“There’s a lot of work to do,” the professor said. “More importantly, I’m getting old. My fear is if something were to happen to me, all my work would be lost. I have to share it with someone who understands it and can do something with it after I’m gone. I’ll tell him the risks. Blake is a tough kid.”
“I don’t like it.”
“And I don’t like the thought of signing your contract, but I’m willing to make that concession.”
The sudden twist disturbed Grason. “Let me run a check on the kid — Blake. I’ll have to get back to you in a few days. If we proceed, you don’t tell him anything about me. I’ll pay you, and you pay Blake out of your pocket. He’s not part of this operation, and will NEVER handle the materials I give you.”
“I think I can agree to those terms.”
Grason collected the photo from the professor. “You can have this once we make everything official. I’ll give you more info besides the pictures and lay out the ground rules for communicating. As we begin to build a trusting relationship, the information will become more pertinent, and you’ll have a better idea what this is all about.” Grason returned to his car and left, happy that he started a relationship with the professor, but agitated that there was a catch.
CHAPTER 11
Los Angeles boasted one of the larger FBI field offices in the US, stationed in the Federal building near Westwood Village, and was the home base for Grason Kendricks, Special Agent in Charge of Operation Patriot.
A sofa in Grason’s office — an avocado green thing that was someone’s idea of modernizing the furniture in the seventies — served as a second bed. He kept the aging thing around for sentimental reasons. Twenty-nine years with the FBI had taught him intelligence work couldn’t be confined to an eight-hour day. He spent many nights on the sofa and had a feeling that Operation Patriot would ensure that he spent many more.
The Bureau had turned Grason into a pit bulclass="underline" aggressive and fearless. His toughness was in his mind more than his body; he flexed intellect instead of muscle. Hours of planning and preparation, traits he learned in the Boy Scouts and Air Force and used repeatedly through life, went into everything he did.
For most of his FBI career Grason worked on mob and drug cartel investigations. The RICO (Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations) statute was his best weapon against crime. He never envisioned his involvement in Operation Patriot would be anything like his days pursuing criminals under RICO. But soon after the investigation started, he saw similarities between the government and the Mafia: corrupt organizations involved in bribery, coercion and money laundering. He realized a simple tag allowed the government’s actions to go unpunished: National Security. Through his work with Operation Patriot, Grason learned disobedience alone didn’t make one a criminaclass="underline" status in society played an integral part. While gangsters, ruffians and thugs received prison terms for their illicit actions, certain politicians, government employees and civilian contractors drew paychecks for their abuses.
Correctly anticipating freeway conditions in Los Angeles was as likely as seeing a UFO. Grason arrived at Denny’s Restaurant in San Clemente — halfway between Los Angeles and San Diego — at seven fifteen a.m., thirty minutes early for his meeting with the congressman spearheading Operation Patriot. He backed into a parking spot with a clear view of the lot and nodded off.
A few minutes later, the distant whomp, whomp, whomp of helicopter blades roused Grason from his nap. A force of eight battleship gray helicopters flew south over the pacific coast shoreline, less than a half mile from his location. Camp Pendleton Marine Corps Base bordered the freeway for eighteen miles north of San Diego County, and witnessing training activities in the area wasn’t uncommon. The base prevented Southern California from becoming a giant megalopolis of construction beginning at the Tijuana border and stretching to the northern reaches of Los Angeles County. Seeing the helicopters and thinking about Camp Pendleton amused Grason, who was typically humorless; he smirked at the irony that the expansive military base was responsible for stopping industrial growth and urban sprawl. San Diego’s modern economy, like so many other military towns, spawned from defense spending. The Navy was a key ingredient in the original growth of San Diego. In some sense Grason also attributed that growth to his relationship with the congressman.
In the sixties, Grason had been an officer with the Air Force’s Project Blue Book — a long defunct division that specialized in UFO investigations. On several occasions, Grason investigated UFO sightings reported by Navy personnel stationed in San Diego, and dealt with the congressman, who worked in Naval Intelligence at the time. They developed a friendship, even shared a bachelor pad for several months while Grason made his transition from the Air Force to the FBI.
Grason was saddened by the thought that so many years had passed. His friendship with the congressman was still strong, but not what it once was. Destiny had divided their lifestyles. The congressman became a wealthy man before capturing his seat, while Grason kept busy with the FBI.
The congressman’s Mercedes sped across the lot and pulled into an adjacent spot. Grason gave a small wave to his old friend, who was masked by a pair of designer sunglasses and looking debonair in his expensive clothes. The two were of similar age, but the congressman looked years younger thanks to pricey cosmetic work.
The congressman had retired from Navy Intelligence in 1985, after a quarter century of service. Realizing the growing need for computers and related products in the military, he went into sales and called on his former military brethren as customers, aspiring to a fat income. Anticipating the proliferation of laptop computers gave him a vision for the future of military technology. Using proceeds from his sales career, he bankrolled a software company that developed wartime applications for use by troops in the field. His financial coup d’état came in 1990, when he sold his company to a conglomerate in an eight-figure deal. After months of jet setting and enjoying his financial independence, he had a new vision for his future: he wanted knowledge. And not just any knowledge; he wanted specific information. Information he could smell but never see during his stint in the intelligence arena. Information he believed he could touch only via a political road map.
Pouring all his energy — and a considerable amount of his personal resources — into politics, he bought his way into the California Republican Party and claimed a congressional seat in the heart of San Diego.
The congressman’s Mercedes was still in drive when Grason whipped open the door and plopped in the passenger seat. “A lot has happened since we last met,” Grason said.
“Enlighten me.”
“First off, Professor Eldred said yes, but he threw a kink in the deal. He wants to involve his assistant. He agreed not to tell the kid about the operation, but that’s not good enough for me. I won’t give him a full briefing.”
“That’s fine for now, but when he starts combining the results of his research with the information we’ll be providing him, he’ll be asking questions.”
“We’ll deal with that when the time comes. For now, I’m running a check on the kid.”
“Do whatever’s necessary to bring Eldred on board. He’s a perfect choice for that position.”
Grason nodded, then proceeded to the next issue. “Val saw a craft in the Papoose Valley. Vertical landing. No runway. He thinks it landed in the mountain range between Groom and Papoose.”
Chills ran up the congressman’s spine. Until now everything they knew about Papoose Lake was based on rumors, secondhand testimonies and theories derived from studying manipulated budget allocations. “How could you wait to tell me good news like that?”