. There's also a Mexican passport that you will use to reenter the U.S. You will fly to Montreal from DC, then fly to Mexico City before your last leg to San Antonio. Upon arrival in the US, you will dispose of the Mexican passport and ID, then use the deranged vet's ID."

"Any input on how the accident should look?" Crawfoot asked.

Trent pulled another envelope from the inside pocket of the suit coat that he had hung on the side chair. "Yes. Ostensibly you are there to hunt deer. Your license is with your ID package. The area around the lake is zoned for hunting, and you will arrive during the season. It starts next week," he paused, looked at his chronometer, "in five days."

Crawfoot nodded. "All right. Is this assignment related to the..." he paused to look around, and Mother interrupted him abruptly before he could continue.

"Yes."

"Are the old men getting more paranoid or what?"

"What's your point?"

Crawfoot grinned and shook his head indulgently, as if he were dealing with a slow learner. "Well, after the two scientists from British GE, and those three soldiers last year, and the Presidential appointee, and the ex-congressman, and the Air Force pilot this year, old Eli and the magic twelve have kept me pretty busy." He added increasing emphasis with each "and" that crossed his lips.

"National security has priority, and each one of those people knew the risk they were taking," Trent replied brusquely, scowling his annoyance. "Never forget that those men whom you so often malign have had a great and awesome responsibility placed upon them. Never forget that those men are true patriots."

Crawfoot snorted his disrespectful opinion. "Patriots as opposed to me, a fucking assassin. Is that your less than subtle point, Trent?"

"I mean that they are patriots forging a new tomorrow for all of us. If we didn’t view you as a trusted patriot, you wouldn’t be here. But let's not argue," Trent patronized as he set the menu aside.

Crawfoot laughed a bit louder than he had intended. "In order to argue with you, I'd have to give a shit one way or the other."

The waitress returned and they ordered dinner. Trent ordered baby back ribs and another beer. Crawfoot stayed light with a salad and large grilled shrimp, both with lime juice.

"Crawfoot," Trent challenged with a sly grin, "how do you know that this place isn't bugged?"

"Because, Mother, see those two guys in the telephone repair uniforms at the bar? For one thing I noticed that they're wearing loafers, not the work shoes repairmen usually wear. And I can see from here that their nails appeared to be manicured. Their van outside is new, fresh paint, not a scratch or dent on it. Hell, it doesn't even have a speck of dirt on it. Oh, and another thing. They're carrying nothing in their large double shirt pockets. I'll lay money that they're monkeys playing sweep the cage, and that you're the zoo keeper."

Trent made a coy expression and winked. "Just testing, smartass."

Crawfoot leaned his head back and looked at Mother out of narrowed eyes. He didn't need some arm-chair mercenary questioning his competence.  "I will assume that's an affirmative."

Crawfoot's icy tone did not escape the Colonel's notice. He took a deep swallow of his Samuel Adams and moved to neutral ground. "You know, Crawfoot, Eli Jerrold and MJ-12 are really steamed about this new leak, the video that showed on NBC's Exploring the Unknown last night. Did you see it?"

Crawfoot shook his head, "Negative. But I heard about it."

"Too much information is leaking out too soon. They expect damage control to be immediate and permanent. There is an authorized second target on the disk. In addition to the scientist, there's a reporter."

Crawfoot chuckled softly. "What would your new boss at NSA do if he found out you were still taking orders from your old boss? I often visualize the scenario. Could I ever blister your collective asses if I whispered a few of my dark little secrets."

Trent's cheeks turned red with controlled anger. "We call on you because we know that you can be trusted to keep a secret. You've proven your loyalty to us time and again. My involvement with MJ-12 is one of the greatest secrets in the whole of United States intelligence. Don't fuck around with me, Crawfoot. Don't plant any ideas in my head that you might turn traitor on me. We've both got a little too much at stake here.

Crawfoot snorted. If Trent expected an apology, he would still be waiting when hell froze over. "I would submit, my Colonel, that an even bigger secret is how many fucking scientists, researchers, UFO buffs, and prying military personnel I've killed for Eli and the boys of MJ-12."

A cellular phone rudely interrupted their conversation. Crawfoot wouldn't have one of the damn things; he refused to be tied to an electronic leash. Ty's phone was his emotional pacemaker, each ring a volt of energy to his sense of self worth.

Colonel Trent pulled the palm sized cellular phone from his coat pocket and looked at the digital readout. Working for the NSA had its perks. Above any agency in the world, they had the best and latest gee-whiz technology. His cellular phone also had a pager, digital fax, and text, National caller identification, and encrypted message service features, which used direct satellite communications worldwide. Without his, Mother would have felt naked.

"Papa bear is calling?" Crawfoot chided.

"No, actually," he pushed a button that displayed the caller's number and name, "it's from Nevada. Hold on a second."

"Knock yourself out."

"Control 12 Baker," he answered.

"Ty, this is Agabarr."

"You called Flash priority. What's the problem?"

"We have an Area 51 contract engineer and Loral employee who has taken a leave-of-absence. He has a drinking problem and a notation in the NSA computer about a botched TREAT mission, in his past, where his story is suspect."

"Go on." Ty motioned to the waitress for another beer and motioned to Crawfoot, who cut his hand through the air in a declining motion.

"We've had a tail on him for a month. The night before last, we followed him to his local drinking establishment. Our Wackenhut guy took a coincidental swim in a pitcher of beer and tomato juice. When he went into the crapper to wipe up, somebody turned a key on him from the outside. By the time he got out, the man was gone...and his car was still in the parking lot. Our man's car's wiring was ripped up."

"Is that it?"

"No. We watched the appropriate roads and modes of mass transportation. He purchased a one-way ticket to Los Angeles the next day. We believe he used a decoy. No one got on the plane. What do you wish us to do?"

"Nothing yet. Keep me informed."

"But I want to..."

"I said wait and keep me informed. Goodbye," Ty said curtly and flipped the top shut on his phone.

"The Indians are restless, I presume?" Crawfoot smirked.

"There's no lack of motivation in the field. Some of our trusted minions are a little over zealous at times."

"Agabarr? Sure he is..." Crawfoot said smugly.

"Perhaps. You have something against our esteemed colleague?"

"The only thing esteemed about him is how he consistently breaks rank and thumbs his nose at his control. And that would be...you?"

"He's not the only one that rubs me the wrong way at times," Ty said pointedly.

"Touché Mein Führer. At least I haven't made unsanctioned terminations. He will be the unraveling of you some day. I would send him to hell on a skewer and pay for his trip on my own."

"I'm perfectly aware of your unbiased assessment of Agabarr, but he has his uses," Mother replied, his voice dripping sarcasm. "He's a tool, rough at times, but a tool never-the-less, and he's not a policy maker."

"Who you trying to convince? He thinks he has Carte Blanc and you know it," Crawfoot chided, jabbing a finger in Ty's face. “Agabarr is the devil and you’re all going to hell on his coattail. Mark my words.”

Ty knew that Crawfoot was absolutely on the mark, but he wasn't about to compromise compartmental management rules and discuss his other personnel problems with Crawfoot. Ty had enough people working their way up the elimination list, and he didn't plan on adding another one prematurely. He didn't think twice about making the call to terminate a high risk target once the criteria was met, but he insisted on following the rules the MJ-12 committee had established. Agabarr would never be allowed to make those types of decisions. Or at least he hoped the hell not.

An air of hostility had arisen around the two. At the moment both of them lamented their insensitive prodding. Trent's face displayed a rare, and extremely fleeting, moment of regret.

"You know, sometimes I have nightmares about the things that I have asked you to do."

Crawfoot shrugged. "Forget it, Mother. Just keep feeding me these assignments and telling me that they are necessary for national security. That's all I require. I don't lose sleep. I have a good appetite. And my conscience doesn't bother me."

Trent punctuated the air dramatically with a wave of his beer bottle. "I cannot imagine how that could be true, man. You're a human being, with human emotions."

Crawfoot studied his contact's face. Trent was fat, balding, bearded, and a master of bullshit. Excessive bouts of alcohol abuse and female scandals had sidetracked his once brilliant career at the NSA. If Eli Jerrold had not become the Director and sponsored Colonel Ty Trent, the man might have been out on the streets as a contract agent. A very unemployed contract agent. Crawfoot was sensing his weakness and obsolescence.

"Nah, Trent," Crawfoot drawled. "It's all just a fucking job to me." He knew if he had shown the slightest signs of emotional disturbance or weakness, he himself would be next on old Eli's scratch list.

The food arrived and Colonel Trent consumed two more beers, an enormous plate of ribs, and a shovel of fries. After stuffing himself, he looked at the mess he had made, smiled, belched, and laughed at Crawfoot. Trent had managed to spot his tailored white dress shirt in at least a dozen places.

Crawfoot sensed that Mother was about to deliver his parting speech, the traditional Spartan farewell: Come back with your shield or on it.

"Crawfoot," he began, building the intensity, "I don't have the whole picture, and for security reasons, you know even less. But, man, I want to go on record here that I truly believe that the security of our country is at stake and that what we are doing is essential to protect the freedom of our nation, and our world. Eli Jerrold calls MJ-12's Project a race with the devil to reclaim humanity's destiny. I really don't know exactly what that means, but I respect and trust Eli Jerrold more than I would God when it comes to matters of national security."

Crawfoot maintained a respectful silence, but he suspected that Colonel Ty Trent had a damned good idea of what MJ-12 was up to, and that he had a very clear view of the total picture. He'd listened quietly to Trent's little speech, but he knew it was just one of those great sounding lies that intelligence people told and half-believed themselves.

"Colonel Trent," Crawfoot addressed him formally, lifting his water glass in a salute, "you may tell Eli Jerrold, your personal prophet of the new millennium, that my present assignment will be carried out successfully, and that I wish him luck in his race with the devil."

He'll need it, Crawfoot thought to himself.  He for-sawed a crumbling castle of egos.

CHAPTER 07 - Return To San Antonio

Joe Green didn't recognize the sprawling metropolis as they flew the approach pattern to San Antonio International Airport. He had not been in the city since he had completed basic training at Lackland Air Force Base in the late 60s and departed unceremoniously to Fort Benning for jump school training before being sent to Vietnam.

Joe scratched the bristle on his chin and contemplated the fact that he had just completed another circle in his life. He was born in Americus, Georgia, moved to San Antonio as a kid, then back to Georgia for jump school at Fort Benning. Now, he was returning to San Antonio some twenty years later to search for scattered pieces of the jigsaw puzzle of his life. He wondered if he had any relatives or friends still living in the area. There were the Greens, Fouche’s, Little’s, and Russell’s, all poor relatives.

There were half a dozen major military bases and dozens of government-oriented research and engineering companies in San Antonio. To outsiders, the city was known as a tourist town, but the locals knew it was a military town in every sense of the word. The largest employer was Uncle Sam, and the majority of retirees living in the area were military veterans and former civil service employees.

Later, after he had picked up a white Ford Taurus rental, Joe stretched out on the bed in his motel room and took a couple of minutes to center himself.

Dear God, am I completely wacko? I drive off in the night, leaving my wife and son staring after me as if I'm deserting them to join the Foreign Legion of lost souls. I head for the Pilot Club, where I proceed to drink as if Prohibition was being reinstated the next morning, then I  tore-ass to Vegas and pours my guts out to an old buddy who covers my ass while I sneak onto a plane and fly to San Antonio to talk to a man who doesn't even know I'm coming.

Joe sat up, looked at himself in the grime-clouded mirror above the dresser. "I must have shit for brains...or I really am going crazy."

As he had promised, he called Karen, told her that he was all right.

"Honey," she said softly, holding back tears, "you know I believe in you, but, Jesus, man, what are you doing? Do you really know what the hell you are doing?"

He closed his eyes, seeing her there at the kitchen phone. God, he wished he were there to hold her.

"I wish I could tell you that I knew what the hell I'm doing, sweetheart," he admitted.  "I really do. But you know there's been something inside of my soul--chewing it into ground meat. It's been gnawing at me for months now. Christ, maybe years, I don't know. But I got to get some answers."

She sniffed into the receiver, and then blew her nose into a tissue. "I thought we promised to always work things out between ourselves."

They had, "honey, Kitten, my little princess." He used names he hadn't called her in a long time. "God, I'm sorry, baby. I'm sorry, Karen.  This... whatever the fuck it is...isn't just going to go away. It'll be okay...I hope it will be okay, after I talk to Farr. I pray that he has some answers for me."

"I'll also be praying, Honey." He could hear the repressed tears in her voice. "Look, don't worry about us...we can handle anything as long as it helps you get past this thing. I'll hug Kevin for you when he gets home from school.

"Joe lit a cigarette after he cradled the receiver. What a jerk he was. A wife like that and he was sitting in a shit motel room searching for answers when he didn't even know for sure what the questions were. Right now he felt an overwhelming need to bury his face in her hair and lose himself in her softness. He snorted, I haven't felt like doing that in months, and now, when it's impossible, it's all I can think about.

Joe thought of his lie to Karen that he had quit smoking, and abruptly ground the butt out in an ashtray.

"Well, I might as well get this show on the road." The dreary room ignored him as he pulled his personal phone book from his luggage. Luckily he and Farr had exchanged telephone numbers...the scientist, he was certain, would be unlisted.

All of a sudden, Joe felt vulnerable and out-of-place. What made him think Farr would speak to him; much less answer such potentially volatile questions?

He needed a drink.

He found the listing in his address book. Dr. Carlton W. Farr. The prefix was for the Medina Lake exchange.

Maybe he should just spend a couple days getting some R & R. Maybe he didn't really want to hear what Farr might tell him.

Joe caught his troubled reflection in the mirror. "You chicken-shit. Sit down and pick up the goddamned phone," he berated his image.

What the hell. It was why he had come, why he had left his wife and son, why he had taken a leave of absence from work.

He picked up the receiver, checked his wristwatch. It was five o'clock. Should be a good time. Catch him before dinner. He punched in the numbers on the phone's cradle.

One ring. Another. "Hello. You've reached 210-555-9999. Leave your name and number, and your call will be returned at the earliest opportunity."

"Goddamn answering machine."

Joe slammed the receiver down and tried again after smoking another cigarette. This time he left a message:

"Dr. Farr, this is Joe Green from Tonopah, Nevada. We met at a Propulsion Seminar there, the one sponsored by the DOE and JPL. Look, I'm staying at the Military Inn near the Brooks Advanced Research Center. I'm in room 126. I'd really like to talk to you about your research work in Nevada. It is urgent. Please call..."

His time had run out on the answering machine's tape, and he held the receiver, listening to the dial tone.

"Let's hope he doesn't hear it and wonder why he should give a shit," Joe grimaced.

What would he do if someone called him cold? Probably blow him off. He hoped that Dr. Carlton Farr was a kinder, gentler man than he might be.

Later that evening, Joe drove the rented Taurus over to the south side of San Antonio. In the fifties and early sixties, the south side of the city had been dotted with little bedroom communities of blue-collar workers of Polish, Czech, and German descent.

When he was a kid, he and his maternal grandfather, Cecil Reid, who had quite a sweet tooth, wandered the neighborhood making major decisions, such as whether to have a Black, Brown, Orange, or Purple Cow at the Pig Stand. Vanilla ice cream floats with cola, root beer, orange, or grape soda made for a cool treat.

Sometimes the two of them walked down to the little green and white Texaco station with the tin Bardahl signs on the corner of Holmgreen Rd. and W.W. White Road to buy a nickel cola. After a few sips, Grandpa Reid would pour a bag of peanuts into his bottle. Little Joe preferred a Moon Pie with his soda pop.

Joe chuckled at his nostalgia. He had come to San Antonio searching for truth, and here he was wondering if they still bottled Barq's Strawberry Cream soda.

As he drove east on W.W. White, little seemed familiar to him. But when he turned onto Holmgreen Road, the past came rushing back.

The little wooden frame homes hadn't changed that much and he held his breath when he saw the old Nazarene Church on the left. He pulled onto the gravel apron that served as a parking lot for the small church and shut off the ignition.

His grandfather had earned a living as a carpenter and cabinet maker before turning his life over to religion, so before he put his tools away, he had built the little L-shaped church. With the help of some church members, Grandfather Reid had also constructed the modest parsonage to the right of the church--which was now painted an ugly brown, not the white with green trim that Joe remembered.

Another flash of memory hit him. It was a sunny day, and he and Grandfather Reid were cruising down W.W. White Road.

"This is your last day of vacation, Little Joe," Grandfather said. "Monday we're going to take you down to the elementary school and register you."

"What grade will I be in?"

Grandfather frowned at him and answered in a tone of voice that told Joe that he should have known the answer.

"You'll be in the second grade."

"Second grade?"

"Sure," Grandfather said a bit impatiently. Grandfather Reid was always comfortable to be with, but Joe was beginning to feel a little uneasy, as if he had unknowingly angered the old man. "Second grade. Don't you remember going to the first grade?"

Joe shook his head. "No. Where?"

Grandfather was quiet for a while before he answered. "Americus. You went to...Wheatly Elementary School in Americus, Georgia."

Joe searched his memories. "I...I don't remember, Grandfather."

And, try as he might, he never did remember. All he could recall whenever he tried to think back to Americus was the Light. The Light that had confronted them on their move to Texas.

And he remembered the Light very well. That's when the nightmares, the cold sweats, and the bed-wetting started.

His problems increased the next year when his father died, leaving his family penniless. Joe was convinced that the light had returned for his father, and for many years he was terrified that it would come back for him, too.

His grandparents somehow made room for him and his mother in the small parsonage. At night, when he lay in bed listening to his mother speak to her parents in hushed tones, he overheard bits of conversation such as "too much stress" and "he just couldn't handle being a failure" and "shotgun blast" and "unforgivable sin". Joe's life changed dramatically when he was suddenly surrounded by his grandparents' fevered brand of religion and was expected to embrace it.

Grandfather Reid had assessed young Joe as being weak like his father. It was clear to the patriarch that the boy lacked direction in his life. Joe's father drank hard and smoked relentlessly, and Grandfather Reid took it as his personal mission to see that the son didn't follow the father's misbegotten path to sin and damnation.

By the time he was twelve, Joe was confused by the conflicts in his life. He hadn't done well at school, and his grandparents' old time religion was consuming his life.

The week began with Sunday school, noon church services, afternoon family togetherness, evening services, and family prayers at night before bedtime. Without fail, Joe, his mother, and grandmother listened to Grandfather read from the Holy Bible, starting at 9:00 in the evening, progressing through family prayer on their knees in the living room, then to bed with prayers by ten. On Tuesday nights there was choir practice; Wednesday nights, prayer meeting; Thursday, missionary meeting; Friday, visitation; Saturday afternoons, youth functions at the First Nazarene Church. Such a rigorous schedule of prayer, Bible passages, and a disciplined pilgrim's progress left little time for Joe to make friends or make sense of it all.

At night he would lie awake, praying to God to make the light that filled his nightmares disappear.

Joe sat in his room at the Military Inn, smoking his second pack of cigarettes, looking out at the night, and sipping coffee from the thermos that he had filled at the motel's restaurant. Somewhere around six in the morning, he nodded off. He would sleep a few hours in the morning, then a few more before sundown, pretty much the routine that he had followed for years when not working the preferred night or graveyard shift.

He awoke with a full bladder at 9:10 AM, but instead of going directly to the bathroom, he dialed Carlton Farr's number again.

The cheap hotel linen was wrinkled and bunched from his restless sleep. A narrow bright light, the morning sun, beamed through the curtain where the two halves merged. He absent-mindedly adjusted it closed as the phone at the scientist's house rang.

Farr's machine answered, and once again at the sound of the beep, Joe introduced himself. He heard a voice from the receiver just as he was about to hang up.

"Hello, are you there?"

Joe jerked the receiver back to his mouth and blurted, "Yes, I'm here. Is this Dr. Carlton Farr?"

"What do you want?"

"I thought we might meet and have a drink."

Farr chuckled softly. "I don't drink with strangers. I have my scotch alone, and I like it that way."

Joe forced himself to be patient." We're not strangers, Dr. Farr. We met at the classified propulsion symposium in Tonopah, and I asked you if the prototype advanced technology aerospace vehicles were often mistaken for UFOs."

"Hmm, yes, I seem to remember now," Farr said. "I told you the probability was quite likely nonexistent."

Joe smiled. The man was being cautious. "No, as a matter of fact, you said the probability was about 96 percent."

"Did I now?"

"You did. And then I asked you, 'If UFOs exist, then who do the vehicles belong to?' Your answer was, 'Others, not us.'"

There was a long silence at the other end of the phone. "Look, Mr. Green, I'm not at all comfortable talking about such matters over the telephone. I'll call you back shortly."

Joe felt a moment of helplessness. "Wait, I'm staying at...."

"I have your message from last night. I know where you are. Later." And Dr. Carlton Farr cut off their connection.

Joe took a shower and ordered a pitcher of coffee from room service. When the phone rang two hours later, he picked it up on the first ring. "Where are you?"

"I'm at a place named Pat's at Medina Lake," Farr told him. "If you'll get a pencil and paper, I'll give you directions. I assume you have transportation."

"I do," Joe said, digging pen and note pad out of a drawer in the nightstand. "Okay, give me the directions."

He wrote fast and asked only one question. "When?"

An hour later, Joe spotted a liquor store next to the HEB grocery on Culebra and Tezel. He decided to pick up a bottle of unblended single malt whiskey. He chose a liter bottle of Glenfiddich, certain that Farr would appreciate the quality.

As he drove to meet the scientist, Joe mused that he was caught up in the free-fall of fate's vortex. As with most things in his life, he seemed drawn to events as if he was being summoned by some relentless, unseen force.

CHAPTER 08 - The Devil's Domain

Sometime during what he guessed to be the early morning hours, Red was awakened by the abrasive sound of metal grinding against metal. Disoriented at first from waking up in the dark in a strange place, Red's eyes finally managed to make out a food tray, an aluminum mug, and a personal hygiene kit with a roll of toilet paper.

He figured he knew pretty well the psychology the mean-eyed asshole Agabarr was trying to work on him. First they brought him blindfolded to what looked like some kind of laboratory, spread-eagled him on a table, and made threatening noises, then brought him to a dank, dark cell to get good and nervous.

Red laughed. It was like the time his teacher locked him in the clothes closet in third grade so he would promise not to disrupt the class when she let him out. These military jerks were just trying to scare, him and let his fears work on him during the night. Secret airbase or not, there was no way they would lay hands on a civilian. He would be in for a first class ass-chewing by Agabarr, and then he would be turned over to the country sheriff to cool his heels in jail until Blake Webster came to bail him out.

He tasted the food on the tray. Bland and uninteresting, but he was hungry. The mug contained some tepid liquid that tasted vaguely like coffee.

Red stepped over to the dark-stained sink to wash his hands with the small bar of soap. He had pretty much wolfed down the food and quickly swallowed the coffee without considering that it might be drugged. His hands hadn't even worked up a lather when the dimly lighted cell began tipping peculiarly to one side.

He managed to fall down on the steel cot before he slipped into darkness.

When he was next awakened by the harsh, scraping metallic sound of the food tray being unceremoniously delivered to his cell, he had no idea how many hours, or days had passed.

He considered avoiding the bland food and the awful coffee, but he had awakened with an unrelenting thirst.

This time there was a voice to accompany the tray: "Eat up, old man. We're going to have some fun and games...soon."

The voice had a sneering tone to it that suggested pain and unpleasantness. Just what they wanted him to think, Red told himself. They wanted him bewildered and bothered. In some ways he felt like the proverbial Thanksgiving turkey being fattened for the kill.

He took a hearty swallow of the coffee. There would be no drugs this time, he reasoned. They wanted him alert, but docile.  He chucked to himself. They were about to learn that the word "docile" had never been in his dictionary.

He had just finished his meal, when he heard voices in the corridor. The cell door slid open, and two guards motioned for him to get to his feet.

Before Red could speak or react, one of the men raised his hand and fired a trailing wire electrovoltic weapon at him. The thousands of disabling volts running down the wire were set to stun, not to kill. Red crumpled into a heavy pile on the floor, his body shaking in spasms from the electrical shock. He was dimly aware of the two guards lifting him by his arms, pulling him out into the corridor, and strapping him onto a gurney. Then he blacked out.

When Red regained consciousness, the doctor was just completing his examination. His clothes were lying on the floor and he had been stripped naked while he lay on the gurney.

Red's body belied his age. He still had the stamina of a twenty year old from treading the Nevada mountains and deserts foot by foot during the past several decades. Although his body was scarred from bar fights and gave evidence of hard mileage, he had an inner source of energy driven by an iron will.

Agabarr, wickedly smiling, like a demon that brought his own portable hell with him, stepped into his line of vision. "Enough," he snapped at Dr. Quinlin.  Then to the guards: "Put our guest in the chair."

Red saw that the interrogation room was a large stone room that contained a desk, a chair, a stool, and something that looked like a dentist's chair hooked up to many wires running to a console directly behind it. There was a light above the strange chair, and a lamp on the desk.

Agabarr watched silently as the men strapped Red into the ominous contraption. Red saw that the thin, dark-haired man's eyes had an evil squint. His pupils were like twin black vortexes that could absorb all light.

"Secure him well," he advised the guards.

As one of the men pulled a strap tight around Red, he muttered, "He won't be going anywhere."

Agabarr's voice was as cold as death, and the arrogant guard blinked first when he said, "Your life depends on it."

The guard with the loose mouth swallowed hard and averted his attention from Agabarr's dark stare.

When Red was strapped in tight, Dr. Quinlin stepped forward and gave him an injection.

"What's that?" Agabarr demanded.

Red noticed that the doctor seemed both impatient and disgusted with Agabarr. "It's a psycho-hypnotic. It will make him alert mentally, but passive, disassociated from reality. He will be easier to question."

Red relaxed. Fucking amateurs. He was certain that he would be able to resist the drug. He had studied numerous mind control systems and yoga techniques. To say nothing of the time, that he had spent with the Shaman of a Native American Church, who had taught him the mysteries of Mescalito, peyote. He had participated in more than sixteen services in which he had chewed the peyote buds, puked up his guts into a tin pail, and soared to blend with the Great Mystery. On his own, he had experimented with sacred mushrooms, mescaline, and psilocybin. After dozens of trips to in-between universes, he had learned to maintain an objective, observer state with his mental faculties even while ostensibly under the influence of psycho-hallucinogenic drugs.

Red would employ passive cooperation, not passive resistance to Agabarr's questions. Passive cooperation would permit him to answer any queries explicitly, implicitly, literally, figuratively, and from any other point of view that came to mind, without giving up any usable information.

"What were you doing in Area 51 when you were apprehended?" Agabarr asked him.

"Doing what a man ought to be doing. Minding my own business, minding my donkey, and minding my Father's business," Red answered. "Know ye not that I must be about my Father's business?"

"Who is your father?"

"The Lord of Heaven and Earth. When you go into the city, you will see a man with the colt of an ass. Tell him that the Lord has need of it. It is Hosanna time in the streets of Jerusalem!"

Agabarr scowled at Dr. Quinlin. "What the hell is going on here?"

"What is going on," Red answered, "is the logical process inverted as common man confronts his existential leap of faith into the vortex of contemporary soap operas."

"What the fuck did you give him?" Agabarr shouted. "Do you know your business, Dr. Quinlin? Or shall I do it my way?"

Dr. Quinlin stepped forward with another needle, and Red felt a rush. The additional shot of joy juice would make it harder, but he knew he could block the drug's full effect.

For four grueling hours, Agabarr questioned Red about what he knew of the Program and Area 51.

"Why have you been spotted on more than one occasion spying on the Groom and Papoose facilities? Have you taken any pictures or videos? Have you been providing anyone with information about Area 51? Do you know a man named Carlton Farr--or Blake Webster? Did you help a man named Joseph Green at the Pilot Club?"

Red assumed completely the role of the desert prospector. If anything, the drug made it easier for him to role-play and to draw upon the knowledge of the area that he had been accumulating since he was a boy.

He told Agabarr that he didn't know anything about what was going on with all the military goons running around the desert and he really didn't care--as long as they stayed the hell away from him. And the only reason that he was ever seen near their fucking facilities was the fact that their fucking facilities were on the routes that he had been taking to desert mining sites for years. He also stated he was really bad with names...

Although his answers seemed solid and truthful, Agabarr still didn't like the way that Red responded a bit too flippantly.

"Let's see, you have a difficult time remembering names. How about pictures?" Agabarr pulled out several eight by ten inch photographs. "This is Wayne Newsom..." He held the picture in Red's face for a long moment. "No...Still not familiar? How about this one? This is an enlarged ID photo of Blake Webster." He repeated the routine for Carlton Farr's picture. "Guess we'll just have to work on your memory, won't we!" Agabarr said raising his voice.

For the next twelve hours, with the doctor and the interrogator popping uppers to stay awake, Raul Agabarr and Red fought a battle of wills.

For a total of sixteen hours, Red had bored the pants off his captors and his interrogator. Each question brought a deluge of minute details about the life of a desert prospector instead of the quick information that Agabarr wanted to hear.

Red's iron will was too great for the drugs that Dr. Quinlin administered to be effective. Agabarr sat slumped at the desk. After sixteen solid hours of confrontation, captive and captors had worn each other down.

Finally the grand inquisitor's room was quiet. Quinlin had left, and the only guard was sitting outside the room in the hallway. Agabarr had decided to call an end to the grueling tête-à-tête.

Red's mind was in another dimension. He imagined Agabarr was talking to some mysterious government kingpin. Something about 'the fourth ship being in the dark', which meshed with the other bizarre dreams he was having.

Red was taken back to his cell for rest--and then awakened as soon as he had fallen asleep. At least that was what it felt like to him, but he really had no way of knowing for certain how long his recess had lasted.

What he saw when he was returned to the interrogation room sent chills up his spine. Agabarr had decided to give up on drugs. He was holding two electric probes in his hands.

CHAPTER 09 - The Two Greatest Conspiracies Ever

When Joe Green arrived at the small bar called Pat's Place, it was nearly three in the afternoon. The sky was filled with a hazy gray cover and was full of the kind of moisture that made the skin tacky to the touch.

Humidity in the high desert of central Nevada averaged around fifteen percent, with the exception of the rare rain storms. In San Antonio, it was the exception when the humidity dropped below fifty percent for two days in a row. Joe didn't remember the humidity being so oppressive as a child growing up there, but adults rarely reconcile the past with the present. And he knew that he had big holes in his memories. In his memory, as in his dreams, reality blurred with visions of surrealistic beings dancing in the light.

Dr. Carlton Farr sat at a picnic table under the covered patio behind the bar. A slightly overweight man in his mid-fifties, he was holding a small brown dog and nursing a longneck bottle of Lone Star beer.

"Dr. Farr," Joe presented himself with an outstretched hand, "I'm Joe Green from Tonopah. Remember me now?"

It seemed obvious that Joe's smiling face rang no immediate bells for Farr. "Vaguely. Maybe." He motioned for Joe to join him at the picnic table. "This is Albert," the scientist said, indicating the lump of fur sitting on his lap, panting against the heat.

"Guess I didn't make much of an impression at the symposium," Joe shrugged self-consciously. Neither Farr nor Albert seemed overly impressed with him right now, either.

Farr narrowed his eyes, studying Joe's features. "Do you want a beer? They were out of my favorite, Shiner Bock. The coldest brew they had was a Lone Star, so I ordered that. Want one?"

Joe nodded, and the scientist called for a waitress to bring his guest a Lone Star.

Farr raised his bottle to his forehead and relished the feel of the smooth, cool glass against his skin. "It's quite warm and humid today."

Joe hated to think he might be getting a brush-off. "I thought you might remember me, because I asked you so many questions about...things you didn't want to discuss in public at the symposium. We didn't really have time for an actual conversation, so I guess I can't be surprised that you don't remember me."

Joe's beer came and as he smiled at the waitress, he self-consciously ran a hand through his damp hair.

"Aha," Farr laughed. "Now I'm getting the image of you at the symposium. A seemingly quiet young man with disheveled blond hair, dressed in a long sleeved white shirt with the cuffs turned up, a loosely knotted tie, faded jeans and loafers, who suddenly came alive with a dozen uncomfortable questions."

Joe breathed a sigh of relief. "Sounds like a fair description."

Farr lowered his gaze and grinned impishly. "I recall that I rather tactlessly brushed you off."

Joe nodded. "I deserved it the way I kind of jumped at you with a lot of questions about black programs. I didn't mean my persistence to seem like an ambush."

"Is that why you're here, Joe Green? You want to pursue the conversation that you tried so hard to initiate in Tonopah?" Farr shook his head in wonder.

"You've got it," Joe admitted.

"Then let's finish our beers and get out of this humidity," Farr said. "Poor Albert has been panting up a storm. Dogs have no sweat glands, you know. Heat and humidity are terribly difficult for them. My place is just a short distance from here. We'll go there. I have air-conditioning and a dehumidifier."

Carlton Farr accompanied Joe to the rented Taurus and got in on the passenger's side. Albert sat obediently on the scientist's lap, as Farr directed Joe to turn off on a narrow dirt path that cut across the inlet between Pat's Place and his home.

Farr's house was on a hill that overlooked Lake Medina. Five acres of the heavily wooded land that surrounded the home also belonged to him. The structure sat atop a base that elevated the floor about eight feet in the rear. A large deck wrapped itself half-way around the compact, three-bedroom, and white wood frame house.

From the inside, the house assumed the ambiance of a cabin, with oak slat walls, wooden floors, and dropped beam ceiling. The living room contained two overstuffed chairs, a small sofa, and a table that had been placed beside the brick fireplace in the corner.

Joe noticed that there wasn't a single picture or knick-knack in sight. There were two large bookshelves. A very quick glance at a number of the titles revealed primarily history, religion, and scientific reference books.

Joe took the fine bottle of scotch out of his shoulder bag and presented it to Farr, who was feeding Albert in the adjoining open kitchen area.

"My goodness," Farr grinned. "The persistent fellow also bears gifts."

"Well, Dr. Farr, you did say that you liked your scotch, and this is unblended single malt."

It was obvious that Farr appreciated the gesture. "So it is, Laddie, so it is. But do call me, Carl. I really don't like to drink with people who call me doctor."

He accepted the bottle, holding it as gently as if he were entrusted with someone's baby. "Would you care to open this fine single malt scotch and have a drink? Or is it too early in the day for you?"

"Not at all," Joe said. "I was hoping that you would suggest that very thing. I take mine on the rocks with a splash of water."

Farr nodded approvingly. "I take mine neat. I have some bottled artesian water if you like. It's better than the lake water that comes up in my well."

Joe told him that ought to be about perfect, and then asked how long he had been retired. "I gathered from your presentation at the symposium that you were doing some research for the Department of Defense and the Air Force."

"I took an early retirement about two months ago. Just couldn't deal with the stress anymore."

Joe noticed that Farr did indeed take his liquor neat, for he had filled half of an eight-ounce glass with the amber hued scotch. He was glad that he had opted for the liter bottle, rather than a fifth. When he tasted his own drink, he decided that Farr had forgotten about the artesian water. Fortunately, Farr had filled his glass with ice before added the scotch. He made a mental note to mix his own drinks for the remainder of his visit.

Farr had picked up the scruffy mutt and with his free hand he raised his glass to Joe. "To your health."

"And to yours," Joe returned the salute. Farr looked healthy enough for a man in his mid-fifties, and he looked too young to retire. True, he was about twenty pounds overweight, but his legs and arms still had plenty of muscle, and he didn't see an ashtray in the house.

Farr pushed the graying strands of hair back over his balding scalp. "Let me show you the rest of my humble abode."

Joe followed him to a small bedroom, which contained only a queen- sized bed, a rocker, and one dresser. "This is my bedroom, as if you couldn't guess," Farr smiled. "And this," he pointed to the open door next to the bedroom, is the bathroom and next to it is the spare bedroom."

He set Albert back down, took Joe's arm, and gestured toward the spare bedroom. "In there is where I spend most of my evenings."

Joe could not help wondering about the significance of a room with a high-grade Higgens cipher lock on the door. What could merit such security when it appeared that the most valuable artifact in the entire Farr household was a small Braun espresso-cappuccino machine in the kitchen? Other than that one indulgence, Dr. Carlton Farr appeared not to possess a television set, a stereo, or any electronic gadgets. The furniture in the house could very well have been purchased at a garage sale. There were no clothes or magazines lying around. No people pictures of friends or family. It was a totally depersonalized dwelling. Almost Spartan.

Joe followed his host into the living room, and then paused at the front door to enjoy the great view of the lake. Two small bass fishing boats bobbed lazily on its surface. What a luxury, he thought, to be able to live where pressure, anxiety, and vague obsessions did not control your every waking moment.

Farr plopped down in the light gray, two cushioned sofa and indicated that Joe should take the stuffed recliner nearest him. "Tell me something about yourself before we begin this conversation that you have come so far to have."

Joe sat back in the recliner. From what he knew about Carlton Farr, he was the kind of man who didn't trust anyone and disliked nearly everyone. Joe could tell that the scientist might be pure intellect in the laboratory, but he relied on his instincts to inform him about the people he met. Joe sensed that Farr liked him, but he suspected that he also had his own ghosts to reckon with.

Joe told the scientist that he had been born in Georgia, raised in San Antonio, and had spent twenty years between the military and government work before ending up in Nevada. Joe was an obsessively private person who always found it difficult to reveal much of himself, but under the present circumstances, he knew that he must win the man's complete confidence.

"I went into the Vietnam conflict right out of school and got out of the service shortly after it was over. I worked in communications, intelligence, and crypto. Then I put on civilian clothes and did the same thing for the government for the next ten years before I went to work as a government contractor in the defense industry."

Farr chuckled as Albert jumped up onto his lap. "Joe, you are the only person that I've ever met who can tell his life story in one minute flat. Come on, man, is it modesty? You surely could not have had a boring life if you were in Southeast Asia and worked for the NSA."

"Some of my reticence is from working so many dark programs," Joe said. "And I guess I am a private kind of person. What makes you think I was with the National Security Agency?"

Farr laughed, idly stroking Albert's head and ears. "Come on, who do you think you're kidding? All communications and intelligence personnel and especially, or should I say, 'exclusively'--cryptologists have had prior connections with the NSA. And you do live outside of the Nellis Range or Area 51, don't you?"

Joe acknowledged that his assumptions were correct. "Were you connected, Carl?"

Farr set the mutt back on the floor and dismissed it with a playful swat on its little rump. "The D.O.E. and DARPA funded all of the research projects in which I was involved. They don't do anything that the NSA isn't aware of. And most of the stuff we worked with was so classified that the software and records were encrypted. Do you people still call it No Such Agency?”

“Yes, but it’s more out in the open now.”

Joe had done his homework, reading or skimming through Farr's published books, articles, and papers. Dr. Carlton Farr was one of the leading theoretical propulsion experts in the United States. He had worked at Sandia, Los Alamos, and Lawrence Livermore National laboratories for twenty-nine years before transferring to the classified Brooks Advanced Research Center at Brooks Air Force Base for the past couple of years. In addition, Farr had been a MIT physicist, a NSA mathematician, and  Stanford material's scientist. The only personal element that Joe had been able to isolate in all of the man's writings was his apparent interest in Sumerian archaeology.

"I found your fascination with the ancient culture of Sumer to be quite interesting," Joe ventured. "An interest in the past seemed so much in contrast with all the futuristic projects you've been involved in."

Farr's eyebrows arched, surprised by Joe's sudden introduction of one of his passions into the conversational flow. He studied his empty glass for a moment. "You ready for a refill?"

Joe indicated that he was fine. He had only taken that initial sip from his drink.

When he returned with a fresh supply of scotch, Farr responded to Joe's interest in his Sumerian studies. "What began as a hobby evolved into an obsession. The ancient Sumerians were an astonishing people. Did you know that they settled in Mesopotamia, or Iraq as we would call it today, about 4500 BCE?"

Joe nodded. "I also find it interesting that the Sumerian civilization precedes 3760 BCE, the first date on the Jewish calendar, which is also the date that certain Christian fundamentalists acknowledge as creation. However, even that is predated by 4236 BCE, which is the first date in the Egyptian calendar."

The look on the scientist's face showed that he was surprised that Joe had his dates correct.  Farr went on to deliver an impromptu lecture of sorts, telling how the Sumerians had established their civilization on an agricultural basis and had built the first true cities known to humankind. They had fine buildings, large monuments, public water systems and sewage drainage.

Warming to what was his self-confessed obsession, Farr stated that the first known hieroglyphic writings, or cuneiform, came from the Sumerians. Tens of thousands of clay tablets had survived and had been translated.

The Sumerians had built an impressive empire of city-states made up of craftsmen, administrators, farmers, herders, fishermen, doctors, lawyers, pharmacists, and religious leaders. They reigned supreme until, eventually, somewhere around 2200 BCE, their empire was slowly absorbed by the Semitic people from Arabia.

"The Sumerians believed that the gods had taken an active hand in the development of their civilization," Farr said. "And they also believed that these gods actually coexisted with them on Earth. Do you find this at all interesting, Joe?"

"Yes, surely," Joe answered, almost taken off guard by the sudden question. In truth, he considered it a diversion from the subject that he really wished to pursue with Farr, but he didn't want to offend him.

Farr winked knowingly. "Well, you will find there is a point to all of this. For example, the Sumerians believed that there were twelve planets. The nine we have recognized since Copernicus, our sun and moon, and another between Mars and Jupiter."

Joe was confused. "I can see how they would have classified the sun and moon as planets, and I'll take your word they knew about the other nine, but there is no planet between Mars and Jupiter. That's where the asteroid belt lies."

Farr readily conceded the location of the asteroid belt. "Although most astronomers theorize that the asteroids are residual matter left over from the formation of the planets, some of them believe that the belt was formed when a planet was destroyed after a celestial collision with another large object. Asteroids were discovered in 1801, and Clyde Tombaugh discovered the planet Pluto in 1930."

Farr sucked on a piece of ice from his glass, waiting for what he had said to sink in.

Joe's brow wrinkled. "And?"

Farr laughed at Joe's confusion. "The point that I'm trying to make is that the Sumerians knew about Pluto's existence over 5000 years ago and that, according to their astronomy, there was once a planet where the asteroid belt now exists."

Joe smiled. "So how did these early geniuses figure all this out?"

"They were told and taught by beings from outer space that they thought to be gods," Farr said bluntly.

Joe shook his head and grinned broadly. "Are you talking about the Ancient Astronaut theory? Gods in flaming chariots? Jesus in a spaceship?"

"Don't be so quick to dismiss what I am suggesting, Joe," Farr told him. "In the Judeo-Christian book of Genesis we read that God said, 'Let us make man in our image, after our likeness.' Doesn't that sound like God was talking to others like him at the time of creation?"

"You definitely have a different slant on scripture than my Church of the Nazarene preacher grandfather had," Joe laughed.

Farr spoke on about the "sons of God" taking wives of the "fair daughters of men."

Joe was afraid that he might have reached Dr. Carlton Farr a bit too late for the once brilliant physicist to be of any help to him. He was spouting a theory that sounded like the headlines in the supermarket tabloids. There had been dozens of books written on the "God was an ancient astronaut" theme. Television documentaries had explored the subject time and again. These pseudoscientific explorations could always be counted on to boost the ratings, but no respectable scientist took them seriously.

"How can any thinking person deny that our species had a little help from our cosmic friends during the course of our evolution," Farr said, his voice rising with his convictions. "Two million years passed between advanced Australopithecus and Neanderthal, yet their tools were virtually of the same primitive type. Then 40,000 or 50,000 years ago, Cro-Magnon and his cousin, Homo Sapiens, appeared from nowhere and seemingly swept Neanderthal man from the face of the Earth. Another 40,000 or 30,000 years go by and the Sumerians had a thriving civilization.  Forty thousand years from the appearance of Cro-Magnon until the Sumerian culture is only two percent of the time which lapsed between Australopithecus and Neanderthal. In the next six thousand years, we went from wooden wheels and clay tablets to artificial intelligence and genetic engineering. Don't you find it pretty hard to believe that a nice, steady progressive evolution could take such miraculous leaps forward without a little cosmic goosing from somewhere else?"

He listened to Farr drone on awhile longer, and then he got to his feet. It appeared that he had come a hell of a long way for a drink.

Farr immediately sensed that he was losing his audience. "Please sit down, Joe. I have copies of the documents that I am about to refer to on computer disk."

Joe glanced at his wristwatch. Out of courtesy he would give Farr another forty-five minutes or so. An hour, tops.

"In the autumn of 1947, Miles Copland, the station chief in Damascus of the newly formed CIA, was presented with a cache of ancient parchment scrolls by an Egyptian trader," Farr began his story. "Copland proceeded to photograph these scrolls, and afterwards, a CIA associate, an expert in Hebrew studies and Semitic languages, identified the major significance of the parchments. One scroll was later identified by scholars as the book of Daniel. Other texts, although photographed, have never surfaced for open examination by scholars."

Joe wondered if Farr was talking about the famous Dead Sea Scrolls.

"Some of the parchments were later released and were given that name by the scholars who received them," Farr said, "but there were other texts, perhaps as many as seven, that were secreted away."

"After all these years, we hardly know what is contained in the missing Dead Sea Scrolls," Joe said, taking at last another sip of his drink.

"From what I have learned, the early involvement of the CIA with the scrolls was to screen those that dealt directly with the life of Jesus of Nazareth," Farr continued. "Harry S. Truman was the president then, and shortly after the discovery of the Dead Sea Scrolls was officially announced, he was quoted as saying, 'There is nothing new in this world except the history you do not know.'"

Farr paused, took another swallow of scotch. "Joe, a lot of history, especially in these United States, has been suppressed since Truman authorized the formation of the CIA and the NSA."

"So you think that Truman was involved in suppressing discoveries made from the Dead Sea Scrolls?"

Farr shifted uncomfortably. "The man who said, 'the atom bomb was no great decision. It was merely another powerful weapon in the arsenal of righteousness,' was more than capable of directing the CIA's involvement in every aspect of our lives, from politics to religion."

Joe leaned back in the chair. "But you're talking about suppressing information that affects millions of Christians. That's supreme arrogance."

"Arrogance?" Farr said slowly, as if he were tasting the word. "In 1945, Truman said, 'the human animal cannot be trusted for anything good except en masse. The combined thought and action of the whole people of any race, creed, or nationality, will always point in the right direction.'

"Joe, what may seem like arrogance to you, may, to someone in power, seem like a benevolent protective measure. Truman, who certainly considered himself to be a good man, a benevolent despot with the good of his people foremost in his mind, may have sincerely felt that he was doing the right and proper thing to protect the masses. There may, in fact, have been a number of good men who felt that they must protect the tender American psyche after it had just survived the ghastly terrors of a savage World war."

"Noblesse oblige," Joe said. "The moral responsibility of the leader to care for his people."

Farr shrugged. "Something like that. When an entire world has just had many of their ideals and belief structures turned upside down by the devastation of the most destructive war known to recorded history, why knock out what underpinnings they have remaining by telling them that some of things that they most dearly cherish may not be so? Why destroy what little faith they have managed to salvage?"

Joe was becoming intrigued. "If there is a conspiracy to keep these scrolls hidden away, what revelations do you think they contain?"

Farr poured himself another shot of scotch. "The scrolls declare that many prophets and teachers of ancient times received their teachings directly from gods."

Joe didn't know whether to laugh before or after he got back in the Taurus and headed back to the Military Inn. "I thought that's what these holy folks always claimed. They were receiving messages from God."

Farr's voice was becoming slightly slurred. "Not God, my boy. The gods. Beings that we today would call aliens. Astronauts from another world. The guardians of our faith and our political structure could not have the great church going masses believing that large parts of their religion had been dictated by entities from another planet. The truth has been suppressed for eons, and if the powers to be have their way it’ll be eons more."

Joe checked his watch. Farr had another ten or eleven minutes.

"The two greatest conspiracies conducted by church and state have to do with the suppression of all evidence of the ancient 'gods' and their involvement in the creation of humankind... and the fact that these so-called gods have returned," the physicist said.

Now Farr had Joe's full attention. "Would I be making a quantum leap if I were to ask you if you believe that what is going on in Area 51 has anything to do with your ancient gods and your obsession with Sumer?" Joe asked.

Farr shrugged. "It's not impossible."

"Why don't you just come out and tell me?" Joe asked, surrendering at last to impatience.

"You came to me looking for answers, Joe," Farr answered. "But I suspect that you have the truth somewhere inside of you."

"I've got all kinds of things inside me, Carl," Joe blurted. "That's why I came here, hoping you might give me a few answers. What the hell do you know about what is really going on at Area 51?"

Farr looked at his watch. "Damn, its nearly eight o'clock. I didn't know it was so late. Tell you what, Joe; I've got some leftover chili and cornbread in the fridge. Let's eat. You can sleep on the sofa, and we'll continue our conversation in the morning."

Joe spoke honestly. "I'm more hungry for information than I am for food."

Farr teetered as he got to his feet. "Look, we've killed half a bottle of scotch this afternoon. I'm too tired to play host any longer other than supper time."

Joe had barely had more than two shots all afternoon, but he decided to humor Farr and eat his homemade chili and cornbread. It was fairly tasty, if a little hot.

After dinner, somewhere around nine PM, Farr threw a blanket and pillow on the sofa for Joe and went to his room.

By ten-thirty, Joe had gotten tired of sitting on the porch overlooking the lake and decided to walk over to Pat's Place. Besides, he needed to call Karen and let her know that he was all right.

Except for a couple of old men drinking beer, a muscular Hispanic in hunter's clothes, and an old woman behind the bar, the place was empty. Joe made eye contact with the Latino, who seemed to be staring at him as if he recognized him. The man looked away abruptly.

Joe ordered a cold beer, and then stepped to the pay phone to call Karen collect.

He tried to be as positive and upbeat as he could, but he could never fake it with his wife.

"Honey, I can tell you're disappointed with the way things are going with Farr...why don't you just come home? We miss you so much." He could tell by her voice that, even though she was trying to understand and be supportive, her patience was beginning to grow thin.

After the call, Joe picked up another beer and went outside to sit on the patio. There was a slight breeze, which made the humidity almost bearable.

Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw something moving. He didn't turn around at first, but moved his head just a bit to enlarge his peripheral field of vision. The stocky Hispanic fellow in the hunting outfit was watching him from the doorway of the bar.

A few minutes later, when Joe went in to pick up a cold six-pack to take back to Farr's place, the man was gone.

As Joe turned off the paved road onto the gravel road that led toward the house on the hill, he thought he heard the scuffle of feet behind him. He stopped and the noise behind him followed suit.

He waited a few seconds, but heard nothing other than the breeze rustling through the tops of the trees. He continued walking down the gravel road.

He certainly hoped that Farr would open up to him tomorrow and trust him with his secrets of Area 51. If only...

The crunching of gravel interrupted his thoughts.

The sound was definitely behind him. He kept walking, listening carefully. Without question, something or someone was following him.

Joe gently set the six-pack down on the side of the road, then abruptly turned and began to run back the way that he had come. He heard a scrambling sound on the gravel road just ahead in the darkness--and then a series of crashes in the heavy brushes to his left.

Joe stood still and listened. Whatever… whoever had been following him was working his way farther into the undergrowth. There was no doubt in his mind that he had been followed. But why on Earth?

CHAPTER 10 - One Truth At A Time

When Blake Webster, freelance journalist and UFO conspiracy buff extraordinaire, crossed the California-Nevada border around sunset on Sunday in his thirty-foot Dodge RV, he was still on a natural high from the telecast of Exploring the Unknown on Friday night. He knew that the video of the alien starship had really socked it to MJ-12. Anonymous though they may be, Webster knew for certain that they did exist and that they were conducting the most extensive cover-up by any government in all of history.

Nevada called itself the silver state, the battle-born state, and the sagebrush state. A more appropriate motto, he thought to himself, would be the conspiracy state. Of the 111,000 square miles of land in Nevada, over 80 percent was controlled by the federal government, the highest percentage of any state in the union. If it were not for the gaming industry, the federal government would be the largest employer in the state, with 18,000 federal and military personnel and another 20,000

Government contractors and suppliers. The Nevada Test Site, formerly the AEC atomic test site, the Nellis Air Force Base Range, which included Area 51, the Fallon Naval Air Station, the Hawthorne Army Ammunition Plant, the Tonopah facilities and the aerospace industry consumed a lot of U.S. tax dollars.

Webster wondered about Red Teller, his private undercover man in the desert. He hoped that he had the good sense to lay low after the video had aired on Friday night. This was no time for any stupid heroics. Let's not push our luck, Red baby, he thought.

It was nearly midnight when he drove into Las Vegas, and he was surprised to find the traffic bumper-to-bumper, even this late on a Sunday night. He turned off the strip, explosive with the garish, brilliant lights from the casinos, and pulled into the back lot of his favorite Motel, the Holiday Suites where there were four RV hookups.

As he left the RV, he glanced down at the Nevada license plates that he had hurriedly placed on the Dodge before crossing the border. Nevada was run by the federal government, the gaming board, and organized crime- -all of who watched out-of-state vehicles closely, especially where he was going.

Webster's schedule allowed eight hours sleep before his three-hour drive to Rachel, Nevada the following morning to connect with Wayne Newsom, protector of the environment, endangered species, and a host of other causes, primarily Extraterrestrial Biological Entities, UFOs, and the secrets of Area 51.

Webster hoped there would be a message waiting for him from Red. If there weren’t, he would be damned worried.

Pops Feldman was at the front desk in the lobby. Once a notorious get-rich-quick, alcoholic skirt chaser, Webster knew that the old man had been reformed for nearly twenty years, due in major part to the efforts of Pops' loving Jehovah's Witness wife and ex-stripper Cherry Feldman.

"How's the night life, Pops?"

Pops pulled a deep drag from his cigar and blew a series of rings at Webster. "Same old, same old. The hustlers, pros, and tourists are passing through in droves. And they say that near four thousand families are moving to LV every month. Sometime in the future this town is going to go bust."

"Sounds like the same old gold rush fever," Webster smiled. "Pops, you got any messages for me?"

"Matter of fact, I do," he nodded. "If I can just find it in this pile of shit."

He rummaged through the thick pile of papers, bills, and memos on the top of his desk, peering intently through his bifocals. "Here it is, by ginger! I'm not completely senile."

The message was from Dr. Carlton Farr. Webster had been in a very quiet, very secret contact with the top scientist for several months. The journalist knew that if he were to get his ass in a wringer over the video shown on Exploring the Unknown, or if the Air Force should try to convince the public that it was faked. Dr. Farr was prepared to come out of the closet and back him up with substantiating documents. For some unexplained reason he wondered if Dr. Farr had terminal cancer.

For obvious reasons, the message was cryptic and terse: "You want it, come to me."

Fair enough. He would drive to Medina Lake outside of San Antonio. Dr. Farr had already indicated he was convinced that the MJ-12 committee or the NSA would not hesitate to eliminate him if he chose to reveal the information that he possessed concerning the ultra-secret projects he had been involved in.

As the scientist had told him early in their association: "The truth is horrendous. The truth is an abomination to everything that you believe and have been taught throughout your life. If you want to tell people the truth, find out all you can about MJ-12, the Rapture, Hangar 12, quasi-crystals, and the twelfth planet."

Blake Webster loved mysteries, and he loved it even more when he knew that an enigma was starting to unravel. As a kid he had devoured the Hardy Boys, Sherlock Holmes, Doc Savage, James Bond, and Agatha Christie. His passion was discovering clues, developing leads, and tracking down an elusive story.

He was five feet seven in his stocking feet and he weighed 145 on a dry day, but he never avoided conflict or controversy. The UFO mystery was an enigma within an enigma, perhaps the greatest mystery that humankind had ever attempted to solve, and if he could play even the smallest supporting role in cracking the puzzle, he was willing to die for the chance.

Now in his late thirties, Blake Webster had inherited a large sum of money when he turned twenty-one and had graduated from Berkeley with a MS in journalism when he was twenty-three. His type of gonzo journalism, specializing in UFOs, government conspiracies, consumer frauds, corporate buyoffs, and corrupt politicians' payoffs, did not pay enough in itself to lift him much above the poverty level. Fortunately for him, he was in a financial position to supplement his income with his inherited wealth, and was thus able to buy such necessities as the Dodge RV so that he could stay on the move and avoid being tracked by agents of the shadow government. And even prior to developing his obsession to expose the government's cover-up of UFOs, he had been a practicing anarchist, a fervent anti-bureaucrat, and a super-patriotic liberal Democrat who enjoyed being a permanent thorn in the backside of the Establishment which he speculated was a worldwide conspiracy.

Webster had a large computer system with backup power installed in the RV. He also had a GPS and a microwave dish mounted on the roof. Programmable wide band scanners and a multi-band transmitter were mounted in the front end. He wanted his Conspira-mobile to be as self-contained as possible. He also had a portable briefcase phone made by Motorola.

He was unusually tired that night, so he drifted off a few minutes after two AM. A little before three, a noise awakened him, and he instinctively reached for his 9 mm semi automatic. He always slept with the blinds open when he was alone so he could keep an eye on his surroundings.

After studying the lot around him, he decided that he had only heard an alley cat scavenging for a late night snack in the garbage pails behind the Holiday Suites Motel.

The next morning it took Webster three hours to drive the 150 miles to Rachel, population 100, from downtown Las Vegas. He lamented the old days, when Nevada didn't have speed limits outside of the cities, and he could cross the endless miles of desert and barren hills at blinding speeds.

It was seventy-three degrees and very dry and clear when he pulled his RV into the lot in front of the Little A-le Inn with its "Welcome UFO Crews" painted on a board attached above the entrance. Wayne Newsom would be driving down from Tonopah to meet him there for lunch.

Webster sat at a table where he could watch the front door. The lunch and dinner menu were both printed on a single folded sheet of white paper. When folded, it displayed a drawing of a gentleman and lady studying a menu, seemingly unaware of a large headed alien peering over their shoulder at the bill of fare.

The walls of the cafe were filled with photographs of UFOs, aliens, aircraft, news articles about saucer sightings, and maps of the local area, including the Nevada Test Site and Nellis Range. The Little A-le-Inn took full advantage of its location on the northern edge of the Nellis Range and the persistent rumors of aliens and alien vehicles being sighted just south in Area 51. Webster suspected the inn was bugged all to hell.

A few minutes before noon, a tall, slender, distinguished man in khaki pants and shirt entered the cafe. When the two men made eye contact, he walked over to Webster's table.

"Newsom?" The man nodded.

"Blake Webster," he offered with an outstretched hand.

Wayne Newsom shook his hand and joined him at the table.

"I figured it was time that we met," Webster said.

"Especially since we're fighting the same crusade."

Webster glanced nervously toward the door as two men in dark sunglasses and brightly colored, gaudy shirts entered the cafe.

"Tourist types," Newsom told him. "You're pretty jumpy."

Blake nodded. "I've heard that they've got Wackenhut goons working with the DOE stiffs to tighten security in Area 51."

"Surely do," Newsom confirmed Webster's concerns. "Did you see any of the white Jeep Cherokees, yet?"

"Not yet. Wackinhut must own stock in AMC."

"No shit. If we go for a drive near Area 51, you will see them appear like magic," Newsom chuckled. "Relax let's have some lunch, man. I can spot the goon squad a hundred yards off. They all have low IQs and high testosterone. Typical paramilitary types, over aggressive, anal-retentive, Type-A personalities with little pricks and big guns."

"You mean the men in black?"

"No, those guys are DOE Special Operations. They drive black vehicles and dress in dark clothes. I'm talking about the Wackenhut pricks."

"Charming as all hell," Blake laughed. But then he sobered when he thought of Red falling into the hands of such gorillas. "I'm worried about a...friend."

Newsom looked up from the menu, the concern on his face indicating that Blake should continue.

"He's a crusty old prospector. Maybe you've seen him in the area. Red hair. Walks beside a shaggy mule and on rare occasions drives an old beat up jeep."

"Red? You talking about old Red?"

Webster smiled. "Yes, do you know him?"

Newsom studied Blake's eyes. "How is it an obvious city dude such as yourself is a concerned friend of an old crusty desert rat? Did you search together for Eldorado? I don't think so. Or did you surf together in Hawaii? I don't think so either."

Webster shifted nervously in his chair. He had just met Wayne Newsom, but he had known of his work for years. His investigation of Area 51 and his own research into the government UFO cover-up was well-known. But could he dare trust him with even a hint of Red's undercover work?

Newsom chuckled and buried his face for a moment behind the menu. "That old fart. I always felt there was something not quite right about Red. Or I should say I always felt that he was more than he seemed."

And then it struck him. Newsom lowered his voice and leaned closer to Webster. "Blake, it was old Red who got the video footage of the UFO they showed on Exploring the Unknown, wasn't it? He's been working with you all along."

Webster felt his heart thudding against his chest.

"Have...have you seen him? I mean, since they aired the footage on Friday night?"

"Jesus," He winced. "You don't think the goons got him?"

"I don't know," Webster said. "I pray to God not. But there should have been a message from Red waiting for me at the motel last night when I got into Vegas, and there wasn’t."

The two new allies decided to eat lunch and take a drive into the desert.

"Likely as not, we'll spot Red and his mule walking around in the middle of nowhere just as big as life and twice as ugly," Newsom said. We'll drop by the Catlin's first...check if they've seen him. They have BLM land bordering Area 51."

After a quick lunch of hamburgers and fries, they decided to take Newsom's Land Rover and let him do the driving since he was familiar with the area. Newsom pulled a Dallas Cowboy's baseball cap over his unruly gray hair to protect his scalp from the broiling sun, and they were soon speeding down an old mining road headed toward the Groom mountain range and the Catlins.

He was positive Newsom was full of shit. Everyone knew the Catlins, who leased one hundred thousand acres of BLM land, were anti-social when it came to outsiders. Several large 'WARNING' signs zoomed into his field of vision and out of sight before he could read the fine print. He had been around enough military installations to guess the gist of the message. Newsom spoke above the road noise, which was a feat itself.

"The Department of Defense has seized thousands upon thousands of acres of public and Bureau of Land Management land for the Nevada Test Site and Nellis Range. Like the 90,000 acres annexed in the early 1980s, and then White Sides in '95. Since the 50s, miners, ranchers, desert dwellers, and recluses by the hundreds have been unceremoniously evicted from their land without benefit of the judicial system's support."

"So I'm naive," Webster conceded, "but how the hell could they get away with such a major land grab?"

"The Feds just look the other way, and they will continue to do so as long as the military needs to hide, develop, and test its most secret of secrets," Newsom replied. "Illegal testing and disposal of nuclear and toxic propellant materials, the testing of expensive, exotic aerospace vehicles, amounts to just the tip of the iceberg--as does the mysterious disappearance of a few citizens who represent a threat to the cloak of secrecy."

Blake had heard of the Catlins, who must fear the government more than most citizens; their livelihood depended on a peaceful co-existence. Their land bordered Area 51, the most classified area of the Nellis Range. Hidden within Area 51 was the most classified base in the world; the Groom Lake facility and airbase, Dreamland, Watertown, and other known names. Did Newsom really know anything, or was he just a high-tech groupie?

As the two men bounced over the desert road, they compared notes.

"Wow, look at that," Newsom said, pointing to the darkness on the distant horizon. At the same time his vehicle drifted to the edge of the gravel road. "Must be a storm front."

He paused a moment to look at the sky, then continued. "The Aurora Program at Area 51 has funded several top-secret prototypes of aerial vehicles dating back to 1986. It's an on-going research, development, and testing program established to field advanced reconnaissance and space capable intercept aircraft. The primary purpose of the program was to create a replacement for the SR-71 Blackbird, which would combine the latest stealth technology, advanced propulsion, radar avoidance, electronics counter measures, and advanced composite technology. The result was the SR-75, which went operational at Groom Lake in 1990 after two years of flight-testing and modifications. The SR-74--called the 'Scramp' because of its exotic scramjet engines--followed in 1994. It is a smaller spy plane that rides piggy-back on the 75. The second goal of Aurora was to design, develop, and field a one stage to orbit space plane. They were well on their way.

So far Blake hadn't heard anything he didn't already know. He interjected a few facts of his own.

"The Top Secret SR-75 far exceeds the classified military speed and altitude records set by the old SR-71. Lockheed's Advanced Developmental Projects Division, known as the Skunk Works, developed the A-12 or SR-71 for the CIA in the early sixties. For the last few years, high-tech buffs have speculated that at least one new and exotic aerospace vehicle existed. I think many, but not all, of the UFO sightings occur during one of the different Aurora vehicle's flights. The question is, where is all this technology coming from?"

They both knew that the SR-75 attained altitudes of over 120,000 feet and speeds exceeding Mach-8, or 5000 miles-per-hour.

"Did you know," Newsom asked, "that from take-off to landing, the stealthy 75 can reportedly make the round trip to Northeast Russia and back in under three hours?"

"That's amazing. How do you know so much?" Blake asked.

"I spend a lot of time in the desert, watching... also I have many contacts that discretely pass on information. The explosive Pulsed Detonation Wave Engines that push the huge SR-75 awes me. I saw the first flight of the SR-75 carrying the little unmanned SR-74 piggyback on its upper raised platform. The Scramp, scram jet propulsion, can't take off from the ground. It launches from the SR-75 mother ship at an altitude above 100,000 feet, and can attain orbital altitudes. The Air Force uses it to launch small, highly classified ferret satellites for the National Security Agency. It can also provide repair function to the NSA’s Key Hole satellites like the KH-11."

"All this secrecy and over classification really pisses me off. NASA's Space Shuttle is an antique by comparison. I find little humor in this, knowing that the joke is on the U.S. taxpayers." Blake watched a distant light streak across the horizon south of them. Dreamland, how appropriate...he thought.

"The TR-3B, which Red photographed being outclassed by a UFO, is a tactical reconnaissance vehicle that has the ability to hover indefinitely over a target--for days or even weeks if necessary--at a very high altitude so they say. I believe it’s NOT a tactical reconnaissance vehicle but a Teledyne Ryan design, aka TR and is the first truly one stage to orbit aircraft or platform as the USAF calls it."

"How can the TR-3B indefinitely suspend over a target?" Blake Webster asked.

Newsom explained. "The TR-3B is a platform with an indefinite loiter time. Indefinite because it uses two nuclear reactors for power. It's a triangular shaped vehicle, apparently responsible for many recent UFO sightings. The primary multimode rocket fuel for the craft is hydrogen-oxygen. The propulsion is provided by three multimode thrusters mounted at each bottom corner of the triangular platform. Supposedly, the TR-3B is a sub-Mach 9 vehicle until it reaches altitudes above l00,000 feet, then God knows how fast it can go!"

Blake remembered interviewing Carlton Farr, who was a theoretical propulsion scientist. From Farr he had learned that in liquid oxygen/hydrogen rocket systems, 85% of the propellant mass is oxygen. The nuclear thermal rocket engine uses a hydrogen propellant augmented with oxygen for additional thrust. The reactor heats the liquid hydrogen and injects liquid oxygen in the supersonic nozzle so that the hydrogen burns concurrently in the liquid oxygen afterburner. The multimode propulsion system can operate in the atmosphere with thrust provided by the nuclear reactor, in the upper atmosphere with hydrogen propulsion, and in orbit with the combined hydrogen\oxygen propulsion. He passed the data to Newsom.

The two men talked incessantly, desperately exchanging information, just in case something should happen to one or the other of them.

Newsom paused as he came to a fork in the gravel road, and then veered to the right.

"We know the scientists in Area 51 are able to make these quantum leaps in technology because of the deal that MJ-12 has made with alien intelligences," Blake Webster said.

"Or because of the alien technology that they've recovered from saucer crashes," Wayne Newsom added. "I'm not really certain in my own mind which it is, but it is one or the other. Do you know about the MFD technology?"

Webster shook his head. It was a new term to him.

"This is so far ahead of anything ever before developed that you cannot use this information without fear for your life, man. The government will go to any length to protect this technology."

With Blake's full and undivided attention, Newsom explained that a circular accelerator ring, called the Magnetic Flux Field Disrupter, surrounds the crew compartment of the TR-3B vehicle and contains a mercury based superconductive plasma, doped with barium, calcium, and gold. The MFD generates a magnetic vortex field that disrupts or neutralizes the effects of gravity on mass within proximity. And something called super ferrofluids which I know nothing about.

According to Newsom's informant, Sandia and Livermore laboratories had developed the MFD, nicknamed the "Mother-Fucking Disrupter" because of its technological challenges and the problems associated with its development. The plasma, mercury based, is pressurized at 250,000 atmospheres at a temperature of 150 degrees Kelvin and accelerated to 50,000 rpm to create superconductive plasma with the resulting gravity disruption.

"I've heard rumors of even more advanced technology for a space fleet we are building," Newsom said, "but I can't get any confirmation of that. With the vehicle mass reduced by 89%, the craft can travel at Mach 9, vertically or horizontally. My sources say the performance is limited only by the stresses that the human pilots can endure. Which is a lot, really, considering along with the 89% reduction in mass, the G forces should also be reduced 89%. A prototype remotely piloted vehicle called the Tier-3 Minus is currently being developed. It will eliminate the need for a manned crew and allow flight characteristics associated with alien UFOs."

Blake Webster reached over to squeeze his companion's shoulder. "They must have an almost unlimited access to alien technology. You're talking antigravity devices, crafts hovering indefinitely and one stage to orbit space vehicles. I don’t know if we have a space fleet, but it’s probable. This is alien technology, man. This is what we've been watching the fucking UFOs do for fifty years."

Newsom laughed at Webster's excitement. "It would seem that science fiction has become reality, wouldn't it? The aliens not only walk among us, they work among us, creating a new world of alien/human technology."

Webster scowled. "Yes, at taxpayer's expense while the government denies everything. While they lie to the public. Do these high level assholes really believe that the masses cannot accept the most exciting news flash in history? That there's not only life on other planets, ladies and gentlemen, it's right here building better flying machines in Area 51."

They had arrived at what seemed to them the end of the earth. As Blake exited the Blazer with Newsom, he knew he had lost any sense of bearing he might have had. In the thin desert air, a chill beyond what he could explain by the dropping temperature gripped Blake to the core of his being. He shook it off as fatigue and anxiety, and stood looking towards the Catlin Ranch, which lay about a quarter mile ahead of them.

Newsom slid back the retaining bar on the tube steel gate that was welded to the endless tube steel fence. A sign proclaimed, "Trespassers Not Welcome: Those foolish enough to trespass will be soundly thrashed and turned over to the Sheriff."

Desert humor, he imagined. Or was it? Above the gate where one expected to see the name of the ranch or at least the brand symbol displayed, hung the sun bleached, bone white skull of a large horned cow. Blake squinted, and would have sworn that the skull had a bullet hole just above the eye socket. He waited beside the gate while Newsom moved his vehicle ahead thirty feet, then clanged it shut behind him. The rule of ranchers was if you go through a shut gate, you shut it behind you. Even lesser violations could get you shot. A short ride brought them to the front of the ranch house.

"Newsom, before we talk to these people. I want to know what else you know about this technology. It's really important."

"The Catlins are expecting us. It's late, and I don't want to keep them waiting. When we get back to my place I'll show you my notes and pictures. I'll give you everything I have."

Blake wasn't known for his patience, but he didn't want to push his new companion. The man appeared to have astounding information about the projects in Area 51, and Blake coveted the facts. He'd bide his time and hope Newsom would not forget his promise.

Blake had expected a Ponderosa or an expensive and expansive ranch house, judging from the size of the Catlin spread. Instead, sometime far in the past a small hand-cut stone house had been built; later a large wood frame side addition was added on, and more recently an enclosed back porch. The whole house, sans the porch, was probably no larger than 2,500 square feet. He could see two side sheds towards the left of the ranch and another to the right of the house, and further back he spotted two large tin covered barns with a weather worn grayed wood siding.

Several large mixed breed dogs barked as they exited the Blazer, and Blake thought that visiting strangers at ten in the night was a little presumptuous. A small wattage yellow bug light came on seconds before the front door of the ranch house opened, and the shadow of a large man filled the doorframe. Catlin recognized Newsom, and they exchanged greetings. As he introduced Blake, Catlin, dressed in cowboy boots, jeans, and an open flannel shirt, stepped forward.

"Hello Mr. Webster, I'm Brance Catlin. Why don't you-all come on in out of the chill? I've got a fire going and there is still some coffee in the pot." Brance's sun weathered face was lined with deep wrinkles. His gray hair was shorn close, and a two-day growth of facial hair was stained below the corners of his mouth from chewing tobacco. The large, hand-cut stone mantle top framing the crackling fire was filled with pictures of his boys receiving rodeo awards, others of deer and elk freshly killed, and a few of family members riding various horses.

"So what brings you boys out here this time of night?" Brance asked after he exchanged pleasantries with Blake.

"Webster here is an independent investigative reporter doing a story about Area 51, specifically Groom Lake and the Nellis Range." Catlin gave Newsom a startled look and opened his mouth to speak, then hesitated as a noise came from the back of the adjoining kitchen, followed by the distinct sound of a screen door slamming. A long shadow emerged from the dark room, and then a tall, dark cowboy stood eyeing the stranger. He still had a beaver felt hat on his head, causing him to duck as he came through the kitchen doorway. Pulled down low in the front, it hid all but the bottom of his nose from view. He lifted the hat from the front and nodded in greeting. "Gentlemen...Paw."

Catlin spit in the tin can he was holding in his left hand and said, "Mr. Webster, this is my youngest son, Nicholas." No two people could look more different than Nicholas and Brance, Blake thought. Nicholas was a dark, brooding, olive skinned cowboy with jet-black hair. His father's weathered face still showed signs of the fair, freckled young man he once had been.

Nicholas took off his knee length cattle coat, split up the back to the crotch with several leather thronged button loops unhooked...fresh from the saddle, Blake imagined.

"You gonna turn in now, Nick?" Catlin asked.

The dark eyes shot a look at Blake. "I'll just sit a spell." He took a wooden straight chair in the back corner of the living room and remained silent.

Brance's eyes fastened on Blake with apprising intensity before he continued the conversation Nick's arrival had interrupted. "Well, if Newsom trusts you I guess I can trust you," he said. "The damn government's planning to raise the Bureau of Land Management lease rates. If they do, it will put us out of business and I'll lose all I own and have struggled to accomplish in the last twenty years." Brance was no different than any other Lincoln and Nye county resident; he hated the federal government and he despised the state government. Presidents were no better than necrophiliacs, they ‘sucked the life out of people then fucked 'em’, governors were no better than pimps, and the government was a shit-house full of rogues and scoundrels.

Blake had great empathy with the residents of Lincoln and Nye counties.

"Brance, how do you feel about taking Mr. Webster on a little tour of Area 51?" Newsom asked.

"Tonight?" he inquired.

"Well, some of the most interesting phenomena happen at night."

"What's in it for me? You know the government frowns on outsiders prying into their business," Brance answered matter-of-factly.

Blake injected, "I'm willing to pay for your time and expenses, sir, if you require it."

Brance smiled, his weathered face breaking into a map of lines. "Well now, a paying proposition. That does interest me. How much?" Brance had no intention of taking his money. He was just messing with Blake--his version of western humor.

When Wayne and Brance broke into laughter, Blake knew they were entertaining themselves at his expense.

Brance turned to Nicholas, "Son if you aren't too tired would you saddle a couple of gentle mares for our guests?"

"Be happy too." He straightened his tall dark lanky frame and left through the kitchen, obviously more at ease with the intruder after seeing his father's acceptance of him.

Blake got the oldest and smallest mare. He had been on a few horses in his day--very few. Nicholas watched him mount up with obvious skepticism. The horse kept turning its head, watching him, sensing this rider was an amateur. Blake was sensing that the horse had is number.

Nicholas approached the horse, first calling it "Daydream", then stroking its neck. Blake thought a better name under the circumstances would have been Nightmare. Nick adjusted the stirrups then inquired politely, "Mr. Webster does that feel alright?"

Blake didn't have a clue. "I was thinking," he responded with false assurance, "that is just about perfect." Nicholas gave him the same look that the horse had given him, and then mounted his own horse, struggling to stifle the smile on his face.

"Brance, can I get my camera and recorder?" Blake asked.

He watched Newsom grin and shake his baseball-capped head emphatically to the negative. Brance looked at him with awe, or was it something else? He spat on the ground and muttered under his breath. "Damn fool."

Webster, realizing the extent of his own naiveté, acquiesced and responded with his dumbest, most apologetic look. He was relieved when Catlin abruptly changed the subject.

"Mr. Webster, there are flash flood warnings out for this area of Nevada tonight. It's unlikely we'll see a drop of it where we're going, but we'll seek high ground if it starts to rain hard though."

"I imagine you get some real gully-washers on the rare occasion it rains out here," Blake offered.

"Barren hills and mountains don't tend to slow the water down much. Just runs to the lowest level," Catlin agreed, "and the lowest level is usually where the roads and trails are. Nothing to be concerned about, though. It don't rain often."

"Not to worry.  I'll stay on your tail, no matter what."

Jagged, almost inaccessible mountains framed the horizon ahead, adorned by a dazzling array of stars. Blake couldn't imagine a storm of any kind on such a stark night. He had a crystal clear view of the night stars; stars countless light years away. Newsom and Nicholas led off, headed west.

"Are you familiar with the area?"

"Just slightly, I've studied the maps," Blake answered Catlin. Catlin gigged his horse with his boots, flipped the reigns lightly, and made a series of clicking sounds with his mouth. Daydream trotted along beside Brance Catlin's mount.

"We're going northwest for three miles, and then we will circle around the north end of Bald mountain and turn due south. We will be in-between two ridges running north-south for about four miles, in an area called the Groom Range. We'll stop near the old abandoned Groom mine, which will place us less than two miles from the end of the runway. The Groom airbase has the longest runway in the US, from what I understand." Catlin was now a silhouette as darkness crept over the desert his dark image framed by the stars.

"Yeah...I've read that it's six thousand feet long."

"Nicholas says they are adding a parallel runway that's going to be wider and longer than the existing one."

"Probably," Wayne offered an explanation, "for the new secret space shuttle."

Neither had any problem hearing the other. In the utter stillness of the night, sounds carried easily across the barren high desert.

"Some of those birds land at over mach one speed according to what Newsom has told me. I've seen a few, and they're incredibly fast." Blake could feel his anticipation rising.

As they trotted along the trail, Catlin said, "Stay close and holler if you have a hard time keeping up." He grinned at Blake. "Let's ride cowboy."

The chase is on, Blake thought. He had studied the map and read everything ever printed as fact or fiction about Area 51 and the ultra Top Secret Groom facilities. If he weren’t mistaken, they would be a couple of miles inside the restricted area zone. He hoped Catlin and Newsom knew what they were doing. Maybe since the cold war ended, the bases existence wasn't as secret, but the projects inside were cloaked in the highest security. They rode at what seemed between a trot and a cantor to Blake. His butt bounced off the saddle with rhythmic regularity. His stirrups were not adjusted right, or he didn't know how to ride properly, because he noticed Catlin stayed glued to the saddle. After a hour's ride, the four had slowed to a trot. Blake thought his rear end would never forgive him this pounding.

Catlin allowed Blake to come along side him, then leaned in his direction. "We'll be to our observation point in about thirty minutes. You'll be able to see the Groom runway and facility lights," he said. They were in a dry arroyo, banked on either side by the high jagged hills of the Groom range. Within minutes the sky above them turned black and the ground was difficult to see from atop the horses. A strong wind from the north end of the range blew at their backs, and the sky threatened to release its moisture.

Catlin pulled up short, turning his head with his nose in the air. "Rain's coming."

The air was rapidly decreasing in temperature, and rain droplets pelted them with the whipping sound of the gusting wind.

A thunderous boom compressed the air and rattled the ground, the prelude to a full-blown storm. Nature against man...man against nature.

Catlin raised his arm and pointed a flashlight upward towards the mountain at a forty-five degree angle. As if on cue, huge raindrops began to pelt them.

"We've got to get out of this arroyo, now." Catlin yelled, and pointed to the sky.

When the first lightning bolt struck the hill to their right, followed immediately by ear shattering thunder, everyone was caught off guard. Newsom and Nicholas forced their mounts to climb the steep hills lining the Groom mountains on either side of them. The front of the storm had sealed off the top of the groom range, and they were caught in the fury. The horses freaked, and even the seasoned riders had a difficult time controlling them. Catlin was reaching for Blake's reigns when the second bolt hit within thirty feet to their rear. Daydream reared up and tried to dump him. He grabbed the mane with his right hand and pulled back on the reigns with his left, just to stay in the saddle.

Small rivulets of water were fast turning into little streams. The torrent was now relentless, and Catlin was on the ground, thrown by his horse. Webster didn't have time to realize Catlin's fall was caused by his being off balance from trying to steady Daydream.

Nicholas and Newsom were nowhere to be seen in the downpour. Another bolt of lightning caused Blake's mare to spook violently, then instinctively head down wind...and what was fast becoming downstream. He held on for dear life for what seemed hours, but in actuality could have only been fifteen or twenty minutes. Each time the ground-hugging clouds ripped apart and ejected their highly charged crashing bolts of lightning, the surrounding landscape lit brightly, sometimes for seconds on end, capturing the scene as would a photographer's flash.

Blake didn't know or care at the moment that he had passed the old Groom mine, and the Groom mountain range was about to end. He was quickly approaching the dry lake bed that served as the landing field for the secret Groom air base. When his horse hit the lake bed, the water was inches deep and rising. He wasn't counting the endless lightning strikes within a mile radius of him, or the myriad of thunderous booms that assaulted his aural senses. His grip on the saddle was tenuous at best, and the horse and its gear were slick with water.

His clothes were dripping wet from the blinding desert storm rain.

Blake realized they had cleared the mountain range, and were now approaching an endless flat area. From somewhere ahead, the noise of sirens broke through nature's festival of lightning and thunder.

The thunder roared in imperfect rhythm, beating a devil's tattoo, and the sirens could only mean one thing...He had entered the perimeter of the Groom facilities. Time was a commodity in short supply... their security would soon be on his trail. Suddenly, the galloping horse stopped...but Blake didn't. He hit the flooding desert face down.

The lightning intermittently illuminated the desert sands and bedrock. It seemed to strobe and freeze the cap-rock on the western horizon; monstrous shadows loomed out--escaping each time back into the darkness like an evil prescience. Blake was lying in water and couldn't see any further than a hundred feet. Daydream had abandoned him. Blake knew it wasn't personal, but he still felt slighted by the horse.

He had to find a place to hide; this was too open. The desert was pitch dark, and the sky had opened up to the full force of the storm. Blake ran blindly, water sheeting onto the desert floor and inhibiting his movements. He scanned the horizon each time the lightning flashed, searching frantically for cover. The fading sound of the sirens reassured him that he headed away from Groom. Then, from behind him, the sound of sloshing hoof beats penetrated the noise of the storm. Thank God, he thought in relief. One of the others had seen him. He stopped and turned around, and couldn't believe his eyes--As he stood at the south end of the Groom dry lake bed, a riderless horse galloped towards him. He looked around and found himself alone, except for the horse that was now practically on top of him. Blake waved his hands in the air and screamed at the top of his lungs.

"WHOA! Whoa girl...Whoa."

The horse stopped dead in her tracks and reared up high on her hind legs in fear and panic. Blake gripped the reins and was promptly knocked off his feet as the horse descended to all four hooves. But he didn't let go, and the mare stood waiting...as if reassured that the human could somehow protect her from the violent tantrum of Mother Nature. He wasn't sure if he or Daydream was more afraid at that moment.

Blake pulled himself up from the flooding water by the reins and mounted. Daydream responded more obediently than he would have expected. "Come on, baby," he said reassuringly, patting her gently on her neck as he pulled the reins to turn her around.

The biting sting of the cold pelting rain and wind whipping him now exhilarated him, and the pain from falling off the horse forced him to be alert. He guided the mare away from the Groom facility lights and directly into the storm, towards what he hoped were the Groom mountains.

After a while he could see the distant mountains with each flash of lightning. Even with six inches of water flowing across the Groom dry lake bed, the horse managed to hit the foothills of the Groom mountains in under five minutes. He finally let himself believe that he might escape unscathed.

For the moment he was content just to move ahead, hoping to out ride the storm. As he rose above the water by ascending the foothills, Blake spotted a lone horseman above to his left, high on a barren hill. The man appeared to be waving his arms above his head and shouting. The storm hit a temporary lull, and Blake veered northward around the hill the horseman was on, picking up speed as he ascended above the water. His confidence increased when he realized it was Nicholas. He pushed Daydream relentlessly, offering her a silent apology.

In calmer times to come he would wittily boast that he had been caught in the "Mother of all Desert Storms. But by then it would have become a cliché."

For the time being, Blake would be content to view the Groom facilities with published satellite and ground photos. The re-congregated group sat around the fireplace into the early morning hours, drinking fresh-perked coffee and sipping a little sour mash Brance had stashed for emergencies. When they were suitably dry, they thanked the Catlin's for the adventure and wearily departed.

Just before he nodded off from the road vibration, Blake asked a question he had had on his mind since they arrived at the ranch.

"Wayne, how did you find out about this MFD antigravity device they're using in Area 51?"

Newsom offered him a drink from a bottle of water, which he declined, then explained that the Magnetic Flux Field Disrupter was not truly an antigravity machine.

"Antigravity provides a repulsive force that could be used for propulsion. The MFD creates a disruption of the gravitational field upon mass. The mass of the circular accelerator and all mass within the accelerator, such as the crew capsule and the nuclear reactor, are reduced by almost 90%. This causes the effect of making a vehicle extremely light and able to outperform and outmaneuver any craft that we've yet built."

Newsom took a large swallow from the bottle. "Hell, Blake, I am no fucking rocket scientist. The man who could really explain it all to you, a top physicist who was working on the TR program, got so paranoid that he retired early and went to hide out in Texas."

Webster felt a tickle of excitement force its way through his exhaustion. "Might you be speaking of Dr. Carlton Farr?"

Newsom seemed startled. "I might."

Webster gave him a rather smug grin. "Would you like to take a trip to Texas with me?"

"I was going to stay and look for Red, but Nicholas assured me that he would have a ranch hand riding the Groom Range every night, just in case Red shows up. He often comes up to the ranch using the same trail we used, and Red’s a friend of the Catlins." Newsom said.

"I take it that's a yes. I guess," he smiled, "the two of us have an appointment with Dr. Farr."

"An appointment? When?"

"Just as soon as we can get down there." Webster laughed. Be glad to have you, Wayne. But can you just up and leave like that?"

Newsom scratched his chin and looked toward the sunset. "My Dorothy, God love her soul, passed four years back. My daughter is married and lives in Albuquerque. My son is attending grad school in San Francisco. I can pick up and leave whenever I damn well please."

"And work?"

"Believe it or not," I have a medical disability. PTSD."

"Vietnam?"

"Yeah. I also wisely invested Dorothy’s life insurance."

"Wayne," Blake yawned loudly, "why would the Catlins do all this for you?"

As he forced his eyes open for the last time, Wayne answered him.

"My wife Dorothy was Brance Catlin's favorite cousin."

CHAPTER 11 - The Killing Room

Agabarr was furious. "This is simply not working, Dr. Quinlin. You are keeping the old bastard so drugged up that he's not feeling enough pain, even when I am using maximum power. Put the Aplastacabezas on him."

The doctor swallowed so hard that Red could hear him. "Damn it, Raul, you are being too hasty. You could kill him with that and not get the information from him you need. Besides, we still don't really know that he has seen or told of things that are classified. He may be just what he seems, an old prospector. For God's sake, man! We don't want to kill him."

"That's why you're here, Dr. Quinlin," Agabarr said. "It is your responsibility to keep him alive long enough for me to obtain the information we need to determine exactly who and what this man really is."

"Then isn't the use of the Aplastacabezas hasty?" The doctor's voice became a bit shrill with his barely restrained repugnance for Agabarr.

"No!" Agabarr snapped back. "I know how to use the device as well as any interrogator alive and I was trained by the CIA who invented this lovely satanic device. I do not have any more time to play games with the likes of this alleged old desert rat. His social security number is bogus. The computer has no records of this man other than that he served in Korea. Then he officially disappeared...like the man who never was."

Agabarr leaned forward and spit in Red's face. "Your mind is too agile, too facile for you to be the entity that you wish us to believe that you are. You are no fucking prospector. You are a very clever, very good undercover agent. And I will find out who you're working for."

"Raul, I'm logging my protest over your use of the Aplastacabezas in my report of this interrogation," Quinlin told him.

"Put your protest up your ass," Agabarr sneered. "And stay the fuck out of my way."

The Aplastacabezas was the contemporary derivative of the horrible Venetian Head Crusher that had been developed by zealous priests during one of the Spanish Inquisitions. Modern technology had improved upon the monstrous device one hundred fold. The modern instrument consisted of a face and head apparatus, and an electrode riddled strap that ran from the helmet down the back, under the crotch, back up to the chin and into the head piece. It was worn over the victim's naked body and essentially linked all of the central nervous system via the head gear to a computer that was designed to deliver a menu of tailored pain.

The Aplastacabezas was the undisputed king of torture instruments. The interrogator could make the victim thrash about and scream in a violent dance of pain, as if he were a perverse puppet master. Or if he chose, he could fry his victim internally. Or make him suffer a heart attack. The limitations of the Aplastacabezas were only those of the torturer, since the device was engineered for an infinite variety of pain. Agabarr was a master of the instrument.

Red had his own thoughts on torture and murder. Although he had never tortured anyone, he had seen his share of gore and death. Given even the slightest opportunity, he knew that he would rip his throat out, pop his eyes like overripe grapes, crush his windpipe into mush, and drive his testicles up into his spine. He feared the opportunity would not present itself.

He hadn't felt remorse for his killing of Chinese communists in Korea, rationalizing each in the line of duty for service and country. His only remorse was for the innocence he lost after the first killing. Red had been an Army Ranger and explosive expert.

"Let's probe his jaw first," Agabarr ordered the doctor.

Dr. Quinlin felt as though he had sold his soul to the devil. He was powerless to disobey, for his orders expressly stated that he was to assist Raul Agabarr, and they made it very clear that he was to be subordinate to the interrogator.

Reluctantly, Quinlin placed the helmet onto Red's head, aligning it with the nerve centers that supplied the lower jaw molars, the largest and most sensitive nerve bundles in the parasympathetic nervous system. Stimulation of these nerve centers was accomplished by inserting a glass microcapillary probe directly into the gum surrounding the fifth lower molar. The probe was filled with a conductive solution of potassium chloride and manganese chromate. When a small electric current was administered to the microscopic opening at the capillary end, it caused an excruciating neurological pain reaction directly to the main nerve bundle. There was no greater pain.

The doctor adjusted the micro dial gauge on each side of the helmet and set the probes into the proper nerve bundles of Red's jaw.

"Now, Mr. Wise Ass, let us see what you are made of," Raul Agabarr said gleefully, as he flipped the switches on the console.

Instantly Red's brain exploded. He felt an indescribable pain that escalated quickly into an infinite horror of relentless, overwhelming torment.

The pain shredded Red's integrity of consciousness and caused his fingers and toes to contract violently. His heart palpitated wildly and his heart rate and blood pressure zoomed. His eyes were blinded in a cascade of intense neuron firing.

His mind crawled on its belly like a snake into a cesspool of unholy hideousness.

Red danced with Satan, whose true name was Agabarr, as demons played a dirge for the dead and the yet undead.

In addition to the unfathomable anguish unleashed on his jaw, Agabarr used the electrodes placed along the body strap to stimulate other key nerve endings, which elicited still more agonizing torment, thus making the effects of the torture multidimensional, beyond space and time.

The pain was so unbearable that Red's subconscious mind knew it was time to shut down the central nervous system, thereby eliminating the need for conscious awareness. From Red's iron will, his subconscious diverted the encroaching shock. The result was a regressing of his mind into an abstract medley of paranoid schizophrenic behavior.

"This is getting boring, old man," Agabarr screamed at Red. "Tell us what we want to know, and we will let you go."

Even if Red had been able to hear or understand--which he could not--he would know better than to trust or to believe anything that Raul Agabarr promised.

Red now saw his tormenter from a narrow visual peek hole, restricted by his own central nervous system. He could only perceive a blurred myopic vision of a monster. The thing that stood before him was revealed as a devilish fiend masquerading in human form.

Agabarr was actually laughing with pleasure as Red's body writhed and thrashed in pain.

Red's hoarse screams were unintelligible and constant. And then, his eyes rolled back in his skull as he escaped to a world of his own making.

Dr. Quinlin jumped at the sudden silence and screamed at Agabarr. "Cut it off! Cut it off!"

Agabarr was lost in his own frenzy of monstrous glee.

Dr. Quinlin hit the emergency off switch on the console and the hum of high voltage whined down into silence.

Red's body slumped back on the chair when his taunt muscles collapsed. His body was dripping with sweat. His bladder had released urine to run in rivulets into the chair's splash pan. Blood trickled out of both sides of Red's mouth, and his face was drained of color.

"You crazy, fucking madman," Dr. Quinlin shouted at Agabarr. "We almost killed him. You stupid idiot! The NSA will murder us if we screw up on this job."

Raul's face became a mask of rage, and he pointed a menacing forefinger at the doctor. "Careful, little man. You could be next! You don't really know whom I'm working for. I can have your fucking, liberal, bleeding heart for breakfast if I want."

Red was babbling the childish gibberish of a full paranoid -schizophrenic attack in slurred words. "Domo arigato --I'm going to get you vato... I'll try harder--boss man... Scream a little scream of me...ta da de da--rubber shirts, leather skirts, a bucket of goose fat and thou...there was a young... " Red coughed up blood.

Spittle dribbled down his beard as his broken mind responded with nonsense. "He cut open the cadaver and pulled a liver. No, no, he cut open a seam...he pulled out a spleen. No, no. He split him apart, pulled out his heart, and said, oh, what a good boy am I...There was a young lady from Mars--who had tits shaped like stars," his words made him sound like he was totally drunk.

Agabarr slapped the console and the power came back on.

"What are you doing?" Dr. Quinlin shouted as he lurched for him.

Agabarr pushed the doctor away, knocking him to the floor.

Red screamed anew, then raced further into the depths of his subconscious.

Agabarr tripped the off switch with disgust. "Guess I was wrong."

The doctor was on his feet, shouting his rage. "You bet you were wrong, you stupid asshole! You're going to kill him if you're not careful. And who the hell do you think you are, putting your hands on me?"

Agabarr shot the man a look of utter contempt. He was not used to working with anyone when he was brought in to interrogate a subject. It was a great annoyance to him to have to deal with a weak-kneed medical doctor burdened by cumbersome professional ethics.

"I really thought the son of a bitch was acting," Agabarr growled.

He kicked the torture chair in frustration, and then pulled a crumpled cigarette pack from his pocket, listening impatiently to Red's schizophrenic nonsense while he lit his smoke.

Red began to giggle, as if he were a child. His teeth gleamed with the wet, red blood that oozed from his mouth in trickles and tears wetted his face.

"Talk you son of a bitch," Agabarr shouted, "or you'll never see the light of day."

"The poor bastard can't hear you!" Dr. Quinlin told him. "Can't you see that for yourself? Look at his eyes. He's somewhere else, entirely."

Red's head was rolling in circles, and only the whites of his eyes showed. "Rat soup, rat soup, rat soup. Yes, please, I'll have some more. Snakes slither silently over my bones."

Agabarr grabbed Dr. Quinlin's tunic and bunched it up in his fist, pulling the man closer to him. "Listen to him! If the dumb fuck can talk, then I know he can hear me!"

The doctor jerked the man's angry fist from his tunic. "That's not the way it works! Can't you hear he's babbling out of his head?"

Red was stuck somewhere between shock and complete shutdown. "The void is great, the rift is high. The cycle of time repeats...the beginning will occur...the past is over..."

"You've fried his fucking brain," Dr. Quinlin said angrily. "He's dumping gibberish. Can't you see what's happening? Can't you see what you've done?"

"What we've done," Agabarr corrected in an icy tone. "You're the doctor who's supposed to prevent such a thing as this from happening."

"You cold-blooded son of a bitch!" Dr. Quinlin cursed. "I ought to have the guards cuff you and place you under house arrest until an inquiry into this entire affair has been conducted."

Agabarr laughed. "These men," he indicated the two impassive guards stationed on either side of the entrance to the interrogation room, "these fine fellows and I work for an agency above yours. I would suggest that you do not try any kind of power play, good doctor."

The doctor frowned, glanced questioningly toward the guards. "What do you mean? We were both assigned to this unholy task by the NSA."

Agabarr laughed again. "You poor stupid shit, you have no idea of what's really going on here, do you? You have no idea of who's really in charge here."

Red moaned, and softly said, on the chair and began another meaningless litany. "Hickory, dickory, dock. My life runs off the clock. Can you change a cow for two chickens? Stop the clock! Stop the clock!"

The shattered man coughed up more blood, but it didn't still his incoherent monologue. "Out of the dark, into the light..."

"Bring him around, Doctor," Agabarr commanded.

"Listen to him, you vicious ass! You've fried his brains! There's no bringing him around. It would take several days of rest before we could even get him coherent again."

"We don't have days," Agabarr's eyes narrowed malevolently. "We must find out now if he has had anything to do with the video of the spacecraft. We must find out if he has been working with Blake Webster."

"Blake, flake, cake," Red mumbled.

Agabarr leaned over him. "Did that name ring a bell in your supposedly fried brain? Tell me about Blake, about Blake Webster. Is he your friend?"

Red's eyes rolled crazily. "There was a young boy--who had a big toy... "

Agabarr turned to give the doctor a fierce look. "Incoherent, my ass! Brain fried, my ass! If that were true, how would he be able to come up with a fucking limerick? He's somewhere inside of his skull laughing at us. He's not going to make a fool of me!"

Before Dr. Quinlin could interfere, Agabarr had pushed the level forward on the console.

Every muscle in Red's large boned body jerked violently against the chair restraints. A low animal howl, a primordial scream from deep within his soul, forced itself from his lips and built in intensity.

"Ooooooooh, nooooooo...Auuuuwagh...Stop...Stop...Noooo mooore...God, oh, God...please...stop!"

Dr. Quinlin's stomach turned sour with bile. He knew that the last vestige of Red's conscious mind was imploding, while his subconscious tried desperately and unsuccessfully to salvage shards of reality and whatever sanity he had left.

"Unstrap him!" the doctor ordered the guards. "Unstrap him and place him on the examining table. Do it now!"

Neither man made a move to answer the doctor's commands.

Agabarr kept the power turned up high.

Red's mind had spun down a vortex into the darkest and safest corners of his unconscious.

From far away, he could see a bright light. Someone was walking toward him. "Grandma," he called. "I hurt, Grandma. Make them stop."

His grandmother reached out a hand for one of his. "Come home, honey. You come home with me, now. Come home where there is no pain."

Red's body slumped forward.

"Stop the power!" Dr. Quinlin shouted. "Cut the goddamned juice now!"

"When I say!" Agabarr shouted back. "When I wish!"

"I think he's dead!"

Agabarr scowled his disbelief, but he cut the power. At his signal, the two guards unshackled Red and lifted his body onto the examining table.

A quick examination of Red's vital signs reversed the doctor's visual diagnosis. A flicker of life still pulsed within Red's tormented body.

"He's still alive, you goddamned sadist, but you've fried this man's brains for good. You'll not get anything more out of him."

"Shit," Agabarr grimaced. "The son of a bitch beat me. The tough old bastard never told us a fucking thing."

Dr. Quinlin's mouth dropped incredulously. "That's it, you heartless bastard? You have just destroyed this man's mind, a man who may have been exactly who and what he claimed to be. And that's as close to regret as you can get? The son-of-a-bitch beat you?"

Agabarr wiped the perspiration from his forehead with a damp paper towel. "My regret, doctor, lies in the grim fact that I was assigned by my superiors to get this man to talk, to be one hundred per cent certain that he was not somehow involved in any of the leaks regarding the alien technology being used in certain of our dark projects. And I failed. I did not succeed in making him talk. For that, I am remorseful."

Dr. Quinlin shook his head in astonished disbelief. "Raul Agabarr, you are the most evil being I have ever met. And you're crazy, too. Alien technology? You demolished this man's mind because you believe in UFOs? You are fucking nuts."

Agabarr opened his mouth in mock horror. "Oh, awful me. It appears as though I might have breached security. You mean you aren't working for MJ-12?"

"MJ what?" Dr. Quinlin shook his head. "I work for the NSA, the same as you."

"Wrong. I told you earlier that these two men and I work for a group above the NSA."

The doctor took such talk to be but another indication of the man's dementia. "At any rate, I am writing up a full report of your destruction of this man during your needlessly brutal interrogation."

Agabarr sighed impatiently. "That's two good reasons to kill you. You now know too much, and you keep insisting that you're going to write this negative report about my work habits."

He turned to one of the guards at the entrance. "Sergeant Kandowski, do you think we should kill this whining, narrow shouldered, skinny assed motherfucker?"

Kandowski seemed startled by the question. He glanced nervously from Agabarr to the doctor, trying desperately to perceive whether or not he was serious.

"You arrogant son of a bitch!" Dr. Quinlin snarled. "I'm reporting you to General Beauharnais."

"Please don't do that, Doctor," Agabarr laughed in a dismissive manner. "I don't like having my wrist slapped."

The guards shifted uneasily, awaiting a definitive order.

Agabarr sighed deeply. "Men, take this piece of shit to the medical center."

Then with an air of noblesse oblige, he told Dr. Quinlin, "Keep him alive. Perhaps his stubborn old brain will manage to unfry itself in a few days. If it does, we shall have another encounter. If it does not, then he is certainly no longer a potential threat to security, and I have, in a real sense, done my job to the best of my ability."

The guards hoisted Red's limp body, draped his arms around their shoulders, and headed toward the surface elevator.

"Now it is up to you to work your medical miracles and wonders," Agabarr challenged the doctor.

Dr. Quinlin stared at him with undisguised loathing.

"You're a butcher...you disgust me."

"You haven't seen anything yet. Wait until we have the news hack Webster, the anarchist Newsom, and all of the Green family here. We'll have a real party. Something for you to remember and tell your grandkids." Agabarr laughed a guttural laugh.

"Who? Who are the Greens? We're not interrogating women and children." Quinlin was visibly disturbed.

"Just hide and watch. Women are my favorite...I use a completely different technique on them," he smiled with madness in his eyes. "We'll retrieve the errant Green woman and son from Spokane. Soon enough and you'll see. Just be patient."

Quinlin wanted very badly to vomit.

CHAPTER 12 - On The Scent Of Death

M.D. Crawfoot pulled his Jeep to a stop on the gravel surface in front of Pat's Place. He had been in the area for two days, reconnoitering. Countdown time for the execution of Mother's latest assignment, he thought, amused at his unintended pun.

He had memorized his briefing file and destroyed all materials before he left Montreal for Mexico City. There he used his Mexican passport and identification to purchase a ticket to the San Antonio International Airport.

He arrived from Mexico City as Ricardo San Juan on the noon flight of Mexicana. Crawfoot's father was a Cherokee from Oklahoma, his mother, a Creole from Louisiana. His heritage easily permitted him to pass as Hispanic or any other Latino culture.

He entered Pat's Place and took a stool at the short bar, once again taking in the ambiance: the fading white plastered walls decorated with a colorful assortment of flyers, maps, photographs, and advertisements. Everything was yellowed and dusty with age, but fairly clean as these places went. A strong smell of hamburger and fried potato grease wafted about the bar.

He had entered the bar the night before, quietly; a dark shadow that sipped a beer and benignly observed the local characters.

A stocky woman in a flowered cotton dress stood behind the bar completing an order of hamburgers with fries for two old men at a table. She plopped the fare onto paper plates and cheerily delivered them to the men, who greeted her and their food with loud guffaws of pleasure.

Within seconds she was back behind the bar and headed towards Crawfoot, smiling broadly and swiping at the laminated counter with a stained white towel as she approached.

"Hi, stranger. I'm Betty Bock, but everybody calls me Mammaw. What can I get you, today?"

Crawfoot didn't need the menu. "Coffee, glass of orange juice, and an order of whole wheat toast without butter."

"Not much food to keep a man going," she felt obliged to inform him. "'Specially if you are going tromping after some of them deer. Folks say we got the best burgers in the county."

"I am certain that the food must be wonderful here. I am just not so hungry right now," he smiled.

"Suit yourself," Mammaw shrugged her generous shoulders.

She didn't bring his coffee or his juice until the toast was ready. Crawfoot nodded his thanks, then picked up his order, explaining that he wanted to sit outdoors.

The table he chose provided him with a clear view of the narrow gravel road entrance to the trailer park, which was part of Pat's Place. Behind him was Medina Lake. Across the river channel to his left, he could see the scientist's small frame cabin sitting high up the hill, directly across from the patio where he sat sipping his warm coffee.

From the file provided by Mother, Crawfoot knew that Farr was single, something of a recluse, and very attached to a small, brown dog. While he sat checking out the lay of the land, a man who was quite likely the scientist, stepped out onto the porch overlooking the lake. He was accompanied by a younger, taller man, the same man that Crawfoot had followed the night before.

Who the hell was this guy? Farr should have been alone, according to the file. He wished that he could take out his small Bosh digital monocular and get a better fix on both men on the porch, but he didn't want to draw attention to himself.

Crawfoot took a bite of his dry toast. It didn't matter who was keeping Dr. Charles Farr company. He would take the scientist out if he were in the middle of a country square dance. That was his assignment. And his superiors knew that he always got the job done.

A tall, lean, white-haired older man appeared at the door of the patio and seemed to be looking for company. Crawfoot frowned at the obvious distraction walking toward him.

Walter Dean Ray, a retired Air Force colonel, kept himself occupied by working on his lakeside house, deer hunting, and fishing. Ray had been a F-15 Eagle fighter pilot who knew everyone within five miles of Pat's Place. The widowed sixty year old was very active in the surrounding community and was considered a dashing, charming ladies man. In Ray's social philosophy, he had never met a stranger, only a previously unknown person who was about to give him an opportunity to talk about himself.

Crawfoot gave him a practiced go-to-hell look, but the man extended his hand, undaunted by the stranger's obvious lack of interest. "Howdy. Don't believe that I've had the pleasure. I'm Walter Dean Ray. Everyone calls me Walt."

Crawfoot stood and shook Ray's hand. "Hello, Walt, my name is Richard." His slight Hispanic accent would have fooled a native.

"Hello, Richard," Ray pumped his hand enthusiastically and invited himself to a seat opposite Crawfoot. "May I ask what brings you to our modest community?"

Crawfoot took to his cover as one might slip on an overcoat. His personality changed in an instant. He would extract himself as quickly as possible from this unwanted meeting. The less he interfaced with the locals; the better off he would be after he terminated the scientist.

"Came up to do a little hunting. Thought I would take a look at the lake and some property while I was in the area."

"You'd like it here, Richard," Ray smiled. "I can tell you anything about the area that you might like to know. For instance, you are now in Bandera County, and that out there," he pointed to the water behind them, "is the north shore of the lake."

Ray leaned back in his chair and made an expansive, sweeping motion with his right arm. "This is a beautiful area here, Richard. "It's abundant with whitetail deer, gray squirrels, red and gray foxes, and our famous--or should I say, infamous rattlesnakes and armadillos."

Since the man had paused for a reaction, Crawfoot obliged with a curt, "I guess it depends whether or not you like rattlesnakes."

Ray laughed loudly, as if he had heard a retort of great wit.

Then he continued with his monologue of the wonders and glories of the area: "The mesquite, live oak, Texas red oak, elm, cedar, and possum haw trees along with the red berried agarita shrubbery, prickly pear cactus, and red yucca provide good cover for the wild animals. Sometimes I think that it's like we've got a natural game preserve here, Richard, but with the best of both worlds, because we still get to hunt all we want. At least so far."

Ray paused to take a breath, and then was back on the case. "In the spring, the Texas state flower, the wild blue bonnets, bloom everywhere, along with..."

Crawfoot had had enough. The guy was a walking encyclopedia.

"All that is very interesting," he interrupted the travelogue, "but I'm more interested in finding out about property values and which properties might be for sale."

Ray nodded. No problem. He didn't slow down as he shifted topics. "Well, I couldn't help noticing that you were looking at the houses across the channel. That big stone one is for sale. It's about two thousand square feet with a lot of enclosed porch space. I hear they're asking $140,000 for it. Damn good buy."

Crawfoot winced. "That's just a bit out of my price range, Walt. How about that smaller place, that cabin up on the hill, the one right across the inlet? Something like that is more my style."

"Well, you're out of luck there, Richard," Ray told him. "That one's not for sale. That's Carl Farr's place. He's a retired scientist."

"Must have been a biologist to want to live all the way out here, near the river, lake, and woods, and all," Crawfoot suggested.

"Nope," Ray narrowed his eyes in recollection. "Think he was a physicist. He's not very sociable. Lives alone with a scruffy little excuse for a dog, and feeds every stray critter that comes along. I never see anyone at his place, no visitors at all. I guess he's what you would call a recluse. Guess that's the way he likes it."

Crawfoot pointed to the cabin's wrap-around porch. "Looks like he's got some company right now."

Ray squinted and leaned forward, as if to shorten the distance between his eyes and Farr's cabin. "Son-of-a-gun. He does indeed. Well, I'll be damned. He does know someone besides that mutt of his. I wonder who the hell it is?"

"Maybe a relative." Crawfoot offered.

"Could be," Ray agreed. "Maybe we'll get a chance to find out if they walk down and get a drink or something later."

Crawfoot chuckled. "Well, I'll be long gone. I've got to bag my limit while I'm here or Mother will be on my butt."

Ray smiled. "Your mom really likes venison, eh?"

"Actually, to tell you the truth," Crawfoot leaned forward as if in confidence, "I think she just wants another trophy to hang on her wall."

CHAPTER 13 - I'm Here To Help You

Joe Green had turned in a few hours before sunrise, making himself as comfortable as possible on the sofa in Dr. Carlton Farr's living room. About noon the smell of freshly brewed coffee and small noises in the kitchen woke him.

A few minutes later, Joe sat across the table from Farr, sharing coffee, venison sausage, and stale doughnuts. Once again, the scientist was expounding on the evils of bigotry, intolerance, the dictatorship of organized religion, and the suppression of various historical documents.

Joe let Farr drone on for nearly an hour, finding it ironic that the man who had at first been reluctant to speak with him could not now stop talking. "Carl, last night I asked you if these powerful ancient alien gods and their presumably advanced super science had anything to do with the advanced technology being developed in Area 51."

Farr dunked a piece of his doughnut into his coffee before placing it in his mouth. "First I want you to tell me what has happened to you personally that drives you to seek out this information?"

Joe studied his host for a long moment before he responded to the request. "This isn't something I usually talk about, partly because of my high security clearances and partly because people would probably think that I was crazy. I guess it all started for me when I saw a weird light during my family's move from Georgia to San Antonio when I was seven years old."

Farr barely moved or blinked while Joe related the strange incident with the light and his mother, dad, and himself out on the lonely stretch of country road.

"That was the first experience I had with lost memory, so-called missing time, and the light," Joe concluded the account. "Since that initial encounter, I have had several other incidents of lost memory--or whatever the hell it really is."

Farr reached down to set Albert on his lap. "Tell me more," he urged.

Joe shrugged, becoming self-conscious. "Well, there's not a great deal to tell, really. It wasn't until the last few years that I began to realize that the fast pace of technology in this century, especially during the past couple of decades, has far exceeded the mathematical probability that it should. Somewhere along this same time, I also became interested in UFOs and in our government's alleged use of alien technology. I suppose by now I've read every pseudo-fact book on UFOs published. I've also been reading a little science fiction, and a lot of books on ancient civilizations."

Joe paused to take a couple sips of coffee. "I know I'm rambling here Carl, but it's really difficult trying to get my experiences, beliefs, and my quest into words so that someone else can understand what the hell I'm taking about. I guess the bottom line is that something has happened to me, and I'm looking for answers."

Farr smiled and nodded as he stroked Albert's neck and back. "I'm glad you've come, Joe."

Joe grinned, feeling more at ease. "I guess I've pretty much come to the same conclusions you have. I mean, about there being an outside alien influence on our civilization."

Farr asked him if he had ever heard of or listened to the Reverend Page Saint John.

"You mean the cultist preacher?"

Farr nodded. "Are you aware of the premise of his Church of the Celestial Prophet?"

Joe admitted that he had heard excerpts of a couple of St. John's sermons. "It would seem that he would agree with our contention about aliens having influenced the development of our civilization. And I guess he would add our religions, as well."

Farr poured them each a fresh cup of coffee. "His particular spiritual dogma contends that our ancient God Yahweh or Jehovah was from a super intelligent, technologically advanced race of aliens."

Joe ran his finger around the rim of his cup. "I always get a little turned off when people start trying to make a religion of UFOs. Do you think this St. John has had some special experience or insight? Or is he just combining his Bible thumping with flying saucers?"

Farr shook his head and lifted his hands palm upward in a gesture of open wonder. "Who knows, Joseph? I certainly do not."

He got up from the table and looked at his watch. "Let me make a couple of sandwiches for us. How about a drink?"

Joe told him that he would wait until later for a drink, but he would welcome a sandwich. "Can I do anything to help?"

"Just sit and talk to Albert," Farr said, hauling some ham slices and a package of cheese out of the refrigerator. "I've also got some homemade salsa, not too awful hot, and some tortilla chips."

Just before he placed the food on the table and joined Joe for the meal, Farr made himself a healthy drink. Joe was a little disappointed to observe that the serious drinking was beginning early that day.

Joe ate his sandwich and sipped his coffee, but the salsa was so God-awful hot that he couldn't imagine how anyone could eat it.

"How's the salsa?" Good stuff, eh?" Farr asked.

"Oh, you bet," Joe said with a mouth full of flames. "I'll bet you moved to Texas because you are addicted to Tex-Mex food, the hotter the better."

"Good stuff!" Farr repeated. "And you'll never have a tapeworm."

After their lunch, they moved out on the patio overlooking Medina Lake. Joe reached for a cigarette, but caught his host's disapproving frown and put the crumpled pack back in his shirt pocket. That's one for Karen, he smiled to himself.

"Where are these aliens from?" Joe asked. "Why did they come here? And, the biggie, where are they now?"

Farr set his drink on a picnic table and leaned over to scratch Albert's ear. "There are roughly six possible places of origin for our visitors; from a parallel universe, another star system, from the past, from the future, from another planet in this solar system, or from our own mental aberrations and hallucinations."

Joe nodded. "I'd personally have to strike your number six. I suppose we could substitute angels, but I don't think we are talking about heavenly beings."

"Those who insist that all UFO sightings are the product of hallucinations have certainly never seen one, nor have they studied the history of the phenomenon," Farr agreed. "I have to cast a negative vote against the theory that the aliens arrived here from another star or a parallel universe. The transition from a parallel universe would be tantamount to going through a black hole. Anything material attempting such passage would be crushed back to primordial energy. Or we suppose at this time."

Joe agreed. "Unless they're nonphysical beings of some sort."

Farr dismissed the brown mutt with another of his affectionate swats on its butt. "But they certainly appear to be physical entities when they are in our world. We know that their crafts are material enough."

Joe considered this, and then suggested that the aliens could be multidimensional beings, somehow capable of materializing and dematerializing as both physical and nonphysical entities.

"Who knows," Farr shrugged. "Such a technology might one day be achieved by our own super science. Kind of like, 'Beam me aboard, Scotty'."

The two men laughed at the physicist's Star Trek allusion.

"As we understand our Earth version of physics," Farr explained, "the amount of material energy required to propel a large space ship to another planet bearing star, together with the amount of time to make such a trip, plus a logistics support system to maintain the technology once it reached here, would seem to make visitors from another solar system extremely improbable. But there is the yet unexplored and yet to be discovered physics."

Farr got to his feet and turned his back to Joe while he refilled his drink from the bottle on the picnic table. "Ready?" he motioned to Joe with his glass.

Joe shook his head. "And, you know, while the concept of time travelers from the future is an intriguing one, I just can't buy it. There have been some fairly good science fiction films that deal with this theme, but it has seemed to me that even the very best always contain some internal contradiction."

Farr took a sip of his fresh drink. "I know what you mean. Even beyond the cliché,  what-if-you-killed-your-own-grandfather type of science fiction time travel tale, there would seem to be physical laws that would prevent different dimensions of time from interacting. Perhaps one might be able to observe the past, as if you were visiting a live action history museum, but there would have to be strict rules against touching the living exhibits."

Joe decided to pour himself a small shot of the remaining scotch. "Which leaves us, via the process of elimination, with the conclusion that these ancient gods came from another planet within this solar system."

Farr agreed enthusiastically. "And that planet existed, at one time in ancient prehistory, between Mars and Jupiter, where the asteroid belt now lies. And it is very probable that Mars served as a temporary home base for the aliens before they visited Earth."

Farr held up his hand, as if he were a cop halting the flow of traffic. "Let's take a break, so my dog and I can stretch our legs and take a pee."

Joe walked off a bit toward the woods and lit a cigarette. As he looked down toward Pat's Place he remembered the night before when he had heard something or someone following him back to Farr's cabin. That had been an eerie experience, but everything certainly looked innocent enough in the light of a clear afternoon.

A clear, hot and humid Monday afternoon. If he didn't make it back to the motel that evening, he was going to have to prevail on Carl Farr for a towel and a bar of soap. He couldn't last another day without a shower. He was thankful it was just a couple of guys at the cabin; he was certain that his underarm deodorant had gone south.

Joe sat on a tree stump and watched the scientist playing with Albert, tossing the ball, then teasing and praising the little mutt.

After a few minutes, Farr was out of breath. "I think old Albert has had enough exercise. Let's go back into the cabin. I want to show you something."

Farr ushered Joe back to the kitchen and poured himself the last of the scotch that Joe had brought. Joe reached in the refrigerator and snagged a cold beer from the six-pack that he had bought at Pat's Place.

Without a word, Farr led Joe to the mysterious locked spare bedroom. He paused, and then entered a six digit number into the electronic lock. A heavy dead bolt retracted, and the door swung open.

Joe was dumbstruck by what he saw. Hundreds of tiny lights, dials, computer displays, and other immediately unidentifiable light sources emitted a complex pattern of illumination and eerie shadows dancing across the walls and the ceiling.

Here was a house that for all appearances didn't have a television or stereo set in the living room, an electric can opener or toaster in the kitchen, and not even a clock radio in the bedroom. But there, inside a twelve by twelve foot area, was a room supporting wall-to-wall electronics of the most sophisticated kind.

The lengthy work surface nearest the wall to the left contained no less than six monitors. The first displayed what appeared to be a real time satellite image of the northwestern United States. The second displayed a digital drawing of Area 51.

With a warm rush of realization, Joe knew that Dr. Carlton Farr had just opened his most private inner sanctum for his examination. He had won the reclusive scientist's trust.

"Go on in and pull up a chair," Farr invited.

Joe took a seat in one of the two swivel chairs nearest the back wall and decided to focus on one area of the room at a time.

The end monitor was hooked up to a wide band scanner that digitized the speech from the analog output and converted it to text via voice recognition software. The software sophisticated enough to accomplish this had to have been "borrowed" from the government.

From what Joe could quickly determine, Farr had to be tapping into at least three different government satellites. When he glanced up at the shelf above the work surface, he saw the he was looking at a security system that monitored each side of the cabin, displaying the exterior on four different monitors.

Joe turned in awe to Farr, who was still standing in the doorway. "Not what you expected, eh?"

Joe slumped back in the swivel chair. He started to make a suitable comment, then just gave up attempting to find the proper words.

Farr laughed at his friend's astonishment. "I'm monitoring Milnet aka Arpanet, and Internet using keyword/phrase data files and user address lists. I keep up on the latest scientific research, black budget dollars and contracts; and I managed to back door a number of interesting government systems."

Joe still had not found his tongue. Farr probably had at least one or more satellite dishes and various antenna arrays hidden around his property. They could easily be camouflaged amongst the dense trees crowding the cabin.

"I haven't seen a room like this outside of a government facility," Joe managed at last. "You must have an incredible amount of money tied up in this room."

"Wouldn't you like to know?" Farr snorted, then disappeared for a moment.

Joe was afraid that he went to fetch another drink. His concern was realized when the physicist returned with two glasses and a bottle.

"This isn't as elegant and fine a scotch as you brought, but it is several steps above rot-gut and it will do," he said, sloshing some in a glass for each of them.

Joe knew that it would do once again to put Farr in the bag before he had learned what he had come to find out about Area 51 and the alien technology.

"You know, Joseph Green, you should feel honored that you are the only other human that has ever been in this holy room, this sanctum sanctorum."

They sat opposite one another in the dimly lighted room. "I do feel honored, Carl." Joe said.

"And I can completely trust you?"

"Yes, you can."

"Then tell me more about yourself. There's something I am waiting to hear from you."

Joe was puzzled. Was there some magic word that he was supposed to utter? "Well, I took a leave from Loral. I've been working on the Aurora Program funded by the NSA, NRO, and ARPA. Specifically, I have been involved with the SR-75."

Farr slid up to the computer next to the scanner system and typed in "Joseph Green, Top Secret Area 51." The CD Rom booted up and hummed to life. It was soon apparent that Farr had the CD Rom that the Defense Industry Security Clearance Office used for listing civilians with security clearances within the Department of Defense industry. The display read:

Joseph Gordon Green, Jr.

6400 S. Air Force Road

Tonopah, NV 89409

DISCO FILE 89-4127 TS/MJ:FT & AA

Previous: USAF-1969, NSA-74, Loral Corporation 1989

SSN 989-82-4127

Born June 24, 1951

Americus, Georgia, Sumpter County USA

Top Secret/EBI/SI Aurora; Clearance issued March 11,

1989  Loral Corporation – DISCO - NSA

Farr spoke in a loud and firm voice. "Now tell me something I don't already know, Joseph."

It was now obvious to Joe that if Farr had not already pulled up his file, he wouldn't be sitting here with him in his secret domain. He quite likely would not have met with him in the first place.

"I want to know more about the light, Joe."

Joe pulled back. "But why?"

"Goddamn it! I don't have time to sit here fucking around. Tell me about the light."

Joe felt perspiration dot his upper lip and forehead. "I...I have had a fear, an apprehension all of my life since my experience with the light. You know, Carl, so much of it is so blurred in my mind that I really don't like to talk about it."

Farr slammed his fist down on the work table. "Tell me about the light or get the fuck out of my house! Don't you have any concept of how little time we have?"

Joe was stunned by the scientist's persistence and by the importance that he seemed to affix to his encounters with the mysterious, frightening, light. "I can't be certain where reality stops and nightmares begin."

"Just talk." Farr's tone allowed no room for argument.

"Ever since it happened, I have never felt as though I was in charge of my own destiny. I feel like I'm living out someone else's life. Or maybe like I'm playing a part in some weird movie."

"And so say we all, lad," Farr nodded before he took another swallow of his scotch.

Joe was afraid that Carl would not last much longer the way he was drinking. Pretty soon he would have to rest and another day would be shot.

Joe couldn't begin to imagine what demons that Carlton Farr was attempting to drown with the liquor. He only knew that he had his own demons, ugly mind-creatures that he had never revealed to another human being in his life, not even Karen. And now here he was with a stranger, a drunken stranger, who insisted that he spill his guts to him. He was, however, willing to make the trade-off, because he suspected that this stranger, Dr. Carlton Farr, had some sorely needed answers for him.

"All right, Joe," Farr prompted. "So you had nightmares and the sense that your destiny was being controlled. What else do you remember?"

"Nothing much, really. Ghostly images in my dreams. Things like that."

"Have you ever seen a professional about these dreams and nightmares?"

"Like a psychiatrist?"

"Yes."

"No, never."

"Because of your security clearance?"

Joe decided that he did need some scotch after all. He took a generous swallow from the glass that Farr had placed beside him, felt the liquid burn the back of his throat before he answered. "I guess I never sought professional help because of my clearance--and because I didn't want any verification that I was losing my mind...or worse."

Farr asked him if he knew anything about entrainment.

"As in police work?"

Farr chuckled. "No, that's entrapment. Entrainment is the ability of the brain to synchronize with external light or sound."

Joe considered the definition for a moment. "Such as when epileptics are around a strobe light they might have a seizure."

"Exactly. But there is a scientific use for the phenomenon."

"Such as?"

Farr turned to the smallest computer monitor between Joe and himself. He pulled out a pair of goggles attached to a cable and plugged them into the computer interface.

Joe became wary. He could see that four red light emitting diodes were mounted around each eye of the goggles with a circular hole in the center. "What are those?"

"You place these over your eyes, shut your eyes, and the flashing lights assist you in entraining your brain waves," Farr explained, handing the goggles to Joe. "This top of the line unit was made by Synthetic Systems."

Joe remained unimpressed. "You better tell me something more about entrainment. Other than epileptics having seizures, that is."

Farr laughed at his friend's reluctance to experiment with the system. "Joe, you have heard of Buddhist monks and Hindu fakirs going into trances from meditating."

"Sure."

"And you have heard of biofeedback."

"Yeah, like when you want to learn to relax or sleep better, that kind of thing."

"With this system," Farr said, pointing to a menu on the computer screen," you can achieve in an extremely brief period of time what may take weeks, months, or years to achieve through meditation--or even biofeedback."

Joe wasn't certain where Farr was going with this. "Like how long with this system?"

"Usually thirty minutes or less. It's a lot like a hypnotic state at the lower levels of entrainment."

"I don't think I can be hypnotized," Joe said.

"Of course you can," Farr said firmly. "And to be certain, I'm going to give you this to relax you. It's called a hypnotic. It increases the effect of the entrainment process."

Joe studied the small pill that the scientist had handed him. "Carl, what does all this have to do with what we were talking about?"

"I can set this machine for a programmed mode that will take you to a state where you can be hypnotized. Understand, you will be aware of everything that's going on around you, and you will remember everything afterward."

"Okay, go on."

"Joe, you cannot remember what happened to you during your contact with the light. With this machine, you may remember more."

"I don't know, Carl. Maybe I'm not supposed to remember anything about the experiences."

Farr found such a response unacceptable. He moved the mouse and the pointer on the screen to meditation, and then he picked up a head cap from the shelf above the computer. "Put this on."

Joe looked at the cap, a glorified shower cap in many ways, made of some kind of synthetic material with dozens of round, inch-wide rubber like suction cups inside.

"The ribbon cable attaches to the base of the computer," Farr explained. "The cap measures the electrical state of your various brain waves."

Joe slipped on the head cap. His curiosity was growing.

"Look," Farr said as he adjusted the oscilloscope, "this is your present state at 25 cycles per second. From 14 to 30 cycles per second is called the Beta, or awake, state."

Joe saw that the computer had commands for a number of modes: Sleep, Relaxation, Visualize, Learn, Normal Consciousness, Energize.

"See there, Joe," Farr grinned. "This cap proves that you are conscious. It doesn't hurt, does it?"

Joe agreed. He reached for his glass of scotch and took a small sip to wash down the pill that Farr had given him. He might as well go through with the experiment. Maybe after all these years of fearing the light, he was about to get some answers.

CHAPTER 14 - Thanks For The Memories

Dr. Carlton Farr told Joe that he would first take him to the Alpha state, between 9 and 13 cycles per second.

"That will relax you. You will experience a pleasurable or floating sensation. You will feel very calm-- you might have some lucid daydreams."

Joe said it sounded good so far.

"Next I'll program the computer to take you on down to the Theta state, between 4 and 8 cycles per second," Farr said. "This is a very relaxed state, similar to a hypnotic state, and you will be open to suggestion. This is the state utilized in twilight learning and subconscious problem solving through intuitive or creative imagery. You will also experience REM, rapid eye movement. At 4 cycles per second you will enter a deep, dreamless sleep called Delta."

Joe cleared his throat. "So it sounds like we'll be working in Theta."

Farr confirmed his conclusion. "While you're in Theta, I will ask you a series of questions about your lost memory and the light."

The scientist had a small recliner in the corner of the room, and he motioned Joe to sit in the chair. The cord to the headset and goggles was conveniently long enough to reach. Joe suspected that Farr had used the device many times before to relax or to meditate.

"Get comfortable, then adjust the goggles," Farr told him from his position at the computer.

Joe leaned back in the recliner, slipped on the headset and adjusted the goggles until they felt comfortable. His field of vision was completely black. He could not detect the least bit of light. "Now what?" he asked the scientist.

Farr told him that the headset was picking up his brain waves, his pulse rate, and his blood pressure. Everything seemed normal.

"First I will set the light patterns in motion. After a few minutes, I will start the sound. Don't think about anything other than the lights and the sound. Try to remain comfortable and breathe normally. Once we reach Theta, I will reduce the volume so you can hear me talking to you. I'm recording everything on videotape. Ready?"

"Go for it."

Almost at once, the series of lights mounted inside each eyepiece of the goggles were flashing at about 20 to 30 cycles per second.

"The lights...hurt my eyes a little. They're too bright."

Farr told him the threshold was normal. "Joe, are your eyes shut?"

"Of course not. How could I see the damn lights if my eyes were closed?"

Farr laughed. "Joe, your eyes are supposed to be shut. I'm sorry. I should have made that clear. The effect of entrainment isn't on the photon receptors of the eyes. The rhythm and phasing of the light sequencing is the critical part. It bypasses the part of the brain that processes visual information. Are they still too bright?"

"They're okay."

"What color is the light?"

"At first it was red," Joe, responded. "Then a few moments after I shut my eyes, different colors started to appear. Now I see complex patterns and many different colors."

Farr told him that was normal. "The brain is interpreting the signal and creating the colors. As you probably know, the LED lights are red, and the color from them remains constant. The lights at times will appear to be synchronized and at other times they will be out of phase."

A deep resonate tone of low frequency audio filled Joe's ears. The lights now appeared to be synchronized. He adjusted himself more snugly in the reclining chair and tried to relax.

When he next heard Farr's voice, it seemed to be coming from very far away. "Joe, I've turned down the volume a bit. It's been twenty minutes, and you are approaching the Alpha threshold. Everything is normal, and you are at 14 cycles per second. When you reach Theta and stabilize, I will begin to ask you questions. Now just relax and enjoy the experience."

The wall of sound increased and returned to its former volume. The deep resonate bass had slowly turned into a medium frequency that sounded like warbling. Joe's body felt as if it weighed at ton. He couldn't tell if another minute or an hour had passed. The lights seemed to slow and flash out of sequence.

Farr alternated watching the computer monitor readouts and Joe. Everything seemed to be all right, even if it was taking Joe a little longer than normal to entrain. He watched the audio sound wave as it increased in frequency until an underlying bass frequency joined it in what was termed a binaural beat. The complex sound added to the entrainment effect of the flashing lights.

The binaural beat was as old as civilization. It was the beating of drums, the chanting of shamans, the Gregorian chant, the deep bass of rock music.

Although the sound was important to the process, 85% of the entrainment effect came from the lights. It had taken Joe twenty-eight minutes to reach high Theta.

While Joe was "cruising" at eight cycles per second, Farr quietly slipped out to the kitchen to make himself another drink. The bottle he had brought with him into the laboratory had held only a few final shots, so it was time to draw another from his reserve in the cabinet above the refrigerator. Albert, the mutt, was asleep on the living room sofa, oblivious to the bizarre machinations of his human companions.

Farr settled himself once again into the computer chair, took a sip from his fresh drink, and checked the monitor readouts. Joe had reached a deep Theta state, and his pulse and respiration had slowed appropriately.

The scientist hooked a microphone into the breakout box next to the computer and adjusted the volume to Joe's headset to a lower setting.

"Joe, you should be able to hear me," he spoke softly into the microphone. "You've reached a stable Theta state. Raise your index finger on your right hand slightly if you hear me at a comfortable level."

Joe slowly raised his finger about half an inch.

"Joe, you are in your parents' car. You are somewhere between your old home in Georgia and your grandparents' home in San Antonio. You are lying in the back window of the car. Everything is quiet and peaceful."

"Now you see some kind of light coming out of the woods on the side of the road. Your father has slowed the car. Tell me what happens next."

Joe was transported back in time, listening to Farr's voice, able to speak with him and answer his questions without disrupting the flow of memory.

"Pop is stopping the car. Mom is afraid. She has her hand over her mouth, the way she does when something is really bothering her. Pop looks funny. He can't take his eyes off the light. It's getting brighter, and it's coming closer to the car. I can feel the hair on the back of my neck standing straight out."

Joe's voice became more agitated. "The light is above the car. The air in the car is warm and stuffy. Mom is screaming. Pop is just sitting there, staring like he sees a ghost. I'm afraid. I'm afraid something terrible is going to happen. I can't get the car door open, and the window won't roll down. Oh, no! Dear God!"

Joe stopped talking.

"Just relax, Joe. You're all right." Farr checked Joe's pulse rate and found that it had increased slightly. It was clear that he was recalling something stressful. It was not at all uncommon for memory to produce physiological functions of the body just as reality will.

"Joe, nothing bad is going to happen to you. I'm here with you. I won't let anything bad happen to you. This is just a memory. Joe, tell me what happens next. What was it that startled you?"

"Mom and Pop are sitting there, like they're sleeping with their eyes open. The car is full of creepy shadows, dancing around like crazy spiders or ghosts." Joe was telling his experience from the viewpoint of a seven-year-old boy with his adult intellect narrating.

"I hear the door latch open. The door is slowly opening, but I can't see outside. The light is outside...all around the car. It is too bright. It hurts my eyes. I'm afraid something bad has happened to my parents. I think we're all going to die.

"Oh, my God! Someone is opening the door. I'm trying to move away, but I can't move my arms or legs. I can only sit...afraid, just like my parents."

"Something is pulling me off the seat and out of the car door! The light has filled the inside of the car. All I can hear is the sound of my heart beating in my ears. I think my heart is going to explode. I can't look. I don't want to look. I shut my eyes. And then I feel like I'm being lifted up into the air."

Farr had set his drink aside and was listening intently to Joe Green's story. He did a double take when he glanced at the monitor. All of a sudden Joe's brain wave had taken a dip to 2 cycles per second. He had slipped down to a mid-Delta state and stopped talking.

"Joe, this is Carl...I'm here with you, boy. Everything is all right. Please go on. Please continue telling me what's happening."

"I can't tell you. I'm not supposed to remember."

"Joe, you can remember. Tell me what happens next."

Joe's voice was almost robotically, mechanical. "Yes, I can see what's happening, but I can't tell you. I can't say the words."

Farr sat back in his chair and took a stiff drink. Joe had reached a memory block that was quite likely caused by the trauma of the experience. He would ask Joe some questions and walk him past the memory block.

"Are you out of the car, Joe?"

"Yes."

"Are you on the ground?"

"No," Joe responded, his voice filled with wonder. "I’m floating. I'm floating above the ground. I'm about as high as the top of the car."

"Is there anyone around you?"

"Not that I can see. The light is so bright. I can barely see the top of the car. My whole body is covered with goose bumps, and the hair on the top of my head is standing straight up. I feel sleepy. I can't ever remember being this tired."

"Are you moving as you are floating? Or are you just hovering there next to the car?"

Joe's voice was becoming very excited. "I'm moving up. I'm moving up toward the source of the light!"

Farr took a moment to calm him, to soothe him. "What happens when you get to the light?"

"A tunnel opens up, and I'm being pulled into it. The light is moving away from me, leaving me in the tunnel."

Farr asked him to describe his surroundings.

"The tunnel is shiny...metal. I think I'm still floating. I can't tell which direction I'm moving. I hear a humming noise, and I see a light at the end of the tunnel. I think something is pulling me towards the end of the tunnel."

"As you near the end of the tunnel, what do you see?"

"Angels," Joe said in the awe filled voice of the boy of his memory. "Beautiful, beautiful angels!"

Farr wanted a more detailed description than "beautiful."

"Kind of pale, kinda light gray color. They have halos and big eyes."

"Are they big angels?"

Joe shook his head. "Nope, they're small. Not much bigger than me. They have skinny arms and legs like tubes."

Joe suddenly began to giggle.

"What's so funny, Joe?"

"They don't have any clothes on. But I can't tell if they're boy or girl angels."

"Why can't you tell?"

"Cause they don't have anything between their legs. It's just all smooth. None of them have any hair on their bodies, either."

"How many angels are there?"

"Four. They just stand there looking at me with their awful eyes. It's like they don't have real eyes. Or like maybe they're wearing some kind of thick, black sunglasses. But their eyes don't reflect light the way sunglasses would. I think I'm still floating."

Joe shuddered. "One of them reached out and touched me with a long, skinny finger. Something is wrong with its hand. I don't think they have the right number of fingers. I don't think they're angels anymore. They don't seem beautiful anymore. They don't look like they did when I first saw them."

Farr wondered if they communicated with Joe in any way.

"One of them," Joe hesitated, "I think somehow that it's a he...he's speaking to me. I can't see his lips move. In fact, none of them seem to have any lips. Just a thin line, a little groove where their lips should be, kind of like a snake's or a turtle's mouth. It's really weird..."

"What is he saying to you?" Farr prompted.

"He's saying that they are friends...that they don't want to hurt me. They want to help me. 'You're special,' he says to me. 'You are one of the chosen ones'. His voice sounds really funny, like it’s coming out of a tin can and right into my head. It's like I'm thinking the words that he wants to tell me."

"Does he tell you why you are there? What does he mean when he says you are one of the 'chosen ones'?" Farr had read stories about UFO abductions, but he had never met an abductee until now. Joe Green was apparently abducted by aliens as a child. He had to know why.

"He's telling me that I will help when God comes back to the people," Joe said. "I have been chosen to lead...to lead someone? He says that they are here...that they have always been here to assist humankind on its quest. He says that humankind is very close to the Rapture."

Farr took another swallow of his drink. What the hell was this? It sounded like a combination of a near death experience and an alien abduction. And the Rapture? That was born-again fundamental Christian religious dogma.

"Did these angels, these helpers, say where they were from, Joe?"

"My head is getting fuzzy," Joe complained. "I can't see anything but clouds, and it feels like they stuck a bug in my brain. They stuck something in my head. Something tiny, crawling around inside my skull. My stomach feels sick. I think I'm going to throw up."

Farr calmed him once again, assured him that he was there to help him. After Joe's pulse and respiration had lowered, he asked him about the thing that the angels had put inside his head.

Joe gritted his teeth. "I don't like the feeling of that bug crawling around inside my head."

"But that bug is telling you something, Joe. Tell me what it is saying."

Joe mumbled something unintelligible, and then his words became clearer. "They're from a place that no longer is. Men and women are supposed to tend the garden...be good gardeners of Earth. God is ashamed of us. We are his bad children. We were supposed to be better than animals. God was so ashamed that he went away and left the angels here to teach us how to find him again when we are ready. When we grow up."

"What else, Joe? Is there anything else?"

"I'm not supposed to tell anyone about them. For a long time I will see them only in my dreams. But they will see me again someday."

"What else?"

"I'm outside in the night air. I'm standing beside the car."

Farr wanted more. "How do we find this God? Where did God go? When is he coming back?"

The scientist fired off a rapid series of questions to Joe, but he just sat silently.

"Joe, did the little gray angels tell you the answers to any of the questions that I just asked you?"

"No."

Charles Farr followed the obvious line of questioning. It was logical to attempt to determine if the aliens had ever come again for Joe Green. If so, document as thoroughly as possible where, when, and why.

Over the course of the next three hours, the physicist found little to list under the "why" column, but he did discover that Joe had been abducted by these same entities at least six times in his life. He typed up a thumbnail sketch of each of the abductions on the computer file.

1. Georgia, Alabama state line.

With parents in family automobile.

2. Georgia, at farm for family reunion. In a cornfield.

3. Louisiana, in bayous along airline highway.

4. Kilgore, Texas, out on Lake Cherokee.

5. East China Sea dive, towards end of Vietnam conflict.

6. Idaho, up at the Trinities lakes. During a vacation.

Joe seemed certain that he would not see the aliens again, that they were through with him until he was ready to find God.

Farr was convinced that Joe Green had interacted with something quite extraordinary, something quite outside of the normal mundane human experience. But how much of it was real and how much was a dream, a distortion of reality by Joe's subconscious during an altered state experience?

He knew that he must bring Joe back to full consciousness.

But first he would try something.

"Joe, this is Carl again. You are resting easily, very relaxed, and you feel wonderful. As time goes by, you will remember more and more of your dreams. Each time you dream, you will remember more about the angels and why they came for you. When you awake from your dreams, you will remember everything that you have dreamed. You can now safely remember everything that happens to you in your dream state. Your memories will no longer disturb you or frighten you."

"When I awaken you now, you will remember fully everything that we have discussed and everything that you have experienced. You will not forget any of these experiences. In fact, you will remember more and more details as each day goes by."

"I have now turned off the entrainment system and removed your headset and goggles. On the count of three, you will open your eyes and be fully awake. Fully awake and feeling better than you have in weeks and weeks, months and months."

Joe admitted to Farr that it had seemed as though he were asleep and in a dreamlike state. He remembered the angels, the light, and the abduction experiences. But could they all be real? Or were they fantasy experiences somehow mixed up and blended with his real life turmoil and confusion?

But he knew deep down that something had happened to him the first time that he had encountered the light. He knew that it was real, and that it had directly and significantly affected his life.

And now, after the session with Dr. Charles Farr, he knew more details about the disturbing elements in the nightmares that had plagued him since he was seven years old. Somehow, now that he had faced his demons, they seemed less threatening, less frightening.

He no longer felt overwhelmed by the haunting terror from his childhood--even if he had really talked with angels or little gray aliens. He felt better equipped to face reality, no matter what form it would take. And he knew that he would not rest until he found the full truth of the greater reality that lay beyond his dreams.

But for now, he was exhausted. Although it was only ten o'clock, he had spent nearly five hours under the headset and the flashing goggles. He was drained. A drink with Carl, and then even that lumpy sofa in the living room was going to feel mighty good.

After the nightcap, he had only enough energy left to make a quick "I'm-okay" call to Karen.

Once again, the shower would just have to wait. He was too damn tired to hold his eyes open. For the first time since he was seven years old, he wasn't afraid to fall asleep in the dark. He wanted to enjoy it with a good night's sleep. Besides, neither Carl nor Albert had complained about his increasingly gamey scent.

In his dream that night, Joe was twelve, visiting his grandparents on the farm near Americus for the Green family reunion. Although both his mother and his grandparents had been reluctant to allow the nearly thirteen year old to make such a long bus trip by himself, Joe considered his safe arrival to be the biggest triumph of his young life.

Joe was excited to be back in the old farmhouse where he had been born, and where his dad and his nine brothers and sisters had been raised. Now Uncle Junior, his wife Sadie, and their daughter Kelly, two years younger than Joe, lived in the big house alone.

Uncle Junior let Joe join him plinking at rusty tin cans in the trash pile with a worn Remington single shot .22. Joe learned to disassemble, clean, and reassemble the old rifle, and on the third day of his visit, as a sign of trust, Uncle Junior suggested that Joe get up before dawn and police the cornfields for the pesky rabbits that were destroying the crop with their relentless nibbling.

Joe slept so restlessly, tossing and turning with pride and anticipation that his uncle would trust him on his own with a loaded rifle, that he got up hours before dawn, even before Aunt Sadie, who started the wood cooking stove an hour before sunrise. The old farmhouse that had held five previous generations of the Green family didn't have indoor plumbing, but since Joe and his parents had left, Uncle Junior had acquired electricity from the Georgia rural electrification program. The family room, the kitchen, and the bedrooms each had one white ceramic light fixture mounted in the center of the ceiling.

Joe made his way downstairs without turning on a light, stopped in the kitchen to grab a leftover biscuit and a glass of buttermilk, then stepped out the back door onto the large back porch. Two of the farm hounds slept near the well on the cool ground where the large, square baking pans lay cleaned of their dinner. He filled his lungs with the cool, fresh air of the early morning and got goose bumps with the chill in the air from the moist dew.

Joe's bare feet were tough with calluses, and the packed red clay under his toes felt cool as he rounded the backside of the farmhouse and checked the pocket of his overalls for the half-box of .22 shells Uncle Junior had set out for him. He wore a pair of his uncle's old overalls pinned up at the cuffs; they were a good four inches too long.

The chickens were all silent in the coop. An old bloodhound snoozing under a giant pecan tree in the front yard yawned and stretched at Joe's approach. There were a lot of pecan and oak trees on the place. When the nuts were in demand, Joe and his cousins would spend many an afternoon picking up fallen pecans and black walnuts to take into town on weekends so they could have spending money.

A bright full moon shed enough light on the familiar surroundings- -the huge old hay barn, the fenced-off natural springs that fed the hog wallow, the tractor shed--for him to make his way across the wooden bridge to the acreage with the newly sprouting corn stalks.

He stopped on the bridge and leaned over a railing to see if any green turtles were visible on the riverbank. He hoped to see one, knowing that Aunt Sadie loved to make soup with them.

Joe yawned, disappointed that the hard-shelled snappers were still asleep in their watery beds. As he stretched, he surveyed the fifty acres of cotton behind him. He had heard the stories so often about how his family had been proud to have been part of the Free French who had abhorred slavery and who had remained neutral during the Civil War, in spite of the fact that the Confederacy had seized most of their lands as a result of their beliefs and neutrality.

Joe looked up at the infinite number of stars filling the clear morning sky and figured that it must still be about an hour before daybreak. He would be certain to be on patrol when the pesky rabbits came up to nibble at the stalks. Then, if he were lucky, he would bag one or two of the tasty critters to take home for the evening's meal. His expectations were high.

The morning fog hugged the ground and was uncommonly thick. It was kind of eerie out in the field alone in the silence, and Joe started to hum to himself to break the stillness around him.

And then he realized that it was suddenly getting bright all around him. But the light couldn't be from the sunrise; he was facing west, not east.

He froze in fear, knowing that a terrible unnamed entity had found him again.

He heard a high frantic buzzing in his ears. He stepped backward a few steps and a field of energy charged him with enough static electricity that every hair on his young body stood straight up.

The predawn shadows fled from the onslaught of the light. Just like the first time, the light filled everything. The light was everywhere. Like when it invaded the car.

Joe sat up, sweat pumping from every pore. His breath was coming in short gasps.

Carlton Farr had been sitting in an overstuffed chair watching him. He handed him a glass of cool water. "Are you all right, Joe?"

Joe nodded and gratefully took several deep swallows of the water.

"I thought it was likely that you might have a dream about one of the visits of the light," Farr explained. "I wanted to be here for you in case it got tough."

Joe expressed his appreciation for the scientist's concern. He said that he was all right, then briefly summarized the dream-memory that had surfaced.

"Uncle Junior found me that morning, standing mute in the middle of the cornfield. I was naked, my clothes folded in a neat pile, the single shot .22 carefully placed on top of the clothes. Country folk back then kept their skeletons in the closet. I doubt if my uncle even told Aunt Sadie. And he probably just forgot about it, figuring his nephew had just gone a little nuts being out in the middle of nowhere in the dark."

"You're going to start remembering a lot more in the days and nights to come," Farr told him. "Think you can get back to sleep? Want a drink?"

Joe took a deep breath. "Thanks, Carl, I'll be all right. I feel as though I'm beginning to take my first real steps to solving my problems."

Farr smiled, said another good night. What Joe Green didn't fully realize, Farr thought to himself, is that his problems may be those of all of civilization.

CHAPTER 15 - One Lone Bullet

As a Marine sniper M.D. Crawfoot had used the M40A1. Now he favored a Remington model 700 BDL Varmint bolt-action rifle with a 24-inch barrel, chambered for .308 caliber. He could punch a three-inch group in a target at 500 yards.

Crawfoot selected his bullets by weight for maximum penetration. He wanted a flattened taper for kinetic energy transfer and a core lock metal jacket deforming compound bullet for ultimate killing effect. Maximum damage to the target was accomplished by the largest hole, ergo, the wider the diameter and the heavier the bullet the better. He had used the firing range and the lab at Quantico to match the best possible combination of size, shape, and weight of bullet with an optimum load.

He lay in the dirt sighting in the prone position, first determining the range to the back porch of Carlton Farr's cabin to be 180 yards. He had checked his rifle, scope sight, and custom grade ammo three times and resisted the compulsion to check them yet again.

He had memorized every detail of the Farr compound and the surrounding landscape. Wind, humidity, and heat rising from the ground were all factors that could distort his sight and affect the trajectory of the bullet. He checked the wind, noting that the breeze was toward him and could cause the bullet to rise or fall just like an airfoil. The high humidity would slow the bullet slightly. He adjusted the center point elevation on his scope for the correct distance.

He munched on the last of a candy bar and remembered surviving in the Southeast Asian bush off of worms, snakes, rice bugs, and plump rats. He didn't think of himself as a vicious predator, though he'd prefer to assassinate a human than have to kill an animal. The concept of hunting for sport offended him.

Carlton Farr was late for his routine playtime with his dog. Neither the scientist nor his mysterious visitor had shown themselves outside yet that day. It was apparent that they had put in a late night and were slow getting going. It was almost two in the afternoon. A door had opened around noon to let the dog out to relieve itself on a bush near the cabin, but neither man had stepped outside to supervise.

If he were lucky, Crawfoot could finish the contract and make his way back to San Antonio along the country roads and secondary highways. His stress from the heat and the humidity was building. He took several deep breaths and focused his vision on the petals of a lone wild flower several yards away. Slowly, with controlled breathing, he relaxed.

No one was safe from a good sniper, no president, no pope, no one. The price of a person's life was no greater than the price of a bullet.

Regardless of competent and effective professional military training, not every soldier could kill. Crawfoot knew why. The first thing you saw when you sighted your scope on a man was his eyes. It was not the same as coming down on a silhouette practice target. It took a special kind of man to be a contract assassin. It took an intelligent, resourceful, iron willed, patient person, a real lone wolf. He liked being that kind of lone wolf, no commitments, no ties, and no baggage, just a dedicated patriot with a clean conscience.

Crawfoot waited patiently. He would lie silently in the deep, humid heat for as many hours as it would take.

About three o'clock, the backdoor to Farr's cabin opened. The outside of Crawfoot's lips turned slightly upward in a smile.

The little brown mutt bounced and bounded around the man, begging him to throw the red ball to fetch. Predictably, Farr picked up the ball and threw it some thirty yards toward the boat dock.

Crawfoot pulled the butt of the rifle snug against his shoulder, drew a deep breath, exhaled half, and then gently stroked the trigger. The full metal jacket, Teflon coated, 180 grain Black Talon Winchester .308 caliber bullet left its copper shell casing as the powder exploded. It traveled down the rifled barrel at nearly three times the speed of sound and exited the muzzle at 2400 feet per second.

The sound of the rifle's discharge could be heard for over a mile as it shattered the afternoon calm. The speeding bullet caused a sonic ricochet off the surrounding trees, dispersing the sound so that it became difficult to determine the source of the explosion.

The bullet dropped less than one inch in the 180 yards to the target. It entered the left side of Carlton Farr's chest level with his heart, creating lethal damage as it ripped through his left lung, thoracic aorta, and heart before exiting.

The scientist first appeared startled. Then he placed his hand to his chest and watched the foaming red blood gush out between his fingers. He flailed his arms desperately for balance, and then fell, arching his torso upon impact with the ground. Within seconds after he lay trembling with his life's blood spilling out of him he knew that he had been shot, and he knew why.

Joe heard the report of the rifle and hesitated for a second when he realized that it was deer hunting season. But his trained ears determined that the rifle shot had sounded suspiciously close. He set his drink on the kitchen table on his way to the back door that led out onto the porch. As Joe moved toward the back rail, he saw Farr lying sprawled on the grass; the dog, confused and frightened, nudged at his fallen master.

Within seconds he was at the man's side. "Carl! Dear God!" He pulled a clean handkerchief from his back pocket and stuffed half of it into the gaping wound. Farr was pale and appeared to be going into shock.

Joe rolled him back onto the side where the bullet had entered to keep pressure on the wound and to keep the fluid that was collecting in his lung from interfering with his labored aspiration. He brushed Albert back, trying to keep him out of the blood oozing into the dry grass.

Joe saw several people gathered on the back patio of Pat's Place. He shouted at them for help, then realized, at a distance of over one hundred yards, they couldn't hear him.

He started to rise from his knees, but Farr had caught his shirt in an iron grip. "Carl, let go. I've got to call 911. I've got to get help."

As he gently tried to pry open Farr's fingers from their determined hold on his shirt, Joe saw that the man's mouth was moving and he was trying to say something. He leaned closer. "What are you saying, Carl? Tell me so I can get some help."

"My wallet," Farr said in a barely discernible voice. "You...get my wallet...from bedroom. You get..."

"You don't need your wallet. You need help!"

"Wallet!"

It occurred to Joe that Farr might have pictures of his loved ones in his wallet--which he might want to see them for what may be the last time.

"All right. You let go of my shirt, and I'll go call for help and bring you your wallet."

With his strength diminishing, the last embers of his life flickering and dimming, Carlton Farr looked at Joe Green with the clarity of vision given only to the psychically gifted and the dying. He saw that there truly was something special and unique about Joe.

Joe squeezed his hand. “Just hang on, Carl. You're going to be all right."

Farr relaxed his grip, allowing Joe to dash into the cabin. "Chosen One," he whispered after him.

By now a number of the locals at Pat's Place had been able to figure out that something was amiss at Carl Farr's place. By the time Joe had called for emergency help and returned to Farr's side, three men and a stout woman stood around the fallen scientist with looks of shock and disbelief on their faces.

"My god, this is terrible, terrible..."

"Goddamn deer hunters. They should outlaw the bloody sport..."

"Did you see who did it? Did anyone see who..."

The stout woman reached down and picked up Albert, then started crying.

Joe stood there helplessly, confused, numbly wiping some of the blood from his hands onto his jeans.

The sound of an approaching vehicle distracted Joe from the jumble of his anguished thoughts. At first he thought it might be emergency help from his 911 call, but he was dismayed to see that it was not when a medium sized recreational vehicle slowly pulled into the open clearing near his rental car.

The gravel under the large truck tires popped and crunched as it settled to a stop. Joe was surprised to see that the RV bore Nevada plates.

A slightly built man hopped down to the ground from the driver's side of the RV and a tall, rangy man let himself out of the passenger's side.

"My sad guess is that the unfortunate fellow lying bleeding on the ground over there is Dr. Carlton Farr," the smaller man said. "Am I correct?"

"There's been a terrible accident," Joe said. "What do you want here?"

"We've driven nonstop from Nevada to meet with Dr. Farr," the taller man replied. Then, turning to the driver: "The bastards killed him! What do we do now?"

The smaller man offered Joe his hand. "I'm Blake Webster. This is Wayne Newsom. Who are you?"

Joe knew who both of the men were. He had listened to Webster talking about UFOs and the government conspiracy on a number of radio talk shows. Newsom was a well-known environmentalist and UFO activist from Tonopah who specialized in reporting on rumors about Area 51.

Joe shook Webster's hand. "My name is Joe Green."

"Joe, we might not have much time. Who are you and why were you here?" Newsom asked bluntly.

Hesitantly, Joe told them that he was on leave from his civilian contract work at Area 51. He had met Dr. Farr at a seminar and they had begun a friendship that he had wished to continue. He had just been visiting.

Newsom was direct. "Did you come here to kill Dr. Farr?"

Joe was stunned. Who did this jerk think he was?

"Wayne, Jesus, man!" Webster shouted at his companion. "Look at Joe's eyes. Those aren't the eyes of an assassin. Those are the eyes of some poor bastard who's as driven as we are."

Then, turning back to Joe, Webster explained, "Farr said that he had some important information that he would give to me only if I came down to Texas to get it in person. Before we started out, we tried our damnedest to find my undercover man so we could bring him along out of harm's way. We feel just terrible, but we finally had to give up. We figure some goons from MJ-12 jumped him and are holding him prisoner."

Joe was feeling more disoriented by the moment.

"And now the murdering assholes have taken out Dr. Farr," Newsom said, his large hands bunching into fists of anger and frustration. "He was our last hope to find out the truth about what's going on at Dreamland."

Joe narrowed his eyes in a sudden thought. "Webster, you were responsible for the video clip of the UFO on Exploring the Unknown last Friday night, weren't you?"

Now it was Webster's turn to be wary. "You saw the program?"

Joe nodded. "It's the reason I'm here. The program...I don't really know how to say it, but when I saw that UFO...I mean, it was like something..."

Newsom tried to fill in the blanks for him. "It was like something was triggered inside your head, maybe prompted some old memories?"

Webster grinned in private triumph. "So you're one of them, one of the Chosen. That's what I had hoped the telecast would accomplish. Alerting and motivating people like you all over the world."

"And now the three of us better get the hell out of here," Newsom advised. "You'd better come with us, Joe."

Joe was getting dizzy listening to the two of them. He saw that the local sheriff's car and an emergency medical van were arriving on the scene, their warning lights flashing.

"I can't leave. I've got to see about Carl," he told them. He also remembered his promise to bring him his wallet.

"Joe," Newsom called after him, "this is no hunting accident, man. They were out to get Farr because he could substantiate Webster's video footage. By now they know who you are."

Webster added his advice: "Don't volunteer any information. Keep it as simple as possible."

On his way back to the alleged accident scene, Joe stopped by Carl's bedroom and got the wallet from on top of the dresser. He slipped it in his back pocket.

While the paramedics were examining Farr, Joe spoke to the sheriff, following Webster's advice to keep it simple. He told him that he was a casual professional acquaintance of Dr. Farr's from Tonopah and that he was in San Antonio on vacation. He had called up Farr for a drink a couple of nights ago, and Farr had invited him to the lake. They ate, drank too much, and Joe had slept over. He had seen no one after he heard the shot. It was probably a careless deer hunter.

But Walter Dean Ray didn't think it was a hunting accident and boldly offered his opinion. He described, in exacting detail, the peculiar Hispanic looking man who had been hanging around Pat's Place off and on for nearly three days. He could also describe the stranger's vehicle, and he even remembered the license plate number.

The paramedics lifted Farr into the ambulance, and Joe heard one of them tell the deputy that it didn't look as though he would make it alive to the hospital.

Carl's wallet! Joe tried to get to the medical van before the doors clamped shut. The sheriff seemed more interested in taking Walt's statement and calling in the license plate numbers to the Texas Highway Patrol. The retired Air Force colonel was the center of attention. Everyone wanted to hear what he had to say, and he was relished every second of his moment in the limelight.

While everyone was distracted, Joe stepped back into the cabin and looked through Farr's wallet. There were a couple of credit cards, his Texas driver’s license, sixty-seven dollars, and a few receipts. No pictures of loved ones.

But when he stuck his forefinger behind the side panel that had held the credit cards, he felt something hard. He pulled out a key that was wrapped in a small piece of paper. The paper bore a crisp message: ‘Key for Blake Webster. Green box under kitchen sink.’

Joe had been trying to decide whether or not to trust Blake Webster. If the journalist had won Dr. Carlton Farr's confidence, then the decision had been reached.

"That's it!" Webster shouted when Joe handed him the key. "Farr told me he would hand over some disks that would blow down the walls of the government cover-up about the use of alien technology at Area 51."

Newsom gave Webster's shoulder a gentle shove. "Then let's get the box out from under the kitchen sink and tear ass out of here."

"You're right, man," Webster agreed. "We have to boogie big time."

"I'm coming with you," Joe said, reaching his decision.

Webster nodded approvingly. "I didn't take you for a fool."

"If you'll follow me back into San Antonio, I'll check out of my motel and turn in my rental car. Then I would be much obliged if I could ride back to Las Vegas with you," Joe asked.

Joe took bag out to the RV and asked them to wait while he called his wife.

"Honey..."

"Joe? I've been so worried."

"Why? Has something happened?" Alarm was evident in his voice.

"No darling, I'm worried about you...Is everything all right?"

"Yes...actually no. I'm still here. There's been an accident--at least it might be. But then I'm not sure if it was an accident..."

Karen interrupted. "Honey, you're not making any sense. What's happened? Have you been hurt?"

"No, baby. Carlton Farr was shot this afternoon by what appeared to be a hunter. But the hunter ran away. Some people think it might not have been an accident.

"Oh my God," she exclaimed softly.

"Karen?"

"Yes?"

"Listen to me carefully and don't interrupt."

"I'm listening."

"I want you to pack a few things for you and Kevin...Are you listening?"

Yes but..."

"No, don't interrupt. Pack a few things and then leave for the place you stayed on your thirteenth and fourteenth birthdays. Don't say the place or name. Don't!"

He heard crying on the other end of the phone.

"This is very important. You must do this. It is very possible that someone is following me. I might even have been the target. A man is dead, and I don't know if it was because of me. Do you understand?"

"Honey..." she pleaded between sobs, "please come home."

"I will, I promise. Just do as I say. Pack now, leave immediately afterwards. Don't tarry. I can't finish what I have to do without knowing you and Kevin are safe."

"I can't...Kevin's got school."

"Don't say you can't. You must. You must, you understand?

"If you say so."

"And don't tell anyone, not anyone, where you are going, or why. Darling, I'll be there soon and explain everything. Promise me you'll do this."

"Joe?"

"Promise, Karen," he insisted.

"I...I promise Joe."

"All right. Honey, I have to go now. I'll call you where you're going as soon as I can. Don't call them to say you're coming until you get out on the road. I love you."

He waited for her return endearment...It didn't come.

"Karen, I must go. Keep your promise, it may be the most important thing you ever do. Goodbye."

Joe walked out to the RV.

"Everything okay?" Newsom asked.

"Not really. I...never mind. Let's get the hell out of here."

Newsom clamped a big hand on Joe's shoulder. "You got it. And now, my friend, you are going to do the lion's share of the driving, 'cause the two of us are beat."

CHAPTER 16 - Running Blind

"WAIT!  JOE!  Wait."

Kevin Green carefully replaced the kitchen phone extension on its hook, and walked down the hall towards his parent's bedroom. His mother stood in the center of the room staring at the receiver she held in her extended arm. "Wait. I love you, too. Oh God, I love you, too." Her voice, that of a plaintive child, did nothing to assuage the wave of panic he'd felt as he listened in on the conversation she had just had with his father.

"Mom. Mom! We've got to go. Dad said we've got to get out of here right now." Karen did not move. "Mother! Hang the phone up and come on! We've gotta pack. Look, Mom, don't do this... we've got to go! You're scaring me!" The fright in her son's voice touched her mother-cord and penetrated the overwhelming sense of unreality Joe's call had left in its wake.

"All right, Honey. It's gonna be okay. Just get some stuff together... it'll probably be colder in Spokane. And get Biff's food, and something to put water in. We'll have to take him." As Karen spoke, she moved towards her closet and began to pull clothes off hangers, then pulled her suitcase off the shelf and stuffed them inside haphazardly. Kevin watched the process with growing alarm. His mother always packed meticulously, rolling each garment in tissue paper to prevent wrinkles.

"Go on and pack! I think your father has lost his mind...but just in case he hasn't I've got to get you out of here. I can't lose both of you!"

Karen managed to control herself until Kevin left the room, before she gave into the emotions, which his obvious fear had awakened in her. "Oh, God. Oh, God help me. Don't let anything happen to my son. Please don't let anything happen to my son."  Instantly, a sense of calm settled over her like a heavy cloak.  Karen took a deep breath, and then methodically completed her preparations to leave. Kevin had backed the car out of the garage, tossed his bags into the trunk, and was now calling to her to hurry. She stood surveying her tidy home, a home which she'd always taken such pride in keeping for her family in spite of a vague sense of pressure from the enclave of newly enlightened womanhood to "fulfill herself" by pursuing a lucrative career, then reached down, grabbed a yapping, puzzled Biff, and shut the door firmly behind her.

"Here, Honey...take Biff. I can get my bag. Oh my God, wait. I forgot something." Karen struggled to balance her bag while she fumbled with the key, then dropped the suitcase, unlocked the door, and ran up the stairs to the bedroom she shared with Joe. In the back of her closet, behind the unused sleeping bag Joe had optimistically bought her the first Christmas they were married, nestled in a purse with a concealed holster, lay her snub nosed .38 pistol. She snatched the purse and dumped the contents of her everyday handbag into it in one smooth motion, then, as an after thought, grabbed the sleeping bag.

Kevin was gunning the car impatiently when she finally slammed the trunk shut on their belongings and walked to the driver's side of the car.

"Aww, Mom, let me drive." Even in this terse situation his learner's permit burned a hole in his pocket.

"Honey, maybe later, okay? I'll start off, and you can take over down the road." She ignored the disappointment on his face...and kept to herself her apprehension that the car may need an experienced driver to lose a potential tailing vehicle.

A tailing vehicle--she actually thought such a thing was a possibility. What was happening to her world? Karen had no idea what to expect as they drove into the night.

The adrenaline rush that had enabled Karen to get her and Kevin out of the house in less than an hour had subsided, leaving her with weariness that affected every muscle in her body. She hadn't been able to sleep much since Joe's departure, either. Before leaving Tonopah, they stopped for coffee and loaded up on snack cakes...Karen planned making as few stops as they could get by with on the long drive to Spokane.

She eased their car onto I 95 in spite of Joe's admonition to keep to the back roads. Karen had no intention of getting stranded out in the middle of nowhere with no way to get help. You just never knew when a tire would blow, or an engine would overheat. Joe had tried to buy her a cellular phone on several occasions, but she'd refused to let him. "It's a luxury I'd never use, Hon, and besides, I never go anywhere without you, anyway." Ever the conservative, practical little wife, now she wished she wasn't so damn practical. Yep, she would definitely stick to the heavily traveled freeway, even though the trip would take a little longer. Good, familiar roads would help make up the extra distance.

At first the glare almost blinded her as she headed west, but within an hour the sky in front of her danced with a phantasmagoria of color and light from the setting sun. A good omen, she hoped. She hadn't seen as magnificent a sunset in many years.

Darkness fell like a heavy curtain dropping...and with it Karen's spirits. Omen or not, her world had gone from a comfortable, compartmentalized, disgustingly normal existence to utter chaos in a little over a week. Oh, she had always been aware of Joe's demons, but he had managed to protect her from them most of the time. Insulated.

She had gone blissfully through her days of housekeeping, cooking, playing chauffeur to Kevin, and occasionally socializing with friends, while Joe functioned as breadwinner and bearer of the burdens. Apparently the burdens had been heavier than he'd let her suspect, and he had now broken under their weight. Perhaps it was her fault that he kept his emotional turmoil bottled up inside. Maybe she had somehow communicated to him that she needed him to be her strong protector, and he felt like he couldn't bare his soul to her without losing her respect. Anguish shot through Karen at the thought. Didn't he know she loved him more than that? Even if she were frightened by his struggles, she would listen and try to understand?  Why did he feel that he had to have that next drink instead doing something to work it out? She did not recognize this tormented soul her husband was becoming. And she didn't know if she were strong enough to be the buffer between Joe's need to "find answers", as he put it, and the very real danger that his need seemed to be putting her and Kevin in. Without warning, a surge of anger washed over her. How dare he. How dare he put all of their lives at risk to go off chasing some damn dream. Why couldn't he just forget it and be thankful for all the great things they had going for them? Damn him. Damn him!

"Oh, Lord, listen to me. One minute I'm mentally admonishing my husband to trust me with his problems and the next castigating him for the scope of them."

"What, Mom?" Kevin had been so quiet she'd almost forgotten he was in the car with her.

"Oh, nothing, Honey. I'm just thinking out loud. Are you okay? You've been so quiet."

"I dunno. I've just got a lotta stuff on my mind. Mom, do you believe in God?"

"Wow. Where did that come from?"

"I guess just looking at all the stars. I mean I know God is supposed to have created all this stuff, and then we study evolution and all that, and I know Dad believes in evolution.  Really it makes more sense, realistically. And just look at all this." Kevin swept his hand towards the night sky. "I mean, if He did actually create it, why would He have only populated one planet with people when there are billions of them? And then everything's so terrible in the world. So, do you?"

Karen paused a moment to gather her thoughts. "Yes, Kevin. I believe in God. I do believe He is the creator. Whether He did it in seven actual days or through a process, which took millions of years, I don't know, and I guess if there are other inhabited planets, He created them, too. Those questions have never presented much of a problem for me. I see the terrible things in the world as direct results of man's choices, not God's. He didn't make robots. He gave us the ability to choose.  Unfortunately, the choices of a few have had consequences for many."

"So if you believe, how come you never took me to church or anything when I was a little kid?"

"Do you wish I had, Kevin?"

"Heck, I don't care. I sure don't want to be one of those religious freaks or anything. I might want to know a little more about it, someday."

"Yeah, well, right now I wouldn't mind being on a little closer terms, myself. Your dad and I just always felt that we should teach you right from wrong, model good choices for you, and let you make up your own mind."

Kevin didn't say anything for a long time. Then, in a shaking voice that penetrated the fragile veneer of control Karen had maintained since Joe left, he spoke.

"Mom, I know something is wrong with Dad. You've gotta tell me what's going on. I'm not a baby, anymore. I know you're just trying to protect me, but all you're doing is making me paranoid by not telling me anything. I mean, I heard what he said on the phone. Is somebody trying to kill him? Has he done something wrong? Maybe like something to do with all the top secret stuff he works on?"

"Oh, honey. Your dad is such a good man. That's exactly why he has a high security clearance and so much responsibility in his job. No, he hasn't done anything wrong. This all has to do with something that happened to him on a diving assignment many years ago. He went too deep or something, and there was a malfunction in his equipment. Apparently he passed out and experienced some very strange things, which had a profound effect on his mind. I always felt like time would take care of it, and since he didn't discuss it with me very often, I actually thought he was getting better until recently."

"Last week he just freaked out and told me he had to go see this guy in Texas and get some answers. I'm trying to understand because I love your father so much, but part of me thinks he is losing control of his mind. All of this cloak and dagger stuff...making us leave home without telling anybody where we're going...not letting me call Aunt Lois and Uncle Ray from the house to tell them we're coming."

"And then that scientist he went to see getting shot! Maybe it was just an accident. It sounds like the house was out in the woods, and a lot of Texas people are gun freaks from what I remember. They think it's fun to kill innocent animals. But then, what if it wasn't an accident? What if your dad has stumbled on to something without realizing it and put him and us in real danger? I don't know, honey. I just don't know."

Kevin had begun to detect a hint of hysteria in his mother's voice. "Mother, listen to me. You know Dad better than that. Just think of what good care he has taken of us all these years. If he's this desperate to find 'the answers' as he calls it, then there must be some legitimate questions. You've got to give him the benefit of the doubt. And if any of us are in danger, you can bet he didn't do anything purposefully to put us here. Okay? Let's not go off the deep end."

Karen laughed, her tension momentarily eased. "I love you, Kevin. Who's the parent here? All of a sudden I'm the one acting like a baby." The emotional reprieve did not last long. The facts could not be ignored. Her husband had been with a man who had possibly been murdered, and she was speeding through the night, running from some unknown danger, with the responsibility of protecting the most precious person in her life.

Kevin. Sweet Kevin. He'd been such a precious baby. Wispy blond curls, warm brown eyes so like her own, and apple cheeks, both in shape and color. He was good, too. Karen rarely had to fuss at him. They had been so close; they'd often held hands as they rode along in the car on daily trips to the store or school. When Karen had listened to other mothers tell horror stories of the terrible twos, fours, and even pre-adolescent twelves, she'd had to struggle not to feel smug. Even at sixteen, Kevin would give her a hug in public. A quick, perfunctory hug, but a hug never-the-less. He had, over the last two or three years, become more private with his thoughts, but that was normal for a kid his age.

Tonight, the velvet, star-twinkled darkness and the closed intimacy of the car, as well as the surrealistic nature of their flight, had fostered an intimacy between mother and son that opened a floodgate of communication. Nothing will happen to my baby! Nothing! Her thoughts screamed out towards whatever cosmic evil force pursued them. She pressed down on the accelerator, ignoring her usual submission to the speed laws. Only one thought occupied her mind as she glanced over at her son, now sleeping...his face soft and incredibly young in repose. Get him to safety. The danger, she realized with a sinking flash of cold, instinctual clarity, was real.

They had been on the road over three hours, and the coffee Karen had drunk to stay awake was talking to her. In spite of her determination to make it to Winnemucca for the night, she realized she'd have to stop. Kevin was still sleeping, but Biff, who was an excellent traveler, was getting restless in the back seat. He probably needed a rest stop, too. She crossed her fingers that there would be an all night station in Lovelock.

The first one she passed as she drove into town was dark and locked up tight. As she pulled in to the second, she could just make out the form of a lone man behind the counter.

"Kevin. Kevin, honey." She hated to wake him, but didn't want him in the car alone, and besides, he may need to stop, too.

"Whaa..." He rose up groggily, and blinked a couple of times, trying to get his bearings.

"I'm sorry, honey. I've got to stop for a minute, and we need to walk Biff. Come with me, okay?"

"Ummm, sure. Do you want me to walk him while you go in?

Karen looked around the well-lighted area, feeling silly for being paranoid in such a normal looking little town.

"Yeah, I guess that would be all right. But stay right here in the light, and close to the door, okay?"

She tried to think rationally, but even the lights of the small convenience store connected to the service station seemed to cast an eerie glow, and the man behind the counter eyed her with a look that made her uncomfortable as he pointed towards the rest room door.

"It ain't got no lock lady," he told her pointedly, and crawled his eyes slowly from her head to her toes, then back again to her breasts. Karen glanced nervously out the door towards Kevin, and then made her way to the back of the store. The toilet faced the door in the small facility, and before Karen sat she slipped the gun out of her purse. If the sleazy looking guy had any ideas, he would be very surprised. Later, I'll tell Joe about this and well laugh, she thought. Right now, she felt more like crying.

An hour and a half later, Karen pulled wearily into the drive through of a small Winnemucca motel. This time, she made Kevin go inside with her. All the way from Lovelock, a white jeep style vehicle had been visible in her rear view mirror. Probably just another weary night traveler, but her fears had escalated in direct proportion to her exhaustion. They checked in, and quickly unloaded their bags, then got Biff settled in the bathroom for the night. Karen's call to her aunt and uncle had been brief...just that they were in Winnemucca and would arrive for a visit the next day...and although they were surprised at the lateness of the call, they caught the urgency in her voice and said she could explain when she arrived. She had been close to her Uncle Ray, her father's identical twin brother, since she was a little girl.

"Come on, sweetie, let's get some sleep. You can drive tomorrow, okay?" Karen held out her arms, and her son came into them gratefully, his six-foot frame towering above her own five feet five inches. As Karen drifted off to sleep she felt him crawl into her bed and snuggle up to her back, just as he'd had as a young child needing comfort from a bad dream.

Karen awakened with a start, her heart pounding. She'd been running, calling Joe's name, but he didn't answer. Hands reached out to grab her, and then she was falling, still screaming for her husband. I'm going to die if I don't wake up, she thought, and then jerked herself to consciousness. Silhouetted against the window of the motel room was the form of a man. Her pounding heart jumped into her throat, and she forced herself to hold back the scream that was echoing against the walls of her brain. She groped across the bed for Kevin, remembering that he had fallen asleep beside her, but the space was empty. Just as she reached towards her purse on the bedside table, the figure turned toward her and spoke.

"Mom, are you awake? There's someone out there."

"Oh my God, Kevin. I almost shot you! You scared me to death." It was then that she saw the light from the motel sign outside the window reflect off the gun in Kevin's hand.

"You couldn't have shot me, Mom. I've got your gun."

"How did you know it was in my purse?" she whispered.

"I'll tell you later. Be quiet and come here. There's a white Cherokee parked out there beside our car, and two men have been sitting in it for hours. One of them keeps talking on a radio of some sort. Mom, they've got to be from 51. Those guys always drive white jeeps. What the hell is going on?"

"Don't cuss," Karen said automatically, then patted Kevin's arm. "Sorry, honey." She had made her way from the bed and now stood beside her son, peeking through the curtain at the jeep.

"What make's you think they're from Area 51?"

"Mom. I know about this stuff. Dad tells me things, and I read." He gave her a withering look in the shadows. "The Wackenhut guards in 51 all drive around in white jeeps of some kind. And wear black suits. Look at those guys. Their clothes look dark."

"Oh, Kevin! You cannot tell what color their clothes are from here."

"I don't care, Mom. I don't like this. Look! They're getting out. Mom! They're shining flashlights into our car!

Karen felt a wave of terror snaking up her back. She watched as the two men methodically shone their lights over the interior of her vehicle, then returned to their jeep, got in, and spoke for a few moments over their radio. Their suits had, indeed, been black.

Karen looked at her watch. It was five AM. "Come on. Let's get out of here. You go and shower first."

"We can't just walk out and drive off with those guys out there, Mom. Get real." Kevin walked between the beds and picked the Winnemucca phone directory up off the nightstand.

"Kevin, what are you doing?" Karen spoke with alarm.

"Just trust me, okay?" He dialed a number as he spoke.

"Kevin...who..."

Kevin held up his hand to quiet his mother, then spoke into the instrument, forcing his voice an octave lower than it was normally. "Yes, I'd like to report a disturbance at the Southside Motel. A man and a woman are screaming at each other out in the parking area, and it looks like she has a gun. Yes, the one on interstate 95. Uh, Kevin Smith. Yes sir, room 212. Thank you very much."

Karen stood staring at her enterprising son, shaking her head and smiling. "Kevin Smith?"

"Well, he caught me off guard. I didn't expect him to ask me my name!"

"I don't think there's even a room 212. This place only has one story."

In the distance, Karen and Kevin heard the sound of a siren approaching, then saw the police car, lights flashing, pull into the drive through area where they'd checked in. Just as Kevin had anticipated, the men in the white Cherokee took one look at the flashing lights, slowly pulled out of the parking lot, and drove off into the night.

"Who is taking care of whom around here!"  Karen gently ribbed her son...who had squared his shoulders unconsciously as he turned towards the bathroom.

"Will you be okay for a few minutes while I clean up, Mom?"

he asked her in a strong, confident tone.

Karen's answering smile was both proud and wistful. "Sure, hon. Make it snappy, okay? Those thugs might decide to come back when the fuss dies down."

In the way that only a mother can know a son, Karen knew the young man before her had crawled into a mother's bed seeking comfort for the last time.

As soon as Kevin hit the shower, Karen dug in her purse and found the half pack of cigarettes she had picked up off Joe's nightstand before they left home the night before. She hadn't smoked in ten years. She lit one now with shaking fingers, and took a deep drag, feeling a wave of dizziness as the nicotine entered her bloodstream. Casually, she glanced around the nondescript room. In the corner was a mousetrap. Lying in it was a tiny mouse. The trap had caught it just behind the neck, trapping it in a lifelike position. Karen put her hands over her eyes and burst into tears.

"Thank God you are here safely!" Aunt Lois and Uncle Ray ran out to embrace them as they drove into the driveway. As soon as Kevin had turned down the maple and elm lined street that lead to her uncle's house in the beautiful South Hill area of Spokane, Karen had felt safe. After all, she'd spent many summers visiting them as a young girl, and her Uncle Ray was the next best thing to her father. Everything in Spokane smelled like lilacs. Her aunt and uncle were smiling, although their quizzical looks reminded her that she owed them an explanation. Time enough for that later. Smiles and lilacs...and they were safe.

CHAPTER 17 - Red Blood Run

The instant Agabarr left the room, Quinlin snapped into action.

"Unstrap him and place him on the examining table. Do it now!" he barked. The guard sullenly removed the leather throngs and unceremoniously deposited Red's limp form. Quinlin administered a mild sedative combined with a pain reliever, then, after glancing at the guards over his shoulder, slipped a surgical scalpel into the pocket of Red's crumpled shirt.

Hang in there, old man, he thought, I've protected you as much as I can, for now. He knew the discovery of his action wouldn't matter. He was already a dead man. If the NSA didn't eliminate him, Agabarr would.

The guard had transferred Red to a gurney and wheeled him down to his cell. Quinlin expected Red to recover fully, and a lot quicker than he had led Agabarr to believe. He had administered a nerve blocker and a mild hallucinogenic to Red before Agabarr had started his repartee'.

The doctor was a wild card in a deadly political struggle, and no one considered the possibility that he could or would alter the unfolding events, which the MJ-12 committee had carefully initiated to control mankind's destiny.

Quinlin had the greatest respect for the President and the DIRNSA. Even though he was a Major in the USAF, he wasn't sure who was responsible anymore. The Air Force Office of Special Investigation had blackmailed him into this God forsaken assignment.

He had made one mistake in his career. On a weekend he was not scheduled to be on duty, there had been a bus accident. A dozen airmen had been seriously injured, and both surgeons on staff had been ordered to the hospital. In spite of his best efforts, one of the four men he operated on died, and the next day the Air Force OSI had threatened him with a General Courts Martial for manslaughter. One of the male nurses, an ex-Nam corpsman who resented the authority of the surgeons, had reported the doctor for having alcohol on his breath.

Quinlin admitted he'd had a few the night before. His defense that he was off duty and had successfully operated on three airmen did not sway them. He was castigated for being irresponsible and reminded that he knew he was subject to recall at all times: if he was not fit for duty he should have reported this to his superiors. The fact that without his presence all four would have died was of no importance. He was offered the options of time in Leavenworth and a dishonorable discharge or a classified assignment to a remote site. Not much a choice, it seemed to him at the time. His hindsight now made him regret not choosing Leavenworth.

There was no one in Area 51 the doctor could turn to without showing his true loyalties and fears. What he had just done would probably cost him his life; Quinlin knew he would be on his own if discovered. He had, by aiding and abetting a prisoner, had drawn a line. He would stand behind it and wait for the consequences. By nature he was a meek loner who had never stepped outside of the rules and traditions of the military...until now. But he was fed up and wanted to take a stand even at the risk of losing his life. He would not aid in the torture and interrogation of another American citizen. This would be his last, he vowed.

Red's mind was in a deep, dream like fantasy state. No outward motivation beckoned him to abandon the coma-like reprieve, which shielded him from the memories of his torture. Only the fortitude born of years of mental and physical discipline prodded his subconscious to forsake the temptation to vegetate indefinitely...sparked him to instinctively seek reality, no matter how harsh. A line of communication, a fine string of truth, a small path of will, connected his subconscious to his conscious mind. Deep sleep eventually supplanted shock as the drugs the doctor had administered took effect.

When Red awoke nine hours later he was in a state of disorientation and pain, then, slowly, scraps of memory filtered into his consciousness. Agabarr!

His clothes had been thrown in a heap on the floor and only a blanket covered his naked body. He willed himself to sit, then could do nothing but submit to the onslaught of dizziness and nausea, which resulted from his action. Even the acts of retrieving his clothes from the cell floor and dressing were a challenge. His joints hurt, his body was bruised, he had a colossal head-ache, and the cell walls undulated as he attempted to focus on them.

While dressing Red discovered, to his surprise, a hard, flat object in his shirt pocket. He almost cut himself removing the surgical knife. Simple deduction led Red to believe correctly that the doctor had slipped him the knife. Simple deduction concluded he'd done it...but could not explain why.

He knew he probably wouldn't survive another torture session like the one Agabarr had just administered. His time was running out, of that he was certain. The discovery of the old kitchen knife hidden in his cell had caused the formulation of an escape plan before his last session; Dr. Quinlin's bequest would augment the possibility of its success.

Red explored his tiny dungeon further and discovered a panel next to the doorframe. There was a fine groove in the stone next to the metal panel cover...the result, Red surmised, of a former resident's attempt to access the wiring behind it. Red used the worn down table knife to deepen the grove, then pried the cover open and removed a tar-like caulking compound from around the inside edges of the panel. The one-inch opening revealed a mass of tangled wires, which connected to a motor mounted on the outside edge of the metal window frame.

Through the narrow slit he could also see the outside hallway, illuminated dimly with an eerie red glow. He hoped the subdued lighting of the hallway and the position of the motor would hide his newly created slit. Carefully, he pushed his finger through the opening and managed to hook one of the wires; he was pretty sure he'd be able to jumper the motor.

The window had been modified many years ago to open and close automatically, using an electric gear drive motor. When energized, the heavy steel window whisked shut in an instant.

Red used two small wires made from the metal flat spring bed frame that was bolted to the stone wall. The wire had been sprayed with a coat of black paint to prevent rust. Carefully, Red scraped the paint from the ends of the two lengths of wire with the Doctor's donated scalpel. That left a thin film of paint covering the center of each wire that he hoped would provide insulation and prevent them from shorting together.

It took Red over two hours to accomplish a job that he could have done in a few minutes with the proper tools. He staggered the wire insulation cuts so they wouldn't accidentally short out, then, after forming a tiny hook on each end, slid one of his makeshift jumper wires into the recess between the wall panel and the motor. First he hooked a jumper to the red wire, and then he mashed the hook on the black wire securely to the metal utensil, and forced the pointed end of the utensil under the frame of the window to securely ground the return. When he touched the red jumper to the utensil, the window slid quickly open; when he separated the wires it slid shut again. He practiced until he could manipulate the wires with his left hand, leaving his right hand free. Now he would wait for the rabbit to enter the trap.

Red dozed with one eye open, propped against the concrete wall of the cell just beneath the sliding steel window.

A clanging noise startled him, followed by the muffled sound of footsteps hitting the stone floor. Red slid silently up the wall, pressing his back tightly in the corner beside the sliding window. The guard flipped the wall-mounted switch, and the window opened with a snap.

He waited, barely daring to breathe, until the guard slowly pushed a tray through the open steel window, sliding it to the back of the ledge. Then, just as his hand released the tray and moved to withdraw, Red slammed the guard’s arm against the side of the opening and separated the two prepared wires.

The window snapped suddenly shut, trapping the guard's wrist. Red heard a sickening crunch as the bones snapped like dried twigs; the guard’s red and hot blood spurted onto the food on the tray.

A blood-curdling scream tore the air.

"Open the door and I will help you."

The guard continued to scream in agony. His pain must be excruciating. Red put the thought out of his mind. Time after time he repeated himself.

"Open the door and I will help you."

Finally, after no response, he took the guard's badly crushed and bleeding wrist and gripped it firmly as he reconnected the wires with three fingers of his left hand. The metal door slid open and Red could see a silhouette in the dim shadows.

Again he tried to reason with the guard.

"Open the goddamn door and I won't hurt you anymore."

"Go fuck yourself, asshole." The guard whimpered.

Red pulled the arm through to mid forearm and separated the wires again. The same sickening crunch and horrible screams emitted from the guard.

Red, feeling remorse at the torture he was forced to continually inflict, pled with the man to relent.

"Listen! Help me! Open the door, man, and I will get you medical attention. You will not lose the arm if you'll just help me!"

Red considered himself more than lucky that only one guard was down on this level, but he had no idea what he was going to do once he got out of the cell. It wasn't supposed to have happened this way. The idiot guard was unexpectedly resisting.

"Open the door...open it you fool." Red was out of patience.           "Listen, you son of a Republican whore...you shit eater...if you don't open the door in the next two seconds, I'm going to drag your arm in farther and chop it off at the shoulder. Is that what you want, you stupid son-of-a-bitch?"

Adrenaline flooded through Red's system as he became frantic with the horror of what he was being forced by the guard's stubborn resistance to do, but he was prepared to dissect the guard centimeter by centimeter just to get out. Red pinched the wires together again and the door slid open.

Suddenly the guard screamed.

"No! No more! I'll do it, just let me go." Then without warning, the lock on his cell door clicked loudly. Red let the man's hand go, and he fell to the floor.

Red stepped outside into the dimly lit hallway. It was only seven feet wide and about ten feet high. The guard's blood covered the window on the door and trickles of blood had run almost to the floor. Blood covered the man's face and clothes. He begged Red to help him as he walked by, but Red's frustration had supplanted his mercy.

"Sorry you whore fucker, you had your chance," he spat at the wounded man, as he stepped over his prone form.

Red's belongings were in an open wooden box at the end of the corridor. Everything was there except his .45. A rickety old metal shelf unit held a number of ration boxes. He tore open the shipping box and pulled the high-energy candy bars and canned fruit from several. He was ready. At the end of the corridor he stopped and looked over his shoulder, then shook his head as his convictions kicked in. What he was thinking, the amount of blood loss...the guard would lose the arm if not his life from shock or loss of blood. If I don't help him he will bleed to death, and if I do, he is likely to warn the others. But he could tie his mangled arm off and gag him. Red turned around and headed towards the guard, who was sitting propped against the wall, head down, cradling his cut and broken arm.

As the guard looked up and saw Red coming towards him, he went for his gun with his uninjured hand. When Red realized what was happening, he sprinted the last few yards and his boot made contact with the weapon as it cleared the guard's holster. The .45 semi-automatic pistol slid across the floor and hit the wall with a metallic clank. He bent to retrieve it.

As Red straightened up, he made eye contact with the man before him. Pure, unadulterated hatred blazed from the man's eyes, and he abruptly spat with all his remaining strength, hitting Red square in the face. The shock of recognition that overcame Red nearly knocked him off his feet. The man of the floor was not one of the guards Red had seen in the interrogation room, but Raul Agabarr himself.

Agabarr knew he had been discovered and hissed, "You'll never get out of here alive, and when I'm finished with you they won't find a piece big enough to fill a shot glass.

"I've got news for you Raul," Red stated quietly. "We are finished with each other."

"You don't have the guts to kill me." Raul chuckled, an evil guttural sound, then, his face metamorphosing into a replica of the serpent in the Garden, he taunted, "Besides I'm hurt and unarmed."

Red raised the weapon and pointed it at Agabarr. Raul Agabarr looked deeply into Red's eyes and what he saw was hideous, and it was directed at him; for the first time in his life he was frightened. He raised his hand and, his emotions crawling on their belly, unmasked himself for the coward he was. "Don't shoot! I'll go easy on you."

Red replied coldly, "You'll never get that chance...ever," and squeezed the trigger.

The bullet left a hole the size of a nickel in Agabarr's hand as it impacted into his chest. Without even realizing he had done it, Red squeezed off another round.

Agabarr was an abomination to humanity who would never cause pain and suffering to another human being, again. Somehow knowing that relieved Red of the guilt of having shot the man in cold blood.

Red took the lift up to the surface and quietly made his way towards a side exit of the building. A thunderous boom from outside the door, followed by a second, then a third, nearly caused his heart to stop until he deduced that he was hearing the propulsion explosions of the SR-75's external afterburner. The existence of the big black aerospace vehicle was categorically denied by the Air Force, but he had seen it take off, usually late at night, and return before sunrise. Three times he had been directly under its path during take-off and twice during landing, while he was out in the open desert. The speed and power exhibited by the long airplane, had taken his breath away.

As he exited the building and saw the lightning over the Groom Mountains, Red realized it was a sudden violent desert storm and not man-made phenomena that caused the booming noises. Storm or not, he had to get out of the area. A quick glance confirmed his suspicion that the metal security compound he had been detained in sat east of the Papoose facilities where the underground Defense Advanced Research Center was located.

He squinted, peering beyond the reach of the floodlights, which illuminated the area, and could just make out dry lakebed about a quarter-mile ahead. There wasn't a vehicle in sight, and he didn't dare take the risk of searching the other side of the building: when Agabarr was missed security would be immediately notified. He would be forced to hoof it.

Red realized with a surge of pessimism it would take an act of God to get him out of this mess, and he wasn't exactly one of God's regular clientele. The last sets of lights were directed towards the compound, lighting the paved hardtop entrance and parking area. Beyond the lights and fence line lay the vast, dark, still emptiness of the desert and its elements. He decided to head into the storm...it was coming southwest from the Groom range and would cover his trail...until he thought of something better to do. He started out at a slow trot, and he told himself he wouldn't panic until he heard an alarm or felt the guards breathing down his neck.

The cool dry night air felt chilly against his sweaty forehead, but exhilarating to his lungs. Especially after the dark, dank, mildew riddled pit that he had been imprisoned in. He had been down there less than four days, he reckoned, but it seemed like an eternity. Red ran into the night as thick clouds from the west moved closer and darkened his path, snuffing out the brilliant starlight.

Fine silt from the desert floor, picked up by the winds whipping around him, stung his eyes, and rain followed close behind. He could smell it mixed with the colder, moist air leading the front. Bolts of lightning streaked the skies above him, illuminating the endless stage of the desert and it's lone player. He would be an easy target.

He had stumbled, fallen and shuffled forward about a mile from the compound that had held him as a prisoner. The sound of thunder now rolled across the heavens in hot pursuit of the lightning. Son-of-a-bitch, he thought. The storm was definitely coming his way, and with it the potential for flash flooding. Red had endured the awesome power of a desert storm before, but not under these physical conditions. He couldn't believe that his mental facilities were clearing so slowly...a residual effect of the drugs, he knew. It was misting hard now--the rain was tiring him farther. His feet moved more from instinct for survival than from conscious decision on his part.

Up ahead and to the north he could see lights moving and twinkling on and off again as a pair of black military attack helicopters rounded the gently rolling terrain and headed away from him. He could just make out a wide road cut into the bedrock of the land and covered with the brownish gray sealant coating the military used to keep the packed roads from breaking up in the intermittent heavy rains. It could stretch as much as five percent, providing resiliency to the shifting and settling of Mother Nature, and the color prevented the road from showing up on satellites. But which desert road was it? Can't look a gift horse in the mouth, he reasoned. It would be a much easier to walk on the road then wade through the sludge on the desert floor.

After about ten minutes he heard another aircraft. He looked up and recognized a Boeing 737 flying low with a high angle of attack. The vehicle had just taken off, Red judged from its altitude and direction. The aircraft crested a nearby mountain heading southeast.

The sound of an approaching vehicle sent Red scurrying off the road and behind the nearest hillock. A white Wackinhut Jeep Cherokee rolled by, followed by a semi-trailer, which was towed behind a mammoth computer, controlled, turbine powered, hydrogen blown, tractor engine. The vehicle's low center of gravity caused it to hug the roadbed. Red recognized the state of the art truck that was used exclusively within the Nellis Range and Nevada Test Site. This must be some precious cargo for them to be hauling it through the desert in the secrecy of the night, he thought. The negative air pressure left in the wake of the tractor sucked the breath out of his lungs. A close flash of lightning silhouetted an old sign for just a moment; time enough for him to recognize the all too familiar message. He had seen many such signs posted throughout the Nevada Test Site and Nellis Range:

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

WARNING

THIS IS A RESTRICTED MILITARY INSTALLATION

YOU ARE TRESPASSING ON CLASSIFIED GOVERNMENT LAND

You Must Immediately Leave This Installation. If You Are

Discovered Here By Government Or Military Personnel,

You Will Be ARRESTED And PROSECUTED.

It is unlawful to make any photograph, film, map, sketch,

picture, drawing, graphic representation of this area, or

equipment at or flying over this installation.

It is unlawful to reproduce, publish, sell, or give away any

photograph, film, map, sketch, picture, drawing, graphic representation

of this area, or equipment at or flying over this installation.

Violation of either offense is punishable with up to a $10,000

fine and/or imprisonment for up to one year.

18 US Code Sec. 795/797 and Executive Order 10104.

USE OF DEADLY FORCE AUTHORIZED

For information contact:

USAF/DOE LIAISON OFFICE

PO BOX 98518

LAS VEGAS, NV 89193-8518

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Just let me out of here alive fellows, and I promise I won't take no pictures!" Red shouted after the trailing vehicles. "Well, not this trip, anyway."

From somewhere behind him the noise of sirens broke nature's festival of lightning and thunder. For an instant, Red almost panicked, then he realized by their fading sound the vehicles were headed away from him. He looked around at the low-lying hills and distant mountains and realized he was east of  Area S-4, where the DARC facility was. He had escaped from the isolated DOE and Wackenhut security compound just a mile from the Papoose dry lakebed, which served as an auxiliary landing field for the Groom Lake test facilities.

After another hour, he was feeling better, shaking off the effects of the drugs and tight muscles. The endless days of wandering through the area in his old prospector persona had conditioned him to endure hours of foot travel, and even Agabarr's inquisition had not destroyed his stamina. His head had cleared to the point, despite the drizzling remnants of the storm, which he knew without a doubt exactly where he was. Red knew the back roads, hills, mines, and mountains of the Nellis Range and Nevada Test Site better than any man alive. Within the next hour, without any unforeseen obstacles, he would pass between Pintwater Range and Jumbled hills east of the Papoose and DARC facilities.

Relief flooded Red as he recognized that he was within a mile of the old Wildhorse Mine. It wasn't on the map, and the entrance was between two hillocks, completely hidden from above. He had stashed emergency gear and extra water for himself and his mule in a dozen places in the surrounding desert and mountain ranges.

He laid low for two days, hidden from man and beast. He licked his wounds, rested his weary body, nourished his soul and prepared his plan of action. He would make his way north once darkness came. By morning he would be at the Catlins.

He had heard Agabarr talking about Farr's death, and that Webster, Newsom, and Green were next. What disturbed him more than anything was the threat to Joe Green's wife and child. Agabarr was dead, but he had acted on higher orders, and Red knew a team would be sent to Spokane to apprehend Joe Green's family.

He'd overheard one of Agabarr's men say that her maiden name was Foster...a name Red didn't have any trouble remembering. His colonel in Korea was a Link Foster, referred to as "the missing Link" by his men: he'd always managed to be as far away from an exchange of fire as possible. Red hoped the Foster family in Spokane was made out of a tougher piece of cloth. He had to get there before the Wackenhut goons did, and hope like hell he could find them.

He'd just experienced one act of God; maybe it wasn't too much to hope for another.

CHAPTER 18 - A Demand He Couldn't Refuse

General Jean-Claude Alexandre Beauharnais was a direct descendent of the famous French general who had fought in the American Revolution and the French Revolution. General Alexandre Beauharnais de vicomte's widow married Napoleon I and became the Empress Josephine. His son Eugene de Beauharnais was also a general, who served with distinction under his stepfather, Napoleon, and was later made Viceroy of Italy. His daughter Hortense married Louis Bonaparte and became queen of Holland in 1806.

Alex, as he preferred to be addressed by his peers, had made his rank the hard way, not by ass kissing, but by consistently getting results. He had made a career of turning around troubled Black programs of the greatest secrecy. He was the go-to guy for DARPA and the DOE.

His positive results had influenced the promotions of many colonels and generals above him. They didn't like him, but they needed him, so they pulled him along up the promotion ladder until he was currently Director for Defense Special Projects. He reported to the Secretary of Defense and monitored the National Reconnaissance Office (NRO), Space & Missile Systems Office (SAMSO), and the Advanced Research Projects Agency (ARPA) Black projects, which included research and development at the Groom.

He wondered why the old bastard Eli Jerrold had summoned him to his spacious offices near the Capitol.

Jerrold had never given him the time of day when he was Director of the National Security Agency. Why the hell did the crusty old son-of-a-bitch need him now? He wasn't even certain what it was that Jerrold did. He had heard rumors that he served as legal representative of some international consortium of multibillionaires, but for all he knew, the tough old shit could be running a kiddie porn ring.

Alex's salty attitude toward authority figures came from his conviction that his government and military leaders had betrayed the fighting men and women during the Vietnam War. He had survived the Hanoi Hilton as a POW; he would never totally trust the Establishment again. Where the fuck was Eli Jerrold when he really needed him? Where was any high-ranking official when he could have used a little help?

As a major, Beauharnais had flown the General Dynamics supersonic swing-wing F-111A fighter-bomber, from Nellis AFB, Nevada. During the holiday season of 1972, the Air Force and Navy flew some 500 aircraft from Guam, Thailand, Navy aircraft carriers, and bases in South Vietnam to bomb Hanoi and Haiphong under Operation Linebacker II. The bombing intensity wasn't equaled again until the Desert Storm war.

He commanded a cell of three F-111As over Hanoi. They flew two missions a day from the eighteenth of December until he was shot down.

U.S. aircraft had taken heavy losses from the North Vietnamese SAMS (surface-to-air missiles). Hanoi was ringed with radar lined SAMS and MIG aircraft. Some 81 American craft were downed during the twelve days of bombing. His aircraft was Number 4,029 shot down since 1964, and he fell to earth just as thousands of tons of napalm, white phosphorous, and anti- personnel mines, high  explosives, defoliants, and bombs had before him. He was twenty nine years old that Christmas Eve.

For the duration of the war, his home was the Hanoi Hilton, where torture, starvation, humiliation, and propaganda were served up daily. He would never forget the scrawl on the concrete wall of his cell that Christmas. It was trite and silly, but he would never have another Christmas that it didn't play in his head:

"On the twelfth day of bombing, my government gave to me - twelve fearless politicians, eleven pilots flying, ten aircraft soaring, nine whores a sucking, eight bombs a bursting, seven Americans dying, six draft cards burning, five mothers weeping, four star generals kissing ass, three grieving widows, two POWs crying, and a traitor named Hanoi Jane."

He had served a tour in hell and survived. But he was changed for all time. He would never trust his government again, never have another family that would desert him, never grieve another dead buddy. In March of 1973 he was with the last of 591 American POWs to be returned.

The final conclusion of the lessons that he had gleaned from his experiences in Nam never varied from his moment of revelation in the Hanoi Hilton: The military leaders, the politicians, and the DoD contractors had all wanted the war for self-serving reasons. The military leaders wanted power, recognition, promotions, and a place in history.  The politicians wanted PAC contributions, gratuities from DoD contractors, and to be reelected. The DoD contractors and the military industrial complex wanted wealth, job security, and promotions. It was all a grand farce.

Those insiders who objected to the war believed that the military- industrial complex's influence over the politicians and military leaders with their high-tech weapons were evil for having perpetuated a deadly hoax on the nation. Money was power, and in 1972 alone, over 10 billion dollars were spent on replacement aircraft for the Vietnam War. And that was just the tip of the iceberg. All three of the groups, the military leaders, the Politicians, and the DoD contractors manipulated public opinion, whipped up their brand of patriotism, and used the fear of world communism to bolster their arguments. What pomposity, what guile, what greed had fueled the self-serving motivations that resulted in the loss of over 50,000 soldiers, airmen, and sailors. It made Alex Beauharnais want to puke.

Two dark uniformed security guards were stationed outside the elevator bank. They checked his identification and directed him to Room 916 on the ninth floor of the office building.

The moment he got off the elevator, a heavyset Colonel seemed to be waiting to greet him. "General Beauharnais?"

"Yes," Alex glanced at the officer's nametag on his dress blue, "Colonel Trent."

Trent stretched out a hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you, General."

Alex nodded. Why the hell was there another officer present?  Was Jerrold headhunting for officers to join his firm after their retirements? And what was a man like Colonel Ty Trent doing here? The man had a reputation in the Special Operations world.

In Alex's mind, Trent could be described in three words: 'Cold', as in ruthless; 'hard', as in conscience-free; and 'connected', as in he knew his way around the intelligence business.

Jerrold's office was decorated in hardwoods and leather furniture. Alex crossed the room and shook Jerrold's hand.

"General Beauharnais, it's a pleasure to see you again," Eli smiled as he pumped the man's hand. "It has been a long time, and I appreciate your coming on such short notice."

Alex nodded. "This is a great office, Jerrold. Of course I never saw your office at the NSA. You never invited me to that one."

He couldn't imagine it could have been plusher than this, and he resented the opulent excess.

Eli Jerrold chose to ignore the general's mocking tone. "Would you care for a drink? Anything at all?"

"Just some bottled water for now, thank you."

Colonel Trent poured him some water and Eli Jerrold tried to seize the initiative. "We're both busy men, so I'll get right to it. I understand that you have some objections to the security measures that have been ordered for Area 51 of the Nevada Test Site. I also understand that you wrote a memo to the Secretary of the Air Force and Secretary of Defense stating your objections."

Alex's face flared a deep red. "With all due respect, Jerrold, but what the hell business is that of yours? You're not the NSA Director now, so where the fuck do you get off even bringing the matter up with me?"

Ty Trent squirmed in the oversized leather chair, wishing that Eli had been subtler and had exercised a bit more tact in dealing with the volatile general.

Jerrold's eyes narrowed, fighting to control his own anger. "I still serve...in an advisory capacity. You see, I have your memo here on my desk."

Alex rocked back in amazement. "What's going on here?"

Jerrold held up the memo as if he were an attorney presenting Exhibit A in court. "I still have the final say-so over several matters of communications security and physical security for the Nevada Test Site and Nellis Range, which encompasses your Area 51."

General Alex Beauharnais sat quietly in his chair. After his initial outburst, he had regained his composure. He had been caught off guard. It wouldn't happen again. He would exhibit no emotion or body language at all, something he had learned from days of interrogation by his North Vietnamese captors.

He raised his glass and slowly took a drink. He would remain calm, but he would get to the bottom of this perplexing situation and find out just what Jerrold was up to.

"If I violated any protocol, Mr. Jerrold, it was because I was unaware of this secret chain of command that you now claim exists," Alex told him, keeping his voice almost at a monotone. "But it was my sincere intention to go on the record about my objections to these harsh security measures. As a responsible military officer I am not about to commit felonies against the private sector without justification."

Eli Jerrold sipped at the bourbon and water he had poured for himself. "Go on, General, I'm listening."

Alex sighed as if he were speaking to an idiot who had no knowledge of the law. "We are a democracy. We have a constitution. We have laws. You have asked me to break these laws. There is no way that I will have United States citizens killed. I will never infringe upon the constitutional rights of American citizens."

Jerrold responded sharply. "You have no concept, no idea of the scope of the national crisis that we are facing. If we don't keep a lid on it, our society, our world, will come apart."

Alex was becoming increasingly uneasy. "What crisis are you talking about? A few nosy civilians crawling around the desert trying to get a peek at our Black program prototypes hardly classifies as a crisis. Good God, man, you are overreacting. "According to my understanding of the Posse Comitatus Act, the military is prohibited from enforcing civil law. What the DOE and Wackenhut security personnel are doing is in direct violation of that law. This Offensive Security policy is an offense to the Constitution and the rights of US citizens!"

'Offensive Security' was a concept that had been created by Eli Jerrold. He sat up quickly in his chair and leaned forward in a threatening manner. "General, don't you give me any of that pompous self-righteous bull shit! You will follow these orders, or I'll have you retired before you go to bed tonight."

Alex met the man's cold stare. Did Eli Jerrold still wield that much power from behind the scenes? Or had the power crazy martinet gone completely mad in his retirement?

Colonel Trent broke his silence. "Eli, perhaps the general needs clarification on some matters."

Alex nodded. "Indeed I do. For example, the Wackenhut personnel have been authorized to aggressively pursue and protect military and Department of Defense agencies outside the normal protective zone perimeter. At the Nevada Test Site they routinely patrol Bureau of Land Management, county, and state roads outside the government's property. They have harassed citizens, seized private property, and detained the curious who have ventured too close to the restricted area's protective zone perimeter. These goons have got to be toned down."

Eli Jerrold angrily pointed a forefinger at General Beauharnais as if it were a loaded pistol. "You stupid prick, you have no idea what we're up against."

Alex was puzzled by the man's continued vehemence, and he felt his face becoming red with waves of rising anger.

Colonel Trent decided to take the ball away from Eli and run with it. "General, with all due respect, since the end of the Cold War, even the Russians have been telling our secrets. Popular Science magazine placed a satellite picture of the Groom facilities on their cover. CNN, the X-Files, Unsolved Mysteries, and last week Exploring the Unknown have produced programs about the Nellis Range, Area 51, and the Groom facilities. And popular magazines like Omni, Time, Newsweek, and U.S. News and World Report have all carried detailed articles on Area 51.

We have been using Offensive Security for over two decades, and look at the leaks we have. If we relax these security measures, it will only get worse. In the interest of national security, we cannot allow that to happen. Surely, you agree."

The general looked down at the rows of medals on his uniform. "You see this one? I received it for my last and third tour of Nam. I was flying a F-111A swing-wing fighter-bomber and a surface-to-air missile shot us down. I was a prisoner of war in Hanoi, and I had lots of time to think about the military's responsibility to the nation. I was in a goddamn war that we should never have been in. Our generals lied about our progress and our achievements, and they covered their jaded interests to
promote and to prolong the war. It was a national disgrace, and many soldiers were killed needlessly."

Alex paused to take a sip of water. He held up a palm for silence when it appeared that Colonel Trent was about to interrupt him. "The reason that I'm telling you this is because I made myself a promise that if I was ever to return to the military that I would never be a yes-man or a self-serving asshole like the generals that ran the Vietnam War."

The Colonel managed to get his word in. "I understand your concerns, but..."

Alex winced. "I don't think you do, Colonel. You see, I have been asked to detain and interrogate U.S. citizens who cross over protective zone perimeter in Area 51. I know for a fact that the DOE and the Wackenhut agency have done this on numerous occasions. I have ordered them to stop this practice, but I know they ignore my orders. I can't prove what has happened to the citizens who were detained, but I have my suspicions."

Eli answered the general's suspicions. "They were turned over to the CIA or other top-secret agencies. Executive Order 12333 issued by President Ronald Reagan in 1981 allows the CIA to conduct 'special activities' within the United States as long as such action does not involve efforts to influence the domestic political process, media, or public opinion."

Alex pursed his lips thoughtfully and shrugged. "Well, I'm sorry Eli, but your extremely forceful request just doesn't cut it for me. And unless the Secretary of Defense or the Secretary of the Air Force order me to do otherwise, I respectfully decline to obey your orders."

Eli Jerrold looked at Colonel Trent, then General Beauharnais. He took a swallow of the bourbon, then set the glass down on his desk. His voice was low...controlled. "All right, General, I will lay all my cards on the table."

"Eli," Trent cautioned. "Are you certain?"

Eli sighed, and then nodded slowly. "In his own way, I know that General Beauharnais considers himself a great patriot. And several times within the past hour he has expressed his single, abiding, overwhelming concern to be the welfare of United States citizens. Is that not true, General?"

Alex answered cautiously in the affirmative, not certain where Jerrold was going with this.

"Then," Jerrold continued, "it most certainly stands to reason that General Beauharnais would be most vigilant and eager to protect these same citizens if he understood that they faced the greatest threat to their welfare, their safety, their very existence that one could ever imagine."

Alex shifted uncomfortably. My God, he wondered, had some outlaw third world nation perfected nuclear power to the point of aggression against the United States?

"General, do you know anything about the source of our technology in the Aurora Programs?" Jerrold asked him, once again throwing him off balance.

"Why, no, I have never had a need to know," Alex replied. "Of course, I've heard those rumors that we claimed some of it as spoils of war from the Nazis at the end of World War II. Or that we stole it from the Russians or the Japanese. I've even heard that crazy story about how we captured or recovered an alien spaceship."

Eli smiled, feeling once again in control of the situation. "Have you ever heard of the MJ-12 committee?"

"No, I don't think so."

Colonel Trent cleared his throat noisily. "General, I am reminding you that you enjoy top security clearance. At the same time, I am cautioning you that what you are about to hear is 'way above top secret'. It stays in this room. Understood?"

Alex studied the faces of the two men. Whatever the hell this was all about, he had never seen two more deadly serious faces in his life. "Understood, Colonel."

Eli Jerrold leaned back in his desk chair. "Shortly after the Secretary of Defense James V. Forrestal resigned in March of 1949--and before his mysterious suicide--Secretary Louis Johnson issued a Top Secret Directive establishing the Armed Forces Security Agency, which was placed under the control of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. This was the forerunner of the National Security Agency. The CIA and DIA were also established at this time. On December 29, 1952, President Truman in one of his very last acts as president, signed approval on NS-CID No. 9, approving the establishment of the NSA."

General Beauharnias sat quietly with a look that said, "And so?"

Eli opened a drawer, removed a red folder. "Unexplained phenomena, sights of unidentified aerial objects, and other mysterious occurrences around government and DoD installations resulted in the birth of the MJ-12 committee."

Jerrold handed the general the red folder stamped with the classification Top Secret, MAJIC ONLY, MJ-12 Eyes Only in large, bold black letters.

"I would like you to read this, General Beauharnias," he said. "I am certain that after you do, you will understand our need for ultimate security. I am also certain that you will want to join our band of patriots."

Alex opened the folder and proceeded to read the contents.

NATIONAL SECURITY INFORMATION                                                     001

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BRIEFING DOCUMENT: OPERATION MAJESTIC 12

PREPARED FOR PRESIDENT-ELECT DWIGHT D. EISENHOWER: (EYES ONLY)

18 NOVEMBER 1952

WARNING:  This is a TOP SECRET - EYES ONLY document containing
compartmentalized information essential to the National Security
of the United States.  EYES ONLY ACCESS to the material herein is
strictly limited to those possessing Majestic-12 clearance level.

Reproduction in any form or the taking of written or mechanically
transcribed notes is strictly forbidden.

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SUBJECT: OPERATION MAJESTIC-12 PRELIMINARY BRIEFING FOR

PRESIDENT-ELECT EISENHOWER.

DOCUMENT PREPARED 18 NOVEMBER  1952.

BRIEFING OFFICER; REAR ADM. R. H. HILLENKOETTER (MJ-12)

NOTE:  This document has been prepared as a preliminary briefing only.  It should be regarded as introductory to a full operations briefing intended to follow.

* * * * * *

OPERATION MAJESTIC-12 is a TOP SECRET Research and Development Intelligence operation responsible directly and only to the President of the United States.  Operations of the project are carried out under control of the Majestic-12 (Majic-12) Group which was established by special Classified Executive Order (CEO) of President Truman on 20 September 1947, upon recommendation by Dr. Vannevar Bush and Secretary James Forrestal.  (See Attachment "A".)  Members of the Majestic-12 Group were designated as follows:

Rear Adm. R. H. Hillenkoetter*

Dr. Vannevar Bush

Sec. James V. Forrestal*

Lt. Gen. Nathan F. Twining

Lt. Gen. Hoyt S. Vandenberg

Dr. Detlev Bronk

Dr. Jerome Hunsaker

Mr. Sidney W. Souers

Mr. Gordon Gray

Dr. Donald Menzel

Gen. Robert M. Montague

Dr. Lloyd V. Berkner

The death of Secretary Forrestal on 22 May 1949, created a vacancy which remained unfilled until 1 August 1950 , upon which date Louis A. Johnson was designated as permanent replacement. General Walter B. Smith replaced Rear Adm. R. H. Hillenkoetter upon his reassignment to the Pacific Seventh Fleet.

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On 24 June 1947, a civilian pilot flying over the Cascade Mountains in the State of Washington observed nine flying disc-shaped aircraft traveling in formation at a high rate of speed. Although this was not the first known sighting of such objects, it was the first to gain widespread attention in the public media.  Hundreds of reports of sightings of similar objects followed.  Many of these came from highly credible military and civilian sources.  These reports resulted in independent efforts by several different elements of the military to ascertain the nature and purpose of these objects in the interests of national defense.  A number of witnesses were interviewed and there were several unsuccessful attempts to utilize aircraft in efforts to pursue reported discs in flight.  Pubic reaction bordered on near hysteria at times.

In spite of these efforts, little of substance was learned about the objects until a local rancher reported that one had crashed in a remote region of New Mexico located approximately seventy-five miles northwest of Roswell Army Air Base (now Walker Field).

On 5 July 1947, a secret operation was begun to assure recovery of the wreckage of this object for scientific study.  During the course of this operation, aerial reconnaissance discovered that five small human-like beings had apparently ejected from the craft at some point before it exploded.  These had fallen to earth about two miles east of the wreckage site.  Four were dead and badly damaged due to the crash trauma, action by predators and exposure to the elements during the time period which had elapsed before their discovery.  A special scientific team took charge of removing these bodies for study.  (See Attachment "D.")  Civilian and military witnesses in the area were debriefed, and news reporters were given the effective cover story that the object had been a misguided weather research balloon.

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004

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A covert analytical effort organized by Lt. Gen. Twining and Dr. Bush acting on the direct orders of the President, resulted in a preliminary consensus, 19 September 1947 that the disc was most likely a short range reconnaissance craft.  This conclusion was based for the most part on the craft's size and the apparent lack of any identifiable provisioning.  (See attachment "D".)  A similar analysis of the five bodies was arranged by Dr. Bronk.  It was the tentative conclusion of this group (30 November 1947) that although these creature are human-like in appearance, the biological and evolutionary processes responsible for their development has apparently been quite different from those observed or postulated in homo-sapiens.  Dr. Bronk's team has suggested the term "Extra-terrestrial Biological Entities", or "EBEs", be adopted as the standard term of reference for these creatures until such time as a more definitive designation can be agreed upon.

Since it is virtually certain that these craft do not originate in any country on earth, considerable speculation has centered around what their point of origin might be and how they get here.  Mars was and remains a possibility, although some scientists, most notably Dr. Menzel, consider it more likely that we are dealing with beings from another solar system entirely.  Numerous examples of what appear to be a form of writing were found in the wreckage.  Efforts to decipher these have remained largely unsuccessful.  (See Attachment "E.")  Equally
unsuccessful have been efforts to determine the method of propulsion or the nature or method of transmission of the power source involved.  Research along these lines has been complicated by the complete absence of identifiable wings, propellers, jets, or other conventional methods of propulsion and guidance, as well
as a total lack of metal components.  (See Attachment "F".)  It is assumed that the propulsion unit was completely destroyed by the explosion which caused the crash.

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005

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A need for as much additional information as possible about these craft, their performance characteristics and their purpose led to the undertaking known as U.S. Air Force Project SIGN in December, 1947.  In order to preserve security, liaison between SIGN and Majestic-12 was limited to two individuals within the Intelligence Division of Air Materiel Command whose role was to pass along certain types of information through channels.  SIGN evolved into Project GRUDGE in December, 1948. The operation is currently being conducted under the code name BLUE BOOK, with liaison maintained through the Air Force officer who is head of the project.

On 6 December 1950, a second object, probably of similar origin, impacted the earth at high speed in the El Indio Guerrero area of the Texas - Mexican border after following a long trajectory through the atmosphere.  By the time a search team arrived, what remained of the object had been almost totally incinerated.  such material as could be recovered was transported to the A.E.C. facility at Sandia, New Mexico, for study.

Implications for the National Security are of continuing importance in that the motives and ultimate intentions of these visitors remain completely unknown.  In addition, a significant upsurge in the surveillance activity of these craft beginning in May and continuing through the autumn of this year has caused considerable concern that new developments may be imminent.  It is for these reasons, as well as the obvious international and technological considerations and the ultimate need to avoid a public panic at all costs, that the Majestic-12 Group remains of the unanimous opinion that imposition of the strictest security precautions should continue without interruption into the new administration.  At the same time, contingency plan MJ-1949-04P/78 (Top Secret - Eyes Only) should be held in continued readiness should the need to make a public announcement present itself.  (See Attachment "G.")

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ENUMERATION OF ATTACHMENTS:

*ATTACHMENT "A" ........Special Classified Executive

Order #9892//B/CEO/EO.   20/9/47

(TS/EO)

*ATTACHMENT "B" ........Operation Majestic-12 Status

Report #1, Part A.  30/10/47.

(TS-MAJIC/EO)

*ATTACHMENT "C" ........Operation Majestic-12 Status

Report #1, Part B.  30/10/47.

(TS-MAJIC/EO)

*ATTACHMENT "D" ........Operation Majestic-12 Preliminary

Analytical Report,  19/9/47.

(TS-MAJIC/EO)

*ATTACHMENT "E" ........Operation Majestic-12 Blue Team

Report #1-5.    30/6/52.

(TS-MAJIC/EO)

*ATTACHMENT "F" ........Operation Majestic-12 Status

Report #2-4.    31/1/48.

(TS-MAJIC/EO)

*ATTACHMENT "G" ........Operations Majestic-12 Contingency

Plan MJ-1949-04P/CEO:  31/1/49.

(TS-MAJIC/EO)

*ATTACHMENT "H" ........Operation Majestic-12, Maps and

Photographs Folio (Extractions).

(TS-MAJIC/EO)

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The highly classified papers had definitely caught General Beauharnais's interest.

He glanced up at Eli Jerrold and Colonel Ty Trent. Eli sat back in his chair, arms crossed above his head; Ty paced the floor.

They awaited the General's reaction.

Alex Beauharnais didn't like being predictable. He stopped reading and asked what happened to Secretary of Defense Forrestal. Why had his death been important enough to be mentioned in a Top Secret briefing for the President?

Eli appraised the General calmly, and then spoke. "James Vincent Forrestal was born in 1892 in Beacon New York, and died by his own hand in 1949. He was the U.S. Secretary of the Navy from 1944 to 1947 and Secretary of Defense from 1947 to 1949. After the reorganization of the War and Navy departments, Forrestal became the first Secretary of Defense. In that position, he was chairman of the original MJ-12 committee, which was established in 1947 after a series of bizarre UFO sightings and incidents. Mental illness forced his resignation." Eli paused, taking a sip out of his glass.

"He later committed suicide by jumping backwards out of the sixteenth floor window of the Bethesda Naval hospital. His suicide occurred less than a year after he created Project Sign to investigate alien technology. His medical records are sealed to this day, even to the exclusion of his heirs," Eli concluded.

Eli watched for a reaction from the General. Alex grimaced a little and looked at the document, then back at Eli.

"You don't seem shocked," Eli observed.

Alex accepted the refill of water that Colonel Trent offered him. Later, he knew he would need something stronger. For the moment, he wanted to keep his wits about him.

"Amazed, titillated, curious...but not shocked. I've seen film footage of one." Beauharnais said, to Eli's amazement.

Ty injected for Eli's benefit, "The F-15/UFO crash at the Nellis AFB range, Sir."

"Oh. That."

"Was the suicide of Forrestal the reason the DIRNSA now heads the MJ-12 committee instead of the Secretary of Defense? And now, as the ex-DIRNSA, you control the committee still?" the General asked, sounding puzzled.

"Yes to both questions," Eli said, and then shook his head at Ty, who looked as if he wanted to add detail to the answer. "We'll get into that later. Please read on, General."

CHAPTER 19 - Offensive Security

General Alex Beauharnais scanned the several dozen pages of attachments to the MJ-12 files. He had occasionally imagined such possibilities as those documented within the text to be true, but he had rejected such premises according to the dictates of his superiors, who categorically claimed that they were all nonsense and unsubstantiated allegations.

"Now do you see the dilemma we face in regard to security?" Eli Jerrold asked him.

Alex was not yet ready to commit himself to declaring open season on civilians, regardless of the reason. "What has been accomplished since the MJ-12 committee was established?"

"My God, man," Eli leaned forward excitedly, "the breakthroughs that we have made in the five decades since the Roswell crash are astounding!"

"To name only a few, we have, of course, the quantum leap forward in aerial technology, the accelerated development of computers, genetic breakthroughs: breaking the human genome, seeking to discover just what has been manipulated within our species since Neanderthal. And then there are lasers, fiber and solid-state optics, bio and nanotechnology, certain advanced types of composite meta materials and quasi-crystals. All these concepts and advances were directly related to artifacts and data gleaned from UFOs."

While Jerrold paused to catch his breath, Colonel Trent picked up the ball. "The so-called Cold War was exaggerated and manipulated by both sides to justify the huge defense expenditures funneled into these extraordinary technologies. The Russians went broke, and our country has accumulated a huge debt. We're borrowing money against our future--racing against the devil for survival. It’s all about funding our Space Fleet now."

"Who the hell are they, these aliens?" Alex wanted them to answer the two most obvious questions. "And where are they from?"

Colonel Trent shrugged. "We don't know their initial point of origin, but they would have us believe somewhere not in this solar system. They also claim to have had a base on our moon and Mars for longer than the duration of humankind's history. That should explain to you why both the Russians and ourselves have lost probes in the Mars orbit."

Jerrold poured himself another bourbon and made a gesture of offering the bottle to the general. This time Alex nodded his acceptance of a drink. He was definitely ready for something stronger than bottled water.

"They claim to have been on our planet since before Neanderthal man," Eli said as he poured a shot of bourbon for General Beauharnais. "To be frank, though, our only communications from them come through occasional thought projections or brief radio transmissions. We have yet to be able to decipher their language."

"Why's that?" Alex wondered as he accepted the glass of bourbon and water from Jerrold.

"They use pictographic characters," Colonel Trent said, as he crossed the room to the liquor cabinet to mix himself a drink. "Tens of thousands of different ones. The alien vehicles are piloted by  androids..."

General Beauharnais interrupted the Colonel with an unrestrained burst of laughter. "Androids? This is starting to sound like an episode of Star Trek, gentlemen."

Colonel Trent smiled grimly. "This is science fiction come true, General. These androids aren't robots or machines; they're some kind of created biological entity. They call themselves the 'Jexovah', and we call them Extraterrestrial Biological Entities or EBEs, because we have never seen the aliens who created them."

"And these...androids are flying in from Mars?" Alex asked before he took a large swallow of the bourbon.

"We suspect that the smaller scout ships and the considerably larger research craft are probably based on much larger interplanetary or interstellar vessels. They, in turn, may be controlled by a massive mother ship manned by the Jexovah. We haven't been able to gain much intelligence from the androids themselves, for, unfortunately, we discovered that when an android piloted craft crashed or became otherwise disabled, the entities rapidly biodegraded or auto-disassociated, and this auto-degradation process is not fully understood by our scientists."

"What about their hardware, the crafts themselves?" Alex asked. "Apparently we've been able to gain a lot of practical knowledge from an examination of these vehicles."

"But it hasn't been easy," Eli answered. "A great deal of the recovered crafts' computers and other instrumentation were structured of organic like material, so they also degraded. We can now match a great deal of the alien technology, but they can still come and go at will with little regard to our defense systems. We are hoping that the Aurora and SDI programs will change all that. We intend to make them have more respect for us as a species."

General Beauharnais set his empty glass on the edge of Jerrold's desk. "But obviously these...Jexovah entities must be peaceful, even benevolently inclined toward us. Otherwise they could have blown us to atoms long ago. Or, if it is true that they have been around since before Neanderthals, then they could have raised our entire species to be their slaves if that had been their desire."

Eli nodded. "We have considered all of these things, General."

"I would expect that you had," General Beauharhais said, and then repeated himself pensively, "I would expect that you had. After all, they'd had fifty years to think about these things."

"The problem is," Colonel Trent interjected, "we don't really know their game plan. We don't know what kind of timetable they might be running on. Hell, they might consider us and the whole planet as their property. They could be waiting for just the right moment to enslave us. Maybe we were too dumb for them before. They didn't want a bunch of hairless monkeys to do their bidding."

Alex wanted to know if there was any solid evidence of the aliens' hostile intentions.

"There have been incidents that certainly indicate a callous disregard for human sensitivities," Jerrold said. "And there have been more serious incidents that indicate a rather serious disregard for human life."

Colonel Trent pulled up a chair so that he might sit closer to the general. "That's why we must maintain a strict policy of maximum security. We just don't know what the aliens are up to. They could turn on us at any time."

Eli chuckled. "Think of all these well-meaning, but naive, environmentalists running around trying to save the planet. General Beauharnais, tell me, if there is no viable, free civilization, then what good is the planet? The logic of MJ-12 is to first protect our species, then the environment."

"But in the fifty years that our government has been interacting on one level or another with these alien creatures, MJ-12 must surely have learned more than you have told me thus far," General Beauharnais reasoned.

Ty turned to face Eli Jerrold. As the present head of MJ-12 whatever intelligence disclosed to the general was completely up to him.

"From our studies since 1947, we have discovered that a good many of the legends of gods, angels, and miraculous occurrences reported through human history have been based on the activities of the Jexovah aliens," Jerrold said. "Every religion and culture has been profoundly influenced by these aliens and their androids. We believe that the Sumerian civilization was directly programmed and directed by these alien entities."

Colonel Trent felt a tacit permission had been granted to provide General Beauharnais with as much intelligence as he could absorb in a few hours sitting. "We have learned a considerable amount about their technology from our examination of four crashed vehicles, the first of which was the one at Roswell. We theorize that our contemporary technology may now be close to where the aliens were roughly six thousand years ago, except they had a form of interstellar propulsion."

Eli Jerrold pushed back from his desk, stood, then walked to the large wall safe behind him. The instant he opened the safe door, the curved, teardrop shape of an alien android head came into view. The bust, with its gray skin and deep black bulging eyes, was secured in a hermetically sealed clear plastic bag. He removed the bust and a small metal box containing crash residue.

"Eerie looking son of a bitch, eh?" Jerrold asked the general.

Alex nodded, fighting back a feeling of revulsion. "I assume it's not real. A mounted trophy for the wall. You said their bodies rapidly biodegraded."

Colonel Trent confirmed his assumption. "It's a silicon copy, very exact in detail. The color, a light gray with subtle blue highlights, is also accurate. So are the measurements."

Eli removed the bust from its plastic seal, then pushed it toward General Beauharnais across the top of his hand carved mahogany desk. "It's enough to give a guy the willies, right? Have a closer look, General."

Alex ran a forefinger over the alien's smooth forehead. "Those big bug eyes could really get you, huh? A kind of hypnotic quality."

He turned the bust in his hands. No jaw, small holes for the nostrils, a thin line for a mouth and. tiny bumps where one would expect the ears to be.

"I've heard the alleged accounts and descriptions of these creatures by people who claimed to have been abducted by aliens," Alex admitted. "They say that the creatures are only about four feet tall. However, that doesn't mean they couldn't be a threat to us. A helluva lot of Viet Cong were under five feet tall, and they managed to kill over 58,000 U.S. soldiers."

Eli had poured himself another small shot of bourbon. "The greatest threat need not be a physical one," he said quietly. "I will confess something to you, General. We have alluded to the alien's ability to communicate mentally. I don't know if it was just my imagination, but when I was called to Groom Lake to inspect the largest of the four intact alien vehicles that we had recovered, I actually felt as though I received some kind of communication from them inside my head."

"What kind of communication?" Alex prompted.

Eli shook his head. "I'm not certain. Maybe my will was too strong to pick up actual thoughts that could be translated into words, but my brain was filled with the most extraordinary images. It was as if I had somehow been transported to another world, another dimension where the things of our world made absolutely no sense. I got the hell out of there as fast as I could to clear my head."

Colonel Trent cleared his throat as he got up to fix himself another drink. "Probably damn good thing you got out of there when you did. Remember Secretary Forrestal."

Eli lowered his eyes for a moment before he continued. "It was after Forrestal had observed the autopsy of the dead aliens from the Roswell crash that he was apparently driven mad by the images and the voices he claimed to see and hear in his head."

Trent sat down again next to General Beauharnais. "He wasn't the only one."

Eli lifted his eyes and looked directly at the general. "No, he wasn't. Since the first crash in 1947, 237 male and eighteen female personnel who have worked on these projects have been placed in high security mental institutions spread throughout the United States."

"Holy shit!" Alex exclaimed, throwing his studied calm to the wind.

Jerrold and Trent emitted mirthless laughter at the General's emotional and unexpected response.

"Holy shit, indeed," Jerrold continued. "Each of these individuals, all 255 of them, claimed to have received some kind of communication from the alien corpses."

"Or from alien spaceships and living android crews," Trent added.

"The Colonel is correct," Jerrold agreed. "But whatever they claimed to be the source of their mental communication, some became comatose, withdrawn from reality, while others turned into blathering, drooling idiots."

Colonel Trent added another interesting detail. "Some, though, exhibited strange, new mental powers. You know, being able to predict future events, picking up details about strangers. We're studying these particular people very carefully. The others we keep heavily medicated."

General Beauharnais was finding all of this difficult to absorb. "Surely not everyone who dealt with the alien corpses or technology went mad."

"Of course not," Eli said. "We soon found that it was personnel who held strong literal or fundamental beliefs about God or Christ who were the most tragically and extraordinarily affected."

Ty shifted his thick body in his chair and crossed his legs. "This is one of the reasons for tight security. If a lot of people knew the truth about the aliens, it would destroy their orthodox and conventional belief structures. We might have millions of men and women to put into institutions."

"That's possible," the general conceded the point. "But what if we began a massive educational program to acquaint our citizens of the truth?"

Eli disagreed. "In this case, General, we do not believe that the truth would set them free. Let me explain what we have gleaned from the images that those men and women we had to institutionalize shared with medical personnel in their moments of lucidity. It gives us a composite of the aliens, their world, and their intentions. It may well have been that each of these wretched people were given a piece of some great cosmic jigsaw puzzle that we were challenged to assemble."

Eli began unraveling the composite picture of an alien world for the General by stating that it appeared the beings' once earth-like planet had become barren and dead of all life forms. A planet once inhabited by millions of species of diverse plants and animals had become a graveyard in space, because its dominant species had sacrificed their world's future for a technology that had turned on them.

"The Jexovah had exhausted their natural resources. They had manipulated their world with a super science beyond anything we humans can now understand," Jerrold continued. "They literally took their planet apart. They altered nature, tested bizarre theories, and wreaked havoc to their fragile ecosystem in the name of progress. Without the discovery of the magnetic flux field plasma vortex propulsion system, it is certain that they would have perished in their own ashes. Because of this advanced propulsion system, vast numbers of the Jexovah were able to leave their sterile rock planet and condemn the rest of their kind to deal with a noxious liquid muck filling its oceans, an atmosphere storming out of control, and a deadly mixture of toxic gasses blowing about."

Eli paused a moment, sipped at his drink. It was clear that he had the general's undivided attention. "The Jexovah explored and expanded through the universe," he said, resuming the account that had been pieced together from hundreds of individual visions. "They possessed the technological ability to move from one universe to another and back again through artificially created 'wormholes' in space. They created this capability through the use of quasi crystals, which allowed for what Einstein called in still secret papers a 'quantum time domain flux field transference'."

"According to the composite mental impressions received by the government personnel who had been driven mad by the alien communications, the Jexovah discovered that they only aged in their universe of origin. When they explored other universes, they enjoyed a glorious immortality. Thus being able to explore literally forever, never aging except in their home universe, they appeared to have evolved to the point where they could live the ultimate dream that any scientifically advanced civilization could hope to achieve."

"Their space probes, passing through the outer limits of our solar system, detected a planet between Mars and Jupiter that was compatible with their needs."

"Excitement infected the Jexovah when their probes alerted them to the existence of natural quasi crystals on this faraway world. When this planet was destroyed through a series of natural cataclysms, they found Earth to contain other precious metals that they needed and an environment that was kinder to their biological and logistical requirements."

"And now we come to the part wherein the Jexovah came to our lovely green oasis in space," Jerrold said, feeling the anger rise within him. "We come to the part where they decided to interfere with our planet's natural evolution and pump some of their genes into Neanderthal man."

General Beauharnais scowled his objection. "Are you suggesting that the first true human, the Neanderthal, would never have evolved if it were not for the Jexovah intervention?"

Jerrold answered without hesitation. "From what we have pieced together, it seems apparent that Homo erectus would have been a dead end for the hominid species if it had not been for the Jexovah. They arrived on this planet bearing their gifts of science and proceeded to alter a species by genetic manipulation. They planted their seed within us."

Colonel Trent spoke up. "So you can see, General, why those who take their Bible and their religion literally would be knocked for a giant loop to learn that they had not been created by a God who placed them in a Garden of Eden, but by an alien species who wished to perpetuate their own kind. We were not created in the image of God, but in the image of the Jexovah."

This was getting to be a bit much for General Beauharnais. "I guess, although I don't like admitting it, that I would be upset by such an allegation,  especially if it could be proven."

Eli seemed satisfied with the general's response. "You are beginning to understand more clearly why MJ-12 and those of us who know the truth about aliens and UFOs have been so protective of our weaker brethren. It really is up to us to assume the role of shepherds for the masses of humankind."

General Beauharnais took a stiff drink. He had more questions, but he decided to allow Eli Jerrold to continue with his narrative.

"We are, in essence, an attempt of the Jexovah to correct the over manipulation that their species had made in their own genetic engineering for hundreds of eons," Jerrold said. "They started their gene manipulation with primates; and as Homo erectus evolved into Homo sapiens, the androids have continued their work."

Eli paused, and then leaned forward to emphasize his point. "And understand, General, understand this well: The work of the Jexovah is not yet finished. We are not the linear descendants of Neanderthal man, nor are we Jexovah. We are something in between. We are some goddamned abomination of nature."

General Beauharnais had moved to the edge of his seat. "When you say that the Jexovah is not yet finished..."

"It is apparent that during intermittent, but regular, periods of time, the Jexovah supervise the genetic examination and/or manipulation of Earth's higher life forms as a quality control measure, making certain that the target life forms are evolving in the direction of their plans."

Colonel Trent stood. It was time to refill his glass. "General, a well-read man such as yourself is certainly aware that since humankind's earliest memories and most ancient records, the gods have appeared in fiery chariots and other fantastic vehicles. Since the beginning, they have abducted certain earthlings, manipulated their genes through selective impregnation, and left them with weird stories or suppressed memories."

General Beauharnais declined another drink. He wanted to be certain that he understood all of this.

"We've also learned that there is particular EBE known as a seed android," Jerrold said. "In effect, this entity is a changeling, carrying a complex geo-organ in which is stored most of the Jexovah genetic material. This organ is capable of duplicating other of the target species' genetic material while carefully inserting Jexovah genes. Being a mimicked life form, the seed androids converted to human and mated with humans."

The general shook his head slightly, as if to sharpen his mental machinery. "If I am following all of this, then the offspring would bear human genetic material as well as the Jexovah genes."

Jerrold nodded. "Since the seed androids were, in essence, living machines--gene factories, so to speak--they could mate again and again, inserting the Jexovah genes at planned intervals, each time forcing the evolution of our species to become a civilization of pseudo-Jexovah."

A thought occurred to the general. "Since these seed androids are human in appearance, they could live among us unnoticed."

Eli shrugged. "Possible. But from the fragments of information that we've pieced together, we really have no idea if there are seed androids walking among us."

"But perhaps that's what all these abductions are all about," General Beauharnais suggested.

Eli paused, collecting his thoughts before answering. "We only know the seed androids existed at one time. There is both the ancient historical documentation and the alien thoughts that some have received. These abductions are another matter. They are performed by an android that seems intent on a kind of genetic manipulation that involves the stealing of sperm, eggs, or fetuses from us for some kind of quality control process."

The general sat for a moment in quiet reflection. "How far are we from becoming true Jexovah?"

Eli Jerrold considered the question. "No intelligence in the universe, except the Jexovah, can answer that question."

Eli got out from behind his desk and began to pace. "Now, General, do you have a clearer picture of the awesome, the terrible responsibility that those of us on the MJ-12 committee carry around with us every moment of the day and night? There are times when my head actually aches from the secrets that I carry inside my brain!"

Colonel Trent agreed. "But we have not just been wringing our hands over this nightmare. Thanks to the brilliant and resourceful leadership of Eli Jerrold, we have spread the research to catch up to the Jexovah technology throughout the Department of Defense DARPA, and commercial industries. The prime movers in this research are such national laboratories as Sandia, Los Alamos, Livermore, and AT&T. The government laboratories heading up the research on alien technology are Armstrong, Philips, Rome, and Wright Patterson."

General Beauharnais was puzzled. "But I've been to most of those laboratories, especially the four government laboratories that are on our air bases. It is becoming increasingly clear to me that this research is not generally known to the rank and file--or even to those of us with extremely high rank and security clearance."

"Only those who consider themselves patriots of the highest order are aware of these projects," Jerrold explained. "Others are recruited as their services are required. That was why you were invited here today."

"And because I protested against such severe security measures as I see being enforced on certain Black programs," the general said.

"And now you understand the need for such extreme measures," Colonel Trent said, adding with just a slight hint of threat or perhaps, merely earnest prompting, "Don't you?"

"I suppose I do," Alex answered. "My mind, though, is still unsettled from all of this sudden astonishing input."

Eli continued to outline the current research that they hoped would enable the secret government to protect its citizens:  "Under the Department of Defense's supervision, Los Alamos works with Livermore on nuclear weapons and nuclear propulsion. Los Alamos also works with the materials associated with containment of the prototype magnetic field disrupter and the downsized reactors. Livermore developed the plasma containment and superconductors."

General Beauharnais interrupted. "When you say the DoD supervises this research at Los Alamos, you are, of course, referring to select administrative personnel who have already joined your band of patriots?"

Colonel Trent confirmed his deduction. "That's correct. All military and civilian underlings are under their oath not to disclose any details of these Black projects. And because most of them only work with bits and pieces of research, few of them could figure out what the hell was going on anyway."

Jerrold stopped his pacing and took his seat behind his large desk. "Our people at Rome laboratories are providing us with research on electromagnetic and magnetic field generation technology, as well as energy weapons and the phenomenal quasi crystals. The Rome laboratories at Griffiss AFB NY research the alien communications and provide intelligence techniques for monitoring alien movements.

"Our contacts at the NSA work closely with these laboratories to provide guidance to the National Reconnaissance Office for satellite surveillance and Space Command for tracking UFO movements outside of the atmosphere. Wright Patterson works on the airframe and materials reverse engineering from artifacts recovered from the four crashes, as well as efforts in developing avionics, flight dynamics, and atmospheric propulsion systems. Philips labs at Kirtland AFB gave us research on rocket propulsion, ramjet, and scramjet technologies. They have done a great deal with advanced weapons development, also."

"So you can see," Jerrold concluded his rundown; "we have spread the technologies and research around in a desperate effort to be prepared for a possible all-out alien invasion. In addition, dozens of university and private research contracts have been discretely let to assist the prime movers."

Alex sighed and leaned back in his chair. "Then I guess all those rumors about alien bodies at Wright Patterson are really true after all."

Colonel Trent knew that the general was referring to the beings found in the wreckage of the 1947 Roswell, New Mexico crash. "The remains of the alien space vehicles were taken initially to Los Alamos, for the simple reasons that they had developed the A-bomb, they were closest to the crash, and they could provide the necessary security. The materials, debris, and later some of the vehicles' pieces were taken to Wright Patterson. The bodies were never taken there."

The general smiled. "Okay, then, let me guess. But you have to tell me if I'm correct. Could they have been taken to the Armstrong Aerospace Medicine or Human Systems laboratories at Brooks AFB facilities in San Antonio?"

Colonel Trent laughed. "You win the cigar!"

"Sandia labs at Kirtland also assisted," Jerrold added.

Alex knew the moment of truth was fast approaching. "How do I fit into all of this?"

Jerrold seemed only too pleased to answer his question. "Most of our actual ground and air testing is done at Area 51. There are, as you know, areas that even you have not been allowed to enter. Although we used to do a lot of testing at White Sands, Los Alamos, and the high desert around Edwards AFB, our last bastion for ultra secret testing is Area 51.

"We want you to tighten security, double the Wackenhut and military personnel," Jerrold emphasized his request by slapping his palm on his desk in rhythm to his spoken words.

It was now doubly clear to the General why he had been summoned. But even the threat of alien invasion did little to soften his opinion of the Wackenhut paramilitary security personnel funded by the DOE. He despised them.

"I now understand your position," Alex told Jerrold. "What you have told me explains a lot of what I never before understood about a lot of things."

Jerrold told him that they had some new security technology that would soon be installed in the area. "General, if we can just hold off the media, the cultists, the UFO buffs, and misguided government officials who are all sticking their ignorant noses into our vital defense efforts for another four years, we'll be able to set up a solid bulwark against the Jexovah. Do we have your commitment to be a true patriot and to join our noble cause?"

Alex nodded. "I will support you, Eli. But I will not support the torturing or detaining of U.S. citizens. We will just have to tighten security so we won't have to resort to such extreme measures."

Eli Jerrold seemed satisfied. "We've expanded Area 51 to include the Whitesides and Freedom Ridge areas near Rachel. We will now be able to accelerate the testing of our secret prototypes. The UFO buffs, especially the pain-in-the-ass types like Newsom and Webster, have severely hampered our testing schedule the past two years. We've already put a massive disinformation campaign into gear that will 'prove' the video shown on Exploring the Unknown to be a fake created in a special effects lab."

General Beauharnais stood and saluted the two men. "I'll begin implementing the new security measures at once."

Jerrold shook his hand. "It means a lot to the MJ-12 committee and to me personally that you are with us now and that we can count on you."

The general excused himself and left the elegant offices of Eli Jerrold. The MJ-12 committee needed his support, but he knew with a grim certainty that he could be replaced if he didn't follow their orders and conduct himself as a proper super patriot. It was clear to him what he must do. He must find out more about what was really going on with MJ-12 and how extensively the alleged alien threat truly extended itself into the lives of the average citizen.

CHAPTER 20 - A Lost Memory Regained

Joe Green put in the first long shift at the wheel of the RV on the drive back to Las Vegas while Blake Webster and Wayne Newsom did their best to catch up on some sleep.

After a few fitful hours of trying to find a comfortable position for his tall, lanky body, Wayne Newsom gave up and joined Joe in the front seat to listen to the radio. The Reverend Page Saint John's Cosmic Revival seemed to be on every other station. They had heard his signature hymn so often that once, just before they stopped for coffee to soak up the cobwebs in their brains, they even sang along with the radio as a lark:

When earth was in its darkest hour

The Jexovah bequeathed their power

From vaulted heavens they came to stay

And with the daughters of man they lay

The hybrid race, their fate unknown

Flesh of their flesh, bone of their bone

In innocence fulfilled their plan

Yet evil dwelt in heart of man

No prayers or rituals purged their fate

God's servants toiled from heaven's gate

Beyond man's hope, beyond man's dream

A plan was formed to man redeem

Rapture from touching the Chosen One

A million years of peace has begun

"Stupid hymn," Blake Webster mumbled from the backseat, his sleep punctured by his companions' enthusiastic, but off key, rendering of Page Saint John's musical credo.

"Hell of a rousing band, though," Newsom laughed.

They decided to get some breakfast at a twenty four hour restaurant. It was three o'clock in the afternoon, but they all agreed that it felt like seven in the morning.

When they climbed back in the RV, the men began to compare notes and share their individual interpretations of the UFO enigma. Joe was rather well-informed about the various escapades and theories of Webster and Newsom, but he was a complete nonentity to them. By the time that he had confided in them about his experiences with the Light and the experiments that he had undergone with Dr. Carlton Farr's supervision, they were listening to him with keen interest.

"Joe, hold it just a second...listen to this," Wayne interrupted, leaning forward abruptly and turning the volume of the car radio. They listened incredulously to the first of the news bits exposing the videotape that had been shown on Exploring the Unknown as a fraud. While they greeted such obviously planted misinformation with hoots and howls of derision, their raucous laughter and obscene analyses were quieted by the allegation that Blake Webster and Wayne Newsom were involved in the hoax.

"Chet Haynes, producer of the popular NBC series, Exploring the Unknown, reminded reporters of the disclaimer that precedes each airing of the program. 'Ours is strictly an entertainment show,' Haynes said. 'We make every effort to substantiate and to validate the authenticity of each program, but we make no claims to be presenting solid scientific truths when we deal with such topics as UFOs. We accepted the video film provided us by Blake Webster and his associate Wayne Newsom in good faith. We knew that both men were well-known UFO buffs and government gadflies, but we took their word as to the film's authenticity. We have since learned that the film was a hoax, a mockup done in a Hollywood special effects studio. We apologize for any embarrassment this may have caused the U.S. Air Force or anyone else. But we did present the segment as speculation, not scientific fact.'"

There was more, but the three men had caught the essence of the cover-up.

"You two hadn't even met before you went searching together for Red," Joe said. "How did they toss Wayne into this?"

Webster's features had become and somber. "Because they are really out to get the two of us. They're tired of fucking around with us. Jesus, they did God knows what to my friend Red. They blasted a hole the size of a tomato can through Carl Farr. Now the fuckers are after us, big time. For fucking keeps."

Newsom stretched his cramped arms, and then quickly dropped them back on the steering wheel. "Sure looks that way. I think we'd better keep a low profile until this shit stops dripping off the fan. Hide out somewhere."

Webster turned to point a finger at Joe. "You can bet they know who you are by now, man. And they figure since you were with Carl Farr for a couple of days, you know too damn much to walk around loose. We have to take all this very seriously. There's no doubt we're in some real danger, here. I just hope Red's still alive."

Joe had no real concern for himself, but panic pierced low in his gut when he thought of any harm coming to Karen or Kevin.

"I've got to get to my wife and son," he said.

"No, man," Webster corrected him. "You've got to keep your wife and kid hidden away somewhere. They're already looking for you, from what you've told me about you and Red at the bar and that incident at the Las Vegas airport. You want to lead them straight to your family?"

Newsom folded a piece of chewing gum into his mouth. After a few moments, he spoke as much to himself as the others: "For the first time since she passed on, I'm glad Dorothy's no longer with me. You know, it's when the bastards can lay a threat against a man's family that they can really put the squeeze on him. I don't think the assholes will try to hunt down my kids. At least I sure as hell hope not."

Webster nodded vigorously. "That's why I haven't tied the knot with Rainy. I don't even mention her name to anyone. We've been going together steady for three years, and I've never told a soul...well, except you guys. I mean, wife or not, they can get to you through the people you love most, but I figured if we're not married, they might not think I care that much for her."

Newsom shifted his gum. "But isn't that where you told me we were going to lay low for a while? At your girl's place?"

"Just for a very short while, man," Webster said. "She wouldn't have it any other way. Rainy is a tough cookie, and she's into all of this. Man, she's as into this whole pile of shit as much as any of us. She's been my right arm in researching the whole frigging government cover-up. She's a honorary conspiracy buff."

He turned to Joe, suddenly. "Hey, man, you want one of us to take over for a while? You don't look so good."

Joe nodded gratefully and pulled off to the side of the road. Wayne got behind the wheel, and Blake crawled into the passenger seat he had vacated, leaving the back seat for Joe, who stretched out and leaned his head against the door.

He was going to have to think all of this through very carefully. He had been so eager to get home to Karen and Kevin. He had so missed their love. But they weren't at home, and neither Joe nor his family could return there until he found a way to keep them safe. The last thing on earth he wanted was to see any harm come to either one of them. They'd just have to stay in Spokane until things cooled down.

Summer vacation was over for school kids. It was tough having to jerk Kevin out of football practice, but his wife and son had to stay out of Tonopah for a while. Thank God Karen had decided to teach only part-time this year. He prayed they had gotten out of Tonopah before any goddamned agency connected them to the shitload of trouble that he now stood in up to his knees.

It occurred to Joe that he hadn't slept for well over thirty hours. Wayne and Blake were quietly talking. Joe yawned and settled into the cushion of the backseat. It was raining slightly and moisture streaked the windows, distorting the lights of approaching cars.

He yawned again. There was really no reason to fight off sleep. Newsom was taking his turn at the wheel. Webster would relieve him.

Joe weary mind drifted back to the bus trip he took to Kilgore, Texas, in 1971, shortly after he had turned eighteen. By then, his father and his grandparents on both sides of his family were dead and buried. Just before his mother entered a long-term health facility, she arranged for him to live with her sister Ida and her husband Glenn Whittle in Kilgore so he could finish his senior year in high school. Joe wasn't told as much, but he knew that his mom had terminal cancer.

He hadn't seen Aunt Ida or Uncle Glenn for several years, but he remembered his uncle as a giant of a man with a loud, boisterous manner. He had shoulders as wide as a door, hands with large knuckles, a big red Okie nose, and stood six feet six inches in his bare feet.

Joe had heard all the stories about Uncle Glenn having played college basketball, baseball, and boxing professionally. Later he had owned a small fleet of sixteen wheelers. On top of all that, the man could do anything with his hands. If Aunt Ida wanted the stains and tears in the sofa covered, he upholstered it for her. If she wanted new cabinets for the kitchen, he built them. If she felt like something spicy for supper, he prepared a zesty Cajun gumbo.

Joe was intimidated just from hearing all the stories about Uncle Glenn Whittle. How would he be able to please a man who could do so many things so well? Uncle Glenn would probably be expecting too much from him.

Joe smiled and allowed his eyelids to drop shut. Uncle Glenn, the all-purpose giant. Uncle Glenn, the intimidating legend. The man had come to be the single most important person in his life--a role model the likes of which few young men had ever been blessed.

The first person Joe had spotted when the bus rolled in was his older cousin Eddie, a lanky six feet five inch eighteen year old, standing on the apron of concrete with a basketball tucked under his arm. It had been only three years since he had seen Eddie, and he had grown almost a foot. Joe was pleased that he had some family waiting to meet him at the bus stop.

Eddie, kind of shy and country simple, but likeable and friendly enough, led him to a red Ford pickup and tossed his two suitcases over the tailgate. It took them about thirty minutes to drive to the Whittle homestead at Lake Cherokee, not too far from Kilgore.

Within two months, Joe's life had completely turned around, and the once sad eyed and somber young man awoke each morning with a smile on his face.

Who could be dour around the ebullient Glenn Whittle? In his early forties, he wore the kind of flat top haircut that had been popular in the late 1950s. He dressed western style with wide buckle belt and cowboy boots, and added a light gray dress Stetson when he wanted to gussy up. Joe couldn't believe his good fortune when it was his turn to drive the new Ford pickup into the high school parking lot. Sure, he knew East Texas was oil, cattle, and resource rich, and many of his classmates drove sports cars and the like, but Joe Green had never dreamed that he would ever be a small part of it.

Uncle Glenn and Aunt Ida owned a small automobile import business, and they had promised to get him a sports car if he had his grades up by summer vacation. Joe had never done well academically, not because he wasn't smart, but he just couldn't concentrate with all the unceasing traumas in his life.

Uncle Glenn insisted on accompanying Joe to the high school on the first day of classes and speaking directly with the principal, Mr. Emanuel, to see that he got settled in properly. Uncle Glenn was like that, embarrassingly bold. But he surely did grow on a person. After a frank discussion in the principal's office, the football coach, Mr. Barnes, escorted Uncle Glenn and Joe around the sprawling East Texas high school.

Everyone knew Uncle Glenn, he was the guy who sold those fast, flashy foreign cars. So pretty soon, everyone knew his nephew, Joe Green. Joe found it incredible how friendly the people in the community were. Everyone he met was jovial, easy-going... not at all like his mother's quiet, strict, and seriously religious family.

His grades came up fast, and he made friends easily. Even some of the girls seemed to like him, although most thought him stuck-up. It wasn't that, of course. But he was shy, filled with emotional insecurities, and he had a desperate need to be accepted.

At first, all he was able to talk about was his tragic early life, religion, and foreign cars, which he was still learning about. But he smiled a lot, and he watched everyone as though he were a spy infiltrating a foreign nation. He soon picked up on the "in" clichés so that he could be thought witty at all the appropriate moments, and it seemed that almost overnight he had become one of the most popular kids in school. He played on the football team, took speech class, joined the debate team, and did just about everything he could to be around other students, especially the girls.

On weekends and whenever he could after school, Joe earned his spending money working at the Whittle's car dealership. It was his responsibility to detail the new cars after head mechanic Bobby Ray had signed off on the initial service of each vehicle. And it was dang hard work removing the thick cosmoline that coated every inch of the European automobiles. The stuff was similar to the tar-like coating they put on telephone poles.

"They didn't put that shit on there just to make life miserable for you, Joey boy," Ray told him. "That cosmoline has to be on there to protect the new car finish from rain, saltwater, and the environment in general, so these expensive play toys can make the trans-Atlantic voyage in good shape."

It usually took Joe three hours to remove the gummy cosmoline with the solvent--which often took patches of the outer layer of his skin along with it. And then another two to polish and wax the little sports cars.

Joe divided his time among the garage, the football field, his studies, and his girlfriend, Karen Foster. His best buddies were Dink Hewes and Lyle Littleton. Dink played football with him, and according to Coach Barnes, he was the best fullback in the state. Lyle's mother ran the high school Corral Club, the recreation center where the sports rallies, dances, and other important high school activities were held.

By now Joe had nearly reached his full adult height and weight. He stood a little over six-four and weighed a pretty hard-muscled 190. He enjoyed working his body, and he seemed to thrive on the roughest drills that the fertile mind of Coach Barnes could create. At the same time, the hormones that surged through him caused him a great deal of confusion and inner stress.

Almost from the first time that he had seen her in geometry class, Joe had developed a full-sized crush on Karen Foster. She had long strawberry blonde hair that she tied in a ponytail, and she filled out her blouse in a way that made little beads of sweat break out along Joe's forehead and upper lip. Her brown eyes were deep enough to get lost in, and her full red lips seemed always to be smiling, especially at him.  It wasn't long before Karen was wearing his senior class ring wrapped with a wad of tape around her finger, and he was wearing her class ring around his neck on a gold chain. There had been times after football games when they sat watching the moon from his pickup that they got pretty hot and heavy. But even though a lot of his buddies bragged about 'getting a piece' and giving their girls 'some hot meat', he was satisfied with kissing and making out. His Uncle Glenn was not a holy roller like his grandparents, but he had put the fear of God in him about getting a girl pregnant.

And then there came that night....

He had been slow dancing with Karen at the HS Corral club after their victory at the football game when Dink grabbed his shoulder. "Joe, come outside. Lyle and Dave are in trouble."

Joe told Karen to wait inside, and he followed Dink through the side exit. When they stepped outside, he saw his skinny friend Lyle, and Dave, the team quarterback, ringed by a dozen or so guys on the fringes of the parking lot.

He didn't recognize the three boys who were taunting Lyle and Dave. It was too dark to see their school colors or the lettering on their jackets. But he could hear their hostility in the filth that spewed from their mouths.

Lyle, almost unbearably skinny, but uncommonly courageous, was trying to get the troublemakers to leave. Since his mother was in charge of the Corral, he undoubtedly felt the pressure to assume responsibility and to serve as peacemaker.

"Why don't you guys just get in your cars and leave now. Pronto!" Lyle shouted at them.

"Shove it, asshole!" the largest of the three malcontents shot back. His few words were slurred with alcohol.

"Yeah, make us, douche bag!" challenged another of the strangers.

Joe and Dink now stood behind their buddies. Their presence must have been interpreted as an overt act of aggression, because the big guy hurled his beer bottle at Joe, who ducked, stumbled backward, and fell on his butt. With Joe down for the moment, he then jumped Dink.

"Get him, Durwood!" the big kid's buddies urged him on. "Beat the shit out of him!"

In those days teenaged protocol demanded that once a fight broke out, the onlookers were required to stand by to make certain the fight was fair, but participation, other than cheers and curses, was strictly forbidden.

Joe got back to his feet, brushed gravel off his rear end, and spotted a fourth stranger, much older looking than his friends, get out of their black 60 Chevy and edge toward the fight. Joe would keep a close eye on him.

Dink and the boy called Durwood fought with a lot of swinging and cussing, and without any serious damage being dealt to either combatant. Dink was strong as a bull, short and stocky, and moved with a slow, stalking motion. His opponent was taller and quicker, but he would have had to have used a baseball bat on Dink to hurt him.

The show came to an end when Durwood nailed Dink twice in the face and really pissed him off. Dink grabbed the kid around the waist and wrestled him to the ground. He got on top of Durwood's chest and rested his full 220 pounds on him. One quick sledgehammer punch was all that was necessary to take the wind and the fight completely out of the invader.

Joe hadn't seen Karen and Dink's girl, Patricia, come out to the parking lot, but Karen was shouting hysterically that the police had been called. "You boys are going to jail if you don't get out of here right now!"

With his attention on Karen, Joe didn't see the older boy moving toward him with the switchblade. A second too late, Dink yelled at him to watch out. Somewhere in the distance of the night a siren screamed.

The blade of the knife cut deep into the sleeve of his letter jacket and into the flesh of his right arm. But he didn't feel the cut. His adrenalin was pumping, his heart was pounding, and there was a peculiar buzzing sound in his ears.

"Way to go, Eric," Durwood encouraged his friend. "Carve us all a piece of the son of a bitch!"

Joe wasn't a fighter. He simply reacted. The older boy angrily slashed and lunged repeatedly at him, but each time Joe would skillfully block the knife or move just enough so the blade would miss him.

Then Dink was there, slamming the mad slasher on the jaw with a punch that Joe thought would knock him into next Tuesday.

Eric was dazed by the powerhouse punch, but it somehow only served to enliven him. Surprisingly fast, faster than either Dink or Joe could react, he dropped down to one knee, scooped up a handful of dirt, and threw it in Dink's eyes.

While Dink coughed and cursed and Joe bobbed and weaved, Eric stood to drive the glistening blade of his knife directly at Dink's throat.

Joe's arm shot out from his side with the speed of a prizefighter. He grabbed the blade in his bare hand, wrenched it from Eric's angry grasp, and threw it to the gravel of the parking lot. Afterward, no one remembered seeing the movement, not even those onlookers who were facing the action, but Joe's right hand was cut deeply.

Before the four out-of-town hoodlums could get into their car and start the engine, Officers Collier and Morphus of the Kilgore Police Department arrived and placed them in custody. Joe was taken to the hospital by Dink, Karen, and Patricia. He needed seven stitches in his hand, five in his forearm. Strangely, he felt little pain, but the two couples agreed that they had had enough excitement for the night. Burgers and fries at the  Wagonwheel Drive-In, then home to bed was the plan decided upon.

Joe realized that he had fallen asleep and was dreaming, but somehow he was now able to step out of the dream and observe the startling subsequent events of that dramatic evening in Kilgore. He could see himself awakening that morning about three...

...with the sunlight glaring into his bedroom windows. But it couldn't be the sunlight. It had to be something else.

Something was calling him, telling him to step outside into the backyard. The light seemed to be everywhere. And when he obeyed the suggestion to go outside, he felt a field of energy encircle him.

Then the light was pulling him skyward. And there was nothing around him but the light. His skin seemed to be crawling with fire. It was as if he had died, but his brain still functioned.

From out of the light, long, narrow fingers reached out and pulled his body into a large, silver circular shaped vehicle.

Joseph Green, we will not hurt you. You have nothing to fear from us. You have been with us before.

The voice echoed in his head. Three beings moved closer to him as he lay horizontally. He tried to speak, but something was in his mouth. He wanted to tell them to please let him go. He didn't want to be there.

You have to be here. You are one of the Chosen. You are the hope of the future. We have to adjust you. When we are finished, we will return you to your people. Do not fear us.

Fear? Why couldn't they comprehend the overwhelming terror that filled his mind? He lay there naked, caught in a nightmare of unfathomable horror, with these small beings that called themselves Jexovah helpers, hovering around him with strange, shiny implements in their hands.

The being that had spoken to him put his small hand on Joe's forehead and he felt instantly calm... detached from the scene.

"Please tell me why you are doing this to me," he pleaded in his thoughts.

Joseph, there will come a time when you will understand. When this time comes, we will assist you. You will understand somewhere near the year 2000. The time will be at hand, for the Rapture will have begun. When this happens, our mission is completed and you will understand it's purpose, and you will remember.

Suddenly Joe's brain was flashing images of rape, murder, incest, torture, government conspiracies, religious deceit, greed, envy, hate, lust, and war. Somehow he understood that he perceived the legacy of humankind. Six thousand years of technological and scientific progress had brought humankind to the brink of the destruction of its environment, its planet, and itself.

Something in his mind evolved and energized.

We have placed a sliver of nonmetallic quasi crystal in your skull. It has two purposes. The first will allow us to track you with a resonant energy device, for the crystal contains special subatomic particle matrix that will also allow us to communicate with you. The other function is more complex.

Joe had another flash of insight; they had placed something up his nasal cavities when he was a child--and as he had matured, a gradual change had taken place in his genetic makeup.

We have genetically engineered deoxyribonucleic acid (DNA) by transplanting genes from our Jexovah species into the cells of Homo sapiens. When the fullness of time is realized, the DNA will become an active part of the Homo sapiens genetic makeup and will be replicated. The DNA is the principal constituent of chromosomes. Chromosomes are the structures that replicate hereditary characteristics.

"I had no idea at that time what the hell they were talking about," Joe remembered as he observed his dream from the vantage point of the present. "I just wanted to be away from them."

And then the eighteen year old Joe was seeing mental images of the double helix of DNA, proteins, enzymes, and other microscopic elements of the human genome. They meant nothing to him. Nor did the pictures of apish looking man- creatures working in mines and other structures.

The present genetic makeup of Homo sapiens is defective. When the Jexovah first arrived on Earth, the Neanderthal was the most advanced species. We needed to process organic and inorganic elements to repair our vehicles.

Neanderthals were capable of simple training. Their species had much potential. They needed higher mental functions and understanding. More genetically adjusted Neanderthals were then bred satisfactorily and humans came forth. A hybrid race of Jexovah and Neanderthals.

Eventually Neanderthals would have advanced. It would have taken half a million Earth years. They would never have achieved technology. They were limited. Homo sapiens have much more potential. After we finished our building tasks, we left. We gave Homo sapiens civilization. We left the Jexovah helpers with a plan that has been difficult to fulfill. You are an aggressive and violent species.

Young Joe witnessed the emergence of the Sumerian civilization, the introduction of writing, laws, religion, and technology--all in a blur of rapid montages of colorful images that impressed themselves on his subconscious. And all designed to demonstrate that Homo sapiens was a hybrid Neanderthal Jexovah being.

The second function of the implanted quasi crystal in your skull is very important. It is a catalyst for a genetic transformation that we call the Rapture. This process will permit the Chosen Ones to communicate mentally. This will promote harmony and happiness. This will promote peace among your kind.

Most humans will fear the Rapture. We will assist you through the Rapture. The next stage in your evolution and the collapse of your civilization will be apocalyptic. Those who rapture will be the future of humanity.

When the Jexovah--or Nefilim--arrived in your solar system, they settled on the planet between Mars and Jupiter. This planet was destroyed at a time when giant beasts roamed Earth. The debris from the destruction of this planet caused a cataclysm on Earth, which brought about the extinction of the giant beasts. Our masters, the Jexovah, needed Earth's resources to rebuild their flying machines. While they lived on Earth they created Homo sapiens from the Neanderthal.

Twelve of the Jexovah bred with Homo sapiens. This had been forbidden. The fallen twelve, along with their progeny, were evicted from the fold.

The inbreeding of Homo sapiens and Jexovah destroyed the original intent of the leaders. The children of the breeding were stronger and smarter than the Homo sapiens that had been created through genetic engineering, but they were also more susceptible to acts of violence, greed, and evil. While they had the capacity to develop into an intelligent people, their warlike tendencies could eventually destroy many worlds if they did not destroy themselves first.

The Jexovah chose to ignore the hybrids until they began to dominate the majority. The Jexovah gave your civilization religion, hoping that it would temper humankind's violent nature. Sadly, in many instances, religion made the situation even worse.

The Jexovah studied your species' genetic structure for many thousands of years. During this time, your civilization was manipulated to prevent it from destroying itself. In spite of our interaction, we feared many times that we would not succeed.

Then, we developed a new plan. We found a solution that would take two thousand years to complete. When the plan is complete, the Rapture will begin. The genetic structure of humankind will be repaired and restructured.

The hybrid Homo sapiens have lacked two Jexovah traits. The ability to communicate mentally and the ability to live indefinitely. The Rapture will correct these deficiencies. The result--subsequent generations will be true Jexovah. The children of the gods will be redeemed in the Jexovah's eyes. We, the Helpers, are the guardians of the plan. It is our task to complete the plan and guide humankind to the Jexovah.

When Uncle Glenn got up at seven o'clock that morning, he found Joe asleep in the backyard, naked except for his jockey shorts.

"You poor kid," he said, helping Joe to his feet. "You had quite an ordeal last night. Must have just turned your head around during the night and you wandered out here. Let's get you back inside."

Uncle Glenn grabbed for Joe's bandaged hand to wrap his arm around his neck, and then pulled back when he remembered the boy's wound. "Sorry, Joe. Did I hurt you? Didn't mean to."

Joe straightened his body in sudden realization. "Uncle Glenn, it doesn't hurt at all!"

As his uncle stood by in stunned amazement, Joe unwrapped his bandages. The stitches were gone. So was any evidence of the cut on his palm. The same was true of his forearm. No sign remained that would indicate that a doctor had carefully sewn five stitches in that area the night before.

"Praise the Lord," Uncle Glenn said, calling out to summon Aunt Ida and Eddie. "We have been privileged to have witnessed a miracle come to pass on our boy, Joseph."

A sudden dip in the highway jolted Joe awake. As the headlights from an oncoming car struck his eyes, he involuntarily emitted a loud gasp. For a split second, he thought it was the light coming for him once again.

"You all right back there, bud?" Wayne Newsom asked. "Sorry about that dip. Woke you, huh?"

"Hey, don't worry about me, I'm fine," Joe said. He held up his right palm and studied it for a moment as if he had not really seen it since he was eighteen. Not a scar. Not even a fine line to show where the knife blade had cut him.

Carl Farr had told him that their experiment would continue to reactivate old dreams and memories. But Joe had just had an astonishing recall of his interaction with the Jexovah when he was eighteen, and he had now remembered the complete message of the beings that had been buried in his subconscious for over two decades.

He also remembered Karen's face when he had shown her his wounds later that same day. She agreed with Uncle Glenn that a miracle had occurred. With the memory of the Jexovah completely submerged in his brain cells, Joe had nothing with which to refute such an interpretation.

"It's because you were willing to sacrifice yourself for a friend," Karen told him. "Jesus said that there was no greater love than that of laying down your life for a friend. Joseph Green, you are really a special kind of guy."

Joe smiled at the memory. Karen Foster had also proven herself to be a special kind of gal. She had patiently waited for him to return from Vietnam and to get his act somewhat together before he asked her to marry him. He'd really had loved her since that first day in geometry class.

CHAPTER 21 - The Fallen Conspirator

Crawfoot drove the maroon 1989 Olds 98 north towards Albuquerque. It was rare moment in his life--he was the pursued.  He was much more comfortable as the pursuer. He glanced in the rear view mirror for the tenth time in the last minute.

"Shit...” he said through gritted teeth. He instinctively reached for his gun, wedged in between the two front bench seats.

A white unmarked vehicle with flashing red and blue lights on opposite sides of the front grill was coming up fast behind him.

"Highway patrol, Feds, or what?" he wondered as he watched the Suburban close behind him.

The orange sun had just set into a sea of pastel hues of red; phenomena created by a lower atmosphere laden with the desert sands and dust.

Crawfoot flinched involuntarily as the white Suburban cruiser flashed its bright high beams on from behind.

He resisted the urge to outrun the fast-approaching vehicle. More than likely it was built for high-speed pursuit, and his stolen vehicle was a civilian one.

There wasn't a siren that he could hear; in fact the only sounds were the whine of the road made by the radial tires and a slight wind leak from the front passenger door.

He had destroyed the Mexican passport and papers. Now he had only the military ID card and driver's license of the disabled vet. He had remembered the data on them, but wasn't sure they would hold up to official scrutiny. This car sure as hell won't pass muster, he thought. He wasn't even sure if the stolen car contained a registration slip or an insurance card. Crawfoot simply hadn't intended to keep the car past Albuquerque.

"Damn the luck!" He'd been careful to change cars twice since he'd left San Antonio.

He decided to get off at the exit he was quickly approaching. A cinder block building, some kind of business, was visible just beyond the exit ramp facing the access road.

He flipped his turn signal on and kept to the speed limit as he followed his newly improvised plan.

The Olds' windows were tinted enough to where he was pretty sure the trailing vehicle couldn't seen him well. On the other hand, he couldn't see his pursuers either. Crawfoot lowered the electric front window so he would have a clear view from his outside rear view mirror as he pulled into the building's parking lot. He had already turned off all his inside lights and pushed the knob causing his driving lights to blink out.

"Now we sit and wait..."

Crawfoot sat in the darkened car, his parking lights the only indication that it was occupied. Flashing lights from the pursuit vehicle intermittently lit the inside of his car with fading shadows. The only sound was his engine idling. The seconds ticked off...

His eyes were glued to his outside rear view mirror.  Crawfoot saw the interior light flash on in the Suburban directly behind him. The moment before the Suburban door opened, Crawfoot was able to make out the image of the driver reaching in and pulling a pistol from a shoulder holster.

He estimated he was about twenty feet in front of the Suburban when he slipped his Oldsmobile into reverse. The instant the driver's feet hit the ground, Crawfoot mashed his gas pedal to the floor and released his other foot from the brake pedal.

"Surprise mother-fucker," he said out loud, as he braced himself.

The impact was sudden and just short of violent sounds of breaking glass and crunching metal ripped through the night. The driver was knocked off his feet from the impact of the open door hitting him. Crawfoot jumped from his vehicle, weapon in hand, to discover the driver was out cold and the passenger had severely smashed his head on the front window of the Suburban. It only took him a couple of minutes to remove the key and empty his automatic pistol into the radio transmitter, fuse box, and the engine’s electronic computer, each shot muffled by the silencer.

Crawfoot cuffed the blooded man in the passenger seat to the steering wheel, then lifted his partner off the ground and pushed him back into the driver’s side, cuffing him also.

"Sorry motherfucker...this'll teach you to tailgate," Crawfoot's biting sarcasm reflected his frustration.

The whole ordeal couldn't have taken more than five minutes.

Less than an hour later, Michael Crawfoot sat in a truck stop outside Albuquerque, New Mexico, in a newly stolen black Ford Ranger pickup, considering his options.

This isn't working out like I planed; he thought...My ass hasn't been this close to the hoosegow since Nam. Who were those two men in the Suburban? Hell, he wasn't even sure if it really was a patrol vehicle. He castigated himself for not taking the time to go through their wallets or vehicle, but he would have had to kill them to make the time, something he hadn't wanted to do. If they really were just New Mexico law officers, it was best to do what he had done, disable them and get the fuck out of Dodge. Could he himself be the target of some Federal hit because of his botched job in San Antonio? This was something he really didn't want to think about at this moment, but he'd have to face the possibility as soon as he had the luxury of time.

He had kept moving since he had terminated the scientist.  The hit wasn't as clean as he would have liked it, and there had been at least one witness. The job just hadn't been up to his usual exactingly high standards.

He replayed the assassination at Medina Lake in his mind and tried to resolve the sickening feeling that he had made a major blunder.

Two nights before he offend the scientist, he had spotted a tall Caucasian male about his own age who looked strangely familiar. He had watched him from outside Pat's Place, then followed him as he returned to the house with a six-pack of beer. When he had shot the scientist and was tear-assing out of there, he had spotted the other man once again. Who the fuck was he?

It was his habit to always assume the worst-case scenario and hope for the best, but he knew he had been sloppy on this assignment.

"Am I losing my edge...or my dedication?" he asked himself.

He should never have had the bullshit conversation with the nosy old retired officer at Pat's Place. He should have just gotten up and walked out when the dude started talking to him.

Yeah, right! Then the arrogant old fart would have gotten so pissed that he would remember him forever.

He assumed the authorities would be watching the airports, car rental agencies, and bus and train stations. He had dumped the Jeep he was driving in a ditch and ripped off the Olds in front of a bar.

He didn't dare stop at a motel or hotel. He kept moving. It was entirely possible that the old bastard had been sharp enough to describe him to a police artist. Then the cops would put out a composite drawing of him and broadcast a multistate all points bulletin on his ass.

He looked at his watch. It was Wednesday, September 4, the second day after the job in San Antonio. At three PM he would contact Colonel Ty Trent at his private number at the NSA. It would be five PM in Washington, and Mother would be waiting for his call with further instructions.

The Ranger shook as a semi-truck rolled by, and he wondered how many more people he would have to kill before he had his fill.

Crawfoot had enough money saved to live comfortably, if modestly, for the rest of his life if he decided to drop out. In addition, he had a phony VA disability retirement that had been set up by Colonel Trent that would generate almost two thousand dollars a month.

He looked around and guessed that there were at least two dozen long haul trucks parked around the stop. Most drivers were sleeping, or were in the restaurant loading up on grub and coffee. He walked to one of the outside pay phones and dialed the 800 number that would link him with Trent. It rang six times, and then stopped. He entered his six digit code number and waited a minute or so in silence.

He was about to give it up and drive another hundred or so miles before calling back when the receiver on the other end clicked. Trent answered.

"It's me," Crawfoot told him.

"God, man, I've been waiting for a call from you. Where the hell are you?"

Crawfoot told him he was just west of Albuquerque and that he needed an update.

"Well, my ace assassin, you got a bit sloppy this time," Trent said, not sounding at all pleased. "You overexposed yourself in that jerkwater bar. Your identity has been seriously compromised. They've put out an APB on you, and they've got a damn good composite portrait of you to go on. They found the Jeep you ditched, so right now they're looking for a shooter from Mexico City."

"Tell me something nice, Mother."

"Okay, okay. Let me put you on hold for a couple of minutes. Hang on, all right?"

Crawfoot tried to be patient for the five minutes it took Trent to get back to him.

"Crawfoot? You still there?"

"I wish to hell that I was in Bora Bora, but I am still here."

"Listen, I want you to drive up to Kirtland Air Force Base and wait at the convenience store nearest the main gate. I've contacted a CIA case officer at Sandia National Lab at Kirtland. He will have a new identification, credit cards, and special orders for you."

"Orders?" Crawfoot scowled at the receiver. "You're putting me back in the saddle so fast?"

"We've got a couple more problems, cowboy. We want you to head for Nevada. You will report to the base commander at Nellis, and he will arrange for you to receive transportation to Area 51 of the Nevada Test Site. Your orders will identify you as a security inspector for Wackenhut."

"You're sending me to Dreamland?"

"Yes. We have a General Beauharnais who is in charge there. He has been ordered to increase security, but he seems a little reluctant to cooperate completely with MJ-12. You will inspect the Groom facilities and surrounding area for security. At the same time, you will keep a sharp eye on the General. If he gets out of line, you will be given direction on how best to take care of him. You'll be replacing the MJ-12 operative there, Raul Agabarr."

"The Torture Master? What is he doing at Dreamland?"

"I told you, Crawfoot. We've had some trouble there. Civilians have been breaching our security."

"But Agabarr? Come on, man. Even I have some scruples. I don't want to work with that son of a bitch."

"I'm sure he'd like to work with you--or work on you!" Trent laughed at his sick humor.

"Hey, Ty, you know I'm a good soldier," Crawfoot reminded him. "But if that asshole even looks cross-eyed at me, I'll send him back to you in six different special delivery packages."

Colonel Trent laughed again. "Now that would be a package worth opening. I hate to disappoint you, but he's missing. We had an escape, an old desert rat named Clive Redding Teller, and Agabarr hasn't been seen since. He might even be dead.

Crawfoot wasn't the least bit disappointed that the torture master was dead. He thought he was scum.

"So, who am I this time?" Crawfoot wondered.

"Yourself."

"No shit!"

"What else could we do on such short notice? We couldn't come up with an extensive background cover in the five minutes I had you on hold. Your records reflect that you have been a contract intelligence and security specialist for the NSA. Your new contract is being picked up by the DOE who contracts out their security requirements with Wackenhut."

Crawfoot indulged in a moment of reflective silence. There was something seriously wrong with the picture. It was against all protocol for him to surface with his own identity for a job--and it was even more unusual for his personnel file to be transferred to the DOE.

"You still with me, Crawfoot?"

"Yeah, sure. Just digesting what you said. How and to whom do you want me to report?"

"You will still report to me," Trent told him. "The Wackenhut Director of Security in Las Vegas will be given orders that you are to have free reign and full cooperation. I want you to call in every day at 0300 hours, if you can. If you miss a call-in, then call the next day at the same time."

"Ty?"

"What?"

"Are we okay?"

He thought about mentioning the two men he had disabled.  Should he ask? Would he be told the truth? Would it make a difference to his present circumstances? He didn't think so...

"What do you mean?"

Crawfoot cleared his throat. "I know that I screwed up on the hit. But it's the first time in nearly two fucking decades. I'm not being farmed out permanently, am I?"

Trent was surprised to hear even the slightest hint of insecurity come from the hard-as-nails son of a bitch. "Hey, man, I need you more than ever. You know you're indispensable to me."

Crawfoot had to ask another question before they hung up. "Ty, there was another guy with the scientist I terminated. Any idea who the hell he was?"

"We haven't made him yet," Trent answered, "but after your hit, two well-known assholes showed up, Blake Webster and Wayne Newsom. Those two will have to be taken out pretty soon. We'll get back to you on that." "So we're okay then?" Crawfoot wanted to be reassured.

"Forget about the job in San Antonio, man," Trent said. "Don't keep running it through your head. Let it go. We'll clean it up. Now get your ass up to the base and get your new papers."

"You've got it."

"Be certain you destroy all ID you currently have on you."

"Already done."

"Good man. You have two days to report to the base commander at Nellis. Once you get your new papers, check into a good hotel, chow down, get some rest, and rent a proper 'clean' car."

Crawfoot was casing the cars at the truck stop. He would have to dump the Olds soon in case the cops had figured out he might be driving the stolen car. Someone must have reported by now.

"Call me when you arrive at Dreamland and get settled in," Trent said, wrapping up the conversation. "Your rank will be a GS-15, giving you an effective rank higher than anyone other than General Beauharnais, himself."

"Higher than Agabarr?" Crawfoot asked pointedly.

"You're the man," Trent laughed. "Now get your ass in gear. I don't want to have to bail you out of a New Mexico hoosegow."

"Bail me out of a New Mexico hoosegow?" Why had he chosen those particular words?

CHAPTER 22 - Friend Or Foe

Any other time Red would have relished tooling around behind the wheel of the blue Land Cruiser. On this day it meant no more to him than reliable transportation that could take the pressure of making a twelve-hour trip in fewer than ten. He'd stopped only one time, and that for less than ten minutes. Now, he peered through the pouring rain that had uncharacteristically greeted him as he entered Spokane, searching for a public phone. The first three he'd spotted had been missing the phone directory he so urgently needed, and his apprehension rose in direct proportion to the number of precious minutes he'd lost.

"Damn rain," he mumbled to himself. He'd seen enough cloudy skies out in the desert to last him a while, and now the rain had followed him to Spokane, the one area of Washington where he expected agreeable conditions. His musings almost caused him to miss the lights of the small twenty-four hour station that sat off the road to his left. He whipped the Land Cruiser into the deserted parking lot and pulled around to the side of the building, concealing the vehicle with Joe's Nevada license plates behind a trash bin--then pulled a cap down low over his face and dashed towards the door.

"Evening', son." The man behind the counter appeared to be in his early twenties. "You got a pay phone in this here establishment?"

"Right behind you...over there in the corner.

A quick glance gave Red the information he needed. "You wouldn't happen to have a local phone book behind the counter, now would you?"

Before Red had completed the request the man slid the prized item across the counter towards him.

"Help yourself."

"Ah, I need some quarters, too, if it isn't too much trouble. Several dollars worth, if you have 'em."

"How 'bout a roll?"

Red smiled his thanks as he handed over a ten dollar bill and took the offered change, then walked purposefully to the back of the store.

A glance at his watch told him it was almost ten PM. Most folks would probably be settling in to watch the news before turning in for the night in the conservative town, he figured. The first three Fosters he tried had never heard of a Karen Green, then the next two attempts greeted him with hollow, unanswered rings.

"Who is this?" A gruff, obviously elderly man snapped at him on his sixth attempt. "Don't you know better than to call somebody you don't know this time of night? I don't know anybody named Karen. Don't bother me, you hear?"

"I apologize for the inconvenience, sir, but this is urgent." Red's prospector persona was nowhere in sight as he attempted to placate the old man, but he wasted his efforts... before the polite explanation was half-way out of his mouth, Red found himself talking to an empty line. Six more strike-outs and four unanswered calls brought him to the end of the Foster listings.

The clerk, taking advantage of the slow night, busied himself rearranging the multicolored array of products that lined the shelves behind the counter. Red checked to make sure he was occupied, then started to rip the page of numbers from the directory.

"Aw shit!" He berated his own conscience, and then raised his voice slightly to get the clerk's attention. "Hey, you got a piece of paper and a pen I can borrow? Need to write down a list of numbers."

"Don't bother...just go ahead and tear the page out. Everybody else does. 'Sides, I've got another copy of the phone book back here, anyway." The clerk smiled broadly at Red, and then went back to his project.

Red tore the page out neatly, stuck it into his pocket, and turned towards the front of the store. A customer in a full-length black coat stood balancing two cups of hot coffee while he dug in his pocket for change. Red snapped his head towards the plate glass door and felt the blood in his veins turn to ice water...as if waking from a nightmare he turned and met the eyes of the man in front of him.

"Good evening," the man nodded, then walked towards the door and pushed it open with a shoulder, shielding his purchase with his body as he moved through the rain towards the white jeep Cherokee parked in front of the store. Red saw the Wackenhut guard glance his direction with a puzzled expression as he entered the vehicle, then shake his head slightly. With a trembling hand, Red reached up and rubbed his smooth shaven chin, beardless for the first time in twenty years. Agabarr's guard hadn't recognized him, but he'd never forgot any of the faces that haunted his dreams every night and would for years to come.

The store clerk peered at Red, head tilted to one side. "Everything okay, sir?" he asked.

"Fine, son. Just fine. Uh, I'm gonna need a city map, if you have one." Red was surprised that his voice responded normally. "'Appreciate your help."

"Careful in that rain, now...it'll be two bucks for the map." The clerk had not missed the small drama that had played out before him, and the look in his eyes sent good wishes in Red's direction as Red bolted from the store and peeled out of the parking lot. The Wackenhut guards would know exactly which Foster sheltered Joe Green's family. Red would be searching in an unfamiliar town with six possibilities.

Once again, the phrase "act of God" flitted through his mind. He uttered a silent prayer of thanks that he'd taken Brance Catlin's advice and shaved off his beard. Brance's handiwork with a pair of barber sheers had completed Red's transformation from desert rat to a member of the faceless masses. All those years of Brance's trimming three growing boys had paid off in a way neither man had expected as they watched clumps of Red's matted hair fall to the floor.

"Damn it to hell," Red cursed the slick streets that had slowed the flow of the traffic. He spread the map out over the steering wheel, and struggled to make out the street names in the rain-filtered glow of the streetlights. Best he could figure, the first address on his list was through the next light and to the left.

"Damn miserable weather. How can people live with all this water?" He cursed at the rain that had slowed traffic, letting off steam. "Water's for mixing with bourbon, and I could sure use one..."

He glanced ahead, and just as the light turned saw the white jeep pull out into the intersection. Bloody dumb luck, he thought. No. From somewhere deep in the recesses of his subconscious a phrase filtered through. "All things work together for good...to those who are called according to his purpose..."

He had cursed the rain. Because of it, he acknowledged silently, he had caught up with the Cherokee and could now follow it to the Foster residence. Somebody, somewhere, indeed seemed to be pulling some strings for him.

Red stayed well behind the guards as they executed a series of turns down elm and maple lined streets. Finally, they made a u-turn at the end of a cul-de-sac and parked facing his direction. Red had just enough time to make a sharp left turn before he entered the block they had staked out. He shot a quick look over his shoulder and noted the street name. Sure enough, the page from the phone book noted a Raymond Foster at house number 2109, one of the six Fosters he'd marked "not home".

Mud sucked at the wheels of the Land Cruiser as Red drove slowly down the narrow utility access alley that backed up to a row of privacy fences behind the Foster's house, trying to decide how he'd isolate the yard of Karen's family. Large, uniform trash receptors stood like sentinels guarding each gate. Closer inspection revealed that many were marked with the resident's house numbers. By deduction, Red identified the fence of the house numbered 2109, a neat two-story domicile.

Without hesitating, he opened the gate and entered the yard, hoping the Foster's didn't own a large dog. The kitchen window framed a blond woman; one who looked about the age Karen Foster ought to be. He took the three porch steps in one leap and rapped softly on the door, knowing he was likely to scare the shit out of her, and knowing it was necessary. He saw her startled reaction, then heard her scream as she saw him standing by the door. From inside the house a man's loud voice called to her.

"Karen, what's going on in there?"

"There's a man on the back porch"

"Hold on, I'll get my gun." Red could just make out the muffled words.

He moved to the window and held up his hands to show her he was not armed.

"Karen Green?" he mouthed. "I've got to talk to you."

The woman's eyes narrowed, and she backed away and started to turn to leave the room. Red tapped urgently on the screen and motioned for her to open the door.

"I'm Joe's friend. Joe, Joe." His mouth moved without a sound. He had to gain her trust without alerting the guards if they'd left their vehicle and approached the house.

Cautiously, the woman cracked the door and spoke to him from behind the locked screen.

"Who are you...what do you want with me?"

Mrs. Green, I'm a friend of your husband, Joe. You've got to get out of here. The house is being watched, and you and Kevin are in danger...please let me help you."

"Look mister, I don't know who in the hell you are, and frankly, with all that's happened in the last few days I don't know if I'd trust you, even if I did. Do you understand?"

"I do understand ma'am...I do, but right now I ain't got time to convince you. There are two goons sitting down the street in a white Cherokee and I know for a fact that they're under orders to bring you in to Area 51 for questioning. Believe me, you won't appreciate their interrogation methods. I've gotta get you and your family outta here."

Just at that moment Kevin ran into the kitchen, a baseball bat clinched in one hand.

"Mom, something's going on outside. Dad's car is parked in the alley, and there's a guy skulking around in the back yard. I saw him from the window upstairs." Karen hesitated for a moment, then opened the door and unlocked the screen, revealing her right hand firmly gripped around a .38 pistol. She indicated an open handbag sitting on the kitchen table.

"Kevin, grab my purse and get Uncle Ray and Aunt Lois. We're going with this man. Now!"

The tone of her voice allowed no room for argument. Kevin galvanized into action, grabbing the purse and turning towards the swinging kitchen door. The distinctive sound of a door being kicked violently open, followed by a series of shots from automatic pistols, froze him in mid-step. Karen's eyes locked onto Red's in immediate comprehension. In a flash, Red entered the kitchen and grabbed both Karen and Kevin by the arm, then propelled them out the door, across the lawn, and into the idling vehicle.

"Wait!" yelled Kevin as Red gunned the engine. He leaned out the opened door and grabbed the frantically barking terrier that had followed them out of the house.

Red popped the clutch, slamming his three occupants back into their seats. Kevin's door shut itself with a bang from the forward momentum.

Repeated bullets pelted the Land Cruiser as they tore down the alley and skidded onto the rain-drenched street. With any luck at all they'd be long gone by the time the guards made it back to their jeep.

"Mrs. Green, Karen..." Red had never felt more inept in his life. What could he say to comfort this woman whose aunt and uncle had just been brutally murdered, and whose husband was God-knows-where, and being hunted by the same dark government organization that assassinated her family? Hell, Joe might already be dead, too. He knew she and Kevin must have been thinking the same thing. At first he'd thought she was in shock. Neither she or Kevin made a sound while Red fought to control the Land Cruiser as he sped around the slippery turns that got them to the outskirts of town, but as soon as it was clear they weren't being followed, she bent over and sobbed with such intensity that Red wanted to cry with her.

"Mom, I love you. It's going to be okay." The boy struggled to be a man...to comfort the mother he obviously adored. Red's own mother had had little use for him, and he could never remember the words "I love you" crossing her lips. For a fleeting instant, he envied this mother and son...even in such terrifying circumstances.

"Oh...God...Kevin...oh...God...honey...I know...I know it is...I'm sorry...I'm so sorry..." Sobs punctuated every word as she was drawn from her own grief by her son's need of her.

Red reached awkwardly across the seat and patted her shoulder. "Been a time or two I felt like crying myself, lately...you just go right on. We understand, don't we, son?" He looked back at the young man, who was struggling to control his own grief and fear, then reached out and patted him, too.

"Mister, I don't know who you are, but I know you risked your own life to come after us. I don't know how to thank you."

"Son, I'm a friend of your father's...and I know how much he loves you. I just did for him what I'd want somebody to do for my own. You just take care of your mother, now. That's all the thanks I need. Were gonna get you two to safety, then I'm gonna go see if I can find your dad and let him know where you are."

Karen's heart wrenching sobs had quieted to an occasional snubbing, and at the mention of Joe, she turned to Red. "You know where Joe is? Is he okay?"

"Ma'am, I can't lie to you. I don't rightly know where he is at this moment, but I've got a few ideas about where to start looking, and the minute I find him I'll tell him where you are, so he can put your mind to rest. Now don't you worry, old Red'll find Joe for you."

"Red? Your name is Red"

"Clive Redding Teller, ma'am, but my friends call me Red, and I'd hope you'd consider me a friend."

"Mr. Teller...Red, I think you're just about the best friend we've ever had." Much to Red's relief, her tear-stained face held the shadow of a smile.

Intermittent, silent tears ran down Karen's face as she continued to grieve for her aunt and uncle and tried to absorb all that Red had to tell her on the long drive from Spokane to Mountain Home Air Force Base.

In spite of Red's initial skepticism, Karen had convinced him that the Idaho military base would be the safest place for her and Kevin, at least for the time being. It was hard for her to reconcile that the Air Force she had known the majority of her adult life was connected with the horror she now experienced, and Red acknowledged that the special underground forces that conspired against the Greens were unlikely to expect her to seek refuge right under their noses. She would go to the quarters of the Green's closest friends, Lt. Colonel Bernie and Joyce LaCoy,  who had been stationed at Mountain Home for the past few years, and who, she knew, would guard the secret of her and Kevin's presence with their lives, if necessary.

Red, who felt a little better after he'd met the colonel, a six footer who weighted over two hundred pounds and looked as if he could take care of just about anything, fervently hoped that he had made the right decision to leave Karen and Kevin behind and return to Rachael.

"Red, be careful. Find Joe, and tell him we love him, and not to worry about us...just to take care of himself and that no matter what happens, we're behind him. You'll tell him that, won't you?" Karen's brown eyes peered into Red's intensely.

"Yeah, and tell him to keep his butt alive." Kevin interjected.

This time, She didn't scold Kevin, but echoed the sentiment. "Amen!"

After the moment of relief that Kevin's youthful directive brought, the three stood quietly, awkward in the intensity of the  newborn bond the preceding events had formed among them, then Red opened his arms and drew both mother and son as close as he could. With tears in his eyes, he allowed himself to feel emotions he had long ago dismissed as an unnecessary hindrances. Then, he propelled himself into the Land Cruiser and drove off with a backward wave, keeping his blurry eyes firmly planted on the road before him.

"Mom, look what he shoved in my pocket while he was hugging us good-bye!" Kevin grabbed Karen's hand as she stood staring wistfully after Red, and stuffed something in it. Karen looked down and opened her palm. Across it rested ten one hundred dollar bills.

Red's first priority was to ditch Joe Green's easily identifiable Land Cruiser and find a new form of transportation.  A nondescript used Caprice Classic with a 350 engine caught his eye at the second Mountain Home car lot he visited, and he paid for it with cash off the roll that Brance Catlin had forced on him before he took off to find Karen Green. Red shook his head at the thought of the old codger. He lived like a comfortable, lower middle class, mid-America rancher.

"You must have over five hundred thousand dollars stashed in that thing!" The words had ejaculated from Red's mouth at the sight of the piles of bills he saw when Brance opened his hidden wall safe.

Brance's only response had been a tight smile and a cryptic, "Don't have too much faith in the American banking system."

Red parked the Land Cruiser in a motel parking lot about a block from the dealership. After checking to make sure nobody was around, he swiftly removed the license plates and ditched them under a pile of trash in the motel dumpster. Back at the dealer's body shop, he went into great detail about the new paint job he wanted for his bullet riddled "hunting buggy". Needed a more muted color than blue, he said, to blend in with the winter foliage. He paid the man up front for the paint job and body work and drove away in his newly purchased vehicle. The Chevy's 350 engine just might come in handy if he found it necessary to out-run one of the jeeps.

Red didn't spend one minute longer than was necessary in the Mountain Home area...he had done all he could to conceal Joe's vehicle, but if he were spotted, Karen and Kevin would be at risk.

The Chevy ran like a top, much to Red's satisfaction, but his own engine was feeling the lack of fuel. He hit IH 51 and headed toward the Owyhee  Indian Reservation about an hour south of the Idaho-Oregon border. He knew he could get some real grub there, from an old native woman who had set up shop in the back of a small gas station located along the highway...a find known only to the camping and fishing aficionados that frequented the reservation, and a few old prospectors like himself.

Red thought he was hallucinating again as he pulled up to the station an hour later.

"Damn, looks like Barnum and Bailey beat me here."

At least a hundred parked vehicles lined the side of the road, and people were milling around all over the place. Red drove slowly along the line, predominately campers and RV's, until he reached the head vehicle...an enormous silver RV gaudily graced with paintings of angelic beings and identified as the property of the Church of the Celestial Prophet. After finding a place to park, he meandered around in the crowd trying to find out what the hell was going on. After discerning little more than that they were all excited about something called the Rapture, Red's curiosity got the best of him, and he approached a fellow standing alone munching flat, stone-ground baked bread.

"Ya'll on some kind of a mission, or something?" he inquired.

"You haven't heard?" the man looked startled. "We are followers of Page St. John, head of the true church. "A voice is calling in the wilderness...we are going to find the Chosen One."

"The chosen one?" This was a new one to Red.

"Yes! He will heal the world of its abominations, and when we find him, the Rapture will begin."

"The Rapture, eh?" He tried not to smile. "Ain't that something out of the Bible?"

"Yes, yes...the standard Bible talks about it...but our bible, the bible of the Church of the Celestial Prophet, reveals the real truth... Why don't you come with us? We'll be meeting up with Page St. John shortly, on the way to Rachel, outside of Area 51. He will lead us to the Chosen One."

Red's ears perked-up at the mention of the military facility.

"You mean this guy is at Area 51? What the hell is some chosen one doing on a US military installation?"

"Or somewhere near there. It is the appointed place, and the appointed hour...come with us and follow the way to salvation!" The man's voice began to take on the trance-like cadence particular to the religiously inspired, or fanatically delirious, in Red's book, but he recognized an opportunity when it hit him smack in the face.

"Yes, yes..." Red affected an impassioned tone. "I will follow you to the Chosen One...I will follow you..."

To Area 51, he thought.

CHAPTER 23 - Surfing The Collective Unconscious

About a hundred miles outside of Las Vegas, the three weary travelers pulled into an all night diner. Over steaming plates of biscuits and gravy sided with eggs over easy and sausage, they took stock of their situation.

Blake Webster could tell that Joe Green seemed somehow very different that morning--and he was certain that the subtle transformation was due to more than a few hours of sleep.

Reluctantly at first, Joe begins to reveal to Blake and Wayne Newsom his experience of the night before. "Well, I had a dream, but it was really real. No, that doesn't make sense...what I'm trying to say is that I dreamed about something that happened when I was a teenager in Kilgore, but in the dream I remembered more than I had recalled before." Haltingly, Joe revealed the information the Jexovah had imparted to him at that time. He also reminded them that Carlton Farr had warned him that the experiments they had undertaken would prompt more memories of his interaction with the Jexovah to surface during his dreams.

When they got back into Webster's RV, the men began to discuss the effect of such information upon orthodox religionists, the present political structure, and the public in general.

"I really don't think it would affect the churches all that much," Newsom expressed his opinion. "I mean, my God is bigger than the universe. He or She doesn't just fit in a church on Sunday. But then, that's me."

Webster thought that some of the more fundamentalist churches would be pretty upset to learn that Jesus might have more sheep in his flock than they had been led to believe. And what if people began to worship the Jexovah as their new gods?

"The Jexovah do not see themselves as gods," Joe said. "They see themselves as creators and explorers. When they arrived in our solar system, humankind did not exist. Then they gave Neanderthal a Jexovah DNA energy boost to create us."

"Dr. Frankenstein from Outer Space," Newsom laughed as he imitated a little ooooeeee science fiction theme music.

"Yeah, but go easy, man," Webster reminded him. "We're the monsters they created."

"That's true," Joe agreed. "The Jexovah androids were left here to correct the mistakes in genetic engineering and crossbreeding of the Jexovah and the Neanderthal which produced us hairless little apes. From what has come to me, their task has been difficult because they don't want to make alterations in our genetic makeup that will destroy our spirit or our soul."

Joe described the Jexovah androids to Newsom and Webster, much as Eli Jerrold had to General Beauharnais.

"It's nice to know that we have souls," Newsom said before he yawned and leaned back in his seat. It was Webster's turn to drive.

"Again, from what I'm starting to remember, they identified the problem about two thousand years ago, and discovered the solution to the dilemma sometime around our year of 1935. Their final implementation has now been put into operation. Shortly, in the near future, the change, the solution, what they call the Rapture, will become apparent." Joe struggled to communicate the concept in a way the others could grasp. Can you imagine a society that can’t lie because everyone could read each other’s mind. That’s world changing.

Webster sipped at the coffee that he had brought with him from the restaurant. "Have they ever told you if they have a God?"

"They do, but their concept of deity is not that of a single entity. They believe that every spirit that has ever existed or is now alive is somehow connected together. Essentially, they believe that God is in every being and that all entities, past, present, and future, are God."

Webster considered the alien theology. "Cool. I could accept that."

Joe closed his eyes for a moment. "You know, it seems that when I shut my eyes and talk about these things, I can tap into an ocean of memories. I have more memories being activated than I ever could have dreamed of. Obviously, the Jexovah must have really pumped information into my subconscious whenever they abducted me."

He suddenly realized what he was saying and laughed self-consciously. "I am so glad that I am with you two when this activation of memory is occurring. Anyone else would probably have me locked up!"

"And you think we won't?" Newsom asked, once again making his ooooeeee eerie "creature from outer space" sound effects.

"Seriously, man," Webster wanted to know, "will anyone else, like, maybe, Wayne or me, ever be able to talk with the Jexovah androids?"

Newsom shook his head in mock disgust. "Shit, Webster just wants the first network interview with a real, live alien."

Webster protested once again that he was serious, and Joe closed his eyes to receive whatever might come to him.

"What's coming to me is that every spirit, human or Jexovah, is networked with the mass collective unconscious. Apparently every sentient being in the universe is also linked in some way.

"Wow! Mass collective unconscious? That's a term coined by the immanent Swiss psychiatrist, Carl Gustav Jung. He founded analytical psychology and created the concepts of introversion and extraversion.

"Yes, I think you're correct. Anyway, the spirit of itself is good, and through repeated incarnations, it grows until, at a certain point, it reaches its full potential."

"Oh, boy, here it is," Newsom, sighed. "The dreaded R word- -reincarnation. If Sister Mary Margaret were here right now, she would smack all of our wrists with her ruler."

Joe seemed unmindful of Newsom's irreverent sense of humor. "It's our human genome that is defective. That's what causes us to be violent and to get in the whole mess of problems that we keep having throughout history. The human body is flawed, filled with mood-shifting chemistry that causes anger, depression, hate, greed, and other manifestations antithetical to spiritual growth. But the spirit within us is able to evolve through a succession of incarnations."

Joe appeared to be in some kind of light trance state, so Webster decided to take advantage of the situation. "Can you tell from your newfound abilities if Jesus really existed?"

Joe paused to allow the information to emerge from his Jexovah-charged memory banks. "Definitely. Perfect human genes are a rare occurrence, but Jesus was a Chosen One, and he attained the Rapture. And so did Moses, Elijah, Krishna, and many other great religious and humanitarian leaders."

Newsom finally decided to ask a question of his own. "What is our purpose in this drama? Our mission seems to be to expose the truth about the government cover-up of UFOs, and now, I suppose, to release information about the presence of the Jexovah; but what then?"

Joe was quiet for several moments before he spoke again. "After the Revelation comes the Rapture. If we achieve the Revelation and survive, then we will be a part of the Rapture. Be patient. One step at a time."

Joe opened his eyes, and his companions interpreted that as a signal that the present question and answer session was terminated. Newsom wasn't satisfied with the response to his question, but somehow he felt that they were about to entrust their lives to Joseph Green and his most peculiar advisors.

"What I wish is that you would use all that knowledge coming at you from the universe to tell us if Red is still alive,"  Webster said wistfully, his right forefinger tapping the steering wheel for emphasis as he drove. "I just can't get Red out of my mind for a minute. I feel so damned guilty. Almost as if I set him up to take the fall. I'd give anything to know he is--or if he still is."

Joe shrugged. "I can give it a try."

"Hey, man, great," Webster grinned, placing both hands back on the wheel and pulling himself up straighter. "That would be terrific."

Newsom arched a skeptical eyebrow, but he chose to keep his doubts to himself.

"What's Red's complete name?" Joe asked.

"I know him as Red Redding. I think his real name is Clint or Cliff or something like that."

Joe closed his eyes, took a deep breath, held it for a few seconds, and then slowly released it. He repeated the process three times, each time repeating the name, Red Redding and imagining the image of Red.

"Dear Lord!" Joe exclaimed as he visualized an internal image of Red. "I hope this isn't Red."

"What?" Webster wanted to know at once. "What is it that you're seeing?"

"Some poor guy who's really been through the mill. He's in really bad shape."

"But he's alive?" Webster prompted as he accelerated to pass a slow-moving truck.

Joe nodded, his eyes still closed, seeming to squint to gain a clearer mental image. "He's alive, but it's like his brains have been scrambled. He seems to be aware of me, but he can't get his thoughts connected to make complete sense of what's going on around him."

Webster grimaced, as if feeling Red's pain and confusion.

Newsom asked how Joe knew that Red was aware of him.

Joe smiled. "It's as if there's the poor beat up Red lying on a steel cot, the physical man; and then there's the real Red, his spiritual self, kind of bobbing just above his material body. It's the real Red that's aware of me looking at him."

Webster wanted to know where his friend was.

"I'm seeing what looks like an old jail cell. Man, it's filthy, I'll tell you that. I'm picking up that it’s somewhere underground...in Area 51," Joe answered.

"How do you know that you're really seeing Red, and not someone else, some other Red?" Newsom asked pointedly, wondering if all this was a fantasy conjured up by Joe's unconscious.

Joe pursed his lips in thought. "I'll ask for a sign."

He was silent for nearly a minute, apparently conducting a mental dialogue with the "real Red."  At last, he chuckled and shook his head. "I don't know what this means, but he says to tell Blake Webster that he owes him big time, and he's holding up a chicken wing."

Webster laughed. "It's Red, all right."

"What the hell does that sign mean?" Newsom demanded. "A chicken wing?"

Webster wiped tears from his eyes before he answered. "Red dearly loves those little barbecued chicken wings. The first time we met was in a bar during happy hour. We sat down, and I ordered a plate of the things, and he gobbled up the whole works in no time. Every since then, I always buy him an order of barbecued wings whenever we get together. I promised him that if he pulled off a video shoot of the starship that I would buy him the biggest plate of wings known to humankind."

Newsom narrowed his eyes as if carefully considering the validity of Joe's proof of Red's continued existence, but he seemed satisfied with Webster's confirmation.

"Now, my friends," Webster said grimly. "We've got to get Red out of Area 51."

Joe settled back into his seat comfortably and shut his eyes. On the one hand he was fascinated with the ability to see things with his mind, and on the other, it bothered him greatly that they had played with his mind since he was a child. These Jexovah, these aliens and their androids, the whole concept was so bizarre it made his mind reel.

He had seen Red--somehow managed to link with his subconscious. Joe tried again, focusing his concentration on the stream of unconsciousness that flowed through the deepest corners of his mind.

It was definitely Red he had connected with before. Joe hadn't told Newsom and Webster all that he saw because he picked up distorted pieces of Red's memory; his childhood in the brothels of the now vanishing ghost towns, the time he spent in Korea as a Ranger, a series of broken relationships, his years wandering the deserts and mountains looking for fortune, and his involvement spying on the secret military bases. Then he had seen Red shoot  someone - - seemingly recently. He wasn't sure if Red was still in Area 51, was on the run, or he was chasing someone.

Just what was real, or imagined, or distorted? Was this newfound ability a blessing or would it turn out to be a curse? These Jexovah creatures had told him so much, but he had so many more questions... He knew his newfound skills at remote viewing were slight, and he wanted to explore them further. Joe tried to seek out and find his wife in the stream, but it faded. He tried over and over to connect, but he couldn't regain his new sight.

"Damn, he cursed himself, "why didn't I try to find Karen first. Why can't I see her?"

CHAPTER 24 - The Secret Autopsy Report

Joe looked at his watch; it was just past two PM as they pulled into at Rainy Roberts's place in Las Vegas. Webster had told them that Rainy, his longtime lady friend, had a house with two bedrooms and a combination living room and den that she used as a large study, but he didn't tell them how small it was. Joe felt like it would be an imposition on Blake's girlfriend to house them all.

"Look, why don't you guys just run me over to the Silver Dollar and I'll pick up Red's truck and be on my way."

"Not a good plan, man." Newsom's tone was adamant.

"I've got to see Karen and my son," Joe argued.

Newsom told him to look at the situation objectively. "The wonderful folks who gave us Carl Farr's ignoble death have quite likely identified you as his visitor and are waiting for you to pick up your truck or go home. They are probably quite eager to drill a similar hole in your chest."

Webster presented an alternative theory: "Or they're waiting for you to lead them to your wife and kid so they can nab them and really put the screws to them and shut you up."

That got Joe's attention. "Dear God," he moaned. "If you guys are right and they've figured out who I am, they're sure as hell staking out my house and if not my frigging car, which is still at the Pilot Club in Tonopah, as far as I know."

Rainy offered her opinion. "Why take a chance, Joe? Stay here for a couple of days until you three guys come up with some kind of plan. Call your wife and tell her you're okay and to lay low until you can figure something out."

Rainy was not a glamour girl, but she was young and attractive with a nice figure. And, Joe thought, the most beautiful red hair he had ever seen. She wore very little make-up, just a touch of lipstick, and it was obvious that she was comfortable around men and not the least bit intimidated by any of them.

She's absolutely right, I need to call Karen, he thought. Joe experienced a sharp pierce of anguish at the thought of another delay in his reunion with his family, but reason won out and he finally agreed to stay. Why take the risk of bringing his family into this mess any deeper? He excused himself to walk to a nearby convenience store, where he had spotted a pay phone.

Joe knew the conversation would be painful. The phone rang and rang and rang...

"This is not like Ray and Lois, they have an answering machine. Why would it be off?" He murmured to himself.

Joe tried several more times, then trudged back towards Rainey’s house, not knowing what else to do.

He found Rainy and Blake huddled over her computer in the corner of the living room discussing the box of disks that Farr had bequeathed to Webster. Newsom was in the kitchen watching a news broadcast on television and drinking a beer.

Joe decided to sprawl out on the sofa for a bit to center himself. Maybe he'd be able to access the collective and get an idea of where Karen and Kevin were. They'd probably just gone to run an errand or grab a bite to eat, but he'd feel better knowing they were all right.

"How did it go, Joe?" Blake asked.

"Nobody was home and the answering machine was off. Guess I'll try later," he said, hiding his true emotions.

Blake nodded in commiseration. "Sorry, man. But it is for the best. I mean, that she's out of the way, right?"

"Yeah," he sighed. "I certainly hope it's for the best. How are you coming with the disks?"

"None of the disks are labeled," Rainy said. "It's going to take a while to go through all of them."

For the next hour, she fed the old disks, one at a time, into the three and a half inch drive.

"They all appear to be 1.2 meg and 1.4 meg disks," she finally commented. "There are some database files, some spreadsheets. Most seem to be word processing files."

She handed a number of disks to Blake. "Mark these as word processing files." Her forefinger tapped each of the other stacks. "This pile is database files. This one is spreadsheets. Mark 'em, Blake-o."

Newsom emerged from the kitchen. "Hey, everybody," he said excitedly, "Linden Soles on CNN 'Prime News' just teased that their next segment is going to feature the latest word on the Roswell UFO crash."

Joe got up from the sofa to head to the kitchen.

"Hold it," Rainy said, reaching for the remote for her large screen television set in the living room. "Let's watch it on the big picture."

The four of them agonized over what seemed to be an interminable number of commercials until Linden Soles and Natalie Allen were back with the news. After providing a thirty-second background on the alleged crashed saucer controversy, the anchor team punched up a video clip featuring a Major Yancey Thurber, Pentagon Public Information Office.

The major stood in an elaborate briefing room behind an oak podium with an oval insignia of the Department of Defense attached to the front. In what was to pass for "full disclosure" by the Air Force of the incident at Roswell Army Air Base in July 1947," Major Thurber spun a tale of early rocket tests conducted at nearby White Sands that had carried primates on board.

"What's this bullshit?" Wayne Newsom roared in disgust. "Primates weren't used as test subjects until much later. So now we're going to get that the alleged aliens were really gobs of splattered monkey meat!"

Major Thurber explained, "...all the body hair had been removed from the primates in order to attach medical sensors, catheters, and probes. The monkeys had been coated with sterilizing grayish rubberized latex to protect them from infection and to keep all instruments, sensors, and probes intact. The eyes of the primates had been covered with large jet black rubberized protective lenses."

"Judas H. Priest," Newsom guffawed. "So when the poor little shits crashed with the experimental rocket, they looked just like little scorched aliens. What bullshit!"

CNN was allotting more news time than was normal for such an announcement. Major Thurber was allowed to continue with the latest military cover-up of the Roswell crashed UFO.

"Initially, the tests were kept under the highest classification for National Security purposes, primarily to keep the Soviets from evaluating or gleaning information about the progress of our infant space program. Now that the Cold War is over, we have reevaluated the classification of these tests and concluded that the information should be released in order to reassure the public that no foreign or extraterrestrial elements were involved in either the tests or the subsequent crash. Recent media hype and speculation over this incident and others has caused great concern at the highest levels of the U.S. government."

Webster grimaced. "I imagine this is where we will get the official denial for the video clip we showed on Exploring the Unknown, and the names of Webster and Newsom will be officially taken in vain."

Rainy shook her head. "They've blasted the shit out of you for the past three days while you guys were on the road. The clip on the NBC program is what has set these dominos to falling."

Stock footage of the Roswell crash site as it existed in 1947 was run while Major Thurber continued:

"The alleged alien material recovered by rancher William Brazel and Major Jesse Marcel was debris from a test rocket. Confusion was intensified at the site when local citizens discovered the burnt, hairless monkeys. Many rumors followed the premature press release that declared a UFO crash by an official at Roswell Army Air Base, and wild rumors have continued over the years."

Photographs of dead, charred, hairless monkeys dominated the large screen in Rainey’s living room. They looked ghastly, grotesque, repulsive, and alien.

"God, that ought to spoil about 20 million suppers," Newsom said, opening his mouth and mocking the motion of shoving his forefinger down his throat to gag himself

Major Thurber concluded his statement, "...it is regretful that it was in the best interest of National Security measures at the time. We simply were not permitted the luxury of admission that primates had been used in secret rocket tests without adequate consideration to their safety. It was the height of the Cold War, and decisions had to be made to keep us ahead of the Communist threat. Under the President's declassification criteria we can now offer the public full and open disclosure. The alleged UFO was one of our failed rocket tests, and the alleged aliens were dead U.S. monkeys."

"I hope the families of those murdered monkeys sue the government's collective ass," Newsom said. "Gotta admit they had some good special effects there. Making those monkeys they killed yesterday looking like they were in old black and white film footage from on the scene in 1947."

"Full and open disclosure? What kind of doublespeak is that?" Webster lamented.

Joe rubbed the stubble on his chin in a moment of reflection. "Another stellar of disinformation production manufactured by Big Brother Studios. And the majority of the public will buy it."

Newsom agreed. "Sure will. At this very moment across this great land of ours, Barney lunch pail is turning to his wife and saying, 'Whew, Betty, we don't have to worry about those flying saucer things anymore'."

Webster picked up on the gag. "Damn good thing, Barney, 'cause some little gray bug-eyed alien just ran off with our teenage daughter Elsie!"

Newsom stood up, stretched, and yawned. "What say we send out for some food? Shoveling all that bullshit made me hungry."

Rainy said that she had enough stuff in the refrigerator to make sandwiches. "If that's good enough for you, help yourself. I want to stay at these disks for a while, and I would rather not go out or take time for a big meal."

"I guess a sandwich would work for me," Newsom said.

Webster slipped into the kitchen and returned with a couple beers. "Joe?" he offered. "This is some good imported stuff I squirrel away in Rainy's fridge."

Joe smiled, and then shook his head. "I'll pass on the beer, thanks. Maybe I’ll fix a sandwich, though."

Then it struck him. He hadn't had a beer since they left Farr's place in Texas, or a cigarette. In any previous two-day period, he would have had two or three six-packs, several mixed drinks, and several packs of cigarettes.

Rainy had decided to take a quick break to fix herself a sandwich and to oversee the mess that Wayne and Blake were making in her kitchen.

"Hello, who is this?" Rainy asked the voice in the receiver.  "Dominick Catlin? Yes, hold on a sec."

She stuck her head into the living room. "Newsom, a guy named Dominick Catlin wants to talk to you."

"Dom, this is Newsom, what's up?" He listened intently for a few seconds. "What do you mean you're not sure where he is?  How...a note? When? Can you tell me anything else?"

Blake had followed Wayne into the kitchen where his friend was talking to the caller and pacing back and forth. He didn't like the sound of the one sided conversation.

"Let me know immediately if you hear from Red. Later..."

"Catlin?" Blake asked.

He nodded affirmative. "Joe, come in here. You need to hear this," he said, and Joe appeared in the doorway.

"Dominick Catlin, a rancher near the Nellis Range who's a cousin of mine, just called.

"What'd he have to offer, Wayne?" Joe asked the question on everyone's mind.

"Said Red was by his place sometime the day before yesterday. He looked pretty bad, Dom said. They drove him into Rachael, and he took off from there. Told em he had to go to Spokane to help a friend's family, and that he tell them the whole story when he got back."

The look on Joe's face melted as the three onlookers watched.

"Joe, there might not be a connection..." Webster's offering rang hollow.

"Red was held captive in Area 51, I'd stake my life on it. He helped me in Tonopah--far as I know he could have been apprehended because of that."

"They've been looking for an excuse to bust Red," Newsom offered.

"Besides how would he have known your wife and kid are in Spokane?" Webster asked.

"God, I'm jumping at shadows now. Did this cousin say anything else?" Joe asked.

"No...Well, he said he didn't want to say anything more right then because 'What you don't know can't hurt you'."

"If that were only true...If that were only true, I'd feel a lot better," Joe said dejectedly. He was all too aware that so much in his life he 'had not known' had hurt him profoundly.

Joe walked out the front door, and Newsom started to follow. Webster placed a restraining hand on his arm. "Let him go. He's got some stuff to sort through."

Joe was gone for over an hour. When he got back, Rainy had gone back into the kitchen to make some snacks and iced tea. Newsom was sitting on the sofa watching CNN, and Blake patted Joe on the shoulder offering encouragement. No one commented on his absence...they were all too aware of the complexities of the man's inner conflicts.

Joe glanced around, then walked over to Rainy’s computer and sat down. He looked at the piles of disks, about forty in all. He picked up the six disks that Blake had marked 'database' and fanned them like playing cards. For no apparent reason, he selected the fifth one and popped it into the three and a half inch disk drive.

He entered the directory command from the DOS prompt and scanned the files. There were eleven, and he immediately selected a filename and entered it.

Rainy had walked into the living room to ask Joe if he would like her to fix him a sandwich. She frowned when she spotted him at her computer.

She crossed the room and put a hand on Joe's shoulder. "Hey, big guy, I don't normally like people fondling my keyboard."

She had hoped to be pleasantly diplomatic, but Joe didn't respond.

She looked at the computer screen, then at Joe's face, then she shouted for Blake.

"What's up, Babe?" he asked with a mouth full of sandwich. "Why did you yell?"

"Honey, Joe's acting weird. I mean, it's like he's in some kind of trance. He's spooking me."

Blake hurriedly chewed and swallowed. "Oh, yeah, well, he probably is. In a trance, I mean. He...he does that sort of thing. I hadn't had time to explain to you about Joe and his special talents."

"You trying to tell me that he's some kind of medium, or psychic, or something?" Rainy wanted to know. "If he is, then get him away from my computer before he screws things up!"

Newsom had joined them. "Hold on! First see what he's doing."

Rainy thought that sounded reasonable. "He's in a database file," she told the others, looking over Joe's shoulder. "But he's down in the code. Jesus, Blake, there are some hidden files down in the program software code. He's looking for something."

Newsom grunted. "Then let him look. He's got special help."

"Hey, you guys, look!" Rainy's finger pointed at the screen. A file came up, and the three of them tried to read the text. Joe sat mute, with his hands on the keyboard, as they crowded around him.

(TS--MAJIC\EO)                                                   Page 01 of 04

OPERATION MAJESTIC-12

PRELIMINARY ANALYTICAL REPORT

ATTACHMENT D.

PART B.

Section 3.

Preliminary Autopsy of Extraterrestrial

Biological Entity (s)

5 JULY 1947

(TS-MAJIC/EO)                                                     Page 01 of 04

TS/T2/EO/                                                         Page 02 of 04

5 July 1947

From: Dr. Detlev Bronk, Chairman National Research Council

Atomic Energy Commission; Medical Advisory Board: Physiologist,

Biophysicist.

To: President Truman

Subject: Preliminary autopsy of unidentified cadavers (multiple).

Time of death: 2330 hours (approximately)

Date of death: 4 July 1947

Place of death: 45 miles north-northwest of Roswell New Mexico

Time of Preliminary autopsy: 1600 hours/ Date: 5 July 1947

Place: Roswell Army Air Force Base, Roswell New Mexico

__________________________________________________________

The purpose of this preliminary postmortem examination is to determine the causes and manner of death, the origin of the entities, and the type of biological lifeform. Dr. Bronk is assisted by a noted forensic pathologist, Dr. Stanford, an Air Force pathologist, Maj. J. B. Johnson, Capt. Miser the base Mortuary Affairs officer, and an anthropologist, Professor Frank Holden. Security personnel are stationed throughout the hospital and outside the operating room. Lt. General Nathan Twining commander of Air Materiel Command at Wright Field and Secretary
of Defense (Select), James V. Forrestal are witnesses and will hand carry the report of the initial autopsy to the President of the United States.

Unidentified debris of nonferrous materials was discovered 75 miles northwest of Roswell by a local rancher William Brazel, witnessed by his son and daughter. An early morning aerial search resulted in discovery of partially intact and severely damaged unidentifiable aerospace vehicle and unidentifiable bodies on 5 July 1947.

An intelligence officer, Maj. Jesse A. Marcel of the 509th Bomb Group Intelligence Office was the first official of the government to recover debris from the incident. Counter Intelligence officer, Capt. Sheridan Cavitt, of Air Intelligence (T2), witnessed and assisted Maj. Marcel. Debris will be subsequently transferred to Wright Field in Dayton Ohio, Sandia Base, Albuquerque, New Mexico, and  Classified Location.

The bodies appear identical in appearance disregarding the damage sustained. One body appears to be undamaged and the other four are severely damaged from the trauma of the crash, exposure, and predators. The cadavers support a disproportionately large cranium and appear to be mongoloid/oriental by loose comparison.

Each is clothed in what initially appears to be a garment made of a single piece metallic material of unusual strength, yet retains pliability.

TS/T2/EO/                                                         Page 02 of 04

TS/T2/EO/                                                         Page 03 of 04

No instrument available can cut or pierce the material. The material has a dull sheen and is silver in color. Four bodies have external dermal abrasions and carbonized areas around the face and cranium. The clothing on two of these bodies has separated in sections that run along an undetectable seam from under the arm down to the feet. Another seam with partial opening runs from the neck down the back to the buttocks.

The bodies have been stored in a cooler at the base and transferred to the base infirmary for the postmortem. The undamaged body is uncommonly warm to the touch. This is unusual since the other bodies are near freezing in temperature and all the bodies were removed from the cooler whose temperature is a constant 38 degrees, Fahrenheit. Some sort of chemical action or reaction continues to take place in the undamaged body in order to produce a 89.3 degree Fahrenheit temperature.

I have ordered each of the four damaged bodies be placed in a hermetically sealed container and packed in dry ice for shipment to facilities more appropriate for examination. The undamaged body will be kept at 89.3 degrees Fahrenheit during shipment.

No heartbeat or palpitation was observed although some background noise or resonance can be heard through a stethoscope. No pulse or respiration can be detected. The bodies all weigh fifty six pounds and actual height of these beings is 49.4 inches. The limbs are consistently tubular and no joints are discernable. The arms are 5.1 inches in circumference and the legs are 7.5 inches in circumference. The neck measures 10 inches and both the chest and hips measure 31 inches around, consistently from the torso down to the hips. The finger tips reach to where the knees should be, or mid-leg. The hands contain four long slender fingers with some webbing and no opposing digit such as a thumb. Each finger tip has four bumps or wart-like projections with concave centers. Function unknown.

The cranium measures 22 inches maximum and there is no discernable jaw or cheek bones. A thin crease 1.25 inches wide, much like a scar appears where the mouth should be. The mouth cavity is tiny and does not appear to function as a means of ingesting food or communication. No ears are visible, but a small 3/4 inch diameter bump protrudes 1/8 inch where the ears should be. Two small openings appear where the nasal cavity should be, and no visible structure exists for a nose. The small, inwardly tapered nasal openings are slightly less than 1/8 inch
in diameter. The head is firm, but slightly pliable and responds to pressure similar to the feel of a human without the skin being loose.

TS/T2/EO/                                                         Page 03 of 04

TS/T2/EO/                                                         Page 04 of 04

The eyes are of particular interest. On the damaged bodies, they are wide spaced, teardrop in shape, with the point being at the edge of the skull. The deep set eyes are without eyelids or eyelashes and the eyes are solid deep dark brown in color. An opaque film, of milky color coats each eye.

The undamaged body is different. A dark, coarsely textured, flat black, seamless almond shaped apparatus covers each eye with no apparent attachment points. For a lack of better description, eyeglasses or sunglasses comes to mind. Perhaps this apparatus is an aid in distance viewing, blocking harmful solar radiation, enhanced spectrum detection, low light or infrared vision, or some other unknown use.

There are no visible sexual organs or genitalia or other differentiating exterior signs of sex or mating capabilities, nor are there a urinary or rectal openings. The bodies are bereft of hair, bumps, scales, and the skin has the texture of fine cotton cloth of an ivory parchment color. Tiny lines run horizontally from head to foot much like record groves but smaller, and are only discernable through a  magnifying glass or microscope.

Of peculiar note is the fact that Sec. Forrestal reported a buzzing sound in his skull and severe migraine like pain on each occasion that he touched the undamaged body. He is the only one in attendance that reported such phenomena.

No digestive system, no gastrointestinal tract, no alimentary or intestinal canal, no interior reproductive organs,
or other recognizable organs are present. One large Geo-organ is present. Cause of death; acute blunt trauma. Blood: colorless viscous liquid oozing which smells like ozone and ammonia.

____________________________________________________

A more detailed scientific report will be made available to the Secretary of Defence and the President. The follow-on report will address; analyzing fluids, materials, gasses, and biological structures and functions of these beings. Upon examination in person, it does not take a leap of imagination to realize that these beings are alien extraterrestrial biological entities. Acronym EBE should be used as an interim for security measures.

A special committee, headed by the Sec Def or a Presidential appointee, should be formed for the express purpose of determining the impact upon 'National Security'. I hesitate to speculate upon the impact to civilization, religion, government, or individual sanity if this information is prematurely released. The highest security should be maintained by all involved. God help us all.

TS/T2/EO/                           END                           Page 04 of 04

Rainy Roberts's hand was over her mouth. "Is this shit for real?"

"It's part of the original report from the Roswell crash," Newsom said. "How in hell did Carlton Farr get his hands on it?"

Webster took a long pull at his beer. "No wonder they had the poor bastard killed."

Newsom emitted a sharp burst of dry laughter. "Yeah, and we've got the disks now."

Rainy touched Joe's forehead. "He's hot, like he has a fever or something."

She went to the kitchen and returned with a damp towel to place on Joe's brow. His eyes were shut, and he seemed to be lost in a peaceful dream.

Blake asked Wayne to help him move Joe to the sofa. Much to their surprise, he stood slowly when they lifted him, and he walked like a zombie, following their gentle guidance.

"Let him rest," Rainy said. "I don't think we should try to wake him."

She covered him with a light blanket and motioned for the two men to follow her to the kitchen. The three of them sat up and talked until around midnight. Then, exhausted from the long drive, Newsom excused himself to sleep in the RV. Rainy and Blake split another beer, and then retired to her bedroom for the night.

"Why won't you leave me alone?" Joe protested to the ghosts in his dreams. "I'm no one special. I just want to be normal and give my family peace and security." Joe was caught up in something he didn't understand, and not of his own making. His reality had blurred with his memories and subconscious mind.

CHAPTER 25 - Take Me Or Else

Joe Green awoke into darkness an hour before dawn. He had been dreaming he was at home in bed with Karen. As he tried to roll over and draw her into his arms, he found that he could not move. Something was stopping him, holding him back.

Slowly he sat up and attempted to focus his eyes; it took several moments to remember that he was in Rainy Roberts' living room. He had apparently spent the night on her sofa. He didn't really remember much of anything after he had sat down to look at Carl Farr's disks. Must have really been 'beat' to fall asleep so early, he mused.

In an unconscious act, he reached for the crumpled pack
of cigarettes in his shirt pocket. He started to shake out one of the smokes, and then decided they had completely lost their appeal. Once again, it occurred to him that he hadn't had a cigarette or a drink since they'd left San Antonio.

Nor had he eaten anything since yesterday's breakfast. His stomach growled as his feet touched the carpeted floor. He was really hungry. He couldn't imagine why no one had awakened him to eat a sandwich or a snack.

He stood up, stretched and yawned. He figured that Blake was with Rainy in her bedroom, and that Wayne Newsom was bunked out in the RV. He had brought his suitcase into the house the night before, so he decided to shower as quietly as possible and slip into a clean change of clothes.

By the time he finished in the bathroom, freshly showered and changed, Newsom had gotten up and put on a fresh pot of coffee.

"You put on quite a performance last night, man," Wayne said with a broad grin as he handed Joe a cup of steaming coffee. "You kinda spooked our hostess, though."

Joe gratefully accepted the cup, then self-consciously asked Newsom to explain.

"You cracked the mystery of Farr's disks, buddy, then unearthed some really hot dope about the autopsy report of the alien UFOnauts."

Joe had helped himself to a couple of cookies from a jar on the counter and was on his second cup of coffee by the time Wayne had finished detailing the remarkable events of the previous evening. He was protesting his complete lack of memory when Blake and Rainy entered the kitchen.

Rainy had slipped a thigh length terry-cloth robe over her short pajamas. Her hair and lipstick were mussed in the telltale manner of a woman who had recently made love.

Joe experienced a stab of pain as he wondered why the hell he was sitting in a strange woman's kitchen while his own beautiful wife and devoted son needed him. He hoped to God he had made the right decision by ordering Karen to leave immediately for her uncle's place in Spokane.

"Morning, Joe," Rainy teased. "Who are you today?"

Blake quickly interceded, not wishing Joe to take offense.  "You kind of surprised Rainy last night, Joe. I hadn't had a chance to tell her about your abilities and your little friends."

Rainy laughed as she poured herself a glass of orange juice. "No kidding, Joe. I've never met someone from Krypton before."

Joe studied the inside of his coffee cup. "I really don't remember what happened after I sat down at the computer. I'm sorry if I startled you, Rainy."

Rainy bent to kiss his cheek. "Forget that, Joe. Whatever or whoever happened to you, you cracked a secret code and brought up some electrifying, dynamite shit, man."

"I feel like a freak...and I don't like it very much," Joe said.

No one responded.

She finished her orange juice then told Joe that Webster had also informed her about Joe's psychic impression that Red was still alive somewhere in Area 51. "Do you really believe your reading was accurate, Joe?"

Joe carefully considered her question. "Rainy, the messages and images that I receive from the Jexovah are much more than psychic impressions. I know what you mean by the term reading, and I understand your skepticism. But when they show me something in my mind, it is three-dimensional and somehow real. Of course that sounds strange to you, but I can't really put these experiences into words. The newness of it and my lack of experience complicate the phenomena... I mean, the images are somewhat distorted and tend to blend with my memories."

Rainy had poured a cup of coffee and was sipping cautiously at the steaming liquid. "I didn't mean to come off like the Amazing Randi picking on a psychic, Joe. I mean, you know, you talk about these kinds of things for years in the abstract, alien contact, an advanced super science, and paranormal abilities. And then, pow! Suddenly, hey man, it's really happening. It just takes a while for a poor girl's head to catch up with the new reality that all of these subjects we've discussed academically are truly real."

Newsom got to his feet to pour himself a refill of the coffee. "I had some of the same problems, Rainy, but the demonstration Joe put on last night should have helped you to fill in your reality gap."

Blake clapped a hand on Joe's shoulder. "Do you remember at all the explosive information you uncovered?"

Joe shook his head.

"We have clear proof of a modern conspiracy of governments and certain kingpins within the military industrial complex manipulating the masses and even committing murder to suppress this information," Blake said. "In addition, we have evidence of the alien manipulation of the human species that goes back to the dawn of humankind."

"In short," Newsom interjected, "we have proof of everything that you've been telling us."

Joe sighed, leaned back in the kitchen chair. "So now what do we do with it?"

Rainy jumped up to sit on the edge of a counter, exposing a generous portion of well-shaped leg. "Whatever your next move is guys, think it over carefully. The same Somebody Big who grabbed Red and who blew a large hole in Dr. Farr will quite likely want to shut you up, too."

Blake Webster shrugged. "We know, hon. it's the same MJ-12 honchos that we've been trying to coax out from under their rock for years now. I think we all know that they play dirty, and they play for keeps. We should probably get out of your house, babe, before you get too far involved in all this shit."

Rainy winked at him. "Hey, listen, the fact that you've always been a muckraker doing your god-damned best to uncover fraud, abuse, and the government's UFO cover-up conspiracy has always been a major turn-on for me, lover. You might be dangerous to be around, but I decided a long time ago that I prefer your company to that of an overweight biker with tattoos of Nazis screwing snakes on his chest."

Blake leaned against her on the counter and gave her a kiss. "Lucky for me, I love you, too, Sweet cheeks."

Newsom cleared his throat noisily. "Far be it from me to break up a lovers' kiss or the talk of a frontal attack on the MJ-12 assholes, but I am hungry."

Rainy laughed. "An army travels on it stomach."

Blake chuckled at his own joke. "And that's why soldiers get so much gravel in their shorts."

Rainy volunteered to drive to the nearest fast food franchise and bring back some calorie laden, cholesterol-laced breakfast for the group. Joe stood and handed her a twenty-dollar bill as his contribution to the larder.

"She's a wonderful gal of the Nineties," Blake said after Rainy had exchanged the robe for cutoffs and tee shirt and left for the drive through restaurant. "Her lovely frame and agile mind manifest a nearly endless list of talents and abilities, but cooking is not one of them."

"She can learn," Wayne told him. "If you don't marry her pretty soon, I might decide I've had enough of the single life."

Webster slipped into a boxer's crouch. "Back off, Newsom. Don't mess around with my woman...I might have to hurt you reeeeal bad," he chided.

Newsom looked down on the much smaller man threatening him with violent fisticuffs. "Well, now don't get your jets in an uproar. I'm just giving you fair warning, that's all."

Webster laughed, gave his friend a friendly slap on the upper arm. "I honest to God hope to settle down with Rainy someday. First, though, we've got to deal with the mess that Fate has dealt us. Somehow we've got to rescue Red and expose MJ-12 to the American public. And, we’ve got to do our best to come out of this alive."

Joe hadn't completely made up his mind about what their next move should be. He agreed that they were all at grave risk. He believed his memories of the Jexovah, and he now knew the truth about the shadowy images in his mind that had haunted him since childhood. He wanted the rest of his possibly short life to count for something.

What had been done to humanity by the Jexovah; what the government and the elitists had also done could not be changed. But humanity deserved to know the truth--and that was something that he could help to accomplish, albeit reluctantly. Joe didn't see himself as a crusader or rebel anti-establishment anarchist like Blake and Wayne. But to regain his past, resolve the threatening issues affecting him in the present, and have any kind of secure future for his family, he would have to follow his two newfound friends into the heat of the conflict.

"Unknowingly and against my will, I have been caught up in this tragic conspiracy all my life," he said. "There could be many thousands of other abductees just like me, all carrying a heavy burden, perhaps living tormented lives. Every one of these people deserves to know the truth. I don't care how it affects the government, organized religion, or the world order. Truth is truth."

Blake Webster observed Joe Green's mannerisms with fresh vision. The man really had an incredible charisma, he thought. Joe had the kind of presence that only the greatest of leaders possessed.

Perhaps Wayne Newsom sensed it too. "Joe, if you want to take on the establishment, I'm just the kind of anarchist rogue that will march right beside you. I have nothing to lose, but I'm really worried about you and Blake. You have a wife and a son.  Old Blake here is probably working on having both while we sleep."

Webster ignored his friend's jibe. He was right. This was serious business.

"Joe, I'm with you, man," Blake told him. "But we can't just go to the newspapers or television stations and spill our guts. Your experiences are not unique. Thousands of folks have claimed to have been abducted--and many of them have been left with messages to share with others of their kind. We have Dr. Farr's notes, and some incredible documents that he stole from the government--but the government will just claim that they are all fakes. The murder of Carl Farr has probably already been written off as a hunting accident. If Red won't talk, they can kill him and cover up his murder as an old coot desert rat making a misstep in the hills. If you want to expose the truth, God knows, I'm with you. But we are going to need the proverbial smoking gun."

"Such as?" Joe asked.

"Well, if we could get that alien spaceship that Red photographed to land on the White House lawn, that would do. One of these android biological entities being a guest on Ted Koppel's show would be great. Or better yet, one of the Jexovah dudes calling a press conference together with the Pope would be terrific."

Newsom made a wry face at Webster's wish list. "How about a grand miracle of biblical proportions, like Joe parting the Great Salt Lake?"

Blake agreed. "That would do nicely. But without something like one or all of the above, Joe, we'll never convince the masses. And, hell, even if a Gray were to knock on every door in America, there will still be the skeptics who will refuse to believe. They'd just say Halloween came early, or something."

Rainy walked in, her arms loaded with a great smelling breakfast. "Gulp it down, guys. You know this fast food stuff always smells terrific, but you've got to eat it fast while the illusion lasts. Once this stuff cools off, it reverts to being lumps of cotton and cardboard soaked in hog fat."

Blake shuddered. "My darling, you have painted a word picture of culinary delights that no one could resist."

Rainy sorted the piles of food onto separate paper plates, passed around the necessary utensils, and stood back to survey her handiwork. "Oh, gee," she smiled. "I feel like such a little homemaker."

Joe sat staring at the ceiling, distracted from the reality around him.

"Hey bud, you gonna eat?" Webster asked.

He didn't respond. Newsom squeezed his eyebrows together in concern and cocked his head at Webster.

Webster, in turn, shrugged his shoulders.

"Joe," Rainy said in a soft soothing voice, "What's the matter?"

"I can't do this. I just can't. If my family is safe, then I can, but not until I know they are," he said with tears filling his eyes.

"Okay, then let's try to call them again," Webster said, matter-of-factly.

Joe pursed his lips and shook his head sideways in utter frustration.

"I tell you what. Hold on a second, don't do anything." Webster got up and walked out the front door, then returned almost immediately.

"Here," he handed Joe his portable satellite phone, "use this. It can't be traced… I think."

Joe's three new friends sat quietly as he dialed the Foster's number and waited...

"No answer?" Rainy asked the rhetorical question of Joe.

"No...They have a machine, they wouldn't leave it off."

"Here," Webster reached out for the phone, "let me try something.

Blake dialed the information code for Spokane. "Yes, I'd like the phone number for the police...Yes, thank you."

"Police?" Newsom asked.

"Yeah, why not. Let's see if anything is wrong. At least we can eliminate that worry," Blake said.

They waited pensively, hoping the call was a waste of time and that the local police didn't have any information to offer. No one doubted this would be the case.

"Yes sir, I'm a friend of--" he held his hand over the receiver--waiting...

Joe whispered audibly--"Ray and Lois Foster."

"--a friend of the Fosters, Ray and Lois Foster," Blake explained.

"Yes, I do have that, they live at..." Blake read Joe's lips as he silently relayed the information, "2109 Thousand Oaks Road," he said, watching Joe nod that he had spoken correctly.

"Who am I? Is that important?"

"What's wrong" was the question written on everyone's face.

"Well, I'm--I'm, er...Ray's old friend--haven't been able to get hold of them for a couple of days."

"Okay," he listened, "can you tell me what the problem is?"

He listened again; the suspense hung heavily in the room and was oppressive.

"I understand you have to notify the family. Please tell me what you can. I'm a close family friend."

Not one of the other three in the room struggled lightly to maintain their composure. The fact that Joe didn't rip the phone out of Blake's hands surprised them most.

"Dead?" Joe bolted up, and Blake held out his open hand. "Accident...homicide? Oh, that is terrible," he said with genuine sincerity. "Was there anyone else involved?"

Joe reached for the phone, "Joe, don't, it's not your wife and son," Blake said, not relinquishing the receiver.

"Yes sir, I appreciate your help, and I understand the situation. Do you have any information about their niece and her son, who were staying with them?"

"What is going on?" Joe yelled, just inches from Blake's face.

"Your wife and son are not at her Uncle's. That's good, because Ray and Lois were shot dead in their own living room. They are just now releasing information and contacting their son in Seattle, and daughter in Oakland."

"What about Karen and Kevin!" Joe exclaimed emotionally.

"I can't tell you that and neither can the Spokane police. They weren't aware of anyone else being in the house."

"My God," Joe said, sitting heavily down on the sofa, his legs literally giving out. "What have I done?" he sobbed into his hands.

Rainy moved next to Joe and held him tightly as he cried. Blake, his heart filled with empathy, patted his shoulder. Wayne just sat...stunned.

"I think I know, I mean I knew this was going to happen," he offered, wiping the tears from his face with the back of his hand.

"What do you mean, Joe?" Rainy asked.

"I saw a vision of Red chasing someone...someone I know. I'm almost sure--now--that," he said haltingly, "that someone was Karen and Kevin. They have them. They have taken them to Area 51, and Red is pursuing them."

"Jesus, God-in-heaven..." Newsom said.

"You might be right, Joe," Webster said. "The information Red told the Catlin’s, the fact that the machine was off for two days, there was a threat and they didn't want anyone knowing they were home. They weren't killed, so they might have been apprehended by the government goons."

"Perhaps...I'm not sure about the phone thing. The rest makes perfect sense. If they are underground, I might not be able to visualize them with my new skills."

"Now, more than ever, we have a reason to get into Area 51 and expose the government," Newsom insisted.

For a time they were quiet and reflective, giving Joe space to think.

The now-cold breakfast lived up to Rainy's predictions... but they couldn't have enjoyed food under the circumstances, anyway, and it filled up their empty stomachs. After breakfast and a bit of comforting small talk, the conversation returned to the serious business at hand.

"You three musketeers are talking about taking on a conspiracy that has been going on since civilization began," Rainy pointed out. "Like Blake keeps pointing out, you've got to
have solid evidence; and you've got to get it out to the whole world, fast, or you'll all end up dead or placed in insane asylums to live out your natural lives."

Newsom stood up to get a glass of water from the sink. "The only place we know for certain that more solid evidence exists is at Dreamland, Area 51."

Joe agreed. "Possibly at the Groom facilities. And for sure, the DARC facilities."

Rainy nodded. "The government has to have massive amounts of data stored on a secure computer system somewhere at one or both of these sites."

Blake leaned back in his chair. "Then we'll just have to break in, rescue Joe's family and Red, and grab the information we need."

"Right! Us and who's army?" Newsom wanted to know.

"Let us not be defeatist," Blake admonished him. "Let's say our target is Dreamland. How do we get in? Where in that vast complex do we look? And what precisely are we looking for?"

Newsom sat down with his glass of water. "And what do we do with it when we find it?"

"The only place in Area 51 of the Nellis Range--Dreamland, as you choose to call it--besides the Defense Advanced Research Agency - DARC, which none of us, including Red, has ever been into or know anyone who has, are the Groom facilities. That's our target...and that's where we'll find the information we need.

"And I can answer your question about how to get in," Rainy interjected. "At the EG&G Special Projects Division repair depot here, the mainframe is networked to our mainframes in Area 51. We would need passwords and decryption algorithms."

Webster spoke up: "Red clued me in on every back way into Area 51. He gave me a map indicating where all of the old mining tunnel entrances and exits are."

Newsom was beginning to see a clearer picture. "My years of surveillance in that region have determined that they only have sensors on the flats, the roads, and the paths leading into Area 51. At night, of course, they also have the helicopters with their infrared detectors."

Joe received a sudden image. Something bright and shining pierced the fog that had clouded his memory of the previous evening. He excused himself from the kitchen table, went into the living room, and returned with the box in which Dr. Farr had kept his disks.

"What's up, Joe?" Newsom asked.

Joe opened the box and removed a gold coin. A large gold key and a small piece of cut glass crystal remained in the box. The disks had all been removed, and were still at Rainy's computer console.

"This may assist us," he said as he set the coin on the table before the others.

Rainy picked it up and held it between thumb and forefinger. "Let's see what we got. One side has some kind of priest or soothsayer holding a lightning bolt in one hand and a large crystal in the other. He's got an aura or halo around his head and lightning bolts are shooting out of his skull. On the other side, we've got a hand, palm-up, inside a circle. The palm is holding a crystal globe with lightning bolts flashing out from it."

Newsom narrowed his eyes to study the coin. "What do you think it means, Joe?"

"This is a mot du guet," he said. "It means watchword or token in French."

"Ah," Blake nodded. "A shibboleth."

"Shhh-boom-a what?" Newsom growled.

"It means password in Hebrew," Webster explained. "It's a term used by Mossad, the Israeli intelligence agency."

Joe closed his eyes for a moment, as if to more clearly focus on the coin. "The figure depicted on the coin is an oracle. By definition, an oracle is a priest or priestess through whom a deity communicates. In Sumer, it was the Jexovah aliens. This coin will give us the password to enter the computer we must gain access to."

Rainy touched Joe lightly on the shoulder and whispered in his ear, uncertain whether or not he had lapsed into a trance state once again. "Joe, you will need three passwords to enter the Top Secret mainframe in Area 51. I know, because I talk with our EG&G Special Projects Division technicians. I'm the software manager, and our company, EG&G Special Projects, maintains all of the Area 51 radar, threat sensors, and computers."

Joe knew she was right. He had worked as senior engineer for Loral, EG&G's primary subcontractor since 1990. Together with Webster and Newsom, they explained as briefly as possible what EG&G's role was in the Nevada Test Site and the Nellis Range.

"EG&G provided classified research, development, manufacturing, planning, and services for military and government agencies. The company also supplied technical, scientific, and logistical support for nuclear and non-nuclear testing and energy research and development programs," Joe said.

"In addition," Newsom offered, "they provided construction and maintenance for large diameter drilling, mining, and excavation for underground and mountainside facilities. It's rumored that EG&G had built the vast underground facilities at Groom, DARC, and Mercury for the government, which included designing and installing the complex security systems used by the government and military at those bases."

Webster then offered his two cents worth. "It's been known for years around Las Vegas that EG&G had the DOE contract to supply all phases of support for the atomic testing program at the Nevada Test Site. Huge mine shafts, or test wells, were drilled and excavated deep into the desert bedrock, and hidden bunkers, hangars, and observation posts were constructed into mountains inside the Nevada Test Site and the Nellis Range."

"In fact," Webster continued, "from 1971 through 1978, a massive amount of excavation took place at the Groom and DARC facilities. Most of the subsequent construction took place underground. In 1972, EG&G was granted an indefinite contract called 'Project Redlight' to support the Atomic Energy Commission and the military. This contract gave them responsibility to assist in the recovery of nuclear materials in cases of mishaps and to provide aerial security for classified government and military sites."

"All right, we digress," Rainy said, pointing out the obvious tangential dialogue. "So this is an impenetrable fortress for which we need three passwords once we do get inside. We never thought it would be easy."

"You think one of the passwords has something to do with an
oracle?" Blake asked.

"I'm certain of it," Joe said. "It's in my head. You know?" He waved his hand in a circular 'you get my drift' motion, ending with a plaintive palm facing the group.

Newsom and Webster nodded. They knew that their friend was somehow receiving communication from the Jexovah.

"The government chose it because it is the acronym for 'Organic Android Communications Linked Entity, or ORACLE." Joe suddenly blurted.

"Wow," Rainy laughed. "That's a mouthful!"

"That makes sense, though," Blake told her. "It's what the government calls the Jexovah or their EBE helpers."

"Yeah, but 'Organic Android Communications Linked Entity says a lot more than Extraterrestrial Biological Entity," Webster said.

Joe had his eyes closed again. "The second password is 'Aurora'. It is signified by the shimmering bolts of energy coming from the globe on the coin. The globe obviously represents the Earth, and the bolts, the Aurora borealis."

Rainy left the kitchen to pull a large, library sized dictionary from the bookshelf in the living room. She had just finished flipping the pages as she returned.

"Aurora," she read aloud, "a luminous phenomenon that consists of streamers or arches of light appearing in the upper atmosphere of a planet's polar regions and is caused by the emission of light from atoms excited by electrons accelerated along the planet's magnetic field lines."

Blake snapped his fingers and gave a "right on" whoop. "The MFD, the light, the project, it all makes sense. That's why they chose Aurora as the project name, and also as one of the passwords!"

Rainy cut off his triumphant speech with a frown. "You're moving a little too fast for me, sweetheart."

"Sorry," he grinned sheepishly. "You remember I told you about the triangular vehicle that is part of the Aurora project? For propulsion it uses unique superconductive mercury plasma that generates a gravitational disruption field. The alien ships and the TR-3 triangular platform all are purported to have a shimmering effect. It's my guess that it's due to the disruption of the Earth's gravitational force and its effect upon the Earth's magnetic fields."

"Right," Rainy said. But she still had a blank look on her attractive face.

Blake chuckled. "The definition for "aurora" describes the goal and the effects of the Aurora Program."

Rainy looked pleased. "Got it! Now tell me the third password."

"It's Jexovah," Joe said.

"Of course," Blake agreed.

"By Jove, I think we've got them," Newsom said. "I think we've got all three passwords."

"Rainy can operate any computer once we have the passwords," Blake said, "but how the hell are we going to get into the place?"

Joe didn't seem cowered by the challenge. "We will figure out how to get into the right area when we agree how we're going to use our 'smoking gun'."

Blake poured himself a fresh cup of coffee. "I still don't think going to the media is the answer. MJ-12 and the shadow government are too powerful, and too well placed. They'll either convince the networks and the wire services that we're hoaxsters, or they'll order everyone to leave it alone, claiming that it breaches national security."

Rainy was confident that she had the answer. "Then tell the whole fucking world at once by putting the information on the nets. Milnet or ARPANET, Internet, foreign government nets, and private industrial nets. These computer networks go all the way around the world. Who needs the networks or the wire services? With the unique satellite linkup capabilities that exist in Area 51, we can establish an instant global communications network."

Joe flashed her a smile of approval. "I think she's got it, gentlemen. If we could get to the broadcast satellites for television and other electronic communications, as well as the nets, there would be no way to stop our message from reaching the world. We would be using classified NSA software to link and to control all commercial and government satellites."

"Fan-fucking-tastic!" Webster said with a broad grin...

"Yeah," Joe confirmed solemnly. "With a little help from the boys upstairs, I think we can pull it off. And...I have the strongest feeling that the Jexovah want me to go there. There's something in Area 51 that is vital to them in setting their master plan in motion."

"Why can't the Jexovah androids just blast their way in there and include us out?" Rainy asked, not really kidding.

"I'm not sure. Being created extraterrestrial biological entities, they have a set of rules about what they can do and cannot do in order to establish and direct their plan. I just don't have much of an understanding of that, other than their prime goal is to alter the human/Jexovah race to correct our defective genetic structure. Also, as I can see it, the androids cannot access the 'mass collective unconscious'."

"Because it's spiritual, and the android EBEs don't have any spirit?" Webster suggested.

"Exactly," Joe said, "so when I view other people or sentient spiritual beings, it's through the mass collective unconscious. But, when I communicate with the Jexovah androids, it's by means of this implanted quasi-crystal in my head," Joe said pointing to the bridge of his nose.

"That clears up some questions I had," Rainy said.

"Now, the plan?" Newsom asked.

Newsom stirred uneasily and seemed to be searching for a remnant of breakfast to nibble on. "I think we agree that we can blast the information over the world computer nets whether or not we have a satellite at our disposal. The big question remains: How do we get in?"

Rainy considered the question. "How about getting in the same way security does?"

She paused, making certain she had everyone's full attention. "All security personnel carry a circular laser reflector, about six inches in diameter. In Area 51, all vehicles and personnel that are not under security escort are required to display these reflectors. Security personnel illuminate the reflectors with a laser tuned to a part of the light spectrum that's invisible, and they reflect an infrared signature that can be picked up by their infrared receivers. They've only been using these reflectors for at least the last six months. It’s like a bar code in the infrared."

Newsom found a couple French fries that had escaped previous detection. "So, Rainy, when you say we can get in the same way that security does, you are obviously suggesting that there is some way that we can acquire such reflectors."

Blake grabbed one of the fries out of Newsom's fingers. "Remember that my wonderful, all-American, all-purpose lady is the authorization manager for her range maintenance group."

Joe hoped Rainy knew the consequences of what she was implying. "You are saying that you could sign out reflectors for us, Rainy? Are you certain that you want to get that involved? You're probably the only one of us who isn't already assigned to some assassin's cross hairs."

Rainy shrugged. "On the other hand, since I've been keeping company and doing research with Weird Webster for so many years now, I would be kidding myself if I thought they didn't have me measured for a shroud along with you guys."

Newsom sighed and shook his head in admiration. "The lady has balls!"

"She's got ovaries," Rainy corrected him. "And some day she hopes to use them big time and lay some eggs for Daddy Webster. But I know that's not going to happen until he gets this king-sized monkey off his back. It's not going to happen until we have done all we can to blow the whistle on the government cover-up of UFOs and EBEs."

Blake leaned over and gave her a hug. "That's my girl. Let's get it over with so you can start laying those eggs, Mama!"

Newsom applauded. "So while we're giving a big hand for the little lady--Little Lady, how about signing out a vehicle for us as well?"

"No problemo," she agreed with a bright smile. "I can sign out the reflectors, a utility vehicle--and...drum rolls, please...I can authorize a maintenance crew of four to be in the proper area."

Wayne Newsom poked his forefinger around the table. "I only count three in the crew."

"Three guys. One gal." Rainy's face was deadly serious.

"No way, honey bunny," Webster protested.

Joe placed a hand on her forearm. "Think this over very carefully, Rainy. We don't know how many people they've killed to protect their secrets--not to mention the where-abouts of my family and Red."

"I've already thought it over," she answered. "I think it is time that the world was told the truth about alien interaction with the shadow governments. It may be a tough job, guys, but like they say, somebody has to do it."

Webster's voice quavered with love and respect. "But not you, my darling. Not you. Remember those eggs!"

Rainy kissed his hand and brought it up to caress her cheek. "Over the years we've been together, kiddo, I've been by your side when you've exposed the shady dealings of congressmen, senators, and government contractors. But the exposure of the UFO/alien cover-up is the biggest story of corruption and rot that you've ever undertaken. There's no way that you're going to leave me out of this story!"

"Here's the deal. If I sign out the reflectors and an official vehicle, you get in. If I don't go along, then I don't sign out the reflectors or the vehicle, and you don't get in. It's that simple. And I assure you that getting to the Groom facilities can be that simple. With the right stuff, of course."

Newsom laughed. "The time should be long past when we stopped calling them the weaker sex."

"Damn straight, cowboy!" Rainy agreed.

Newsom stood up, ignoring Blake's defeated countenance, and started picking up the soiled paper plates and scraps of food. "It's settled then. Let's get to work."

After a brief conference, they decided that they would put together a computer-generated news release. They would use the information from Dr. Farr's files and material from each of their research or personal experiences. They would also assemble a video from the materials at hand. The digital news release would be placed on all the worldwide computer and media networks simultaneously.

The video broadcast with pictures and shots of printed files, such as the MJ-12 documents and the autopsy report would be transmitted via satellite. Joe was certain that he could arrange the "loan" of a communications satellite by utilizing his own considerable skills and the activated mental programming that he was receiving from the Jexovah.

"I'll do the video with Newsom. I have the cameras, video recorders, and video software with the necessary editing functions. You, my love, and Joe can put together the computer net release from Farr's and my files. Are we agreed?" Blake had obviously relented.

The four conspirators put their collective hands together and shook in agreement.

CHAPTER 26 - Dreamland

The four conspirators; somber, determined, apprehensive, and exhilarated; Joe Green, Blake Webster, Rainy Roberts, and Wayne Newsom, respectively, headed out of Las Vegas around 3:00 P.M. the next afternoon.

It was their plan to arrive at the Groom facility just before nightfall. The EG&G Special Projects Division Equipment van that Rainy had checked out from the vehicle compound on West Desert Inn Road stored their computer software, tools, and video. In addition, Rainy had provided them with company identification and coveralls.

They left Las Vegas and drove out into the desert. The barren wasteland, its desolation broken only by jutting, distant mountains and a sprinkling of creosote bushes, reflected their somber moods. They headed northwest on Highway 95 past Indian Springs and Cactus Springs. About forty-five miles west of Vegas at a sign that said Mercury, they turned northwest on a paved four lane divided road. They were now about sixty-six miles from the last turn-off to the Groom facility.

After they had driven about two miles, they encountered a guard shack and gate that blocked the entrance to the 1500-square mile Nevada Test Site. Here, a guard asked them to get out of the utility vehicle so he could run a hand held sensor probe inside the van and across each person. Joe knew the probes could detect radioactive materials, explosives, and the special invisible dye the DOE used to mark ultra classified material.

Another guard took their identification and entered the information into the computer in the shack. They would soon know just how good Rainy really was at imputing their cover IDs into the system. The four of them waited outside, afraid to talk, lest they seem nervous.

Apparently Rainy was as expert as she claimed. The guards seemed satisfied with the results of the computer check and allowed them to proceed.

As they headed north, Wayne Newsom, who was at the wheel, informed them they had entered the Mercury Valley. "Ahead lies the most remote and rough terrain in all of Nevada."

Blake adjusted his sunglasses against the glare of the late afternoon sun. "I remember Red telling me about it. He'd gone over each inch of this desert, starting when he was just a kid. I believe the landing field with hangers and a few buildings are a couple of miles to the west. It's called Camp Desert Rock."

Joe explained that the landing strip was an auxiliary for the Air Force and the DOE. "University and contract research scientists from UCLA, Stanford, and USC, as well as others from Los Alamos, Sandia, and Lawrence Livermore, are flown into the test site at this landing strip. The guests are supported by facilities at Mercury Base, two miles north of the field."

A few miles down the road, Joe switched seats with Newsom and took his turn at the wheel. They had decided that Joe would be the best one to answer any questions from area personnel, since he spoke their lingo and knew the area closest to Groom Lake. Blake and Rainy sat in the back seat and watched the billowing trail of dust stretch out endlessly behind the van.

"Welcome to Camp Desolate," Newsom said, making a sweeping gesture toward the barren hills and wasteland all around them. "Nothing but scrubby bushes, weeds, and cactus."

The static from the dry desert air caused the dust to cling to every surface of the vehicle. Even with the windows closed, the filtered air from the air conditioner smelled of dust, and fine particles coated the inside of their noses and mouths, and make their eyes gritty.

"From 1951 to '62, the Atomic Energy Commission tested atomic bombs above ground here," Blake said. "In '62, the International Nuclear Test Ban drove the routine nuclear explosions underground."

Newsom, a life-long resident of the area, said that he remembered the explosions that shook the desert. "They scattered jackrabbits and wild horses, and sent shock waves through southern Nevada--and released radioactive contaminants as far away as Utah. I remember feeling the blast tremors as far up as Tonopah. Mock towns, air bases, and dummy soldiers were constructed for destruction, then blown apart, filmed, and analyzed. There are dozens of old nuclear test wells and concrete bunkers all over this area."

They drove north on Mercury Road past signs that read Mercury Base, Dell Frenzi Park, and Timpi Site. A blue Air Force pickup truck passed them headed south, and the driver in a sand colored jumpsuit gave a friendly wave.

Rainy had been silent since they left the guard shack, but the Mercury Base sign buzzed her memory. "Hey, Blake, remember those stories about the alleged underground facility at Mercury Base where people are supposed to be subjected to bizarre and horrible experiments?"

Newsom swiveled around in the front seat. "I heard them, too. Supposed to take place in laboratories some three thousand feet underground."

Joe glanced at Rainy and Blake in the rearview mirror. "Isn't that the story about the conspiracy by the secret government scientists and alien scientists to interbreed humans and aliens to create a hybrid species?"

"That's yet another tale from the rumor mill," Blake said. "The worst and grisliest has to do with the cauldrons of human body parts from missing abductees that the aliens are supposed to be packaging and sending home to the ET supermarkets."

Newsom laughed. "I think that was inspired by the television series V, you know, where the aliens who first appeared as attractive human-looking ETs were later revealed to be reptilian bipedal creatures with a hunger for flesh."

Joe added he'd heard that the underground tunnels utilized by secret government scientists and the aliens had been constructed by EG&G during Project Excalibur. "I don't know anything about actual aliens in those tunnels, but the Excalibur actually existed, and I know it's a nuclear powered laser drilling system designed and built by EG&G at Sandia

Laboratories. It could cut holes through rock thirty feet wide."

They were stopped again at Checkpoint Pass, northeast of the Mercury Base, and asked for their identification.

"What's your business here?" one of the guards asked Joe.

"We've been called to repair a T-3 threat radar system," he answered with hesitation.

The Wackenhut guard's face was expressionless. "What's a T-3 threat radar system?"

The other three conspirators were grateful that Joe was along to answer the questions.

"The T-3 was developed by Rome Air Development Center in New York," he began. "It's used to simulate Russian surface-to-air missile tracking radars. It was designed after a Russian radar system captured by the Israelis."

The guard remained expressionless, seemingly unmoved, so Joe continued:

"The T-3 consists of two large tractor trailer vans, two radar dishes that are ten feet across. One radar dish for horizontal tracking is parabolic and the other one is crescent-shaped for vertical tracking. We'll change the software at the EG&G electronics building this evening. In the morning, we'll drive westward toward the eastern Pahute Range and perform modifications to the T-3 system located near Gold Flat at the Nellis Electronic Combat Range."

The guard, who had seemed ignorant of all that Joe had rattled off until that point, suddenly sprang to intellectual life and asked a very pointed question. "That system is about two decades old. Why are they modifying it now that the USSR has collapsed?"

"No, no," Joe responded, momentarily taken by surprise and spinning his mental wheels for a satisfactory answer, "the system isn't changing. The modification we'll be making is an equipment upgrade. Some of the instruments are no longer manufactured or supported by the manufacturer. The circuit cards we have in the van are a new design by a different manufacturer. Would you like to see them?"

The guard shrugged indifferently. "No, it just seemed unusual to me that you would be doing this now when a new Red Flag training exercise will start at Nellis AFB the day after tomorrow."

"And that is exactly why we are here on a rush job now," Joe told him. "We didn't receive the modification kit from the Rome Air Development Center until this morning. We'll probably have to work through the night."

"Okay," the guard waved them through the checkpoint. "You'd better get started then."

"I must say that you are certainly well-informed for a guard," Joe said, masking his relief at having bluffed their way through.

The guard accepted the compliment with a barely perceptible smile. "I'm booking for advancement, sir. I don't plan to be stuck at a guard shack forever."

When they were out of earshot of the guard, Joe told his passengers, "Thank God he didn't want to see the modification kits. I don't know what we would have improvised to show him if he had. He was far more knowledgeable about the technology than I ever would have guessed."

Newsom gave him a congratulatory slap on the shoulder. "Great line of bullshit dude! You did good!"

"Did you have a little help from your friends upstairs in the UFO?" Rainy asked, curiously.

Joe laughed. "No, I winged that one on my own."

Blake called their attention to the test wells and bunkers they were passing, as well as the camera stations on the mountaintops.

"The newer ones are powered by solar powered battery systems," Joe said.

They drove on along the graded gravel road past an occasional bunker, metal tower, blockhouse, or pumping station. The terrain gradually increased in elevation until they reached Yucca Pass. From the pass they could see a dozen radio towers, scattered railroad tanks, and concrete blockhouses.

"Yucca Lake still has some water in it," Wayne told them. "But it's completely polluted with chemicals and radioactive waste."

Farther north they entered an area marked by a sign that read "Nevada Test Site Area 10."

"Good grief," Rainy exclaimed, "look at all the craters, and how huge they are!"

"That's where a number of above ground atomic bombs were exploded," Wayne told her.

They could now see about a dozen huge derrick like towers dotting the horizon.

"According to Red's map, we've got about ten miles to go before we reach Groom Pass," Blake said. "Then it appears it's literally all downhill to the Groom Air Base facility."

"Listen!" Rainy demanded. "What's that sound?"

The three men heard only the wind and road noise as the van moved down the hard-packed gravel road.

"Don't you hear it?" Rainy was peering out a side window and trying to look up.

"We don't hear anything, hon," Blake said, glancing at the two other men for any sign of a conflicting opinion.

"Turn off the air and slow down," Rainy told Joe. "There's a damn chopper above us!"

"Jesus, are you sure?" Newsom asked.

The three men looked out of their windows. Dusk was approaching, and the dust-coated glass prevented a clear view.

"I hear it now," Blake affirmed. "Shit, we're fucked.

They're on to us!"

"Let's just stay in control, folks," Joe advised in a calm voice. "Let's see what they're doing."

He looked at the silver reflector disk in its slot pressed against the front window just below the rearview mirror. The helicopter's laser interrogator would read the disk just like a bar code reader at the supermarket. Once again, they were about to find out how good Rainy Roberts was at her job.

Now the black helicopter was visible through the front window. The Apache was equipped with self-dampening sound limiters. The oscillation of the rotor wash could be felt inside the van. The womp womp womp sound of the rotors cutting through the air reminded Joe of the choppers in Southeast Asia.

"Don't worry, guys," Rainy assured them. "We have an up-to-the-minute reflector code."

"Jesus, babe, I sure as hell hope you did," Newsom said.

"Come on," Rainy scowled defensively, "the individual IDs worked, right?"

"Right, sweetheart," Blake squeezed her hand. "You have our complete confidence." I think, he said to himself.

The sand and dust increased as there visibility decreased.

The rotor wash continued to buffet their van--the helicopter must have been right on top of them. The minutes ticked off and in spite of the very efficient air conditioner, they started sweating.

"Jesus Joe, this is starting to worry me," Newsom said.

Everyone, in turn, glanced at Rainy for reassurance.

"We should be checked out and passed over. I don't know what's wrong..."

"We can't stop or back up and we can't see in front of us," Webster said, sounding stressed.

Joe stomped on the van's brakes. "Enough of this shit."

The helicopter continued on ahead. It tilted nose up slightly, slowed, and as it turned the dust around the van cleared.

Three people tried to speak at the same moment, but stopped with words in their mouths as Joe rolled down his window and stuck out his arm, center finger extended and elevated above his hand.

"Fuckers," Joe said as he pushed lightly down on the accelerator and continued on up the road.

The helicopter stood its ground. The increased noise coming in the open window filled the interior of the vehicle.

"What are you doing, man?" Blake asked squeezing Rainy's hand a bit tighter than he intended, causing her to wince.

"I gave them a big fat fucking finger," Joe said. "They've read our disk on their interrogator. They should be satisfied. They're just screwing with us.

"Oh my God," Rainy said.

"How can you be sure?" Webster asked.

"I'm sure...something newly instinctive."

"I hope you know you just bet our lives on your new instincts," Newsom said.

"Trust me...Now we're going to act natural, like I know what they're doing, and what we're doing."

The helicopter dipped in response to Joe's wave and began to move off to the side.

"It worked," Newsom sighed, leaning back heavily against he seat as they watched the helicopter rise in altitude and distance itself from them.

Rainy leaned forward and gave Wayne a light slap on the top of his head. "Of course it worked, jerk! I'm good at what I do. Have a little faith in me, for pete's sake!"

Joe complimented Rainy on a job well done.

No one complimented Joe for his brashness, but each had a new found respect for the size of his balls.

They would have to have a lot more faith in each other as their adventure unfolded.

CHAPTER 27 - General's Inquiry

"Come on in, Matt," I have some excellent wine opened," the General said. He had been waiting for Colonel Kingsley to give him a full report of every classified project at Groom and DARC, but there had been delays with the clearances he needed. His patience had started to wear thin.

It had been five days since General Alex Beauharnais had been summoned to the office of Eli Jerrold and been admitted into the confidence of the secret society of those super patriots who served the MJ-12 committee, and he hadn't had a good night's sleep since he returned to the Groom Lake facility.

Were there truly secret branches of the government working with extraterrestrial artifacts to create ultramodern advanced technology, or were Jerrold and his committee suffering from paranoia? Or maybe they had come up with a bizarre, off-the-wall rationalization to foment a rebellion? Perhaps the aliens only existed in Jerrold's wrinkled old brain, and his dementia was driving him to attempt an overthrow of the government.

True, the documents that Jerrold and Colonel Trent had shown him appeared to be authentic, but how could any group in any branch of the U.S. government keep a secret for so long? Since 1947? Impossible! Or not?

On the other hand, he was positive the government had covered up many conspiracies throughout its history; the POWs left in both Korea and Vietnam after the wars ended for political expedience was one cover-up he was positive of.

General Beauharnais's quarters were more like a hotel suite than an apartment. Although hardly spacious, there was a bedroom, a sitting area, a kitchenette, a small dining area, and three fairly large closets. The Groom mess hall served meals to the facilities' employees’ twenty-four hours a day, but the General took his evening meals alone in his quarters.

Tonight, he had invited his deputy, Colonel Matthew Kingsley, to join him. He had known Matt for nearly twelve years, and he had confided the entire account of his meeting with Jerrold to him within hours after he had returned from Washington.

"How's the wine?" Alex asked after making superficial conversation. They both needed to relax a little.

"Excellent choice," although Matt Kingsley preferred almost any good red to a white.

Kingsley might be the only person on the facility that Alex Beauharnais could trust, and he knew with certainty that Matt would also be loyal to him, and to the government to which he had pledged his everlasting allegiance.

After a light meal, General Beauharnais poured them each another glass of chardonnay. He indicated that the Colonel should make himself comfortable in a black leather recliner, and he sat opposite him on a matching leather sofa.

At the right moment the General asked, "Can you give me the complete review of Area 51 and the Groom and DARC facilities now?"

"Yes, finally. The DOE security chief verified your upgraded Security Clearance authorization and SCIs for all the facilities within Area 51. I already had this clearance for the responsibilities I had at the Office of Foreign Technology Division, and the transfer of my clearance was also verified. Now we have complete access to everything going within our domain," Colonel Kingsley said.

"It's about damn time," the General huffed.

"As you know, the Defense Advanced Research Center is located underground East of the Papoose dry lake. The DARC personnel are civilian contractors and no other facility in the US has higher security. The CIA provides the management of the TR-3 along with the National Reconnaissance Office, and the NSA manages all the research at the DARC facility," the Colonel began. "All of the facilities have been built inside the hills east of the Papoose dry lake. They have their own water and power just like Groom, and the extensive facilities are all underground. I asked for and received the blueprints of the facility."

Kingsley took a sip of wine before he continued. "Until the clearance authorization was given a couple of hours ago, I would not have been able to be completely open and honest about what I've seen in the past, or what I've learned since my arrival. There are some shocking things going on in the underground laboratories at DARC."

"Unfortunately I understand, but I knew that when I originally took this assignment. That's old water, now let's concentrate on the present."

"Good enough, sir; I'm glad you don't resent my previous position."

"No, hell no. Let me hear your report."

"I'll concentrate on what you didn't know instead of what you know about the Programs and Projects going on in Area 51," Kingsley looked to the General for a response.

"As far as I can tell, and I've inspected the entire Area 51, this place is appropriately named--Dreamland. Area 51 is essentially divided into different areas of responsibility. The Groom facilities are for Flight and Operational Testing, and evaluation of advanced aerospace vehicles which are controlled for the most part by Det. 3 of the Air Force Flight Test Center at Edwards AFB in California.

The vehicles are managed by one agency and the facility by another. The NSA, ARPA, and CIA for the former, and the DOE and USAF for the latter."

"The other being DARC?"

"Yes, the other facility is DARC, which is controlled by the NSA, though a couple of their advanced vehicles are managed by other agencies."

"I know this," Beauharnais indicated, his tone slightly impatient.

Kingsley sat back in the chair and looked directly at the General when he spoke. "What you didn't know is that most of Area 51 is related to the development of advanced technology from Foreign Artifacts."

The General sat upright. "You mean there is actually an alien connection here?"

The Colonel nodded. "Everything is connected to the Jexovah alien race and their technology."

"I'll be damned...Don't tell me we actually have live aliens in Area 51?"

"No, but we have dead ones to study. Better than that, we have high tech artifacts from crashed Jexovah vehicles, and we have Ship 4."

"Ship 4?" the General echoed.

"Ship 4 is the forth vehicle encountered that we could recover technology from. Number three being the Roswell crash. Ship 4 is the only intact vehicle ever recovered."

"My God...And we can fly it?"

"No, unfortunately the scientists have only recently been able to get inside it. But, eventually, they hope to. In the meantime, all the artifacts recovered from crashes have been studied, analyzed and reverse engineered, and the resulting technology has been incorporated into advanced ultra secret military vehicles and weapons. The TR-3B gravitic one-stage-to-orbit platform is a perfect example.

"Did you see the aliens?"

"They are exactly as explained to you by Eli Jerrold and Colonel Ty Trent. You saw the pictures of the crashed vehicles and the bodies recovered at Roswell."

"So it's all true! Jerrold isn't crazy," the General looked stunned at the realization. "I didn't really believe them--thought they were setting me up or creating a big hoax in order to achieve some hidden agenda. I really didn't believe. But it's all true..."

"Absolutely," Kingsley answered.

"So much of this is almost unbelievable, an unreal phenomena...even miraculous.

"After you've deal with the concept for a while, it's no different than adjusting to the discovery of a new species or a new race of people. Things that have been at first astonishing to their discoverers, and then become almost blasé after a time. Familiarity may breed contempt, but proximity also breeds familiarity."

"Yes, I imagine that's so. Still...I knew some of this technology appeared just a little too far advanced in terms of known and accepted technology." Alex said.

Kingsley laughed and shook his head. "I'm no aeronautical physicist, Alex. There is no question that we do have a number of radical aerospace vehicles and platforms, such as the TR-3B, and I am not capable of determining precisely when or how the advanced technology originated...too many cloistered groups working separately on pieces of the puzzle. Only the MJ-12 and a handful of scientists at DARC know the full truth, and have detailed knowledge to explain it all."

"So most of this advanced technology has been influenced by alien science?"

"Affirmative," Matt smiled. "The SR-75 and the smaller SR-74 are kept at the Groom facilities. The new fighter bomber, the FB-112, looks a lot like the F-117 stealth fighter, but is much larger and has no vertical stabilizers or other vertical protruding surfaces. It's completely flat and looks more like the bat-plane than its namesake, the 'Artichoke'."

Alex ran his forefinger along the rim of his wine glass. "That's the F-111 replacement vehicle. The one the tech magazines called the A-17."

Matt finished his wine. "Yes, that's it. The A-17 and the TR-3, as well as a number of smaller prototypes, are kept at the Groom and other facilities. In addition, there are several unmanned aerial vehicles and independently piloted vehicles which the USAF calls drones."

Alex reached over to pour more wine in Colonel Kingsley's glass. "The smallest one, I believe, is called the 'Gnat' but they have research and development into insect type drones. They are waiting on the sensor technology to catch up."

Matt nodded as he raised the glass to his lips. "And there are medium and larger versions called the 'Amber' and 'Predator'. There are also two IPVs, the 'Scarab' and the 'Sky-eye'."

He paused and pulled a list from the leather planner on his lap. "We have leapfrogged in our advances in every discipline of science due to the discovery of Foreign--alien artifacts," Kingsley said as he handed a list to General Alex Beauharnais.

"Astro Physics, Computer design, Designer Drugs, Genetics, Materials Science aka metamaterials, Propulsion Systems and quasi crystals," Alex said, reading random headings as he scanned the list.

"I've also made a list for you of each program, the funding source and amount, the type and class of vehicle, and the goal of each particular program. It's attached."

He flipped to the attachment. "Tell me about these vehicles."

Matt considered the question. "Well, they come in all sizes and shapes--conventional to exotic. There are flying wings, delta, triangular, and circular shapes. The TR-3B is the most exotic manned vehicle. The Tier-4B, the 'Fourbee', is an unmanned or Independently Piloted Vehicle, a smaller version of the triangle shaped TR-3B. I think that a lot of the so-called UFO sightings are really our own exotic prototype vehicles."

"That's quite possible," Alex agreed.

Matt continued. "I found out that many of the Gulf Breeze, Florida, sightings were a result of our testing the Tier-4B. The damn thing can move so fast from a standing start that it appears to disappear."

The General rubbed his chin reflectively. "Interesting, the super technology that enabled us to move so quickly originated on another planet?"

Matt Kingsley took a swallow of his wine. "Well, there is a problem. The more I investigated, the more walls I ran into. For instance, I was told by one major at DARC, a Brooks scientist on assignment here, that he could not discuss the intricacies of ongoing projects with me or any other person outside his chain of command or outside the program."

"Really?" The General arched an eyebrow, and then frowned.

"He also told me," Kingsley went on, "that he didn't consider the base hierarchy--meaning you and me--or the security assholes to be part of the scheme of things. And he was pretty damn arrogant about it."

"Arrogant is an understatement," Alex fumed. "Who is this officious prick? Didn't you set him straight?"

"I most certainly tried," Kingsley stated. "When I told him that the so-called 'base hierarchy' could have his ass, he just laughed at me. He said his work was SCI, Sensitive Compartmented Information, and we did not have a need to know."

"SCI, eh?" Alex scowled. "We'll see about that. I think we'll soon put your new friend in his place. They've given me the authority, responsibility, and access; they'll damn well give me the information about these projects also."

Matt smiled approvingly. "I agree...completely. I wanted to punch this guys lights out, but I did find out from the computer database profile of personnel that he is a neurosurgeon who works with artificial intelligence and is assigned to 'Project Wells'."

"And what the hell is that, Matthew?"

Kingsley held out his glass to be refilled. "It's a study, using super computer analysis, to assess the effects and reaction of a culture if the existence of a higher intelligence should one be discovered. It's also highly classified and under the control of an unnamed secret agency."

General Beauharnais leaned forward with the bottle of chardonnay. "And could that be our mysterious friends on MJ-12?"

Matt Kingsley shrugged, careful not to spill any of the wine. "I just think it's fascinating to have a Black program working on the effects of a superior alien world on our culture here at a classified airbase in the middle of nowhere."

The General refilled his own glass, then leaned back on the sofa. "It's not strange...apparently  DARC--is the center of all things related to the Jexovah, their androids, and Foreign Artifacts."

"Then I recommend that you contact Colonel Ty Trent to clear up the necessary procedures or approvals to get us access into the heart of each project."

"Now that I know that what they told me was the truth, and that I'm responsible for all of Area 51, I have the facts to pursue this. I'll get what I want. I'm persistent..."

Of this, Kingsley had no doubt.

The General excused himself for a moment to put on a fresh pot of coffee. He raised his voice slightly so he could be heard over the running water. "Now I understand why and what...That in the mysterious underground facilities on this base, super scientists are working in secret to perfect alien technology. How much alien science do you think they've figured out?"

Colonel Kingsley got up from the recliner and walked into the kitchenette. "Obviously, from looking at some of these aeronautical prototypes, and from what I've seen at the FTD, one would have to assume that they've cracked a lot of it."

"Be specific."

"Well, we still haven't figured out all of their language," Kingsley said. "And that certainly has inhibited rapid progress and assimilation of their science and technology."

The General wondered what information allowed him to make such assertions.

"I know that the NSA Research and Engineering Division has picked up numerous transmissions along the 21 meter wave length band. According to a friend of mine in the Foreign Technology Division who's a member of the NSA's Dundee Society, the NSA began picking up alien transmissions in 1972. It's all highly classified, but he did say that it's more likely that we'll talk with dolphins before we have a breakthrough with the alien language. We've had better luck with their technology through reverse engineering."

General Beauharnais considered what his friend had told him. "Our utilization of alien technology is actually taking place here, right under our noses. Before last week, I wouldn't have believed it. I would love to get an up-close look at an alien craft. I want to touch something. I prefer my reality in the form of something tangible."

Colonel Kingsley laughed. "I'll keep digging. I'll arrange a tour of the areas within DARC. They might not volunteer information, but there are still cryogenically frozen EBE android bodies which are referred as Greys, and of course, Ship 4. We're both pilots. Maybe we can volunteer to test one of the prototypes."

The General made a wry face. "I'll settle for a close look and a firm touch." Both knew there was little chance of flying an exotic, ultra-secret prototype aerospace vehicle. They cost hundreds of millions and only a precious few existed.

The fragrant aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the General's small quarters, and Colonel Kingsley gratefully accepted a large cup. He had imbibed a bit too much of the fine wine.

"Alex, there's another matter I would like to discuss with you tonight."

"Of course," Alex nodded, as he added one lump of sugar to his own cup.

"It's this new Chief of Security specialist, Michael Crawfoot. He's definitely not a technical person. And he's downright unsociable. Don't get me wrong, he's a thousand percent easier to deal with than Agabarr...by the way, we still don't know what happened to him. Anyway, this Crawfoot has a ranking second only to yours. So what's with this guy?"

The General took a careful swallow of the steaming coffee and resumed his seat on the sofa. Agabarr had been impossible to deal with. His sudden and unexplained disappearance was surprising, but no one regretted his absence. Crawfoot was an entirely different situation.

"I suspect that he has been sent by MJ-12 to kill me if I don't behave."

Colonel Kingsley hoped his commanding officer was joking, but when he looked into his eyes, he saw no mirth concealed in them. "You're serious."

"Damned serious, Matt. These boys don't mess around. I was ordered to tighten security against all possible intruders, especially civilians. If I'm not strict enough, or give some other indication that I'm not dancing to their tune, I suspect Mr. Crawfoot will be told cancel my assignment. Permanently."

The Colonel had difficulty swallowing the lump that had formed in his throat. "They wouldn't dare. You're a general, for christakes."

General Beauharnais' voice became a whisper. "MJ-12 will stop at nothing. I'm convinced of that. When I saw, according to Crawfoot's orders, that Colonel Ty Trent had placed him as security chief, I knew that he was sent here to watch over me and to eliminate me if I began to pose too great a risk. Crawfoot is almost certainly a contract killer for the NSA."

"Then we'll just get the bastard before he has a chance to unpack his underwear," Kingsley said. "We'll throw the son of a bitch in the stockade until we find out what the hell is going on around here."

"On what charge do we have him salted away?"

Kingsley held up three fingers. "Give me three minutes, and I'll have at least a dozen transgressions attributed directly to Mr. Crawfoot."

General Beauharnais smiled at Matt Kingsley. He had ascertained what he wanted to know. The Colonel could be trusted completely, and totally depended upon.

"We'll just keep an eye on him for now," he told Colonel Kingsley. "I have a gut feeling that something big is going to happen very soon. When it does, we'll be informed and ready."

CHAPTER 28 - Three Passwords

By the time Rainy Roberts, Blake Webster, Wayne Newsom, and Joe Green reached Groom Base the sun had gone down and vehicular activity was picking up around the flight line in front of the big hanger.

Joe slowed down, then stopped, and Blake blurted out in frustration, "Why are we waiting? Let's get on with it!"

The large hanger--called the 'Barn' and 'Hanger 18' after the infamous hanger at Wright-Patterson AFB that was rumored to hold the remains of extraterrestrials and their crashed vehicles loomed in front of them, seventy feet high and a hundred and ninety feet long on each side. A loud bell sounded continuously as the huge doors groaned slowly open to admit a yellow tow-tug, which backed into the partially opened doors. The runway and flight line halogen lights lit up the surrounding area as bright as daylight.

"Cool your jets, buddy," Joe said, and then chuckled. "No pun intended. I want to scope out the scene for a few minutes before we go in. We don't want any surprises."

The four invaders sat in the EG&G Special Project's Division's maintenance van observing the activity.

"Where do you think they're keeping Red?" Webster asked in a hushed voice.

"I saw that he was definitely in an underground cell," Joe said.

"And you...feel that he's still alive?" Webster asked, wanting to be reassured.

Joe nodded. "Yes, I know that Red is still alive." But he couldn't use his ability to visualize through the mass collective unconsciousness--ever since "seeing" Red he hadn't been able to connect--and he didn't understand why he couldn't reach out and find Karen. He'd had no new memories or Jexovah insights concerning them, but he was convinced that he and his friends were in the place that held the answers.

"Jesus, look at all the lights. There must be hundreds of them," Newsom whispered in awe. "Plenty of troops on duty, too. Half the lights are pointed towards the hills and mountains. I assume that’s to keep unauthorized photographers from taking pictures from a distance."

"This is our last chance to back out," Joe said. "We can turn around right now and go back the way we came. No one will be the wiser."

"Except us," Webster underscored.

"Knowing we chickened out," Rainy added.

"Knowing we left Red to the wolves...and maybe even your wife and kid," Webster said softly, nodding towards Joe.

"Damn it," Newsom said, nervously cracking his knuckles as he spoke. "We've come this far. Let's do it! We know the communications setup here is the best in the world to boom out our message--our call to arms, so to speak."

"Do you want to go back, Joe?" Rainy asked.

"No, but you can leave me here if you guys want to fall back and regroup," Joe said.

"No way. One of us stays, all of us stay. This is like a marriage, folks...till death do us part." Newsom's edict was met with three voices groaning in unison.

"Did you have to put it like that, buddy? I mean, let's don't borrow any trouble here, okay?" Blake chided.

"What do you think all the activity is about, Joe?" Rainy asked, refocusing their attention on the scene in front of them.

"I assume they're prepping the SR-75," he answered.

"Is that the long black thing that tears up the sky when it takes off?" Newsom wondered.

Joe nodded. "It's a sight to behold. I used to work on it. It's built by the Lockheed Skunk Works--the same place that designed and built the SR-71 Blackbird reconnaissance plane."

"All part of the Aurora Program?" Rainy asked.

"Yeah," Joe said. "Aurora is the code name of the ongoing program to build and test advanced aerospace vehicles. Each project is umbrella'd under the main Aurora Program. The SR-75, the mother ship, is called the Penetrator. A smaller ship, the SR-74, actually rides on top of it for some missions. The 75 can launch the smaller 74, called the Scramp, at 100,000 feet, and it can achieve earth orbit. Look, they're pulling it out of the hanger now. Their ultimate goal is to have a space fleet within ten years.”

Joe pointed toward the huge hanger, and they watched as the yellow tug appeared under the nose of a jet-black sword shaped object protruding from the hanger doors. The point of the aircraft emerged first, high up in the air. The belly of the vehicle was at least ten feet off the ground, and the tug was coupled to the front landing gear about twenty feet behind the wedge-pointed nose.

"My God, look at that monster!" Wayne Newsom's voice held a note of reverence. Some ninety feet of the SR-75 had emerged from the hanger and no end was in sight. "How long is it?"

Blake was silent, mesmerized by the top-secret reconnaissance vehicle.

"It's 162 feet long and has a wing span of 98 feet," Joe answered. "It carries a crew of three--a pilot, a reconnaissance officer, and a launch control officer, who doubles as the electronics warfare officer. The last crewman faces backward."

"Kind of makes you feel like you're watching a science fiction movie, doesn't it?" Rainy offered. "I've got goose bumps."

Blake broke his silence. "You could drive a small car into one of the engine air inlets."

He pointed to one of the two engine inlets located under the wings of the awesome black mother ship. The engine bays hung down seven feet from the underside of the wing and were twelve feet wide. Two bypass turbojet engines were housed under each wing, and the bays spanned some forty feet, terminating at the trailing edge of the wing.

"Do you think they're getting it ready for a mission?" Rainy asked Joe.

"Well, they've got the SR-74 mounted on top, as you can see," Joe said, "and they've turned all the lights on. Notice that the entire perimeter lights face outward so the craft can't be photographed from a distance. I don't think they would go through all this trouble unless it was going on a mission."

Joe moved the van into forward gear and pulled up to the side loading dock of the maintenance building.

Blake glanced at his watch. "Do you think we can go in yet?" They had managed to quell their anxiety temporarily by focusing on the awesome aerospace vehicles, but now the enormity of their proposed undertaking hit them full force.

Wayne Newsom looked around nervously at the huge base in the middle of the desert. He wondered if it would be the last sight he'd ever see.

"The final shuttle flight left a little after five," Rainy said. "According to the schedule, all the maintenance personnel should have been out of the building a couple of hours ago."

Joe turned off the ignition. "I've kept a close watch of the building in the rear view mirror. Hasn't been any activity since we pulled up. So, let's do it. Everyone all right?"

Blake and Rainy nodded.

"Wayne, you know what to do?" Joe asked.

"I've got the dummy job. I sit here with this portable radio, and if anyone approaches the building, I buzz you three times. If they look like they're going to enter the building or approach the van, I buzz four times. If it's a false alarm, I buzz twice."

"You got it," Joe smiled.

"My manhood is still a little dented, though," Wayne felt compelled to state. "Seems like I should be going inside to face the unknown instead of the little lady."

Joe reached over and squeezed Newsom's shoulder. "Except the 'little lady' is our computer whiz, and what you know about computers could tiny fly in your eye and not make you blink."                  Newsom conceded the point. "Good luck, gang." His tone was somber.

Joe removed the large equipment bag from the rear of the Dodge van and handed Blake a smaller utility tool kit. Rainy carried the case with the computer disks and circuit cards.

"Everyone act cool," Joe said. "Act like we're supposed to be here, and we know what the hell we're doing."

There was a small light over the side door to the building. Joe inserted the key card into the code key lock attached to the side of the door, then swiped its magnetic strip through the reader and punched in the day code.

Nothing happened.

"What the...?" A look of panic streaked across Rainy's face. "It's supposed to work."

"Now we are fucked," Blake shook his head.

"Relax," Joe admonished them. "I'll try it again."

Slowly, deliberately, he swiped the magnetic strip through the slot again, and then carefully punched in the six-digit code. This time they heard the muffled click of the large dead bolt releasing inside; their relief was palpable.

The 30,000 square foot building was partitioned inside, housing the EG&G Special Projects Division's shops on the east, the NSA shops on the south, and the Air Force avionics and calibration labs on the north. The EG&G and Air Force took up over eighty percent of the building. Most of the heavy duty repair and maintenance of the test ranges were done at the EG&G Special Projects Division's depot in Las Vegas. The telemetry control and range equipment, as well as the test and mission program tapes, were also kept inside the building that the three conspirators were about to enter.

Dozens of tiny equipment lights sparkled in the darkness of the room as they stepped inside. Joe located the breaker box and flooded the room with light. Without a word, Rainy accessed the master computer begin to download the data from the disks they had prepared for transmission to the earth orbit satellite network and the world computer nets and networks. Blake hovered anxiously over her, ready to hand her anything she might need to expedite her task.

"How's it coming, sweetie?" he asked, after a few minutes.

"I've loaded the report containing our research highlights and Dr. Farr's notes and stolen files, as well as the few photographs we had," Rainy answered methodically, her fingers flying over the keyboard, her eyes glued to the monitor. "I've loaded the program that will send the information out over the national and international computer networks and the media at the proper moment."

Joe looked at his watch. It was a few minutes after nine. At nine-thirty, Rocky Mountain Time, Rainy would have to be finished. The programs would send both the computer network and satellite video transmissions automatically exactly ten minutes after they were loaded.

Abruptly Rainy pushed back from the large mainframe computer, almost knocking Blake over. "Okay, I'm ready to go to the satellite uplink."

Blake picked up the bag with the other disks and the video tapes and followed Rainy and Joe across the room to a six bay, a bay is a piece of electronic equipment six feet high and two feet wide. To the right was a computer console and printer stand, to the left, a large dual tape backup unit.

"This is the Rockwell Satellite Communications Control Station," Joe told Rainy.

She nodded her recognition, pulled up a maintenance stool and had Blake set the bag on the work surface. A delicate sheen of perspiration broke out on her forehead in spite of the chilly temperature in the climate-controlled room.

"Oh, oh, oh shit!" Rainy suddenly squealed.

"What, babe, what's wrong?" Blake asked in alarm. Nothing was delicate about the beads of nervous sweat curdling together on his forehead.

Rainy leaned back and considered the control station. "This bay on the right is the transmit section. The one in the middle is the receive station. The one on the left is the digitizer and control section. Right? The others are memory."

"So what's wrong?" Blake repeated his question. How the hell would he know which bay was the correct one? Rainy was the expert.

She leaned down and pointed under the work surface on the right bay. "Down here is the intermediate power supply," she pointed, "which is on. But the main transmitter power amplifier light is not on."

Blake dropped to his knees and peered helplessly, nervously, towards the spot where she pointed. The transmitter power light was definitely off. "So what do we do?"

"If we don't find the breaker box for the transmitter power supply," Joe answered, his eyes darting around the room, "we aren't going to be transmitting anything."

Suddenly he turned and propelled himself across the room in four long strides. "This has to be it," he said, trying his best to sound confident as he scanned a wall studded with electronic equipment. He turned on all the equipment associated with the satellite communications control station and waited while the computer ran its built-in-test program. Agonizing minutes ticked off.

Finally, the computer beeped and the prompt flashed: SYSTEM BIT COMPLETE. YOU MAY PROCEED.

"Right on!" Rainy exulted. "We're back in business."

Joe and Blake pulled out the small VHS player from the tool bag, along with a rat's nest of cables. Joe hooked up the Output jack on the VHS player to the External Video jack on the control section bay.

The computer monitor flashed, ENTER PRIMARY PASSWORD.

Rainy entered Oracle.

INCORRECT PASSWORD. FIRST WARNING, flashed on the screen.

"Jooooe," Rainy bounced anxiously on the chair before the screen, "tell me what I do now!"

Joe held his breath. He had been certain that the first password was Oracle. If he guessed wrong again now, the system would shut down, an alarm would be activated, and they would be discovered. Their counterattack on MJ-12 would be squelched before it began.

"Aurora," Joe told Rainy. "Enter Aurora!"

"Why the fuck not," Rainy mumbled as she punched in the word.

They all gave a small cheer when the monitor displayed, ENTER SECONDARY PASSWORD.

"Jexovah, right?" Rainy wanted final confirmation before she punched in the second password.

"That's right," Joe told her.

The monitor responded, ENTER FINAL PASSWORD.

"Ah," Blake sighed in relief. "All's right with the world. Now it's got to be Oracle, right, Joe?"

Joe nodded. "It has to be."

"Here goes a homerun," Rainy giggled as she punched in the letters.

SYSTEM ERROR. WARNING. IMMINENT SHUTDOWN.

The three of them looked at one another in dumb terror as a piercing internal alarm sounded from the ceiling and the computer monitor flashed, REENTER FINAL PASSWORD. SYSTEM SHUTDOWN WILL OCCUR IF INCORRECT.

Joe reeled back against a post. He was confused...dazed. He had been positive of the password sequence, and he had been wrong. It had not worked.

Aurora was the technology; Jexovah, the aliens; Oracle, the android helpers. Why hadn't it worked?

"Jesus, Joe," Blake danced nervously from one foot to the other. "If we make another error on the password the external alarm will activate and let whole base know that they've got intruders where they don't belong."

Rainy was more to the point. "Shouldn't we be hauling ass?"

Joe would have bet his life that those three passwords were correct. Hell, he grimaced, he'd done just that--and the lives of the others, too. Within minutes the guards would descend on them.

Joseph Green, we have the answer for you.

Joe spun around, looking for the androids. They weren't there in person, but the alien voice inside his head was clear and direct.

"Joe, what the fuck are we...."

"Blake, shut up!" Rainy shouted. "He's got that look in his eyes again. I hope that his buddies are giving him something we can use right now."

Enter MARSJUPI.

Joe's mental response was pointed and desperate. That doesn't spell anything. The alarm will go off for sure if I enter the wrong code!

Enter MARSJUPI. The third password has been changed.

Joe knew they had nothing to lose. He rushed to the keyboard. "Let me try," he said to Rainy.

"You got it," she said as she vacated the chair before the computer.

Joe typed in Marsjupi and hit the Enter key.

The computer monitor went blank just long enough for Joe to stop breathing. And then the monitor displayed, ENTER LAST EIGHT DIGITS OF TERTIARY PASSWORD.

Mentally, Joe cried out.

Enter TERPROBE.

Joe's fingers trembled as he typed in the letters. The three intruders collectively held their breath, and then released it in unison as the monitor displayed ACCESS GRANTED. The alarmed ceased, and Joe rose shakily to his feet, relinquishing the controls to Rainy. They were in now.

Joe was aware of Blake speaking to him, but he wanted to ask the voice inside his head about MARSJUPI-TERPROBE before it left him.

It means Mars Jupiter probe. Your government wishes to photograph our installations on Mars. We will not permit that to happen.

Joe smiled grimly. I always wondered why both the U.S. and Russian probes began to malfunction just as they were to commence taking pictures of Mars, his thoughts responded.

In regard to the secret committee originally formed by your government to handle information and contacts made by us, they called themselves MJ-12 for Mars and Jupiter. The 12 came from the ancient Sumerian designation for the planet that once orbited between Mars and Jupiter. The term Majestic is not relevant to us.

We approve of your plan to transmit your message over your world's communications nets. The time has come for your people to know the truth about us. We have prepared supplemental documentation. An alarm on the base has been sounded. You must continue.

Wait, he commanded. You must help me. My wife and son, Karen and Kevin, are missing. I don't know if they are in danger. You've got to help me, he pleaded.

We have no contact with those who have not been implanted. Your wife and son have not. We cannot help you, Joseph Green.

I can't visualize them--how do I link up with the mass collective unconsciousness?

Only sentient spiritual beings like you, may link with the mass collective unconsciousness. We are not spiritual beings. When the time is right you will be able to visualize your Karen and Kevin. You must continue.

I want help. You must do something to help me, you must!

It is not part of the plan; it is beyond our Jexovah guidelines. You must continue, to stop imperils the plan.

Fuck your plans," Joe thought and verbalized at the same time, "and fuck you."

Joe sensed that their communications link had abruptly terminated.

"What's wrong, Joe," Webster asked.

"Everything."

Joe stepped back to watch Rainy smoothly and efficiently fulfilling their mission. He realized the luxury of choice had been taken away from him; what had been begun must be completed.

"Look at my girl work that computer, man," Blake said proudly, unaware of the battle going on in Joe's soul. "Isn't she something else?"

"She's terrific," Joe agreed, forcing himself to focus on the present...praying that nothing slowed her down. Area 51 had the tightest security of any installation in the world. When the alarm sounded, he had feared it would show up on a monitor board somewhere in the base and that they would be over-run with armed paramilitary carrying automatic weapons. But minutes had passed and nothing had interrupted them. It had only been a warning.

Rainy entered the code sequence to cue up the videotape they'd prepared for satellite transmission. Next, she entered the code to send another text message out over the computer networks. She started the computer message first, and sent it out to Mil-net and Internet with programming commands to retransmit to all user addresses. The programming code that she had prepared would command the Mil-net and Internet user recipients to retransmit the message automatically to all on-line users. Theoretically, every computer network user in the world would receive the message including the mass media.

And she had gone for broke. The message would keep transmitting indefinitely. The programming code she had written would infect every computer on a network, just as deadly computer virus would. In fact, she had modified a computer virus to accomplish the deed. The virus would replicate its own code until each computer would be filled with the message, then the programming code would repeat it over and over again.

The only way that anyone could stop it would be to disconnect their computer from the networks, clear the virus, then stay off-line and off the nets until every other computer had been cleared. It would take many days, perhaps weeks, to reestablish all of the network links and users.

And just seconds after she sent the message out over the wire services, the SHOREOS satellite uplink command--which used NSA designed software--caused the media satellites to begin transmitting the video portion of their wake-up call to the world. Every channel on just about every TV in the world would be playing all their data and videos.

For a moment the small band of crusaders were silent, overwhelmed with the magnitude of what they had done...then, without warning, their senses were blasted with a cacophony of electronic alarms. Blake spoke for them all. "Let's get the fuck outta here."

CHAPTER 29 - Revelation

General Beauharnais and Colonel Kingsley arrived at the Security Operations building to find it in an uproar. Oscar de la Garza was there in his jogging suit and tennis shoes. His hair was mussed, indicating that his men had awakened him. Michael Crawfoot seemed, as always, calm and composed, as if ice water flowed in his veins.

General Beauharnais requested an immediate status report from Oscar de la Garza. Armed guards in camouflaged uniforms opened a path for the General and his entourage. It was now nearly ten P.M.

"To put it bluntly, sir," Oscar said, "all hell has broken loose. Without any discernable provocation, every type of security alarm from here to Tonopah through the Rachel gate went off."

General Beauharnais was very much aware of Crawfoot coolly assessing the unfolding scene. He was struck once more with the apprehensive feeling that the assassin's true purpose was to terminate him if he should fail.

"Oscar," he demanded, refusing to succumb to the feeling of intimidation, "what the hell's going on here?"

"We aren't sure, General," the security chief, explained. "Some of these alarms along the Groom Range and through Rachel could only be set off by an earthquake."

The General raised a skeptical eyebrow. "By nothing but an earthquake? Come now, Oscar."

"Well...an earthquake, a nuke, a meteor...or more than a thousand vehicles moving along the highway within twenty thirty miles of here," he answered.

Colonel Kingsley emitted a short laugh of derision. "That's hardly likely, is it, Oscar?"

De la Garza hesitated to reply, but things could not really get any worse. "Sir, we've been getting strange reports of a massive caravan of thousands of automobiles, buses, vans, and RVs headed this way."

No one had noticed the dark complected man slip into the room. He had a bandaged left hand and was wearing a side arm.

Agabarr scowled, cursed under his breath as he noticed Crawfoot, then addressed the General. "So, the people's revolt has begun. This should be interesting. The fanfare of the fanatics."

"Gee, look what the devil drug in." Crawfoot's voice dripped with loathing. "Where have you been...having a prolonged private moment?"

General Beauharnais ignored Crawfoot and a turned to regard Agabarr's strange entrance and contribution to the problem at hand.

"Where have you been?"

"Let's just say, General Beauharnais, I had an emergency to take care of."

"What emergency? Did some street slut bite the hand that beat her?" Crawfoot challenged.

"Cut it out!" the General snapped at Crawfoot. "Mr. Agabarr, you have been replaced by Mr. Crawfoot here. I don't care what you do now, as long as you stay out of my way. Do you understand?"

Agabarr smiled sardonically. "We'll see about the status of my job."

"Perhaps...but I have no intention of 'seeing about' you or your former job until after I deal with this crisis. Now stand aside."

"One moment, General, if I may," Colonel Kingsley said, then addressed Agabarr. "What do you mean by a 'people's revolt'?"

Agabarr made his answer sound slightly accusative. "That's why I'd been ordered to tighten security, sir. UFO kooks and cultists have made Area 51 their Mecca. They've created an entire mythology about this place. That maniac preacher, Page St. John, has been conducting some kind of weird religious revival ever since Labor Day weekend. Maybe he's bringing his disciples here to pray for a UFO to land and deliver a messiah from a spaceship."

"That's hardly likely," Kingsley said.

General Beauharnais was about to agree with his adjutant's assessment...

Almost as if on cue, the room was assaulted with a multitude of dissonant blasts. All of the alarms at the Groom and DARC facilities, as well as every security sensor in Area 51, were triggered within seconds of one another.

"Shit. It's happening again." Oscar exclaimed, "The security control computers must have jammed, useless..."

The occupants of the second floor office in the Security Control building rushed to the windows, which looked out over the Groom dry lakebed. Every runway, perimeter, building, and area light within sight had been turned on. The immediate area around the hangers and dry lake took on the eerie glow of false daylight.

"Who the hell ordered this? Who gave the order to have all the lights turned on?" Kingsley demanded.

"No one," Oscar answered quickly.

"Then shut them off," the Colonel ordered. "And turn off those damned alarms before they drive us all crazy."

Within seconds the alarms were silenced, but the outside lights remained bright and defiant.

Oscar de la Garza yelled at a master sergeant to take some men over to the power station and shut off the power to all the outside lights.

"What could cause all of these alarms and lights to be triggered simultaneously?" the General asked.

Oscar shrugged. "Sir, it's supposed to be impossible."

"Is there any natural phenomena that could have caused it?" General Beauharnais asked.

Oscar said that he doubted it. "Each system is isolated from the other. Each system has its own computer. And they all send their output data to the master computer, right here. All of our systems were checked at 1700 hours and were in perfect working order."

"Someone must be messing around with the security system," Crawfoot suggested. "Can it be accessed from the outside?"

"Absolutely no way," Oscar replied.

"Even by some very clever hacker?" Raul Agabarr challenged. "Some smartass hacker who's part of this rebellion to demand the release of all government information about UFOs?"

"No way," Oscar echoed himself, but his tone carried a trace of uncertainty which everyone picked up on.

General Beauharnais was a proponent of immediate action when faced with a supposed threat. This philosophizing and second-guessing bullshit could be saved for more leisurely moments.

"Get on the phones," he barked. "Kingsley, you call the Nellis base commander and have him send all of his available security personnel. Oscar, you handle the National Guard. Tell them to get out and check the perimeter of Area 51. Then recall every off duty military person at the DARC and Groom facilities. And clear this room of nonessential personnel. Now!"

Everyone jumped to action.

Kingsley scooped up the nearest phone and dialed nine to access an outside line--lifting the receiver to his ear, "Sir, the phones are dead."

Oscar de la Garza's confused expression verified that the same was true on his console.

"Shit," the General shook his head in disbelief. "Are you telling me that the computers are jammed, the security system has gone haywire, the phones are inoperative, and we have no way to communicate with the outside world?"

One of the security personnel, a young sergeant named Griffith, turned around from the computer console in front of him. "Hey, everyone, you'd better look at this," he said timidly.

Both military officers and civilian security personnel were stunned to see the incredible data that was scrolling up the computer's screen.

"What in the fuck is going on!”? The General thundered. "Where is this coming from?"

The young sergeant cowered as he answered from his seat. "Sir, it's coming over Internet. Every TV network in the world is transmitting this message over and over. Every on-line computer here at the Groom facilities is displaying this message, and nothing short of turning off the power to each computer can stop it. It's like a virus."

Colonel Kingsley's brow furrowed deeply, and his eyes narrowed their focus. In a harsh whisper, he spoke aloud what the General could see for himself. "This message details everything you've told me about the MJ-12 committee, the Jexovah, the androids grays, everything that has been discovered about alien technology since the Roswell crash in 1947. Every person in the world will know about this before the sun comes up."

The sergeant seemed unable to take his eyes from the screen. "I calculate that the message is scrolling at less than two hundred words a minute, just about what the average reader can digest in that time, Sir.

Crawfoot studied Raul Agabarr's baffled expression. "Someone really let the cat out of the bag, eh, amigo?" he jibed.

"It's those fucking anarchists, Webster and Newsom," Agabarr sneered. "I know those assholes have something to do with this! If only I could have gotten that old bastard to spill his guts."

General Beauharnais overheard the remark and stared at Agabarr, suspecting the worst.

"What old bastard? Just what the hell have you been up to?" the General scowled at Agabarr with undisguised disapproval.

"Been pulling wings off of little creatures again?" Crawfoot grinned scornfully at his fellow security specialist and shook his head. He had no idea what 'old bastard' Agabarr was talking about, but he loved to push the man's buttons.

"Fuck you, Crawfoot."

"It'd be better than the cows you diddle," he flippantly responded. "Besides, the networks have picked up on this, the world is going to change right before our fucking eyes. You won't have to worry about wresting your job back from me!"

Agabarr was not amused. "Certain people will never permit that to happen."

Crawfoot laughed. "So what are they going to do about it now? There isn't a lie big enough to cover all of this."

Agabarr frowned and narrowed his eyes in disbelief. "Bullshit! Once we find who did this--how they managed to get the documents, and where they got the technology to kidnap the satellites--it will be easy to expose them as mad fanatics who created the whole thing as an elaborate hoax. And for frightening the General public in such an irresponsible manner, they will all go to prison for life."

Crawfoot pursed his lips, and then let his gaze derisively fall from Agabarr's face to his feet and back again. "I suggest you pack your bags. Let the grown-ups deal with this."

I'm not through with you, Crawfoot. Agabarr's thought did not need to be spoken for Crawfoot to understand it. The man's smile was demonic as he nodded and made a slashing movement across his throat with a forefinger. Crawfoot dismissed Agabarr by pointedly turning his back and focusing his attention on the situation at hand, a slight that he knew Raul Agabarr would be driven to revenge.

He would look forward to it.

"Ah, Sir?" Sergeant Griffith addressed the General, and as all eyes in the room turned towards him he seemed to shrink in his seat.

General Beauharnais looked inquiringly at the young NCO. "Sir, uh, I'm almost sure this could not have been done by an outside access. Whoever did this must have been in the compound," he said timidly.

Beauharnais's eyes stayed focused on the sergeant's face for a millisecond longer, then he turned on his heal and barked at Crawfoot.

"Take your men and check every building on the premises that contains both computer and satellite uplink equipment. Find out which system went off-line first. If those sons-of-bitches breached our security, your ass is on the line. Now!"

As Crawfoot left the room, Agabarr contorted his face and let forth a shriek of unholy laughter.

"Shut up, and that's an order!" Beauharnais had tolerated Agabarr's infantile conflict with Crawfoot long enough.

Oscar de la Garza interrupted to direct their attention to the monitors on the far wall.

"We have a satellite receiver that can pick up all of the cable and network broadcasts from all satellites within this region of the globe. The four monitors that you will see," he said as he sat down at a control panel to manipulate series of knobs and dials, "are tuned to CBS, NBC, ABC, and CNN. And we can just about acquire any TV network."

The faint sounds of equipment and tiny electronic cooling fans could be heard over the deathly silence of the room.

What they saw jarred even the senses of the experienced technical and electronics personnel present--trying to comprehend that all four networks were displaying identical information simultaneously.

While the General's staff was trying to assimilate the catastrophe, the MJ-12 script from the alien autopsy after the Roswell crash was displayed on the world's television screens.

This was followed by a report of scientists, politicians, and military personnel that had been eliminated or imprisoned in mental institutions by order of the MJ-12 committee. The MJ-12 Charter followed. Not all the information had been taken directly from the files of Dr. Carlton Farr. The Jexovah had added supplemental data to the transmission. Only Beauharnias, who had seen the actual files, recognized the alien intervention...the implication terrified him.

At the General's order, Oscar switched to other channels. Everyone in the room was spellbound as the screens flickered, momentarily filled with noise lines, then projected the scrolling message. It was obvious to the technical personnel that every satellite broadcast on the planet transmitted the same images.

The room remained silent for several minutes as each person sat, transfixed, before a computer monitor or television screen. Just before ten thirty, Oscar broke the silence.

"General, I've just had a thought. The EG&G electronics shop has its own multiband satellite uplink transmitter. Maybe we ought to go over and check out it out."

"It's worth a try," General Beauharnais agreed. "Let's get over there with some men right away."

Agabarr stepped forward. "Better be certain those men are armed, Sir." He emphasized the last word disrespectfully.

The General wanted to know why armed men would be necessary to check on a satellite transmitter.

"Just a hunch that I have. While you were watching the monitors I overheard Crawfoot telling the Colonel, here, that a few hours ago our checkpoints gave clearance to a utility van from EG&G with four individuals who were supposed to be installing a modification in certain equipment on the base," Agabarr said.

"Is that true, Colonel?" The General turned towards Kingsley.

"Yes sir, but it was confirmed that they had the proper clearance from the EG&G depot in Las Vegas. They were also interrogated by one of our security helicopters on the way to Groom, and they checked out.

"Was there anything else suspicious?" the General asked, despising the need to glean every detail of information he needed to make decisions.

"No, sir, there wasn't!" The Colonel seemed sure of his answer.

Agabarr injected an opinion. "Call it intuition. It's unusual that a maintenance run would be ordered without some kind of prior notification. I would have followed up on it.

"That's all you have to arouse your suspicions?" Colonel Kingsley frowned.

"Look...ignore my suggestion, I don't care. After all, I don't have any authority here." Agabarr stared at Kingsley in feigned innocence.

Colonel Kingsley snorted and begrudgingly said, "Maybe we'd better check it out."

The General nodded his assent. "Let's go, men. But don't any of you security sharpshooters get carried away here," he warned. "This is has been a bizarre and unsettling evening, but we don't want to get unnerved by the strange situation to the point where we are shooting first and asking questions later."

Kingsley and the General noticed, much to their chagrin, that Agabarr had disappeared from the room...

CHAPTER 30 - Why Shoot The Messenger

Chaos! Alarms were pounding the three interloper's senses from all sides. Three warning beeps from Wayne followed by four...a pause, and four more. Joe, Blake, and Rainy scrambled to shove their equipment back into their bags, then fled towards the door.

Rainy reached the door first, and cracked it as six armed men in camouflage uniforms jumped out of the back of a blue Air Force extended cab pickup before it had time to skid to a stop.

"Shit!" Rainy exclaimed. "The bad guys are here!"

Blake pulled Rainy back from the door and bolted it with the sliding steel bar.

"What's going on?" Joe asked.

"There are at least seven or eight armed men outside. They've got Wayne," Blake told him.

"Maybe your Jexovah can tell you what to say to talk our way out of this," Rainy blurted, not intending to sound sarcastic. She really meant it.

The door rattled slightly, and they turned their attention toward the noise. They could hear the key code latch disengage, and someone trying to pull the door open. It didn't budge.

"The bar should hold them for a while," Blake said, the tension in his chest making his breathe come in shallow gasps.

General Beauharnais watched as the men unsuccessfully attempted to open the door to the EG&G building. "Crawfoot," he yelled, who as the new chief of security was just exiting his white Jeep Grand Cherokee pick-up, "you're the expert. What do you recommend that we do next?"

"Secure the premises," Crawfoot answered approaching the General. "I think we can assume that the people inside are responsible for the unauthorized transmissions.

"What about the guy in the van?"

"He claims they're here to maintain some equipment, but he can't tell us which units need repair," Colonel Kingsley said. "I'm certain he's lying. It appears he's a lookout to me. Hold him 'til we get the others...there are three of them, he says."

Crawfoot barked an order to two of his men, then addressed the General, "As I was saying, Sir, we can't negotiate with them because the phones, computers, and radios are jammed. I think we should cut power to the building. They can't last long without electricity, food, light, and fresh air. If we have to, we'll blow the door and take them by force."

"Colonel Kingsley?" General Beauharnais sought his fellow officer's assessment of the situation.

"I concur with Crawfoot, sir," he replied tentatively--never having to deal with any situation remotely like this. "I'll send Oscar to get some of the explosives and demolition people. Sergeant Epstein can alert Dr. Quinlin to stand by for potential injuries."

General Beauharnais nodded, then sat back to await the outcome. He felt a grudging sense of respect for the crusaders inside. Although they had broken a dozen federal laws by entering Area 51 and seizing the equipment, they had overcome insurmountable odds and managed to expose MJ-12's alien cover-up conspiracy. For such a valiant feat, they deserved accolades, in the General's opinion--even though MJ-12 would probably effortlessly patch up the leak using their usual tactics of character assassination, physical intimidation, and overt threats against family members. As a General, he would be forced to oversee their capture; as a man he longed to facilitate their escape.

He thought of the months that he had endured torture, starvation, humiliation, and the deluge of propaganda that was served up daily at the infamous Hanoi Hilton. He had served a tour in hell and survived; disillusionment with the U.S. government had been the price he'd paid. He had vowed that should he live through his imprisonment and continue to be a military officer, he would never again compromise his values.

General Beauharnais looked up at the star-splashed night sky. If he weren't in the military...if he were an ordinary citizen, what would he want? The answer came quickly: He would want the truth, no matter how painful.

The MJ-12 committee of super-patriots feared that the public couldn't handle the truth--that knowledge of the alien's intervention in the history of man would undermine the very fabric of society and the essential tenets of all Earth's religions. But when had the government last tried trusting people with the truth? When was the last time that the best interests of the government coincided with the best interests of the people? The American people, Alex Beauharnais realized with a flash of insight, were as much prisoners of the deceptions and manipulations of an out-of-control government, filled with unaccountable bureaucrats, as he had been prisoner of the Viet Cong. The General was filled with a sense of peaceful resolution. If given a chance, he knew what he would do. He would help the invaders.

The world was changing before his eyes and he visioned everyone on a computer or watching TV was calling their friends to wake them up – all over the world.

Carlsbad Caverns. The moment the lights went out in the EG&G electronics room, Joe's mind flashed-back to his childhood visit...one of the few vacations the Green family had ever taken. Little Joe had been so excited! And had loved the stalactite and stalagmite formations. Then the guide had turned off the lights to demonstrate absolute darkness, and Joe had been struck with a terror that only his experience with the Light could parallel. He had let out a blood-curdling scream in the caverns, the sound echoing eerily back and forth, and his bladder spasmodically spilled its contents as he frantically groped for his mother’s arms.

His father had beaten him severely for "acting like such a baby and embarrassing us" when they went to the rest station to clean him up...while Joe whimpered in shame.

Unconsciously, Joe held his hand before his eyes, just as the guard had instructed them to do in Carlsbad so many years before. He could not see his fingers...much less his companions, but he knew that Rainy Roberts and Blake Webster stood within a few feet of him. He heard them gasp as a loud pounding began on the security door.

Is this where it all ends? Joe asked himself. He had vivid thoughts of Karen and Kevin that struck hard enough to cause a wave of physical pain.

And then the frightened words of Rainy and Blake, and the thuds of the violent pounding, began to fade away. Once again, he heard the Jexovah speaking to him inside his head:

Government troops will confront you. Be at peace. The vast majority of people of the world will react favorably to the information you have transmitted. In not many of your Earth years, the governments of the world will be forced to change, to seek peace, to make compromises, and to form a one-world union. Because of the upheavals following the Rapture, large numbers of humans will die in the years to come.

Why will the transition cause the deaths of so many people? Joe asked mentally.

Those humans with defective genes will no longer be able to generate offspring. They will be sterile. By the year 2020, over half of the world's population will be sterile and will die of natural causes. You, Joseph Green--as the Chosen One, are the catalyst for the Rapture. Some will call you The Antichrist and will try to destroy you. You must prevail. You are an integral part of the Rapture.

Joe laughed out loud. Prevail? We're in the middle of the most classified base in the United States with armed soldiers pounding on the door. Aren't the four of us as good as dead?

Death is a place of transition. The human spirit is indestructible. The mass collective unconscious is the network that holds all that has ever been and all that ever will be for the human species. You will never cease to exist.

The security door gave way on its hinges with a sudden resounding boom. It bounced off the wall and fell to the floor with a clang that deafened the three occupants--leaving them with a loud ringing in their ears.

A dozen security and military personnel with raised automatic weapons entered the building in an orderly rush. The beams of the laser targeting devices attached to the weapons filled the huge room with pinpoint lines of overlapping light. The armed personnel searched through the sea of infrared images, watching for movement...listening for any sound. The dust fairies floated effortlessly in the air.

Rainy and Blake froze the moment the door fell, afraid to move, to talk, or even to breathe.

Joe took a step forward and called out to the men. "We're unarmed. Don't shoot. Don't harm us."

The lights flashed on for about two seconds before the breakers tripped and they went back off, causing the soldiers' infrared goggles to bloom with blinding brilliance before the surge gain control could adjust to the unexpected illumination. With Joe's movement and the distraction of the lights, the lead Wackenhut paramilitary soldier fired reflexively.

Blake, catching sight of Joe's action as the lights flashed, instinctively reached out to pull him back to safety. The selfless action caused him to take the first bullet in his right shoulder, spinning him to the floor.

"One less toy for you to play with, Crawfoot." Raul Agabarr's unmistakable voice hissed in the security chief's ear as the infrared illuminated figure fell to the ground.

Where the hell did he come from? thought Crawfoot...then wondered at his own surprise. Agabarr hated to miss out on any firefight. Before Crawfoot could react to the tiny red dot that appeared on the head of the remaining illuminated figure, Raul Agabarr discharged his weapon with a deafening retort. His rifle bullet caught Joe in the middle of the forehead and penetrated his skull.

Rainy's scream of terror and rage pierced the darkness.

"Hold your fire!" Crawfoot shouted. "Hold your fucking fire! I didn't give any order to shoot!" The back of his hand struck out towards the origin of Agabarr's voice, and as it made contact with the side of the man's head, Crawfoot spat at him and glared, "Stand down if you know what's good for you...I'll deal with you, later, you bastard."

He then turned and moved forward in a crouch, watching for movement from the area where the two men had fallen. The soldiers kept their place and allowed him to take the point position. He edged forward; a few inches at a time--and saw a foot sticking out from a prone body.

"You assholes!" Rainy denounced them in a shrill voice. "He tried to tell you we were unarmed. You've killed him. Goddamn you all to hell!"

At that moment the lights came on. Crawfoot ripped off his goggles in time to see Agabarr leveling his weapon at the cursing woman. His arm shot out with the deftness of a cobra strike and knocked the barrel of Agabarr's rifle off target and bashing Agabarr in the face.

Agabarr erupted in a stream of profanity, swinging the rifle toward Crawfoot. Then, with an obvious struggle to regain his composure and his black eyes flashing, he laughed cruelly. "You're right, Crawfoot. It'll be more fun interrogating her."

Colonel Kingsley grabbed Agabarr's rifle saying, "I'll relieve you of that. You're not even supposed to be here."

Agabarr, in his normal arrogance, ignored the Colonel, taking a good look at the wounded man the woman was cradling in her arms. "Ah, ah...look at who we have here. Mr. Blake Webster himself, the talented man with the microphone we just heard on all those television monitors. I thought I recognized your voice. Ooooh, Mr. Webster, you have no idea how long we've wanted to get our hands on you!"

"Bastard!" Rainy screamed at Agabarr. "He needs a doctor."

"The wages of sin, bitch!" Agabarr shot back. "What's your name?"

"You already said it, asshole," Rainy countered. "It's Bitch. And you haven't seen the half of it, yet."

Agarbarr leveled his eyes at Rainy's heaving chest and mocked seductively, "...and she's feisty, too. I love a feisty woman. Don't you Crawfoot?"

Crawfoot shot his enemy a disgusted look, then crouched down beside Blake and met Rainy's eyes. "Sorry, ma'am. Let's have a look at your friend, here."

Colonel Kingsley edged forward through the men crowded around the wounded intruders. "Who is this man, Mr. Crawfoot?"

"Blake Webster, Sir," Agabarr interrupted. "He's a known enemy of the government. He's caused a lot of trouble. We've been trying to track him down for a long time."

Colonel Kingsley nodded. He would have to take Agabarr's word for the man's notoriety. The name of Blake Webster sounded familiar, but didn't register at the moment. "What about the others? What about the dead man?"

"Jesus Christ!" Oscar de la Garza exclaimed. "It's Joe Green. He works here. He's an engineer--and a damn brainy one. What the fuck is he doing here?"

Crawfoot's memory banks responded quickly. Could it be the same Joe Green he'd pulled out of the water under mysterious circumstances during their assignment in the Gulf of Tonkin?

"Shit!" Crawfoot spat as he stepped closer and verified his memory. "What the fuck is going on here? This guy is one of ours...one of the good ones!"

"Was," Agabarr corrected. "And how is that you two know a subversive agent who has just violated a dozen laws breaking into this place?"

Crawfoot scowled his displeasure at Agabarr's insinuation. "I served with him on a NSA Special Operations TREAT mission."

"And I eat lunch with the guy," Oscar said. "He works here. He must have had a damn good reason for being here tonight. I think we just made a tragic mistake."

"These invaders made the mistake," Agabarr reminded them. "They breached security and transmitted a message of rebellion against the government."

Rainy was cradling Blake's head in her arms, crying. He was moaning, wincing at the pain. "Where is the goddamn doctor?" she shouted. "This unarmed man you bastards shot needs a doctor!"

Crawfoot knelt beside Joe. He was surprised that his eyes showed movement. There was no chance that he could survive a wound like that. Blood was seeping from the hole in his forehead. What appeared to be bits of skull of brain were splattered on his collar.

Joe's open, staring eyes recognized his old buddy from the gig in the South China Sea, and his mind spoke, even though his lips could not. Mike Crawfoot! It really is you. Better hurry if you're going to pull me back into the boat this time. I feel like I'm sinking fast. Going to rapture again.

Crawfoot recoiled at the sudden flash of Joe's thoughts. It had been Joe that he had seen at Dr. Farr's place at Medina Lake. "Joe Green! What the fuck is a straight-out guy like you doing involved in this mess?"

“It's my destiny. The people have to know the truth. Don't you remember we used to talk about how the government was always screwing over the little guys? It is time for the truth.” Joe tried to project his thoughts, but couldn't.

Crawfoot rejected Joe's previous intrusive thoughts as an over active imagination due to stress. Crawfoot could not read what Joe's unblinking eyes were trying to tell him, but as he met Joe's gaze a mesmerizing warmth began to creep over him. He could feel himself being drawn towards something he could not comprehend; he shook himself mentally, and pulled away from Joe.

"Hang on, buddy. A medic will be here any minute." Mike Crawfoot could not believe that Joe Green was still hanging on to life after sustaining a gunshot wound to the head.

Joe's mind began to drift. He was floating in a sea of peace. Maybe he really was back in the ocean.

Joe began to ride a river of energy, moving rapidly down a tube of light. Then he was standing next to Karen as she sat watching television with Kevin. He did not recognize the room they were in, but they were alive. His wife and his son were safe. He reached out, wanting to touch her hair, wanting to whisper how much he loved her.

The energy pulled him away from Karen. He was back in the light.  Soaring...

Dr. Quinlin looked up into Crawfoot's concerned face after he had completed a brief examination of Joe Green's condition.

"There's nothing I can do to save this man. He has a few moments of life left, at best."

General Beauharnais stood waiting for the doctor's assessment of the situation.

"The conditions of these men are just as they appear. One man is dying with only minutes to live. Another had been shot in the shoulder."

"All right, Doctor," Colonel Kingsley said. "Take the injured man to the infirmary and patch him up. As soon as the other one dies, put him in the cooler until we decide how we're going to handle this situation."

Crawfoot's fists opened and closed in mute frustration as he studied the grim, bloody visage of his dying friend. "That sonuvabitch Agabarr overstepped his boundaries. I did not give the order to shoot these civilians. That madman has gone too far this time. I'm gonna..."

Before he could complete his threat, the computer notebook that Oscar de la Garza carried in a thigh holster started beeping in a high-pitched tone. Apparently local communications were no longer jammed. He slipped it out and stepped a few paces back from the others. After a hurried conversation, he approached the General, pale faced and shaken.

"General, we're being invaded! Guards at the north gate say that there are thousands of vehicles entering the surrounding area."

Colonel Kingsley scowled at the security chief. "How is this confirmed?"

"Our guards can see them from the towers. Thousands of lights coming towards Groom Lake from Rachel. Thousands of vehicles moving toward us. They were right on top of the guard shack," he said, almost afraid to admit, "I told them to stand down and not shoot because the vehicles wouldn't stop. They are on their way here!

General Beauharnais looked at Crawfoot and shook his head in disbelief. "What else can happen on this mother of all incredible nights?"

CHAPTER 31 - The Father, The Son, The Chosen One

The three silent forms stood immobilized, keenly observing as the Chosen One lay dying, his life essence fading.

It is time.

The message radiated from the minds of the doll-like beings hovering above the foot of the bed.

I'm dying, Joe Green silently projected.

A fact, not an opinion, silently acknowledged by the beings.

Allow me to go, Joe pleaded.

The time is at hand. We have no choice...his mind received.

Rage pulsed through every cell of Joe's being. "Get the hell away from me!" he commanded them. Defiantly, he forced his eyes open again...they were still there. Joe opened his mouth to scream, then froze as a sensation of golden, liquid euphoria poured throughout his body, flooding him with peace.

The three diminutive figures raised their hands and touched his feet. His whole body became charged with electricity; filled with a powerful force of unknown atomic particles. Their tiny ghost-like hands rose upward slowly. A sensation of infinite lightness flooded his body, and for a fraction of a second he panicked as he realized they were levitating him. Then, as Joe struggled to grasp this new reality, the beings flashed into another dimension, leaving in their wake a powerful negative force. Joe catapulted into the vacuum their exit created, clawing desperately at the dark edges of the vortex, his screams echoing throughout infinity...the peace a fleeting memory.

He swirled through space, surrounded by flickering stars, plunging towards a contortion in the space-time continuum. Whirling bursts of brilliant color supplanted the darkness... distorting, then annihilating Joe's last vestige of mental acuity. His being--he could not grasp whether spirit or body--was ripped asunder by the force of the acceleration...his mind was bombarded with the cry of a single voice. Inconceivably to him, it assaulted from every direction simultaneously. He tried to call back to it, but no sound would escape his lips. Without warning, the swirling ceased. Joe was ejected from the vortex with an explosive force; his disjointed thoughts crystallizing with clarity, his essence straining to stay intact.

He was surrounded by primordial darkness, a void so black it radiated coldness. Far above him, a flat linear plane of energy flowed, like a sheet of electrified ice. The intense blue aura of radiance impacted his senses as if he were trapped below a sheet of endless crystal. He perceived no appendages...could not move or reach out to feel his surroundings...had no normal human sensory input, no smell, taste, hearing, or sense of temperature or pressure. Only the coldness, and the crackling of the flow of cosmic energy. He tried to change his field of vision and realized he was seeing in every direction at once. It was incomprehensible to him, and then he realized he had no body...only a viewpoint.

"Where am I?" he asked the void, but no answer was forthcoming.

He was perplexed, in awe of his surroundings, but he was not afraid. Time ceased as he basked in the radiance of the flowing cosmic stream of energy.

Joseph Green, the man, no longer existed--not as he had perceived himself. He drifted, and in what he once would have perceived as time, understood that he could will himself towards the energy flow. As he expanded his mind, idea became reality, and he slowly drifted towards the raging river of cosmic forces.

The river beckoned him seductively, extending iridescent silver gossamer threads towards him. They wove and intertwined in a mesmerizing and enchanting pattern, encircling him...filling him gradually with their energy. The source, the awesome river of cosmic energy, was still distant and separate, yet it withheld nothing from him. He experienced an inductive absorption, a photoreactive phenomena...a cosmic unity. The photons or neutrons--he had no comprehension of their substance-- bombarded him; became him...infused him with strength.

Joe peered into the chaotic swirls of energy flowing and churning in the river, fascinated by the complex fractal patterns dancing on its surface. Patterns, which slowly emerged and formed into something familiar, yet not quite recognizable. He willed himself closer as the gossamer threads tightened and slowly withdrew into their source. He didn't fear the endless void of energy as he approached, but he was cautious, choosing to maintain a semblance of autonomy.

The patterns emerged as planes and plateaus, indentations and lines, and then molded themselves into faces. Joe first recognized the distorted face of his Uncle Glenn. Then, as he peered closer, others--faces that he had known--became recognizable. His father, his mother, his grandfather and grandmother...many distant relatives. Some of the faces he could not remember.

In sorrow, he called out to them. "What are you doing here, where am I?  Am I lost?" He realized his final question could be construed in many ways.

Joe did not receive an answer, nor did the faces change.

"Am I dead? Does this exist only in my imagination?" In confusion, he searched the eyes of the images he had loved...pleading with them for an explanation.

One last time he implored, "Help me. I will do whatever I must. Just help me."

The faces before him faded, and in their places Joe saw a host of small, familiar, childlike beings.

We have been waiting for you come to us, Joe Green. Waiting for you to submit to your destiny. Do not be full of sorrow, neither be afraid.

Hand's outstretched, fingers spinning threads of energy towards him, they waited. As the threads surrounded him, drawing him closer to the cosmic river, peace and joy consumed his being. Every fear, every doubt, every confused moment, all the pain in his life, escaped out of his spirit and flowed down the gossamer threads of energy that tethered him to the endless river of cosmic force; the force he now recognized as the 'mass collective unconsciousness' he had connected with before, but had not fully understood.

Joe witnessed the infinite web of energy that crisscrossed all space and time in an endless universe filled with immeasurable dimensions. The force flowed past him in a dizzying whirl. A tendril of his mind searched for a safe point to probe the energy. He became aware that a wrong choice would cause him to be sucked into the cosmic river, which he now realized was filled with the everlasting spirits of all sentient beings who had ever lived.

You cannot enter the cosmic consciousness, Joseph Green. You cannot. Hold onto your awareness of the now. You have not completed your mission. You are the Catalyst for the Chosen Ones.

Joe did not wish to be chosen for anything. The allure of the energy was compelling...peaceful. I am no one, he called to them. Let me go. Find another catalyst.

We cannot let you go, Joseph Green. Settle it in your heart...there is no other catalyst. The combination of your spiritual energy and your genetic structure is unique among humankind. Very soon, you will begin the Rapture.

Because you transmitted the messages and revealed the truth of our existence, the world now knows that there are intelligent, peaceful aliens observing them, watching over them. The influence of Jexovah on humankind has been explained. The governments of the world are now powerless to deny the mass of evidence. We have prepared the way for healing and peace, and the Rapture will come. You must fulfill your destiny.

"You don't know the lengths to which governments will act in order to mitigate the evidence." Joe implored them to listen to reason.

They did not respond. He told them to do whatever they had to do without him. Frantically, he besought them.

I am one. How can one matter?

One human can make a difference. One human can change the world. With our help, you will be the one who makes the difference, and you will change the world. The time is at hand.

Joe remained unconvinced.

I don't want to be a part of billions of people dying. How can you ask me to do something that will cause so many deaths?

Almost one hundred million humans die on your planet every year. Some die of natural causes and from accidents. Most die from starvation, disease, war, and crime. Starvation, disease, war, and crime can be stopped. It will be stopped after the Rapture is completed.

I need my wife and son, Joe told the voice.

We do not know where your wife and son are. We have explained this. You must...

Every particle of energy in Joe's consciousness screamed out in pain.

"Enough...I want to be left alone. I tried to submit, but I cannot. If you can change our genetic structure, remain neutral and distant with your powers, control my life in order that I might participate in this grand Rapture of yours; then you can find my family. Until I know they are safe, I want nothing to do with you..."

Instead of perceiving their response, Joe felt the parameters of his mind begin to expand...

He saw the entire history of a people...the Jexovah race, from its creation to its self-destruction. He felt their sorrow as they conceded that their destruction had come from their own lust for progress and power. He saw the remnants of the civilization as they roamed through the universes, attempting to reestablish their race, felt their anguish as they met with more failures than successes. He then witnessed the destruction of the Jexovah in the solar system through the eyes a survivor, one of the many Jexovah who had been on a mission, away from the mother ship when it was destroyed. The being's terror permeated Joe's soul as he shared the vision of an exploding planet, once located between Mars and Jupiter, which annihilated their mother ship and its inhabitants. He watched as the survivors regrouped on primitive Earth, in the southeastern part of Africa.

He saw the Jexovah as they occupied earth for many generations, working to build a starship in her orbit and conducting genetic experiments on the primitive Neanderthal species they had discovered there. Only one Jexovah refused to leave Earth and his Sumerian children when the colony departed for space, feeling a moral obligation to discover a solution for the flawed genetic structure of the Neanderthal-Jexovah hybrid, Homo sapiens. Joe watched as the being choose the earth's moon as his base of operations, and lived for thousands of years in an underground city the Jexovah androids constructed.

Joe integrated into the mind of the benevolent creator's and saw him frequently travel to earth as he monitored the progress of the hybrid race, then observed with alarm the crash of his small craft...and its subsequent discovery by the inhabitants of earth. Blessed with longevity and an ability to heal inconceivable to man, ultimately the Jexovah was no more invincible than a human being. The horrendous crash slammed him into the bulkhead of his craft at four thousand miles per hour. Faced with certain destruction, the being released his spirit, implanting the ship's organic memory with his life's essence, and releasing a part of himself into the collective unconscious.

Joe felt the Jexovah's pain and guilt of not completing his mission, of failing to create a true Jexovah race of spiritually enlightened beings.

Rage pulsed through Joe as unwanted thoughts invaded his mind...thoughts projected by an unknown Jexovah android.

"No more! You have violated my race, toying with us as if we are puppets in your hands...you have jeopardized the future of my people, experimenting with us at the whims of your will...you have controlled me and placed those I love in danger. No more. Release me! I have no responsibility to you! Find yourselves another 'Chosen One'!" Joe spat the words forth in an angry torrent.

The android being formed a visual image in his mind.

Come...

The projected thought slammed into his awareness.

We can no longer deny the truth to you. Come now, it will be dangerous.

Furious, Joe fought the inevitable, struggling as he was sucked into the river of energy--the cosmic unconsciousness--that slowly devoured his spiritual essence, producing the paralyzation which had now become familiar to him. Every particle of his being fought to resist this time, but he was helpless against their power. Then he was one with the light...he was the light. His essence dimmed and receded, stretching infinitely through the cosmic unconsciousness that touched every place in the universe, bound by dimensionless unifying forces.

CHAPTER 32 - Prophet, Heal Thyself

Page St. John's bus led the motor caravan, comprised of thousands of vehicles, around the north end of Groom Lake. The number of pilgrims in the gathering had reached over thirteen thousand. They had come from all over the United States, Canada, and Mexico--each touched by the message of the Celestial Prophet. The Chosen One would appear, St. John proclaimed, somewhere near Rachel, Nevada, and set the Rapture into motion.

From the west coast, the east coast, the Midwest, and the south, thousands of cars, pickups, trucks, buses, campers, recreational vehicles, and motorcycles joined the caravan as its tendrils moved in from Reno, Salt Lake City, Denver, Phoenix, then converged toward Rachel.

Less than a half hour after the alert received by Oscar de la Garza from the bases restored communications system, Page St. John's golden Glory Bus pulled up beside the Groom Lake security building. The vehicles in the massive automotive caravan of the Celestial Church parked along the taxiway and flight line.

Among the first things that Colonel Matt Kingsley spotted in the incredible sea of mixed humanity moving toward them was the number of television cameras bobbing up and down among its waves. Even a cursory glance told him that every major network and many regional television stations were represented.

The Colonel immediately issued orders to the Wackenhut security officers to lower their weapons.

"We must assume that while highly illegal and unsolicited, this assemblage is peaceful in intent," he said. "But be watchful and alert."

Page St. John emerged from his bus, microphone in hand, and, over his mobile state-of-the-art public address system, broadcast a cheery greeting to the military officers arrayed before him.

"We come in peace, sirs, to welcome the Chosen One, whom God has told me awaits us here on this base."

General Beauharnais stepped forward from the soldiers who had flanked him. "I don't suppose it would do any good to inform you that you are illegally on a secret Federal facility, and that there is a very stiff fine and imprisonment for trespassing?"

St. John bowed his full head of white hair in a gesture of submission. "I am but a pawn of God, General. I go where He commands and directs."

St. John was a big man with a deep, commanding voice and piercing green eyes.

"I know of your group, Reverend," Oscar de la Garza told him. "I've read about you in some magazines. I've even heard you on the radio late at night a couple of times. You've had a phenomenal growth in your following the last couple of years."

St. John acknowledged Oscar with a smile, and then corrected him in a somewhat pious tone. "Not my following, my son. God's following. I'm...."

"Just a pawn of God," the General finished for him.

"In truth," St. John said, ignoring the man's thinly veiled sarcasm. "We are standing at the place where the Chosen One will usher the true believers from the Revelation to the Rapture. He will lead us to the new tomorrow, a tomorrow filled with God's chosen children."

General Beauharnais's anxiety grew as he considered the best method to handle this most unusual situation. Nothing in his vast military experience had prepared him for Page St. John and the Celestial Church.

"I'm sorry to be so unsympathetic, Reverend," he replied. "But hasn't all this already been done? The Chosen People of God made the trek across the desert with Moses, several thousand years ago. And what makes you think that your so-called 'Chosen One' would be on a military base, anyway?"

St. John was unhesitatingly direct. "The voices of God and the angels instructed me. They ordained the place where we would find him. Besides, haven't your communications people been watching the television networks and monitoring the computer nets? The message of the Jexovah and the government cover-up of their presence have been broadcast all over the world--from this very base! That is the work of the Chosen One."

The much-loathed Raul Agabarr appeared at Colonel Kingsley's elbow, itching for a confrontation. His silence lasted no longer than a moment. "That was the work of subversive elements. You mistakenly credit to your God the deeds of misguided and deceitful men."

St. John cast Agabarr a baleful look that would have quickly wilted a less aggressive man. "Judge not, friend, lest you be judged! Woe be to the one in error who distorts the righteous work of the true Children of God."

M.D. Crawfoot laughed at the Reverend's well-aimed stinger. He decided to keep his mouth shut and watch the others attempt to handle the extraordinary occurrence. What the hell were they going to do with these wacko religious fanatics who had defiantly invaded the base, seeking their "Chosen One" like thirteen thousand shepherds invading Bethlehem all at once to pay homage to the Christ Child at the manger?

"How are you going to recognize this 'Chosen One', Reverend?" Colonel Kingsley, unsatisfied with St. John's previous explanations, continued to grill him. "And tell me again, sir, why do you insist he is at this base?"

"I do not know why he is here, Colonel," St. John answered honestly. "As I told you, the voice of the angel of God told me he would be here. Who will he be and what will he look like? The voice said to me, 'You will know him by his suffering, and he will fill your minds with truth'."

General Beauharnais rolled his eyes in frustration. He knew it would be fruitless to debate theology with Page St. John. Realistically, he acknowledged he had an unprecedented situation involving over thirteen thousand citizens.

"Would you please tell your people to stay with their vehicles until we have determined the best course of action in dealing with this strange, ah, unusual occurrence?" he requested. "No one must wander around the base. This is a highly classified military installation, and I am responsible for it. I must insist on some semblance of order until we sort all of this out."

"Certainly, General," St. John said. "We shall respect your request. Our initiated Celestial Servants--our priests—will see to it that order is maintained among our pilgrims."

The Reverend glanced at his watch. "It is now just a few minutes past midnight. Dawn arrives at around six o'clock AM. We will allow you nearly six hours to provide us with access to the base, so that we may find our Chosen One. That seems most reasonable to me." The smile he directed towards the General held every expectation of the military's compliance.

"Who the hell is this man that he thinks he can casually invade a top secret facility?" Back in his office, General Beauharnais paced in frustration.

"We've got quite a file of St. John," Raul Agabarr volunteered. "His father was a Protestant Chaplin in the Air Force who served in WWII and the Korean War. He became disillusioned with orthodoxy and developed a more liberal approach to theology, which his son Page picked up. When he dropped out of seminary in the 1960s, he became a popular Hippie preacher among the Flower Children. We suspect that he has been a long time Communist sympathizer."

The General, irritated at Agabarr's presence, made a mental commitment to seek authorization to oust him from the base. The fact that he had to seek permission made the man's presence more intolerable.

Oscar de la Garza had more to add, but first he wanted to moderate his colleague's alarmist view. "Agabarr smells a Red under every bed. There's no reason to suspect St. John of being politically subversive. He wrote a religious best seller in the late 80s entitled, The Celestial Prophet, in which he attempted to extract the basic moral highlights from all of the world's leading religions. That's when he decided to start a one world religion."

Agabarr interjected with a snort that anything having to do with a "one world" theme was likely communistic in nature.

"Well, be that as it may," Oscar continued, "the direction St. John went next is not likely to earn red stars in the Kremlin. He started to preach that the human race is descended from aliens that came to Earth during the dawn of civilization.

He also believes that every spirit is reincarnated until each individual has achieved enough goodness and wisdom to rise permanently to the next plane of existence. All forms of ESP and psychic phenomena, as well as UFO sightings, are explained by these beliefs, according to him. Furthermore, all mystical experiences are an aspect of Oneness with the spiritual universe."

Agabarr clucked his tongue in derision. "My goodness, Oscar, how do you know so much about this religious fanatic's church?  Did you become a member?"

Oscar sighed audibly in acceptance of the miserable reality that he had to tolerate Agabarr. "For your information, I am a Roman Catholic. But, you see, I check the newspapers, watch a little television, and listen to the radio, even read an occasional book. All these are marvelous sources of information about our contemporary culture. You should try them, sometime."

Agabarr shot an icy glare towards Oscar.

General Beauharnais thanked de la Garza and blatantly ignored Agabarr, indicating that he had heard enough about Page St. John. Now, he wanted to know more about Joe Green and the other intruders.

"Green and Webster are under Dr. Quinlin's care." Crawfoot responded. "The last I checked, Green is still alive."

"Incredible," Colonel Kingsley marveled. "How could anyone survive even a few seconds with such a head wound?"

Crawfoot shrugged, then continued. "We learned that the woman is Lorraine "Rainy" Roberts, an employee of EG&G."

Agabarr snapped his fingers. "I knew it had to be an inside job. Both Green and Roberts...fucking traitors."

"The man is Wayne Newsom, a ...."

"Newsom!" Agabarr interrupted again. "Of course, Newsom and Webster. It had to be. Sir," he addressed the General eagerly, "Newsom is a well known environmental activist and conspiracy buff. He's been scouting our classified bases here in the desert for years. A real pain in the government's ass. He's probably been selling secrets to the USSR."

Crawfoot grunted and smiled at the obvious faux pas, then ignored Agabarr and continued to address the General; "We are detaining both Roberts and Newsom until the best course of action is decided on."

Agabarr smiled like a fox that found the henhouse door wide open. "I'll interrogate the sons-of-bitches and find out how wide a ring of conspiracy is involved. There's no way that these four could have pulled this off by themselves."

General Beauharnais slammed his open palm down on his desk.  "You'll do no such thing, Mr. Agabarr. You have no authority here and the citizens will remain in Crawfoot's custody until I decide how I'm going to handle this fucking mess. Is that understood?"

Agabarr was unwilling to relinquish the thought of fresh victims. "Sir, your most recent orders advised you to tighten security and to get tougher on citizen trespassers. My god, if there was ever a clear cut case in which...."

General Beauharnais narrowed his eyes and jabbed a forefinger into Agabarr's face. "You heard my order!" His face deepened to a reddish purple hue, and spittle punctuated his shouted words.

"Who the fuck do you think you are to question the commander of this installation? I'm a General officer and you are a man without a position on this facility. Your mere presence offends me; get out of my sight! I'll deal with you later...at my convenience!

Agabarr turned first to de la Garza, then to Crawfoot, seeking an ally. Both men looked away from him, struggling to repress the smiles that hovered below the surfaces of their expressions.

His eyes narrowed as he met the General's gaze. "Yes, sir," he hissed with blatant contempt. "Your order will be obeyed." Then, he turned abruptly and left the room, leaving a combination of relief and apprehension in his wake.

"Better watch your back, General..." Crawfoot warned, "that one doesn't take rejection lightly."

Beuharnais's expression was grim as he directed his attention back to the dilemma of Page St. John.

Although Dr. Quinlin had sought to keep him heavily sedated, Blake Webster sat at the side of Joe Green's bed and wondered what miracle was keeping the man alive. His form was so still Blake occasionally placed a hand on Joe's chest to reassure himself that his heart continued to beat.

Joe, unaware of his friend's vigil, traveled an infinite stream of cosmic consciousness. Millions of spiritual beings in states of transition flowed past him, sparkling like distant stars. He could feel himself being drawn towards the largest star; its light brightened in intensity as he drew near, and golden beams laced outward from its core, beckoning to him.

As Joe submitted to the mesmerizing seduction of its light, the star metamorphosed into a breathtaking being of such intense beauty that Joe's spirit bowed in awe, unable to comprehend the majesty his senses beheld.

Love, so pure that Joe could not bear it, so white its brightness burned into his soul, poured out from the being's eyes, and even before the intensity faded to reveal a recognizable form, Joe's heart poured forth a vow of eternal devotion. He fell on his face in worship--certain he was in the presence of God.

Gently, hands reached down to Joe and raised him to a standing position. He gazed into the being's transformed face and beheld beauty beyond imagination. An ethereal face filled with wisdom and benevolence. A face he knew well on another plane--in another dimension of existence.  The face of his son.

"I don't understand...I don't understand." Joe's words were wrenched form his soul in confusion.

With incredible tenderness, the son opened his mind to his father. "I am your father. I am your son. You were chosen above all others to bring forth a race, which will dwell in love and peace. Before you were born, I chose to infuse you with my essence so that through you a new race could be born--not a hybrid man, but Jexovah restored. Those who Rapture will live in joy and hope and assist in ushering in the next generation. This new generation of people will reign in mercy and in peace. The agony of wars, of sickness, of pain, will cease. Your wound will be healed, and through you the masses will find solace from their confusion and their agony. You, the Chosen One, are the emissary of hope--the embodiment of the last Jexovah and the father of the first Jexovah of the next and future millennia. I will again live amongst my people.

Joseph Gordon Green's future was laid out before him, a visualization of the choices he must make. He carefully examined the paths available to him. He could choose to die or to live and return to life, as he had known it. Either choice would condemn the people of earth to a destiny of destruction. Or he could sacrifice himself for the good of his people, and fulfill the expectations of the Jexovah plan. The people of earth would live a peaceful existence, and a pure Jexovah race would be restored. Joe bowed his head in an inner struggle of tormenting anguish, and then raised consenting eyes to the being before him. The being that was at once his parent and his child.

You have chosen wisely, Joe Green. Go forth and fulfill the plan and touch those who will Rapture. For the sake of all generations to come, go forth now. I am Jexovah. I am the father. I am the son.

Joe was oblivious to the outside world, and at the moment he had no desire to return to it. The Rapture came slowly at first, creeping into the dark night of his soul. Joe's psyche was an observer to the outwardly indiscernible genetic change enveloping his body. He felt a touch here, a probe there. Blood clotted. Cells rejuvenated. New bone formed over torn and ruptured bone. Proteins, enzymes, and chemical nutrients worked their own unique magical functions at an astronomically accelerated speed.

Joe floated in a place located somewhere in the farthest recesses of his mind. A flash of memory, then a string of neurons firing. The sequence continued. He felt as though he were the center of an intense cornucopia of mystical stimuli, a frenzied psychedelic display of fireworks. The essence of his being, suspended in time. Time without form. Time outside of time.  Everything that was, and is, and would ever be was within his grasp. Every moment of his life, every experience, every word he had ever spoken or heard were all arranged in a panoramic
display, as if he could perceive whole universes contained within his mind. He was surrounded by a field of energy comprised of trillions of spirits of humans who had once lived.

And then an unseen presence drew near him, an alien mind that possessed the power to dissipate his life forces with the passing of a millisecond. Joe felt no sense of fear. He understood. This being, the last Jexovah of the old order, had dwelt within his being the first Jexovah of the new order was his genetic son. He was a vessel, an instrument of life. He could not forsake his role as the Chosen One. This was Joe Green's reality. It was who he had been conceived to be. Euphoria enveloped Joe's existential self. He was at peace with the universe.

You are experiencing the Rapture. You are the Catalyst for the Chosen Ones, the protector of the great messiah to come. We have repaired the injuries you sustained. In the future, your body will be able to heal and repair itself. When you awaken, you will be prepared to initiate the beginning of the Rapture. It will then engulf almost half of all humankind.

"But how...?"

Speak the truth to all whom you meet. Seek to encounter as many humans as possible. Your touch will begin the Rapture in others. Your strength will come from speaking the truth.

How will I know who is to Rapture--who I should touch?

They will come to you. They will be all around you. They will find you, and they, the vanguard of the Chosen, will in turn touch others who will Rapture.

Dr. Quinlin reentered the small intensive care room next to the infirmary to check on Blake Webster. Two Wackenhut guards stood at the door to prevent Webster from leaving the facility.

"Hey, Doc, why don't you put Joe on a life support system or something?" Webster asked. "How can you be so callous? Don't you guys still take that oath to cure people?"

Dr. Quinlin bent to look closer at Joe. "He's still alive? I didn't expect him to live for more than a few minutes when we brought him in here. It's been nearly four hours."

"That's what I'm talking about, Doc. Shouldn't you at least go through the motions of giving a shit?"

Dr. Quinlin shot Blake a weary look, and then positioned his stethoscope to listen to Joe's heart. "What the hell?"

"What?" Webster leaned around the doctor to look at Joe.

The doctor face appeared confused, pale. "This is just not possible."

"What? Tell me what's happening here, Doc," Blake insisted in alarm. Rainy stood by Blake silently watching the drama.

"Just give me a little space, Webster," Dr. Quinlin admonished, and then gingerly removed the bandage one of the medics had wrapped around Joe's head and emitted a sharp gasp of shock.

"There's no wound," he said incredulously, wiping Joe's forehead with a swatch of cotton. "There is absolutely no sign of the head trauma. No entrance or exit wound."

Webster ignored the pain from his shoulder and edged the doctor aside. "Holy Mary, Joseph, and Jesus! You're right!"

Relief unleashed the tears, which Rainy had struggled to contain.  Her slender shoulders convulsed with emotion, while Blake held her tight.

"Of course I'm right!" Dr. Quinlin shouted. "I'm a doctor.

But how is it fucking possible?"

Webster shook his head. "You tell me. Remember, you're the doctor"

Dr. Quinlin disregarded the comment and called for an orderly to remain with Webster. His head was swimming. He was a rigid man of science, devoted to the logical, the rational--and the predictable. Nothing in his medical experience had prepared him for the sight that he had just witnessed. By everything that he understood about the material world and its physical laws, what had just occurred to the patient Joe Green was completely impossible.

He called another orderly to his side. "Beckwith, I want you to go to General Beauharnais's office. I'd call, but he's got a lot of people around him at the moment. Be very discreet, and tell him that I need him to come to the infirmary immediately."

Beckwith hesitated, "Do...I...Is he going to be upset at me for interrupting him?"

"Not at all. He will understand that it is a necessity. Now, please be quick about it." The doctor's expression left no doubt of the urgency of his request.

"...But the voices have told me emphatically, Sir. So clearly that I cannot doubt. The one we seek lies in the infirmary as we speak."

Beckwith could hear the voice of a gifted orator as he approached the office of the General.

General Beauharnais had not been at all pleased when the Reverend had blustered his way into his office, admitting that a loose lipped security officer had told him about the four intruders to the base and revealed that two of the men had been wounded.

"I'm only asking that you grant me permission to see for myself if one of the men might not be our Chosen One, the Catalyst who will begin the Rapture," St. John pleaded. "Send a dozen soldiers with me if you like. I'll not do anything disruptive."

Colonel Kingsley burst into unrestrained laughter. "Not do anything disruptive? What the hell do you call bringing 13,000 unauthorized citizens to a highly secret military base?"

"Under God's orders," St. John readjusted the charge. Sergeant Beckwith took advantage of the small pause in the heated dialogue to rap on the door.

"Sir, I apologize for the interruption, but Dr. Quinlin has asked me to bring you to the infirmary at once," he said.

Sergeant," General Beauharnais frowned, "I'm very busy. Surely the doctor understands that."

"Yes, Sir, I'm sure he does, Sir. But I think something important has occurred."

Colonel Kingsley offered to go in the General's stead. "I suppose the engineer, Joe Green, has died."

"No, Sir, he hasn't. That's not it," Beckwith responded.

General Beauharnais was taken aback. "The man is still alive?"

"More than that, Sir," he blurted, and then continued excitedly, "I really shouldn't say, but from what I could hear from the door, I think he's gotten better."

Page St. John bounded to his feet in triumph. "There it is!  Don't you see? This Joe Green must be the Chosen One."

General Beauharnais leaned back in his chair, overcome with uncertainty. "Well, at the very least, if what this man says is true, he's a medical miracle."

He reached for his telephone and quickly punched in the number of the infirmary. Quinlin answered after the first ring.  “Dr. Quinlin, what is this that Sergeant Beckwith is suggesting?" the General barked into the instrument.

"He shouldn't be suggesting anything unless he was eavesdropping," the doctor responded.

"Then you tell me what's going on over there."

"Quite simply, Sir, the fellow that was brought in here with a fatal head wound is not only still alive, his vital signs are perfect."

General Beauharnais paused a moment to consider what he had just heard. "So you are telling me that a man who was shot in the head and should, by all rights, be long dead, is now recovering?"

"General, what I am telling you is not that he is recovering, I'm saying that I can't find anything at all wrong with him."

"It can't be. What about his massive head trauma? I witnessed it up close!"

"There is only the slightest of scars to indicate where the wound once existed, Sir."

General Beauharnais shook his head in disbelief. "Dr. Quinlin, I'm on my way over there to see this for myself.  Gentlemen, let's proceed to the infirmary. I think my good doctor is loosing his mind. We shall see..."

Within minutes General Beauharnais, Colonel Kingsley, Michael Crawfoot, and Page St. John descended on the small infirmary and demanded to see the proof of the medical miracle that had occurred at Groom Lake.

"Doctor," the General asked after he had recovered from the shock of seeing Joe's smooth forehead, "if some miraculous healing event has taken place, then why is he still unconscious?"

St. John interrupted before the doctor could state his medical opinion. "He will awaken at dawn. He is the Chosen One. Just as I have been trying to tell you, General. He's the one that the aliens have called the Catalyst--the key to the Rapture."

The Reverend stepped forward and gently touched Joe's chest. "Yes, yes. I can feel his energy. This young man will change the world. I have been told that in my visions from the gods."

Crawfoot looked at his old friend and saw for himself that the head wound had disappeared. "I always knew him to be a pretty tough hombre, but this, I ain't believin’!" Nothing had shocked Crawfoot since his first tour of Vietnam.

An orderly brought in an X-ray for the doctor, who placed it in a lighted viewing frame and peered at it intently.

"My God. Will you look at this," he said. "There is no hemorrhaging or scarring," he directed the General's attention to the image of Joe's cranium. "I can't explain it, but there's no bullet. Yet we know it went in."

"Then it should show up on the X-ray," the General said, his mind stubbornly refusing to assimilate the evidence in front of his eyes.

"Absolutely! But I'm telling you that it's not on the X-ray." The doctor's voice was several pitches above its normal range.

"Could there be a mistake? A glitch in the X-ray equipment?" Colonel Kingsley asked.

Dr. Quinlin inserted another film into the frame. "No, no, no! It's not a mistake! Look at this one. They are both the same, exactly the fucking same," Quinlin said, now close to shouting in frustration.

"Calm down now. Let's deal with this rationally," the General said, pausing to think. "Okay, doctor, again I ask; why isn't he coming out of his unconscious state?"

Page St. John interrupted, speaking as if here addressing an obstinate child. "General, you are asking the good doctor a question for which there is no medical explanation. I have already told you why, and that he will awaken at dawn to proclaim the Truth and usher in the Rapture."

General Beauharnais studied the flamboyant self-proclaimed prophet silently for several moments. "Well, Reverend, I have no better explanation, and until I receive direction from my superiors at the NSA, I choose to take no action. You are free to stay here with your 'Chosen One', if you so wish. Just make sure your people stay under control. Doctor, if there are any changes in this man's condition, please notify me immediately. Crawfoot?" He turned wearily towards the door, motioning to the security chief to follow him. Beauharnais knew when he was in over his head.

Dr. Quinlin stepped towards Joe and placed a stethoscope over his heart. "He keeps getting stronger. He still appears to be unconscious..."

"But aware," St. John interrupted. "He's more aware on the soul level than all of us put together are on the conscious, and then some. He's aware of everything happening around him in this world and in the world beyond."

It was true. Joe's mind had never been clearer or stronger. His mental faculties continued to expand as the Rapture changed his genetic makeup. One part of his mind reached out and touched the collective unconsciousness, another part focused the energy he received from contact with the cosmic forces of the collective unconsciousness and reached out to the world. At first he had trouble directing his mental search. With a little time and patience his effectiveness at "seeing" increased a hundred fold. He was determined to do something that not even the Jexovah androids could do. They might not have been able to find his family, but they didn't have the mental and spiritual connection with Karen and Kevin that he had.

Son, Kevin, Kevin Christopher Green, help me find you son. Joe concentrated harder, focused his mental energy and tightened his connection with the cosmic forces.

Kevin...Kevin, reach out son, reach out to me. I can tell where you are when you do. Kevin...

"Dad? Where are you?" A small voice entered the realm of energy Joe was projecting.

Kevin, it's me, its Dad. You're doing fine. Can you try harder to reach out and find me?

"Dad, I can hear you; can you hear me? Are you okay?"

"Kevin, you are closer now...can hear you fine. I'm safe now son, the worst is over. It was at that moment of contact that Joe realized why he hadn't been able to contact Karen. She wouldn't Rapture, she wasn't one of the Chosen People. It didn't matter. They would spend the rest of their lives together, and he would try his best, every day, to repair the hurt he had inflicted on her--to show her the love he felt for her and she deserved to have. He hadn't thought to try and contact Kevin.

"Dad...Dad, I can't hear you," Kevin said in panic. "Mom," he screamed at the top of his voice.

Son, I'm still here. It's okay now. I'm in Nevada, back in Area 51, at the Groom facilities.

Karen arrived at Kevin's room seconds after he screamed. She had slept listlessly since arriving at her friend's home--too much worrying about Joe and her son to sleep well.

Kevin, is your mother there? Is she, he asked impatiently?

"Mom," Kevin cried, "its Dad. I can hear him. He's talking to me..."

"No, in my head. He's at Groom...says he's okay. Wants to know if you're here."

Kevin, I can hear you just fine. I can't hear your mother. Tell her that I remember July fourth and that when we get home, we'll have more champagne, pate, and intimacy. Can you tell her that? She will know it's me and that you're not dreaming.

Joe listened to Kevin repeat what he had told him. His son wouldn't have known that the Fourth of July was the last time that he and Karen had made love. Kevin was camping with friends, and the day and evening had been very special to each of them.

"Dad, she's crying. Wait..."

It's all right Kevin, give her a minute. She knows, I'm sure she knows.

"She says she loves you, Dad, but she's still crying. I don't know what to do."

Just hold her, son, just love her and hold her.

"I'll try Dad. We need you. Can we come home?"

Yes. Very soon. I want you to tell your mother to get packed and have Bernie take you both to Base Operations. Can you do this?

Lt. Colonel Bernie LaCoy and his wife Joyce were old friends of Joe and Karen. He trusted them as much as he trusted anyone.

"She says we'll do it. What's going to happen, Dad? Mom's afraid. Bernie's here now. He's looking at me like I'm crazy."

Tell Bernie: the Hotel Caravelle, Siagon, 1972, weed.

"Dad that doesn't make any sense."

Just tell him, he'll understand. Joe listened to Kevin repeat the words exactly as he had said. Then Kevin repeated the whole conversation to Bernie.

"He left--says he's going to get dressed. He also said, 'kiss my ass', Dad."

Joe laughed inwardly. He and Bernie had scored some local pot and celebrated their last weekend in Vietnam by getting drunk and stoned. Joe had discretely not mentioned the women. Bernie wouldn't doubt Kevin.

I've got to go now, son. Someone is going to fly you and your mother to Nevada. I'll be waiting for you. Tell your mother not to worry, and that I love her very much. Tell her it's all over and that we can be a whole family again. Can you tell her this?

"But Dad, who is going to fly us? What do we have to do?"

Don't worry about a thing. It'll all be arranged. Just tell her what I said. Son, I love you, too, very much. We have a lot to catch up on when you arrive. By for now...

Joe reached out and found General Harrison Ridgeway asleep in his quarters. He was fortunate--Ridgeway was the Mountain Home AFB Wing Commander and unbeknownst to the General, he was one of the Chosen Ones. At first he was confused, then afraid, then at peace with the voice talking to him in his head. He arose, called for a car to pick-up Joe Green's family, dressed swiftly, and headed to the airfield.

Joe Green heard familiar voices around him. It was time.

Dr. Quinlin checked the vital signs of his patient one more time, then turned and smiled at the Reverend. He was no longer skeptical, no longer put off by the presence of St. John. In fact, he was glad that someone had an explanation, even an absurd one.

Blake Webster sat up in the bed next to Joe's. "Joe was always talking about the Rapture. What the heck is it, Mr. St. John?"

Page St. John chuckled. "You'll see for yourself tomorrow, son. You know, I've preached about it for nearly thirty years, but I never thought I would get to see it for myself."

Solemnly, he placed his hand over Joe Green's healed wound and bowed his head.

CHAPTER 33 - Rapture The Chosen

At 7:00 A.M. on September 10, Joseph Green stepped out of the Groom Lake infirmary. A hush fell over the restless crowd, people of all ages, all ethnic groups, all faiths, who had gathered to see the Chosen One promised by Reverend Page St. John. Unsure of what to expect, they fastened their eyes and their hopes on the man who stood before them clad in white. The sun had just cleared the mountains, and its rays seemed drawn to him, eager to illuminate the inner light that shown from his countenance.

A few select broadcast and print journalists had been given special clearance to land at the classified area, and their civilian helicopters sat out on the dry lakebed. The electronic news media were thankful for the clear sky and fair weather. It was a good day to film a headline story. Seasoned and hard-nosed, nothing elicited an emotional response from these professionals. Nothing until Joe Green. They stood spellbound, forgetting for a moment to raise their cameras or poise their pens, as the lone figure made his way towards them.

Ten hours after he had received what should have been a mortal head wound, Joe Green strode purposefully toward the area where Page St. John stood, followed by General Alexander Beauharnais, Colonel Matthew Kingsley, Rainy Roberts, Blake Webster, and Wayne Newsom.

The grim-faced military officers had been advised by the NSA to, "allow the religious passion play to expend its energy naturally."

The Director believed General Beauharnais exaggerated about the miracle cure, but he advised him that, "it would be most unwise to use any kind of force on an assembled group of citizens of such magnitude, especially if their motives were religious in nature."

"Besides, with the news media there in droves, to expel the people forcefully would be an exceedingly bad public relations move. Let them be," the Director stated. "Once they see their Messiah is just an ordinary man, they will disband on their own. And then, damn it! Tighten security so that a lizard can't get into Area 51 without special clearance!"

Raul Agabarr moved close to Michael Crawfoot and spoke in a low voice. "It's up to us now, Crawfoot."

Crawfoot scowled, repulsed by the thought that he worked for the same people as Agabarr.

"What are you talking about?" he snapped.  Agabarr nodded toward the crowd clustering around Joe Green.

"These fools have all been taken in by this mystic mumbo-jumbo, and that includes General Beauharnais and Colonel Kingsley. It's up to us to instill some order into this chaos."

Crawfoot studied the man silently for several moments.

"What is it that you want?" he asked, convinced that Agabarr was motivated by a personal, evil agenda.

"You remember our original orders? Well, they've been somewhat revised. MJ-12 wants you to take out General Beauharnais, and I'm to hit Joe Green and Blake Webster."

Crawfoot jerked his arm away from Agabarr's touch as if he had been electrically shocked. "Fuck off, asshole. I told you Joe Green is a friend of mine. If you touch him, his friends, or the General, you'll have me to deal with and I promise I will kill you."

Agabarr's eyes narrowed in surprise. "You're disobeying orders? A pro like you? Have you forgotten why we were sent here? I talked to Trent just an hour ago. He repeated your original instructions to erase Beauharnais if he should demonstrate weakness or a reluctance to follow MJ-12's orders. The Committee added Green and Webster as threats to National Security."

Crawfoot had nothing but contempt for the man standing before him. He felt ashamed that the two of them worked for the same agency. He'd long believed he had moved light years beyond a sense of shame; now he realized it felt good to reactivate the dormant emotion.

Maybe it was due to the same phenomenon that had seized his old friend, Joe Green. "Screw you...screw them. I'm through with the lot of you."

Agabarr laughed away his astonishment. "MJ-12 will have your ass fried for breakfast, Crawfoot."

Crawfoot shrugged. "I just resigned. And, mister," he grimaced menacingly, "if you try to carry out those orders, I'll smoke you where you stand. If you make one wrong move toward Joe Green, I'll kill you where you stand."

Agabarr's hand moved involuntarily toward his shoulder holster.

Crawfoot smiled coldly at the man's reflex action.  Agabarr's eyes glazed; his features assumed the possessed expression he projected just before he killed someone. For an instant, Crawfoot thought the man was going to challenge him. Agabarr wasn't that reckless or stupid.

Sensing his hesitancy, Crawfoot's resentment erupted in a torrent of provocation.

"Come on asshole, want to go for it? Right here and now? You want to kill me. You want it that bad. Go ahead." Crawfoot's eyes held the far-off look men in combat developed when forced to kill.

"Go ahead. Count to three. Draw your piece, I'll sleep better knowing you're dead." Crawfoot's emotions coiled like a snake waiting for the chance to strike. He would welcome any excuse to murder the evil bastard.

Agabarr lips twitched nervously.

"Well?" Crawfoot challenged, stepping aggressively towards his enemy. "Lost your nerve?"

Agabarr drew back, and then blinked.

Crawfoot relaxed. He knew it was over.

Agabarr wasn't a fool. Crawfoot was a professional killer, a government assassin with ice water in his veins. Agabarr's own expertise leaned more towards interrogating prisoners than skill with firearms. Without a word, he turned on his heel and faded into the crowd.

As Joe Green walked through the mass of expectant humanity, journalists and broadcasters regained their composure and talked into their microphones and cellular phones.

"The man walking among this crowd is someone extraordinary," they told the world. "Joseph Green has allegedly been abducted by aliens on numerous occasions, and is called the Chosen One by the followers of the Church of the Celestial Prophet. He was one of the key instigators of the worldwide satellite broadcast and computer networks transmission, which exposed previously classified information concerning the U.S. government cover-up of alien contact. Shortly after the broadcast, the man suffered a mortal wound to the head at the hands of the resident military establishment. Now, less than twelve hours after he was shot, it appears that a miracle has taken place--Joseph Green has been healed."

To the thousands of men and women assembled, the miracle proved that the Chosen One had been revealed. They had witnessed the type of occurrence which myths and religious movements were founded upon. The momentum of this event would, they knew with certainty; change the world, as they knew it, forever.

A light breeze carried whispers and quietly spoken words throughout the crowd.

News people and cameramen from the networks and area television stations frog-walked beside Joe as he moved slowly through the multitude, pleading with him for a statement. He could feel an ocean of faith and love emanating from the people. The energy that filled him increased with each breath he took.

He had never been so alive, so full of peace and happiness. Although someone had handed Joe a cordless microphone, he returned it with a smile of thanks. He didn't intend to preach to the crowd, nor did he wish to remain aloof from the anxious faithful.

He moved through the people with ease and confidence, touching, hugging, shaking hands, and making contact with all who reached out to him.  Each time Joe touched a new individual, energy flowed from him, instigating a change that would, as they touched others, ultimately reach all of humanity.

The Rapture had begun, and even those who were not genetically predestined to experience the transformation would benefit from its effects. The power spread throughout the crowd in concentric waves, engulfing each person it touched. A tall African American of about forty-five with a high, receding hairline stepped forward holding his eight-year-old daughter in his arms. Joe stopped in front of the handsome black man and his family.

"Can you help my daughter?" The man's eyes sought Joe's in anguish.

In a flash of input, Joe knew that the man, Melvin Perkins, was a successful attorney in Newark, New Jersey. His wife, Clara, was an elementary school teacher. They had put their lives on hold to make the journey to Area 51 with their daughter, Gena.

Joe touched the braces that encased Gena's twisted legs.

"I see your daughter had muscular dystrophy," he said, stroking her forehead gently.

"No sir, she still has the affliction. That's why we came to see you," Clara said. "Page St. John promised on his broadcasts that we would find the Chosen One in the desert."

Joe held the little girl's hand for a moment, then kissed her. "Be well my child, you have a wonderful life ahead of you."  Her parents watched sadly as he moved further into the crowd. They hadn't known what to expect, and now he was gone.

Her sister, Delilah, maneuvered Susan McIver, who was much too heavy for her size, through the crowd in a wheelchair.

Joe stopped, leaned over her tenderly, then raised questioning eyes towards Delilah.

"Susan broke her back when a drunk driver plowed into her station wagon five years ago. She's been living with me and my husband George, George Dickenson. I received the call to come to see the Chosen One...ah you."

Susan felt the healing energy course through her when Joe reached out to give both her and her sister a hug.

"Oh my God, Delilah, something is happening to me," she exclaimed, as an electric, tingling sensation shot up her spine.

A slender, gray haired man wearing dark glasses was escorted through the crowd by a younger woman in a red dress. Joe saw that there were many handicapped people among those who had heard the call.

"Daddy," Cissy whispered, "Daddy, it's him, the Chosen One."

"Where, honey?"

"Right in front of you!"

"Mr. Green," the man said, extending his hand. I'm Orville Sims, a veteran of the Korean conflict. I was blinded by an ordnance explosion forty-five years ago. The doctors say it's hopeless--that I'll ever see again. So my expectations are low."

"Speak the truth, seek the highest, and use your sight to help others in need," Joe told Orville, shaking his outstretched hand.

"But you don't understand..."

"Daddy," he's gone. I'm so sorry Daddy, I thought he might be able to help you," Cissy said, tears of disappointment trickling from her eyes.

"It's okay, baby, your daddy's going to be fine, just fine."

There were many others, such as Theresa Mueller, a young doctor who had told her professional friends and family members she had been abducted by aliens. Her family had committed her, and her friends had testified against her to the state medical board, which suspended her license to practice medicine. Had it not been for an old boyfriend who was an attorney, she might still be confined. Some of the people in the crowd had Bibles; others had copies of The Celestial Prophet in their hands.

They had been called.

They had come.

And each of them hoped that they might be able to touch or talk to the man Page St. John called the Chosen One.

"God bless you, son," an elderly gray haired woman shouted.

"Please touch me, please. I have TB," a tall slender man in his fifties pleaded.

"My daughter has cancer...please, I beg you to help her," a beautiful Hispanic woman with waist length black hair begged, holding her baby up and out towards Joe. He could see the hope in her face as the tears flowed down her cheeks.

Joe touched all that he could, imparting energy and love to each individual. He sensed the Jexovah had affected many in the crowd.

There were the "hearers", who had heard the alien voices giving them messages; the "seers", who had received visions of alien entities and landscapes; the "dreamers", who were given nocturnal glimpses of the future and alien civilizations; the "communicators", those like Joe who were able to have a two-way dialogue with the Jexovah; the "prophets", such as Page St. John, who were given truth and knowledge beyond their ken; the "passives", abductees who retained only a subconscious sense of their experience; and the "seekers", those who believed in aliens, but who had had no direct interaction with the Jexovah.

He had progressed only a few steps farther when he heard Melvin Perkins shouting that his daughter Gena could walk.

Although others near Perkins began an excited murmur, Joe was able to hear Susan McIver's scream of joy that her broken back had been healed and Orville Sim's cries of jubilation. He could see.

The miracles were no surprise to Joe. He knew that each person who received the Rapture would become mentally and physically whole. Their newfound strength would grow daily, and over a period of time, new insights and abilities would come to each of them.

Joe also divined, with the now familiar rush of awareness, that over 90% of the people assembled would Rapture. Those who possessed the genetic ability had been sensitive to the call.

But not everyone in the crowd vibrated with love and expectancy. Joe sensed the threat to his well-being as it approached--a dark stream of bitter twisted anger snaking into the aura of light, which surrounded him. Joe turned towards negative energy.

Two men in black suits and dark sunglasses headed purposefully towards Joe. He recognized one of the men from the Pilot Club bar. The violent intent in their hearts pounded him like a physical blow. A woman screamed as the two men raised their mini Uzi automatic weapons and aimed them towards Joe's heart. Instinctively, his mind projected a compulsion towards them, deflecting their attack--distorting their focus. He was astounded as he realized he could touch the minds of those who would not Rapture, if they were in his field of vision.

Joe saw that these men had killed the Fosters and many other good people. In righteous anger, he forced the compulsion towards the men, penetrating their conscious minds with his gaze.

"Joe, they're going to shoot us," Rainy screamed, momentarily deflecting his concentration.

Funneling the energy within him, Joe projected his power towards the assassins, who, helpless to resist the force, spun towards each other with expressions of alarm and observed themselves incredulously as they splayed one another with spray of automatic bullets.

They jerked like puppets as they fell in a crumpled heap onto the hard dry desert ground, which eagerly soaked up the blood that spilled from their wounds.

"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust..." The Reverend St. John solemnly proclaimed, as he fastened his eyes upon the carnage. "The wages of sin is death."

The surrounding crowd miraculously protected from the massacre, turned worship filled faces towards Joe Green.

Red had arrived at the tail end of the caravan, and was unable to get through the gathered masses to find his friends. For a while he waited patiently with the crowd of people, not wanting to attract the attention of the security personnel, then edged toward the front of the congregation, watching Joe for clues as to what was going to happen.

Joe won't know me, he thought. I've got no beard, and my hair's all gone.

Red recognized the two men who had just brutally killed each other. He scanned the group, which surrounded Joe, watching for further threats, and saw a familiar figure creeping toward his friend.

"Damn, I thought I'd killed that son-of-a-bitch," he said. The words were growled, not spoken.

Red raised both arms and waved frantically at Joe, knowing he wouldn't be recognized. Not only was he bereft of his signature long locks and beard, he was also twenty pounds lighter, thanks to his ordeal.

"Joe, watch out!"

Joe Green looked up as a familiar voice rang out over the crowd. Newsom, Webster, and Rainy also turned towards the shouting form.

"That sounds like Red," Newsom exclaimed, turning his ear towards the sound.

"That's not Red," Webster said, as he caught sight of the source of the voice.

Joe looked intently at the man, still some seventy feet away.

"It is indeed Red," he announced softly. "He's alive and well." Joe reached into Red's mind and absorbed the events, which had transpired since he had last seen him. Gratitude flooded him as he saw Red's role in the rescue of his wife and son. Then the images faded, and he felt Red's present alarm. The man was trying to warn...

Joe whipped his body around abruptly and confronted Raul Agabarr just as he slipped a pistol from his holster. A cameraman captured both Joe and Agabarr in his lens as the gleam of the stainless steel pistol leveled at Green's heart.

Calmly, but quickly, Joe extended his hand and encircled Agabarr's gun. He made no attempt to remove the weapon from his enemy, nor did he deflect the aim from the center of his chest. To the onlookers, who stood still as statues, Agabarr seemed frozen, unable to pull the trigger or draw a breath.

Joe looked deeply into Agabarr's eyes, allowing energy to flow from him into the mind of his would-be murderer. A woman screamed, shattering the paralyzed silence of the crowd. A couple pushed away from the gunman. The newsman zoomed in with his camera, hoping to get a closer picture of the confrontation.

Agabarr's face contorted; his finger twitched against the weapon. Joe knew that Agabarr was powerless to pull the trigger--no matter how strong his desire to kill Joe Green.

Helpless against the force that protected the Chosen One, Raul Agabarr did not resist as Colonel Kingsley relived him of his gun. He sagged between the security guards that stepped forward and firmly grasped each of his arms.

"You murdering bastard," Crawfoot snarled as he pushed his way through the crowd and thrust his nose into Agabarr's face. "I warned you."

"That's the piece of shit who shot Joe in the head," Rainy shouted. "I'll never forget that bastard." The flaming temper that burned as bright as the color of her hair was unleashed without restraint on the subdued man.

Red finally pushed his way through to Joe. "That man's a fucking devil," he said, pointing an accusing finger. "He loves torture like a baby loves its mother's milk. I wish to God I had killed him. Give me three minutes alone with the son-of-a-bitch! He won't walk away, this time."

By the sounds emitting from some members of the crowd, they supported Red's proposal wholeheartedly. Several would-be heroes begin pushing towards Agabarr, but as they caught sight of Joe's face, they stepped back in confusion.

Joe followed by the men and women who were Rapturing or had been healed by his touch, slowly lifted his hands in the universal sign of peace.

"No more violence." His voice resounded with the proclamation, and those who had entered the Rapture echoed his words.

"We have moved beyond that, brothers and sisters," he said more gently, gazing without condemnation at those who had sought to revenge him.

The crowd opened a path as General Beauharnais approached the conflagration.

"Agabarr, what the hell did you think you were doing?" he demanded.

The assassin’s eyes narrowed in disbelief. "You're all crazy. You're all under this man's spell. It's some kind of mass hypnosis."

Joe knew that Agabarr would not Rapture. The depravity within him was too deeply entrenched. And when they had briefly intermingled energies, Joe sensed that the man had knowledge of a horror beyond the parameters of man's darkest imagination.

Suddenly he had a clear picture of the monstrous evil within Raul Agabarr's mind. "General," Joe shouted, "you must evacuate this base at once! There's an air strike on its way!"

General Beauharnais was stunned. There were too many things happening at once, even for an old warhorse like himself. "Slow down, man. Make sense!"

Agabarr's eyes widened in surprise, then he laughed derisively and shook his head in wonder. "I don't know how this witch doctor, this voodoo man does his tricks, but he's managed to hit the bull's eye. Not that this knowledge will do you any good now." The man's laughter escalated, approaching the boundaries of madness.

Crawfoot grabbed Agabarr's upper arm in a powerful grip, wrenching him away from the security guards.

"What the fuck are you talking about, you lunatic?"  Agabarr tried to shake off the vise like grip that held him, then sneered openly at Crawfoot before he turned to General Beauharnais. "I telephoned MJ-12 several hours ago and reported to Colonel Ty Trent what was happening here at Groom Lake. That's when he gave me orders to eliminate Green and Webster. Crawfoot here was supposed to take you out for not following his orders from MJ-12."

"The air strike?" Kingsley prompted. First things first, but now he was also keeping one eye on Crawfoot.

"Once we had hit our targets, Trent warned me to get off the base as quickly as possible," Agabarr explained with triumphant fervor. "Eli Jerrold has ordered an air strike to destroy the Celestial Church movement."

"A direct attack on defenseless and innocent citizens?" Kingsley's mouth dropped open.

"And on a classified base of the United States Air Force," General Beauharnais added incredulously. "Are you telling me that MJ-12 is prepared to murder thousands of unarmed citizens and destroy a military base with all its personnel just to keep its dirty little secrets?"

Crawfoot had dropped his customary cool. "Secrets that Green and Webster and their gang have already broadcast around the world! What would they gain, except revenge?"

"You must give an immediate order to disperse, to evacuate the area," Joe said. "Some people might still make it out alive."

The General felt lightheaded. "Yes, yes, of course. We must at least attempt an evacuation." This could not be happening. "How...how long do we have?"

Agabarr was clearly relishing the observation of their attempts to deal with the knowledge of their impending death.

"I don't know," he shrugged. They would get little help from him.

Crawfoot took a menacing step toward him.

"I really don't know," Agabarr insisted. "Maybe hours. Maybe minutes. The cover story is to be that Groom Lake was overrun by anti-American terrorists. The military then had no choice but to destroy the base, even if it meant blasting military personnel along with the terrorists. The regretful cost of National Security. Our soldiers sacrificing themselves for duty, honor, and country."

"Jerrold, and the monsters on the MJ-12 have to be fucking insane," Crawfoot said. Self-loathing washed over him. He had been their tool of death for years, and he now felt horror that he had believed he was somehow acting in the best interests of the nation. Just an obedient, unquestioning soldier following orders, however distasteful. Bile rose into his throat, then flooded his mouth.

Webster laughed derisively at Crawfoot's sudden comprehension of the evil machinations of MJ-12. "I've been trying to tell everyone that they were monsters for years, now. Damn shame they have to prove it to some of you by killing us all."

Colonel Kingsley glowered at Crawfoot. "So General Beauharnais's suspicions about you were accurate? You really were sent here to assassinate him if he didn't comply with all of MJ-12's directives?"

Crawfoot didn't deny the accusation. "It's true. That's why I was sent, Colonel. But as I earlier informed that asshole Agabarr, I have resigned as MJ-12's hired gun. I want out."

General Beauharnais raised his voice. "None of this matters, now! We must implement an immediate evacuation."

Agabarr laughed at the chaos and fear around him. "You're all going to die!"

"And what about you, you fucking scum?" Crawfoot growled, shaking Agabarr in the grip he maintained on his arm. "You're going to die with the rest of us."

"No, he's not," Red, argued. "I'm going to kill the bastard first."

Joe touched Red's arm gently. For a moment Red resisted his touch, then grudgingly acquiesced. Joe did not want further bloodshed.

Agabarr seemed resigned to his fate. "I had intended to make my escape after I had offed Green and Webster, but a good soldier is always prepared to die for his masters."

Crawfoot cursed, then pushed Agabarr away from him as if he were ridding himself of a sack of garbage. "If I'm going to die, I don't want to be in the company of a demon like you. Get the hell away from me!"

Agabarr complied, directing an obscene gesture toward Crawfoot as he turned and walked into the crowd. Then, abruptly, he doubled over and made a move towards his foot.

Crawfoot realized instinctively that Agabarr was going for a second gun secreted in an ankle holster.

"Joe, hit the dirt!" Crawfoot shouted, upholstering his own weapon.

Agabarr had assumed Crawfoot would not fire into the crowd; he had underestimated the man's faith in his own accuracy. A slug punctured Agabarr's heart, and he crumpled forward towards the ground.

Colonel Kingsley had not seen Agabarr go for the hidden pistol, and Crawfoot's sudden action triggered a reactive movement on the part of the Colonel. He aimed his weapon at Crawfoot, acting on the man's own admission that he had been assigned to the base by MJ-12 to assassinate Beauharnais if the General failed to fulfill his orders.

Again gunfire pierced the crowd, eliciting screams and frantic attempts to flee the turmoil. Less than a second after Crawfoot fired his weapon, Kingsley's bullet slammed into Crawfoot's side and exited through his chest.

Crawfoot spun crazily into Joe's arms. Joe reeled backward with the impact, then lowered his old friend to the ground and embraced him, reaching out with his mind to probe the inner man. Joe saw a patriot, a man of awesome strength, both mental and physical...a patriot misdirected by evil men.

Crawfoot was dying--struggling to speak before his breath left him forever. "Have you got room for me in the light, Joe?"

No my friend, you won't Rapture. But I think I can save you from dying.

"Don't. It's my time Joe...gotta pay for what I've done. Let me go. I'm just scared God's not going to forgive me."

You'll be pleasantly surprised. God can and does forgive everyone who asks. I've seen the other side, my friend. You'll find peace there. You have nothing to fear--nothing at all.

"Promise," Crawfoot whispered, as Joe filled his mind with a vision of the mass collective unconsciousness, drawing Mike Crawfoot's spirit with him.

Crawfoot, surrounded with peace, let go, releasing himself into the cosmic energy that beckoned to him.

Kingsley seemed dazed, momentarily uncertain of what to do with the pistol dangling from hand. "I didn't...I thought...."

"It's over," General Beauharnais said firmly. "And if what Agabarr said is true, these two professional killers may have experienced more merciful deaths than the rest of us can expect."            Rainy edged her way through the crowd, moved next to Webster and put her arms around him. She knew the bullet wound in his shoulder was nearly healed after Joe had touched it.

“What's wrong with these people? Why is there still violence?" she asked.

Webster held her tight, but did not answer. He didn't want to tell her that they had won the battle, but lost the war.

An explosion rocked the mountain, and a fiery plume rose skyward as the communications tower above Groom Pass exploded.   An F-4 Wild Weasel came over the pass and made a radical maneuver away from the explosion created by one of its laser guided missiles. People in the crowd screamed and began surging in every direction, confused, frightened, and uncertain.

"They're attacking without warning, Sir!" Colonel Kingsley shouted in utter disbelief. "Agabarr was telling the truth!"

"Those men are just following their orders," General Beauharnais answered grimly. "They believe the base is overrun by terrorists. And they've knocked out our communications tower so we can't even try to convince them otherwise."

Six F-15 air superiority fighters from the 57th Tactical Fighter Wing swooped toward the Groom facilities from the south. Many F-117s were coming in from the North from Tonapah.

"Well, folks," Red said stoically, "it's a good day to die."

Joe Green shook his head as he lowered Mike Crawfoot's body to the ground. "Not just yet."

"I sure hope you, or your friends up there, have got a plan," Wayne lamented.

As the F-15s and the single F-4 approached, the light from the bright, clear morning sky dimmed and flickered. The roar of the fighters' engines coughed, then stopped mute. At first the low frequency hum couldn't be heard over the noise of the approaching aircraft's dying engines, but within seconds the hum became louder and a huge, silver blue triangular starship, a mother ship, descended from the heavens and hovered majestically above the crowd, darkening the sky above.

There was no doubt among those who witnessed its arrival that they were seeing an alien vehicle from another world. A silver line of light glowed around the enormous circumference of the ship. The crowd gasps in unison as they beheld its magnitude, unable to believe that a craft so immense could suspend itself in the atmosphere.

Newsom sighed in relief. "It looks as though somebody up there still likes you, Joe."

Joe nodded, allowing the tears to flow unchecked.

"It's beautiful. It looks just like the one that old Red managed to catch on film," Webster said.

"It sure as hell is," Red laughed excitedly. "That's the same one, all right!"

"Isn't it the most awesome thing you've ever seen?" Webster whispered to the woman he clasped close by his side.

Newsom agreed. "It looks just like I always knew it would."

"My God, Alex," Kingsley gasped. "It is the one they showed on television. The one they said was a fake, a mock up. They fucking lied. This is real!"

"Yes," Beauharnais nodded. "It's true. Everything that MJ-12 has been hiding, everything that Green and his friends broadcast over the world, is true. They are really here."

The throng of observers stared raptly towards the ship, then startled as a flash of brilliant light encircled the massive craft, unnerving those on the ground. A halo of shimmering energy engulfed the starship as the brilliance slowly dimmed, and then flashed again and again at even intervals.

Without warning, fireballs of glowing light flared out from the perimeter of the craft and were projected at extreme rates of speed towards the distant aircraft, which were approaching dead stick--without controls and without power.

Hundreds of people on the fringes of the crowd begin to run haphazardly, trampling one another as they attempted to distance themselves from what appeared to be an inevitable series of crashes.

The fireballs, one at a time, intercepted the oncoming fighter aircraft and exploded in bursts of multicolored light; a panoramic display of fireworks consumed the morning sky.  The aircraft, each falling towards earth at an alarming rate of descent, froze in midair. As if suspended from unseen cord, they rotated and tumbled, held by an invisible but powerful, force. The negative gravity zone of the alien spaceship compelled the aircraft, drawing each one closer and closer to the massive ship.

The mysterious starship's perimeter shimmered in and out of focus with iridescent silver blue colors, which reflected off the dangling planes in glowing patterns of light. The surreal sight appeared to those below as a colossal mobile, designed to fascinate and entertain its incredulous audience.

As the faithful watched in awe tubes of light encircled the starship's circumference in concentric rings, emitting peculiar chirping sounds as the multicolored lights pulsed wildly in an eccentric rhythm, mesmerizing and calming the crowd.  Thousands of laser thin beams fired from the underside of the alien craft, sweeping the multitude, bathing each person in washes of golden light.

All who watched became enthralled by the light beams as they swept the crowd, probing, penetrating, touching. Each light appeared to intermingle with the others in a medley that constantly shifted in frequency, intensity, and color. People raised their arms, grasping towards the beams of light.

Joe knew that the Jexovah androids were searching for those who were in the process of Rapturing.

Joseph Green, we will destroy the intruders who meant to harm you.

Joe knew that the voice of the Jexovah could be heard by all those who would Rapture. He lifted his arms in supplication.

"Do not harm those men. We forgive them. They did not understand what their actions would do to the future of humanity."

Would it not be best to destroy them? They may try again to harm you.

"You must release them." Joe admonished. "The whole world is watching through thousands of television cameras. It would be wrong to contaminate the Rapture with violence that can be prevented."

You did not initiate the violence. These craft carry nuclear devices. You would all have been killed, had we not intervened. Many others in the surrounding area would have been killed. The radiation would have done great harm to the environment. The Rapture would have ended. The Great Plan would have been set back thousands of your Earth years.

"These men were only following orders," Joe answered. "The evil ones who sent them will now be stripped of their power. The entire world has observed their ruthless attempt to destroy the innocent and bury truth, and knows that the Rapture has begun."

It is as you wish. The Rapture has truly begun.

A collective sigh escaped from the believers, who fervently prayed, as did Joe Green, for the pilots to be spared--for the Rapture to commence.

As the crowd watched in astonishment, the fighter planes floated down to the Groom dry lake as though they were giant leaves spiraling down from a great oak tree.

Joe Green lifted his arms toward the heavens. "Thanks," he shouted toward the starship. "Thank you."

In a flash, in an instant, the massive ship disappeared.

General Beauharnais sighed. "Now we damn well know that we're not alone."

"Wow!" Rainy Roberts gasped. "In and out of our dimension in the blink of an eye. It's going to take our eggheads quite a while to catch up to that kind of technology!"

Wayne Newsom shrugged. "Maybe we're not supposed to catch up or maybe we have. You know, it's not so bad being an Earthling right here on good old terra firma."

Blake Webster indicated the thousands of people Rapturing around them. "And I have a strong feeling that things are going to get even better in the next few years."

Page St. John had at last made his way through the crowds to embrace Joe Green. "You've done it, Joseph Green. Like the prophets before you, you're touching the hearts and souls of the masses."

Joe smiled. "It's not really me. The Jexovah used me to fulfill their purposes. Walk with me; I'm going to meet my wife and son. You know, my wife Karen has always been the idealist. She told me that one man could make a difference. It appears that maybe she was right all along."

His friends walked with him, flanking him, supporting him as he sought to find his family.

What had begun, as one man's quest for the truth would change the world. Joe Green knew that, in time, there would be an end to wars, and humankind would at last learn to live in peace. He also foresaw a season of great turmoil and chaos, but he did not reveal it to the others. They would face it soon enough and would have the strength to endure.

Joe saw that MJ-12 would initiate a massive disinformation campaign in an attempt to negate the worldwide transmission of their secrets and squelch the impact of the unexpected cosmic drama, which occurred when the huge starship intercepted the mission of destruction that would have annihilated Area 51, its military personnel, and 13,000 citizens.

Undoubtedly, key officers would be removed, retired, or transferred. Civilian experts would be called upon to debunk the entire episode as a hoax, and certain of the central players in the perpetration of the hoax would be marked for assassination.

But Joe also knew that the days of the MJ-12 were numbered. Many people had seen the incredible display of alien intervention and would believe. Millions had read the previously secret documents, which revealed the shadow government's existence and their involvement with aliens and their technology. The time of the secret super patriots had come to an end.

Joe walked towards the front of the crowd and smiled as he caught sight of the Air Force HH-53 search and rescue helicopter coming in over the Groom Mountains.

"It's about time," he said within earshot of Webster, Rainy, Red, and Newsom. His friends, his wonderful new friends gathered close around him.

"Time for what, Joe?" Red asked, leaning on Blake and Newsom. The bleeding from his right thigh had stopped, and he showed no indication of pain.

"Time for my family to be together again. They're in that helicopter."

"How do you know?" Rainy asked.

"I have friends in high places," Joe teased gently.

General Beauharnais and Colonel Kingsley met General Ridgeway as he stepped down from the craft.

Ridgeway was stunned by the events that had transpired at Groom. The occupants of the helicopter had seen the Air Force fighter aircraft's confrontation with the Jexovah starship during their approach and were still dazed from the aftereffects of the incredible sight.

Joe was close enough to see his son's smiling face as he jumped out of the helicopter door. He turned and waited patiently for his mother, lifting her effortlessly onto the runway. All Joe had ever wanted was to have a family, to be a good husband and father. Now he beheld his son, who would someday become the father of a new civilization, and fought a compelling urge to tell him all he knew. But Kevin would not understand; it was not yet time. His son must ultimately face his own destiny--must be led to accept his calling just as his father had done before him.

Joe knew with certainty that his own work was not finished. He would continue to interact with those men and women who were ready to embrace the Rapture. He would not perform this function in the role of a pope, a messiah, or an avatar. He would live quietly with his wife and son, yet would always be accessible to the sincere seeker. He would be an enhanced, transformed Earthman, living a balanced, fulfilled existence--establishing the pattern for the new race of humans who would be granted the power to shape their own future.

Joe understood clearly that the enraptured humans would set an example for others, for many would continue to suffer for years to come. Still others would deny the truth and campaign against those who would Rapture. But in the end the last generation of human hybrids would die off, and leave Earth to those who would rebuild it in peace.

Joe knew that the Jexovah androids had no desire to rule their creation after the Rapture. They were like doctors in that sense. They had begun the healing process. Now it was up to the redeemed species to forge their own path to the stars, to claim their rights as equals with the countless other races that preceded them.

Joe wondered if True Jexovah still existed somewhere in the universe. Nothing that had been divulged to Joe revealed whether or not humankind would meet the cosmic creators who had formed them, guided them, and finally healed them of their ills. To his knowledge, the sole living Jexovah was embodied in his son. Had he been the last of the ancient race? Joe did not know.

Humankind could not yet fathom its future. For the present, it was enough to understand that the Rapture had begun. He knew that what seemed to be the end of a revelation was the beginning of a prophecy--and only those who had been transformed would survive the wrath to come.

In his time, Kevin would be called the Lion, the Peace Maker, and the Lawgiver, and from his loins would spring a race of pure Jexovah. Kevin's children would conquer the stars. Of this Joe was certain.

"Karen, Kevin," he shouted above the noise of the whirring blades as joy coursed through his being. Joe Green ran forward--unafraid of the future, unashamed of the tears that washed down his face--as his precious wife and son flew across the runway into his outstretched arms.

~ The End ~

APPENDIX

Edgar Fouche's original 1998 presentation of "Alien Rapture" to the International UFO Congress

This can be found in various places on YouTube, and at this link:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m1ttiwlqPt0 or this one: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pKnDQ2qDuwk

http://www.youtube.com/user/ExoticWorldVideos

Several websites have posted my 1998 IUFOC (Video & Text) - presentation. Here is a copy in PDF format.

http://www.scribd.com/doc/199309777/Edgar-Fouche-TR3B-Flying-Triangle-1998-Presentation

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