After reading just the first sentence, Blake wondered where the information was in the Freedom of Information Act.
The professor continued, “I started thinking that my only hope with finding information in these documents would be through divine intervention. Soon afterward I discovered several boxes have documents in an unabridged state … no black marks.”
“Why would that be?” Blake asked.
“Somebody made a big mistake because I should never have received this. Not that I don’t think I have a right to it as any American should. And I’m certainly not telling them about the mistake.” The professor produced another document, two stapled pages, a memo as the first page:
“It’s vague,” Blake said, studying the memo, “and the names are in code.”
“Look at the second page.”
He did, and then grabbed the professor’s images, comparing the two documents. “This is the document you traced. What’s it mean?”
“Electromagnetics is another name for anti-gravity,” he told him. “Someone thought these images were related to anti-gravity. Fritzy was asked to decipher them. We were in the electromagnetic subgroup.”
“So if you were already in a classified environment, then maybe they figured out what these images said and took the program further underground.”
“I think if we can decipher these images, maybe figure out who this memo came from, we’ll be one step closer to understanding the government’s anti-gravity program.”
“You know,” Blake said, “I’ve heard rumors about the government testing anti-gravity craft in the Nevada desert.”
“Area 51. I know it well. In my FOIA docs there are copies of at least a half dozen magazine articles addressing those rumors. One cluster of papers combined a series of photocopied news articles. Apparently some agency was interested in monitoring media accounts of Area 51. Aside from that, for the last five years I’ve heard rumors about what the government has in that desert.” The professor paused, considering testimonies he’d read in the press about aerial sightings at Area 51. “Have you ever heard UFO reports where the witnesses described the object accelerating so fast it seemed to vanish from sight?”
“Something like that.”
“People have reported seeing similar feats in the sky over Area 51. Do you think the lights are vanishing into the distance, or maybe, perhaps, a wormhole?”
“That’s pretty intense,” Blake said, and then an idea struck him. “Professor, what if I take a trip to Nevada? Maybe I’ll get lucky and snap some pictures of whatever they’re testing.”
“That’s the last thing I want you doing! You go out there and you’ll end up on a list. We all live in Big Brother’s shadow, kid, but there’s no reason to capitulate yourself and bow to him.”
“Isn’t that what you did by requesting these documents?”
“Yes, but Big Brother already knows who I am. That’s not true in your case. Stick to the paper trail for now.”
Blake didn’t know what to make of the situation, but he sure was intrigued. “Why don’t I focus on this doc? See if I can figure out who might have sent or received it.”
“I assume this means you’ve accepted my employment offer.”
CHAPTER 18
The nighttime sky, with its speckling of white dwarf stars and red giants on the black canvas called space, enthralled Special Agent Grason Kendricks whenever he let himself appreciate Earth’s eternal backdrop. Even with mankind’s advances in astronomy and physics that provided an ever-increasing understanding of the universe, Grason could do little but wonder about the intricate details of life in the distant solar systems that he saw as twinkling lights in the sky.
Is someone on this planet hiding secrets that could further my understanding of life out there? he again asked himself, knowing too well the probable answer. And if so, by what right? The thoughts were perplexing for Grason at best. As long as factions of the American government developed backroom technologies he would search for answers. He’d first seen man’s predisposition to control power through secrets as a young officer in the Air Force — before his days working with Project Blue Book — when doors guarding America’s greatest secrets were closed in his face. Operation Patriot was the first opportunity in a life devoted to servicing his beloved country that might allow him to understand the gamut of America’s knowledge.
The nighttime sky, with its speckling of white dwarf stars and red giants on the black canvas called space, enthralled Damien Owens whenever he let himself appreciate Earth’s eternal backdrop. Even with mankind’s advances in astronomy and physics that provided an ever-increasing understanding of the universe, Owens still had a far greater understanding of the spacetime continuum than most.
“Put your thumb in the air,” Owens told Kayla as she stood at his side on a placid desert highland. “Hold it so your thumbnail is north of the Big Dipper’s handle.”
Kayla did as instructed, positioning her thumb above the Big Dipper, which was easy to overlook among all the stars, made visible by such a clear night.
“Focus on the dark patch of sky just above the joint in your thumb,” he told her. “If you could look through the world’s most powerful telescope, you would see a faint speck of light in that region. No astronomy books nor star catalogs can tell you much about it. They couldn’t tell you it’s a spiral galaxy like our own Milky Way. They couldn’t tell you the little speck of light is actually hundreds of thousands of stars. Some with planets, moons—” his words stopped.
“And?” she asked raising her eyebrows, expecting more.
Owens studied her reactions, the eagerness and excitement in her eyes. “Many humans will go to their graves wishing they knew a fraction of what I know about the stars,” he continued. “I’ve given you clearance because I trust you, and want to teach you what I know, but you’re not ready mentally. You need to hide your feelings better. Don’t listen to my revelations like a drooling puppy waiting for a treat. Despite what you feel inside, you always want to give a stoic expression. You can’t keep secrets without lying, acting and manipulating. Once you’ve mastered your body language, you’ll know what I know.”
CHAPTER 19
As perfect as Blake Hunter strived to be, he had one vice — Trevor Sinclair — his best friend since childhood. Trevor often professed after drinking several beers that his primary purpose in life was to keep Blake from being a nerd. While Blake’s athleticism and ability to attract the opposite sex precluded him from joining the likes of stereotypical bookworms, Trevor did provide a stable influence of social activities and occasional mischief.
In high school, during one of Blake’s few self-imposed moments of indiscretion, he had wired the door handles on his car so they gave off a slight electrical charge. His hope was to deter theft of his car stereo, a common dilemma facing his peer group. One morning a girl parked too close to his car and while inching out of her vehicle, wedged her butt against Blake’s door handle. Like a cow prod, the handle shot her with a bolt of electricity that sent her screaming to the vice principal’s office after squeezing free.