White butcher paper had been taped over the tail numbers before takeoff to hide the plane’s identity.
The light craft surfed turbulent air pockets that tossed it about while heading east over California’s Mojave Desert. The men filled the conversational void with anticipatory thoughts about their destination, each hoping the site would serve their purpose.
After crossing into Nevada airspace, the pilot navigated over a series of sparsely vegetated mountain ranges, natural barriers protecting isolated, high desert valleys. Approaching ever closer to the destination, each man studied with greater intensity the desolate terrain below, comprised of sand, desert scrub and Joshua Tree cacti; the most appealing aspect was the absence of humanity. Civilization had ignored this region, thanks to the federal government controlling much of the land.
The pilot battled moderate wind turbulence with relaxed austerity, but suddenly, as if hitting an invisible wall, an air pocket sent the plane plummeting twenty feet. Tight seatbelts prevented the men from smashing headfirst into the ceiling. They gripped the walls and dash, but none panicked. The men weren’t concerned with the turbulence because they knew it was cyclical; the desert winds could be equally tranquil. And the objects they wanted to fly above the Southern Nevada desert, if the site met their expectations, would be at altitudes greater than any known plane flew — far above mountain turbulence, storms or commercial air traffic.
Seated in the copilot’s position and masked by a pair of dark aviator sunglasses was the CIA official in charge of a top-secret program codenamed AQUATONE. The men’s names were less significant compared to their mission, an endeavor that would shape the future of America’s military-industrial complex.
Although the men were dressed to hunt, no animals remained to be hunted where they were going. The deer and sheep that once inhabited the high desert region suffered slow skin-burning deaths in radiation storms several years prior, the aftermath of nearby nuclear warhead detonations at the Atomic Energy Commission’s Proving Grounds. (The name was later changed to the Nevada Test Site and the Atomic Energy Commission was incorporated into the Department of Energy.)
The pilot descended to several hundred feet above the mountaintops, too low to see more than one valley at a time. Craning his neck so his left cheek was against the cockpit glass, he eyed the valley floor below, carpeted with acres of pristine white sand.
The plane eased to a stop at the southwestern end of a waterless lakebed listed on maps as Groom Lake. The pilot’s clean landing left a dust trail but wasn’t much shakier than putting down on a paved runway.
The men stepped from the plane onto a compact, sandy surface, unlike a beach where the grains are loose and anything of significant weight plowed downward. The dry lakebed sprawled over three miles wide at center and stretched eight miles long. Clear of natural debris, the only interruptions to the wind-generated waves in the sand were scattered shell casings and shrapnel — a correctable hindrance — from when the land had been used as a bombing range.
The CIA agent produced a fisherman’s hat from his pocket, part of his hunting garb, and pulled it low on his head so that the bill touched his sunglasses. With the added protection from the sun he had a better view into the distance. “Where’s that dirt road lead?” he asked, pointing at a shabby trail that disappeared into the mountains.
“It connects this valley with the Proving Grounds to the west,” the pilot said. “We can deal with the AEC about controlling access. Other than that, you’ve got to fly into this valley. Nearest settlement is thirty miles south: Alamo. Maybe fifty people. They don’t venture up this way though. Too afraid of the radiation.” He cast his hand in the direction of the Proving Grounds, unconcerned with radiation exposure in this valley.
“How far away is Las Vegas?”
“Straight shot, it’s about a hundred miles southwest from here.”
“Town’s growing … I guess it’s far enough away not to be of any concern.”
They began a roundabout walk, strolling past shrapnel and through wisps of dust, three men — hunters — who had captured what they were looking for. They discussed the advantages of the site: the length of the lakebed that would provide for a long runway; the proximity of the nuclear Proving Grounds that would allow them to label the valley as radioactive; the restricted air space above the Proving Grounds that could be expanded to cover Groom Lake; and how on paper they could make it look like the land was used by either the Atomic Energy Commission or the Air Force, not the CIA.
The agent turned three-sixty, surveying the lifeless valley. “When we get back, I’ll notify Dulles that we found a site.”
Allen Dulles, Director of Central Intelligence, had authority over AQUATONE, the CIA funded development of a reconnaissance aircraft capable of flying at seventy thousand feet. The technological result of AQUATONE was the U2 Spyplane. The ideological result of AQUATONE’s classified parameters, shadow operations and disguised funding was a seed, planted in the Southern Nevada desert, which spawned a new realm in American government: the black budget.
For over a decade the general received calls similar to one of three hours ago, and like before, he put everything else aside and boarded a plane. This time the emergency required his presence at Montauk Air Force Station located on the eastern tip of Long Island. Experience had led the general and his eleven confidants to develop procedures that prevented security leaks. As a result, he wouldn’t know specifics until he arrived.
Originally the Army controlled the Montauk installation, constructing a facility called Camp Hero before World War II. The Air Force took possession in the early fifties and constructed a radar system that helped guard against possible Cold War attacks, but that had nothing to do with the general’s mission, nor did the branch of service operating the facility have any relevance; he reigned wherever he traveled on these matters.
After landing, the general’s plane maneuvered to a guarded hangar where the mystery was being stored. With the plane still easing to a stop, the general flung the door open, revealing himself dressed in common fatigues instead of his usual high profile uniform. The questions started when his boot touched the tarmac. “How many people know?” he barked.
“A containable amount, sir,” saluted a colonel, the commanding officer at Montauk.
Not concerned with names or introductions, the general blazed past that man and three others, all following as he swooped upon the nearest MP guarding the hangar. “What are you guarding, son?”
“This hangar, sir!”
“What’s in the hangar?”
“I haven’t been advised, sir!”
“Have you heard any stories? Anybody been talking about what’s in there?”
“Sir, no, sir!”
“Good. If anybody does talk, beat them with your gun.”
Next, the general stopped in front of the hangar’s sliding doors and faced the group of four acting as his shadow. “Who found it?”
The youngest of the group, barely a man, tightened the muscles in his chest, thrusting it forward to give his most respectful stance of attention. “I was first to see it up close, SIR. A civilian phoned the base just after dawn and said one of our boats was loose in the waves off his beach. Rolled ashore just as I got there to investigate.”