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  Blake thought it amazing that the government once took UFOs seriously, wondering if there was more to the theory than his generation had been raised to believe. The underlying UFO stigma attached to Professor Eldred’s project still made Blake skeptical, but the more he read, the more he questioned if his skeptical response was conditioned. A reaction based on society’s programmed misunderstanding of the topic. His gut instinct said to follow the professor. As he continued to read, the information reinforced his instinct.

  • • •

  In spring 1952, the Air Force formed a new organization—Project Blue Book—that became the primary agency responsible for UFO reports and inquiries. Blue Book’s existence was publicized and made the Air Force appear interested in solving the UFO phenomenon, when in reality it was a public relations campaign. The overall purpose, not evident until post project evaluations, focused on controlling the public’s attitude toward UFOs.

  Blue Book worked under the premise that sightings were terrestrial in nature. Investigators attempted to explain sightings as aircraft, hoaxes or astronomical conditions. When sightings didn’t fit the three categories, they were labeled unknown. Information about hoaxes and explained sightings was made available to the public, but unknown sightings were classified.

  • • •

  As his research stretched into the late afternoon, Blake wanted to check one more fact before heading home. The year 1947 had been on his mind all afternoon, and he wondered which happened first, the Roswell incident, or the passing of the National Security Act. He thumbed through a book on the UFO crash at Roswell and found a date, July 2, 1947, then referred to his notes. After years of opposition, Congress finally passed The National Security Act on July 26, 1947, several weeks after the Roswell crash, officially forming the Air Force and CIA. Surely an ironic coincidence, he thought.

  Packing his notes, he lugged a stack of books to the counter. Every bit of information left Blake wanting more. Instead of helping him reach conclusions, the facts created more questions.

  • • •

  Blake plopped his stack of library books on one of two matching metal desks in his bedroom. He had purchased the desks at a city auction and lined them along one wall, using the second as a workbench for tinkering with computers and electronic devices. A futon was the only other furniture in the room. During the day he retracted the frame so the futon was in its sofa position, making the room less cramped. Often he paced about the center of the room, collecting his thoughts during studies. To help with his thinking, he kept the room neat. Shelves over the desks held perfectly aligned rows of books. The other walls were empty, except a tiny five-by-eight plaque centered eye-level above the futon with an inscription:

  POP WARNER FOOTBALL

  JUNIOR PEE WEE DIVISION

  COUNTY CHAMPIONS

  The plaque had no team name, nor individual recognition. Someone even forgot to include the year. It was a simple generic award handed to the winning team members after the championship game that cost maybe a few dollars when purchased, but remained priceless to Blake. A symbol of a time in his life when his greatest worry was making it to football practice on time so he would not have to do fifty slams for being late. Slams—running in place, then flopping to the ground stomach first and springing back up—now seemed a lot less worrisome than bills, school, jobs and all the other challenges of being a young adult.

  Checking his E-mail, one message roused his attention: [email protected]. A bite, Blake thought. Someone responding to his late night queries on the Internet. The message was brief: Call me, and a phone number.

  Blake picked up the phone and dialed.

  “Desmond Wyatt,” a man’s voice answered, speaking fast, but clear, authoritative.

  “Desmond, my name is Blake Hunter. I--”

  “Yes,” he cut Blake off, “Why did you contact me?”

  “I sent a half dozen E-mails to people who seemed like they could help me. I didn’t expect it to be such a big deal.”

  “Every time a stranger contacts me I make a big deal of it. If you don’t like it, leave me alone.”

  Blake sensed that Desmond’s bravado was more for show than discouragement. If Desmond didn’t want strangers contacting him, he would not post his E-mail address on his web site. “So what do I need to tell you to make me less of a stranger?” Blake asked.

  “You can start by telling me what you read on my web site that makes you think I can help you?”

  “I’m conducting research on anti-gravity.”

  “What kind of research?”

  “I’m writing a dissertation on advanced propulsion systems.”

  “So what do you want that you couldn’t get off my web site?”

  Blake hesitated.

  “Look, kid, either you want something from me, or you’ve got something for me; otherwise, hang up the phone.”

  “It’s a little bit of both.”

  “So you want me to analyze something?”

  “You know your stuff.”

  Desmond ignored the compliment. “Is it a document?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where’d you get it?”

  “I’d rather not say.”

  “Then it’s classified.”

  “No, it’s not classified.”

  “Then it’s filtered. It won’t be a lot of help.”

  “This document is unique.”

  “E-mail it to me.”

  Blake paused, wondering if giving him a copy was wise.

  “I’m hanging up now,” Desmond said. “Either send me the doc or leave me alone.” He hung up.

  Blake had made a copy of the document before leaving the professor’s house and retrieved it from his notebook. After scanning the memo into his computer, he E-mailed a copy to Desmond, deciding that was enough to tempt him without revealing the images on the second page.

  Another few minutes passed and the phone rang.

  Desmond demanded to know, “What makes you think this is anti-gravity related?”

  “Two things: the attached document that I didn’t send you, and the manner in which I received it.”

  “Which is?”

  “Something I’m not comfortable disclosing to a stranger.”

  “People fabricate information like this all the time.”

  “If I made it up, I wouldn’t be asking strangers what it is; I’d be telling them.”

  Intrigued, Desmond asked, “Have you ever heard of MJ-12?”

  “It doesn’t sound familiar.”

  “What about Majic-12, or Majestic-12?”

  “No. But I gather from your asking that they’re related to the codenames in this memo.”

  “They could be,” Desmond theorized. “I’d like to know where you got this.”

  “I’m not comfortable divulging that. At least not now.”

  “If this is a legitimate document, handling it the wrong way could get you in trouble.”

  “I appreciate your concern,” Blake told him. “Maybe you can teach me how to stay out of trouble with this?”

  “Why don’t we meet? I’m holding a meeting Saturday evening. I think you’ll find it informative. We’ll talk more after. In the meantime, give me your address. I’ve got some info you might like. Stuff I don’t put on the net. I’ll FedEx it.”

  Blake gave Desmond his address and jotted down the meeting location, excited with his quick progress. “See you Saturday.”

  “What’s up Saturday?” Trevor asked from Blake’s doorway.

  The intrusion startled him, “I didn’t know you were home. It’s just something for this new research project.” Blake had not given much thought to what he would tell people about the research; talking about UFOs might not garner the same support as his astronaut aspirations. “Hey, why don’t you call those twins you met last week and see what they’re up to tonight,” Blake said, changing the topic. Understanding gravity tunnels was still a little vague to Blake, but he had no problem worm-holing Trevor into a new topi
c.

  CHAPTER 20

  Private UFO organizations originated in 1968 after the Air Force canceled Project Blue Book. Blue Book had served as the medium for reporting unidentifiable flying objects. Although the government denounced the UFO phenomena, they could not stop sightings. Without government intervention, the public took control and a plethora of information surfaced.

  UFO groups evolved over several decades to assume multiple purposes. Some pushed the edge on an already hard-to-grasp topic by making claims about abductions or secret government organizations in contact with extraterrestrials. More notable UFO organizations took a down-to-earth approach, scrutinizing testimonies and applying logic when discerning information. Unfortunately the zealots tarnished the ardent researchers and damaged most potential for mainstream support.

  In 1989, Desmond Wyatt founded the Extraterrestrial Studies Network. Contrary to the word Network in the title, he ran the group alone. Desmond stayed abreast of all UFO related events and posted them on his website no matter how harebrained they made him appear. Foolishness was a facade he strived for. His shtick at the Extraterrestrial Studies Network had more noble purposes than spreading alien abduction and crop circle rumors. Noble to some—espionage to others. If someone asked, Desmond would admit to being a ufologist. He dressed for the part: shaggy hair—longer than the collar length trim he maintained for 20-years at Air Force base barber shops—a sunned face he shaved periodically, and a rugged body he clothed in denim and hiking boots, always ready for an adventure. But Desmond secretly thought many ufologists to be questionable at best. The vast information he had in his head about the military and black budget was about as good as it got outside direct circles of knowledge.

  Because Desmond challenged America’s seedier bureaucratic elements, he lived his life with one eye looking forward and the other looking back. He suspected every shadow, corner and tree could be hiding someone who was following him. Yesterday, however, was the first time ever that Desmond thought he saw someone in the shadows.

  A high-pitched horn squeaked somewhere in front of Desmond’s modest three-bedroom home, and office. Neep-neep-neeeeeep! The horn sounded closer, outside his front door, and he heard an engine rev, a rumbling motorcycle engine. Opening his front door, Desmond found himself confronted by a black street bike on his porch. The driver wore black riding gear to match.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Desmond shouted over the obnoxious purr from the engine.

  “Let’s go,” a muffled voice hollered through the helmet.

  Desmond noted a second helmet behind the driver, Jimmy, whom he had first met years earlier at the Air Force Academy. Jimmy the Pimp they called him. It seemed he was always juggling a handful of ladies, even at school in Colorado Springs, a masculine military town starving for women.

  With Desmond on the back of the bike, Jimmy throttled through flat, grid-patterned streets, zig-zagging across the San Fernando Valley to Coldwater Canyon where he gunned the bike up the winding road into the hills. He turned west onto Mulholland Drive and followed the snaking mountaintop road until the houses were fewer and farther between. Ignoring a no trespassing sign, he turned onto a dirt road and followed it up a storm-damaged driveway to a vacant lot. They could see for miles—nothing but coastal sage, remote canyons and distant hilltop houses.

  Desmond hopped off the bike and removed his helmet. Jimmy kept his on, lifting the face shield enough so he could be heard without exposing his face. Noticing Jimmy had removed the bike’s license plates, Desmond sensed trouble.

  “That woman you were dealing with last month,” Jimmy said. “Did you tell her how to sneak on the base?”

  “The sexy one?” Desmond knew who Jimmy meant. He would never forget the drunken sexual escapade he had with the salacious Asian beauty, but downplayed his memory of her.

  “Yeah. The one who gave you a bogus name, and we told you to stay away from.” Jimmy raised his voice and repeated his question, “Did you tell her how to sneak on the base?”

  “I didn’t tell her anything specific. We were joking around, having a few drinks, talking hypothetically.” Desmond shrugged it off like it meant nothing.

  “You know better than to think with your dick.”

  “That means a lot coming from you, Jimmy the Pimp.”

  “I’m married now. And when I did sleep with a lot of women, I didn’t talk to them.” Frustrated, Jimmy hopped off the bike, his temper nearing a boil, and stood in Desmond’s face. “Rumor has it she is Chinese Intelligence. They caught her in Papoose Valley.”

  “Ah, crap.” Desmond’s encounter with the woman changed from a sexual conquest to a dilemma.

  “If she talked, you can bet that microscope up your ass is going to get shoved deeper. I’m surprised the spooks haven’t talked to you already. Or maybe they have.”

  “I wouldn’t jeopardize you guys like that.”

  “You already did. And we’re afraid to keep you involved.”

  “I’ve invested too much time to stop now. Don’t let them cut me out. I’ve got a new lead. Just give me a little time.”

  “It’s not my decision.”

  “At least tell them to work on this next lead with me. I’ve got a good feeling about it.”

  “What’ve you got?”

  Desmond had never intended to deplete his shoestring budget by sending Blake a FedEx letter as he had promised on the phone. He needed an excuse to get his address so he would have an easier time obtaining preliminary information about him. He handed Jimmy the results.

  “This is just some dope in college.”

  “He’s no dope, and he came to me with the attached document.”

  Jimmy glanced at the memo. “I’ve seen fakes like this before. Where’s the second page?”

  “He’s not ready to show it. He might be young, but that’s why I believe him. He doesn’t seem to know what it is. He was researching anti-gravity and somehow came across it.”

  Jimmy remained critical. “This could be a spook setup.”

  “I don’t think so, Jimmy. I got a good feeling talking to him. I’ll tell you what—I’ll check this out myself. If I discover anything, I’ll let you know.”

  “You do that,” Jimmy ordered. “Stay away from us for a while.”

  CHAPTER 21

  Damien Owens waited patiently near a ticket counter at Vegas’ McCarren Airport. Pedestrian traffic was light since it was Wednesday and hoards of weekend tourists had already left or hadn’t arrived. Kayla entered the terminal in a crisp black business suit with a carry-on bag in hand and quickly spied Owens standing stout in similar attire. He glanced at his watch as she neared.

  “I know, I know,” she said, acknowledging her tardiness. “I was finishing the bank reconciliations. Ten accounts is quite a bit to reconcile,” she said trying to distract him from reprimanding her.

  “We have over fifty financial accounts at our disposal worldwide, all linked to independent corporate structures. Reconciling ten accounts will be trivial come tax season. So you better streamline your routine because you’ll only get busier as you learn more about what we do.” He handed her a plane ticket to Los Angeles, “Make sure you brought the proper ID to match the name on the ticket.”

  Kayla’s late arrival at the airport became a moot point as the flight was delayed an hour and they found themselves with a small group of travelers sharing their predicament on the less-than-full flight. Owens still chose to sit one gate over as they waited because it was not being used and they could talk in private.

  “All those bank accounts and corporate structures we use,” Kayla commented, “at what point do our actions become subversive?”

  “Hopefully from the beginning. Subversion is our modus operandi. Right, wrong, good or bad, the ends always justify the means in our duties.” Owens retrieved his small gray rock from a coat pocket and handed it to Kayla. “Do you know what this is?”

  “You’ve told me—your good luck charm.”

  “Yes, but
do you know what it is?”

  “A rock?”

  “It’s a moon rock.”

  Kayla studied the small rock in her hand, feeling the edges in an attempt to discern a noticeable difference from any other rock she had touched. “I don’t imagine a moon rock is easy to come by.”

  “How I acquired it is a complicated story in itself. Why it was acquired is even more critical. It wouldn’t necessarily be a bad thing if American citizens knew the hows and whys behind that rock, but any disclosure would ultimately enlighten other countries—we can’t have that right now. Being subversive is the best way we know to keep the secrets.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Tired from crunching the new facts, figures and possibilities that Professor Eldred had introduced to his life, Blake flopped on his sofa—he and Trevor had two long sofas crammed into their living room to prevent arguments over who got to stretch out in front of the television—and gave his mind a rest. Closing his eyes for a catnap, however, did little to slow the traffic flow of information in his head. He began considering what kind of government officials might fret over the professor’s research. Did a subversive government truly exist? If so, might they question his involvement? Who the hell has such a right? he wondered. The thought heated his blood. Government officials weren’t Holy. They were no better than Blake; he was the better person. He worked hard, obeyed the laws and respected others’ rights. Never had he thought of himself as the rebellious type, but he would fight any government official who unjustly challenged him.

  His thoughts were interrupted when Trevor came through the front door. “You’re home early,” Blake said.

  “There wasn’t anything for me to do.”

  “Maybe you should get a real job.”

  “The minute I get a real job, the dream is over.” Trevor held two jobs. In his first he was Assistant Producer at a small production company. A wonderful sounding title, part of the “Biz”, but six months living in LA and people began to realize that Assistant Producer, Producer and Executive Producer ranged from someone who edited home-shot videos on their VCR and called the finished product a short film, to millionaires with household names who bankrolled blockbuster movies and spent Christmas in Aspen. Trevor’s position was an unpaid internship, but nonetheless, the job he carried business cards for and talked up at social functions. He earned a living waiting tables. He woke each day inspired by the same hope that drove people to buy lottery tickets, knowing the odds were stacked, but without an effort there wasn’t a payoff.