“A unique form of helium with an atomic weight of three. That formula is an equation for producing clean nuclear energy — no radioactive waste. We believe they are testing it at the underground facility in Papoose Valley. They retrieve the helium from the moon, aboard vehicles powered by something other than rocket-based propulsion systems.”
“Antigravity?”
“To be honest with you, I don’t yet know how they propel the craft. The helium element is just one piece of the puzzle, one form of the secret technology in the conglomerate out there. A conglomerate that comprises a secret space program — a second NASA — with no restrictions, no oversight and no reasonable purpose for existing because officially it doesn’t exist.” Rebecca knew by the way Blake sat on the edge of his seat, listening to every word, that she had him. “I’m offering you this formula because you can check it out. Few people have heard of it, but its existence is not a secret, only its use. Take it as proof toward our credibility.”
“So all I have to do is believe you?”
She laughed. “I’m not going to make it that easy. We’ve put a lot of time and money into our operation. We’ve risked our careers and freedom. The reward is personal gratification.”
“Anonymous heroes,” Blake added.
“And heroines,” Rebecca noted. “Exposing ourselves puts us at an even greater risk. We must be sure that whomever we deal with, not only understands and supports us, but can help us reach our ultimate goals.”
“How am I going to do that? I don’t even know who I’m working for, assuming there is a third party.”
“We know there’s a third party. We’ve done our research. It’s up to you to find out who that is. You’re the link.”
“That’s easier said than done.”
Rebecca smiled, emanating confidence. “We have a plan.”
Blake’s understanding and outlook on American life typified the post-baby boomer generations. He grew up in safe and prosperous times. Sovereignty had been a forgone conclusion. He never considered the government could be less than stellar, hoarding secrets in a way that could jeopardize the country’s sovereignty, his sovereignty, his friends’ sovereignty. The idea they could traverse a wormhole, as the professor suspected, yet not share such a remarkable ability with others, and instead fight to keep the technology secret, infuriated Blake with the same freedom-fighting passion that emboldened the country’s forefathers. Curiosity and self-interests no longer seemed a priority in Blake’s desire to understand antigravity; he now felt a patriotic obligation to discover the truth.
Trevor returned home from work to find Blake sprawled across the couch, gazing at the ceiling. “You look like crap,” said Trevor.
“Grab a seat,” he told his best friend. “We need to talk.”
Growing up, Blake and Trevor had many common interests and shared experiences — sports, video games, puberty — that bonded their friendship, a friendship further encouraged by Trevor’s parents who saw Blake as a positive influence on their son. They accepted him into their family, often having him over for dinner, and breakfast after he stayed the night, offering a traditional family setting that Blake didn’t get at home. Despite their differences in habits and tastes that grew as they grew — Trevor’s desire to relax, talk and play, and Blake’s eagerness to exercise, think and learn — they had a brotherly bond which allowed them to share feelings and offer support under any circumstances. Blake sometimes teased Trevor when he spoke of an idea for a script or worked in Hollywood as an unpaid intern, but he never ridiculed his dreams. Likewise, Trevor always cut the antics and listened when Blake wanted to talk. Blake’s demeanor this evening suggested that Trevor needed to listen.
“Someone has been watching our apartment,” Blake said. He continued telling him about the professor’s research, the phone call that morning, the van ride and what the woman in the van had proposed. They wanted him to go to Area 51, follow specific directions and sneak on the base. They gave him a date and promised he would have a view inside the large hangar at the south end of the runway. A hangar they suspected contained an entrance linking Groom Lake with the second installation in Papoose Valley. They wanted to verify their theory with photos.
“You can’t get past the security out there,” Trevor said.
“They assured me there’s a way. I didn’t like it at first either, but it makes sense. It’s a good way for me to confirm they are who they claim to be.”
“It’s also a good way for you to go to jail. They could prove themselves just as easily by giving you the photos.”
“I argued that too, but they don’t have the photos. They need me to get them, and in the process, prove my integrity.”
“What about theirs?”
“I’ll know that answer a few feet across the perimeter.”
“Do you honestly want to do this?”
“I think so.”
“NASA won’t hire you if you’re caught.”
“NASA already rejected me. I’m not going to wait for something that may not happen when I can make things happen.”
“Well … I know you aren’t asking for my permission, but there’s obviously a reason for this discussion.”
“I need you to drive.”
“I see.” Trevor smiled at the irony of Blake asking him to do something unlawful. “What about that fool Desmond? He’d be into this.”
“He’s with them.”
“And you still trust what they say?”
“Am I ever wrong?”
Trevor wished he could say always, but had to be honest, “Rarely.” Next he thought of the risks and implications on his own life. “I don’t have to sneak on the base, do I?”
“Just wait in the SUV.”
“Maybe it would be safer if I shadowed you.”
“It means a lot that you would do that for me, Trevor, but you couldn’t keep up. I need to do it alone.”
“So when do we go?”
PART 6
CHECKS vs. BALANCES
CHAPTER 39
Dusk. Nevada Highway 375. Blake eased a white Jeep Cherokee he had rented to a stop along a sandy shoulder atop Hancock Summit in the Pahranagat Mountain Range, a mile shy of the high-desert interstate’s descent into the Tikaboo Valley.
Blake and Trevor exited the Cherokee and began unscrewing its brake light covers.
“Remember that time I backed my old man’s truck into a parked car and busted out his tail light,” Trevor said reminiscing. “The dealership wanted sixty bucks I didn’t have to fix it. And you said I should steal one off a new truck in their lot.”
They always laughed when talking about past shenanigans, but neither was in a laughing mood. The conversation helped ease the tension, however. “That was one of the few unlawful thoughts in my life,” Blake confessed. “I never thought you’d do it.”
“What you’re about to do tops anything I’ve ever done.”
“You got your light disconnected?” Blake asked, ignoring his statement. “I don’t want to be on the side of the road very long.”
“I thought they can’t see us until we enter the valley.”
“They can’t, but two guys in black, disconnecting brake lights, looks a little suspicious if anyone passes by.”
Studying the western sky, Blake saw that the last tinge of sunlight had faded, replaced by a bluish hue on the horizon from the bright Las Vegas lights almost one hundred miles away. In all other directions a black sky was upon them.
Trevor drove, keeping them a couple speedometer notches under the posted speed limit, eager for the night to be over, but in no hurry for it to begin. The Cherokee’s purring motor and its tires whirling on the pavement made the only non-indigenous sounds for miles. As their elevation dropped, Highway 375 straightened as far as the headlights shined across the vast Tikaboo Valley. The two buddies had entered the watchful arena of the security forces.