Through an intercom, Owens asked Liebowitz, “Are you finished with that list?”
Liebowitz nodded his head yes.
Kayla left Owens’ side and retrieved the list of names from Liebowitz. Names Owens had told him to jot down. Names of all the people he recollected having contact with outside work the last two months.
Four names were on the list: Jimmy, Rebecca, Teneil, Trace Helms.
“Aaron,” Owens said through the intercom, “how long have you known Trace Helms?”
“I’ve known of him ever since I began working at the base.”
“And how long have you known him on a social basis?”
“He helped me when I had a problem with my badge. Turns out we both live near Alamo. He invited me over to play poker about three weeks back. The other people on the list were there too, but I don’t know their last names.”
“Are you a big poker player?”
“It was my first time.”
“You have anything else in common with Trace besides being neighbors and working here?”
Liebowitz thought for a moment. “Not really.”
Owens turned the intercom off. “I didn’t think so.”
CHAPTER 53
The last scheduled flights and buses had departed Groom Lake for the evening. A quiet night was on the docket. Trace readied himself to leave, thankful for having made it through the day unscathed. He was well aware of Blake Hunter’s capture, but clueless as to what happened to him, what information they extracted, and how or if it might come back to him. One last check of the security program and he’d take a slow drive home, but Trace’s computer showed that Aaron Liebowitz had not checked out for the day. Why is Liebowitz still here? That had greater implications than any connection they might make from Blake back to him.
There was a point when Trace’s extracurricular investigations into the government transcended the realm of personal fascination and became what his superiors would consider a breach of his security oath. Trace was aware he had reached that point. He understood and accepted the risks and repercussions that might follow, but his disdain for the secrets he helped to protect had overcome his desire to protect them. As such, he had planned for the day when his actions would warrant reactions. He had cast stones on a dry lake and hit water, starting a rippling wavelength that had expanded and was now at his feet.
As Trace drove Groom Lake Road, knowing it would be the last time, he realized he had yearned for this moment. He had pushed further, contacted ever more individuals, leveraging his risks until his veil of secrecy could shroud him no longer.
Like many disgruntled employees, Trace wanted his superiors to recognize his frustrations and acknowledge their shortcomings. And most of all, Trace wanted his superiors to know they were now his adversaries. He had reached the pinnacle of employee revenge; he had outsmarted his employer and was now thumbing his finger by leaving with the last word.
Unlike a classical western ending would dictate, Chief Trace Helms drove east on Groom Lake Road, away from the sunset. His truck’s primary and secondary gas tanks could get him to Utah, maybe Colorado, before he needed to refill.
At Highway 375 he turned north, traveling away from Alamo and the ranch he had transferred into his father’s name a year earlier. His assets, including the bulk of his IRA and deferred compensation accounts, were liquidated and safe. He knew how to change his name, how to become reborn in the USA. All they could take from Trace was his pension, but after two decades of living alone, married to his employer, he had saved enough not to be reliant on his pension. That was a factor from the beginning; he didn’t need the government. Trace Helms had morals, and they weren’t for sale to Uncle Sam’s mind-control Gestapo.
Eventually he would have to stop and call Rebecca, tell her he was coming, but not for a while, not until he was far, far away. He felt a warm sense of giddiness inside when he thought of seeing her and sharing every day with her. Thoughts of Rebecca took his mind off of Aaron Liebowitz, but the mental vacation was short-lived, and so was his journey — a Pave Hawk helicopter zoomed past Trace as he drove along Highway 375, close enough that he made eye contact with a man staring at him through one of the side widows. The helicopter touched down in the road ahead. Trace slowed to a stop and in his rearview mirror noticed a second helicopter landing behind him.
CHAPTER 54
Owens had superiors, the men in charge, twelve to be exact. Once the majestic group was apprised that a congressional task force was attempting to investigate their operations, a decision was made to change a standard policy, a change that gave Owens greater discretion when protecting their secrets.
Time lost its relevance: Val Vaden was not sure how much had passed as he faded in and out of consciousness. His recent recollections were brief visions of hospital room ceilings, and straps securing his wrists and legs. He recalled his last conversation with the man in the black suit in silo four. He gazed to his right, and saw that his cement-wall surroundings hadn’t changed enough for him to consider himself free of his captors. As he gazed left, Val was horrified to see that now he was no longer alone. The FBI had been brought to him: Grason Kendricks lay unconscious only a few feet away. Beyond Grason were more occupied beds, but Val couldn’t make out the other individuals. How could his own military justify holding two FBI agents hostage, he wondered? Certainly there would be a culmination to this event, followed by nothing short of congressional hearings. How could they justify capturing and bringing Grason to this facility? By what right? Under whose orders? And for what legal reason?
With his hands strapped tight to the side of the bed, Val crunched his stomach muscles and lunged his chest up off the mattress, lifting his head high enough to see beyond Grason to the third bed. Upon seeing the man strapped to the third bed, Grason’s presence seemed insignificant: they had the congressman too. This would be worldwide news when they were released. Why would the military take actions to bring so much attention to the base and the situation, unless they knew this would not be leaked? But how would they, how could they keep anyone in the room from talking? An overwhelming feeling of helplessness and sadness struck Val when he considered the dismal prospects for his future — if he had a future at this point. Whoever was controlling the situation had confidence they could mitigate the potential damages, mitigate the kidnapping of an FBI agent, a US congressman and whoever else was in the room.
Watching his prisoners on surveillance monitors from the next room, Damien Owens saw Val wake and struggle to search his surroundings. He entered through a door behind the row of beds and approached Val, stopping behind him at a table holding a bank of electronics with cords attached to Val. Owens pecked at the control panel for Val’s IV and increased the dosage of medication.
Val tried to turn his head and see behind him, to see who was there, but his eyelids were getting heavier. His head sunk back into his pillow.
Owens had nothing to say to these men at this point. No debates, no arguments, no explanation and certainly no mercy: being weak would only make his job more of a mental challenge. The decision had already been handed down. They wouldn’t remember anything about this time anyhow, so there was no use in doing anything but the mechanics of the situation. His feelings and considerations for the men in the room were as relevant as feelings for cattle being led to slaughter. He would act humanely, but was there really humanity in what he had to do?