“Exactly,” Owens agreed, nodding for Kayla to make note.
“He never worked for the government again,” Bogota continued. “He started teaching, consulting, made good money and retired a few years ago. Then his wife died and next thing you know, he’s working on anti-gravity.”
“What’s he got to lose at this point?” Rico said.
“Nothing,” Owens replied. “I obtained copies of the docs the National Archives sent him. A serious mistake was made there. Bogota, I want you to get them back. Several could be a PR nightmare in the wrong hands. Especially if the UFO folks get their hands on them. Break in and take them — let’s send the old man a message.”
Owens’ most pressing issue had yet to be discussed so he proceeded according to his agenda. “Ben Skyles, a USAP worker at The Dark Side of the Moon, has a deteriorating mental condition that forced us to remove him from his program. At this point we don’t know the cause. I’m going to station several of you in Nevada to assist me on this. Hun, have you discovered anything new regarding Desmond Wyatt and his involvement with the Chinese agent who confronted Skyles.”
“He’s a ufologist — extreme,” Hun answered. “What surprised me is that he was a career Air Force man, worked at the Pentagon. If he knows anything specific, he’s not talking about it on his web page.”
“He does know specifics because he told the Chinese agent how to sneak on the base,” Owens said.
“Maybe we could cross check the base personnel files with Desmond’s Air Force service record and see who he might have been stationed with,” Bogota suggested.
“I’ve considered that,” Owens said. “The list could be quite long and require more hours to follow up on than I’m willing to commit at this point — wasted hours if he’s using an intermediary. We’ve got a lot to contend with currently. I think maybe we’ll scare Desmond Wyatt into laying low for a while to buy us some time.”
Owens continued by outlining his plans for each of the three pressing situations — the professor, Desmond Wyatt and Ben Skyles — before listening to each team give their status reports. They worked into the evening, ordering in food and teaching Kayla how to puff cigars.
CHAPTER 24
Desmond Wyatt’s Extraterrestrial Studies Network held its meetings at a rundown motel. The lobby adjoined a circa 1950’s coffee shop which had a meeting room in back with rickety chairs and a wall-mounted air conditioner that generated more noise than cool air.
Upon entering the stuffy room, Blake and Trevor approached a cluster of people mingling in front. “Excuse me,” Blake said, “I’m looking for Desmond Wyatt.”
“That would be me,” a groggy Desmond replied.
“I’m Blake Hunter.”
“Glad you could make it. Go ahead and grab a seat,” Desmond said, sounding far less enthusiastic than when they last talked.
Blake thought it odd that Desmond wasn’t friendlier. As Blake directed Trevor toward a pair of open seats he noticed a mid-forty’s man greeting half the audience by their first names. The man’s shirt said Aliens Are Coming and depicted two extraterrestrials coupling like dogs. On his head he wore a pyramid-shaped hat molded from metal. A few other quirky individuals seated about the room made Blake wonder if this meeting was going to be a waste of time.
“I’m getting one of those shirts,” Trevor said.
Desmond stayed to the side for a few minutes, studying the crowd and considering his approach for the evening in light of newly revealed pressures in his already trying life. He chose to live as a martyr, fighting what he believed was a noble crusade against a cunning bureaucratic government with few allies on his side. Yet, his small rebel force had persevered, determined to share with others the truths they believed to be out there. They felt their efforts were gaining ground on Big Brother, exposing the dark side of the United States Government. However, as Newton’s Third Law of physics dictated, for every action there was an equal and opposite reaction. And Desmond’s actions had finally created reactions.
When his friend Jimmy the Pimp chastised him for passing info to a Chinese agent, that was a reaction. The reoccurring feeling that he was being followed at times was another reaction. Yesterday, however, brought the most unsettling reaction. The reaction that made him pour a little more liquor in his glass than normal and sleep even less. The reaction had manifested itself as a steroid-enhanced spook who approached Desmond in a supermarket parking lot. “It’s not wise to teach the Chinese how to trespass on government property. Espionage can carry a death penalty.” The man barely slowed his pace when making the statement, and continued by without waiting for a response from Desmond, but the message was clear: Someone wanted Desmond Wyatt to be quiet.
As a room full of aspiring ufologists and other seekers of knowledge awaited Desmond’s insight, he still hadn’t decided how to handle the situation. His gut told him there would be trouble, but his gut also told him there was new hope with this kid Blake. And Desmond, more than most, knew the potential in Blake’s lead. To hell with these spooks, was his ultimate decision, and he called their bluff.
“Good evening,” Desmond said from a podium in front of the group. “I’m Desmond Wyatt, founder of The Extraterrestrial Studies Network.” Free-willed cheers of endorsement sprang from around the room. “We’ve got some first-timers in the audience, so all you regulars bear with me while I start with my introductory spiel.” Many people attended Desmond’s meetings so they too could speak, pontificating themselves for various reasons, some hoping to develop their own following, hoping to be admired leaders, like Desmond, in their offbeat world.
“I spent forty-two years of my life in a military environment: eighteen as a military brat, four at The Air Force Academy and another twenty as a pilot. My father had a lot of connections and I spent a few years working at the Pentagon.
“In November 1988, I flew some Pentagon big shots to Nellis Air Force Base. But after takeoff they changed the flight plan. Between my old man and the Pentagon job, I thought I knew everything about the military. Was I ever wrong.” Desmond uncovered a large map of Southern Nevada on an easel behind him. “I was told to land here,” he said, referring to the map, “at a place called Groom Lake.” He enjoyed speaking, and the moment made him forget his worries. He used dynamic tones and emphasized key words with volume, captivating the audience like a televangelist. “Do you know what I saw when I flew across the Groom Mountain range?”
“His Omnipotent Highness Krill,” someone blurted from the audience, sending half the room into laughter. Desmond’s regulars often made inside jokes about UFO folklore. Krill was a rumored name of the first Gray alien ambassador to the US government, circa 1954.
“We cleared the Groom Mountains and I found myself staring at a series of red lights marking the longest runway I’d ever seen — seven miles long — and a massive military airbase, all in the middle of nowhere.
“After landing we taxied into a hangar so large it could dwarf a jumbo jet. The expansive interior was empty except a large American flag hanging above. Next the floor started descending, lowering the plane in an elevator. We went down about twenty stories into an underground hangar that dwarfed the monster topside. The roof arched like a dome stadium. Two B-2 Stealth Bombers — the giant boomerang shaped models — were parked in a nearby corner, looking like a pair of shoes someone tossed aside in a master bedroom.
“I was glued to the cockpit window while we taxied off the elevator. The planes down there had me in awe; I saw stealth fighters, an SR-71 and several varieties of exotic triangular shaped planes. My eyes must have been bugged out of my skull because someone tapped me on the shoulder and said, ‘This is kid’s stuff,’ as if to say I shouldn’t be impressed. My passengers left, leaving me aboard with a guard outside until it was time to go.