Trace leaned back in his chair and studied a video monitor on his desk. Its picture showed a shuttle bus loading outside the large hangar at the south end of the base. The hangar Trace yearned to explore, but was one of the few buildings outside his jurisdiction. Adjusting his monitor to play signals from different surveillance cameras, he tracked the shuttle as it ferried occupants north toward building 269 — Trace’s building — where the workers had to check out before leaving for the day. He watched base workers exit the bus, enter his building and wait in line at the checkout station. Then he made a phone calclass="underline" “Send Aaron Liebowitz to my office.”
A petite 32-year-old man stepped out of line and walked toward the operations center. He wore casual clothes, like most of the base personnel did when traveling to and from work. Even the military personnel dressed casually for the commute, not changing into uniforms until they reached their assigned work areas. Casual clothes minimized indications about what people did at the base.
Liebowitz was far from athletic, unlike Ben Skyles, another man Trace knew who worked in the hangar at the far end of the runway. Trace tried not to stereotype people. Being a callous muscular black man, he had endured his share of negative stereotyping, but stereotyping or not, Liebowitz was a nerd. The only thing missing was a pocket protector. What role he played in the hangar was still a mystery to Trace, but Liebowitz had the look, the same look Ben Skyles had. That bewildered expressionless face, like someone spent everyday screwing with his mind.
While Trace encouraged his security officers to maintain an intimidating persona, he selectively acted as the good cop in the psychological security game, but only behind closed doors.
Liebowitz felt somewhat relieved to learn Trace had beckoned him. He remembered how friendly Trace was when he had a problem with his badge a week earlier. After closing the office door behind him, he took a seat as Trace instructed. His eyes focused on Trace’s extra large uniform shirt that stretched at the buttons with each expanding breath.
“Here’s a new badge,” Trace said, exchanging it for the one Liebowitz was wearing. “You shouldn’t have any more problems.”
“I appreciate it. Every time I pass by a sensor I have this fear of tripping the alarm.”
“Any more problems you feel free to see me.”
“Thank you.”
“You live near Alamo, don’t you?” Trace asked. Not everyone working at the base lived in Las Vegas. Some individuals lived in nearby rural towns.
“Yes, sir.”
“Call me Trace, neighbor. Your file says you’re single. You get out much?”
“Usually just to come here.”
“I hear that — probably don’t live more than a few miles from you. A couple of us locals often get together for cards and barbeques.”
“I didn’t know they allowed that kind of stuff.”
“Who doesn’t allow that?”
“The powers-that-be.”
“Well, I’m one of them,” Trace said, “and I say it’s okay. Besides, we don’t talk about work. And we are allowed to have lives outside this place.”
Liebowitz didn’t wholeheartedly agree with that statement. And Chief Helms — Trace — fell short of the powers-that-be he was referring to. But friends were something he didn’t have. Most of his time at home was spent on the Internet and listening to Art Bell on late night radio. Liebowitz decided it would be good to meet some neighbors and maybe make some friends.
CHAPTER 32
PAC: an acronym for Political Action Committee; a synonym for manipulation and bribery. The congressman considered PACs a legal means by which politicians could accept corporate bribe money.
Roughly 20 of the 45 °Congressional Representatives refrained from accepting PAC money in 1994. The congressman was included in the rare breed, taking a moral stance against the nation’s ethically questionable campaign practices.
The congressman disliked PACs for the monetary coercion power they gave government contractors and lobbyists, but PACs were a battle for another day, after Operation Patriot, and assuming he stayed in politics. Meanwhile he did his best to avoid them, turning down many invitations to fancy corporate shindigs or events where he didn’t trust the host’s intentions. He still maintained a busy social schedule, however, attending several functions a week, but on his terms.
The military contractor GRATCOR had an Aeronautical Assembly Division located in the Tahachipi Mountains, north of Los Angeles, but they often threw functions in San Diego close to some of the military officials they catered to. This is the type of event the congressman would choose to attend because it offered a chance to meet someone who might know a snippet of info to help his cause.
GRATCOR’s social functions had more brass than a college marching band. Gold buttons, bars and crests decorated military dress uniforms on many of the guests. The remaining attendees wore suits, most associated with the political realm. Although the word dinner party was not used on the invitation because political campaign regulations limited the number of dinner parties politicians and their staff members could attend, everyone attending knew they would leave the COCKTAIL AND HOURS D’OEUVRE gathering with a full stomach. GRATCOR skirted campaign guidelines by serving food from hors d’oeuvre trays; tuxedo-clad servers with white gloves provided an endless supply of bite-sized lobster tails and filet cuts as the feature appetizers.
The congressman tasted a small filet sandwich as he scanned the lavish seaside ballroom. Mainly locals at the party he noted, until a bitchy California senator, who always had her hands out for donations, entered the ballroom with an unnecessary entourage of assistants. Through a crowd of decorated uniforms, he spied another suit demanding his share of attention. Walter “Storm” Langston — sometimes called a Cardinal of the Capital — was a 10-term republican congressman from Texas, and a key figure in black budget funding, primarily because of his position on the House Permanent Select Intelligence Committee. The type of greedy self-serving politician the congressman despised.
Storm noticed the congressman looking at him. Excusing himself from the military attaché at his side, he approached. “I figured I’d find you here,” he said in a condescending Texan drawl, “ … trying to make friends with the big boys. Let me give you some advice: the only way to keep a secret in Washington is by not telling anyone.”
“I appreciate the advice, but I’m not sure what you’re getting at,” the congressman said.
“Don’t be coy with me.” Storm raised the assertiveness in his voice, but not his volume, keeping their conversation private. “You sure as shit know what I’m talking about. That half-assed investigation you think you’re going to conduct against my committee and the appropriations we make. What’d you do? Watch some scuttlebutt television show about the Roswell incident and take it too seriously?” He chuckled insidiously before continuing. “From what I hear, you think my appropriations need some further oversight.”
Someone from the Oversight Committee had talked. He knew it was inevitable, and had prepared. “I think the secrecy is out of hand. We need some new standards to ensure national security secrets are in the best interests of the people, and are not hindering society.”
“I think you ran for office on the wrong ticket. Nobody cares about your bleeding-heart patriotism.”
“They’ll start caring when they realize how people like you have been pulling the cotton over their eyes for decades.”
Storm almost corrected the congressman’s misuse of the cliché, but realized it was a witty stab at his Texas constituents. “I’ll admit we spend a lot of money on military and intelligence. A lot more than most people realize, but that spending brought down the Iron Curtain, and it made the Gulf War target practice. But you’ve got to make it into something more than that. Those damn UFO technology stories. If there was any truth to them, I would know, and I would do something about it. I’ve been on the inside track for almost two decades. If there was a problem with the technology being developed, I would know.”