Josh Craven
Dreamland: A Rogue Three Novelette
The friction beneath the tires of the plane crept into Ben Witter’s white knuckles. Inertia sat fat on his chest as the twin-turboprop barreled along the runway. When the plane leapt off the airstrip, launching him into the Nevada dusk, the noise and vibration gave way to a disquieting calm that made him shift in the plump, leather seat. He looked out the window to his left at the sun gleaming off of the massive glass façade of the MGM Grand. Beyond it, a hundred miles into the desert, was his destination.
“Most people call it Area 51, but the JANET crew calls it Dreamland. Those of us that work there just call it ‘The Ranch.’”
Ben turned toward the petite brunette sitting across the aisle to his right who had spoken to him. He had done his research and knew that JANET was the official ferry airline of Area 51. Appropriately, JANET stood for “Just Another NonExistent Terminal.”
“I assume there will be little green men to welcome us when get off the plane,” Ben said. He forced a tight smile over the clinched fist in his gut. Despite recently earning his pilot’s license, he wasn’t a huge fan of flying, especially when someone else was behind the stick. He would be the first to admit he had control issues.
“Don’t be ridiculous. First of all, they’re not little or green, and secondly, we keep them locked up underground,” she said with a smile.
He learned from the DoD itinerary he had received Colonel Jennifer Maldek was the Installation Commander and senior medical officer at the remote facility located on the Nevada Test and Training range. It failed to mention she looked like Liz Taylor circa 1970.
“So, do you always fly to Vegas to personally greet contractors?” Ben asked.
“No. It’s pretty rare, actually. There are more contractors at the facility than there are service personnel. If I had to personally fly each of them out to the Ranch, I’d never get any work done.
“But,” Maldek continued, “you aren’t the typical contractor. Witter Biotech keeps the Ranch in business.”
“That’s kind of you, but I just make medical equipment. I’m sure the Air Force wouldn’t fold up its tents if it didn’t have the latest MRI machine.” Like Maldek, Ben spoke modestly but was proud of his achievements.
“You might be surprised,” she said.
Maldek was familiar with Ben’s public persona. Early in his entrepreneurial career the press labeled him a genius, the sexy, single Einstein of the biotech industry. When he rejected celebrity, the jilted media pivoted and painted him as a Bond villain, but the image never stuck, and in the end, most of the world saw him as a brainy James Dean, a rebel with a lab coat. He never wanted for female companionship, but neither did he ever want it for more than a night. He had work to do and no time for romantic entanglements.
After a moment, Maldek broke the silence. “We’ll be landing soon. We can grab a bite in the dining facility, and then I’ll show you to the guest quarters.”
“What about the medical facilities?”
“First thing in the morning,” she said. “Right after I introduce you to the little green men.”
“Wait — if I see them do you have to kill me?” Ben asked with a lopsided grin.
“Some things are worth the price of admission, Mr. Witter,” she said with a wink.
The plane banked right and began to descend. He could feel a knot drawing tight in his stomach, and he wondered if it was caused by the enigmatic Air Force installation on the ground below or by the beautiful officer to his right, or both.
After breakfast, Ben and Colonel Maldek climbed into a Polaris Razor four-seater ATV, and a young Airman chauffeured them to the far side of the base. Along the way, Ben saw several pieces of military wartech covered under the Non-Disclosure Agreements he had been required to sign prior to his trip: F-22 Raptors, F-35 Lightning IIs, and others he’d read about on dark net message boards.
When they arrived at the medical facility, Maldek swiped her key card and then pressed her palm to the laser scanner. A green light flashed twice and the elevator doors slid open. The two stepped inside, Maldek swiped her key card again and the doors closed. She punched a series of buttons on the key pad and Ben’s stomach rose into his throat as the elevator dropped like an amusement park ride.
“Where are we going?” Ben asked. He thought the only thing this deep underground was Hell.
“You’ll see.”
The elevator eased to a stop, like it landed on a marshmallow, and the doors slid open. Ben and Maldek stepped out into a cavernous room. Stainless steel and glass as far as the eye could see. Scores of men and women wearing white lab coats or baby blue medical scrubs passed by, walking with a purpose. Ben saw only a few military personnel in their Air Force uniforms, most of those manning security desks or shadowing non-uniformed persons.
“Wow,” was all Ben could muster.
“This is the largest medical facility in the world.”
“Why?” Ben’s shock leaked from his brain one word at a time.
“Careful, Ben,” Maldek said. “Don’t ask too many questions. Let me just say that this is a national security issue of the highest magnitude. The U.S. government contracted you because it needs the brightest mind in bioengineering, and that happens to be you. It also needs your discretion. ‘Don’t ask, don’t tell’ has a unique meaning at the Ranch.”
“This is incredible.”
“It is, and it’s so Top Secret even the State Department knows its classification. Follow me to your lab.”
Ben stayed glued to Maldek’s left elbow as she led him away from the masses of people, down a long, white hallway, and to an isolated area of the facility where their footsteps echoed like thunder rolling down a canyon. As they walked, Maldek discussed the reason for Ben’s visit.
“We have a lot of Air Force personnel that reside here at the Ranch, and we have even more government contractors that are more or less permanent fixtures. The population here is in the tens of thousands. People of different ages, races, religions, and gender.”
She stopped walking and looked him in the eyes. “Gender, Ben. You know what that means, right?”
“I like to think I do,” he said with a half grin. His eyes, lingering on the curve of her hips, the swell of her breasts, backed up his claim.
“It looks like you are familiar with the concept. Eyes up here, cowboy” she said, snapping her fingers next to her temple. “It means lots of babies, Ben. That’s where you come into the picture. Like the rest of our medical facilities, our neo-natal unit runs on Witter Biotech, and several of the pieces of equipment have fallen offline. We aren’t sure if the problems are hardware or software related. Either way, we need you to get us up and running again, pronto.”
They approached a door on their left with a young Military Policeman standing guard. The MP’s right hand snapped up to a salute, his fingertips hovering at the corner of his brow. Maldek returned the gesture with equal vigor.
“Ben, this is Airman First Class DeShaun Downsen,” Maldek said. “He will be posted outside your lab in case you need anything.”
My own, personal babysitter, Ben thought. “Nice to meet you, Airman. I’m Ben Witter.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Witter.”
Maldek swiped her key card and opened the door to small lab with a black, shiny floor and gray walls. There was a minimal sofa on the right and framed photo of the President on the left. In the middle of the room, a lone computer terminal sat on a black, Ikea desk.
“This is where you’ll be working,” she said. “I have your temporary credentials to access the network, and here’s your badge. It’s a key card like mine, but you only have limited, contractor access. It will get you in and out of your lab and in and out of the small breakroom across the hall. I’ll be back at five o’clock, and we’ll grab supper. My treat,” she said with a smile.