POP WARNER FOOTBALL
JUNIOR PEE WEE DIVISION
COUNTY CHAMPIONS
The plaque had no team name, nor individual recognition. Someone even forgot to include the year. It was a simple generic award handed to the winning team members after the championship game that cost maybe a few dollars when purchased, but remained priceless to Blake. A symbol of a time in his life when his greatest worry was making it to football practice on time so he would not have to do fifty slams for being late. Slams — running in place, then flopping to the ground stomach first and springing back up — now seemed a lot less worrisome than bills, school, jobs and all the other challenges of being a young adult.
Checking his E-mail, one message roused his attention: DWyatt@ETStudies.org. A bite, Blake thought. Someone responding to his late night queries on the Internet. The message was brief: Call me, and a phone number.
Blake picked up the phone and dialed.
“Desmond Wyatt,” a man’s voice answered, speaking fast, but clear, authoritative.
“Desmond, my name is Blake Hunter. I-”
“Yes,” he cut Blake off, “Why did you contact me?”
“I sent a half dozen E-mails to people who seemed like they could help me. I didn’t expect it to be such a big deal.”
“Every time a stranger contacts me I make a big deal of it. If you don’t like it, leave me alone.”
Blake sensed that Desmond’s bravado was more for show than discouragement. If Desmond didn’t want strangers contacting him, he would not post his E-mail address on his web site. “So what do I need to tell you to make me less of a stranger?” Blake asked.
“You can start by telling me what you read on my web site that makes you think I can help you?”
“I’m conducting research on anti-gravity.”
“What kind of research?”
“I’m writing a dissertation on advanced propulsion systems.”
“So what do you want that you couldn’t get off my web site?”
Blake hesitated.
“Look, kid, either you want something from me, or you’ve got something for me; otherwise, hang up the phone.”
“It’s a little bit of both.”
“So you want me to analyze something?”
“You know your stuff.”
Desmond ignored the compliment. “Is it a document?”
“Yes.”
“Where’d you get it?”
“I’d rather not say.”
“Then it’s classified.”
“No, it’s not classified.”
“Then it’s filtered. It won’t be a lot of help.”
“This document is unique.”
“E-mail it to me.”
Blake paused, wondering if giving him a copy was wise.
“I’m hanging up now,” Desmond said. “Either send me the doc or leave me alone.” He hung up.
Blake had made a copy of the document before leaving the professor’s house and retrieved it from his notebook. After scanning the memo into his computer, he E-mailed a copy to Desmond, deciding that was enough to tempt him without revealing the images on the second page.
Another few minutes passed and the phone rang.
Desmond demanded to know, “What makes you think this is anti-gravity related?”
“Two things: the attached document that I didn’t send you, and the manner in which I received it.”
“Which is?”
“Something I’m not comfortable disclosing to a stranger.”
“People fabricate information like this all the time.”
“If I made it up, I wouldn’t be asking strangers what it is; I’d be telling them.”
Intrigued, Desmond asked, “Have you ever heard of MJ-12?”
“It doesn’t sound familiar.”
“What about Majic-12, or Majestic-12?”
“No. But I gather from your asking that they’re related to the codenames in this memo.”
“They could be,” Desmond theorized. “I’d like to know where you got this.”
“I’m not comfortable divulging that. At least not now.”
“If this is a legitimate document, handling it the wrong way could get you in trouble.”
“I appreciate your concern,” Blake told him. “Maybe you can teach me how to stay out of trouble with this?”
“Why don’t we meet? I’m holding a meeting Saturday evening. I think you’ll find it informative. We’ll talk more after. In the meantime, give me your address. I’ve got some info you might like. Stuff I don’t put on the net. I’ll FedEx it.”
Blake gave Desmond his address and jotted down the meeting location, excited with his quick progress. “See you Saturday.”
“What’s up Saturday?” Trevor asked from Blake’s doorway.
The intrusion startled him, “I didn’t know you were home. It’s just something for this new research project.” Blake had not given much thought to what he would tell people about the research; talking about UFOs might not garner the same support as his astronaut aspirations. “Hey, why don’t you call those twins you met last week and see what they’re up to tonight,” Blake said, changing the topic. Understanding gravity tunnels was still a little vague to Blake, but he had no problem worm-holing Trevor into a new topic.
CHAPTER 20
Private UFO organizations originated in 1968 after the Air Force canceled Project Blue Book. Blue Book had served as the medium for reporting unidentifiable flying objects. Although the government denounced the UFO phenomena, they could not stop sightings. Without government intervention, the public took control and a plethora of information surfaced.
UFO groups evolved over several decades to assume multiple purposes. Some pushed the edge on an already hard-to-grasp topic by making claims about abductions or secret government organizations in contact with extraterrestrials. More notable UFO organizations took a down-to-earth approach, scrutinizing testimonies and applying logic when discerning information. Unfortunately the zealots tarnished the ardent researchers and damaged most potential for mainstream support.
In 1989, Desmond Wyatt founded the Extraterrestrial Studies Network. Contrary to the word Network in the title, he ran the group alone. Desmond stayed abreast of all UFO related events and posted them on his website no matter how harebrained they made him appear. Foolishness was a facade he strived for. His shtick at the Extraterrestrial Studies Network had more noble purposes than spreading alien abduction and crop circle rumors. Noble to some — espionage to others. If someone asked, Desmond would admit to being a ufologist. He dressed for the part: shaggy hair — longer than the collar length trim he maintained for 20-years at Air Force base barber shops — a sunned face he shaved periodically, and a rugged body he clothed in denim and hiking boots, always ready for an adventure. But Desmond secretly thought many ufologists to be questionable at best. The vast information he had in his head about the military and black budget was about as good as it got outside direct circles of knowledge.
Because Desmond challenged America’s seedier bureaucratic elements, he lived his life with one eye looking forward and the other looking back. He suspected every shadow, corner and tree could be hiding someone who was following him. Yesterday, however, was the first time ever that Desmond thought he saw someone in the shadows.