Authors: Bryan O
“Maybe we could cross check the base personnel files with Desmond’s Air Force service record and see who he might have been stationed with,” Bogota suggested.
“I’ve considered that,” Owens said. “The list could be quite long and require more hours to follow up on than I’m willing to commit at this point—wasted hours if he’s using an intermediary. We’ve got a lot to contend with currently. I think maybe we’ll scare Desmond Wyatt into laying low for a while to buy us some time.”
Owens continued by outlining his plans for each of the three pressing situations—the professor, Desmond Wyatt and Ben Skyles—before listening to each team give their status reports. They worked into the evening, ordering in food and teaching Kayla how to puff cigars.
Desmond Wyatt’s Extraterrestrial Studies Network held its meetings at a rundown motel. The lobby adjoined a circa 1950’s coffee shop which had a meeting room in back with rickety chairs and a wall-mounted air conditioner that generated more noise than cool air.
Upon entering the stuffy room, Blake and Trevor approached a cluster of people mingling in front. “Excuse me,” Blake said, “I’m looking for Desmond Wyatt.”
“That would be me,” a groggy Desmond replied.
“I’m Blake Hunter.”
“Glad you could make it. Go ahead and grab a seat,” Desmond said, sounding far less enthusiastic than when they last talked.
Blake thought it odd that Desmond wasn’t friendlier. As Blake directed Trevor toward a pair of open seats he noticed a mid-forty’s man greeting half the audience by their first names. The man’s shirt said
Aliens Are Coming
and depicted two extraterrestrials coupling like dogs. On his head he wore a pyramid-shaped hat molded from metal. A few other quirky individuals seated about the room made Blake wonder if this meeting was going to be a waste of time.
“I’m getting one of those shirts,” Trevor said.
Desmond stayed to the side for a few minutes, studying the crowd and considering his approach for the evening in light of newly revealed pressures in his already trying life. He chose to live as a martyr, fighting what he believed was a noble crusade against a cunning bureaucratic government with few allies on his side. Yet, his small rebel force had persevered, determined to share with others the truths they believed to be out there. They felt their efforts were gaining ground on Big Brother, exposing the dark side of the United States Government. However, as Newton’s Third Law of physics dictated, for every action there was an equal and opposite reaction. And Desmond’s actions had finally created reactions.
When his friend Jimmy the Pimp chastised him for passing info to a Chinese agent, that was a reaction. The reoccurring feeling that he was being followed at times was another reaction. Yesterday, however, brought the most unsettling reaction. The reaction that made him pour a little more liquor in his glass than normal and sleep even less. The reaction had manifested itself as a steroid-enhanced spook who approached Desmond in a supermarket parking lot. “It’s not wise to teach the Chinese how to trespass on government property. Espionage can carry a death penalty.” The man barely slowed his pace when making the statement, and continued by without waiting for a response from Desmond, but the message was clear: Someone wanted Desmond Wyatt to be quiet.
As a room full of aspiring ufologists and other seekers of knowledge awaited Desmond’s insight, he still hadn’t decided how to handle the situation. His gut told him there would be trouble, but his gut also told him there was new hope with this kid Blake. And Desmond, more than most, knew the potential in Blake’s lead.
To hell with these spooks
, was his ultimate decision, and he called their bluff.
“Good evening,” Desmond said from a podium in front of the group. “I’m Desmond Wyatt, founder of The Extraterrestrial Studies Network.” Free-willed cheers of endorsement sprang from around the room. “We’ve got some first-timers in the audience, so all you regulars bear with me while I start with my introductory spiel.” Many people attended Desmond’s meetings so they too could speak, pontificating themselves for various reasons, some hoping to develop their own following, hoping to be admired leaders, like Desmond, in their offbeat world.
“I spent forty-two years of my life in a military environment: eighteen as a military brat, four at The Air Force Academy and another twenty as a pilot. My father had a lot of connections and I spent a few years working at the Pentagon.
“In November 1988, I flew some Pentagon big shots to Nellis Air Force Base. But after takeoff they changed the flight plan. Between my old man and the Pentagon job, I thought I knew everything about the military. Was I ever wrong.” Desmond uncovered a large map of Southern Nevada on an easel behind him. “I was told to land here,” he said, referring to the map, “at a place called Groom Lake.” He enjoyed speaking, and the moment made him forget his worries. He used dynamic tones and emphasized key words with volume, captivating the audience like a televangelist. “Do you know what I saw when I flew across the Groom Mountain range?”
“His Omnipotent Highness Krill,” someone blurted from the audience, sending half the room into laughter. Desmond’s regulars often made inside jokes about UFO folklore. Krill was a rumored name of the first
Gray
alien ambassador to the US government, circa 1954.
“We cleared the Groom Mountains and I found myself staring at a series of red lights marking the longest runway I’d ever seen—seven miles long—and a massive military airbase, all in the middle of nowhere.
“After landing we taxied into a hangar so large it could dwarf a jumbo jet. The expansive interior was empty except a large American flag hanging above. Next the floor started descending, lowering the plane in an elevator. We went down about twenty stories into an underground hangar that dwarfed the monster topside. The roof arched like a dome stadium. Two B-2 Stealth Bombers—the giant boomerang shaped models—were parked in a nearby corner, looking like a pair of shoes someone tossed aside in a master bedroom.
“I was glued to the cockpit window while we taxied off the elevator. The planes down there had me in awe; I saw stealth fighters, an SR-71 and several varieties of exotic triangular shaped planes. My eyes must have been bugged out of my skull because someone tapped me on the shoulder and said, ‘This is kid’s stuff,’ as if to say I shouldn’t be impressed. My passengers left, leaving me aboard with a guard outside until it was time to go.
“To make a long story short about my Pentagon job and any hope I had of returning to the base, the 1992 presidential election came along. After twelve years of republican rule, the powers-that-be had to revamp their structure for Clinton. I slipped through the cracks.
“I had trouble working after that. Area 51 is like crack cocaine: experience it once and you’re hooked. I retired from the Air Force and started doing my own research. In the early nineties numerous UFO sightings were reported near Area 51. At first I figured these sightings were the exotic planes I saw below ground, what the public calls the Aurora program.
“The Aurora planes use a pulse detonation wave engine. When these planes fly, the heat generated by the engine embodies the entire vessel, giving it an amber glow. At first glance that explains the UFO claims, but as I read the eyewitness testimonies I became mesmerized by descriptions of vertical takeoffs, hovering, and ninety-degree turns: anti-gravity aircraft. A pulse wave engine is an advanced fuel-based engine, but anti-gravity propulsion is an extreme science that makes the Aurora primitive—kid’s stuff. The results of my research became more bizarre. I discovered stories about recovered flying saucers, back-engineered alien technology and a covert space program.
“I realize this is where some of you would like to draw the line between reality and science fiction, but hear me out. Most ufologists agree that an alien craft crashed near Roswell, New Mexico in 1947, and was recovered by our government. As individuals like myself continue to ask questions, we find more facts to support our claims. The trail now takes us to Area 51.”
Desmond paused for a sip of water. “Two separate bases exist at Area 51. The Groom Lake base that I described, and a second base twelve miles south at Papoose Lake. Some call this second facility S-4 and believe it is where they keep the recovered alien spacecraft and conduct research and development on the technology. They fly two types of craft from S-4: H-PACs—Human Piloted Alien Craft—and ARVs—Alien Reproduction Vehicles. Those two craft are the anti-gravity powered flying machines our government denies exist. Those clever sons of bitches in the military use the Aurora planes to mask the anti-gravity craft. Both facilities share the same airspace, so Groom Lake has diverted the attention away from S-4.
“Have you ever wondered why the space program hasn’t made any significant advances in the past two decades? It’s not a lack of funds stopping them. The eighties were the most prolific government-spending period in history. The reason why NASA is still dinking around the atmosphere in the space shuttle and talking about an international space station is because all significant research has become
above top secret
. America’s opponents in the space race no longer reside overseas, they live among the stars!”
Desmond noticed surprised looks from some audience members. “I thought the stories were crazy the first time I heard them. We’ve been conditioned to think like that when it comes to UFOs. No matter how bizarre, crazy or baffling you may view my beliefs, there’s nothing you can do to prove them wrong. It’s possible I’ve fallen prey to a widespread fantasy tale about alien contact, but something astounding is happening in the Nevada skies. I’m not asking you to jump on my bandwagon, nor am I trying to undermine the government. I want them to be honest with me—with you. So be aware of the stories, and keep your minds open. Because if you don’t, and I’m correct, then you’re being naive fools like the government wants.”
Desmond’s mind was too tired to continue so he brought up audience members to speak. For an hour they shared their experiences, ranging from flying lights they had seen above Area 51 to alien abduction stories. Desmond concluded the lecture by encouraging people to buy books or videotapes from him.
Blake tried to keep an open mind, but had trouble comprehending the alien stories, especially from Desmond’s cronies in the audience, and wondered if the meeting was a medium to sell his materials.
While the regulars showed their approval with a melodramatic standing ovation, Desmond approached Blake, “Grab a booth in the coffee shop. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
After the meeting, the adjacent coffee shop became the bar scene from
Star Wars
. UFO enthusiasts invaded the booths, continuing to share their stories over coffee and greasy food with people of like mind.
Like a celebrity strolling past a line of fans, Desmond moseyed through the crowd, shaking hands and saying hello. Acting friendlier than before the meeting, he sat next to Trevor and with a subtle, but confident tone, introduced himself: “Desmond Wyatt.”
“I never received the FedEx package,” Blake informed him.
“I gave your address to my assistant. Sometimes he forgets. I’ll give you some materials before you leave tonight.” Easing to another topic, “I’m sorry for being rude on the phone the other day; I have to screen people.”
“Screen them for what?” Trevor asked.
“I get a lot of unique souls calling me.”
“Looks like they come to your meetings, too.”
Desmond chuckled in agreement. “I know when I call someone unique it’s like the pot calling the kettle black, but in reality I have very little in common with most of the people here.”
“That’s reassuring,” Blake said.
“I want people to think I’m as crazy as some of my audience members. If the government believes I’m a nut, they’re apt to leave me alone. I think some of these people wish they were being followed by government spooks. They tell a tale about being abducted or seeing a UFO and it brings them attention. The tales become taller to beat the previous ones—modern day mythology. Unfortunately that makes the UFO community counterproductive. One bogus story spoils the whole lot. Some brilliant, educated people are true ufologists. That’s who the government watches. I try and keep myself one notch below them.”
“Speaking of credibility,” Blake said, “your testimony about the Pentagon was a little vague. I don’t mean any disrespect, but as a researcher I focus on specifics, and you didn’t give many.”
“Talking about my Pentagon job could jeopardize my pension, so I keep it to a minimum at lectures.” Leaning further over the table and lowering his voice he said, “I rarely flew once I started working at the Pentagon. My real position involved SPACECOM. That’s short for US Space Command. I made sure funding and other requests didn’t get held up by red tape. I processed a lot of funding. You look at the fiscal budget for SPACECOM and it’s nothing compared to the funds I saw.”
“Black budget work,” Blake commented, taking a keener interest in Desmond.
“Officially SPACECOM uses a network of radar and optical sensors to track satellites and monitor space activities such as ballistic missile attacks. Unofficially they can track everything in and around the atmosphere. They chart blind spots in foreign or domestic surveillance of the sky. Blind spots are needed to test top secret spacecraft undetected.”
While the waitress interrupted to take drink orders, Blake and Desmond sized each other up. Blake could tell Desmond spoke from the heart, but didn’t offer much technical knowledge, unless he was holding that back too.
Desmond had met hundreds of people searching for information. He could tell the difference between someone who had passive interests or a specific reason for seeking information. Blake apparently had specific interests. He hoped those interests could be aligned with his.
“That document you have, if it’s real, it’s significant.”
“I know,” Blake said. “I found a book on MJ-12.”
“Information about MJ-12 surfaces periodically, but most documents are hoaxes.”
“That’s why it’s good that I found it. I don’t want any notoriety from your groupies.”
“Are you going to share your source with me?”
Blake had considered that question in advance. “Let’s just say I received it by mistake from a credible government agency.” Blake felt a sense of power bestowed on him from the document, and liked the way he had captivated Desmond’s interest, as well as Trevor’s, who was hearing this admission for the first time. “All I’m trying to do is understand it for my own purposes, not take it public. I don’t think I need to prove its credibility for that.”
“I see your angle, but if you want my help, you’ll have to show me the second page.”
“Yes.” Blake’s indecisiveness was evident from his hesitation to say anymore.